Nighttime Coming

By: sandalwoods

Dedication: This is for you, bubbles, because you got me a care bear and asked so nicely. (Oh, and also because you feed me fudge when I am fleebing.)

"Music speaks what cannot be expressed, soothes the mind and gives it rest, heals the heart and makes it whole, flows from heaven to the soul." – Unknown

There was always the dreaming. The memory of a chaste kiss, shared in our last moments together before I went away to another. The delusions that I can still feel his warm breath on the nape of my neck—taste the sweetness of him. Always a sad song playing in my mind, his voice calling out to me like some animal dying.

At first there were only my thoughts, hopes, and dreams. Then, over time, there came the visits. He still lived. He had sought me out, found me, wished me well. Saw how I was married to Raoul, felt how my stomach bulged at the weight of my unborn child.

Shocked, awed, wondering, I had traced my hand over his face, seemingly the same though tired. I had felt the cleft of his chin; the strong, smoothness of his jaw, and smelt the cleanness of his skin.

Such touches made me tremble and shiver, delighting and wanting more, so much more.

But it wouldn't be so. I was married: a claimed woman. I carried Raoul's child. I had an obligation to see through, and Erik…Erik had said he had nothing in life left to do now but love me. He still wanted me, after all these years.

It only happens during the darkness of night. Only when the music was gentle and pure, only when the black dulled all lingering distractions of day—the sound of carriages clomping down the cobbled streets, the sound of merchants selling their wares; the raucous noise of the animals, people, things. Only when shadows swallow greedily at the form of the Phantom did he come.

"In the dark it's easier to pretend…" he says, standing away from me, yet his presence is looming and heavy, like smoke in the air. "It's much easier to pretend that all is alright, when your eyes can't prove your lie."

Sometimes the moon shines just right and light glints off of his face, letting me see and take in like a starving thing, tempted.

"I'm sorry," I say again, and again, and again. I repeat it. I make it my mantra, my prayer—it is the word that is out of my mouth before all others. Before I say hello, before I remark on the lovely night, before I do anything at all…I apologize, hoping to right a wrong. Deep down inside I'm not sure if I say it for his sake or mine. I just say it, for it seems necessary, like breathing to live.

He never says anything to that. He never forgives, never acknowledges. He never does many things these days. He does not approach me. No longer whispers sweet words; no more sinful promises of entwining limbs and melding bodies. He tells me little. Glances away. On some nights he doesn't come at all, and I worry. Yet when he sings…

No sound can be more beautiful and clear, filled with such passion.

And it's for me. He sings, just for me.

I look forward to the night. I live, just for the sound of the chiming of the clock, when I can see him again. The irony of ironies—I yearn to see his face.

"I can…be rid of him, for you," Erik remarks one night, casually yet cautious, slightly turning to look at me. "You'd be free. Free to do whatever you wanted…with whomever you wanted."

He was asking the impossible of me. He was asking for me to choose another person's fate; I wasn't God and neither was he.

Shouldn't play with fire or you'll burn.

"Erik, I have a child. I love him…and I…I like Raoul enough to not want him dead." I look up towards the balcony of my bedroom, where my newborn babe slept soundly, close by my marriage bed, where my husband has slept oblivious all these months. "I can't possibly ask you to commit murder, nor can I leave my own flesh and blood to grow up without a mother."

Erik shifts self-consciously from his position on the dewy lawn, not looking at me, using the swooping, flower laden branches of the wisteria tree as cover. I move a tangle of pink blossoms out of the way in annoyance, watching as he fidgeted with a worn opera glove.

"We could take the child," he finally says, his mind made up, no longer insinuating that I might choose someone else but him.

"Oh Erik," I say in a whisper, not hesitating before I move forward, sliding my arms around his neck and embracing him. He's stiff at first, not sure yet of what was the right course, but then he relaxes, his muscles loosening, and suddenly I'm pulled flush against him, smelling his skin again.

"Christine," he says softly in my ear, his voice hoarse with wanting. "Come with me, we'll be happy together. We'll make each other happy—we'll bring the baby. Raoul doesn't have to die. Christine, come away with me. You're the only one who can make my soul take flight..."

Before I know it, I'm crying. My tears are staining his shirt collars and I instantly hate myself all over again. I hate it all. I hate the unfairness of the world, the preposterous notion of running away—where would we live? What would we do? Living in recluse couldn't possibly be good for the child—and how I had married the wrong man. Raoul was kind in his own way, and he always treated me right…but he isn't for me. When he touched me, there was no thrill like I'm feeling right now. No spark of need; no tingling starting all the way from the soles of my feet.

"I—I can't," I say, sobbing, pushing him away. His arms slide away from its position on my waist, lays limp at his sides. "I have to go. Goodnight. I'm sorry, so sorry…"

Then I'm running. Up the front walk, past the juniper, back into bed, slipping under the covers and shivering, but not from the cold for it was mid summer. That night I dream, only to wake up and feel horrible at dawn.

The next night, he didn't come. He didn't come the week after, the month, the year. I fell into silent despair, crying softly in the company of only myself; not showing my red, swollen eyes to anyone but my own reflection in the mirror.

Then the letter came. There was no return address, no stamp—no nothing. There was just my name, written with care, slipped into my jewelry box. With trembling fingers, I peeled away the wax seal, finding inside a single parchment of paper, already yellowing at the edges as if it had been written a long time ago, but was kept tucked away for later. It read:

I'll wait for you. I'll wait forever for you.

Such small words, yet they made me cry. I wept salty tears onto the letter, knowing that it would be a long time until I would see him again. Knowing that nothing lasts, including promises—including forever.

Knowing that I'll still dream, anyways.

Sandy: Okay, so my ending needs work. It's only a one-shot, so eh. Review anyways, plzkthnx.