Fair Lady Mine

Summary: If I can show her the light, the music, show her I am here for her… perhaps she will come around. Though I hate to admit it, however, I would even prefer to see her on the vicompte's arm than… than dead. Sequel to O Welcome Death.

I have been watching her for a good hour now, and I haven't the faintest idea what she is planning. This worries me, obviously, as before now I have always had at least some idea of Christine's reasoning behind her actions, but now she is sat at the desk in her room, writing page after page of what looks like a letter with a frenzied haste. I think I saw my name once or twice, but I could be mistaken. What is she doing? I'd announce my presence, but I'm intrigued. I think I will watch a little longer.

Time passes – I'm unsure of how much. Eventually Christine finishes her letter, waits for the ink to dry, and then folds the sheets – four or five in total – and places them, not without a little difficulty, inside a large envelope, on which she writes 'Erik' neatly. Then, almost before I can see the single scrawled word, the letter is placed to one side and she draws another sheet of paper towards her, and the cycle begins again – except when this letter – considerably shorter, I can't help but notice – is complete, it is that dandy boy she addresses it to.

Two letters, and one is for me. I wonder how she intends to get it to me. Perhaps she will leave it out, and hope I come by and see it. But – no, she's talking to herself. Strange, Christine has never done that before. So much in her has changed recently… It's rather disturbing to tell the truth. My Angel of Music, what is running through that innocent mind of yours? But now I shall listen, listen to her thoughts, for I believe she does not know she is speaking – and she definitely does not know anyone is listening.

"Better do it now, then." She murmurs. "Or I'll lose my courage. Or he'll be there, and it will be ruined."

Christine, what are you planning?

Ah. By the way my angel is now staring at the mirror, it would seem I did the same as she – namely, speaking my thoughts without realising.

"Erik?" The name rolls of her tongue awkwardly, unfamiliar.

"I am here, mon ange. I believe you have a letter for me?"

Silence, for a moment – long enough to declare her guilty even without the shake that coloured her next words, or her blameworthy expression.

"What do you mean?" She asks, as if I were a fool. Do not try me, Christine…

"The letter, my dear, the one you spent a great deal of time on." I smirk in my privacy. "I must say, I'm flattered you deem me worthy of more words than your betrothed."

She blushes, the tinge swiftly bypassing a charming pink and ending at a deep red, obviously mixed embarrassment and anger.

"And why have you been spying on me?"

Ah, Christine… if only you realised that you provide such a perfect glimpse of heaven, no man could refuse watching you. Ask de Chagny, ask him honestly, and see if he does not envy me for the bond you and I share. But I can say none of this.

"That is of little matter." I say instead, and pause. "So may I have my letter, Christine?" I phrase the words as a question, but by now it is quite obvious to us both that I am no longer asking. I cannot help it – I am a creature of curiosity, I am accustomed to knowing all that goes on in my Opera House, and this ignorance tires me. I am not a patient man, no matter how much I may try and convince myself otherwise. After several moments looking at her shaking hands, Christine picks up the letter, but simply toys with it, as if she regrets ever putting pen to paper. Oh, how much she regrets recently. I wonder, does she regret her engagement? What is it she wishes to tell me that she cannot speak aloud?

I am beginning to regret ever revealing myself.

No, that isn't exactly true. I regret that Christine ever saw that abomination I call a face, but I do not regret that she came to know me, for look, though she shakes it does not seem to be in fear, but uneasiness. Both very much alike, but surely the latter is better than the former?

Erik, you are desperate. Calm yourself or it will show in your voice. And Christine still has not moved. In fact, she would be as a statue if it weren't for her constant quivering. Seeing her like this, so unsure – something I probably inspire simply by being present – it makes me unable to force even the slightest shard of annoyance into my voice.

"Christine." I croon. "What is wrong, my dear? Surely it is not so awful?" I realise what I am saying and stop immediately, pressing my lips together. Stop it, Erik, you no longer deserve to say such words to her, no longer have the right to act as her guardian angel – you never had the right, you simply grasped it selfishly.

"I… I can't say." Her voice breaks… is she crying? Have I driven her to tears? What have I done now? "I can never tell anyone."

I forget that I am the devil and she an angel; forget that I am now the last person she would confide in. Those tears cause me pain – a real, physical pain in my chest.

"Is that why you wrote the letters?" I ask softly, and she nods several times, slumping once again into the chair at her desk, a hand going up to wipe away her tears. Emboldened by this sudden agreeableness, I prepare to probe a little more – ever so gently, of course – when he has to ruin it all.

"Christine? Are you all right in there?" We both hear the unspoken question in the vicompte's voice. Christine looks up sharply, my letter falling to the floor as it slips from her hand, but she does not notice – instead she stands quickly, throwing a look at the door that makes her resemble a animal that has been hunted and is now trapped. And trapped she is – trapped between the two of us.

"I am fine, Raoul." She answers, and the strength in her voice impresses me. "I was simply musing aloud."

A sigh of relief; the door opens – most discourteous, Christine could have been in any state for God's sake – and the damned vicompte stands there, a foolishly relieved expression on his face. All right, perhaps not too foolish, I did take Christine once; though I am reluctant to call it kidnap, as she came of her own free will… with a little encouragement. The boy's very existence irks me no end. He seems to realise his mistake of barging in – though whether through his own lacking brains, or by the obvious signs of tears on Christine's face in unclear. Either way, he advances and takes her in his arms. If I was not half-waiting for a moment to, ah, remove him from the equation as it were, I would have turned away in disgust. True, I am not anyone to talk, but he does not deserve my angel. Nobody truly deserves Christine 'of whom the world was unworthy of', as Romeo said of Juliet.

…And I am going to cease thinking of that damn play before I even begin.

I realise that my thoughts have blinded me to my surroundings once again, and I surface just in time to see Christine following the vicompte out of the room, throwing one last glance back at the mirror, her expression unreadable. And then she was gone, out of the door to who knows where. I stifled the sudden urge to follow her – doubtless they are leaving, and I have no wish to walk the streets in the early morning.

When I realise the obvious, I have to fight the impulse to bang my head on the wall. Of course. Christine has left, and the letter lies forgotten on the floor. My eyes find it immediately, and curiosity bubbles up again. Well. It is addressed to me, ergo it is mine, and I have every right to read what my angel has to say. Or, at least, that is what I tell myself as I open the mirror and pick the envelope up, making short work of the seal and pulling the sheets out. Unwisely, as I don't know – thanks to my foolish wandering mind – how long Christine will be gone, I sink into the same chair my angel occupied. On any other occasion, I would relish being able to touch something still warm from her – warmth it seems I am incapable of – but the very first line strikes me dumb.

I am dying.

I read the pages once, twice, three times before any of it sinks in. When it does, my hands shake, threatening to accidentally rip the paper that holds those cruel words that are my window into my angel's soul. Tears of mixed horror and sorrow gather in my eyes unheeded. Christine… Oh, Christine I am so sorry. Have we truly driven you to this point, the boy and I? I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I just wanted to protect her – true, selfishness was one of my motives, but not the only one – I wanted to show her that we could perform miracles together. I wanted to love her, and I wished – oh, how I wished – that she may just love me in return. And my wish has been granted, at the worst possible time.

There is no wonder she didn't want to give me this. It is so… so raw, so heartfelt. I have no doubt that Christine truly wrote down every thought that went through her head – the self-chastising tangents she goes off at prove that much, at least. Yet, deep down, under the confusion, the horror, the melancholy defeat, I feel a spark of pride. She chose to tell me this. Me, her Angel of Music. Well, true I am no longer an angel – never was – but the fact that Christine trusted me enough to bare her soul… it means something, doesn't it?

She loves me. Truly, she loves me. Yes, she loves that boy also, but – and I half-wonder if she intends this as a joke – it is I she compares to Romeo. I don't know whether or not to laugh at this. How could she possibly compare herself to Rosaline? Does she truly think she is just a fleeting fascination for me? Does she think there could possibly be any other I could love after her? I must say, a smirk pulls at my lips when I see she compares de Chagny to Paris. Ah, Christine, if only you could see past your notions about the boy. I shake my head in an indulgent fashion, but the smile edging its way onto my features twists into a grimace of realisation as the next few lines capture my eyes.

Then it comes to me, in a moment of clarity so clear I wonder why I didn't think of it immediately. Of course. It has a certain attraction to it, and it makes sense, given the circumstances, that my deathbed should be what you obviously intended to be our marriage bed. What was the line? 'Come cords, come Nurse, I'll to my wedding bed; And Death not Romeo shall take my maiden head'. How appropriate.

Christine intends… intends to take her life. Bile rises in my throat at the image of my angel splayed like a doll, lifeless, blood spreading in a pool around her like some macabre halo…

I close my eyes and gulp down air quickly, fighting back sickness. I cannot let those images get the better of me if I am to stop her – and stop her I will. I have seen her reasoning, but it is heavily influenced by nerves, by confusion. If I can show her the light, the music, show her I am here for her… perhaps she will come around. Though I hate to admit it, however, I would even prefer to see her on the vicompte's arm than… than dead.

I curse myself for being foolish enough to tarry when Christine's intentions were right in front of my face, and stand swiftly, the letter falling forgotten to the floor. I don't even think to pick it up as I run down the passage behind the mirror. How long would it take her to get rid of the boy? Perhaps seconds, if she complained of a headache or some other minor illness. I cannot see her knowing of any other passage to her intended resting place, but I cannot chance something like this. Even as I run I remember where I left my sword, the image flashing at the fore of my mind and coercing my legs to go faster still.

I do not take notice of the short journey to my home, my mind seizing instead upon what the outcome of tardiness would surely be. Again and again I curse myself for not rushing after Christine immediately after reading her letter. But no, instead I had to tarry, to read between the lines, to hope and pray when my Angel of Music was walking to her demise. Please God don't let her have found another way in.

Christine, who would have ever thought I would be the one to save you from madness?