Author's blurb: Apparently I can only work on fanfiction during my winter and summer breaks now :( Ah well, hope it's worth the wait! Enjoy!
Chapter Ten: Loyalty
The Girys. A pang of regret lanced through Erik for not having given them a moment's thought over the past several days. Alexandrie, a demanding ballet mistress with a surprisingly compassionate heart who had once saved him from imprisonment, and would come to save him again. He had not even thought of her since the New Year's masquerade ball, when, following the Vicomte de Chagny after their confrontation in the mirror chamber, he had eavesdropped on Alexandrie telling the Vicomte about the Phantom's past. He had been mad then, he admitted it freely now, mad with love and insane with it. And that night of the Don Juan premiere, Christine had saved him and he had changed, but he had fled without seeing to her fate. How could he have simply thrown away twenty years of her friendship like that?
And then there was the mademoiselle. Meg, her name was. He knew her to be Christine's dearest friend, and a more social, joyful creature than Christine. Apart from her, he knew little else of substance. But judging from how Alexandrie talked about her, he knew her to be loyal and trustworthy.
He had indeed forgotten about them.
"How are they?" he asked, leaning closer to Christine until they were hunched together, their faces inches apart through the bars. "Are they—did they—" His sentence faded out, strangled in his throat.
"They are well. The Opera Populaire burned to the ground, but the two of them managed to get out uninjured. Madame Giry is operating a small dancing school out of her home now, and Meg is helping her." Christine slackened her grip. "I met with them. They have agreed to help us."
"They're mad. You're mad," Erik whispered hoarsely. "Do they know what's at stake for them? They're putting everything on the line to help the Phantom of the Opera escape one of the most zealous judicial systems in Europe!"
"They know the risks, Erik, all of them, and yet they still agreed to help. Not out of obligation to me, but because they see something in you that Paris does not." Christine's voice then developed a surprisingly hard edge, an unyielding tone that did not allow room for negotiation. "You are right, Erik. They are putting everything on the line to help you escape. One does not do that lightly. Will you refuse their aid?"
Erik's eyes flickered and slid out of focus, his hands sliding out of her grip to hang loosely at his sides, and Christine knew that in that moment Erik was not looking at her, but remembering his past, witnessing the present and seeing his future. He suddenly flinched, and she knew he had felt the rope snap his neck.
He closed his eyes and kept them closed for a long moment after, his breath rapid and shallow, then gradually relaxing. When he opened them, there was a faint note of resignation in his forest-green irises.
"No," he replied quietly. "I will not. They would never forgive me. For their sake…and my own…I will not."
"Good," Christine said quietly. She then proceeded to quickly whisper the escape plan into Erik's ear. His face darkened a few times and at others contorted with a questioning look, but after she finished, he nodded and accepted it without protest.
"We will spring you from prison in two days, at nightfall," she concluded, toying with the folds of her cloak nervously. "I pray to God that we will be successful."
"Are you sure God would want this?"
The question came out of Erik, flat and disbelieving. Christine's jaw tightened at his words. Years ago, she had believed him to be the Angel of Music, a heavenly being with a glorious voice in God's employ who regularly took company with Him. Only later would she find out that he was only a man. Yet, she still believed him to be Heaven-touched…
God had never been with Erik, had seemingly never walked with him through the darker and darkest parts of his life. He would never let Erik know if He wanted him to be free.
"I cannot answer for Him," Christine replied honestly. "And I cannot, will not feed words into your mouth, not if the hope in them may be false. But I know my own mind, and I want this. I know what you are, Erik. I know what you have done. And you do not see me turning away from you. I may have in the past, but not now. You have gone through so much, Erik, done so many terrible and wonderful things…and you have changed beyond what you knew yourself to be, still believe you are. It is not your time, not yet. You deserve life. You do. But you must promise me something."
"Anything." The word broke from Erik in a whisper, but his voice underneath was strong.
"Use the years ahead of you for music, for exploration, for redemption, whatever you like. But do not squander what I am capable of giving. If by some miracle we succeed, do not—do not—waste away your life, or cut it short altogether, by torturing yourself with what is past. You are not the monster I felt I was running away from and living in fear of just a few months ago. You have changed, and you can give so much to the world, if only you would let yourself believe it. Do not let our efforts be in vain, do not forsake my gesture of love. This will be the only chance you have to survive—and live. Do not waste it." Christine's face was flushed, her words emphatic, her dark eyes fierce and demanding like Erik had never seen them before. "Promise me."
"I promise," Erik replied.
Christine let out a sigh, her face relaxing. "Thank you," she murmured. She stepped back and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. "I must go. But one more thing," Christine said. "You have not answered me yet. How is your back healing?"
It is healing," Erik replied wearily. Whether it was from resignation or exhaustion, Christine could not tell. "Whether or not it will have healed enough in two days is up to Fate."
Christine caught his deliberate wording, his avoidance of religious deities, but gave him a small smile. "Let us hope. If we do not, what do we have?"
"Nothing," Erik replied through a dry throat.
Christine smiled sadly. "That's right."
Absently, she reached through the bars at waist level, just managing to touch the backs of his hands as they lay limply by his sides.
Erik froze for a moment, then grasped her fingers with a veiled fervor as he stepped closer to her. She was beautiful, married, reckless, and the only chance he had of escaping a grisly death for a world of shadows. If he was going to be killed by an assassin before his planned execution—Paris had been guilty of such crimes in the past—this would be the last time he ever saw her, and he wanted to have a memory of beauty and passion that he could take to the end.
Erik's long fingers twined with Christine's, his eyes demanding reassurance from her that their mad bid for his freedom would work, begging for Fate to step in and deal them a favorable hand. But she had nothing, no answers to give that would not be false hope. She only had herself, her thoughts and her desperate prayers. And Erik had only her.
Inches from hers with only the bars to separate them, his dark green eyes burned with a fierce desire that almost had her closing her eyes with the force of it, but she steeled herself and held his gaze, noting that hiseyes held the slightest edge of restraint. Even through their heightened emotions, he held back and left the choice to her.
"In case things go wrong…" she said in a voice shaky from his gaze and the faint terror surrounding her like a siren song.
"They won't. They can't." Erik said through his teeth. "I won't allow it. I'll crucify myself ten times before I bow my head in defeat and allow Fate to merit such an end to our story."
Christine's lips curled up the smallest fraction at his stubbornness. "But if they do…" she paused for a moment, pushing all thought of Raoul from her mind, making sure that when she said the words, they would be soft and true. "I love you."
Erik's throat constricted violently at her words and he found himself fighting for breath. As his body froze, his blood roared swiftly through his veins, hot and ready. During his years of tutoring her voice and nurturing her soul, talking to her and singing to her as she slept…when she came to his lair for the first time, or the second time…never before had she ever spoken those words to him. He had dreamed, years and years ago, that a woman would come to him without fear and state the same declaration, simply and unashamedly. I love you. He had dared to speak those sacred words to Christine, but until now she had never echoed the sentiment, leading the cynical part of his mind to believe that Christine never cared for him to the same magnitude that he did.
"You…you love…you love me…?" he said, disbelievingly. Surely he was in one of his rare pleasant dreams. Any second now he would wake up and be escorted to the gallows.
"Yes," she breathed. "I believe I loved you from years ago, only I was too young to realize what strange form it could take and what it all meant. Raoul is my husband and I do love him, but you have all of me, captured my heart from my childhood. And how can I ask for it back, when I'm so happy that you are the one holding it? If the plan should fail and all comes to darkness, I love you, Erik. I love you."
Christine's words hit Erik like a blow to his stomach, and he gripped her hands tightly as his face melted under heaving breaths, a tangled web of pain crawling slowly up his chest into his throat, moistening his eyes and releasing silent tears, blurring his vision until he could barely see the pale, angelic figure in front of him, the face of the first and only person who had ever dared to love him wholly, completely, genuinely.
The angel calmly tipped up onto her toes and planted a gentle kiss on his scarred and mottled cheek, sending him into new realms of tortured joy. Pulling back, she reached up and stroked his wet cheek gently. "Don't cry," she said. "It's only the truth."
The truth. The truth could wound souls permanently and kill them. The truth was that he was horrendously deformed and that not even the best doctors in the world could fix him, condemning him to a life of shame and humiliation. But there was something else that he had forgotten long ago, which was that the truth could also free a person with its simple, plain enunciation of reality.
I love you, Erik. I love you. He knew he would take her words to his grave, whether in days or in decades.
He grasped her hand before she could withdraw it completely and held to his heart tightly as they leaned their foreheads together, his breathing erratic and shaky, hers quiet and steady as the last strains of daylight fought their way through the windows to color Erik's cell and the narrow stone corridor.
She waited until he was ready to let her go. When the frantic thudding of his heart had subsided, he peeled her hand away from his chest, still clinging to it. After a long moment, his hold slackened and he withdrew his hand, his fingers trailing from hers slowly.
Although his face was still damp with his tears, his green eyes were now bright and calm, the light behind them flickering strongly with self-assurance. Understanding his expression as consent to leave, Christine pulled up the hood on her cloak and slowly backed up, keeping her eyes on his. Erik could have sworn he saw a ghost of a reassuring smile on her face as she turned away and walked quietly down the corridor out of sight.
Erik exhaled heavily, managing to grab at the bars above him just before his legs gave out. Not from weakness, although his back was stinging mightily. From a turbulent swirl of emotions that he had not allowed himself to relive since that night in the cellars of the opera house. Joy, love, and overwhelming gratitude. Although his body felt like butter left too long in the sun, he pulled himself up, forcing himself to stand once again. More than just words, more than just a brief touch to his cheek, more than even love, Christine had given him strength for his darkest hour yet to come, strength drawn up from the deepest, most forgotten recesses of his soul, strength he wished he could give back to her in this lifetime.
You never stop saving me when I'm on the brink of falling off the edge. She had saved him, once again, almost without trying.
Standing up straight, he drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, fighting the soreness spreading like a warm web across his healing back and feeling a newfound strength in his two legs. In that moment, he knew that no matter what form Death came in for him, he would not go to the end a broken spirit.
Trees flew by on either side, their dark green shapes combining into twin blurs, but Christine wasn't paying attention to the scenery this time. Hard gallops across the countryside were traditionally difficult situations to admire the greenery and wildflowers, anyway. Chaser had galloped this path enough times now that she knew the way by heart, and pounded along it now with hearty snorts of delight and thumping hooves, leaving Christine to her own thoughts and memories.
Her mind flashed back to the day before, when she had slipped out unseen to meet with Madame Giry and Meg. Hurrying to their front door, she banged on it with her fist.
A wide-eyed maid in her mid-twenties had opened the door. To her relief, she did not seem to recognize her. "May I help you, Madame?"
"My name is Christine. Please tell the Madame I must see her at once, it's very urgent."
"At once, madame," she said, curtsying. "Please come in and make yourself comfortable."
Christine entered the house, looking around her with interest. If it weren't for the pair of pointe shoes strewn on the floor, she would not have guessed that there was a ballet studio here. It must be located in the back.
A rustling of skirts announced the approach of Madame Giry, her cheeks flushed, her hair in its characteristic long braid down her back. "The Vicomtess de Chagny lives, and is in my own home! What an honor! How lovely to see you again," she said, actually dipping into a deep curtsy.
Unsure whether Madame Giry was joking or serious in her gesture of obeisance, Christine smiled and closed the distance between them, placing her hands on Madame Giry's arms and bidding her to rise. "Please, I come from peasantry and have no use for fancy titles and curtsying. I'm still Christine, just Christine."
Madame Giry let out a genuine smile and wrapped Christine in a tight embrace. "It has been so long since I've seen you, dear. Not since the fire." She withdrew from Christine and stroked her cheek. "How have you been, my child? And the Vicomte?"
Christine took a breath to reply, but paused. "We are married, you know this, but…perhaps we could discuss this in a more private place?"
Understanding bloomed in Madame Giry's face. "Of course." She turned to lead Christine to the staircase, but Christine laid a hand on her arm.
"Is Meg free?" she asked in a low voice.
"At the moment, yes," Madame Giry replied.
"Could you fetch her as well? I believe that she can…help," Christine said.
At the word help, Madame Giry raised an eyebrow, but nodded and bustled off, calling Meg's name. Another voice responded in the distance, accompanied by rapidly approaching footsteps.
"Christine!" High and joyful, the sound of Meg's voice never failed to turn Christine's head. As she did so, Meg came around the corner, almost running, and embraced Christine tightly. Christine's arms went around Meg and hugged tightly back, a smile tugging her lips upward.
"Oh, we haven't seen you for ages! We've missed you so much! I do hope you're doing all right with Raoul, Maman and I are," she said, smiling.
"Things have—happened, Meg," Christine said carefully. "I'd like to talk to the both of you."
"Of course," Meg replied, and she good-naturedly laced her fingers through hers as the three of them headed to the drawing room.
They did not speak again until they had entered the room and Madame Giry had locked the door soundly.
"Please sit, my dear," Madame Giry said to Christine, gesturing to the tea set already waiting on the table.
She waited until all three of them had settled into their armchairs, with Meg next to Christine, and poured out tea for them all before continuing. "Well?"
Christine reached out and took her teacup, trying to still the faint tremor in her hands as she peered into its dark depths, wishing she could disappear into them with Erik and find a world filled with nothing but human kindness. The gentle squeeze of Meg's hand on her arm gave her the strength to break the silence that had settled over the room. "It's Erik," she said without preamble, continuing to look down at her tea.
She heard an intake of breath, from Meg perhaps, and looked up to see a grim expression stealing over Madame Giry's face. She nodded, her eyes set. "What happened?"
"He's—he's being held prisoner in Paris for his actions the night of the Don Juan premiere and is—he's going to be executed!" The words burst from Christine in a flood of emotion. She quickly placed her teacup on the table with shaking hands, sure that she would drop it otherwise, and lowered her head into her hands, sharp tears burning her eyes as grisly images of Erik's broken corpse flashed before her eyes.
"Oh, no," Meg murmured sympathetically, flashing a worried look at her mother as she rubbing Christine's back soothingly.
"When did this happen?" Madame Giry asked after a tight pause in a fiercely controlled voice.
Christine peered through her blurred vision to see that Madame Giry had gone very pale. She sniffed hard and tried to think through the haze of frightening visions before her. "I heard about it around a week ago, maybe more. He was captured the night that the Opera Populaire burned to the ground. He must have been convicted of murder—all the things he'd done as the Phantom—because he's going to hang from the gallows only four days from now." She raised her teary face to meet Meg and Madame Giry's concerned ones. "All of Paris knew Ulbaldo Piangi, they want to see Erik hang for it. But he did all of those things because he loved me. He didn't know any better; he only knew that he wanted us to be together. Erik never killed out of cold blood, never!" Her passionate words rang through the room. Then she lowered her voice to a desolate whisper. "But the Parisian judicial system doesn't care about any of that. And now—and now—he's—he's going to die if I don't do something—"
Madame Giry smoothed her hair with a graceful hand, studying Christine closely. "Have you seen him since his arrest?"
Christine nodded. "A few times. I—" She broke off, visions of his lacerated back, his blood, the roar of the satiated crowd at his execution threatening to swamp her. A sting of pain stabbed deep into her breast, creeping up slowly towards her throat as she struggled to control her emotions. Meg gently leaned over and laid a hand on Christine's, and she immediately felt calmer.
"How is he coping with the fate that awaits him?" Madame Giry asked after a moment in a quiet voice.
Christine was silent for a moment before answering. Having known him under varying aliases since her childhood, she often accurate at reading his true moods, even if they were masked. "He still blames himself deeply for what he did that night, and is at war with his desire to be justly punished and his desire for freedom." She considered their last meeting. "He is numb, and cannot come to terms with his impending execution. The fact that it's so—soon—" Christine stopped and took a deep breath to calm herself, then continued. "—The fact that it's so soon caught him by surprise, I think. He has hope, but even that is rapidly being taken over by fear."
"Hope?" Madame Giry repeated, raising one of her eyebrows.
"Yes…" Christine paused again nervously, but decided to plunge ahead, since Madame Giry had already partially broached the topic she had come here to discuss. "I'm going to help him escape."
"Christine!" Meg turned her chair around to face her more fully. Her expression held both sympathy and concern. "Are you willing to put your reputation and your life on the line for him?"
Calmer now, Christine wiped the tears from her cheeks as she gathered her thoughts. "I am," she said softly. "I know I am mad, I know I am going against the law, but it is a corrupt and prejudiced system that I am fighting. They only understand Erik to be a deranged murderer. He's changed, but nobody wants to believe him, or give him the opportunity to prove it. They only want to see him dead. They don't see his genius, his potential, his—such beauty, if only they could give him the chance—"She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I would be only a shadow of a human being, if it weren't for his existence. He commanded that I live, not just exist. He showed me the beauty of music, of art, of being alive…he gave me everything. And now, it's my turn to return the favor." She looked at Madame Giry, who was still standing with an unreadable expression on her face, and Meg, whose grip was slackening on Christine's arm as she lost herself in thought. "But I cannot do it alone," Christine finished. Another breath, another release. "Will you help me?"
A silence fell and Christine held her breath as the tension built in the room. Meg looked down at her hands in her lap, lost in silence, as her mother studying Christine carefully, trailed the knuckle of her finger over her jaw.
"I have two things to say to you, Christine." Christine nodded for her to continue. "One, you are utterly mad to be even considering such a venture. You are talking about challenging the entire political system of France herself." Madame Giry spoke with such forcefulness that Christine tucked her chin into her chest, feeling as if she were being chastised as a child once again. She was, however, unprepared for what she said next.
"Two," she said, sitting back down again in her chair across from Christine's, "I'm clearly mad as well, for I am going to help you."
Christine's head shot up, her dark eyes meeting the deep hazel ones of Madame Giry's. "You are?" she asked, her voice cracking with surprise and deep relief.
"Do not underestimate what Erik means to me, my dear," Madame Giry said gently. "I have known him for a very long time, and despite our differences in personality and opinion, he is and remains very important to me." Madame Giry turned to her daughter. "Meg?"
Meg remained silent for a long while, toying with her waist-length blonde hair. Then she said slowly, "I can't pretend to know Erik, or truly understand what he was to you, Christine. I only know scattered pieces from you, and anecdotes that Maman told me since I was young about his kind heart, how exquisite his music sounds, and how he prefers the night to the day…little things here and there. I suspect that even with a lifetime's study I can never gain a comprehensive understanding of him. But I do know that he was very important to you, and remains dearer to your heart than even you know. You are like a sister to me, and I trust you, I trust Maman. So I will help you. If he is truly as beautiful a person as you say, it would be a hideous crime for Paris to execute him."
Christine's heart was breaking with relief and newfound nerves as she thought about the task ahead of them. She would not be alone, she had never been alone in shouldering the burden that was Erik's fate. But something still bothered her.
"Are you sure about this, Meg? I need not ask Madame if she is resolved in the idea, but you have no reasons of your own to go rescuing Erik."
"Of course I am sure!" The words almost exploded from Meg's mouth. She collected herself as she took a sip of tea, then continued in a calmer voice. "I care about you, Christine, very much. It would appear that like the rest of the world, the judicial system does not understand and is not willing to understand Erik's story, nor his true motives. And least likely, entertain the notion that he is capable of greatness like both you and Maman have related to me. It seems that the only people who truly understand him, or are willing to, are sitting in this room." She looked at Christine earnestly. "Yes, I am very sure. I will help you."
Christine breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you both. I will never be able to repay you."
"No need," Madame Giry said briskly. "Do not think of it. I'm sure you would have done the same if it were Meg and I came to you for help. Now—" she stood up and walked to the carved desk nearby, drawing out a sheet of paper and a pen and returning to the two young women. "We must figure out exactly how to spring Erik from prison. I, for one, have a couple of ideas that may be highly useful…"
A whinnying neigh brought Christine back to the present. She roused herself, shaking her head slightly to clear it as Chaser pounded what was now a well-worn path back to the de Chagny estate. Light grey clouds that had earlier hovered innocently on the horizon were now darker and larger, exploring the skies lazily as thunder rumbled very faintly in the distance. Christine was only a mile away now, a mile away from Raoul and her new life of luxury, masks, practiced smiles and recently, of hushed secrets. Despite her trepidation of facing Raoul with a liar's face along with her mounting nervousness for the plan to spring Erik from prison, she leaned forward and urged Chaser forward, spurring her on to new speeds.
The small figure of an anxious-faced Raoul standing just outside the stables appeared soon after the silhouette of the estate came into view, growing larger and larger as Christine approached the stables.
"Christine!" Raoul called out in relief as soon as she was within hearing distance. "I was so worried about you, my dear! There is a monstrous storm coming, you could have been anywhere! You did not leave a note to me this time, darling."
"Oh—" Christine realized, pulling Chaser to a trot as horse and rider entered the stables. When Raoul was not at home, she had the habit of slipping him a written note in his study indicating where she was going. "I am so sorry, I was in a bit of a rush to leave today, it quite slipped my mind. I am sorry for causing you worry."
"It is quite all right. Visiting a friend again?" Raoul's easy smile had appeared once again as Christine dismounted, handing the reins to the stable boy. Christine nodded automatically in response; this had been the excuse she had been using when she visited Erik. Raoul took her hand as she came up next to him. "My, the Vicomtess de Chagny is truly a popular lady. You see, there are many of the aristocratic class who decide to look past your birth and appreciate you for what you really are—a caring, loving, and intelligent woman." He looked out from the stable doorway at the darkening sky. "You gave me quite a fright, my dear Christine. Pray never frighten me so again by disappearing on a day like this—one would have thought that Zeus himself had requested your help in unleashing a storm and that you had departed the estate to assist him in wreaking havoc upon the world!" Laughing, he swept her up in a tight embrace.
A sound or two of amusement escaped Christine, mostly for Raoul's benefit, but as his arms wrapped around her, she found herself mired once again in her own fears. For she was doing exactly what Raoul had jokingly described: she was confronting the law and planning to spring Erik from prison, all behind her husband's back. Erik had indeed changed, that much she was sure, but Erik was a born rebel, able to bring some kind of chaos in varying magnitude wherever he went. He had now transformed, but was perhaps even more unpredictable for it, and in one way or another, she would indeed be wreaking havoc upon the world by releasing him from behind bars.
She had already secured her wedding ring back on her finger during the ride home, and for a fleeting moment, as her eyes glanced downward over it, she could have sworn she felt a burning sensation where her skin met the gold band promising her life and her love to Raoul. She closed her eyes as the guilt washed over her, guilt for deceiving Raoul and plotting to release a man from prison that had once tried to kill him.
Outside, dark clouds continued to close over the sky, blocking out the sun and casting Paris into shadow.