Author's Note: Hello there, my dear readers, sorry for such a long delay. Things got pretty wild here, but I'm sure the pauses between the chapters will be shorter now that I have at least some control over the situation. I plan 15 chapters for now; await a new chapter in a week or so. Maybe two weeks. For now, please enjoy chapter 2. I wonder if you will find it rather interesting ...
Forevermore, Chapter 2
Christine slowly opened her eyes, still reveling in a sleepy daze. She took a deep breath and turned to lie on her right shoulder to try and knock off the slumber that threatened to overtake her all over again. She tried and focused her eyesight and only then remembered where she was.
She abruptly sat in her bed. Blood rushed to her head, causing her a mild dizziness for a minute or so. She hid her face in her palms until the feeling went away.
And then she looked around herself to inspect the all-too familiar Louis-Philippe chamber with everything being in the same place as she had left it several weeks before that. However, the room was perfectly clean: not a peck of dust could be seen on any surface. Erik must have been taking care of this chamber while she had been away. He always cared...
Thoughts swirled in her head. What would she do now?
She needed to think, she decided. So she assumed a thinking pose, resting her head on her arm, and started musing.
Erik loved her, or, at least, he thought so. He did not tire of professing his love to her over and over again. But really, to her his love looked like no love at all. It was obvious that he would do anything so she would remain by his side - in that aspect he was completely selfish. Love, she thought, was known to be an incredibly selfless feeling. What if she did not want to be near him? She would prefer Raoul over Erik. Raoul was always tender and caring and loving. Erik... well, Erik was too, but he usually threw his temper tantrums out of nowhere and he was entirely unpredictable. And he scared her. And he was ugly. He didn't have a nose, for god's sake!
So if it was not love, then what? She recalled his passion for music. Once he had told her that music was his obsession. And another time he had told her that he loved her more than music, and would gladly to give up his music if it meant to be with her forever. She started thinking if his love was nothing but unhealthy obsession, one that hurt both her and him, and the more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed to her.
Of course. If he truly loved her, he would let her go. He was being obsessive and selfish. And if he was going to be selfish, then she was going to be selfish, too.
She stood up and approached the door as she was asking herself how had she not thought of this earlier.
In the dining-room Erik was preparing everything for Christine's breakfast. It would be Christine's breakfast, of course, because he, as usually, did not intend to share the meal with her.
He noticed that the fork had deviated several degrees to the right from its supposed position - his quick fingers swiftly fixed the imperfection. She would enjoy it, he was sure. He had already heard the commotion in the Louis-Philippe room. Surely, she was going to come out shortly.
An hour passed. He did not hear any noise coming out of her room anymore. He thought it strange. What was taking her so long?
Fear boiled up in his mind. What if she slipped in her bathroom and fell and hit her head? What if she was bleeding out there right now when he was waiting here, clueless? What if she had a heart attack? Oh, God, what if she died?
Determined, he stood up and strode to the entrance to Louis-Philippe room. He smoothed his clothes and made sure the mask was in place before gingerly planting three gentle knocks on the door.
"Christine? Are you up already? My dear, it is already 11, surely you cannot sleep in like this!" Changing his tone to a softer one, he added timidly: "Are you alright?"
Christine jerked in her bed. The second he mentioned breakfast, her stomach growled aggressively. She closed her eyes and tried to brush away the thought. No, she could not think of food.
She opened her eyes and answered.
"Yes, I am quite alright, Erik."
He let out a sigh of relief. That's it, she just slept in. Everything was fine. SHE was fine.
"Well then, I am expecting you for your breakfast, my dear." With those words, he left for the kitchen.
And in her room, Christine fought the urge to open the door and go and eat her food. "That is exactly what HE, that masked devil, wants you to do, Christine," she thought. "Eventually, he will give up and let you go."
More hours passed. It was already one o'clock in the afternoon. His brow furrowed under his mask as he watched the grandfather clock chime its one stroke.
He rose from his seat in the drawing-room and approached the door to her chamber once again. His knocking now was louder, more demanding. He was practically hitting the door with the side of his bony palm. His patience wore thin; he was done waiting.
"Christine, what is the meaning of this? Your breakfast is cold now! Has something happened?" He planted the last knock so furiously, that the door shuddered. "ANSWER!"
She jumped in her bed. The ache in her stomach had dulled, so it has been easier to fight the urge to go open the door. But she was scared, so she remained silent.
Silence.
Then, a deafeningly loud smack on the wooden door of unusual construction could be heard.
"...Christine, ANSWER, DAMN YOU!"
"Leave me alone, Erik!"
"What in the world do you mean? Erik will not leave you! Not until he sees you to your breakfast!"
"I will not leave this room, Erik! Go away!" She trembled from talking back to him in such a manner, but she was tired of being a scared little lamb in a lion's den.
An exasperated huff could be heard from behind the door.
"Christine, you foolish child, stop speaking nonsense! Surely you must eat! Christine cannot starve!"
"She can! And she will! If you cannot let me live in peace, I will just wither away here, underground, s-so that no-ob-body w-would h-have m-me..." she rasped, choking on her tears.
A soft gasp came from the corridor.
"C-Christine... You do not mean this... Please, you must go out..."
She only shook her head, trying to shake off the feeling of being besieged, entranced by his pleading hypnotizing voice, and buried her face in her bed sheets.
The next few hours were spent by Christine's door, begging the young girl to leave her room and go and have a proper meal. In answer he only received sobs and wails. He tried opening the door the usual way - pressing into the wood and sliding it sideways - but it was locked from the other side, so he could not do that. He nearly broke the door down in frustration and anger, and his pretty violent attempts to do so had most likely scared the poor girl to death, but, alas, he had made sure the room he himself had designed would be impenetrable.
After a long time of battling Christine's stubbornness and the damn door, he decided to give up his attempts to coax or scare Christine out of her room and strode to the drawing-room. He checked the time. It was nearly 5 o'clock in the afternoon.
He gritted his teeth behind his silk mask and clenched his fists so tightly, that his accurately trimmed nails bit into his thin papery skin, leaving indents. His angel was suffering... starving because of him! Horrid, gruesome, pitiful, horrendous monster, monster, monster, monster, he reproved himself. 'She is suffering because of you', one of his demons whispered in his ear. 'What will you do now?'
He could not let her die. If she died, then he would die, too. He could not bear the thought of a life without her... He needed to find a way to get her to leave her room. Pleading or pressing her would not help. Apparently, it only made her cry more. Had she really thought that she could regain her freedom by going on a... hunger-strike?!
He thought that, maybe, he could reach her room through the 'Torture Chamber'. The 'Torture Chamber', after all, had a door leading to the Louis-Philippe chamber. As usual, he smirked at the name he bestowed upon the little chamber with an iron tree.
Seriously, it was such a felicitous name for that chamber! Once the people would hear that they would be taken to the infamous 'Torture Chamber', they would usually begin imagining various horrid things: racks, garrotes, iron maidens, giant scissors... However, when they would see the chamber, they would find themselves in a rather precarious location! They would find themselves in a forest made of iron trees, and they would believe that the name of this chamber was a joke. However, once the chamber would be activated, the REAL tortures would begin! No man has yet survived in the 'Torture Chamber'!
He found himself chuckling against his own will. Still giggling like a schoolgirl, he exited the house, locking it with a 'key', which did not resemble a key at all, and, untying the boat and moving to stand in it, started rowing across the lake.
The ebony waters of the underground lake - which was not a lake at all, but rather subterranean waters turned into a reservoir by Opera constructors, - the waters parted obediently before the boat's bow as the steady movements of the pole guided it through them. The stale, cold air made it more difficult to breath than above ground, and the faint smell of the water gave away the level of its purity. One would not want to fall into that water, or drink it - it was not at all potable.
It was not long until he had reached the other bank of the lake, the one of the Communists' road. There, in the Communists' dungeon, he used a side path and began his lengthy and tedious ascend to reach the second cellar.
Every step was weighing him down with guilt and self-loathing, which slowed down his climbing a whole lot. He could not understand Christine, no matter how much he tried. Alright, for the sake of the argument, he thought, suppose that Christine loves the Viscount. The Viscount left her, both lovers, most assuredly, parting in agony over their reciprocal loss. Then, he, Erik, came along and took her to his underground house, for her to live with him forever. She would be his wife, his loving, living bride… if only he could get her to not lock herself away in her room!
He scoffed under his barbe du masque, and the free cloth swayed from his forceful breath. Women… Truly the most mysterious creatures of the world. One does not need to rampage the deepest corners of the planet to search for unicorns, or fairies, or dragons: women are far more mythical and enigmatic beings, and they were here all along, right under men's noses.
Right when he was contemplating what mythical creature his Christine would be (because none really fit the description, she deserved a title no less than one of a goddess), he found himself exiting the secret passage on the second cellar, where dark, cryptic shades of men in all senses of that word did their hard labour of constantly supplying the giant Opera House's heater machines with charcoal. He hid in the shadows, that have been called forth by the stark contrast of the darkness of the cellars and the light emitted by the gigantic furnaces, and found his way onto the stairs, gingerly creeping down into the third cellar, where the crisp silence, deep semi-darkness and dusty old stage sets created a unique, exceptional atmosphere of a magical, abstract ancient kingdom of different realities, distorted and melted at the hands of the triumphant homo sapiens.
And there was a foreign feeling, an alien presence, which segregated from the common environment and stuck out from the regular ambience like a sore thumb. It was very obvious, even though nothing unusual could be heard or seen. This gut feeling alerted Erik immediately, and, following his instincts, he crouched down and moved within the darkness as if he himself were a shadow.
He had passed several halls filled with abandoned stage pieces when he finally saw it. There was a light in the everpresent gloom. It was being emitted by a lantern, held high above the floor of stone by a male figure of an average height.
The figure must have sensed him, as it suddenly turned around with a horrified look upon its feminine face.
"WHO'S THERE?" It yelled with distraught into the darkness. Erik winced.
It was the Viscount Raoul de Chagny himself.
The Viscount took a few deep, shuddering breaths and turned back around, talking to himself in a quivering voice in an attempt to calm down. "Alright, Raoul, do not yield… Now, where have they found that stagehand?..."
So the boy hadn't left after all, Erik contemplated. Why was the fop here, obviously trying to search for Christine? Had something happened to the ship? Erik stood up from his hiding point and silently dashed further into the shadows, the rustling of his cloak the only sound that has been created by his stealthy movement.
Raoul ventured deeper into the halls of the third cellar, nervously glancing around for a sign of the monster appearing. He had a terrible, gut-wrenching feeling of being watched as he looked around for the legendary farm-house and the scene from the Roi de Lahore.
In the darkness Erik shifted uncomfortably. The fop was reaching his destination. One more turn to the right and the sought after stage pieces would be seen… The boy had to be stopped! But how? He could not kill him, Christine would be mad! Oh, but she thinks he left for the North Pole- no one would find out, hehe… He found himself chuckling slightly as his bony fingers found the thin string, folded neatly in his pocket…
Raoul heard something. It sounded like a chuckle… Perspiration appeared on his smooth forehead; suddenly his palms turned sweaty. A sense of dread washed over him like a tide and pulled him into the endless and bottomless ocean of panic. Abruptly, he swirled around and cried out in a tone that he hoped sounded more confident than he felt.
"I KNOW YOU ARE HERE, MONSTER! WHERE IS CHRISTINE?! WHERE HAVE YOU TAKEN HER?!"
Erik's hand, ready to throw the string, froze. He eyed the manchild before him with curiosity. Interesting, he thought, he assumed the fop did not possess even a semblance of a backbone. Nevertheless, here he stood, shouting into the darkness as if it was going to save him from immediate death.
The bony hand that held the string came down, the thin material swishing through the dusty air and finding it way around the lantern that held the only light source in this darkness. The lantern was wrested from the Viscount's grip and shattered into a million pieces upon impact with the stone floor. Raoul emitted a sharp, terrified gasp and stumbled backwards, leaning on the cold wall, trying to support himself, trying to accustom his eyesight to the never-ending darkness that seemed to close in on him…
"You should have known better than returning to my domain, boy," the Voice said sternly, seething with barely restricted anger.
Raoul felt his knees shaking. The Man's Voice seemed to come from all directions at once, the voice of extreme power and possessiveness, the voice of an angel?... No, of a monster, a demon!
"WHERE IS CHRISTINE?!" Raoul shouted again into the darkness.
The Voice chuckled.
"Christine Daaé is none of your concern anymore. Leave this place immediately, lest you wish to be prematurely sent to your personal hell."
Raoul gulped. But he refused to yield. "I am not going to leave without her... you... MONSTER!"
Suddenly, an ice-cold skeletal hand wove around the Viscount's throat, lifting him off the floor, leaving him gasping for air and clawing at the arm that choked him, his mind slowly getting dizzy, his eyes only ever focused on those two sinister yellow dots that had suddenly appeared before him...
"Watch your tongue, boy," the Voice seethed through gritted teeth, as his golden eyes gleamed with fury in the darkness. "I will take immense pleasure in snapping your pretty neck." As if to validate his threat, his grip on the Viscount's throat tightened just a bit. But it was enough for de Chagny to emit a strangled cry and for his clawing on Erik's hand to weaken. The Phantom felt hot tears fall onto his bony, cold fingers.
And suddenly, an image appeared before his eyes. In his mind, for a split second, in a flash he saw all those faces once again, the faces of those he had killed with his bare hands the same way, lifting them off the ground and choking them, the faces that he had tried to forget and, after decades, succeeded. His memory flooded with all those faces, wincing in pain, those different eyes, - jade green, emerald, ice-blue, chocolate brown, dark-turquoise, ALL sorts of eyes, - shining with tears of horror; he suddenly felt all those tears on his hands, burning his skin as liquid fire. He remembered just how many times he had felt tears like those on his deathly hands… And he pulled back.
The Viscount fell onto the ground, hitting the floor with a loud thump, gasping for air, holding his now sore throat. The Phantom stumbled backwards, clutching his head, still overwhelmed with sudden feel of deja vu, such sudden, ever-torturing nostalgia…
All Raoul saw were two faintly shining golden lights swinging back and forth in the darkness; all he heard were strangled groans, as if the beast was fighting someone…
At first, Raoul thought he had been saved by some unknown hero; he was ready to thank his saviour, but then, as his eyes accustomed to the darkness, with horror he saw that the monster was fighting… himself!
Finally regaining his breath, Raoul stood, trying to balance himself, his head still dizzy from the lack of oxygen. In terror he realized then, that the grunting had stopped, and everything was now silent. The Viscount slowly turned his head towards the monster, only to see those two vengeful, terrifying golden eyes staring back at him.
The two had stared at each other for quite some time, until the Phantom had found his voice.
"Go," his voice quavered. Those faces were still floating in front of him, torturing him, mocking him… He felt his own tears soak the material of his mask.
The Viscount squinted, looking at the monster ingeniously, as if contemplating if the beast had planned something and was trying to lead him into a trap.
The Phantom's hands curled into tight fists as he shouted. "GO, NOW!"
The Viscount, terrified by the sudden outburst, turned and ran away, away from the horrid cellar, his step still tottering.
"AND NEVER COME BACK, VISCOUNT!" Erik shouted, spitting the last word as if it were the worst insult that existed on Earth.
He sighed and lowered himself on the floor, now weeping openly. Immense guilt penetrated his broken heart like a spear, clouding his mind, as he hugged himself with his gaunt arms.
He could not know how much time he had spent like this, wallowing in despair, guilt and self-loathing. To think only: after going nearly twenty years without killing a single soul, he had suddenly felt the same murderous urge… And it brought back such painful memories… Persia...
Slowly, he stood. His glance weakly ran over the place, where the secret passage, leading to the Torture Chamber, was hidden. His thoughts returned to Christine. Christine…
It was no use, he thought meekly. Even if he forced her out of her room, she would run back and lock herself up again, or simply refuse to eat. And he most certainly could not force-feed her. Nevertheless, he at least decided to try.
Hesitantly, he brushed his hand across the trigger hidden in stone and jumped into the opened trapdoor. The landing came smooth, painless and silent, as usual.
He went forward, not losing his orientation for a split second, and knocked on the wall that connected to the Louis-Philippe room.
In her chamber, Christine was battling the immense hunger. It had somewhat dulled as the evening came, but the horrid feeling of her guts pressing against her spine had never gone away, as she curled on her bed in an attempt to forget about food.
One can imagine her reaction, when she heard three timid signature knocks at the wall of her room.
She jolted up, wondering if she had begun hallucinating. There was no door in that direction. How could someone knock from behind a solid wall?...
Then, his voice, Erik's voice, could be heard. "Christine? It is I, your Erik. ...May I come in?"
"NO!" came her shouted reply. He winced at the shriek. "I… I am not decent!" she added after a second of strained silence.
"Erik will wait," he said nonchalantly and leaned against the mirror wall, crossing his hands on his chest.
...Half an hour passed. He had been hearing rustling through the wall, though there had been no indication that he could enter.
"Christine, are you quite decent yet?" he asked with a bit of annoyance.
"N-no," came her muffled reply. "N-not yet." Maybe, if she prolonged his entrance, he would go back the way he came?...
"Alright," he shrugged and waited.
Another fifteen minutes passed. His patience was wearing thin.
"Christine, exactly for how long are you intending to keep me here?"
"N-not for long..." she said.
A fist collided with the mirrored surface with a loud clank. Christine shrieked.
"CHRISTINE, STOP LYING!" he shouted. "I CAN SENSE YOUR FILTHY LIES FROM A MILE AWAY! NOW LET ME PASS!"
"LEAVE! LEAVE ME ALONE!" she cried. Well, at least she was honest. His anger rose.
"My DARLING," his voice seethed with fury, "I cannot LEAVE. I am in the 'Torture Chamber' right now, and the ONLY way out lies through YOUR room, now please will you let me come out?!"
After a few seconds of silence, her timid voice could be heard, sounding suspiciously much closer. "Y-you… You are not going to… t-to force me?... force me come out of my room?"
He nearly choked at her words.
"Christine! WHAT in the BLASTED WORLD gave you that absolutely and utterly INCREDULOUS idea?!" he told her with a bit more force than originally intended. "Of COURSE I am not going to force you to do anything, I respect your wishes!"
"No, you don't," came her quiet reply. He froze.
He groaned then and brought his hands up to massage his temples that began to pulsate with pain.
"Christine," came his reply. "Christine, despite what you may think… I do respect you, truly. Without you I would die. How could I not respect you? Please, Christine..."
She looked around frantically. She was standing in front of the wall opposite to the door that led to the bathroom. She could try to cover her ears with a pillow, but inside she knew that it would not stop his voice from reaching her mind. Nothing would.
Nevertheless, she brought up her hands to cover them. No use. She could still hear his hypnotizing voice… It was too much. And wasn't he right anyway? Haha, yes, of course, right… Everything he said was true…
She sniffed and nodded before answering. "...You may enter, Erik."
She watched in surprise as a part of her wall disappeared into darkness and gave way to the imposing, tall figure that stood in the narrow doorway. Golden eyes locked with her sky-blue ones; they seemed to mesmerize… She blinked and looked away. What now?
He simply stared at her for a while, not sure what to do. She complied by his request; there was nothing to fight for, nothing to argue about any longer; she was his, completely and irrevocably his, and certainly no Viscount held the power to take her from him. One of his demons whispered a gruesome, vile thought in his ear, but Erik brushed the little pest away. Only the gentlest and kindest of his behaviours could win him a chance with his beloved.
Still, he decided to try.
One of his bony hands reached out towards her. She backed away instinctively, remembering the deadly chill and the horrible smell of his fingers. A corpse, indeed.
The hand that reached out froze in mid-air, and he spoke. "Christine, please… My dear… Come with me… Christine cannot be hungry… She must be comfortable and happy… Oh, dear, sweet Christine, what can I do to make you happy?" His thin shoulders heaved, and a tear slid from beneath the mask and fell, disappearing in the folds of his suit.
Christine backed away even more, bumping into the wall. With horror she touched the wallpaper clad surface behind her to search for a door. It was hidden well… She could not grope the edge, and she seemed to forget, where exactly it was. She closed her eyes. There was nowhere to run.
Hopelessness.
What a terrifying word.
What a terrifying feeling it signifies.
What a horrible meaning lies beneath and between those letters, seeping through their contours, like black, viscid ooze.
One cannot imagine a feeling more devastating; it ruins your soul from within, and all you can feel is the rumble of your petty hopes and pretty dreams coming down in crumbles.
It hurts so much, you can almost hear it.
He knew hopelessness; it was his faithful companion throughout his whole wretched and pitiful existence, along with morbid determination and a controversial will to live.
She came to know hopelessness fairly recently. She had had the first taste of it when her father had withered away.
And now she was trapped in hell, deep beneath the earth with a monster, who was obsessed with her and claimed to love her with all his vile black heart.
Only his heart wasn't all blackness and despair. But she was too frightened to see it.
"...Christine, please…"
She opened her eyes.
He was still there, his right arm outstretched towards her, breath ragged, his pleading golden eyes full of turmoil and anguish.
She felt numb. Absentmindedly she felt herself nodding. Then she was faintly aware of him approaching her, his cold bony hands gripping her upper arms, of this awful smell of decay he always carried with him…
She was led into the drawing-room and seated at a small table covered with starched tablecloth. Erik disappeared for a second, but she found herself unable to care. A cup of hot herbal tea was placed then in front of her. She looked at it as if it was an elaborate piece of machinery and looked up at Erik with confusion.
He sighed and gestured towards the steaming cup. "Drink, Christine."
Obediently she picked up the cup and took a sip. Strong taste and smell of herbs and honey assaulted her senses, and the hot liquid burnt her tongue, but she stayed silent. In the meantime, Erik disappeared once again.
She stared into nothingness, sipping her tea, lost in her thoughts and her feelings as the minutes crept by. When the cup was half-empty (or half-full?), a bony hand placed an enormous plate with an elaborate dish in front of her.
Christine blinked at it. It looked as if brought from a high-class restaurant or something: Caesar salad with traditional dressing with its white pieces of feta cheese and slices of fresh greenery perked up at her, a slice of mildly fried meat oozing with fragrant juice and yellow rice, smelling with carry; the sides of the plate were adorned with parmesan and some strange white sauce with little pieces of herbage that could be barely distinguished. A large glass of red wine was placed right beside the dish.
Christine turned her head the second time and looked up at Erik with even more confusion. He stood there, beside her, hands folded in front of him, as if he were a servant or a waiter in a grand restaurant where that dish had been served.
She sighed and turned back, picking up the fork. She had lost once more.