Chapter Two: The River
She had no idea where she was going. She knew Raoul would worry, that she should not have lied to him, but she desperately needed to get away from the estate, if only for a few moments. As soon as she had escaped into the fresh air, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her lungs. Some of the wooziness seeped from her bones, yet she found herself squinting in the morning light. Perhaps she was too used to the darkness now, to the dim, muted glow of candles that she lit to keep her company during the sleepless hours she lay awake.
Despite the inviting breeze, her head swam with lingering dreams, nightmares and visions.
Fire, ashes and smoke.
An empty ache so familiar now throbbed in her chest. Her heart was separate, beyond her reach. It still burned in a fire that happened almost eight months ago, and along with it her sanity.
"Christine, we must leave!"
"I will not leave him! He'll die!"
"It's too late, he's gone!"
"No!"
She had managed to break free of Raoul's arms, but as she stumbled through the antechamber of his once grand home, she knew he was right. She called to him, and he did not answer. He always answered her; always! Running through each room in turn, she had just reached the room that housed his beautiful pipe organ when an ominous crack sounded over their heads.
Raoul had been by her side in an instant, his grip fierce.
"We have to go! He isn't here, Christine!"
Coughing, she had called out once more, but her only reply was the deadly snapping and popping of flames that were beginning to lick the walls around them. There was smoke, and heat. Was this truly hell? If so, she could not leave him here.
Raoul had sought to find her help after the nightmares began, and she could no longer sleep. She knew he meant well, but she was doubtful a physician, even one trained in the maladies of the psyche could help her.
Her angel now lived within the tattered remains of her mind, and if that was the only way for her to be with him again, then that was the way it was going to be. Let them all call her mad—perhaps it was true. Perhaps it had always been true.
"Clearly Mme. Giry...genius has turned into madness..."
Christine remembered gripping the edge of the door frame, hidden from view but leaning towards the thin shaft of light that spilled through the door, which remained slightly ajar. Raoul's words seemed to reach her from far away. She had not meant to eavesdrop, but once she'd overheard his name, she couldn't stop.
She listened silently as Mme. Giry recalled her tragic tale of seeing a young boy beaten and caged for no other crime than the misfortune of his disfigured face. The Devil's Child. Spectators jeering, screaming, laughing. A boy struggling to reach a battered old toy as though it were alive and needed protection. A young ballerina, silent tears streaming down her face as his arm was wrenched nearly out of its socket, the dirty sack ripped off his head. The night that rang with the cries of murder. And Erik, a boy with no family. No one to care if he ended his miserable days at the end of a noose.
That night, she had returned to the fair. She had helped him escape, and brought him to the Opera House that had become his home. The only home he had ever known. Deep underground, where he was safe from persecution. Yet the boy had been insatiably curious. He was always seeking hidden places where he could observe the performances.
Though Mme. Giry had wanted Erik safe, he had wanted something much more. Music. The Phantom had been born, a guise, a role to satisfy inquiring and often superstitious minds. It was an excuse that was convenient when an instrument went missing inexplicably from the orchestra, or one could hear the strains of faint melody in the middle of the night.
Mme. Giry had sounded so stoic, so detached throughout her tale. Matter-of-fact. It was a strength Christine had always both admired and found intimidating. Now, she wished she could wrap her arms around her stern teacher and thank her for saving him. For caring about a terrified child who had no one in the world. Yet despite her gratefulness, her compassion at finally hearing what he, Erik had always strove to hide from her she couldn't help the shock that stole through her.
He had killed a man with his bare hands when he had been just a boy. She recalled those same hands, unusually large but with long, slender fingers stroking her skin with such tenderness. Such careful gentleness. As though he could never harm a soul.
Now the entire Opera Company was in uproar, saying that the Phantom had murdered Joseph Bouquet. Hung him with the same rope that the specter had once used to drop a scenery prop on a mortified and enraged La Carlotta.
She had been terrified the night of Bouquet's death. She had been there, on stage when it had happened—and when pandemonium had erupted her gaze instinctually shot straight up to the maze of catwalks in the wings. Hoping. No. Please. It can't be. His familiar figure, swathed in shadow remained for only a heartbeat before he was gone in a swirl of black cloak.
Her world had shattered. She desperately tried to gather the pieces, tried to put them back together into something that made sense. Was it true? Had it been self-defence? Or had he truly lost his mind? Her heart felt as though it were being torn in two, desperately trying to reconcile the man she thought she knew—the man who had guided her, been her truest friend and confidant—and the terrifying, cursed specter of the Phantom.
You heard him swear to kill Raoul if he came between you. To stop anyone who would take you from him. You've seen glimpses of his temper. You've seen the Phantom in his eyes, the promise of swift death to anyone who sees his true face.
Empty threats, she had once convinced herself. Empty threats from a man who wanted more than anything to exist in peace. To live for life. For love.
The people bumping and jostling her out of the way seemed far distant echoes. Turning, she had run. Run to the only place where she could think. The one place they had been able to be together and feel as though the stars, the heavens were their only welcome witnesses. Keepers of their secret.
Her mind raced as she ascended the rickety narrow staircase that led to the roof. She sensed no shadowed presence following her on her way.
Is that what the stagehand had done? Had he seen Erik? Nothing made sense anymore, and when Raoul had discovered her on that snowy rooftop she had confessed to her once childhood friend that her Angel, her teacher and confidant, her friend—scared her.
His temper, his jealousy and threats.
She had sought comfort from the one familiar person she knew would understand. The last link to her childhood she had, when things had been no more complicated than spending summer afternoons on the beach in search of mermaids and trolls.
She had not heard from Erik since that horrible night. Worried sick, she had respected his silence more because she knew she was too terrified to find out the truth. That he had murdered someone in cold blood. That she had mistook irrepressible passion for madness.
That she did not truly know the man she had let into her heart and mind so blindly.
And then, the masquerade. His presence, absent for so many weeks had been intoxicating; a connection that everyone had seen clear as cut crystal on that fated night.
Raoul's raised voice startled her, his deeper timbre at odds with Mme. Giry's quiet tones. She had never heard him so angry. Scared. He insisted that something must be done. It had to end. Horror, like slow poison leeched its way through her veins. She heard Mme. Giry, in an uncharacteristically pleading tone beg for mercy on Erik's behalf.
"He is a genius, monsieur! He would not have murdered in cold blood. There must be another explanation; it is not in his nature—!"
"Not in his nature? And yet you admit yourself he killed a man when he was a mere boy," Raoul had argued, angrily. "You knew of his violent past, and yet you let—no, encouraged him to pursue Christine! Do not think me so easily led, or that I am blind Mme—I know exactly who she gets those red roses from!"
"You do not understand, monsieur! Yes, Erik killed a man—but if you had seen what I had— a boy living in filth, beaten and starved! He didn't kill a man, monsieur. He killed a devil who had tortured him for years. I know he is not a criminal! Reckless and impulsive; passionate to a fault, yes. He is not like other men, for he has never had to chance to learn, and solitude can drive one to great mistakes. Please, do not do this!"
Christine's leaned as close to the door as she dared, straining to hear more.
"Mistakes? How do you know he did not kill the stagehand, as you say, in cold blood Mme.? How do you know he will not kill again until he is stopped?" Raoul's voice was upset and suspicious.
"I simply know. Your plan to ensnare him will not work. And it will only lead to more suffering and tragedy. Please, monsieur I beg of you. Let it be! Let them be together—"
"He is a madman! Whatever you may say, I feel for his tragic past but that does not excuse his actions! I am bringing him down, Mme. With or without your help."
"Then tell me, monsieur...how exactly do you plan on capturing a man who has evaded civilization for more than two decades?"
Christine's heart had constricted painfully as she listened to Raoul's plan. It was crude, and would have had no chance of success except for the exploitation of the dreaded Phantom's one and only weakness.
Her.
Christine had moved silently away from the doorway, from the voices that were now engaged in a hushed argument. She had come to her decision. If she was honest with herself, it was a decision she had made weeks ago. She had to see him again. To touch him. She could no longer stand to be parted from him, and she had to warn him. Make him see reason. His rivalry with the Vicomte had escalated to the point where his very life was threatened, and she needed answers. She only hoped he would listen.
Raoul was a different story—he had watched her ever since their reunion become more and more elusive, with secrets and lies the only substance between them. Once, they had been the best of friends, and told each other everything. Now, her secrecy had led to so much suffering. She had tried so diligently to protect Erik's secret, his existence. She realized now just how much their continued relationship had cost. Erik's jealousy, his need to be with her had made him unpredictable and reckless—and Raoul was going to try and use her as bait to lure him out into the open. To catch a criminal. Yet after weeks of separation, her heart still could not reconcile the man she had come to know with that of a cold-blooded killer.
Yet Christine could not let go of the faith pounding in her heart, with her every breath: he is not a monster.
Repeating this over and over, she vowed she would prove it. She would put an end to this madness, for she would not let him throw away his genius, his life for her.
Reaching her dressing room, she slipped inside and shut the door, locking it out of habit. Her eyes roamed the familiar divan, still bearing the remnants of her last costume. The dressing table, filled with powder puffs, perfumes and stage makeup—and something else. Her breath caught, and time for the moment seemed to freeze. A single, blood-red rose. She didn't realize she was trembling until she reached the table and picked it up with shaking fingers. He must have only recently been in her room. Somehow, she knew he was not behind the floor-length mirror that served as a portal to his underground realm. The darkness, and damp. Was it a prison, or a sanctuary?
He had not left her a rose for weeks. Was this his way of reaching out to her? If so, she needed to warn him quickly of Raoul's intentions.
Hands still shaking, she resolutely opened drawers of her dressing table, acquiring paper, ink bottle and pen. Scrawling a note as quickly as she could, she raised it to her lips, and thought of his deep, steady blue eyes. Eyes that had known so much suffering.
Hurriedly, she concealed the note down the front of her bodice before whisking out of the room intent on asking the one person she knew she could trust to deliver it to him without question. When she had reached Mme. Giry's office, Raoul was gone. The older woman had her back turned, her shoulders bent in a rare moment of exhaustion. She turned before Christine could utter a word, and what passed between them was both unspoken and completely understood.
Christine held out her letter, and Mme. Giry's eyes softened before she gave a curt not and took it without comment.
The sensation of her muscles aching as they propelled her forward brought Christine back to the present for a moment—her legs had carried her a surprising distance from the de Changy estate, but she had no concept of time as memories continued to wash over her.
She remembered waiting beneath the ground, in the cold and damp catacombs that littered the underbelly of the Opera House. She was shaking; Mme. Giry had delivered his response to her note with the simple reply of: "Yes, he will come."
Those words had changed everything. In the weeks they had been apart, the world had become gray, drained of colour and sensation. People smiled kindly, and offered their congratulations—so young to be such a popular diva!—and she would smile mechanically back, thanking them while her heart slowly, inch by inch turned to stone.
Her mind flickered back to the disastrous masquerade ball, the only time she had caught a glimpse of him since that horrible night of Bouquet's death. Brilliant eyes the shade of an ocean storm had burned past her skin and bone. Fierce, vengeful. Pleading. Those eyes haunted her every moment.
His sudden presence at the festivities had been as violent and shocking as pistol fire. She recalled how the masked guests had gasped and scurried away; how they feared him. And how he reveled in their terror, resplendent in his defiance, his fury.
She had gazed at him as though nothing else existed. Making her way through the retreating crowd, she approached him slowly as though still half-waking, in a dream.
If pride will let her return to me, her teacher.
She dimly remembered hearing gasps of shock and horror—so it was true, and now the whole Opera Company knew it. She had been tutored, gilded and molded by the dreaded Phantom. Their secret was laid bare, and as she stopped before him she felt as though its death had also stripped away every layer she possessed, until there was nothing but her soul straining to reach him, beyond cloth and flesh, and bone.
His gaze had burned, but she devoured it. He was there, tangible, and suddenly she saw every crack in his seemingly impenetrable role as malicious specter. His chest rising and falling rapidly; his eyes, too bright and intensely focused on her face; the way his hand had trembled almost imperceptively on the hilt of his saber.
He played a role, and so did she.
After too many weeks apart, they drew toward each other like water to parched soil, drinking each other in, oblivious to the gasps that had turned to murmurs of confused curiosity. Curious indeed, for the ever watchful guests were beginning to realize the gravity of what they were witnessing—a man and a woman so undeniably, shamefully intimate.
Heartbeat pounding, senses singing, he brought her back to life effortlessly. And when his hand had reached out to her, snatching the promise ring and tearing it from her neck, she hadn't even defended herself.
"Why did you let him, Christine? Why did you let him touch you?" Raoul had asked, bewildered, and angry. He had tried valiantly to hide it, but something was shifting between them, some shadow in his eyes that lingered whenever he looked at her. As though he were truly seeing her for the first time, and she both confused and slightly scared him.
"I cannot marry you, Raoul. Even if the engagement was as you say, for my own protection. More lies. I cannot."
"That ring was a promise, Christine," he had explained, thought there was desperation she had never seen before etched in his usually kind face. "Only a promise...that you will never have to be alone. Never have to fear anyone or anything ever again. And perhaps, one day you will come to love me as I love you. I only wish to take care of you. Please. Take your time, and consider my proposal."
She had not wanted to accept Raoul's token at first. She feared that when she had relented, it had been more out of guilt that she had lied to him for so long then a true change of heart. She valued their past, their friendship. But she didn't love him. She'd worn the ring around her neck, and its weight had been grave.
And now Erik had it. Erik, who when he had seen it, radiated rage and utter despair.
You belong to me.
A rough, hoarse growl. His beautiful voice transformed into something she had only ever glimpsed simmering beneath the surface. And now she waited for him, waited on the brink of sanity. Her note had been explicit—at least, explicit to someone who knew its code. It gave no words of apology, or regret. Only need. She needed him.
Say you'll meet me
When the day is o'er
Within the orange bower. . .
Words taken from The Marriage of Figaro. What used to be a game, a tender secret between them was now a matter of life and death.
The curtain falls—his reign will end!
Her heart beat down the minutes, the seconds. Drawing icy air that permeated the dank catacombs into her lungs slowly, she released a deep, shuddering breath and watched it crystallize into a dense cloud of mist. She shivered.
"It is cold. You should have brought a cloak."
Her whole body seemed to freeze solid, even as her heart beat against her chest wildly—a struggling bird trying desperately to take flight, and wing back to its master. She clenched her jaw tight. He was behind her, and although he had spoken softly, his voice echoed through the dimly lit chamber. It was smoke and flame, rough yet unbearably tender. A silken cord binding her, enticing. And she, barely aware that it was sinuously closing around her throat.
Your chains are still mine.
"I am glad you came," she replied, ignoring his concerns. She knew he meant them, and it was this outward display of kindness and thought to her well-being that solidified her resolve once more. He is no monster.
"I will always come," he replied softly, the words a gentle and unabashed caress. He had never hidden his obsession. Even now, after so many months apart, he seemed to revere and worship it. "I was most grateful for your note," he continued doggedly. The words grated against his throat, as though he had not spoken a word since their last encounter. A self-imposed vow of silence; a penance. It was too much. Whereas moments before his appearance she had been so detached, so numb, now she felt filled to the brim with emotion.
It was always the spell he cast upon her.
I feel...
She turned toward him, caught in the irrepressible tide and found his shadowed figure, their eyes meeting.
I feel.
She did not know who moved first. Perhaps they were both so irrevocably entangled within each other that it no longer mattered. For one glorious, terrifying moment she thought to hold him, to reach out and wrap her arms around his dark form and bury herself within him forever.
He stopped inches from her, his entire body taut and fairly vibrating with repressed tension. A string wound too tightly, his fists clenching reflexively. He wore no gloves. She could see the black ink stains on his left index and middle fingers. He had been composing recently.
She wondered if he still kept the worn, over-stuffed and ancient arm chair he had procured for her to sit in while he worked. Simply to have her near. Sometimes, when he was too exhausted to continue, she would read to him. He had a vast selection of old, battered leather-bound books stacked on the floor in winding columns that were nearly as tall as she was. Everything from poetry to works of science and history, and some that were simply filled with maps. It was not a conventional library, but she loved pursuing it and he always seemed so pleased when she would curl up with a volume in her lap, eagerly running her fingertips across the time-worn, yellowed pages. She had owned very few books throughout her life, as she and her Papa had traveled far too often to burden themselves with heavy tomes. She still retained a few of her childhood books however, Swedish folktales lovingly preserved, and would often bring them with her when she came to visit. Sometimes, he would tentatively request she read a specific volume to him.
His favourite had been the tale of a brave princess who dared to conquer a grizzly troll who lived in a mountain of glass. She had always felt a tender pride that her voice seemed to soothe, as well as invigorate him. The memory brought a sudden wave of panic.
He was here. He had come. Now, she had to save him.
"They want me to aid in your arrest," she said, her gaze roaming unconsciously over his face. She drank in every detail, every clue as to his life without her. His cheek was recently shaven, although frown lines cut more deeply into his pale skin and his eyes looked even more sunken than usual. He looked ill, she realized. Had he eaten at all over the past three months? Had anyone made sure he had eaten and slept, or had he simply lived at his piano, devouring parchment with a ravenous appetite that could never be quenched? His genius was a razor's edge—she had been witness to his abundant creativity—always burning, threatening to reduce him to ash.
She had drawn him back from the flames too many times to count.
"Raoul and the managers," she continued hearing the hoarse, scratchy timber of her own seldom used voice. They had spent too many hours, too many days and nights apart—they were both slowly withering, parched without the other. Soon, they would both be nothing but dust.
"He has contacted the gendarmes, and they are devising a trap for you."
He was watching her speak, sea-grey eyes feasting upon her features as hungrily as she was scrutinizing him. His expression was troubling; he did not look like a man whose freedom and life were hanging in the balance. His chest heaved, breaths rapid, a kind of ecstasy illuminating his too-pale face.
She imagined him closing the meager distance between them. She imagined the heat of his kiss.
Once, his controlled reserve in her presence had allowed her to remain cossetted within her natural shyness. Then, as their intimacy deepened, her curiosity and growing desires sought out every crack in his armor, coaxing it open and utterly destroying his carefully constructed guises. Angel. Maestro. Then there was only Erik. When his overwhelming intensity was revealed, she had gloried in it—the rush, the consuming need that burned away all reason. How reckless she had become. He looked mere seconds away from claiming her lips, control fraying and snapping and she wanted him to, so badly it was a physical ache.
Yet she had to warn him.
"Do you understand?" she pressed gently, all too aware that Erik was not like other men; not like anyone. His undivided focus was all-consuming; an overwhelmingly intense experience, yet there were times when his mind wandered and he seemed to be somewhere else altogether. There were even times when he seemed confused by ordinary things, and she would have to repeat herself a few times before he seemed to grasp what she was saying. It was a startling contradiction to the sharply articulate man who could quote entire passages from any book in his vast library from memory. Christine had always held an unwavering patience for his eccentricities, but now time was slipping away and she was determined to make him realize the gravity of the situation. He said nothing, lips parted and slivers of white mist escaping into the air between them.
"Erik," she breathed, desperate. "They will kill you."
When had her hands moved to curl into the sleeves of his coat? His gaze became something darker, something wild. Without a word, he unbuttoned his black woolen over-coat, slipping it off his shoulders and wrapped it around her carefully. Warmth instantly embraced her followed by the heady rush of his scent. Her head felt light and weightless. Without his coat, he looked thin, his once intimidating, broad frame reduced to a bony fragility that at once stirred her compassion and concern.
He reached for her hands and encased them in his infinitely larger ones, rubbing them gently to warm them. His touch held a slight tremble, as though she were made of spun-glass. Her words still hung between them, icy and forbidding. They will kill you. Still, he did not reply but brought her hands to his lips, where he blew across them gently. His hot breath sent rippling tingles of sensation racing beneath her skin. Then, carefully, almost shyly, he pressed his lips against her fingers.
Her heart broke. Tears she had promised she wouldn't shed filled her eyes as she moved closer to him, close enough to that she could press her own lips against the heated flesh of his hands, where they still clasped hers.
Her touch seemed to and revive and break him at once.
"Christine," it was an exhalation, a prayer, a plea. Gritty, rasping. He pulled back to gaze down at her, eyes bright, unable to look away as she continued to kiss the back of his hand.
"Don't do this," she spoke into his skin, softly. Imploringly. A terrible realization solidified within her—he'd known. He'd known it was a trap; of course he had. Had he been concealed in the very room as they had plotted his downfall? Had he watched unseen, concealed on the rooftop, or within the little chapel as she had confided to Raoul?
What I used to dream, I now dread.
He knew that being near her, being her Don Juan was a death-sentence. And she, his Aminta had foolishly thought she had come to warn him, to save him.
I was condemned the moment I saw you. His words, spoken in anger and pain on the night he had demanded that she never see Raoul again. The moment she realized she had made a fatal mistake.
She had fallen in love with him. Her angel. And it was impossible.
"You came to warn me," he said without fear, no determination of survival. Only adoration. He smiled down at her—a rare thing—yet not for the first time since she had seen his unmasked face, she saw the shadow of madness in his eyes.
I surround myself with broken things...
Then his gaze dropped to her mouth, and the shadow became tangible. Sliding his hand from hers, he reached into a pocket of his woolen over-coat which was still draped across her shoulders. Her heart skittered as she felt his hand brush against her ribs. Slowly, he withdrew something small. Clutching it carefully as though it were a living thing, he opened his palm. There, Raoul's ring caught the dim light of the catacombs, a star plucked from the heavens and dragged beneath the earth.
"Unholy I consider the vow that binds without love," he said softly, though his voice shook with emotion. Christine recognized the libretto. Their secret language, their code.
Sometimes, when his penetrating focus abandoned him it was the only way he seemed to be able to communicate. She knew he referred to Raoul—to the proposal he knew was false. He had confronted her with the truth on the steps of the grand foyer, during the fated masquerade. Unearthly, an ancient God swathed in red, his black mask a skull, he had looked like death, fearsome Hades, ready to claim her.
And she had been enraptured, a month to a flame for all to see.
"While I live, you are mine. You belong to me!" he had sworn. Yet Christine had known the truth of his words: I belong to you.
She had gazed up at him with everything unsaid glowing in her eyes, oblivious to the party guests surrounding them. His unflinching stare had dropped to her lips, which began to form the first true smile she had felt in ages. She felt. His spell was cast. What once had been hollow, now filled, a dam broken. And he, playing the part of vengeful phantom to perfection, could not hide his adulation. He would conjure her passion, and she would strip him of every mask he crafted until only love remained.
...while I live.
"Erik, you must leave. Before they find you," she tried now to sound firm, to keep the plea from her voice. Like Mme. Giry. Strong. Unmovable. She was the fighter now. She was his Valkyrie, his protector. "I have said I will help them, but only to bide you time to escape. They are becoming suspicious. I do not know how much longer I can keep them away—"
"Let them come," he said, absently. He was gazing at the ring in his palm. It was delicate, yet opulent. A ring fit for a Comtesse. Slowly, as though movement pained him, he took the ring and gently slipped it onto her finger.
"I should not have taken it from you as I did." He held onto her fingers. His hands dwarfed her own and he gazed at the ring with misery before turning her hand over and pressing a butterfly kiss to her palm.
"Erik, you must go—"
"I do not fear death. If my crimes are to be avenged with blood, I will pay it. You needn't have worried about me. You tried…" he let out a short, disbelieving breath against her skin.
"You thought I was worth saving…" he kissed her palm again. "…my angel," he murmured, cradling her hand against his bared cheek. His skin felt scratchy against her fingers where he had shaven. She pressed her palm against his face, and he had begun to shake almost imperceptively.
The proof of his torment, that her touch still affected him so profoundly was overwhelming.
"I am going to save you," she promised with such sincerity that his eyes slid shut as though her words brought him physical pain. Slipping her hand out of his grasp, she boldly cupped both his cheeks, warm flesh and cold porcelain. "We will think of something—and you have no say in the matter, understood?"
He said nothing but opened his eyes, though it took a moment for him to meet her burning stare. He seemed to be desperately memorizing every facet of her face, every crease and freckle. Something lit within his gaze. His whole face seemed on the brink of something, but it never manifested on his features. His eyes, always so expressive spoke volumes. They spoke of awe, bewilderment and undeniable trust. They spoke of suffering, and crippling doubt.
When had they become each other? A being inseparable, two such different minds with one heartbeat.
"Can I just—" he began, faltering over his words. Need making his throat dry, his voice hoarse and rasping. He swallowed, clearly trying to master himself. For her sake. Instinctively, Christine brought his hands to her face, letting him touch her, nuzzling his palm as he finally released a shaking breath. His thumb traced her mouth.
She couldn't recall how long they had remained lost in each other.
The sound of waters lapping gently drew Christine back from the vivid memory of his touch. Realizing she had walked so far she could no longer see any sign of the estate on the horizon, she saw the shore of a river just a few feet ahead. Enormous black willow trees bowed low as though to protect its beauty. A secret place. Mechanically, Christine began to take off her boots, and shed her dress. Once she was clad in only her chemise, she waded into the cool waters and sighed with relief.
The stark sensation of the cool water against her warm skin seemed to wash away some of her feverish thoughts, soothing her gently.
The riverbed was stony, but her feet were able to keep purchase as she sunk lower into the water and then turned, to float on her back. The sun beat down on her face, and for a blissful, complete moment she imagined he was there, floating beside her. He would relish the feel of the warm light on his skin, his face free of the mask that caused him daily pain.
They would both be free.
She would hum them a tune, and he would accompany her until she fell silent and simply allowed his mesmerizing tenor to draw her into a deep, deep sleep...and it had been so, so long since she had last truly slept...
Hands were gripping her roughly by the arms, and suddenly she was on the shore of the riverbed, coughing and spluttering as water was expelled from her lungs. Blinking water-logged eyes, she felt panic grip her by the throat. The sun was gone, it was darker out. Had she fallen asleep, floating there in the river?
Two clear blue eyes penetrated her confusion, gazing down at her with more worry and panic than she could ever imagine feeling in one lifetime. His face was blurry, and the bottom half was covered in something dark—a scarf? But even as she continued to cough and gasp, her heart leapt in her chest; it had returned to her, whole and filled with incredulous joy.
"Erik?" she managed through her watery throat, wanting to reach out, to make sure she wasn't still dreaming. How she hated her own mind! How dare it mix memory, dreams and nightmares together so she couldn't tell reality from their intangible design!
He said nothing, and she suddenly felt her body leave the ground. His arms were tight, almost gripping her to excess as he made his way up the bank and back towards the estate. Christine tried battling her traitorous body into speech or movement, anything to confirm what her heart already knew, but shock was settling in and she began to shake uncontrollably. His grip tightened even more. Closing her eyes, she tried to regain control of her shuddering breaths by resting her head against his chest; she could hear a heartbeat there, fast and strong.
"Christine!"
Raoul...she could hear him in the distance. Suddenly she was being set down, and his arms, which before seemed like nothing could ever entice to loosen their hold, were gone. She tried to speak, to reach out to him but she couldn't move. A bone shaking, numbing cold was racking her body and all she could manage was a watery sound of frustration from her aching throat as she tried to locate her saviour once more—but he was gone. Seconds later, Raoul was knelt at her side, arms wrapped around her.
To her embarrassment, Christine had not only not been able to walk home, and therefore had to be carried by a terrified Raoul, but once they entered the house they were accosted by people left right and center.
"Fetch me towels, and some hot water!"
"We must get her out of these clothes, she's soaked to the skin!"
"Fetch Dr. Khan, now!"
Christine's eyelids felt heavy, and before she could speak a word they had closed, and all was darkness. When she awoke, she was in her room once more. She was dry, and settled in her bed which was piled high with every blanket in the estate. Her forehead felt clammy, and she tried to sit up. Her head spun dangerously, and she was forced to retreat back to the pillows, leaning back and gathering her strength. Her room was dark, save for the ding embers of a fire that was glowing in the grate. Her door was not shut, and a thin strip of candlelight fell through the crack and onto the carpet. Her ears still buzzed, but she could make out the hushed voice of Raoul.
"I see, doctor. Are you quite sure?"
"I am afraid so," a second, familiar voice answered softly. It was a kind voice, calm and soothing. It brought to mind wire-rimmed spectacles perched upon a distinguished nose, a neatly trimmed mustache and eyes that crinkled in the corners when he smiled.
"I fear that her lack of sleep and consistent withdrawal into her own mind are indeed becoming worse. I won't know for sure until I can examine her properly."
"I...am sure that can be arranged, once she has recovered."
"Yes. Once she has rested."
Christine heard Raoul begin to open her partially closed door, but the doctor stopped him.
"I am curious, Monsieur Viscomte. The name she was calling out earlier, in her delirium. Who is Erik? She has never mentioned this name to me before."
Tears stung her eyes. Erik. Her secret; her angel. The image of bright blue eyes, filled with wild fear still swam before her eyes. She would know those eyes anywhere, in any time or place. Yet had she imagined the whole thing? Was she truly losing her mind? Living only in memories, with ghosts and echoes? She heard Raoul give a deep, sad sigh.
"He...he was a dear friend of hers. He died, recently."
"And was this friend also hurt by the man who called himself the Phantom?"
Raoul paused, and Christine could feel his misgivings.
"I will let Christine tell you of it, doctor. All I can say is that she once had a friend truer than any I have ever known. And then, the Phantom destroyed him. That is all I can tell you for now. The rest, belongs to her."
"As you say, of course. I will be in touch."
"Thank you. Please, forgive me—"
"Not at all. I will see myself out. Goodnight."
Christine heard light footsteps walking away down the hall, and then her door opened fully and Raoul, candle in hand stood in the doorway gazing at her.
She tried to muster up the strength to call out to him, but the words never made it past her lips. Her childhood friend stood in the doorway for a moment, then head bowed, slowly and quietly shut the door, obviously thinking she was still asleep and not wishing to disturb her.
She awoke again sometime later, but this time there was no flickering fire or soft glowing candles. Her room was dark, and only the moonlight casting cool, silver shadows on the walls afforded any light.
She had slept, but it had been a dreamless sleep—a black abyss. A blessing and a curse. She felt as though she had weights attached to her limbs, but despite her discomfort she sat up, and swung her feet to the floor and into her slippers.
Memories of a whispered conversation outside her doorway returned to her.
Her withdrawals seem to be getting worse...
Won't be sure until I examine her...
Who was Erik?
He was a dear friend, and the Phantom destroyed him...
Rubbing a hand across her temple, Christine glanced at her bedside table and saw the perfect, red rose Raoul had brought her that morning. She felt like an eternity had passed since the start of the day, a day when she had escaped for a moment, and had felt free. And then, she had seen those eyes...his eyes. She must have idiotically fallen asleep in the river, and the thought that she had been so recklessly close to death should have frightened her.
It had been foolish, she knew. And yet...
She could have sworn those blue eyes were real, his arms, his heartbeat. Reaching out, she picked up the rose and brought its velvety petals to her nose. It still retained its thorns, and she was careful not to prick herself. A bubble of laughter rose in her throat at that; what a ridiculous reaction to have! Worrying more over a pricked finger than ending life belly-up in a watery grave. It was the kind of incongruity that would have made him laugh, too.
Feeling suddenly restless, she rose to her feet and shakily, and made her way to the window. The moon hung full and heavy in the sky, supported by a few tendrils of pale cloud. As her gaze swept the dark courtyard below, she felt her whole body suddenly tense.
Beneath her window and bathed in shadow stood a tall, cloaked figure. Instantly, her fingertips pressed against the window pane, her breath coming out in short, rapid gasps that misted the glass and distorted his shape.
Her savior was gazing directly at her.