A/N: Thank you to all my awesome reviewers! :) And now...
Chapter XXXVI
.
Jolene hurried through the narrow passageway and up the stone stairs to the world above, curious about the night's previous events and disgusted with the woman the Maestro had brought to their home.
It was not that she disliked Miss Daaé, who'd been kind to her and Jacques both.
But the woman did not belong.
The Maestro had been planning her stay for over a year, preparing the chamber in which she now slept. When Jolene had expressed curiosity, he told her only that they would one day have a special guest, and later sent her on countless and, what seemed to her, insignificant errands. After one such errand and her return from the city with bars of lavender soap, he'd gone into a fury, exclaiming they must be scented with roses as he ordered, paying little heed to her reply that the boutique ran out of the scent. He had thrown the lavender blocks into the fire, sternly calling them useless, and Jolene had bitten her tongue to hold it from expressing that she wouldn't have minded the little scented luxuries.
Nor had his eruptions of anger settled after he brought his guest to the caverns.
Jolene soon learned of his plan for Miss Daaé to sing his opera and was relieved that his interest in her was only as a teacher to a student - until Jolene walked into the main lake chamber in search of Jacques and saw the Maestro about to kiss his pupil. Later, she convinced herself she must have been mistaken. Both of them were at odds with one another afterward, behaving more like enemies than lovers. As it had been between them from the night he first brought the woman to their underground caverns.
Jolene frowned. Christine Daaé clearly did not wish to be there. Surely the Maestro could find another singer, one grateful to learn the lead…unless his desire to have her with him really was more than professional and he'd become obsessed with the troublesome woman.
A distinct possibility that didn't settle at all well with Jolene.
At times she feared his volatile temper and dark moods. He had raised his hand to her in threat, pushed her away in anger, but never once did he hit her as her uncle had done almost daily. Both men were bitter, often angry, but there was also goodness within her Maestro, and so much that remained a mystery.
Only once, when they first met, Jolene had dared touch his mask. After his incensed warning never to do so again, she obeyed, fearful that he might throw her and Jacques out onto the streets. He carried an unseen burden, one that weighed heavily on his shoulders. Sometimes, great sadness filled his eyes when he looked into the distance, either unaware of Jolene or forgetting her presence.
He was a difficult man, a powerful man, a dangerous man to many. But with her and Jacques he shared a safe place to hide, protection from their enemies, food, clothing and more. He deserved to have female companionship and know true happiness…
But not with the woman - Christine Daaé. She did not care about him and only seemed intent on finding new ways to hurt him.
Less than an hour ago, Jolene had entered the main lake room from his bedchamber, to find her master slumped in front of the organ, sitting on the bench and gripping his bowed head in his hands. At the sound of her step, he turned, his eyes moist and streaked with red, his expression slack with despair. His shirt was untucked from his trousers in places, his clothes hanging limply from his lean frame. His bed had been made but he looked as if he'd never been there.
"What do you want?" His question came quiet, tense and forced.
"I came to light the stove to make porridge."
He gave a brisk nod as if just remembering her daily chore. "Fine. Yes. First, see to Miss Daaé. Take the healing balm. You will need to apply it to her back, and again, tonight."
Jolene paused, not understanding. She had thought the wound healed.
"Her back, monsieur?"
He leapt up from the bench. "Yes, damn you, her back! Did I not make myself clear?"
"Oui, monsieur," she said, quickly dropping her gaze to the stones at his feet.
"Then go - GO NOW - and do all I have said!"
Throwing sheets of music to the ground with a fierce sideways toss of his hand, he stormed down the staircase and up the next. Before entering his bedchamber, he pivoted on his heel to face Jolene where she had not yet moved. "If she asks you again to help her escape or says anything in connection with that arrogant bastard who dwells above - anything at all - I want to know about it."
"Monsieur?" she fairly whispered in confusion.
"The Vicomte!" he roared, his words echoing off the walls.
Jolene hurried to gather the needed supplies, not finding Christine in a much better state.
Still sitting in bed in her chemise, she snatched the covers around her neck once the door swung open, her dark eyes shadowed and wide. Upon seeing Jolene, she relaxed then looked at her curiously when she saw that she did not carry the usual pitcher of hot water with lemon, an added instruction of the master's to Christine's morning ritual.
"The Maestro told me to tend to your back."
A wealth of emotions swept over the woman's face, as if at a memory she both loathed and coveted. She looked away, to the foot of the bed, and quietly nodded. Her eyes remained fixed there throughout Jolene's ministrations, and Jolene finally turned to see what Christine stared at.
The master's cloak hung over the back of a chair. The cat sat on its folds that were draped over the seat, the implication of the cloak's presence in Christine's bedchamber too disturbing to consider, and Jolene quickly looked away.
The wound was nasty but not deep and different than before. Had Christine again tried to escape? Angry at this woman's indifference to causing her Maestro such pain, Jolene's hands were not gentle, but Christine didn't utter one rebuke or sound of distress. Once Jolene finished, she gathered the items she'd brought, eager to leave.
"Jolene," Christine said as if not clearly focused on her present existence, "do you believe in the significance of dreams? That they speak or, or even warn of the future?"
"I'm not sure what you're asking."
Christine blushed as if just realizing what she'd said was as bizarre as it sounded. "Never mind." She hesitated. "I was hoping, could you bring me writing instruments to compose a letter and…" She plucked nervously at her coverlet. "Deliver a message to someone above?"
Jolene hesitated. "The Maestro won't like it."
"The Maestro will like it a lot less if the Vicomte suddenly appears at his door."
As Jolene hurried through the morning throngs on the streets, she remembered Christine's dry parting statement along with her Master's furious words - and they sparked other words shared with her two days before. Suddenly the solution came clear. It was so simple! Surely it was the same man.
Jolene had never disobeyed her master, owed her loyalty to him alone, and trembled at the thought of crossing him, even in secret. But she would accomplish whatever she must to rid them of the problem and bring back things to the way they once were.
At the hotel, she slipped to the back entrance, waiting behind a pile of crates until the door at last opened.
"Giselle." Jolene hurried forward and embraced her surprised friend, drawing her back toward the crates.
"I haven't long to speak." Giselle darted a nervous glance to the door. "They'll be looking for me soon. And if your uncle sees you -"
"I'll be brief." The Maestro's warning never to visit this place had her cast a nervous glance toward the door. "The man you told me of when we saw each other at the market - the nobleman who spoke up for you. Did you say he was a Vicomte?"
Giselle nodded, her eyes shining with delight. "A very kind gentleman - I never knew his sort existed - and so handsome!"
"Are you still assigned to his suite?"
"I bring his cousin tea each morning, but he's not a nightly customer. He was angry at your uncle for being approached."
"Do you know why he's in France?"
"Oui, I have heard them speak. They search for a woman who went missing. They spoke of the opera house and were upset not to find the answers there. That is all I heard. I had to leave to tend the rest of my duties."
"Did they say the name of the woman?"
Giselle nodded. "Her name is Christine."
Jolene smiled in triumph and grabbed her friend's hands in urgency.
"Listen, mon ami. I need you to deliver a message. But you must be very careful about this and do exactly as I say…"
.
xXx
.
In the days and nights that followed, Christine slowly began to relax, until suddenly she could no longer relax - and for the same reason that gave her comfort before. Any peace of mind became as farfetched as the sunlight that evaded this dark existence of cavern, stone and water.
Since the night The Phantom caught her wedged in between passages, raged at her in his quiet and lethal way, then ministered to her with converse tenderness - he had not touched her, approached her, and, except for her lessons, barely spoke to her at all. At first she knew tremendous relief for his distance, having dreaded their next encounter. But as the second day blended into the third then the fourth and the fifth, her complete ease altered into burgeoning annoyance.
He treated her as if he could not tolerate being in the same room with her, and while his personal disinterest did not upset her in the slightest, at the same time she had no desire to be treated with contempt, or with about as much interest and attention as a beetle crawling across the ground. He chose not to believe her when she swore to him she'd not been attempting permanent escape - she, having tried to broach the subject again the morning directly after he caught her. He had silenced her with a brusque lift of his hand, not even granting her the civility to look her way, and fully turned his back on her.
And he had been turning a cold shoulder to her ever since.
Christine fumed and slapped the libretto down on the bed, scaring away Mozart who jumped off the coverlet and sped out the door.
Thinking of the Phantom's last cold directives to her before she'd left her insufferable teacher's lair - of how her entrances were "still awkward and appalling" and overall she "lacked true emotion, behaving more like an automaton than a living, breathing woman" adding the snide question, "Are you sure blood and not water flows through your veins?" - a dozen highly emotive and very colorful phrases rushed through her mind of exactly what she would dearly love to tell him he could do with his damned opera.
Oh, he had warned her she would sometimes curse him, but this was more than that.
She sucked in an angry, troubled breath and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes burned with resentment, her cheeks highly flushed. But her expressive features did not simply denote anger, and she looked away in unease.
It made no sense, confused her, irritated her, and on some level even frightened her. She should be relieved for his lack of desire to be in her immediate vicinity. Grateful that he was actually doing as he said he would and giving her very little attention, save for her voice. Ecstatic to eat at the dining table, alone, night after night, with the cat often curled in her lap or at her feet. And while she ate and glared at the man's profile, the Phantom remained at his organ after each lesson, picking out chords and scratching whatever he was creating onto his reams of paper. With the studied deliberation and endless hours that he put into such work, it must be equal in size and importance to a monk's dedication of transferring holy text to scrolls. Yes, she should be joyful that he paid her scant attention and at times appeared to forget her very existence.
So why was she so upset she wished to scream in outrage and swipe all the contents from her dressing table?
Whirling away from her disturbing image, Christine went behind the screen and practically tore her clothes from her body. The Phantom had drawn out her lesson into late evening, the tension between them both palpable by the time she marched out of his lair, and she felt it now. Snatching up her wrapper, she chose its satin confines, deciding a hot soak was the only hope for nerves so frayed they would never relax enough to award her the dreamless slumber she so coveted. Dreamless. Ha. She could not remember what it felt like not to dream. Night after night of unwanted images in her sleep had done nothing to settle her emotional symmetry. If she did not have nightmares of the past and its tale of horrors, coming awake with a cry or a start - it was the Phantom's hands on her bare flesh that she envisioned in her sleep. Which put her in a similar state of waking distress.
Why should she have such discomfiting dreams? She hated him…hated him!
Didn't she?
His unexpected kindness to her during her recovery, when he'd held her close in comfort and had sung to her with such tenderness never strayed far from the boundary of her recollection. She had shared little with him of what happened - but it was too much. Yet words could never be retrieved, and because he did know sometimes in her loneliness she wished to go back to the ease they once shared so briefly, when she felt safe in his arms and in the knowledge that he would never harm her.
Surely, if she was to live out the rest of her days in his netherworld domain, it would be better to do so in simple companionship than in the complication of enmity? Yet he didn't seem interested in friendship and Christine wasn't altogether sure it would be wise.
In the bath chamber, she released the lever that allowed hot water to rush into the huge basin. Jolene, in the days when the girl had spoken to her, told Christine that on the other side of the wall, coals burned in an iron basin below a thin sheet of rock that held the water piped in from the lake. No matter how much water emptied into her tub, new water replaced it, heated and kept warm by the fire tended morning and night so she could always have hot water. Genius…
Christine frowned, not wishing to think of him again. He had probably once more told the children to ignore her. Why else would Jolene suddenly grow cold? And the one time Jacques came to play, his sister appeared minutes later and shooed him out.
Christine viciously slapped the water with her hand, batting it toward the wall. Her little burst of fury did nothing to relieve her nerves, and she blew a frizzed lock of hair from her eyes while adjusting the lever to stop the flow. Tearing her wrapper open, she prepared to submerge herself - and hopefully drown all irksome thoughts of the Ghost, who might as well truly be a ghost.
A splash from the other side of the wall made her start in surprise, and she turned her attention toward the hole. Surely, Jacques hadn't fallen into the lake during his play. The child would long be in bed. Perhaps it was a cavern mammal. She shivered at the thought of a rat huge enough to make that kind of splash, then her eyes widened at another horrid possibility.
Mozart…
She hurried to the table with her robe streaming behind her and stepped up onto the sturdy overturned box she had placed there, which once held towels, so she wouldn't need to lift herself to her toes to see.
Darkness ringed the inside edges of the rippling lake with a soft wash of moonlight glowing in its center. Three steady torches lined the walls, evenly spaced, casting their scant light on the dark green water. All else was in shadow.
Suddenly, something broke through the surface. Rivulets splashed on either side as the head and torso of a man surged upward from beneath the midst of the lake.
Christine's eyes widened. It could be no one but him.
With his back to her he used his hands to push his hair from his face. Sleek and longer when wet, it just brushed the tops of his wide shoulders. The moonlight above and the torchlight to one side was just strong enough to highlight the nuances of his flesh, pale and shadowed, gleaming from the water and defining a trim, lean-muscled body. The area where he stood was shallow, the water almost to his hips. She gaped and watched as he made a low dive then soon reappeared, his long body discernible just beneath the surface as with powerful strokes he swam to the other end.
Heat burned her face, spreading to her neck and chest, at the length of strong limbs and the flash of white buttocks, and she realized with a jolt of shock - he wasn't wearing any clothing!
She drew a faint breath into frozen lungs.
She should be scandalized. Self-conscious. Nervous. Upset. Something!
She should run back to her bed and try to forget what she'd seen. She should…
Her hands gripped the ledge more tightly, fervent curiosity and the desire to know more making her a voyeuristic prisoner. Dazed, she watched him swim in the frigid water, a slim part of her mind that still worked wondering how he could stand the chill, another part marveling at this first generous glimpse of the male form. Despite her innocence in such matters, she did not need to be told that he was in excellent shape, the remembered feel of those taut muscles against her body and beneath her hands inscribed in her mind.
She shivered with heat and burned from the cold. Her breasts felt strangely weighted, the heaviness also flowing deep inside her belly, that same wetness she experienced before dampening her secret curls. Her heart beat fast and wild. Try as she might, she could not look away from the view of such perfection and at once realized - he wore no mask!
With a new goal in mind, Christine craned closer to see, the rough stone lightly grazing the tips of her breasts, which tingled with feeling. She gasped at the sensation, clutching the stone rim harder so she would not fall.
The Phantom swam back and forth without pause, like a merman, sculpted with strength and imbued with grace. He had no tail, of course, and with a flush Christine found her brazen eyes drawn to that point of his anatomy. Stopping at the point she had first seen him rise, his breaths now coming harsh, he moved to the bank a short distance from her covert lookout point and rose from the water in partial profile, the left side of his form easily seen, the right in shadow. Water streamed down his pale, shimmering body from strong shoulder to slim hip and past chiseled thigh. Her curious eyes went wider, and her mouth parted with apprehensive wonder at the newest revelation of what mysteries his body possessed, the strange heat now a wildfire spreading to all points beneath her skin.
Holy Mary…mother…of…
The Phantom bent to retrieve a towel, abruptly straightened then turned, fully facing her.
Christine gave a little gasping shriek and stumbled backward to jump off the table, in her haste almost falling to the floor.
"God…" She completed her silent exclamation of the earnest supplication in a bare whisper. Clutching the wall, she closed her eyes and remembered the rest.
Pray for us sinners…
Us sinners…
She wondered how many commandments she'd now broken with tonight's wicked act.
Now, and in the hour of our death…
Death…
But she had already died. And now she dwelt beneath the earth, lost, with the beautiful dark angel, Lucifer.
Christine shook her head free of such fancy and forced herself to think.
Had he seen her watch him? The window was in shadow, but her focus had been elsewhere and she'd not seen his face in the moment he turned her way. Her only glimpse of the Phantom without the mask had been of the side not in darkness, what little she had seen then. A lean shadowed jaw, a defined cheekbone and brow, the straight slope of a nose, full sculpted lips, and skin as smooth and pale as the rest of him. His appearance was striking, clothed and unclothed, and the random thought sent another chill down her spine.
The sound of bare footsteps on stone coming from the other side and growing louder jarred her from her anxious semi-daze and she ran to her bed, foregoing the heated bath. A wall of stone separated them - surely he would not climb to the high window to watch her as she had watched him, would not even care to. But the thought of being naked in her bath as he was naked in the next chamber which, without the wall between them, was only a separation of several feet, made her feel vulnerable. Made her feel things she could not and did not wish to dwell on, and to her horror, fear wasn't the prevalent emotion it should be, as it had been before.
Without exchanging her wrapper for a nightgown - illogically worried that he might have seen her and would suddenly throw open the door for a confrontation - Christine pulled her wrapper tight and dove into bed, pulling the shield of thick covers over her. She worked to calm her breathing in the pretense of sleep when she heard a step outside her door. Squeezing her eyes shut, she desperately wished whoever it was to go away and let a breath of relief escape when for once her wishes were granted as silence filled the minutes, until at last she fell asleep.
.
xXx
.
Days before, on the afternoon following Christine's recent attempt at escape, Jolene had told the Phantom of his captive's secret request to write a letter. Grimly he allowed it, directing Jolene to bring it to him afterward. One look at the salutation- "My dear Raoul" - had been enough to incite his furious disgust. The remainder of the letter had him growl and crumple the thin vellum in his hand. She had not given the meddlesome boy her location, not that it would matter, but her sweet words of asking that he think of her fondly sometimes but not search for her seemed designed to appeal for a contrary act - a hidden plea for him to come find her.
And if the Phantom knew the annoying pest of a Vicomte, the boy would not resist.
The week had been difficult, the entire damned month had been difficult. He had forged aloof distance, when all the Phantom desired was to draw Christine close and make her his. Usually he could repel those dark flashes of desire. But since he'd left her in her bedchamber shivering naked in his cloak, these past several days and nights had consisted of one trying test after another. To bring himself what degree of pleasure he could find disgusted him, the reprieve brief until the next sensual thoughts or dreams of her occurred, or, at tense moments, when the actual woman drew near. A late evening swim in the frigid lake several hours ago had been the only means available to cool his blood and exhaust him so that he could sleep, what little of that he'd obtained. It had been a harsh punishment to burning flesh, but he was no stranger to pain.
And so, with the great amount of personal suffering he had self imposed - all for her benefit - the Phantom now glared at his protégé and wondered what foolish frights and novel schemes she harbored in her mind.
Since she arrived for her lesson that morning, she had been meek, barely responsive, keeping her gaze absent from him. Her voice had shivered on the scales, which he demanded she repeat, and now wavered at the end of her warm-up - bringing his fingertips crashing to the keys in a rapid succession of frustrated chords that made her jump. Her eyes skittered to his then instantly dropped. A flush of red suffused her face.
He narrowed his eyes. "Is there something you wish to share? Something that took place between last night and this morning?"
That brought her attention swiftly back to him; she seemed even more nervous if that was possible.
"Pardon?"
"This unfavorable change in your behavior. Yesterday you were spitting at me like a cobra. Now you are as timid as a mouse. And your pitch resembles the squeak of one."
She gave a small lift of her chin, a glimmer of fire returning to brighten her eyes. "You wish me to strike out at you like a serpent, Maestro?"
His smile came hard. "At least it would be in keeping with your character. And the venom might give life to your voice."
He rose from the bench. She took a quick step back.
"Again, you fear me, mademoiselle?"
She did not deny it and that further angered him, sharpening his frustration. He advanced toward her.
"Tell me - why…? What have I done to merit your absolute terror?" His queries came low and silken, dangerous in their intensity. "Have I harmed you, laid a hand on you? Have I not continually assured that I'll not sully your bed and defile you like a wild, lustful beast?"
"Please don't do this."
Her whisper did not diminish his fury. She shrank against the organ and he grabbed her shoulders, giving her a demanding little shake.
"What will it take to convince you?"
"Please don't!"
"What is it you require of me? TELL ME!"
"It, it's not just you…"
In the passion of his raised voice, he almost did not hear her meek whisper.
Her eyes were downcast, her expression pained. The gentle closing of her lids caused her lashes to flicker, her rosy lips trembling as she worked valiantly not to cry. A broken angel standing motionless in a demon's dark hold, offering no struggle as though she expected such a fate, expected to become a sacrifice.
And he remembered what he had tried so hard to forget…
And he knew then that she would never cease to remember.
With a soft anguished cry the Phantom pushed from her, whirling away so she could not see the torture burning in his eyes. He clenched and unclenched his fists in his own struggle not to give into the pain, silently cursing the foul parasite who had stripped an angel of her bright spirit and broken her wings to fly.
He wanted to hate her for all she had done, found he could not, and hated himself even more than he already did.
Had he been there…had he only been there…
The sudden tinkle of a bell on the wall brought his teary eyes toward it in shock, though he'd been expecting a signal like it for days. In the swirling chaos of his emotions, he almost laughed. He could not ask for a better diversion. A most fitting interruption to break this unbearable moment!
"Wait," his voice came hoarse, his smile bitter, "I think, my dear, we have a guest."
He turned to look at her.
"What do you mean?"
Christine anxiously looked toward the portcullis, seeing no one there.
"Though his stay with us must be regrettably short." His genteel words of remorse were feigned, no match for the light of triumph that flickered in his eyes.
Christine's chest felt tight; she couldn't draw breath. His eyes were golden wells of emotion. Moist with sorrow and regret, and somehow she knew those tears were for her. But they were alight with hatred and mad with a strange delight that made her shiver in dread.
"What have you done?" she whispered and looked toward the second of a row of five bells hanging on a rack, suspended from the wall at the other end of the organ. "Why did that bell ring?"
"Wires are connected to the handles. They lead to my main traps," he said dismissively and strode down the stairs.
Traps?
She ran after him. "Who have you trapped?"
"You expect me to know? Need I remind you that I've been here. With you."
"But you do know," she insisted. "I see it in your eyes."
"I have my suspicions," he agreed and again turned from her.
This time she ran ahead of him. "Then you must help them!" She put a hand to his chest as if that might stop or persuade him. "Whoever is in there could die."
He chuckled darkly. "That, mademoiselle, is the point of a trap."
With wide eyes, she stared at him in horrified disbelief, slowly backing a few steps away. "You would do nothing, and allow such a terrible fate to transpire?" she breathed. "You truly are a monster!"
His face, what she could see of it, appeared cut in white marble. "And that surprises you? Is that not what you've called me since the night you first came to these caverns?" His eyes burned into hers. "It is better that he die!"
"He…? Oh, God…" She gripped his arm in certain dread. "Who do you have in there? Tell me!"
He sneered at her. "Look to your own foolhardiness and you will know."
Her mind raced backward and recalled the cautionary letter she had sent with the girl.
"The- the Vicomte de Chagny?" she whispered.
"To whom you so fondly refer as 'My Dear Raoul.'" His words were fierce.
"You read my letter!"
"And it is because of you that he will take his last breath."
"No." She gripped his arm harder. "Please, no…"
He removed her hand from his sleeve as if it were an insect. "Do you wish to hear how he will meet his end?" His smile came wicked. "That chamber contains deep water, impossible to escape. An iron grate above lies horizontal. Once the trap is triggered when the hapless victim falls through the trapdoor - the signal of the bell - the grate slowly lowers. Assuming he can stay afloat, it will then crush its weary prey in a watery grave. Five minutes and it is over."
Horror made her tremble. "You cannot do this."
The Phantom scowled at her with indifference and moved toward the cordon of passageways.
Christine stared after him, her mind numb with shock.
This was her fault - her fault! She had defied her dark abductor once too often. Had she never written to Raoul begging him to stay away, he might have returned to England unharmed. He never would have so foolishly played the white knight and come looking for her and would not now be at the merciless hands of the Phantom. She had killed once by accident and necessity - but dear God, she would not be responsible for the senseless death of a dear friend!
She raced through the damp corridor after the towering form of the menacing ruler of this underworld and grabbed his arm, falling to her knees.
"Please, spare him! He has a family who needs him. He's a good man and has done nothing to warrant this -"
He turned on her fiercely, making her cringe. "A good man? How can you say that after what he did to you? And you call ME a monster! I never denied what I am, but your vision is pathetically narrow if you cannot see the blackness of his heart. And now you kneel before me and plead for his life? You should want that piece of vermin dead!"
Unable to bear the sight of her groveling, he grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her up to stand.
She shook her head in confusion, blinking away tears. "What do you mean? Why should I -?"
"Your foolish infatuation with his title and wealth blinds you to see the worthless scum for what he truly is. Noble? Good? What of his attack on you - was that noble?" He shook her a little, wishing to bring her to her senses. "Damn you, where is your pride that you would wish to crawl back to him? I have rid you of the wretched fiend permanently - he can never hurt you again! Be grateful for that instead of collapsing into a fit of tears and pleading for the life of someone who never deserved to exist!"
"Raoul's never hurt me! He's only ever helped me."
With disgust he pushed her away. "Your lies will not save him! You forget, I saw the bruises."
He pivoted on his heel and briskly strode from her.
"It wasn't Raoul. It was my cousin."
Her quiet admission stopped him cold, the shamed whisper of her last words resounding inside his brain and leaving him reeling. His heart seemed to stop dead then fiercely beat again, hard and slow, the ache unbearable.
Henri. It was Henri? Dear God…
He desperately wished he could force her to confess that she made up another wretched lie only to save her lover, but in this instance he knew she spoke truth.
And in that knowledge, he wanted to die.
He bitterly recalled the cur's violence toward her, the times he'd threatened Henri and fought the imbecile on Christine's behalf, even that first day as children. But this time, this time he had not been there. This time when it mattered most, he had been absent, in these caverns, and she had been…
The Phantom inhaled a pained breath and shut his eyes, trapping the hot tears that welled within.
"Raoul helped me get away from there," she continued in a shaky whisper. "He's only ever helped me."
The knowledge that the boy had come to her aid with his damnable heroics further sharpened the Phantom's regret and fueled his bitter loathing. His resolve strengthened. The only good foe was a dead one. She would despise him for letting the wretch die, but then that was his intent, wasn't it? To earn her hatred. To make her as miserable as she had made him when she cut out his heart and left his soul bleeding…
He heard her come up behind and shuddered.
"I beg of you, set him free."
He kept his eyes shut, wishing to shut her out as well, to forget all he now knew.
"If you do this for me, I'll do anything you ask."
He gave a wry, humorless laugh.
"Anything?"
"Yes…"
She took a deep, audible breath and laid a trembling hand on his shoulder.
"If you still wish it of me, I will marry you."
.
xXx
A/N: Nah, no cliffie here…just a pit full of water and a descending grate…
And as the plot thickens and the waters rise, Erik must make a decision…
Yep, all normal here.
*dives into the water and escapes.
(Oh, and yes, I borrowed the line, which I love, from the movie.)