Thanks for the feedback so far! -LMB
After venting her frustration in tears for a little while, Christine began to think. Maybe if she screamed, Erik would find her. She doubted it, though. If he was buried in his music at the house, and she hadn't even reached the lake, He couldn't possibly hear her. Even if he could, she supposed he would be less than pleased at having to come rescue her simply because she tripped. Besides, despite her scraped hands and bruised knees, she wasn't a child. She would figure something out. Or she would be trapped down here.
She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Now was not the time for panic, but a clear head. "You're in the world of the trapdoor-lover now, Christine. You need to act like it," she chastised herself. Somehow, hearing a voice in the silence was comforting, even if it was her own. It was reasonable to assume the stairs were hidden, perhaps by another door that closed after her fall. She knew she was in a long corridor and could walk in a straight line either to her right or left. She knew that Erik tuned right at the foot of the stairs. She just didn't know where the stairs were. Well, Christine, you've got to pick one way or the other. She stood, careful to keep her back against the wall. If she kept a hand against the wall, she should be able to find her way back, even in in the dark. Unless there are other doors to close behind you. Christine shook her head, attempting to banish the little voice of fear that kept trying to worm its way into her mind. She was certain Erik turned right. She tucked her basket under her arm, put her right hand against the wall, and started walking.
In the absence of light, Christine began to daydream. She recalled a story her father had told her long ago in Sweden, before the traveling. Before Mama died.
"Every winter, älskling, a hero journeys deep into the labyrinth of Winter because he has heard about a glorious maiden who sleeps at the heart of the labyrinth. He struggles through snow and ice. He fights risi and trolls. When the hero finally comes through his trials and reaches the center chamber, he sees a woman asleep. Her hair is spun gold. Her skin glows like the embers of a coal fire. She is clothed in linen so white it nearly blinds him to look at. Trembling in fear (for he now knows she is a goddess and not a mortal woman) he wakes her by ringing a silver bell at the foot of her bed. The woman awakens, and smiles at him. She gifts him with precious gems and golden cloth. Still smiling, the Sun Maiden climbs from her bed and into the sky, bringing with her the Spring."
Stumbling along in the dark, Christine did not feel much like a hero, but the thought of Erik as a golden Sun Maiden made her giggle.
Erik simmered with irritation. Twice now, his alarms had gone off, interrupting his train of thought. In an attempt to preserve his concentration, he had ignored the first; it wasn't the alarm for the lake, and the boat was on his side anyway. Even the Daroga, irritating as the man was, wouldn't be so foolish as to attempt to swim across. The second alarm came about twenty minutes later. Someone was moving through the tunnels. Erik put his hands to his ears to block out the distraction. Some stagehand had wandered too far and was lost. It happened occasionally. When possible, he drugged them and returned them to the upper cellars, leaving them to wake with questions, confusion, and fodder for the ballet rats' rumors of a ghost. He couldn't leave his music; the longer he wrote, the longer he was away from Christine. His loss of time with her was gained by that boy.
He had been down here for nearly two weeks. Two weeks kept away from her golden hair and sea-blue eyes. Two weeks from the hidden darkness and crystalline purity of her angelic voice. Two weeks from her gentle company. The alarm rang out a third time. Snarling in fury, Erik grabbed his hat and cloak and stormed from the house. Someone would pay dearly for their intrusion.
She had been walking for too long, she was sure of it. She should be at the lake by now…. shouldn't she? The darkness around her seemed to distort everything: time, touch, sound. Her feet were tired, and the pain in her knees and hands had settled into a dull, steady throb. For the past few minutes, she had heard what sounded like whispers ahead of her growing steadily louder as she moved forward. She strained to make out the voices only to realize it was not the sound of voices at all. It was water! The whisper grew to a roar as she went on, spurred by curiosity. The lake could never sound like this, with its calm lapping and mirrored surface. What lay ahead of her was something entirely different. The stone grew slippery underfoot, and she was glad to have the wall beside her. Finally, she felt the the wall come to an end. Stepping through the doorway, she was enveloped in cacophony.
There must be a waterfall. It thundered all around her in the blackness, and she could feel the rush of the damp, cool air against her cheek. It smelled fresher and clearer than the corridor. She was certainly not at the lake; she only wished she could see where she was. Papa had taken her to see a waterfall once. She remembered how the water thundered off the stone as mist hung in the air. She had loved the pillowy-soft moss and frothy ferns that grew along the banks nearby. She doubted anything like that could grow this far underground. As they had eaten lunch nearby, he had told her his favorite stories of the Fossegrim and the nøkk. He particularly love the Fossegrim, who lived at waterfalls and would teach those brave enough to seek him how to play violin, as long as they paid him with a good meal. Christine always asked her father if that's how he had learned to play, but he would never answer. He would just tap the side of his nose and wink at her until she laughed.
The nøkk was different, and had scared her. He used his music to lure people into streams or lakes or onto thin ice until they were too far from the shore. Then he would drag the unlucky traveler below the surface to his hidden lair.
Christine suddenly felt warm, despite the chill. The fear that she had suppressed was blossoming in her chest. What if she truly was lost down here? What if she never found the lake, or Erik? Would everyone think she had run away when she had never left the Opera House, and maybe never would again? Would something drag her down into the water in this neverending blackness?
He had found the broken lantern at the foot of the closed staircase. Whomever had intruded upon his solitude had taken a spill, then. Shame that one step was always so tricky. He smirked. They couldn't have gotten too far without light. Keeping his own lantern shaded, he pulled the Punjab lasso from his pocket and moved swiftly and silently toward the rainwater cistern at the end of the corridor.
He hadn't walked for too long before he found the trespasser. He was surprised to see it wasn't the shape of a stagehand in front of him, but what appeared to be a young woman in a cloak. Had some spectacular dunce of a ballerina descended into the cellars for a dare, only to find herself alone without light or hope? He sighed, and slipped his lasso back into his pocket. She was a splendid idiot, but he was somewhat impressed with her bravery; as far as he knew, none of the ballet girls had ever made it past the fourth cellar before they ran back to the light, scared of their own imaginations and the occasional whisper in their ear. A devilish smile spread across his ghoulish face. She was bold without doubt, but it was time to see how far that bravery would go.
A little scare wouldn't hurt her. She was too near the water's edge, though, he would have to bring her closer to him. The Siren was alway good at compelling people on the lake; he supposed it would work here just as well. He curled his voice around the edge of her hood and began to sing.
The girl spun round in shock, and to his horror took a step backwards in her fear. He caught a fleeting glimpse of golden hair and wide, sea-blue eyes before she vanished in the swirling icy darkness.