Summary- She was killing him, she knew. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to leave.
Disclaimer- Erik in his true form of originality belongs to Gaston Leroux.
Everyday he grew weaker. She could see it in his slower walk- he was still as graceful as ever, but he moved carefully now, as if he were trying not to hurt himself.
He completely gave up sleeping. He insisted that he didn't need sleep, but was happy observing her slumber. Every night, he'd curl up in the chair by the bed, his glowing golden eyes set, unblinking, on her.
He ate even less. Oh, he'd fix for his beloved little wife her meals and watch, content as she ate them, but he always refused when she offered him a bite.
"How can I worry about an earthly thing as food?" he asked. "When I have an angel at my table?"
And he'd chuckle lightly, though his soft laughs often turned to violent coughs these days.
Erik's voice lost its melodic quality, and his musical tones were replaced with a rasp. He spoke less and less; instead choosing to fix his bloodshot, but adoring, gaze on his wife.
He had used to read to her, but now it was she who'd suggest that they go to his library. She'd select a volume and let her voice wash tenderly over him. Sometimes, she'd catch him dozing slightly and she'd stop, but he snapped awake every time, looking at her expectantly for the story.
One night, Christine awoke with a start to silence. She pressed one hand to her rapidly beating heart and listened. Suddenly, a shuddering groan came from her husband, who trembled in his chair and took a shaking breath. She pushed the blankets down and went to him, and curled her body around his, struggling to warm him. Erik awoke crying and he clutched her hands to his shockingly hot face.
"Erik is cold, he is so cold!" he cried.
"Come to bed," she pleaded, concerned. He shook his head sharply.
"No, no, he did not mean to wake his poor wife. Erik will sit here and watch his angel sleep, oh she is so good to him!"
"Erik, come to bed," she said, softly stroking his hand. He looked at her.
"It wouldn't be right." He said sadly, then gasped and choked with more coughs. Christine put her arms around his thin, starved frame, and eased him out of the chair. Christine was not an extremely strong woman, but he was so weak and so thin, he couldn't weigh more than a child. She set him on the bed, and lay beside him. Erik moaned and twisted, but she held him firmly to her.
"Shh, now. Hush my dear Erik. Stop it now, and rest." She cooed, holding him. Erik pushed her away frantically at first. He finally settled, clutching at her arms.
"Oh, my Christine, Erik does not feel well!"
"I know love, I know." Her sweet smell and her gentle arms around him calmed him. Christine hummed until he was still, save for the restless coughs and lapses in breath.
She was killing him, she knew. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to leave.
If she stayed, he would die of love, but he had been ill long before she'd come. That original sickness, coupled with his neglect of himself was killing him. Oh, she felt so guilty!
But if she left, he'd die instantly of sorrow and misery…and she might too. Christine did not like to think that she was in love with him- she preferred to insist to herself that she was merely humoring the dying man, staying with him out of pity. Still, she knew that she cared for him. Deeply. A tear streamed down her face and she held him closer.