Disclaimer: I wish I owned Phantom, but I don't.
Chapter 28: Some Semblance of Normality
It was midnight by the time the ordeal was finally over. Raoul rode off through the sheet of freezing rain in the direction of London. Christine stood at the window, unable to divert her gaze, until the white horse disappeared into the haze. It was as though she needed to reassure herself that the Vicomte was not going to return to the house, go back on his word and break their lives apart all over again.
Finally, she tore her eyes from the window and turned to Erik. Her gaze was heartbreakingly tender as examined his injury. She touched her fingers to the bullet wound on Erik's forehead. She felt with relief that it was not deep, drawing quite a bit of blood but posing no immediate threat.
"It's not that serious," Erik reassured her as he read the distress in her face. Of all the wounds he had gained across his life, this was one of the less dangerous ones. He intended to dress it himself; after all, there had never been anyone who cared enough to do so for him. "It is simply a graze; all the blood makes it look worse than it actually is." In response she gave him a look that was so worried and beseeching that he gave his consent for her to treat it.
Wordlessly she cleaned the blood off and dressed the wound with extreme care. Without the illusion created by the rust coloured stains, she could see that the wound itself was fairly small. Like he said, it was no more than a graze. Nevertheless, it was a wound that would have been fatal had it been but that much more to his right.
She had been ominously subdued after the ordeal. The only word that came to Erik's mind was "haunted". She looked drawn and tired. She lacked her usual spirit, in a way that was due to more than mere exhaustion or shock. As she patched up the wound, she barely exchanged any words with him, and when she did it was out of necessity – does this hurt; tell me if you are in pain; keep still. Nothing personal nor intimate. Nothing to mark what had just happened.
"I'll deal with the body now." Erik noted with a sigh, weary at the prospect of the task but knowing that it was necessary. "I'll frame it to be a common robbery, which turned into murder when the victim attempted to stop it." His voice was detached. He could not afford to be sentimental about it.
"Must you go now?" The question slipped out of Christine's mouth before she could stop it. "I'm sorry." She apologized straight away, the impersonal mask slipping back into place. "I understand that this must be taken care of as soon as possible."
"Darling, I will be back in an hour." Erik promised. He touched her cheek tenderly. He did not want to part with her either, but the pragmatist in him knew that this must be dealt with as soon as possible.
"And there's something else." Christine murmured. "I just don't want to be alone. Not after tonight..." She admitted, her arms drawing around herself. For the first time since the ordeal, she was completely open. Her vulnerability was apparent, painfully so. It killed Erik to have to leave her.
"What is the matter?" He inquired with all the gentleness of a loving husband. "Christine." With the back of his curled fingers he turned those expressive grey eyes onto him. "Tell me what's on your mind. This is more than mere shock."
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I just killed a man, Erik." Her voice was strangely firm, in stark comparison to her fragile appearance. "Should I not feel wracked with shame, or vile, or sinful? But I feel nothing. I don't feel remorse, or guilt, or even sadness." She looked desperately at him. "Does this make me a monster?"
"Don't you ever think that!" He said fiercely. He took her face between his gloved hands. "Not feeling anything does not mean that you lack a conscience, it simply means that you are composed enough to keep calm in the face of danger." He kissed her forehead. "You did what you had to, and I'm so proud of you for doing that."
For the first time, a tiny smile touched her lips.
Erik returned from London after disposing of Flavio's body in the early hours of the morning. Silent and darkened, the house had never appeared larger or colder before. Thinking that Christine had gone to bed, he soundlessly started up the stairs. But there was a faint light in the library, slipping out through the cracks of the door and pooling in the hallway.
Cautiously, Erik pushed open the door. Christine was huddled on the ground by the rug where Flavio's corpse had lain. In the middle of the maroon was a darker pool of red, proof that blood had been spilt. The blood stained the centre of the rug, almost as if it had blossomed from the lighter colour, like a dark thought that was nurtured by an innocent soul and grew until it corrupted the innocent.
Hearing Erik's entry, Christine looked up at him with a tearstained face. The guilt of taking a life had hit her. Erik racked his mind for words of comfort, but could find none that could offer both solace and honesty.
She wanted to tell him how she felt. About the guilt that racked her entire being. The grief that convulsed through her heart. The wretchedness that plagued her. She wanted to tell him how after he left, she had fallen asleep and dreamed. She had been alone with Flavio pointing a gun to her head, but when she wrestled the gun from him and shot him, it had been her own chest that the bullet entered, her own blood that was spilled, her own life that was taken.
But she did not speak. She did not have the words, or the strength, or the courage to tell him all this.
Without her speaking, though, Erik knew. He had killed before, again and again, under less forgiving circumstances than those which Christine found herself in. He had killed for bloodlust, for the amusement of others, for his own gain. He knew how terrible it is to face the terrifying aftermath of murder. He knew that whatever he said would be inadequate. And so, he extended his arms and gave another form of comfort.
Christine walked towards him with a deliberate calmness in her step, but halfway across the room she could contain herself no longer. She flung herself into his arms with abandon. He picked up his wife and carried her into their room like a child. He set her in his lap and she curled into his embrace with the desperate need of physical solace. Erik was all too willing to give her that. There was nothing romantic or sensual about the embrace. In that moment, they were simply two people who needed to be held.
Once she had calmed enough, Christine mumbled: "Have you ever felt this terrible?"
"Yes." There was no trace of doubt in his answer. His eyes met hers with certainty. Intense and glowing in the dark, they had never been more tiger-like. Christine was suddenly struck by the reality of her husband's violent past. Somehow, she loved and respected him all the more, knowing that he had hauled himself up from that abyss which must be a thousand times more deep and adverse than hers.
She traced the cold cheek of his mask with her index finger. When she reached the bottom edge, she pulled the garment off. "Don't ever leave again." Her voice was plaintive as a child's.
Rationally, Erik had plenty of protestations against that – they could not spend the next several decades constantly glued to each other's side. But he merely kissed her crown and promised: "Never." And it was true. He loved her completely and infinitely. He would never abandon her. Whatever tomorrow had in store, they would face it hand in hand.
Christine pressed her cheek to his chest. She inhaled deeply, relishing in his scent. She could never find the words to describe how he smelled. It was a mixture of many things – fresh parchment; black ink; fine suits; their bed; and something that was purely Erik. They blended into a perfume that defined him as much as his golden eyes and velvet voice.
Christine committed the smell to memory, at the same time hoping that she could smell it every day for the rest of her life. No more than a few hours ago, a bullet had been two inches away from taking him away from her permanently. The thought made fresh tears spill down her cheeks.
Feeling the hot tears on his shirt, Erik looked down at her. He struggled between comforting her with words and simply letting her cry. After a moment's conflict, he decided on the latter. There had been many reasons for tears this evening, and she should have the liberty of releasing her emotions. Anything was better than the blankness right after the ordeal.
She quieted soon enough. "Christine... look at me, love." Erik tilted her chin up to face him. She beheld him with red-rimmed eyes. "It's all over. No one will interfere with us from now on."
She shook her head vehemently, trying to quell the flow of tears. "It's not that, Erik. I've never thought of you as a... a mortal."
Erik's smile was wry. "I thought you've realized that I'm not an immortal angel."
"No; what I mean is that tonight was the first time I had contemplated the notion of your death. I realized that, no matter how brilliant or wonderful or ingenious you are, you are still a man. A mortal man. You can die so easily. Tonight, for a moment, I honestly thought that he killed you. I thought that I could never again tell you that I love you; or kiss your lips; or succumb to the enchantment of your music; or see that heart-meltingly tender look in your eyes; or hear my own name fall from your lips, the way you make it sound like the most enrapturing sound in the world..." The depths of her eyes filled with torment. "I realized how precious you are to me. I mean, I've always been aware of it. But losing you had been a theoretical idea, one I would not have to deal with for years to come. Tonight, it almost became reality. I actually know, for certain." She looked up at him. "Do you know what I mean?"
Erik nodded. There was no need for him to tell her with words, because he could not find the proper words to tell her he understood. He just did. Her beating heart was his own, and the moment her heart stops pulsating, it would be his life that ends. He wrapped his arms around her once again. Her petite body was warm and soft and alive. And for this moment, that was all that mattered.
It was a fortnight before things fell into some semblance of normality. Just as Erik had predicted, Flavio Morino was discovered some time the morning after the ordeal by a neighbor. His apartment door had been left open, so the elderly lady had looked within. Upon discovering the body, she had alerted the police. A quick search of the apartment revealed that most of his cash and valuables had been taken. The gun used to kill him – his own – was found on the floor near him. The case was established as a burglary that turned into murder. The police had briefly questioned both Erik and Christine, as well as the majority of Flavio's acquaintances and recent patients. The possibility of their involvement was quickly eliminated, and they were removed from the investigation ever since.
For the most part, things returned to a sort of order. Christine was to star in a new opera at Her Majesty's Theatre, and rehearsals were to begin in a week's time. Erik finalized his plans for a summer home for a certain Duchess. Edward found himself a job in London with a Dr. Bernard. The man was one of Flavio's acquaintances, an elderly doctor planning for his retirement in coming years. Edward would complete his apprenticeship under Dr. Bernard, and then work under him as an assistant. When the good doctor retired, Edward could hope to take over his practice.
But what had happened was ever present in their memories, manifesting itself from time to time. Neither Christine or Erik tried to pretend that nothing had happened. That would have been impossible. What had come to pass a fortnight ago would always be etched within their minds, a constant shadow that made them treasure each other all the more.
It was one crisp afternoon in early November when Erik and Christine were reading separately in the library. Without warning, she announced: "I think that I have gotten ahold of my emotions." At his inquisitively cocked eyebrow, she added: "About my... killing Flavio." Her gaze was pensive, bordering on troubled. "I know that what he did was terrible, that he had caused both of us so much angst, and I hate him, with every fibre of my being." She declared vehemently. "Yet despite all that... I don't know if he deserved death. But after a fortnight, I believe that I have come to terms with how I feel about it."
"And?"
"I did the only thing that I could." She took a deep breath. "That is my reason and consolation for the act."
Erik studied this gorgeous young woman for a moment. Gone was the frightened child he had befriended ten years ago. Christine Destler was independent and confident. She had been faced with dilemmas and misery again and again over the course of the last eight months. He could scarcely believe that it was only eight months since she came back to him. The change she had gone through was dramatic, from a shrinking violet into a blooming rose.
"Erik?" Her crystalline voice called him back to the present.
"Yes?"
She looked up from her book, meeting his eyes through her lashes. "When we get a new rug, can it not be red?"
Erik could have laughed with relief at this harmless request. "Of course, my dear."
A/N: Aaaand there's the last chapter. There will be an epilogue after this, that takes place a month later.
I know I've said this loads of times, but a HUGE thank you to every single person who has read this fanfiction up to here. Whether or not you've reviewed, whether or not I've PM'd you, whether or not I know you exist – you are amazing.
I'm starting to write a new story, it's not a Phanfic but it's sort of based on Phantom. I don't want to start publishing until I've written most of it, so it's going to take a while. I'll let you guys know when I publish it (either on Fictionpress. net or Deviant Art), please please please read it then :]
As always, please review!
