This story is based heavily upon Leroux's original tale. In this version, Christine is given a ring from Erik; a ring she must wear to ensure his friendliness towards her. If you have any further questions, feel free to ask! (Or even better- read Leroux's version!)
Her first reaction was of terror: eyes alight, nose snarled into a curl, and red lips sprawled, she appeared as though she were about to scream.
"Please monsieur!" she shouted, clawing against the bed's wooden headboard.
"Christine?" Erik asked, feeling her anguish begin to permeate throughout the room. She trembled and clutched the coverlet beneath her fingers, twisting sections of it into tight spirals.
Monsieur? He stretched his securely gloved hands towards her sympathetically, although his eyebrows knitted together under the mask in confusion. He had expected her to be frightened—she opened her eyes after three days to the visage of a monster! How could he expect less? He had not, however, expected her to revert to formalities. He was dismayed when the outstretched hands created only an adverse effect; she shrank down into the mattress further, her coverlet nearly engulfing her.
"Christine, are you in any pain?" he asked as he watched her eyebrows crinkle in uncertainty. He retracted his outstretched arms—why he ever thought she would care to seek solace in them, he would never know. "Would you like for me to sing?" he asked obligingly, hoping to mitigate her pain in whatever way possible. His voice was his only soothing asset, after all.
"Sing?" she asked, her bewildered voice cracking.
Erik cocked his head, his lips tightening into a line as they were apt to do, "Yes—or a story, if you would prefer?" He glanced about the room, searching for the book he had read to her the last time she had stayed within his domain. She had absolutely insisted that it be kept in her quarters; she was rather fond of the tale.
She shook her head, and his attention snapped back towards her. He tightened his lips. Of course, why would she want the company of someone like himself? "My dear, you are surely exhausted. Allow me to take my leave of you-"
"Monsieur, please. Where am I?" Christine interrupted, her voice leaking drops of potent fear.
Rather irked at being interrupted, he responded in a sharp rasp, "You are in my home, Christine. You spent the last three days in that bed after catching a high fever gallivanting with that boy in a rain shower." How had that boy been so irresponsible? To be caught out in a rainstorm with Christine and not seek shelter? Did the thought even cross his thick skull that Christine could catch cold in her thin petticoats and dress? Of course not. He growled, startling Christine.
"W-what boy?" she asked, her hands now kneading the afghan.
What boy? What boy? There were multiple? Dear Lord…
"And please, monsieur. Who are you?" she pleaded after her last unanswered question.
Who am I? His expression morphed into a scowl, his eyes glowing in the scant light. "Who am I?" he jeered, "Why, Christine, I am your dear Erik, your maestro," he paused, seeing her persisting confusion, "Le Fantôme de l'Opéra!" Did she think this amusing? He had sat at her side loyally for the past three days, crumpled in despair, periodically changing her cooling cloth as she toiled in the tangled, sweat-slicked sheets. He had even spoken to her in hopes that she would hear his voice in her stupor and crawl out of the abyss that had imprisoned her! No, this was not amusing in the slightest, and he would not play her cruel game.
He was about to voice his farewell when a timid voice reached him, "Then. . . who am I?"
. . . What? This was too much! He grasped the bed post, steadying himself, and stared into her eyes, looking for any trace of cruelty. All he found was conflicting confusion and hesitation.
"Christine. . .?"
She nodded, her hands relaxing, "That is my name?" He was too shocked to form a coherent answer. "Have I a surname?"
He shook his head dazedly, "Daaé. You are Christine Daaé."
"And how. . . exactly are we related, monsieur Erik?" Her confused stare nearly unraveled the last vestiges of his sanity. Until a glimmer caught the edge of his peripheral vision, and he suddenly had an ingenious idea.
He looked pointedly at the band on her left ring finger.
Her eyes widened, "You're—my husband?"