(A/N: Hey guys, sorry it's been so long ! I hate this chapter but it's kinda the necessary healing-process filler. The next one will be better, promise!)
Chapter 7
Discover
"Where have you been?"
Christine looked up from the door that she was trying to ease shut. Raoul was there, waiting patiently with a hand on his hip. He must have heard her carriage pull up. Her heart skipped, she hadn't thought this far ahead. The day had been so taxing that she had almost completely forgotten about the person she would return to for dinner.
"I was just out," Christine quickly fibbed. She damned her voice for raising, praying her fiance did not notice. "I wanted some fresh air. I just needed to get away for some time to explore."
Raoul's brows furrowed. "For the entire day?"
What time was it? Christine fumbled for an answer, mouth opening and closing to silent words. "I'm sorry," she said. "I must have gotten distracted. It's been so long…"
The vicomte looked her over once, his suspicions clearly growing. "Your dress is filthy."
Christine shifted her skirts, cringing at the glimpse of brown stains that crept up the hem. "It must have rained last night, no matter what path I took I was greeted with puddles." She prayed to God that Raoul bought her lie - and that he hadn't gone outside himself that day.
Raoul said nothing, simply passed her a critical stare, as if calculating her excuse. The vicomte was unsure what to make of it all. Christine had been so quiet, so distant from him, ever since the night of Don Juan. It was almost as if the tragedy had broken something deep within her that allowed her to be the woman he grew to love. She was something different now, something unfamiliar to him. He saw through her sloppy lies with ease; the Christine he knew would never lie to him.
He knew she was lying. For the streets were dry while he watched Christine creep away from the house at the crack of dawn that morning. The knowledge of her lie weighed on his chest, like a sharpened nail pressing into his heart.
"You missed dinner," he informed his bride. "A plate is set for you at the table. I waited for you to return."
Christine huffed, walking up to him with a rehearsed ease. She tucked her arms under his and offered him a tight embrace. He felt her mask drag as its corner caught one of his buttons. "You didn't have to," she mumbled into his shirt.
Raoul gave her shoulders a half-hearted squeeze, led her to the dining hall. They ate in relative silence, unspoken words hanging in the still air between them. He studied every inch he could of her, trying to pinpoint differences in her behavior. Her hands had the most miniscule tremor as she lifted the spoon from her stew to her lips. She looked down into her bowl, or to her glass, but never to him. As if something would be revealed if they made eye contact.
They spoke little the rest of the night. Christine tried to engage him, ask how his day had been, any news, and her, do you remember that one day when we were children… he replied only with one-word answers, unenthusiastic and uncharacteristically pessimistic. She eventually gave up, let him sulk.
Something was terribly wrong with Raoul. Never was he so closed off from her, it terrified her. There was no way he could have known… she had been silent and painstakingly careful. She must have just been reading into it.
Or perhaps it was that Raoul missed her. He had confessed to her once before that he feared that she did not love him anymore. Maybe it was his own insecurities.
When they turned the light off for bed that night Christine made sure to lean forward and kiss him first. She channeled as much love and honesty that she could into him through their embrace, but he did not reciprocate. His lips remained lifeless against hers.
She broke the kiss, found his bright eyes in the dark of their room. "I love you, Raoul. And I am so beyond grateful for all that you've done for me."
The vicomte searched her eyes, for any reason to believe her. But something low in his soul begged him not to trust her words.
"Has he woken?"
"After two days, yes," the Daroga answered, relief in his voice. He stirred twice at a pot set on the stove before grabbing two bowls that he must have brought from his own home. "His arm had been broken, but it must have healed significantly over the past few months."
Of course, Christine thought. He may have been hopelessly lost, but he would never compromise his arms and hands. They were the tools he needed for his music. It must have been the one thing he nursed.
"The wounds are infected, but thankfully the severity is not as bad as I originally anticipated. I applied an ointment of various herbs and honey to them."
Christine blinked, not sure if she heard that last part right. "Honey…?"
The man looked up and nodded with brows raised. "Honey has many curative properties. It has never failed me." He scooped some dark soup into a bowl and set it aside. "Much of his wounds beneath the infection seemed to have healed already," he explained. "It is merely the surface layer that has been troublesome, but the inflammation seems to have already calmed. I believe our friend should make a relatively successful recovery in no time at all.
"The only problem," he huffed, "will be making him eat. My attempts in the past were met with curses and spitting. I doubt his reaction will differ at all as long as I am the one to feed him." He held out the bowl to her, clearly hopeful. "However, I believe you may have some better luck." At Christine's hesitance, the Persian's olive eyes set downcast. "Mademoiselle, he must eat. His body is exhausted, and things will only worsen if he does not agree to feed it."
Christine took the bowl, two spoons, and crossed the decrepit room to her maestro's door. She raised a knuckle to the door and was greeted by a hoarse - but stronger, firmer - voice that yelled out something foreign. The singer could tell from the snap and whine of the tone that whatever the voice had just said was not something that should grace a lady's ears. "What did he say?" Christine whispered sharply to the Daroga, looking back with concern.
The foreigner waved it off while he prepared his own bowl. "Ignore him. He's simply cranky."
Christine eased the door open, peered around its edge hesitantly. She, in truth, was scared to see him. Had he worsened? Or was he fully conscious now, aware of her presence again? Which option was worse? As if on cue the lip of her mask caused her cheek to tingle; damn! There was no way he would not notice the mask.
At the sight of the soprano at his door, Erik stiffened and his eyes grew wide. "Christine!" He breathed.
The woman couldn't help but freeze in wonder at the sight of him. The Erik from only two days ago and the one she saw now was like comparing night and day. Whereas before it appeared that he was on the brink of death he now looked as if he merely had the flu. His skin still had a pale sheen to it, but it no longer carried yellow sickness in its complexion. The softer light in his bedroom softened his edges just enough that he resembled a man once more instead of a skeleton. He was still horribly sick, and dangerously thin, but he was awake, lucid, alive.
In the next moment he threw the ravaged half of his face into the pillow that he sat back against. He lashed his hand out to the nightstand beside him and pulled open the drawer, fumbling around blindly and wincing as he stretched out the wounds trying to heal. Christine moved to help him but he held up a shaking palm. "Please." His voice still trembled with vulnerable fear. His hands landed on something with a soft thump and he pulled it out, no sooner fastening it to the hidden half of him. A spare mask, made of a rough, brown leather.
Had the circumstances been different, Christine might have insisted he leave the mask off; it could not have been worth so much trouble and pain just to hide what she already knew to be there. But now she wore one of her own. She understood the shelter and security it brought. She let him adjust the tie at the back of his head without a word.
Then came that arresting stare as she crossed the room, head lowered in the manner she had become so accustomed to in the past three months. She hoped that it was enough to hide her secret, but as always those eyes seemed to shred past all vanity and secrets and straight to her core. Something shone in his expression, soft, timid, but peaceful nonetheless. "You came back," he said, something fragile teetering in his voice.
Christine risked a sidelong glance at him, chose to ignore what he said. She motioned to the edge of Erik's bed, telling him in hushed tones to move over. He did so with a small hiss, pulled the threadbare quilts up to cover his chest.
Christine had not noticed it when she had first walked in, but he was now shirtless. His porcelain skin was wrapped with bandages in neat zigzags, but was still bare. She knew it was in order to let the wounds breathe, to allow his body to cool from its fever, but still her cheeks felt rosy beneath their cover. She had never even seen Raoul, her fiance, without a shirt outside of stolen glances. From the corner of her diverted gaze she saw black tendrils of ink that danced along his arm beneath skin, intricate patterns that carved the shape of sinew and shifting muscle. She contained her shock at the sight of the tattoos; she had never before seen one in real life. Where in hell did he get one as large as his? It engulfed his entire forearm.
Erik seemed to understand her discomfort and feel his own. He could not bring himself to look directly at her and slid his decorated arm to his side in hopes of hiding it. He sniffed, glancing to the soup she sat in her lap. "What is that?"
"Dinner," Christine answered plainly. She stirred the contents of the bowl before lifting a spoonful to him.
Erik grimaced for a short moment before decidedly claiming that he was not hungry. He sounded not far from a stubborn child; all he was missing was crossing his arms and pouting, though he seemed fairly close to the latter.
Christine sighed and glared at him, taking on the parental role he seemed to force form her lately. "You may give Daroga a hard time, but I will not accept it. I am down here for your benefit, and I am putting my time aside to aid you. I will not have my efforts be wasted." She pushed the spoon closer to his warped lips.
He stared her down with uncertainty flitting across his face, before he leaned forward just enough to take the spoon between parted lips. He lifted a hand to cover his mouth as he slurped, unable to keep the stew entirely in his mouth. Christine noticed as some dribbled down the corner of the bloated half of his lips which seemed unable to fully close. Erik's visible cheek was dusted a fair shade of pink and he averted his gaze.
She had never thought of how eating might be a challenge for him with his mouth being so malformed; it suddenly made sense why she had never seen him eat before. Funny, she had never thought of something so trivial prior to that day. The more she saw of this side of the Phantom, so human and exposed, the more she realized that she had regarded him barely as a man beforehand. He was somehow beyond that. Perhaps she thought of him more as some form of a deity before. A twisted, malevolent deity.
Erik's face twisted at the taste that he swallowed back. "It has been...a number of years since I've tasted that," he said. He looked to the door as if searching for the cook. "I assume you've met Nadir, then."
"If Nadir refers to the middle-eastern in your kitchen, then yes." She lifted the spoon once more, catching a sharp whiff of spices.
"How did he find you?"
"I suppose it could not have been too difficult," Christine said. "Apparently you spoke of me often."
His eyes shifted to the spoon, then back to her. She could see the apprehension riddling his face, noticed the slight sheen of his puckered lower lip from the stew. His cheek was still tinged with embarrassment.
Dawning on a sudden idea, she motioned for him to take the spoon from her. With hesitance he did, and she retrieved the spare spoon. Without a thought she ate the stew; Erik watched with a vague look of amusement. Instantly Christine regretted her decision. A wave of heat and spices she had never before tasted sparked on her tongue. Her eyes squeezed shut and she shook her head furiously against the flavors. She heard a barely-there chuckle coming from her side and managed to calm down enough to look to Erik, who lifted his spoon to his mouth to hide the corners of a tiny little smile. She passed a napkin to him, he kept it held to his lips.
"I take it you've never tried Persian cuisine."
Christine shook her head and coughed between embarrassed chuckles. When was the last time she had smiled so naturally?
They ate in content silence for some time, till the bowl was down to its end. Despite the heat of the dish, she liked it very much. It had a flare she had never experienced before in Paris dishes. She would have to ask Nadir for his recipe.
Erik cleared his throat and looked up to her with measure. "Why the mask?"
Christine knew the question would come, but she still was unprepared for it. Her heart stopped dead in her chest as she glanced shiftily to the man beside her, whose eyes betrayed a concern she was not used to seeing from him. "Would you believe me if I told you it was for a sense of security?" she murmured.
She was not ready for Erik to know the truth; she was unsure if she ever would be. She now understood the trust he found in his mask: it was a promise that her secret would be hidden from the rest of the world. Besides, how was she supposed to tell Erik of what had happened to her tragic face? He was the only person left who did not know about her stumbles into the fire. She wanted to preserve this sliver of normalcy - if it could be considered normal - for as long as she could.
Something in Erik's eyes softened. His lips pursed, he said nothing. An unspoken agreement to mention it no more passed between them.
"May I ask -"
Christine's head shot up, annoyance and anxiety spiking her nerves. Had they not just settled that the mask was to be forgotten? Erik held up his hands in mock-surrender, continuing with caution. "May I ask why you came back?" he finished.
Christine filled with guilt and a tinge of embarrassment at her harshness . She realized she didn't quite have an answer for him. She knew for herself, that it brought some selfish sense of gratification to show him compassion. That it gave her some purpose in an otherwise bleak life. But what was she supposed to tell him? How much did she want him to know?
Her fingers twitched and knotted in her lap. She suddenly could not meet his eyes, so skilled at unarming her. "I could not let a suicidal idiot such as yourself be ruined. Not one with so much potential."
"And what exactly do you think my potential is?" It was not a mocking question, but a masked desperation to know that she believed in him. That there was any hope for him at all.
Christine pondered for a moment, before softly saying, "Everything. Redemption, kindness, a normal existence."
She noticed the way his breath shuddered in his chest. Quivering and unsure and human. "Do you truly believe something so impossible can be achieved?" His eyes burned into her, clawing at any forgiveness and hope he might find. He couldn't recall anyone ever saying such kind words to him.
Christine's breath caught in her throat, suddenly challenged by a new wave of sorrow and pity. He was so easily shattered, so worn down and drained of hope. The facade of a confident, alluring man was now an almost unbelievable memory to her.
"I believe," she said, "that anyone can achieve it. Even those as sinful as you."
There was a long, tense moment where he was completely silent, frozen. A stolen glance at him revealed glassy eyes, lips softly parted in disbelief. "The mercy you have gifted me…" He trailed off, his voice turning to a mere whisper. She felt the edges of his fingers skirt across the back of her hand, his skin as cold as the tomb. She nearly jumped at the sensation, having forgotten how strangely frigid he always was. As if he had just shaken hands with Death. His hand settled steadily against hers after a long pause and she looked up to him once more. He caught her gaze instantly, waiting for it. "Christine, I do not deserve what you have given me. You continue to astonish me. I am - I am a humbled, humiliated man in your presence."
She could tell in the way his palm lingered over her hand how fearful he was. Of rejection, of hurting her, who knew. Perhaps he was terrified of it all. The way his eyes searched hers for any remnants of affection tore her apart. He looked to her as if she was his first ever glimpse of sunlight. She placed her other hand over his, hoping it was enough to show what words could not.
Ensnared in his eyes as she was, she noticed something she had never before picked up: Erik's eyes were mismatched. It was a slight mutation; the eye belonging to his deformed side had a curve of clear blue amongst the dark brown she was used to, like a crescent moon in a sky of darkness. She was hopelessly lost in its pull.
The Persian clearing his throat from the doorway broke the pair from their moment. They both looked to him as if caught in some shameful act, remembering that the two were not alone. So often it seemed their time was interrupted. Christine was once more glad she had the shield of her mask to hide her rosy cheeks.
"My apologies for the intrusion," Nadir said, holding up a roll of clean, bright gauze and a handful of tiny bottles of solutions. "But it's time for me to change Monsieur Phantom's bandages."
Christine stood at once, pulling her hands away from the man beside her and clasping them in front of her skirts. "I shall begin cleaning and tidying," she declared. As she crossed the room, she locked eyes with Nadir. "And please, no more of this Phantom nonsense. From now on he will only be Erik. The Opera Ghost is dead."
The Daroga nodded, seeming to be relieved. As she left the room, she caught the quiet astonishment riddled across Erik's features.
Two more days passed before Christine dared return. She spent the time with Raoul, insisting that they leave the comfort of their home for an afternoon. They ate at an old favorite cafe, strolled through the park with blissful abandon. Christine aimed her face high to the winter sun, armed with an inkling of confidence she had not possessed a week before. The time outside and away must have helped her more than she expected.
She held Raoul's hand, clung to his arm and dotted his face with sweet kisses, but he was reluctant to return the affections. It was almost like a cruel role reversal. His smiles were forced, tight and unusual on his lips. Normally there was such an ease to him, an almost ignorant cheer. Doubt crept into the corners of Christine's mind, worry that he knew or began to suspect that she was lying to him.
Christine attended one of the Count's dinners the next night to try to further convince Raoul that she was alright. She laughed politely along with the guests, reminiscing on fond memories that they apparently shared. She stayed by Raoul's side for the entire night, the picture of the ideal wife. Without realizing it, she slipped into a new role; an opera house was not needed.
The next morning, she left as soon as the vicomte had awoken, saying that she wanted some air. Raoul nodded, offered a soft kiss and told her to be back for supper. Then she snuck off to the charred ruins of the Opera Populaire, down into the dungeons where she cleaned a trashed lair and force fed a stubborn Erik. This was the pattern she fell into for the next three weeks: play at a happy engagement with her vicomte, then escape to the place where her soul called to the loudest.
Soon enough the dwellings underneath the Populaire resembled a humbled version of what they once were. No more papers and broken shards of furniture littered the bay, no overturned mannequins and bureaus. The remaining furnishing was nothing lavish, but it was liveable: A chaise and chair in a living area, a spare room with what was once her old bed, his bedroom, a messy kitchen and lavatory.
The man of the lair began to resemble himself once more as well. He began to walk again - slowly, with a considerable limp and unfamiliar stupor, like a doe on brand new legs. The harsh cut of his hollowed cheeks faded and softened. His frail voice hardened and broadened and his sickly tremors gave way to smooth, fluid movements that Christine didn't realize she missed.
Each day, the man she knew as her angel of music returned to her. At first she feared it - the more he emerged, the more she worried that the obsessed and dangerous side of him would break through. But the man that emerged from his deathbed was...different. Christine was yet to pinpoint exactly what it was, but it brought a small glimmer of hope to her heart.
Any time his temper spiked, even in the slightest, the Daroga stormed in and delivered a swift smack to the back of his head. The two would bark heated, foreign words in a frenzy that always flustered the woman, but it always ended with Erik grumbling in defeat. Christine could not help the small fit of giggles that would erupt from her every time the Persian's hand swiped against Erik's head. Never did she think she would witness the notorious Phantom of the Opera being slapped. She quickly learned who exactly the music box, Jackass, was named after.
Nadir came by less as the former Phantom healed, but was certain to tell Christine exactly what needed to be done to care for him God forbid things took a turn for the worst.
"His infections are healed," he had informed her as he set out a row of tonics in the lavatory. "But he would insist that all was well, even if he had a bullet between his eyes. You and I both know this." He turned to her, jabbing a finger out in the general direction of Erik's quarters. "So you must keep an eye on him. I trust him to be alone, but you must be careful."
"I cannot thank you enough for your help in all of this," Christine had said. She pulled the older man into a tight hug, filled with warmth and the faint aroma of spices and sun.
"Fret not," Nadir said, gently returning her affection. "I doubt Erik will miss me, but I will still stop in."
She listened from outside the door as the two men exchanged short, quiet words in a tongue she could not understand. But amongst the deep, weaving voices she heard the occasional chuckle, a nostalgic sigh. She hoped that somewhere amongst their quiet bickering, something semblant of a farewell was said.
Nadir left that same day with no more than a polite farewell, a wise and kind smile, and a short dip of his unusual little hat. In the few weeks she had known the man, she somehow formed such a deep connection with him - perhaps it was that his generosity, his candor. Maybe it was the common goal the two shared. Or the decades of foreign wisdom he had shared with her. Whatever it was, it had her dabbing at moist eyes with a bittersweet smile.
The moment the Daroga disappeared into the dank shadows of the lake, an uncomfortable weight settled into the air. Unease bubbled up in Christine's throat as she looked sidelong at the door to Erik's chambers, left swung open. The lair was entirely silent, she could hear her pulse racing in her ears, feel her heart fluttering against her rib cage.
It dawned on her the moment he called out to her, as if his voice ripped from her conscious the answers she needed. The Daroga had always been there every time she wandered down below. He was always a room over, God forbid something in Erik caved to his desire for her. She was completely alone with the man who had threatened her freedom, kidnapped her, nearly killed her fiance. Murdered two people.
The Phantom emerged from the doorway, face portraying a smooth innocence. As soon as his eyes found her, his brow pinched and he motioned for her to join him. She faltered, hands held in front of her chest, before she joined him in the makeshift living area.
Erik clasped his bony hands in his lap, searched her fearful eyes as she sat across from him. His face softened and a deep regret shadowed his eyes. "You fear me," he stated. Not a question, a confirmation.
Christine looked away, partially in shame. "Can you blame me, truly?" Her voice shook with every word. "After all that has transpired between us?"
"You mean after all I've done."
"Yes," she breathed.
Erik's eyes closed, lips drawn tight in a way revealed their warped ends from behind his mask. A sliver of the beast hidden from view. "Christine. Please." His breath turned shallow, the fingers in his lap turning to claws that gripped at his knees. "There is not enough time in the world to explain how I have acted towards you, towards those you love." He couldn't help the slight scowl that shaded his face as he said the last word. The image of a bright and successful vicomte flashed behind his eyes. He fought against his creeping anger and looked back to her, his muse, his light, his reason to live. Just the sight of her, despite how she changed, the pain that now riddled her once-bright eyes, was enough to calm the smoldering rages in his soul. She was a remedy to his suffering.
He leaned forward to meet her, holding out his hands to her. She looked from his eyes to his hands before placing her hands in his palms. He wasted no time, grasping them with the lightest caress. "Know, Christine, that I would never hurt you. My actions are unforgivable and have no excuse. But there is not a thing in this world I would not do if it would result in your happiness."
Christine's lower lip quivered and she closed her eyes against the stubborn tears that slipped free. They gathered against the lip of her mask - that curious, puzzling mask - before falling over the edge and down her face. She nodded and sniffled quietly. "I know," she sighed.
Erik lifted her hands to his lips, daring to press his own damned flesh to her knuckles in a chaste kiss. He shivered at the trace of perfume that drifted from her wrists, at how soft her fingers were against his own. So small and defined compared to his sharp, calloused ones.
Christine knew that what he said was true. Oh, how she knew. In his delusions before he had killed for her. He released her after Don Juan because it would make her happy. All of his actions were motivated by her.
The second his mottled lips landed on her skin, she realized that it was now her job to guide him away from the poison that tainted his soul. It was the only way she would recover from her own.
Two careful months passed without incident. She had begun to find comfort in the new routine, despite its risks. Christine arranged a surprise for Erik, reaching out to various sources in secret to prepare the gift. She sprung from the shadows of the dungeons one day with her hands clasped behind her back, nearly giddy with nerves. Her eyes landed on Erik, sat in the living area with a guitar in his hands. His fingers worked nimbly against the strings, producing a dark melody that floated through the thick air of the lake. He glanced up to her with suspicion. "Hello, Christine."
"I have a gift," was all Christine said. She grinned from ear-to-ear, swayed on her heels.
The man quirked his eyebrow at her manners, almost coquettish in how she waited. She never ceased to amuse him. "I gathered as much," he said. He set the guitar down and motioned her over.
Christine wandered over with zero hesitance, a far cry from how things had been when she first ventured down, over two months ago. Movements and thoughts once laced with fear and fury now gave way to relief and an unnerving amount of peace. This new, softer side to her maestro reminded her so much of the first ever time she had met him, when he sang her to sleep, let her watch by his side as he composed, living in a comfortable silence. She had not thought of those times in so long; she began to realize how deeply she had missed them.
She presented the box to him, a deep red adorned with a gold ribbon and bow. He rolled his eyes at the presentation, but was still mindful not to tear it. Christine watched from across the living space with baited breath and had to bite down on her lip to keep from bursting out and ruining the surprise. He pulled the lid off and the breath rushed from his lungs at what lay before him.
In the small box, sat atop a pillow of colored tissue, was a porcelain mask so white and fresh and pure that it glew in the soft candlelight.
The man grew frighteningly still, as if turned to stone at the sight of the gift. "I know how much comfort the mask brings you," Christine rushed to explain, suddenly wondering if she had misjudged how he would react. His silence could not have been a good sign. "The old one was never found, and I thought...well, I thought it carried too much hurt with it anyway." She shrugged half heartedly, risking a glance up to him. "Besides… I hate that brown thing you have on now."
He looked back up to her, finally freeing himself from the empty gaze from the mask. He struggled to find words, and settled on a strangled "Thank you." He should not have been so surprised at the gesture; Christine was known to continuously break his heart with her simple affections. But this, he saw as a symbol of trust. Handing him the one tool that enabled him to be the terrible creature she suffered from and knowing that it would be different this time. A fresh start, a shot at the redemption she believed him capable of. He ran a hand across the mask's surface, fingers falling along the contours in an all-too familiar method. It was almost an exact replica. Had she somehow memorized the slopes and cuts? Was it etched into her memory as he so often feared?
He glanced up to Christine, about to ask her for permission to try it on, when his eyes settled on something behind her. Something terrible, disastrous.
Christine tilted her head, unable to read what exactly was on his mind. His face had abruptly dropped, somehow paling more than it already was. His eyes grew wide, face turning stony and cold. "Erik?" She tried to intercept his stare but he did not react.
"Christine...?"
The second her name passed her ears, settled into her mind, her heart stopped. A terrible shadow formed and loomed over her, pure dread and shame pulling her down, down down….
She whipped around in her seat and was greeted with the sight of Raoul stood at the edge of the bay.
