A/N: You know the drill… ;) I'd like to apologise for the horrible cliffhanger last chapter. I'd like to, but I won't. :P Cliffhangers are my friend. I'd also just like to say that this time the delay wasn't entirely my fault - we've had no internet access in halls of residence, so any uploading/downloading/email/livejournalling, etc. have been done at university, which is Not Fun, by any stretch of the imagination. That, and I've been annoyingly uninspired, as usual. Anyway, hopefully this time Christine'll get around to saying something; you know, I still haven't got to the song part of this fic yet, and considering that it was meant to be a short fic, I should really get to it at some point… I estimate there'll be about 5 more chapters. Although the last time I said that, I ended up writing 15… Oy.
Without further ado, enjoy.
The carriage sped through the rainy Parisian streets, surprising the few pedestrians it passed. The de Chagnies' driver implored for them to slow because of the slippery, dangerous roads, but Raoul insisted they keep their speed going, if they were to be in with any chance of gaining lost time. The journey to the Opéra usually passed quickly, or so it would seem, from years of having to take it; this time, it seemed very heavy-going indeed, each extra yard seeming a mile.
It was a Sunday, and there was every likelihood that the Opéra was closed for the day - no rehearsals, no performances, and probably no staff. Raoul did not remember the location of the gate that led to Erik's underground lair, but for the moment, he was not concerning himself with it. His first plan of action was to see if there was anyone in the building who might have seen Christine, or, perhaps, Christine herself, as lost as he.
Finally, the carriage drew to a halt outside the grand façade of the Opéra. Raoul instructed his driver, and Marie, to wait, and leapt from the vehicle. He sprinted through the rain until he reached the doors, and found them, unsurprisingly, to be locked. He knocked a few times just to ascertain that there was nobody around, and then turned, defeatedly, to return to the carriage. Marie gave him a sympathetic and supportive glance, and he directed the driver to a local street.
"Open up! For God's sake, open the door!"
The voice on the other side of the door, though muffled, certainly sounded desperate, and it was with some impatience that Meg Giry wandered from the small kitchen to open it. "Mon dieu, I'm coming…" she muttered, half to herself. "There's no need to disturb the entire neighbourhood." She unlocked the door, fully prepared to greet a stranger, and then gasped in surprise at the sight of a very harassed-seeming Vicomte de Chagny, whom she had not seen for several months, and another woman she did not recognize. "Monsieur le Vicomte? What-?"
"There's no time to explain, Meg," he said. "Is your mother about?"
"You'd better come inside," she said, gesturing into the house. Raoul was ready to refuse and reiterate his request, when the smell of soup and home-baked pastry wafted out of the open door, and tempted him inside. He'd dragged Marie out of the house on their insane hunt without eating lunch, and he only now realised how hungry he was.
"All right," he conceded. "But only for a while; I'm in rather a hurry…" He ushered Marie in ahead of him, and followed her as Meg closed the door after them both. She indicated a small sofa against one wall - the front door led right into the living room, and beyond that there was a small kitchen and a stairwell leading to the upper floor. The house was small, but well taken-care-of, and decorated with collected knick-knacks and various opera and dancing memorabilia, mostly old props obtained from the end of performance runs.
Meg stood helplessly for a moment in the middle of the room, and then shook her head at herself. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I'm not a very good hostess. We don't get that many visitors, and usually my mother deals with them. And, as you know, it is usually me visiting you, not the other way around…"
"It's quite all right," reassured Marie.
"Would you like something to warm you, either of you?" she asked. "I think we have some tea…" She began to shuffle off towards the kitchen, but Raoul stopped her.
"No, but thank you. Some water for the horses wouldn't go amiss, though."
"I'll take it, sir," offered Marie, heading to the kitchen, and finding her way around with the ease of a woman who had grown up hiding in kitchen cupboards. Momentarily, she poked her head around the door frame, and asked if Meg could spare any food for their driver; Meg told her where there was some bread, and Marie vanished once more. She emerged a few seconds later with the water in a basin and some of the bread wrapped in a cloth, and then disappeared out of the house again to leave Raoul to his business.
Silence briefly fell in the room, and Meg sat down on a wooden chair near the fireplace, wondering if she should have offered to take Raoul's coat. After a moment, she spoke. "Monsieur le Vicomte, might I ask why you're here?"
"Of course. Sorry, Meg. I really must speak with your mother."
Meg looked at her hands. "I'm afraid you won't be able to at the moment, Monsieur. She's rather ill, with a terrible cold. Many of the Opéra staff are, in fact, with this awful weather. I dare say you and Christine are lucky to have escaped it."
"I see. How very inconvenient…" he muttered, absently, a thought striking that perhaps Christine had not escaped it, after all, after her theorised jaunt in the rain. The thought that she might be ill, collapsed somewhere in an alley in the still torrential rain, increased his panic, but he fought it down, trying to keep a calm façade in front of Meg.
"If you don't mind my asking…" interjected Meg, "might I be able to help?"
Raoul met her gaze and saw that she was eager to help. In honesty, he had only banked on Madame Giry knowing anything about the elusive presence of the Opéra Ghost, but he had forgotten how close her daughter and Christine had been during their younger days as dancers. It was plausible, after all, that she might know the way to the house as well. "Actually… I do believe you might."
"Erik…"
There. His name, emerging from her lips without a second thought, feeling like she'd said it every day since their separation. This time, he did not chastise her for it. It had been too long since he'd heard her say it, and now, as he feared from the start, he was powerless, and would deny her nothing.
Why did she have such power over him, even now? Surely, after all these years, the effect she had used to have over him should have dwindled, even slightly. Perhaps the old adage was true - absence did make the heart grow fonder. It also made hope grow stronger, beyond all realm of plausibility - he found himself believing she had come here purely for him, despite everything he had tried to tell himself otherwise, right from the moment he'd found her. There was something in her tone of voice, something wonderful and mysterious, something he didn't recall ever noticing before… and it was his utter undoing.
Oh, God, what if she does? he thought to himself. What if, after all this time, she… He couldn't even bring himself to think it. For all the years of denial, avoidance, admiration from afar, and acceptance that he would never see her in the flesh again, beneath it all, Erik had hoped. He had longed to speak to her once more, to see her face, reach for her hand and not have her cringe at his touch… and now, she was here, in his house, and something was going to happen, of her volition, that would change everything. And yet… no. It was impossible. Stop dreaming, Erik, chastised his mind. Stop, before you are ultimately disappointed.
Christine was still waiting for him to answer, or perhaps reprimand her; she wanted him to say something, and it didn't matter what it was. Erik, however, was uncertain if there were words enough to choose from, especially now that there was the distinct possibility that anything he might say would instantly reveal his tormented thoughts. In the end, the best he could manage was a shaky acknowledgement that he'd heard her. "Yes… Christine."
She breathed a slight sigh of relief when he answered, although her expression was still vaguely troubled, as if she was trying to save the world through the power of speech alone, and was unsure, exactly, what to say. Just as she seemed about to, finally, say what she wanted, however, a thought seemed to strike, and her brow furrowed a little. "Would you sit down?"
The simple request was tainted with the slightest hint that his compliance would make life infinitely easier, and he acquiesced. He crossed the room, heading for the armchair he'd been occupying for most of the evening; before he could sit down, however, she asked, "Why do you avoid me, still? We can both plainly see there is plenty of room beside me." There was a tinge of irritation to her tone, but she seemed more hurt than anything else.
Erik looked at the sofa, and saw she was right, but he was uneasy. "But Christine, surely you-"
"No excuses," she said, seriously. "If you believe so strongly that we will hurt each other by sitting even slightly close, then there is little point in my continuing." For a moment, he was ready to refuse… but something made him straighten again and traverse the carpet between them until he was in front of the sofa. After a second's pause, he positioned himself at the far end, leaving ample space between himself and Christine. He was far from relaxed, as she seemed to have anticipated. She was satisfied, and continued talking, her voice low. "For fifteen years, we have been apart, consciously avoiding each other's existences. And to what end? This? My being here in this moment, struggling to make things right? I've had a decade and a half to do that, and yet, for some reason, I chose this night. I naïvely thought that nothing would change…" She trailed off, apparently losing her train of thought.
"Have things changed?" he asked, prompting her to continue, now curious.
"They have," she replied, cryptically, "at least, for me. I don't know what I expected when I came here… but the bitterness was no surprise, I admit. You do have every right to hate me after everything that happened all those years ago."
"Are you asking for my forgiveness?" he asked, surprised.
"I suppose I am," she admitted.
"Then I grant it willingly," he said, "although I have nothing to forgive. If anything, it is me who should beg forgiveness."
She shook her head. "If I was hurt, it was through no fault of yours; I was a stupid, silly girl trapped in a world I did not understand, nor even make an effort to. If I had only known then what I realise now…" She was going in circles, trying to put off the inevitable despite her inexplicable feeling that she would be forced to leave too soon. Why were her vocal cords defying her so? While everything made perfect, logical sense in her brain, it plainly refused to translate when it came to vocalising it.
She remembered the night on the rooftop, a mile above their heads, when she'd given her love so easily to Raoul. Thinking about it now, she knew it was only an infatuation, because he was safe and secure and there to protect her. Of course, she had grown to love him as time went on; their childhood bond had formed the basis for that. By comparison, she'd fallen for Erik without even realising it, and, once she had, it was unbearable both to feel like she did (all the more so during her marriage) and to know that she'd never told him. It had plagued her conscience for so many years, and finally, with the moment fast approaching when he would know, it was proving to be the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do.
Patient though he was - he had little choice to be anything else, under the circumstances - Erik was unable to abide any more silences. Christine had been leading the conversation more or less from her arrival, but now it was up to him to prompt her to continue, if only to satisfy his insatiable curiosity. "You were not stupid," he reassured her. "Silly, perhaps, yes - after all, what girl of your age wasn't? - but never stupid. And if I had only given you the chance to understand, rather than scaring you senseless, then things might have been different."
"Yes," she said, "that, they might." After a deep breath, she looked across to him, and asked, "Erik… why do you suppose I fainted just now?"
As before, he avoided her eyes and studiously examined the rug by the fire. "I'm sure I don't know."
"Yes, you do," she said, persistently. "Unless you can look me in the eye and tell me otherwise."
He debated this challenge for a few moments, and then lifted his head slowly. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away precious seconds as he turned to face her again; Christine felt her breathing become erratic, and tried to calm herself down before she keeled over again. She blinked. When the darkness cleared, Erik's eyes met her own for the second time that day.
This time, there was only coldness staring back at her.
Meg Giry had listened to the Vicomte's account of the events of the past two days, and, try as she might, was unable to feel disbelief at Christine's actions. The two had remained friends after Christine's wedding, and, although they had grown apart in recent years, through no fault of their own, Meg was still the one with whom she entrusted secrets. Of course, there were also secrets that were kept from each other; Meg and her mother had been keeping something from her for years, agreeing that it was for her own good. It seemed, however, that there had been no point, as Christine apparently knew.
Erik n'est pas mort. Far from it, in fact; he was very much alive, and still living below the Opéra. They had never met him personally, of course, and he no longer haunted his preferred Box Five; rather, he was generally peaceable and, for all intents and purposes, non-existent. It was decided that Christine should not find out, since he was obviously trying very hard not to be discovered. Never had either of them imagined that she might know the truth herself.
Raoul had explained his predicament, with Marie, on her return, filling in what she knew. Meg failed to be surprised, but tried to look otherwise when she exclaimed, "She ran away?"
"So it would seem," said Raoul with a nod. "She's gone to the Opéra, Meg. I know it. It's the only possible place she could have gone."
"What makes you think that?" she asked, although she knew full well why he had come to that conclusion. It was exactly what her immediate thought had been as to Christine's location when he'd told her. Nothing had ever been explicitly stated, but Meg knew how Christine had felt about the Opéra ghost. After the headline in L'Epoque, when she and Raoul had finally managed to get through to her, Christine had taken Meg aside and told her everything. She had denied nothing when questioned - she admitted to her fear, to her growing fondness for her Angel of Music - but Meg had been too afraid to ask how deep the feelings went. Despite that, however, it became increasingly obvious the more she reminisced that Christine had loved him, whether she realised it or not. It was safe to assume, for the moment, that Raoul did not realise, either.
"Surely she has other friends?" Meg continued, cautiously. "People in the city whom she might have gone to visit?"
Raoul shook his head. "Christine… well, she rarely associates with our acquaintances," he admitted. "She much prefers being alone these days. Besides which, she was seen heading towards the Opéra."
"I see…" Meg was unsure if Raoul knew about the situation, and chose her words carefully. "But… why?"
The Vicomte buried his head in his hands. "Isn't it obvious?" He let out a sigh that became a groan. "Erik."
So, he did know. It was pointless to feign ignorance any longer, so Meg merely nodded. "He is alive…" she said, hoping her statement sounded more like a point she wished to be clarified. Luckily, it did.
"So it would seem, and so Christine also believes." He said nothing more, and Meg pressed the matter no further than that, having realised that Raoul's assumption of Christine's whereabouts, and her reasons for being there, had been correct. She was now in something of a dilemma, torn between loyalty to her friend, and inherent respect for Raoul. She knew that Christine was stubborn, and was unlikely to be easy to find when she had set her mind on disappearing - especially if, as it seemed, Erik was involved. But Raoul had come here, in desperation, because he believed that Madame Giry was the only person who could help him - and that responsibility had now fallen onto Meg.
Her mother, she knew, would have had no such dilemma. She would have helped Raoul without a second thought for Christine's motives; Meg would inevitably have tried to warn her friend over helping the Vicomte. For a long time, she had yearned to tell Christine what she and her mother knew, especially after those three fateful words had appeared in L'Epoque, and Christine was showing no signs of ceasing her grief-ridden stupor. Yet, for fifteen years, she had managed it, and all apparently for no purpose. Oh, God, she thought, what am I to do?
In the end, it was her conscience that won the battle. In the eyes of God and, more importantly, society and a circle of high-profile friends, Christine had promised her life to Raoul, whether it had been the correct decision or not. All those involved in the events of that year, Christine herself included, knew that her heart had betrayed her long before the wedding; all, of course, except for the one it yearned for. It was very likely that Christine's own conscience had finally snapped and sent her running into the night, and Meg was proud of her audacity. Nevertheless, it seemed it was her duty to help Raoul bring her back.
The room had been silent, except for the crackling of the fire, for some time. Eventually, it was Marie who spoke up. "I understand that your mother once knew Erik?"
At first, Meg did not reply; Raoul used her hesitation to remind her: "You managed to find your way there once, didn't you?" She nodded. A memory returned of herself as a young girl, standing alone and confused in an empty, dark lair, with only a white mask to prove there had ever been life there at all. "I know it's been a very long time, but... do you think you could do it again?"
"I... I think so," she said, with more conviction than she felt.
"Well, Mademoiselle Giry? Are you to help us?" That was Marie once more, domineering, in a tone that defied disagreement.
"Yes," she said, although her heart was heavy with the words. "I'll help you.
A/N: Sorry, sorry, my ChristineMuse seems perfectly content to keep putting it off. I really don't like this chapter; all of the conversations and internal monologues seem really out-of-character, and it's repetitive. But whatever, it's a chapter, and it's something, right? The next one'll be better, I promise...