Resonance by sheshakes
Chapter Two: To Save Her
Christine opened her eyes slowly, the heaviness in her lids so deadening that she had to struggle to lift them. Her vision was blurred and her body damp and excruciatingly hot– she ran her tongue over her lips to find them cracked and swollen, the metallic taste of her own blood filling her mouth like bile.
Struggling to turn on her side in the swamp of twisted cloth, she felt a hard object against her neck, an anchor. Looking down, she found the empty eyes of the Phantom's mask staring back at her, the white leather glistening with her sweat. Crying out, she clapped her hands over her eyes, her clammy palms pressed against her lashes as she remembered the events of the day, the visit with Meg, the mask…
And the news of the Phantom. Clenching her jaw tightly, Christine again tasted fresh blood, her teeth ripping through the chapped flesh of her lips. The hard flavor permeated her mouth, reminding her of the strange and alluring taste she had found in his mouth as she pressed her lips to his, forgiving and punishing him for his cruelty and his madness. She savored the sweet pain, a last sensation of reality before she fell into a fitful sleep, the mournful half mask nestled beneath her feverish body and the soaked linens.
Raoul hovered over the bed, taking no pleasure in the form of his delicately beautiful fiancé lying twisted among the dirty sheets. Raoul thought mournfully, "Mon dieu, what can I do? I've tried so hard to save her, free her from this nightmare of the past, but she clings to it. What can I do?" Leaning forward over the mess of cloth, he softly brushed his lips across Christine's hot forehead, hoping his soft touch would still her troubled sleep.
Grimacing and twisting away, Christine whimpered desperately, a limp curl of her usually luxurious hair falling across her face like a mask. "Phantom…" she gasped, clawing at the sheets she was so thoroughly tangled in. Raoul drew back, hissing at the sound of that name they had so deftly avoided saying since leaving the Opera just weeks ago.
"Christine," he said, placing a tentative hand on her bare shoulder and attempting to rouse her with a light nudge. Crying out in fear, she curled around her legs, her nightgown wrapping around her in a death grip, outlining the quickly thinning silhouette of the girl who had seemed so healthy, if slim, just days ago.
"Christine, forgive me. I am sorry – so sorry. God, I love you, and I will save you yet, Little Lotte," the Vicomte murmured caressing her dull locks as she continued to toss fitfully, her face features taught with fear. Rising from the bedside, Raoul flung his coat on and strode out of the room, bracing himself for the cold Parisian night he was about to embark into.
"She is very ill, Vicomte. You should have called me when her condition did not improve. No, worsened! What could have driven you to neglect your own fiancé in such a reckless manner?" Theillier admonished, turning from Christine to glare at Raoul in disgust. The doctor was enraged, ready to continue, until he saw the look of true self-hatred coloring the Vicomte's noble face.
"What can I do?" Raoul said, his voice cracking. Embarrassed at the man's display, the doctor turned back to the patient, feeling her burning forehead gingerly as his own brow creased with lines.
"You must help her find her will to live. Until she has that, I cannot do anything for Mademoiselle Daaé," he stated, his voice low and harsh to Raoul's ears as tears fell down his raw cheeks, usually so smooth and proud.
Raoul watched Theillier as he gathered his coat and hat and left. Looking at his hands, the palms slick with tears, Raoul hissed, "Haven't you done enough, Phantom? You are killing her, even now." Bringing down his hands on the floor with a resounding crash, Raoul stared at the bed, the weak form of the woman he had tried so hard to protect. "Let her go, Phantom. Let her go."
I fought so hard to free you…
He had not left the Opera Populaire for days, fearing not capture, but the destination his mind would likely force him to. "Let me go, Christine. Let me go," he pleaded at the darkness, more alone now than he had ever been as he implored even his memories to leave him to his silence. Still without his mask, Erik wandered the wreckage of the charred grandeur of the Opera, pausing where his memories bade him stay, running from ghosts his memory told him were there. The taste of Christine still lingered on his lips, unchanged by the passage of weeks now since they had touched him there softly and cruelly in the dark, promising him a million moments he would never experience. Following the sound of a voice which echoed only in his mind, Erik found himself in the basement room in which he had so often sung to Christine, promising her the help of an Angel of Music who he was not but pretended to be as she quietly lit candles for her dead father.
Approaching the place in which Christine had knelt before the brass candelabra, the Phantom reached within his breast pocket, drawing out a match. Leaning forward he struck the match and lit a solitary ivory candle, balking slightly at the brightness of the flame as it danced before him, bringing back all the memories of her he was trying so desperately to avoid, of that night. Had he imagined it?
"Christine, was it just fear that I saw, or more? Pity? No – I dare not think of it, give myself the hope. Mon dieu, how the mere memory of you enslaves me, even now, as I see those eyes in my mind," he whispered, his hushed voice ringing slightly in the dim room, filling it with an eerie tone that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. When she had looked at him, gazing back over the silent lake, away from the future and her handsome fiancé, he could have sworn he'd seen a flicker in those eyes – something that was not pity, nor horror. But he would not consider it – the pain of hope was too great for him to bear.
"Fear cannot turn to love, fool. You are an apparition of past horror, not a man at all. No human could love a twisted soul," he murmured, slowly running his hand over his face, no longer surprised to feel uneven flesh instead of pristine white leather. "Not even an angel…" he whispered, his voice betraying a despair unusual even for him. He rose slowly from the floor to blow out the candle he had lit for her and left the room, not turning back to see the wick still glowing with the remnants of flame as a thin curl of smoke snaked through the still air.
As Christine stood, she found herself standing in water to her thighs, the light lace of her negligee swimming in the darkness below her as she moved forward, trying to adjust her vision to the dim light of the cold cavern she had found herself in. "I am dreaming," she said, her voice bouncing back at her and singing around her. Dreaming… dreaming… the caverns called as the water gently lapped at her skin, making her skin tingle uncomfortably. Her brown eyes straining as she began to make out the outlines of her surroundings, she cried, "I know this place," nervously pacing in the water from craggy wall to wall in the cool lake she had found herself in.
Turning suddenly at the faint sound of an organ, Christine paled under her already ghostly skin, her pupils dilating with alarm. "The Phantom," she gasped, the sound resonating against the walls so that dust from the cavernous ceiling above her head fell to the water, creating small disturbances and distortions in the glassy surface. She could see her own face in the water, the tiny waves deforming her features until she could scarcely differentiate her own eyes from the dark water she stared at so fixedly. Dipping her fingers in the place her face had been staring back at her from the water only moments ago, she squinted out into the dimly lit tunnel, weighing her options. Biting her lip, she reminded herself, "It is only a dream. No one can harm you, silly girl," and with apprehension still quivering in her breast, she began walking towards the distant organ tones.
As she made her way through the gray caverns and wide tunnels, Christine found the music distinguishing itself from the hollow resonances of the empty chasms surrounding her. It was familiar, and haunting. As she drew closer to the Phantom's lair, she found the ache behind her eyes growing unbearable as her vision blurred under salty water welling uncontrollably at the edges of her vision. Bringing her left hand to her face to wipe away the threatening tears, Christine drew a sharp breath. A delicate ring scraped her face unfamiliarly – it was not the ring Raoul had planted on her wedding finger – it was a more somber piece of jewelry, holding far more somber memories. The diamond-laced circlet of silver was filled with regret and shame, and as she stared at it she found herself shaking, remembering the broken face of the man she had so easily destroyed with one movement. And so easily filled with joy with another.
Walking forward with greater intention, Christine picked up the trails of her negligee and trudged forth into the dark water, abandoning the elegance she so diligently tried to maintain. As the music began to swell around her, she could make out the deep tones of his voice mixing with the notes of the organ.
Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world,
Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before,
Let your soul take you where you long to be,
Only then can you belong to me.
Straining to hear the softly sung words, she closed her eyes and let the enchanting music fill her again, invading her mind with memories of that night she followed him deep underground, mesmerized by the beauty of his mournful voice. She drifted forward, grasping onto the dark bars of the gateway to his cavernous residence, deep under the Opera Populaire.
Suddenly the music halted, the cavern ringing softly with the last notes of the organ. She opened her eyes, gasping as she saw the desolate shadow of what she remembered the Phantom's magnificent lair to be. The curtains hung ragged and candles were scattered across the floor, the genius's work charred and ripped. Forcing her way under the bars of the heavy gate, Christine ran through the water, the splashing creating a sound close to roaring in the deeply resonant alcove. When she reached the shore, she found her eyes so full of tears that she could barely see through them and her knees weak with fear. And her chest – if she had ever felt pain in her life, it was nothing compared to the burning ache that filled her bosom now, as she stared at the wreckage of this underground dream, the bed of the Phantom. Wiping away her tears, Christine scanned the debris, searching for the hand by which the organ had sung its sad song. And then, she saw him.
Running to the organ, now full of broken keys and garish dents, Christine cried out, flinging her arms around the still form of the once refined man in black slumped over the front of the ruined instrument. Violently wrenching him about to face her, Christine fell back in shock, finding the face staring back at her not the twisted face of a monster that she had come to know well, but the serene face of an angel. Where the marring deformity had stretched across the Phantom's face was only smooth skin and perfect features, beautiful features.
Gasping for breath through her sobs, Christine stroked the now perfected cheek of her former mentor and ghost, balking at the alien smoothness beneath her pale fingers. Choking on her sadness, Christine fell forth into his still lap, holding his torso tightly in her arms as she whispered, "Mon dieu, but where is my beautiful Phantom?"
As Meg Giry left her home she turned back to see the ruined Opera Populaire rising above the buildings behind her, the light from the sun was just beginning to fade to lavender. The angels on the eaves glowed with the light from the falling sun, their bronze wings seeming to spread wide before her eyes as if they were about to take to the dimming sky, ushering in the darkness of night.
Barely able to contain her apprehensive mind, Meg turned and marched straight into the coming night toward the de Chagny house, both to challenge Raoul's ultimatum and the heart of her ailing friend, Christine. Knocking furiously on the solid doors of the de Chagny estate, Meg peered up into the dimly lit windows of the house, looking for some sign of movement, some sign of a response to her insistent banging in the quickly descending cold of the late Winter evening.
As she stood on the grand front step of the monstrous home, Meg felt the fingers of nervousness playing with her heart, making her blood pump faster through her veins as the cold air became frigid and the sky began to turn a deep blue above her head. Finally, a sound from within the silent residence, a flickering candle light at the window and a distorted black silhouette presented themselves. Raoul.
"Mademoiselle Giry, what do you think you are doing, pounding on our door just as night falls, and uninvited? You were not called upon, Little Meg, and now you must go," Raoul reprimanded as he flung open the heavy doors, almost hitting the startled girl. As she stared at his enraged face, another wave of shock passed over her – he was a shadow of the man she once knew and admired with the other dancers. In the dim light of his candle, he appeared sallow and drawn, the flame throwing shadows across his finely hewn features, revealing his sunken eyes and the deep circles below their cold blue gaze. Her zeal only renewed by his ravaged appearance, Meg pushed her hand against the heavy wooden door, forcing it farther open with a good deal of work.
"NO Vicomte. I fear you will have to let me in. I do not care what harm you think my presence will bring to your beloved fiancé, for I believe it may be you that is bringing her the greatest harm of all. Let me in, now," she said forcefully, her voice cold and commanding, the very voice of her strict mother, Madame Giry. Shocked at her daring, Raoul's mouth opened and closed as his mind raced with all possible retorts before he simply stepped back, allowing the small spitfire entrance to his somber household.
Leading her quickly down the hall to Christine's room, he glanced back at Meg to see that her eyes were full of rage, hatred even. Having rarely or never received this sort of glare from anyone, Raoul stopped, turning on her with an apologetic, pleading gaze.
"Help her, Meg. I cannot do anything anymore. He told me to give her the will to live, Little Meg. How do I do that when I hardly have that will myself anymore? How, Mademoiselle? I don't know…" he stammered, his eyes darting across her taught face searching for forgiveness, redemption, even sympathy. All he found was the cold anger in her eyes and the mournful set of her jaw.
"Monsieur, take word to Maman, I will need her. I do not need you," she said harshly, her own cruelty surprising her as she saw pain spread across the Vicomte's handsome face.
"I was trying to save her, Meg, save her. I love her more than… more than…" he choked, the words lost in the mess of his head as weak tears began to streak his sunken cheeks.
"Go, Monsieur. If you love her, go. Allez-vous!" she flung at him, the words slapping him across the face as if she had struck him. Without a word, he turned his back on her and hurried for the doorway, his shoulders slumped and shaking as he sobbed her name.
"Christine… please forgive me. I did it all for you…"
Violently pushing open the heavy doors to Christine's bedroom, Meg brought her hands to her mouth, drawing a quick breath as she saw the weakened face of her friend staring back at her from a bed of twisted sheets.
"Christine," Meg whispered, her voice faltering with fear and mind filling with a terrible, bitter feeling of helplessness. She rubbed her hands together in panic, savoring the slight warmth that the friction supplied her cold palms. Then flying to her friend's bedside, Meg again murmured, "Christine…" the soft sound echoing in the oppressive darkness of the bedroom. Christine stared up at Meg from her nest of stained linens, her lips stretching in the ghost of a smile across her wane face.
"Phantom, fear can turn to love…" she breathed, the words almost lost in the rasping of her breath. Meg grasped her hand tightly, running her hand down the sunken cheek of her friend as tears ran down her cheeks, wetting the bed that was already damp with sweat and tears of loss.
"What has happened? Meg urged, untangling the white mask from the mass of sheets and placing it in Christine's cold palm, bending her fingers around it in an attempt to comfort her. Sitting down among the mess of sheets, Meg ran her hand lightly over Christine's limp curls, once so abundant and full.
"He is gone, Little Meg," she rasped, her throat constricting on the last word so it came to her lips as more of a sob. Her brow slightly furrowing as her lips tightened to a puzzled frown, Meg continued to caress her friend's damp curls, urging her on with her confused silence.
"I was so lost. So lost. He is all there is, Meg, all there is in the world. When you told me he was… well, I felt my chest tighten, I swear it, like a dull ache bursting into a raging flame. I was… maybe I was… wrong. I feel so turned about, Meg. I thought all I had in my heart for him was pity, fear, but he was right Meg, he was –," she said mournfully, her voice thin and high in hysterical sadness and then faltering as she broke into wracking sobs, her thin shoulders shaking under the weight of her enormous guilt.
"And Raoul?" Meg offered, her eyes widening as the truth Christine had not found became clear to her, watching the suffering of the naïve girl before her.
"Raoul. He is everything I could ask for. Strong, honest, caring, but… there is something in his gaze that is lacking, a paleness in his good blue eyes that betrays their shallowness; I love him, Meg, but I feel so suffocated in this place… under his wing. I feel like an adult waking from a child's dream," Christine mumbled, her eyes fluttering as she glanced around her dark, heavily decorated surroundings, as if seeing them for the first time.
"But Christine, he was a monster – an apparition," she said desperately, looking for the timid morality in Christine she had come to know so well.
"No, Meg, he was a man. A man," Christine said, holding the Phantom's mask hard to her chest as she turned from her friend to face the damp pillow, tightly shutting her eyes as if trying to shut out the reality of her world, her decisions. Her past.
"Meg!" The words echoed through the silent house, waking Meg with a start. Looking up she saw Christine still lying tangled in the bed, her hands wrapped desperately around the Phantom's mask as she mouthed wordlessly in her light sleep. The sound of quickly falling footsteps up the hall echoed through the room until Madame Giry threw open the doors, letting in a burst of alien light from the lantern dangling from her hand as she clasped her black cane in the other.
"Maman, I don't know what to do. She is so lost. She does not know what she is saying, but she talks and looks at me as if she knows me," Meg said in a hushed voice, her eyes red and raw from crying.
"Oui, little one. She is lost, but it is not her body that is ill. It is her heart," the older woman stated, nodding emphatically as she looked worriedly at the twisted form of the girl she saw before her, her hands tightly gripping the Phantom's mask.
"Mon dieu! Where did she get this?" Madame Giry exclaimed, rushing to the bedside to brush her fingers over the leather surface of Erik's precious mask. Turning back to Meg, she saw guilt written all across her daughter's face as the girl tried to hide behind her blonde curls. "Ah, oui, I see. Of course," she murmured, throwing a disapproving but slightly bemused glance at Meg, who, encouraged by this, came forward to stand by her mother at the bedside.
"I found it Maman, in those caverns. Is he alive, Maman? You can tell me, Maman…" Meg trailed off as she saw her mother's eyes narrow. Madame Giry threw a protective hand over Meg's shoulder and drew her close, pressing her daughter to her slender frame.
"He is gone, but I have hope that he will return, little one," she said, running her fingers slowly over the surface of the white mask. "But, not yet. No, not yet."
Jolting from his uncomfortable sleep on the floor of the bedroom he had created for Christine to look feverishly around his surroundings, Erik threw his hand over his face, grasping blindly for the feeling of his familiar white mask but not finding it.
"Fool, it is gone. It is all gone," he snarled, damning his mind's slow grasp on the present and all its misery. "Sleep, sleep. Why open my eyes when I know she will not be there to look upon?" he asked himself, his voice full of bitterness as he stared at the empty swan bed towering over him as he lay on the rough stone floor. "Give her time? All I have given her is time – all the time I ever had to give! It was hers, and she stripped me of it, cruelly filling me with hope as she plotted her life with that boy, that child," he spat, knowing even as he said it that he was lying to himself. "No, dear monster, no, you cannot speak so ugly a lie, even from so ugly a visage," he said, smiling at his own weak attempts at hatred.
"You gave her your time, unasked, and she gave you her trust because you tore it from her, stealing it through your desperate schemes. Had you owned that handsome face, the one she fell in love with in the end, you would still have not deserved her, or her kiss." Staring at his hands, he began to violently rip the black gloves from them, the tearing fabric filling his ears with foreign sound. "Give her time? I have no more time to give and no way to give it to her," he cried, rubbing the bare palms of his elegant hands over his inelegant deformity as if to erase it as the now familiar tears welled in his blue eyes, threatening to spill over.
Standing now, he began to rip away the last of his fabrication, his elaborate façade, tearing the fine waistcoat and cravat, shredding his white muslin shirt and ignoring the icy cold of his cavernous lodgings. Facing one of many broken mirrors, he considered his body, perfect in contrast to the imperfect countenance that glared back from the shattered glass into his tearing eyes. "Monster," he whispered, watching his lips contort to form the words in his cracked reflection; "Twisted creature."
"Can you even dare to look or bare think of me?" he mouthed fiercely, his voice a grating rasp that horrified him in its pathetic sound. Turning from the mirror he looked back at the swan bed that had once held the heart of his love, his Christine, sleeping soundly and peacefully just inches away as he stroked her rich hair, taking in the heady scent of her beautiful form as he breathed. He remembered the feeling of her smooth hand against his face, caressing him softly as he sang to her, and then the feeling of that same hand as she clawed to escape him as he desperately dragged him back to his lair in his last attempt at her devotion. Grimacing at the memory of his mad despair, he brought his hand to stroke his cheek as she had, closing his eyes as he allowed the tears to fall down his cheek, sliding between his fingers like fine sand.
"Christine," he choked, collecting the ripped remnants of his clothing and throwing them at the broken mirror in a last, pathetic gesture before throwing on a light muslin shirt and cloak and disappearing into the caverns, hood covering his face as his eyes stared into the darkness, full of hopeless intention.