Work Text:
She lives to see his mummy-like face contorted in ecstasy, death itself lit up in some final, incomprehensible ecstasy. Wrapped in the fires of reincarnation, he is a phoenix fledging in his pyre, and she is both the match and the myrrh. She lives to see him lose himself, golden eyes and cracked lips wide and shameless, trusting, love-hungry —
She lives to see him forget himself, for in this instant when he is shattered beyond all recollection, she can mouth her words of adoration into his withered skin and see them, see them sinking in. Beyond his defenses, beyond his desires, beyond his scars and his self loathing.
In this moment, when she says she loves him, he believes her. He can do nothing but believe her. Her word is law upon the earth, and her word is all there is.
He is shaking, shaking apart underneath her, screaming and clawing and whimpering. This fearsome man. This vengeful soul is drunk on absolution, his guard thrown wide, his face sodden with tears and kisses. He begs her for more, and she gives it, gives it until he’s squealing. No thought to pitch or score or vibrato, no thought to what anyone will think
just yelling, just writhing, open trust and lust and need and worship. By God, the way he moves under her, bucking up into her hips like he can't get close enough, and
and
....Angel of Music, she called him. Her angel. A little seraphim, a collection of nothing but eyes and wings and adoration, all wrapped up in his prostrations and his endless hymns in her immortal name.
So this is what it is, Christine feels, blasphemy welling up invincible and unrepentant in her breast, to play God.
In that eternal night below the opera house, his face shines on Her waters, and She wreaks creation.