I watch you as you sleep, and gently whisper your name in your tender ear. It comforts you, doesn't it? I am so close to you, I can hear you. I can feel your life, your soft breathing. I can touch you, if I dared to, which I shudder to think of and dare not. I can hear silent music pulsing and dancing in your veins, in your blood. You are peaceful and perfect.
You are Erik's. It was meant to be from before the world was made.
You will come to love Erik for himself. I know you will, for you will not see Erik's face. You will only know and recognize your poor, lonely Erik by that angelic voice you already are so infatuated with. You will know soon enough that Erik is no angel, but you will see him as a man, very, very capable of loving... and being loved in return.
When you come to your Erik that day, Erik will give you this little golden ring that rests in his pocket. Erik will be your greatest friend, your soul's delight. Some day soon after, it will be your wedding ring. I feel a forbidden smile almost forming on my lips thinking about that day. You will cry of joy when hearing my wedding mass. It's a horrible thing to make you cry, a crime most worthy of death, but trust me, you will love these tears. The Kyrie will make the world, and true angels, weep. Erik will be handsome in your eyes, for you will never see this monstrous, hideous face, and you will not care to pry. And you--you will be pure and white, radiant in gold. Your gown will be decorated in the finest gems, including little sapphires, emeralds, amethyst, diamonds, rubies, anything your heart delights in. And you will be wearing this ring, the first gift you receive from Erik. You will be as beautiful as a corpse, and you will come to your pitiful Erik as a goddess.
And your lips will... they will touch Erik's. Could it be? You will kiss me on that day, Christine, and... you will let Erik kiss you. My lips are quivering, my heart plunging into an icy ocean of terror at the thought. What a dream, an absolute--impossible! Am I permitted to think it? Is your love possible? Will you ever hold me, kiss me, love me... alive?
You're singing in your sleep! I love that little habit of yours. Such sweet, melancholy and passionate sounds mix into the air which I so undeservedly breathe, filling me. I am coming to tears. This air filled with you is keeping miserable Erik alive. What a lovely, unusual, yet fitting, habit for a wife. Yes, my coy, little dove, you and I are meant to be, and there is nothing that can or shall prevent that fantastic fate--
But wait. There is one annoying snag in those designs I have forgotten--that tragically heartsick, petty viscount, that young and meddling fool. So, it seems you know him, and he knows you. I am sure he has a few more intentions on his mind than exchanging a few casual pleasantries. I will fix that shortly. You cannot have an angel of music and a man, Christine. You will not be able to marry him, for your soul belongs to music!--belongs to me. You won't be able to refuse your angel's strict request, for you love your angel. You love your Erik.
What a pretentious little schoolgirl that Chagny is! He is scarcely a man, in more ways than one, only a fashionable imposter. He already is despairing of your love, and you two have not yet met! Give pity to that poor, sweet, innocent, ignorant, fatuitous idiot. Look how adorably sweet, how charmingly noble his love is! It's positively darling that he would sacrifice family pride and honor just for you. What a noble, infatuated youth. How tragic, how woeful it is that he is desirous of death for your unrequited love! What a perfect little Romeo he thinks he is to your Juliet! Ha! Yes, indeed, what a pleasant little star-crossed tragedy! Oh, that poor, poor Chagny. He will just have to live with disappointment, with harbored, unrequited love. Perhaps he will die as he wishes to, and I won't have to grant it. After all, I did promise Daroga I would murder no more... but since when do I care about Daroga? Oh, Chagny. How tiringly, pathetically dramatic.
No matter. He is insignificant, not even worthy to be considered an adversary or a threat, even more so when you fall in love with me, as I am. And you, Christine, will fall in love with me. It is inevitable. We will be together, no matter what. You will be my wife, even if it means in death.
Cursed daylight! The hour has come that divides us. I must go now, my little, precious angel; your piteous Erik, your Angel and maestro and husband soon to be, will return again for you tonight as scheduled. Don't be late, dearest, and worry not a thought for that little viscount. For now, rest in deathly sleep, and dream a few pleasant dreams of love; you will receive an abundance of it beyond all your imagining when you have married your Erik.