Spring 1841
Erik tried to be a good boy. He really, truly did. Early on, he'd learned that all resistance ever earned him was punishment. And, unlike his mother, the doctor and his staff would not bend under his threats or defiant antics. He may be clever, but he was outmanned and outmuscled. His mother had been unkind; she had beaten him… but never to the point of serious damage. The guards here had no such maternal restraint.
It was that realization, in fact, that triggered his compliance. Not that he might get himself killed one day… but rather the realization that somewhere Madeline must have possessed some level of motherly affection for him. And, though he would never admit it out loud, deep in his little-boy heart, he held onto the hope that, if he could convince Dr. Gagnier that he wasn't a complete monster, he could compel Madeline to give him another chance.
And so, he obeyed as best he could. He kept his head down and never back-talked. When Dr. Gagnier came in to see him, he was as respectful as he knew how to be.
He never, ever sang.
For his submission, he was rewarded. Books, on occasion. Sometimes paper and charcoal. But never freedom. And the offer to write his mother never came.
It wasn't enough, he realized. His mind was too busy to be so under-stimulated. His fantasies turned dark… he yearned for mischief.
If only they would let him out of this cell, he would very much like to track down this supposed ghost everyone liked to murmur about. He'd heard the screams in the night and the rumors of doors slamming on their own and translucent figures flickering through solid walls. The doctor seemed especially interested in it and would often question patients after a supposed 'sighting'. It wasn't unusual to find the victim hysterical—even violent—but Erik couldn't help but notice the odd gleam in the doctor's eye when he ordered the patient to be taken to The Room, from which they would return nearly catatonic. Once Erik had overheard the man speak of 'ground-breaking new treatment', but he shuddered when he wondered what process had reduced those poor souls to such a state.
His insatiable curiosity often warred with his terrified desire to never, ever find out.
"I heard screaming again last night, doctor," he told Dr. Gagnier on his next visit.
"And what else did you hear?" he responded, pen poised eagerly over his notepad.
"Nothing," Erik answered quickly. The doctor frowned and made a few marks. Perhaps it was silly, but it always made Erik frightfully uncomfortable when he saw the doctor taking notes during their sessions.
"I see," he replied. "Erik… I would like us to consider the next step in your treatment."
"Yes!" Erik cried. "I would like that as well! I have been meaning to speak with you, sir… about writing a letter to my mother. I think that if I—"
"Yes, yes… you have been improving much, haven't you? I think it is time you had some more freedom around here, do you agree?"
Erik gripped the sides of his chair, lest the doctor see him bouncing. "I would like that, sir."
Dr. Gagnier nodded and smiled blandly, making another check on his papers. "Very well, then. Let's move you to a larger room. And… perhaps some furniture, if you think you can behave yourself?" Erik nodded.
"And then you'll write my mother?"
"We shall see. Let us see how you handle greater privilege and we will reevaluate in a week, hmm?"
Again, Erik nodded eagerly. "And… might I have some proper clothes now, sir?" he asked, desperately wishing away the tattered hospital pajamas that made him feel so exposed.
"In time, Erik. One step at a time. Ask again once you prove you can manage this much."
Erik was disappointed, yet hopeful. He bowed his head respectfully and permitted an attendant to escort him to his cell. As he left, the doctor signed a document and passed it to the nurse, saying, "Prepare Room 5 for him and see that he is transferred by tonight."
-0-0-0-
Winter 1864
There were the odd moments, here and there, that Christine did not find the hospital such a dreadful place. The occupants were… strange… that was undeniable. But most were not altogether unkind. Starved for conversation beyond Gustave's grousing or Erik's interrogating, she continued on her pursuit of enjoyable company. At last, someone must have taken pity on her, since she was invited to take part in a card game after supper.
"Is that appropriate?" she asked, truly scandalized.
Jean-Pierre laughed heartily. "Surely you are not asking us to be appropriate? Here, of all places! Oh Mademoiselle, you are adorable. Come on, now, don't be a killjoy. Have a little fun with us. We won't tell, will we, friends?" The five or six others in the room responded agreeably, though at varying levels; Jacques just silently shook his head while another man laughed far longer and more raucously than strictly necessary.
With a slightly nervous shrug, Christine decided to throw caution to the wind and join the group in their activities. And, impropriety aside, she found that she was truly enjoying herself! She had nothing to gamble with – they seemed to be trading chores – but someone donated a handful of colorful glass beads that he insisted were magic. The others nodded and shrugged as if that were completely reasonable. Christine found herself nodding along… why spoil the fun?
She soon found herself so caught up in the entertainment of the evening that she lost track of time. She was, therefore, quite off guard when the parlor door slammed open with such a force that one of the hinges bent. The figure in the doorway was swathed in black shadow from head to toe except for a pair of catlike eyes that looked positively feral. Christine could finally see how her ailing father might mistake him for a demon, after all.
"Christine is—" then he paused, the fire in his eyes dimming somewhat when his gaze settled upon the very girl he sought. In a flash, he became the coldly dignified Erik she had known him to be -– no longer a wild-man, but no less terrifying.
"Sir! I… that is…" she looked around her helplessly but none of her companions would make eye contact.
"This way, Mlle. Daae. You are late for our meeting."
Not particularly interested in singing, but realizing she'd get no help from any of the others, she submissively followed behind the frightening man as he led her down flight after flight of stairs.
When, at last, they arrived to the lowest levels where Erik's chambers lay, he turned to Christine with an indistinguishable look in his eye. Fervently she wished she could see the face behind the mask – if only for the expression. All she had to judge his mood by was the slight tremble in his upturned palms.
"I thought something had happened to you," he whispered, and Christine was disconcerted by the helplessness in his voice.
"Nothing happened," she responded, confused. "I apologize for being late… I did not know you would be… worried."
"Worry," he sneered, "is for the weak and foolish. I am neither, Mademoiselle, I assure you."
"Of course! I did not mean to imply… that is to say… I did not realize that this was so important to you. Our music, that is. I apologize. You needn't be concerned for my safety."
Erik froze. "Our music," he murmured softly. Erik swallowed visibly and Christine was oddly mesmerized. Formidably dressed as he was, there was only that small patch of skin for her to see… and the reflexive tensing of muscles had a humanizing effect. She might have doubted, otherwise. His movements too graceful, voice too ethereal… and he was nearly invisible until he chose not to be. In so many ways, Erik was… impossible.
But these tiny moments, so few and far between, reminded her that he was a man of flesh and blood. His exposed skin had a faint sheen to it and she realized he was perspiring. More proof.
"What would you have done?" he asked, drawing her out of her reflection. The question made little sense; with a frown, she wondered if she had missed something.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked.
"You shall have it," he responded, startling Christine further. It was just a figure of speech, she thought, but the kingly nod he granted seemed quite somber. She wondered how many people had begged his forgiveness in the past. "But, I ask you again, Mademoiselle… What would you have done? If something had happened to you, I mean."
"I suppose it depends on… what..." she stammered awkwardly. This whole encounter had thrown her off balance and she was not at all sure what to make of such a vague question.
"It depends?" he repeated. "Such a foolish answer! It depends? It should not depend on anything! Nothing should happen to you! Someone must always prevent it… and no one would have!"
"But… nothing happened! I… I do not even know what you are talking about!"
He ran a hand through his hair – another human gesture – and sighed. "No, of course you do not. You should not… which is why…" his head snapped up to meet her gaze, evenly. "Go back upstairs, Christine. There shall be no singing today."
Christine was confused, but she fled to the surface before he could change his mind. Erik's volatile behavior frightened her and she did not believe she could stand his presence much longer without breaking into tears.
She wanted her father. Needed him. She hadn't been able to believe his fantasies before, but she would try harder. He would help her forget the strange man who terrified her and, one day, she would forget this whole nightmare ever occurred.
-0-0-0-
Erik watched the young woman leave with an uncomfortable tug in his chest… almost as if she was taking a part of it with her. It was a bizarrely physical sensation, considering it had been instigated by what seemed to be an emotional event. He examined himself briefly and found that, aside from an elevated heart rate, he seemed healthy. Having grown up in an asylum, Erik was no stranger to psychosomatic illness, especially in times of great stress… however he had never experienced it first-hand. It was both intriguing and alarming. He certainly hoped he did not become one of the unfortunate subjects who writhed on the hard floor, incapacitated by splitting headaches or paralyzed limbs.
Intriguing and alarming… that seemed to describe nearly everything he had experienced since the girl stepped into his world.
Why would she do such a thing? He had no doubt it was unintentional – the child did not have a mean bone in her body – but it seemed wrong, all the same.
She needed to be dissected – perhaps not literally, of course – so he could isolate that something about her that consumed him so. If he could do that, he could begin to understand it, cultivate it. He could keep it to himself and at last bring peace to his troubled mind.
And yet he could not! Every time he committed himself to detached study, she would say or do something that would force him to see her as a multi-faceted individual. Naturally, he had heard the adage of a whole being greater than the sum of its parts… but as a scientist, he'd emphatically rejected it. It was mathematically absurd! And yet… he'd begun to call the philosophy into question with each passing encounter.
It bothered him that she brought such puzzlement to his life. She was disorderly… as if his mind was a bookshelf and she had rearranged the titles. More so, it troubled him that he could not bring himself to see her as expendable. He was not meant to be so… attached… to a member of the human race. And yet the idea of offering her up under the dubious protection of her father and forgetting about her brought a bitter taste to his mouth.
He had been right to send her away. The idea of listening to her dead voice – both perfect and mechanical – grated on his tender nerves. He would come to her at night and enjoy her song as only an angel could.
He would forgive the child for uprooting his world. He had no doubt she did that, wherever she went. Perhaps… perhaps she was just as lost as he? That would explain it. Two lost souls struggling to find each other. She needed to be found… needed to be rescued.
He could do that.
She was not meant to be a survivor… not meant to carry the weight of worry on her fragile shoulders. It was clear in the way she sang for him. When he relieved her of the burden of her father, her voice would be free to soar. There would be no more need for angels and shadows and secrets… once she was free of her father, she would finally be able to flourish out in the open.
It might be painful – like setting a bone – but he had no doubt she would be grateful when it was over.
Erik could rescue her. And, once he had, she would return the favor.
-0-0-0-
Despite the interruption, Christine managed to forge a few amiable acquaintanceships to keep her occupied during the hours she was not permitted to tend her father. And, as long as she did not miss an appointment, Erik said nothing more against it.
Colette, for example, was a very sweet woman. She was very quiet and had a ceaseless tremble in her fingers, but she was kind enough. Christine had coaxed her into conversation once or twice and found her to be very pleasant to talk to, as long as she was careful to keep her voice low – Colette was very skittish around loud noises.
Perhaps that was why Jacques had taken such notice of her. He was a quiet man, himself, Christine noted, and would often glance in their direction and then turn away with a blush. Christine toyed with the idea of approaching him about it, but he'd never seemed particularly welcoming of her conversation. In fact, she hadn't heard him speak a single word in the two weeks she'd known him!
Jean-Pierre was a different story. He was as talkative as could be, friendly and funny. No one ever spoke an ill word of him and she rather suspected many of the ladies were rather smitten with him, though they could be awkward in showing it. She'd met personalities like him, here and there; they were always men of great reputation and wealth. Jean-Pierre could have been a very successful man if not for his monstrous appearance. This made Christine sad. Such a waste! Although, he never seemed terribly bothered by it.
There were a few others that stood out to Christine. All misfits… odd in their own way. A few frightened her, though she did not like to admit it. She still wasn't comfortable around the jewel-eyed person they called Rose, although the woman was treated reverently by all… like a grandmother, even by those older than her.
All in all, there was not a single person with whom her father would approve a friendship, and perhaps that was for the best. It would not do to become attached to anyone, only to leave and never return. And she would never return, not in a million years!
Occasionally when they left a town or a fair or some other residence, she would mourn the loss of a friend she had made. One little boy, especially, of whom she still held out hope of finding again someday.
But not here! Her father was as eager to put this place behind him as she was. The sooner she could be rid of this stifling house and its terrifying Master, the better!
But in the meantime, there was no harm in being friendly. And she did not want to seem ungrateful.
And the idea of playing cards – in mixed company, no less! – was so delightfully rebellious that she could not resist. Papa would be furious!
The murmurs of surrounding conversation seemed to quiet all at once, leaving Christine with that awkward sensation of being the only one still chattering away. All eyes seemed fixated on a point behind her and she slowly turned to find a glowing pair of yellow eyes watching her, unblinking.
When she met his gaze, he turned away. That was odd – he rarely looked anywhere else when she was in the room – but rather than being thankful for the release, she felt rather unsettled… and suspicious.
"Our guest is well enough to travel. It is time we sent him on his way." Christine stood eagerly, but Erik pointedly ignored her, refusing to even glance in her direction. To Jacques, he instructed, "Prepare a carriage for a short trip into the city. Recruit whatever hands you need, but be ready within twenty minutes." Then he turned to Colette, and in a quieter—but no less commanding—voice ordered her to go to the supply room and retrieve proper clothing and toiletries for M. Daae.
Christine was prepared to go, to run to her room and fetch her own belongings. Before she could leave, however, Colette spoke up. "Shall I do the same for the Mademoiselle?" she suggested quietly.
For a moment, Erik looked almost startled, as if he had not expected the woman to speak. It made sense, Christine supposed; as nervous and timid as the woman was, Erik probably was not used to hearing her.
"That will not be necessary," he told her, and she scurried off without a backwards glance.
Christine frowned, troubled. Would he not allow her to take her new things with her? She had no right to expect it, of course… they had given her far more than she had any claim to. But why would Erik provide for her father's journey and not her own? Perhaps because he was the actual patient and she, merely a… whatever she was. She shuddered at the idea of putting her old dress back on… if it even still existed. She had not seen it since that first night. Had they burned it?
Still… she would do what she must. And as long as her—
Christine's train of thought was cut off abruptly as she heard her father's jubilant voice calling for her.
"Christine!" he cried, "Christine, my dear. Come and see your Papa! Let me give you a proper hug."
Christine flung herself into her father's arms and held him tight. "Did you hear, my girl?" he asked, "we are free to leave. They are readying transport for us as we speak." Gustave drew back with a wide grin on his face. "Where shall we go next, hmm? The world is ours again. Are you ready to start a new adventure?"
Suddenly, old worries came tumbling back to her, settling like a stone in her stomach. Where shall we go? How shall we live? We've no money… no possessions… Oh Lord! Does Papa even remember the pawnbroker who took his violin? Will we have the funds to redeem it in time? How will we manage to—
How she longed to disappear into one of her father's fairy stories again. Perhaps the Angel of Music shall come and rescue us, she thought wistfully.
"There is, over course, the matter of payment to conclude," Erik said. His eyes were fixed on her father's and, though she tried to get his attention, did not so much as flicker in her direction. Why will he not look at me? Something feels wrong. Wait… did he say something about payment?
"Certainly," Gustave responded, coolly. He released Christine from his grasp and assumed a pose she'd recognized from hagglers in the marketplace. "If you'll allow us some time to situate ourselves, I am willing to offer, on a monthly basis, the sum of—"
Erik barked out a loud 'HA' that could not be mistaken for actual laughter.
"You amuse me, M. Daae. Do you think me a fool? Trust a pauper to pay for… costly… treatment? Do you have something to leave as a down payment? You do not even own the shirt on your back!"
He's toying with him, Christine realized. She could see it, in his posture, in his inflection… Erik looked every bit the cat entertaining itself with a hapless mouse.
"But that is of no consequence, you see, because unlike you, I do not want for coin." Gustave bristled at the insult but, before he could object, Erik continued on. "And, in any case, the agreement I made was not with you but with the girl." He made an elegant gesture toward Christine and Gustave gave a start, as if only just realizing that she was still there.
"He's right, Papa," she offered with a comforting squeeze to his elbow. "Remember, I told you I—"
"Quiet, Christine."
"No," Erik said, "Let the girl speak. This affects her the most, after all. I have decided my price and I want… her."
"No! Out of the question!"
"Yes, she will become one of us. She would fit nicely, I think."
"Papa, I—"
He shushed her. "Not now, child, let me handle this."
For a moment, she almost protested. She had grown up a great deal since her father first fell ill.
But then she paused. Perhaps… this was for the best.
Adulthood felt like an ill-fitting dress. Perhaps she did have a strength she hadn't known about a few months ago. She'd proven she could make difficult decisions, hold the mantle of responsibility on her shoulders. But it didn't feel right. She wasn't ready, she was frightened, and it was oh-so-comforting to sink back into the familiar role of submissive daughter and lay her well-being in her father's capable hands.
Christine fell silent. She trusted him implicitly.
And yet… she had made the bargain. She was the one responsible for this predicament. It made her feel terribly dishonest to…
No. Her father would make it better. He would fix her mess, as he always did. That's how it worked, didn't it? She would make some idiotic decision and he would straighten it out. It is no wonder he sees me as a child, she thought bitterly. I am too incompetent to be anything but.
The men continued to argue and the conversation began to escalate, at least on Gustave's end. The older man's temper was rising and he had almost begun to shout. Erik's attitude never changed. It was indifferent, arrogant… the countenance of a man without a care in the world. Her father hurled insults at him and Erik batted them away as if they were flies. Distasteful, but generally harmless.
If it was possible, Christine's opinion of the man soured even more. He spoke as if she was a trinket for a collection. While her father battled for love, he bartered for the fun of it. Because he could. Because, inevitably, he would win… and he knew it.
That final thought caused Christine to release a great sob. The futility of this hit her – this was one mistake her father would be unable to set right. I've finally done it! I've ruined everything.
"Steady, Christine," a voice said directly beside her ear, "It is almost over." She whipped her head around but there was no one there. Nobody else reacted either. Am I the only one hearing this?
"Who are you?" she whispered. There was no answer. In the background, her father was still ranting, but it was hazier now as her ears tried to recapture the strange voice that she was beginning to think she'd imagined.
"Be brave for just a few more minutes…" the voice assured her. It was familiar.
Christine spun around again. "Angel?"
"…and I shall always take care of you."
"WHAT?" she said, a little louder. The room went silent and Gustave was staring at her as if she had grown a second head.
"Well," Erik said, taking advantage of the silence, "It would seem that our business here is concluded. You shall be escorted to your carriage."
"Now see here!" Gustave began again.
"One last thing," Erik added. From thin air—it seemed—he produced a small coin purse, which he tossed in Gustave's direction. "Budget this wisely and it will see you through the next few days until you find employment."
"What is this? Take your dirty money back!" he exclaimed, pitching the purse to the ground. "No amount of money you throw at me will make me forget my child! You're mad if you think I'll accept payment for my daughter!"
"Mad, am I? Your daughter is payment for your very life. Did she tell you nothing of our arrangement when I agreed to save your sorry hide? I have set the terms and she must abide. Your… objections… are irrelevant. The deal is struck and the payment is due."
Gustave's face had turned nearly purple and he was just about to give this insolent… creature… a piece of his mind, when Erik added, "But… perhaps we should ask the girl, no? What do you say, Mademoiselle? Shall I be forced to take the life I restored? You would be free to go. The choice is yours, I suppose."
"No! No… please… do not hurt him. Papa, please just go. I can… bear this. I can. But I could not live knowing you were hurt because of me. And perhaps we shall see each other again… perhaps if…" What would I do without him?
"That is enough now. The girl has made her choice. Leave this place now. And if you return, I refuse to be responsible for what horrors may befall you."
Erik made an idle gesture and a rather burly fellow appeared and roughly took hold of Gustave's shirt collar. He half carried, half dragged the smaller man out of the hall. Gustave struggled, but he might as well have been a kitten in the clutches of a bear for all the good it did him. The whole while, he screamed curses at the demon who stole away his daughter. The last words Christine heard from her father, as the huge doors slammed behind him, were too foul for a lady to repeat. That – she would realize later – was what saddened her the most.
With Gustave finally gone, a great hush fell over the room. Any remaining bystanders quickly shuffled back to their own rooms, without a word, leaving Erik alone with the wide-eyed girl.
He turned, then, to his Christine, who trembled and flushed from the emotion of the moment. With a wide grin and eyes gleaming with elation, he declared, "Breathe deeply, my dear. You are finally free! I have rid you of your worries. At last, you are free of him! Now you and Erik can be together forever!"
Deliriously happy as he was, Erik was wholly unprepared as Christine violently shoved him out of the way before sprinting to her room in tears.
Concerned, he nearly went after her, but Rose's ever-gentle voice stopped him in his tracks. "Oh, Erik… what have you done? You truly have no idea, do you?"
