He thought to lean to one side and be done with it. The exhaustion over fighting his desires for Christine, the constant tug of war with madness coupled with fearing he would destroy the one woman who made him feel alive, was unbearable punishment.
“I never believed in Your sincerity of bringing Anna to me. Shocked are we? Surprised for a brief moment I believed?” Erik rolled his head toward the side and pressed his cheek to the stone. His accusatory eyes could have shattered the pinpricks of light across the heavens. “Congratulations, Oh Merciful God, You failed again. Anna can have You and Your Son.” He yanked himself upright, his body going rigid with his anger. “I am pleased Philippe is dead!”
Spittle flew from sob soaked lips. His mouth spread upward. He may be alone for now, but not forever. There was to be an heir to his kingdom, a child with his mind and his madness. Erik spoke to the shattered stone below with an unblinking stare.
“I will have my child, in all his hideous imperfections. I will need no one but him and my music. I will need only his love. As for Christine?” Erik leapt to his feet. The wind flapped his cloak behind him. He leaned into the gust and taunted the streets below like a great yellow-eyed bird ready to swoop on unsuspecting prey. “Our character becomes our destiny. Music, like life, is inexpressible silence without its instrument. Am I not its master? I hold the baton. I will conduct what I want. I will have what I want. What is Erik without Christine?” Leaping back to the roof he retrieved his mask and turned to the opera house, his boots drumming a cadence so the ferryman could dutifully follow. A haunting whisper carried his sadness forward on the wind.