Her Angel's Wings Stirring

Christine awoke with a start. She could hear Raoul's easy breathing beside her. His dreams never seemed haunted at all. Hers were always filled with the angel she left.

It had been 5 years since they had fled Paris, 4 years since they were married, less than 3 since she had lost their only child. Christine's dreams also were haunted by the cries of a dead child, one that never was born. Her Angel and her unborn baby, two people she had abandoned.

Everyone had been badly ill. Christine herself could not remember the miscarriage. The fever burned through her body and mind, and all she could recall were raving dreams of fire and death. Near the end, as she began to surface to consciousness, she could hear his voice, Erik's voice, her angel's voice. His voice cooling her searing body, soothing away the aches, and bringing her delirious mind back to the surface. As she learned that the fever had taken the unborn baby inside her, Erik's voice seemed to echo in her head once more. Through the memory of that voice, she somehow found the will to live again, to recover the pieces of her broken heart. Since then, Raoul had become distant, more somber. The entire house seemed shrouded in sorrow. Raoul began a successful business, the details of which she could never really understand, and had begun to travel with it. She always believed it was his way of avoiding the house. Avoiding her. Did he blame her, or was he so lost in his own grief and despair at possibly never being able to conceive another child that he felt as lost as she did? She never asked and she knew, even if she did, he would not answer her truthfully.

She slid out of bed, dressed slowly. It was barely light outside, not even 6 AM. She liked mornings like this. It reminded her of, when her father was alive; they would travel the countryside, finding fairs to perform at. Later, after her father died, she'd gone to live with a benefactor of her fathers, Mama Valerius. In the mornings, the old woman showed her how to make her own sausages for breakfast and showed her the magic time when there was both sun and moon in the sky. Then, she too passed away. When she sat in her room in Erik's house, knowing it was morning, but having no way to tell except her little watch and Erik's musical habits. Yes, mornings had been a happy time for her. Now they were merely a time to remember the painful past.

Raoul would be awake soon and, later in the day, ready to leave again for the longest he'd ever been gone. He mentioned something about bringing her something home from New York, but she'd dismissed it from her mind. She had been learning English and, in a different time, would have begged and begged to go. Now, she was quite glad to have the house to herself. She loved Raoul, he was her husband, and that would never change. But something else had. And somehow Christine knew Raoul would not even say goodbye to her before he left.

Just after her husband finally left in the morning, she had just retreated to the library, hiding from the world amongst the books, when a young maid hurried in.

"Oh, ma'am! I'm so sorry to disturb you, but this is quite urgent!" she gasped.

"It's alright, dear, what is it?" Christine asked. The girl held out a letter in a trembling hand, holding it away from her as if it were a hideous insect.

"The man who delivered it was quite upset! He's in the kitchen now, ma'am! Oh, he's half dead with fear and tire!" the maid rambled on. Christine glanced at her.

"Whatever is the matter?" she asked.

"Oh, ma'am! He's ranting of a ghost- a dead man who bade him deliver this letter as fast as the house could carry him!" the maid quailed, reminding Christine suddenly of Meg when she'd spoken of the Opera Ghost when they were younger, "He told me he's ridden from Paris in only a day!" The maid crossed herself hastily and fled down the hallway. Christine stepped back and tore open the letter.

Dearest Christine,

I'm sorry to write on such sorrowful circumstances, indeed our reunion should be under happier days. My mother is quite ill and not expected to live. She wishes to see you before she passes. Please come soon.

There are also other issues to be discussed. Such as who ordered this letter sent. You will know who that is, if the rider's reaction is what I believe it will be. Please come soon. We live in the same flat as always, I know it will be hard, but please, please come!

-Meg Giry

After 5 years. How could she say no? The woman who took her in after her father died and Mama Valerius had become too old and feeble to care for her. But that meant returning to Paris. And in that, returning to Erik.

He was always cold these days.

It had been 5 years since he lost her. His beautiful little Christine, the only woman in the world who loved him. The Persian had long since taken his leave, off to some foreign country, and the Girys had retreated to their home. He was alone. As always, as forever.

Erik curled himself tighter. Why so cold now? Because you're dying, you idiot! he thought to himself, really without much care. His mask itched on his face. He'd forgotten he was wearing it; he really didn't wear it much anymore. He barely left the catacombs and when he did, he kept to the sewers. Lately, the constant pressure on his chest, the wheezing breath, and the nausea kept him from moving much at all. No, it would not be long now.

The Opera House had nicely forgotten him and had stopped looking for him almost three years ago. Just as well. He'd learn to live with being ignored, invisible, and alone in the solitude of his entire life. Until that beautiful, shining, sweet soprano burst into his life. And he had let her go because he loved her so much. 5 years! For the sake of whatever god might reside above, why on earth haven't you decided to either let yourself die or killed yourself right off? He asked himself ruefully. Because she might come back.

Then little Meg Giry, now a young woman engaged to some well-mannered, boring, young, ballet-fanatic of a boy, came seeking him out, nearly drowning herself in the lake. She well could have drowned, if he hadn't heard the boat tip over and come to her rescue. She'd come to beg him to deliver a message. She sobbed that her mother was dying and of how her mother had helped him while she worked in the opera house. That Christine might now come if she didn't know he was alive and, in any case, only he could get the messenger to ride fast enough.

He had ushered the poor sobbing girl back to the opposite bank and 'politely' requested haste from the rider she indicated. The poor man took such a fright that Erik was worried he'd either faint on the way or ride the horse to death.

What if she doesn't come back? What if she decides she doesn't want to come back, doesn't want to see me? Then a worse thought invaded: What if she did? Oh, now he truly wanted to just toss himself in the lake! Would she want to see him if she came back? Would he be able to stand it if she returned but refused to see him? If she did, if she returned and came to see him, what then? How could he face her? After what he did to her, how could he stare into those beautiful blue eyes and feel no shame? After everything he had done, she had kissed him, held him. Now, after 5 years of dying in this cold, bleak darkness, his light could be coming back, but that only seemed to make the emptiness darker. Erik curled up tighter on the bed, wrapped himself in a blanket, and cried.

It rained the entire day and a half ride to Paris. Christine found herself wondering if it was a portent of things to come. The inn she had stopped at was apparently filled with theater fans and two even remembered her. She had excused herself from their well-meant compliments and questions, saying that she had ended her career for her health and marriage, and slipped away to her room. Sleep was fretful- she felt terrible. Poor Mme Giry! The old woman had been so kind to her, and yet all she could think of was Erik! Her heart felt heavy and she thought she would be swallowed forever in sorrow. Alone in her room, she felt lonesome, as lonesome as she had ever been after her father died. Yet, even then, Erik's voice had always been there. Now, there was really nothing but silence, broken only by the remembered voice in her head.

The next afternoon, the carriage pulled up in front of the Giry's building. Christine paid the driver and went inside. The building was the same as ever, the same plain gray walls, the same smell. The flat was still the fifth door on the left, and Meg still answered it. The petite, thin form that answered was also just as she remembered, if a little paler.

"Oh Christine!" Meg gasped, and fell sobbing and swooning in Christine's arms.

"I came back." Christine said, dumbly. She was overwhelmed. Meg was now almost taller than she, a few inches of late growth seemed to have snuck into her thin little bones. Her face was now drawn and creased with sorrow and there were dark shadows under her eyes, making her already large eyes appear even bigger.

"Christine! I went to him to get you the letter! We thought you would never come back if you didn't know…Mother told me so! And oh, my mother, oh, she's been so ill, Christine! She told me, though, she would refuse the very Lord Almighty to see you again!" the younger girl twittered.

"May I see her, or is she resting?" Christine asked.

"Oh, she told me the very moment you arrived you were to be shown right to her!" answered little Meg. She rushed Christine almost roughly up to a little plain room. Mme Giry lay on a narrow bed against the far wall. The odd smell of sickness struck Christine and for a moment a rush of images of her own delirious hallucinations during her own illness assaulted her. She leaned against the wall for support for a moment.

"Is that Christine? Why, come here, child!" the voice that rose from the figure on the bed was dry and raspy, like wind in reeds. Christine slowly approached the bed and seated herself in the small wooden chair by the head.

"Yes, it's me. I've come home." she answered softly.

"I know. Home to him, as well as me, I think. I told Meg to ask him to deliver the letter." Giry answered. Christine was taken aback.

"No! I have come to see you! You have been so kind to me!" Christine cried.

"Oh, now, you are precious to me, dear. And I did call you back so I could see you once again. You're a like another daughter to me and I wanted to see you. But so will he!" Giry persisted.

"You've spoken?"

"Ah, we've kept contact over time here and there. He never left the Opera House. He destroyed his home, but still lives there. He's ill; he's dying, like I am. You must see him again, child. For both of you!" the old woman wheezed.

"I…I-"

"You love him and he loves you. What else in the world is worth risking everything for? You're going whether you like it or not!" Giry snapped. Then she settled back and her expression softened.

"He deserves a last chance at happiness, Christine. I didn't know him quite as well as you did, but I know that he is not the monster everyone thought him to be. He deserves to have some love in his life. And so do you."

Christine left the room pale and disturbed. She then began to hesitantly walk down the street- towards the Opera House.

The voice was soft at first. Erik buried himself deeper in the thin blanket, pressing his face into the last dress he'd saved from Christine's dressing room when she had left. Then it was there again. Someone calling his name. Hallucinations…perhaps he was finally dying. Suddenly there was a soft hand on his cheek. Tears falling on his face. He opened his eyes slowly. It couldn't be!

"I'm home, Erik." she whispered, her sweet voice choked with tears. He reached out, stroked her hair, and touched her face. She was real, no hallucination!

"Christine…I…" he gasped in shock. His heart seemed to catch in his throat. No words could come out. At first, he thought his heart was seizing again, but it was not. It was just her. He pulled himself into a sitting position and simply stared at her, one hand still resting on her cheek. He suddenly realized he hadn't replaced his mask and felt the need to replace it, although she had not shown fear of the deformity in a long time. He instinctually moved to cover his face in his hands, but her hands pressed his away. Then, suddenly, she wrapped her arms around him and held him against her. He rested his head on her shoulder. Yes, she was home.