Fitzpatrick remains huddled uncertainly towards the far side of the stage; he's really no good in a fight so he doesn't want to draw any attention. Yet, he remains close at hand, just in case Cohen beckons. He must be very loyal, no? Or maybe, he's just more afraid of Cohen than Christine. Finnegan is hissing curses as his face slowly begins to come back together; it's clear he won't be out of commision for too much longer.
Cohen's high pitched raspy giggles bounce off the wasting walls; while he has no skill in throwing his voice, he can flicker around the yawning space within the space of a single blink.
"Because when I look into your eyes, I do not see possession. I see desperation." This could be Cohen just messing with her, trying to get inside her mind... but it quietly leads one to wonder just how much the mad artist actually sees. "Look at how you gaze upon one another, awww... it makes me sick. You are like a tattered photograph, becoming ash in the fire. I wonder how your pain will sound, little bird. How will it smell? Maybe... maybe like... burning..." his ominous off kilter laughter becomes louder and louder, almost ear splitting at the height of it.
And all of the sudden, there is a scorching flash of red and gold from a balcony to the back of the theater. The huge hungry ball of flame soars searing through the air, aimed to strike viciously between Christine's shoulder blades. Likely he's testing her; if she burns, she's not a demon.
Erik watches the flames as they create a stunning silhouette of Christine's form. This is all so unreal, and yet he cannot bring himself to believe that it's a dream. He had spent so little time as a man with Christine; so long had pe played The Angel of Music, the ghost, the terror. And yet... he may as well have raised her from a babe, by all the likeness she's taken to him now. Shame burns up his insides as his boney fingers bite the bars, bracing his weight while his head feels light and dizzy.
It becomes clear to him in that eternal moment that this must happen. The only thing worse than Christine succeeding, would be Christine failing. They will kill her, or rip her into so many pieces it won't matter-- or they'll do exactly what they plan on doing to him, so that even when they look upon each other they will be impossibly separated by the blank void of thier stolen memories.
There could be no torture worse than this!
His shame amplified tenfold when he feels the desire to look away. He cannot, will not. He needs to see she survives as much as he cannot blind himself to her destruction. He cannot cower; he must face the full reality of what his influence has done to this once pure and heartbreakingly fragile flower of a girl. He must bare the sight of how much of his ugliness he has forced upon her. This is so much worse than anything Cohen and his goons could have fathomed to do with him.
He doesn't deserve this sacrifice; he's poisoned her with unspoken secret betrayal. He's not worth this--
-- maybe he's not worth any of the pain Christine has dragged herself through for simply a chance to be with him.
His eyes sting suddenly, but he won't blink, he won't break his guardian stare. Even though it's completely useless, worthless. It's all he can give. The realization is like a spark upon a lake of oil, and suddenly Erik is thrashing at the bars. He throws his weight against the locked door, over and over and over again, biting down a roar of boundless rage because he doesn't know if Christine's shot destroyed the enchanted pocket watch. Her sacrifice would be insulted even further if he allowed his carelessness to cost him his voice. His temper battles viciously with despair, corroding his attachment to logical thought.
Despite the bruises, the ringing in his hears, the feeling of a lance through his chest, he keeps crashing himself against the cage door. For the moment, he seems absolutely drowned by the hatred induced by his helplessness.
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Cohen's high pitched raspy giggles bounce off the wasting walls; while he has no skill in throwing his voice, he can flicker around the yawning space within the space of a single blink.
"Because when I look into your eyes, I do not see possession. I see desperation." This could be Cohen just messing with her, trying to get inside her mind... but it quietly leads one to wonder just how much the mad artist actually sees. "Look at how you gaze upon one another, awww... it makes me sick. You are like a tattered photograph, becoming ash in the fire. I wonder how your pain will sound, little bird. How will it smell? Maybe... maybe like... burning..." his ominous off kilter laughter becomes louder and louder, almost ear splitting at the height of it.
And all of the sudden, there is a scorching flash of red and gold from a balcony to the back of the theater. The huge hungry ball of flame soars searing through the air, aimed to strike viciously between Christine's shoulder blades. Likely he's testing her; if she burns, she's not a demon.
Erik watches the flames as they create a stunning silhouette of Christine's form. This is all so unreal, and yet he cannot bring himself to believe that it's a dream. He had spent so little time as a man with Christine; so long had pe played The Angel of Music, the ghost, the terror. And yet... he may as well have raised her from a babe, by all the likeness she's taken to him now. Shame burns up his insides as his boney fingers bite the bars, bracing his weight while his head feels light and dizzy.
It becomes clear to him in that eternal moment that this must happen. The only thing worse than Christine succeeding, would be Christine failing. They will kill her, or rip her into so many pieces it won't matter-- or they'll do exactly what they plan on doing to him, so that even when they look upon each other they will be impossibly separated by the blank void of thier stolen memories.
There could be no torture worse than this!
His shame amplified tenfold when he feels the desire to look away. He cannot, will not. He needs to see she survives as much as he cannot blind himself to her destruction. He cannot cower; he must face the full reality of what his influence has done to this once pure and heartbreakingly fragile flower of a girl. He must bare the sight of how much of his ugliness he has forced upon her. This is so much worse than anything Cohen and his goons could have fathomed to do with him.
He doesn't deserve this sacrifice; he's poisoned her with unspoken secret betrayal. He's not worth this--
-- maybe he's not worth any of the pain Christine has dragged herself through for simply a chance to be with him.
His eyes sting suddenly, but he won't blink, he won't break his guardian stare. Even though it's completely useless, worthless. It's all he can give. The realization is like a spark upon a lake of oil, and suddenly Erik is thrashing at the bars. He throws his weight against the locked door, over and over and over again, biting down a roar of boundless rage because he doesn't know if Christine's shot destroyed the enchanted pocket watch. Her sacrifice would be insulted even further if he allowed his carelessness to cost him his voice. His temper battles viciously with despair, corroding his attachment to logical thought.
Despite the bruises, the ringing in his hears, the feeling of a lance through his chest, he keeps crashing himself against the cage door. For the moment, he seems absolutely drowned by the hatred induced by his helplessness.