I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.
This chapter is dedicated to my friend Krow and the crazy conversation that spun from this.
Chapter Eleven: Sparks
True to his word, the Phantom indeed left Christine alone. In fact, he seemed to disappear entirely. The morning following Carlotta's disgrace, the managers woke up expecting to receive more notes. None were there, or arrived that day. The theater crew went around with hunched shoulders, expecting to be struck down at any moment. But nothing happened.
A few days went by. While everyone else grew twitchier and twitchier, Christine grew more and more relaxed. She felt relieved that the Phantom had kept his promise, and, although Raoul had shown up everyday, she had been quick to avoid him, giving him no chance to speak to her privately. She still wasn't sure what she thought of either of them, but she was impressed that the Phantom at least was giving her time to figure it out.
The Phantom, in the meantime, was deriving a great deal of enjoyment from the situation. It was amusing, he thought, how much havoc he could wreak by not doing anything at all.
He had concealed himself in the darkness of the flies, watching this night's performance of Il Muto. His position was perfect; he could see and hear everything, and no one would notice him—the few stagehands that worked up here were too wise to go poking around in dark corners. At least, most of them knew that.
He cast a dark look over at Joseph Buquet, who was working over to his left. He was tempted to play some devilish trick on the man, but that would mean revealing to Christine that he'd been there. He settled for glaring at Buquet's back.
With every passing day the stagehand had grown more and more vehement in his storytelling. He swore that the Phantom's revenge was still to come, and exactly what he predicted it would be grew more and more horrifying every day. He would probably start telling people that the Phantom was going to cause the Opera House to collapse in on itself any day now. Even the ballet corps, usually eager to swallow any story, was beginning to believe he was crazy. And worse, he was growing nosier. Twice he had seen the man examining the shadows far too closely for his liking.
But he turned his attention from Buquet as, below him, the curtain rose. Christine came onstage, and he was lost, completely, deliriously lost to his surroundings. It was only halfway through the second act that he looked around and noticed that Buquet was nowhere to be seen.
Christine began to sing below him, but he couldn't ignore the prickle that itched at the back of his neck. That feeling had always served to warn him when someone was approaching, or if he was in danger of being discovered.
The faint scrape of a door made him look to his left. It was Buquet, coming out of a door to the far left. Erik frowned; those rooms contained only the gearing for the—
A crack made him look up. The chandelier swayed, and a few small chunks of ceiling fell. The entire Opera House fell silent for a brief moment, waiting. There was another crack, and the chandelier began to fall, its chain ripping out of its path in the ceiling, sending the chandelier plummeting towards the orchestra pit and stage. Towards Christine.
The thought had barely entered his brain, and he was moving, grabbing a nearby rope and using it to descend to the stage in the space of a breath. Christine was backing away, but it wouldn't be fast enough or far enough. He crashed into her and simply carried her along with him out of harm's way.
With a massive crash, the chandelier crashed to the stage, sending him to his knees, Christine in front of him. A rain of crystal shards fell around them, and he curled around Christine, holding her tightly against him, acting as a shield for her. Screams filled the air, but he paid them no attention, focusing on Christine lying on the floor in front of him. She had fainted, but appeared to be otherwise unharmed.
The scent of smoke had him glancing around. People were rushing everywhere, and a few small fires had broken out near the wreckage, sending out billows of smoke. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw the Opera's firemen converging. The fires would soon be out, but he had to get Christine out of here before someone noticed him.
Turning back to her, he carefully scooped her up and stood. Through the chaos he heard someone else calling her name. Cradling her against him, he turned and saw the Vicomte where he was leaning over the railing of his box just as the other man spotted him. The two men's eyes met in a silent challenge over the unconscious girl between them. Then Erik inclined his head mockingly and vanished backstage, the whole exchange lasting only seconds.
Christine rose slowly out of the blackness that had claimed her when the chandelier had fallen. She was drifting in a dream-world. Her mind floated more, then slid over the invisible line from "sleep" into "wakefulness." Her eyes blinked open to…more darkness.
She drew in a sharp breath and twitched, only to find she couldn't move much at all. Someone was carrying her, arms around her ribs and knees, and, given the last thing she remembered, Christine thought she knew who it was.
In confirmation, a familiar voice came from above her. "You are okay, angel. You fainted when the chandelier fell."
Christine raised her head, seeing the glow of his eyes above her. Even in the darkness they burned yellow. Like cat eyes, she thought, No wonder he can see in the dark. "Where are we?" she asked aloud, her voice sounding weaker than she'd intended. Where are you taking me? The unvoiced question floated between them.
He heard it, and his arms tightened fractionally around her. "We're in the labyrinth, behind your mirror," he said. Christine tensed, waiting to hear the rest. He felt her withdrawal and stiffened. "I'm taking you back to your dressing room," he continued coolly.
Christine allowed herself to relax. Neither said anything, as moments later, he came to a halt. Gently, he sat her on her feet and there was a click as he opened the mirror.
She blinked at the sudden light and went to step through. The room swayed, and she clutched at its frame.
She was swiftly scooped up again. "I'm fine," she protested as her carried her over to her small bed.
Setting her down gently he said, "No, you may be in shock. You must rest."
There was a pounding at the door. Christine sat up in spite of the Phantom's restraining hand. "It's Raoul," she hissed, "Go! He can't find you here!"
There was a slight pause, then he nodded stiffly, and, with a swirl of cape, he was gone.
Christine was still a moment. Then the pounding increased in volume, and she could hear Raoul shouting her name. Wearily she got up and went to the door.
Just as she reached it, it burst open and Raoul spilled into the room, almost knocking her over. "Christine, you're here! When you didn't answer, I thought..." He gripped her arms. "Are you okay? Where is he?" He looked intently around the room. Somehow, he obviously knew that the Phantom had carried her here.
She freed herself and laid a hand on his arm. "I'm fine Raoul. He's not here—he left."
Raoul looked down at her in disbelief. "I cannot believe you're so calm about this, after what he did—dropping the chandelier, almost killing you!" He released her arm to rub gingerly at his throat.
Christine's eyes widened. "But he didn't. He saved my life."
Raoul had opened his mouth in retort when she swayed a little again, feeling very dizzy. He quickly put an arm around her to steady her. He helped her over to the bed. "I thought you said you were fine," he said worriedly as he helped her sit down.
"I am," she said, massaging her forehead. "I'm just having trouble keeping up with events." She gave him a weak smile.
He didn't return it, looking more and more concerned. "Should I fetch a doctor?" he asked.
She carefully shook her head. "No, I just need to rest. And I'm not leaving, Raoul," she said, forestalling the predictable request.
"But what if—" he began.
She interrupted, "He won't come back tonight."
Raoul sighed, but looked resigned. Christine was glad he hadn't yet decided to drag her out of the Opera House by force. While what she said was true—she didn't think the Phantom would come back tonight—she was also reasonably sure he was still watching. She didn't want Raoul to provoke him anymore than necessary. She was relieved when Raoul, although clearly unhappy with the situation, took his leave. She locked the door behind him and went behind the screen to change into a nightgown and robe. She had to steady herself several times, even though she moved very slowly, but she managed to change without falling down or having any more serious dizzy spells.
Stepping out while clutching the robe around herself against the chill, she headed back to her bed. Then she hesitated and looked towards the mirror. It was closed, and all she saw was her reflection. Still, she knew he was there. "I didn't get a chance to thank you," she said quietly, "for saving my life."
There was no answer, but she didn't expect one. She blew out the lamps and got slowly into bed.
She didn't go to sleep right away. Instead her thoughts were preoccupied with the Phantom. His presence tonight didn't surprise her. He had kept his promise to leave her alone, but Christine wasn't naïve enough to think he'd stopped watching her entirely. She'd even entertained the thought that he was doing so in order to make Raoul look bad in her eyes. Raoul certainly hadn't stayed away, even though she'd asked him to. She didn't hold it against him though; he genuinely cared for her and was concerned for her safety.
But what about the Phantom, she wondered. He cared for her too, or she thought he did. His attitudes confused her. Sometimes he seemed like he cared, like he loved her even. But then there were the long periods of silence and the angry outbursts. Christine shivered and pulled the covers higher. Sometimes she felt safe with him, and sometimes she feared for her life. If he cared about her, why did he always get angry with her? With that thought in her mind, she drifted off to sleep.