Unforgiven

By Blodeuedd

"Come back to me. Please."

The words struggle from her lips, already cold and half-dead with despair the instant they are formed.

Anxious, she twists the ring that encircles the third finger of her left hand, an innocent old habit that now takes on an alarmed urgency and also an anger, a fury which threatens to tear the ring from her finger and leave it forgotten in the gathering dust and shadows of the stage.

Quiet. The sullen theater refuses to answer. She can sense the pain running through the veins of the stage beneath her feet, the hue of bitterness in the shades of black that paint the arching ceiling.

Still, hope flares like a rebellious ember in her heart, straining and endeavoring to be seen.

"Please," she begs again, "I was wrong and foolish, my angel. Forgive me. Protect me." At these words, she glances fearfully over her shoulder, every line of her body taut as that of the doe which hears the brassy shrilling of the hunter's horn.

Her eyes are lucid and lit with emotion, almost to that frightening point where life becomes drama and she is an actress again, stubbornly performing on in the long-dead theater, for an audience that will never appear.

"Christine!"

Her heart thuds in her ears, a terrifying echo of the footsteps that approach in the dark opera house. It is not him. It is her husband, the Vicomte. Panic rising like a clawed beast to her throat, she turns about helplessly, gaze frantically searching for her long-forgotten dark guardian.

"No," she whispers, hands fluttering, entreating, "Don't let him take me. Come back. I was mistaken, my angel. . ."

"Christine!" The hated and feared voice, louder now, borne on fast-approaching feet.

Sobbing emptily like a child trapped in a nightmare, she falls to her knees, wringing her hands, hiding her eyes, fending off the blows she knows will come. The empty orchestra pit plays in silent accompaniment, rising in a panicked crescendo that mimics and mocks the terror that wrings her heart like a sponge.

Tears fall on the dusty floor, seeping through the floorboards with the encroaching night. She shuts her eyes and tries to calm her dread, thinking back to the time when her angel was there for her, when she was pure and protected and free and unknowing.

Marriage to Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, had seemed like a miracle then. She had been lost in the darkness that her Phantom had wrapped about her, and Raoul had led her back to the light.

He had helped her forget, holding her through the long nights when she had woken sobbing and shivering from terrible dreams. He had been her new guardian, and the strength of his love and trust had seemed boundless.

The new life he had given her was one every young girl dreamed of—wealth, safety, adoration, comfort. She had slowly begun to forget the years, the events, that had come before.

Until the money failed.

She can still remember the overcast day in December when he had returned home in a fury, eyes dulled.

"Everything, Christine. We must sell everything. I can't believe it; the investment was supposed to have been—" She should have known by the coldness of his voice that he wasn't talking to her.

"But, Raoul—"

"Shut up. You wouldn't understand. We've lost everything. Everything."

The gambling had begun in an effort to refill their empty coffers. The drinking had begun not long after, when the losses became more and more felt. And with the drinking had come the yelling, the striking, the blind anger.

And suspicion, worst of all. When the drink is heavy in his mind, Raoul accuses her of terrible things, trying to force a false admission past her lips about everyone she had met in the years between their first meeting and their reunion at the Paris Opéra. But especially her Phantom. She tries to be honest and assert the truth, but the truth does not please him, and he rages at her until the drink has worked him into a stupor.

She has tried to forgive him with each passing month, biting back her fear to tend to his headaches and make his life easier. But her labors are met only by a harsh word or a shattering blow. It has continued until tonight, when even her old life at the opera seems a happy dream in comparison.

And so she returns, begging forgiveness.

"Please." The plea emerges as a threadbare whisper. Her eyes search the audience, the balcony, the rafters above the stage. But all is empty. "Angel. Help me."

"Christine!"

Her name again, like the doom-filled tolling of a bell, frighteningly closer than ever. Panicking, she knows she must try one last time.

"Phantom. Come back."

But there is no reply. She hears Raoul's footsteps hush behind her, and knows her angel will never come for her now. Night will fall upon a deteriorating stage that is once again empty, and the Paris Opéra's dead orchestra will sing the ruined theater to sleep.

The End

Author's Note:

I really don't have a huge amount of things to remark upon for this work, but here I am nonetheless.

First, this story is a little poorly done. I started it months and months ago, and only recently returned to it. In all, Unforgiven was written in about four days, not counting the long space between. So I am sorry if you find it altogether unsatisfactory. I just wanted to settle my score with this niggling story once and for all.

Now I would like to steal this last moment for audacious publicity: if you're a fan of Tolkien, Phantom of the Opera (obviously, you are to read this story), or Star Wars, please, please, please give my other stories a try. Reviews are becoming painfully scarce and, since I live for feedback, I am a little crestfallen. Please brighten my day; if you're a FanFiction member, I'll be sure to return the favor.

Much desperate love :-) ,

Blodeuedd