This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction based upon The Phantom of the Opera novel. All related characters, places, and events, belong to Gaston Leroux. This story, and all original content, belongs to the author, © 2005, revised 2008.
Debt of Blood
by Orianna-2000
His heart burned, as if someone had flicked acid upon it. Such betrayal and agony inflicted by such innocent beauty. She chose the handsome young suitor, rather than the man who breathed a second life into her! She chose wealth, aristocracy, and charm, instead of passion, instead of music, instead of love. For he loved her in a way the vicomte never could. What good were money and sophistication, compared with being able to inspire someone's very soul? He gave her a voice with which to express her inner longings, he gave her everything . . . and she scorned him for someone with boyish good looks.
Christine was young, he reasoned. Young and impressionable, easily swayed by flirtatious gifts and a perfect smile. He mustn't punish her, for she couldn't help being swept away by the perfect features of a man born into privilege. She didn't know that the two men who vied for her affection shared more than a desire to posses her. No one alive knew the secret that ate away at him, day after day, night after night. She couldn't possibly have realized that to choose this particular suitor would be to thrust the final dagger into an already bruised and beaten heart.
Erik slunk away from the icy rooftop, turning his back on the perfect lovers that clung to each other for warmth. He would let them have just a little bit of happiness before plunging them both into the dark Hell that he inhabited.
Hours passed while he plotted. Some details required little effort, for he'd often thought about what he might like to do to Raoul de Chagny. Now he had motive enough, no one could possibly blame him for what he was determined to do. Hadn't he suffered enough in his lifetime? Hadn't he been passed over again and again, while the other man received freely of every joy and blessing ever offered? No longer!
Tonight . . . tonight would see justice. Tonight would bring recompense.
The evening arrived, and he had her in his grasp. Christine had wanted to sing, one last time, for him. Such a thoughtful gesture. Such a dear, sweet child, to offer him a final echo of her heavenly voice before vanishing from his life forever. A pity she'd forgotten who her master really was! He owned her and her voice. The gesture did not console him, and he ensured that she truly did vanish. Not from his life, as she'd intended. Rather, her petite figure disappeared from the opera stage in a flash of darkness.
He had her now, in his dank home below the opera cellars. He'd given Christine the chance to belong to him of her own will, but she'd betrayed him; now she would learn the truth . . . such an ironic truth, which would shatter her illusions of beauty and love forever. And then—then she would belong to him.
He allowed her to wallow in self-pity for a while, locked in her bedroom. Soon enough the drama would begin. It would take time for Raoul to find his way down to the hidden lair, but the boy had decent intelligence—he'd be able to follow the paths without getting lost. Before long he would arrive; then certain facts would be revealed and the scales of Justice would be balanced. Christine would be unable to hide from the truth and harbor fantasies of a handsome husband. She would at last be able to give her love to the man who'd earned it.
Erik trembled slightly as he set out a tray and methodically arranged the items. Memories flickered through his mind. So many painful recollections! But all that would soon be put right.
A bell chimed, and he straightened. At last!
"Christine, my dear, come on out. All the guests have arrived, and it is time for our party to begin." He balanced the tray on one arm as he unlocked her door and gestured for her to emerge. She did so warily, her eyes dark and haunted.
"Guests?" she asked in a timid voice. Her fingers twisted the folds of her skirt, wrinkling the pale fabric. She followed meekly as he led her out of the house to a spot on the narrow shore where a wooden chair and small table sat. With wide eyes she watched Erik set the tray down and carefully straighten the instruments upon it. Then she saw the man wading through the shallow edges of the lake, and could not help but gasp. "Raoul!"
The vicomte saw her, and ran forward, splashing in his haste. "Christine! Are you all right? Has this monster harmed you?"
Before the two lovers could meet, Erik intervened and drew Christine to his side. "I will thank you to hold your tongue, sir, before I cut it from your mouth. I have not harmed the young lady. Despite my ghastly appearance and society's claims to the contrary, I am not a murderer, nor do I inflict injury upon undeserving victims."
"Let her go," Raoul said, stepping up to Erik. Water dripped from his trousers, staining the sand black.
"All in good time. After certain matters are attended to, the lady will be allowed to choose her suitor and leave this dismal place."
Christine glanced at Erik, her expression showing obvious disbelief. He scowled at her. "Have I not always been a man of my word? Well, have I not?"
"You've never lied to me, Erik," she answered. After all, he hadn't actually claimed to be an angel, of music or anything else. She'd made that assumption on her own and he simply hadn't bothered to correct her.
He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Well then. With that in mind, let's proceed."
Before either could react, the lasso appeared around Raoul's neck. Pulling it taunt, but without pressure enough to snap the vicomte's neck, Erik maneuvered him over to the chair and forced him to sit. Ignoring Christine's sobs, he tied Raoul to the seat, knotting the slender rope with deft hands. The lasso returned to his pocket, and he turned. "Fear not, Christine. Your handsome lover's life isn't in danger. Stop weeping, and come here! The vicomte has something to tell you. Isn't that so?"
Raoul stared hard at Erik, and then shifted his gaze to Christine. "It's all right, darling. No need for tears. He'll not kill me."
Trembling, Christine moved beside the chair. She wiped the salty tears from her cheeks then looked up at Erik. Her lips moved, but no sound came forth, so she glanced away. A moment later she tried again. "Erik . . . if you promise to free him, I'll stay with you. I'll marry you. Whatever you like, I'll do. Just let him go."
I'll marry you. Such precious words coming from his beloved's lips, words he'd ached to hear for so long. But he shook his head. "No, Christine. I will not have you wed me out of fear! I will not have an unwilling bride in my bed. Tonight you will listen to the truth, the playing field will become level. Only then will you choose."
"I don't understand," she whispered, her eyes pleading.
"No, but your lover does. Go on, tell her, vicomte! After all, if she is to marry into the family, she deserves to know exactly who her relations will be, does she not?"
Raoul set his jaw determinedly and said nothing.
"Afraid?" Erik mocked, leaning close. "Or ashamed? But what have you to be ashamed of? You have everything! A mother and father who love you, a title, a rich inheritance, boyish charm, good looks. What could you possibly have to hide?"
Still Raoul kept silent, though he avoided Christine's questioning gaze.
Erik clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Nothing to say? And I was under the impression that men of the de Chagny line were unusually well-spoken. Well then, I trust you will not mind if I tell the lady your dirty little secret." He tilted his head and looked at Christine. "You see, my dear, Raoul is not the rightful heir to the de Chagny inheritance. Yes, I know that Philippe is dead, but even so, your beloved is not the next in line. He may possess the title of vicomte, but it is a stolen rank! His older brother has the birthright, and I do not mean the late Philippe."
"You killed Phillipe," Raoul accused.
"And you've had the chance to speak! Now be silent once more," Erik commanded. "I did not kill Philippe. His drowning was an unfortunate accident, and one that I regret. Philippe came down here, I can only assume, to try to talk me out of whatever he suspected I had planned for you, Raoul. Sadly, I was not at home, being, in fact, upon the rooftop, listening to you plot your elopement. Had I been anywhere near at the time, rest assured our dear older brother would still be alive. And yes, Christine, I do mean our brother, for what your sweet beau neglected to tell you is that he has not one, but two elder siblings!"
Christine glanced between them, bewildered and afraid. From within his coat pocket, Erik withdrew a document and thrust it toward her. "Read it and see if I am not telling the truth. Do read it loudly, my dear, so that there is no misunderstanding."
She took the paper and unfolded it with trembling hands. Tilting the parchment toward the candlelight, she uncertainly began to read the formal script.
"Certificate of baptism: The male child, Erik Robert de Chagny, born to the Comte Philibert Charles Jean-Pierre de Chagny and Comtess Madeline Nicolette de Moerogis de La Martyniere de Chagny, on the Fourteenth day of August in the Year of our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Forty One, has been consecrated to God on this the Fifteenth day of August, in the Church of Our Holy Mother, the township of Rouen, France."
Erik snatched the certificate back before Christine could drop it in her astonishment. He folded it neatly and stashed it back in his pocket. "You did that quite nicely, thank you."
"But. . . ." She looked to Raoul in dismay. "Have you always known this?"
"Forgive me, Christine," Raoul answered with his head bowed.
"He has known for many years—ever since Philippe brought him down here to meet me, one dismal day not long after I first claimed these cellars as my home. He did not react well." Erik made a choking sound that might have been laughter. "Philippe was the only one of our family to ever show me a drop of kindness, you know. When the Comte decided to disown the deformed son and banish him out of sight, it was Philippe who convinced him not to send me away penniless. It was Philippe who wrote to me all those long, miserable years, and Philippe who visited me regularly down here in my rightful palace. Philippe swore that when he became Comte, he would undo our father's handiwork and restore me to the family line."
Erik paused, his eyes glittering in the dim light. "And as for you, Raoul . . . you are the one who gained Father's approval and love. You are the one who got to sit on Mother's lap and receive the hugs and kisses, the praise and honor. You are the one who grew up in privilege, denied nothing, while I rotted alone, unloved, and unwanted. You are the one who inherited Father's good looks, and you inherited the birthright when it should have passed to me! I might have been able to forgive all of that, perhaps, but you had to steal the one star in my clouded sky, the one tiny sliver of happiness that I might have earned. You had to claim Christine's heart."
He took a step back, then turned away to compose himself. Behind him, he could hear Christine's skirts rustle as she knelt beside Raoul, her gentle whisper asking for confirmation. Then he heard a faint sob from her, as Raoul nodded only once in resignation. Without turning, Erik said in a flat voice, "My dear, I suggest you leave us now. The time has come for justice to be served and it will not be a pleasant thing to witness."
She stood and moved around to face him. Imploringly, she placed her small hands on his chest. "Erik, you promised. You said you wouldn't kill him. Please . . . I choose you, Erik! Do not murder your brother."
In response, he firmly turned her toward the secret passageway. "It is not yet time for you to choose. Raoul shall not die, I swear to you. All the same, equality must be meted out, and then you may decide fairly, unswayed by delusions of the eye."
Christine furrowed her brow and looked back at him, frightened by the dark look on Erik's face. "What will you do?"
"Go, Christine," he ordered. Then he turned from her and strode to the tray he'd set out earlier. From it he chose a scalpel, which gleamed in the candlelight.
She gasped with intuition and shrank toward the shadows, clamping both hands over her mouth.
"For God's sake, what are you doing, brother?" Raoul demanded.
Erik leaned over him, entwined his fingers in his hair, and jerked the younger man's head back. "Don't worry," he hissed. "I'll loan you a mask!"
The candles flickered violently as Raoul screamed. Christine fled.
Hours later, Erik stood back and admired his handiwork. Blood had caused the scalpel to slip from his fingers on occasion, but the few accidents only enhanced the overall effect. He strode to the edge of the lake and knelt to rinse his hands clean. In the darkness, he couldn't see the blood washing away, but he felt a sense of peace and accomplishment fall over him. No girls would be falling at Raoul's feet now, unless in a swoon of fright. No one would dare call the vicomte handsome again! Nature didn't always even things out, but he had restored the balance quite thoroughly.
He brought a cupful of clean water to Raoul and gently splashed it across his face to rinse off the oozing blood. Yes, indeed, he'd done a splendid job. Now the two brothers truly did resemble each other. They could face the woman they both loved on equal ground. In a moment he would give his brother a few drops of laudanum—not to sedate him, but to control the pain enough for semi-coherent thought.
He wanted Raoul to be fully conscious when Christine made her choice.