Thoughts of Summertime, by Ni Dubhchair
Summary and Disclaimer: This a little fluffy angsty-romantic one-shot that I started writing one night when I was supposed to be writing a paper. It is entirely movie-based, since I liked the drama at the end of the movie better than the musical, and I've never read Lereaux. Warning: If you like Erik, think Christine should've ended up with Erik, think Raoul is a snobby git, etc. then don't read this! It is entirely R/C, and Erik doesn't get a very nice treatment, so if you're an E/C-er, don't flame me, I don't want to hear it, and I warned you! It's just a little story of what happens immediately after Raoul and Christine flee Erik's lair, and the lovey-dovey-angstness of it all...Read and Review, and feel free to critique my writing. I admit that it's cliched and corny at parts, but if you have any suggestions to make it better, go ahead. I'm a Lit major, so I appreciate such comments. Rated PG for some kissing, slight violence, etc. As always, I own nothing, I am a lowly fanfic writer and none of these characters were my idea. ALW please don't sue me...
Her heart was rent. Her eyes darted from the cold, ruined face of the Phantom to her Raoul, choking in pain at the end of Erik's lasso. "For goodness sake, Christine, say no! Don't throw your life away for my sake," he pleaded, voice weak for lack of air, and full of the realization that either way she chose, he died. He'd fought so hard to free her, she thought, always there to guard and guide. She could see blood from his recent sword gash now dripping from the rope which dug into it. With that sight of his wounds she realized how very deep was Raoul's love, deeper than Erik's could ever be. Erik's darkness would smother her spirit up, Raoul's light could free her. Passion could sputter, die, and turn to hate, but Love never would. Erik had killed to woo her, but Raoul was willing to die in his pursuit. Her choice was clear. She loved Raoul, too much to watch him die. Her sacrifice would echo his.
She turned her eyes to the Phantom, mad hatred in his smile, and whispered "God give me courage to show you…" Moving closer, her eyes telling Raoul her choice, his eyes terrified that he would have to leave her with this monster.
"No, Christine!"
"…You are not alone!" Her lips closed with Erik's, and the music of the night enfolded them for brief seconds. His hands loosed their grip on the lasso, and she could hear Raoul gulping in the precious air once more. She tried to block the thoughts of the dark, candle-lit life before her, the prisoner-bride of this madman…but Raoul would live, and his living hope could give her strength to endure the darkness.
The Phantom pulled away from their embrace, and instead of the triumph she thought she would find in his face, she found shame. Did her Angel of Music have a soul after all? He let go the rope and staggered to his organ, broken and sorrowful. Their love could never be, his desires never fulfilled by the power of his own will, he knew it. He had realized it with her sacrificial kiss. "Go now, leave me, forget me, forget all of this!" The sounds of the mob hunting through the catacombs drifted over his voice.
"GO! Don't let them find you! Tell no one of me!" With his haunted screams, she realized that she was free. She ran to Raoul, his face full of disbelief and joy as she untied the ropes and released his neck from the lasso's stinging embrace. He half-collapsed into her arms, weakened by his journey and his fear. They grasped each other as long as they thought safe, not knowing whether the Phantom would change his mind.
"Come," he said, already taking back his protective role, "let us leave this place, never to return in body or in mind. No more night for us." He helped her into the boat and guided it skillfully down the culvert, leaving the Phantom and his anguish behind them.
As they neared the surface, they could feel the heat of the fire, and smell the acrid air raised by the fallen-chandelier's inferno.
"We can't go back this way," said Raoul, eyes set in the face of this new danger. Christine buried her face in his chest, not wanting to think of anything further threatening them. He coughed in the increasing smoke, and she imagined what agony that meant for his raw throat. Tears sprang to her eyes, she wanted no more pain for him, ever. He helped her out of the boat and groped forward through the thick, harsh blackness. Small stones began to fall from the ceiling. The fire was weakening even the grand granite foundation of that Metropolitan masterpiece. Raoul bit back a cry as one flaming hot tile hit the back of his neck, breaking and searing the skin. He could barely breath now, the smoke had so increased, but he gathered Christine in front and beneath him, hoping to shield her from any more debris. His eyes searched desperately for an exit. At last something seemed to glow from past the shadowous smoke.
"Here, here is another pipe," he said, "I think I see street light at the end of it." He picked her up, and carried her through the culvert's black stench to the grate at the end. It opened easily, and he hoisted her out onto the cold Parisian street.
Chaos was all around them, evacuated theater-goers standing around in various stages of hysteria, gendarmes and the fire-brigade running from the Opera House to the street and back again, many shouting inquiries for the two missing people still in the building: "the Vicomte and that other girl, the soprano, Miss Daae!"
As soon as he was sure that they had reached safety, Raoul's strength seemed to flee from him. He leaned hard on her shoulder, shivering in his wet clothes, blood from his wound dripping from his fingers, coughing uncontrollably. She wasn't feeling much better, faint from the smoke and the terrors she had experienced. Christine sat Raoul down against a wall and whispered "Rest, my love, I will go find Madame Girdy."
"No." He grabbed her hand as she went to go. "She can… find us. I could not …bear your absence once again." His arms pulled her down next to him and she nestled her head into his shoulder. Once his breathing grew easier, he sang their song to her, "Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…" He rocked her like a father rocks a child; though his voice grew quieter with each note, finally drifting into silence as exhaustion brought them both to the edges of that quiet forest, sleep.
Madame Girdy found them an hour later, Christine's head on his shoulder, and his head on hers, contented in each other's presence. The ballet mistress, however, was much too practical for love; and saw only their pale, smoke-marked faces and the Vicomte's somewhat-bloody state. Her hands explored the raw cuts on his neck and the old wound on his arm, now reopened, inflamed and angry. She felt Christine's head and was displeased to find her slightly feverish. "Amareaux ridicules…" she muttered, "Inspector, I have found them! Have the Vicomte's carriage brought 'round!"
Raoul would not release Christine to the arms of the gendarmes, even in sleep, and so they were carried together into his carriage, and thence into his house, where Madame Girdy finally succeeded in loosening his grip and placed them in beds near each other. The Vicomte awoke as she examined his arm, looked confusedly around at the hangings of his bedroom for a few moments, then suddenly attempted to sit upright. "Where is Christine," he demanded as Madame Girdy pushed him firmly back into the mattress.
"She lies not three feet from you, Vicomte…now hold still! You've torn your stitches and I'll not have you doing any more damage before the doctor arrives to sew you back up again, young fool that you are."
"Is she alright?" He gazed at her still form on the next bed.
"Hmph! She'll have a little cold for the next few days. She only needs some rest. You, on the other hand, need to lie still and not worry yourself over trifling matters like fiancés…"
"She is the only thing for whom I will ever fear…"
"Ach, you make such promises now…wait 'til she gives you children. You will wish to keep them all from darkness for ever, and you will not be able to. Your human arms are too small."
"They have been proved too small already." He sighed sadly, still gazing at her face upturned upon her pillow, lips parted in a soft, weary smile. "I could not save her. I forced her into all this pain."
"Let's not forget your pain in all this mess…now hold still." She began to gently dab the raw skin on his neck with salve, then wrapped linen cloth over the cuts, while he tried to hide his pain with a stony expression.
The doctor soon arrived, to Madame Girdy's relief, and his Sisters of Perpetual Help took over her nursing duties. They clicked their tongues over the re-opened sword wound.
"It's badly infected, my Lord," said the doctor. "I can put it to rights as best I can, but, mon dieu, if you do not rest completely for at least a few days, I cannot prevent a serious down-turn in your health. You're already in a fever…"
The doctor continued to grumble as he cleaned the wound and heated the stitching needle, then started in on his task without a word of warning. Raoul could not help a moan of surprised pain.
Christine awoke to this unwelcome sound, and turned her head to see her fiancé, face white with concealed distress. Having no Madame Girdy to stop her, she promptly left her bed and crossed to his side.
"Apaisez, mon amour, je suis ici…"
"Christine…You should be –"
"Shhh. As if I would leave you under the physician's knife in order to climb back in bed and sleep off a head cold! Impossible!"
She slid her arm around the back of his head and gripped his right hand with hers. It fit so comely into his large, sword-trained grasp; and he had to be careful not to squeeze too hard with each of the doctor's stiches.
"Oh, Raoul…will you ever forgive me," she asked after the doctor had left instructions and made his way from the room.
"An what offense has carissima me committed?" His voice was soft, weakened, but had not lost its fervor.
"I do not think I have loved you the way you deserved…I was foolish in my dreams, flattered by attentions, torn between you and his dark whisperings of passion. How could I have thought for a moment that he could truly be my Angel? And now…now you are wounded in my stead."
"Hush, belliora, they are mere scratches, and no…do not think they were got unwillingly. I would sell my right arm to the King of Persia if I thought it might earn your esteem. Your eyes alone are worth one-thousand nights of pain."
Their foreheads touched as she leaned in for a kiss. His was too warm, she thought, but in the next second she was glad. He could rest now, rest from darkness and from fear. Thoughts of summertime overwhelmed her as they embraced.