Author's Note: Thank you to all who have reviewed, followed, and favourited! It's so very heartening to know that people besides myself want to read this. I hope you all enjoy the next chapter.
Chapter 2. April 1887. The day after Erik abducted Christine from the stage.
She'd ended up sitting on the couch, still in the wedding dress, so exhausted and distraught that there was a haze of unreality over everything. So much had happened in so short a time that she could not now understand it. Being kidnapped a second time…tied up after she tried to kill herself by beating her head against a wall. She could see the red spots on her dress where the blood had dripped from her forehead, and pain still throbbed through her skull. And being forced for interminable hours to listen to Erik alternately berating her for her treachery and begging her to love him. Resisting him with all her strength, unwilling to be any man's pawn, until the appalling realisation that he had Raoul and the Persian, whom Erik had called his friend, locked in his horrible torture chamber, dying in its abominable heat. (Who did that to a friend? She did not think Erik had friends to spare.) Their only hope, her acquiescence. And, even worse than that – if she still would not marry him, Erik would blow up the Opera House and its entire neighbourhood, thousands of innocent people who had nothing whatever to do with her refusal of him, with the barrels of explosives he had in the cellars below them.
There had been no real question anymore of what she must do. She could not choose her own will over the lives of so many people. Erik had won. She had lost. And martyrdom was not nearly as romantic when it was happening to you.
Erik had shown her two switches in the form of little bronze creatures. If she accepted him, she was to turn the scorpion. If she refused him, she was to turn the grasshopper. And they would all be blown up. She turned the scorpion.
She turned the scorpion, feeling as though she were standing aside and watching herself doing it; Erik kept his word and rescued the two prisoners from his torture chamber; they both tended them, until it was clear that they would be all right. Then he'd taken them away. Raoul first, to a dungeon apparently, and then the Persian, to his own flat. And then Erik had come back, alone, and stood there before her, no longer the cruel tyrant, but suddenly and bizarrely shy. And she saw that he wanted to know that she accepted him. There had remained only the need to show it.
So, she had bought Raoul's life, and everyone else's, with a kiss. After it, Erik had laid his hand over both of hers, squeezed in a strangely fitful and preoccupied manner, and then abruptly left without a word. Now she was alone, and there was nothing to distract her from her own mind. But the very last thing she wanted to do was to think, about anything, and so she closed her eyes and drifted off, hoping her head would stop pounding if she rested. In what seemed like only a few minutes, though, there was a noise, and she opened them again, grimacing in pain as the light seared her eyeballs.
Erik was standing at the far end of the room with Raoul, holding him by the shoulder. Seeing the two of them side by side like that, made it obvious just how short Raoul really was, for a man. When they were children together he had been bigger than her, but now her Scandinavian blood had made her an inch or so the taller. And next to the looming figure of Erik, Raoul's compact form looked very diminutive indeed.
Why was Erik back here with Raoul in tow, anyway? Oh…of course. Now that he'd gotten what he wanted, he was keeping his promise to let the Vicomte go. Christine supposed he was trying to show her that her fiancé – her former fiancé, she reminded herself dully – was still alive and well, before taking Raoul away. She knew she ought to be grateful for this knowledge, but she really could not care much about anything just at present. She was too tired and wrung out. Everything was decided finally, and there was nothing left to fight for.
But Erik did not turn and pull Raoul out of the door. Instead, he let his hand drop, and Raoul, with an exclamation of joy, started to run to Christine. A pain stabbed through her, cutting through the cloud of apathy she'd created. She flung up a hand to ward him off, for she could not bear to feel anything. Any possible emotion she could have would hurt.
Raoul stopped in his tracks, shocked, and then swayed and collapsed into an armchair, groaning softly. Was something wrong with him? Likely the after-effects of his time in Erik's torture chamber. He was young and strong, though, and would be all right. She needn't worry about him. She'd bought him his life; she could not do any more, least of all face him right now. He was lost to her, and she could never be his wife. She would be the wife, instead, of a vile madman, a remorseless murderer who laughed at others' torment.
But Erik did not look either mad or remorseless just now, and he certainly was not laughing. The expression on his unmasked face, in fact, was exceedingly odd, and she squinted at him, trying to make it out. Wearily she thought that her happiness would now depend on pleasing him, and warding off the explosions of his terrible temper. She should try to learn how to read him better, if she wanted to ever have any peace of mind. He walked closer to her, staggering as though he were very ill, and then suddenly fell all in a heap at her feet and began to weep raggedly, clutching her skirt desperately and burying his face in it.
Christine started up, shocked out of her stupor. This was not at all the action she'd expected him to take. What did he have to weep for now, when he'd gotten his way about everything? But he was frankly sobbing, in the awful unnerving way that only a man can weep. His tears were getting all over the fabric he held and ruining the satin...no matter. Who cared about a dress? But oh…Erik's grief was horrible to hear. It sounded as though he were in complete despair, and the whole of his long thin body was racked with shudders, as he moaned snatches of sentences so broken that she couldn't grasp their meaning. Why was he so upset? She could not prevent her heart from aching, no matter how much she might want to stay indifferent to everything. It was impossible to see such anguish and remain unmoved.
She had bent to him with compassion and put her hand on his shoulder, and he abruptly quieted. He gasped, inhaled deeply, and went still for a long moment. Christine was about to ask him if he were all right, an abysmally stupid thing to say to any of them just now, but she could not think of something else with which to express her concern. But before she could say anything at all, he had risen to his feet suddenly, more graceful than a cat, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face, and then said, "Wait here, Christine." His voice was no longer shaking, but had regained its ring of irresistible authority, and she did as he ordered.
Then he simply walked away, to the other side of the room. Now he was speaking to Raoul, in a low, urgent tone, but she could not make out the words, and she let her head droop. Everything was too much, Erik's histrionics especially. Her head hurt so badly, and she felt miserably sick now. She thought she just might vomit, and hoped she could make it into the bathroom first if it did happen.
Erik was walking slowly back to her, gripping a dumbstruck-looking Raoul by the upper arm. What did they want of her now? She blinked, grimacing. Hadn't she done enough this night? She wished they would both just go away and leave her in peace. How wonderful it would be to strip off the heavy, confining wedding dress, and lie down in bed and sleep for a long, long time. The Persian was to be envied, if indeed Erik had taken the man back to his own flat as he said he had. It was likely to be some time before she saw hers again.
"There is no need to weep now, Christine. You are going to be married to your young man. Erik will never harm you again. Smile, be happy. I want you to be happy. You see, I love you."
Love, now, no longer obsession. A greater concern for the beloved than for oneself. At the time, she had utterly missed the significance of his last sentence. Too stunned to think, her lips had actually formed themselves into a smile momentarily. It was not a real smile; likely it looked as grotesque as a clown's. But she had been under Erik's control too long for it not to be a knee-jerk reaction to obey him.
"There, you see? Wipe your face, my dear. This is no state to let your bridegroom see you in." He turned to Raoul, standing there as still as if he had turned to stone, and said, "Monsieur, I believe your fiancée is in need of a handkerchief."
Mechanically, as though Erik's voice was working on him as well, Raoul had given her one. She scrubbed it over her face, and then set it aside mutely.
"Stand together before me," commanded Erik. His voice was preternaturally calm and remote, as though he inhabited some other realm than they did. A feeling of unease began to grow, but she could not give an explanation to it. My God, her mind stuttered. He is…letting us go. It was too unbelievable for her to fully grasp the implications. What could possibly have brought him to this point?
He took each of their hands and put them together. Erik's chilly fingers were a stark contrast to Raoul's warm palm. Her two men, cold and warmth, dark and light. "Will you take care of her, now that I no longer can?" he asked quietly, and Raoul nodded speechlessly. "Go then, and begin your lives together. Do not remember me. I would not have your happiness ruined."
Raoul had abruptly taken half a step toward Erik, and started to say something; but Erik held up a long white hand and intoned, "No." It was only one word, but it carried within it an overwhelming command that could not be ignored.
Raoul halted, irresolute, and Erik said, "Go now, both of you, and leave me to my fate. It is well-deserved."
Somewhere far away there had been the thought that she should remain with him, and that this made no sense, but it seemed outside of her, unable to penetrate the fog in her brain. She hadn't had the wherewithal to stay, not then. Raoul had been there, his hand in hers, offering her all the clean, simple love he had to give; her nerves had been frayed to bloody bits, her strength drained completely by the recent events. Her head was pounding dreadfully, her emotions sparking one moment and fading the next, so that she had no chance at all of deciding which of them were the true ones.
And no chance of resisting Erik's order. His voice was too powerful. She'd obediently shown Raoul which tunnel led past the lake and to the door on the Rue Scribe, and let him try to pull her along. She'd gone with him, unable to muster the ability to do anything more on her own. They stumbled along, till the heel of her shoe caught on her skirt and tripped her. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she nearly fell.
Raoul grabbed her and steadied her, and then threw his arms around her all of a sudden. He smelled of sweat and fear, and the expensive cologne he used; it was cloying, and she struggled without thinking.
"Shhh, shhh, Lotte!" Raoul panted, stroking her loose hair. It had been down for the last scene of Faust from which Erik had kidnapped her off the stage, and she'd never put it up since. "It's all right, it's only me. You are safe now – we are safe!" He kissed her cheek, and continued, "It's all right, everything's turned out all right after all. It is such a miracle, isn't it? He will not harm either of us ever again. If he isn't dead by now he will be soon."
A shaft of pure ice knifed straight through Christine's heart. She felt as if she had suddenly frozen solid. Raoul was rambling on, entirely confident of her agreement with him, and she forced her numb lips to part so she could speak.
"Wh – what?" Her voice was hoarse, and shaking. Erik would be furious if he heard her speaking with it in that condition.
Raoul stopped his monologue, and looked at her curiously. "Why…did you not hear him? You were in the same room."
"Hear…" She could not make her brain function. "Hear…what?"
"That…" Raoul looked suddenly lost. "Oh…I was to wait until we were out of here, and I was so happy I failed to remember that. No matter. Christine, he said he was going to…do the honourable thing."
"What are you talking about?" She knew, then, but couldn't believe it.
"He – he was going to kill himself. He said it would be done as soon as he knew we were safely out of these horrible cellars, and that we would never have to be frightened of him again. I thought…I thought you heard, and were relieved."
"Relieved?" More horrified than she had ever been, Christine shoved Raoul, hard. He hadn't been expecting that at all, and staggered, nearly falling. "Relieved? How could you think – Erik! We have to go back, we have to stop him, now!"
She turned instinctively to fly to her teacher's side, to fight off the mortal despair that threatened his very life. He could not, he could not do this! To have his golden voice abruptly silenced, his magical hands stilled, no trace of his talents left on earth? It could not happen. In her disordered mental state, it seemed the worst thing in the world.
And Raoul had not let her go.
He'd shot out a hand and seized her arm, whirling her back to face him. "Christine, what are you doing?"
"Going back to stop him! We have to! Hurry!"
"What – have you lost your mind? We've only just escaped him! And you propose to throw yourself back into that hell he has created? Let him die, he deserves it more than any man ever did!"
Christine wrenched frantically at Raoul's hand, but could not budge it. He reached out and grabbed her other arm, the lantern swinging from his wrist on its loop, his sailor's hands full of a young man's strength.
"Stop! What is the matter with you?"
"We have to go back, before it's too late! He can't die, he can't!"
"Christine, he is a monster! He deserves death. He would have killed you if he had the chance, and me, and the Persian. He's evil and wicked through and through, and I only thank God that his madness has somehow allowed him to see the only honourable way out for him!"
Christine was panicking completely. She threw herself from side to side, but was unable to break Raoul's hold. "Let me go, let me go! You can't let him die! Please let me go, Raoul, please! Oh God!"
"No, Christine, I won't let you! He must be controlling you again." He shook her slightly, dragging her close and staring into her eyes, but she did not see him. "Don't you remember, on the rooftop?" he panted urgently. "You told me that you would come away with me, but that if you refused when the time came, I was to take you away by force - Christine, stop, calm yourself! You do not know your own mind, and – and you have a head injury, for heaven's sake! It must be preventing you from thinking properly. You can not go back there!"
Struggling, screaming like a madwoman as her hair flew about and obscured her vision, clawing at the man who so recently had been the one she turned to for help, she'd been half-carried, half-dragged from the caverns. Short or not, Raoul had been far too strong for her; she'd had no chance against him. She had never known such terror, such absolute, unreasoning fear at what might be happening behind them, back there where Erik was all alone now with no one to stop him from... She fought with all her strength, and to no avail. Her throat had burned from her howls.
Finally her struggles had overbalanced them both, and she'd fallen hard onto the stone floor of the tunnel as the lantern rolled clattering away. She had momentarily knocked her breath out, and for a minute, all she could think about was breathing. Her ribcage, stunned by the impact, refused to move, and her gorge rose in her throat. She drifted in a wave of blackness, unthinking, unseeing.
Then her lungs gradually recovered the ability to inflate, and she realised she was only winded. It had happened before, when she was a child and fell out of a tree she'd been climbing. It would pass, if she only lay still and stopped panicking. A cold, clear calm stole over her. Erik had said to Raoul that he would kill himself "as soon as they were out of the cellars." Did that mean that he would wait till he knew she was safely free of the labyrinth, and back above ground again? Probably. Erik, after all, was the one who had made this maze of corridors, and he knew better than anyone how easy it was for other people to become lost in them, and wander helplessly until they starved to death. He would not incapacitate himself unless he was sure there was no chance the woman he loved would need his help to get out. There was, then, most likely a little time. Erik had alarms that told him if any of his doors to the outside world were opened. He would know when they were gone, and wait till after that to…do anything.
She could not save him unless Raoul let her go. And he would not. Therefore, she must trick him into doing so. Make him think she had quieted, and seize her chance the very moment his guard was down. He did not know these catacombs as she now did.
She realised that Raoul was calling her name and shaking her arm with increasing degrees of fright. He must think he'd really hurt her. She groaned, and managed to say, "I'm all right. Just…just a moment."
He'd been greatly remorseful, and helped her sit up, and then stand. He apologized profusely, and she pretended to be glad he was there. Raoul, no more world-wise than a child, took that at face value and started them both moving again after picking up their dropped lantern, trying to conceal the fact that he had no idea how to get out of the cellars and that it was actually Christine leading the way. They were very close to the door on the Rue Scribe. Just a few more minutes…please, God, let it not be too late…
They reached the door and she unlocked it with the key Erik had given her, and they went outside. Raoul set down the lantern at his feet, and then, his hands free now, had tried to comfort her as they stood in the street outside the Opera House. Patted her shoulders, smoothed her hair, panted that he'd take care of her now that she'd been through such a terrible ordeal, of course her poor mind was nearly broken. He would guide her now, would make decisions for her, help her recover.
Then he'd leaned in to kiss her, and Christine had jerked away. Raoul had stopped, taken aback, and in that brief second of his hesitation, she'd snatched her opportunity. She'd flung herself at the door in the wall and, knowing its mechanism, had been through it and slamming it shut before the Vicomte realised what was happening. Gasping, she'd barred it as she heard him begin shouting and banging. He would never be able to get through. Only Christine knew Erik's secrets – like the fact that there was another lantern hidden in a tiny alcove right beside the door, and matches. Her hands shaking, she struck one. It flared up, but then went out. Moaning in terror, she tried again, and managed to light the lantern this time. She slammed its top shut, and started to run.
O-O-O O-O-O
