Disclaimer: I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.
Author Note: And hello again! So, as promised, here is the second chapter for today- the BIG FIGHT SCENE! Ahem, don't mind me; I am just a little excited. As always, have your Team Erik pompoms ready (unless you are Team Fop- I mean Team Raoul *evil grin*). Reviews are always appreciated. I already thanked my lovely reviewer's last chapter, but thank you again :-)!
Over to Erik...
Thirty Six- I'm Here, With You, Beside You
(The streets of Paris)
It was still early, long before the weak winter sun was due to rise up through the dull skies to hover above the dingy streets of Paris, where the cobbles were shiny in the wet, if not coated in muck and rotting leaves. No one was up and about- the usual collection of overly bright and unfailingly cheerful Parisians were not filling the streets, chattering away about nothing, arguing over market goods or bawling at a badly behaved child. The few people that were out and about where drunkards, the majority of them slumped in alleyways, the stench of the vomit and alcohol not penetrating their intoxicated slumber. As Erik walked silently through the back alleys of Paris, not uncomfortable in the darkness, he picked gingerly over their stinking bodies, wondering why anyone would ever want to become so inebriated.
The darkness was an aid and a companion to Erik as he made his way quickly, efficiently and yet silently through the empty streets; hiding him from the few pairs of curious eyes that may have spied his sinister walk, giving him the upper hand over any potential thugs and, perhaps most importantly to him in that troubled state of mind, the darkness was a comfort to him.
There was something about the way that everything seemed far gentler at night- not garish and gaudy and achingly bright- and Erik preferred the quiet, serene quality that everything adopted in darkness. Nadir had once told him that those who love and live by the night are independent; they can make their own light to live by, but Erik knew his reasons for being so odd where not so deep or philosophical. They came from a time long ago, when nightfall had meant that the crowds of drunken louts would stumble off to collapse somewhere, finally leaving a little boy in a cage in peace, so that he might sleep or stare up at the stars spread out over the black of the night sky. There was nothing complicated about Erik and his preference of the serene night over the garish daylight; night had always brought peace and tranquillity to his otherwise hectic life. His love for the power and majesty behind darkness, and the secrets it held, had come later. The night made Erik feel safe.
As he walked the silent streets, quite alone save his rushing thoughts, Erik considered how Antoinette and Nadir might react when they awoke in an hour or so to find him gone. Would they be angry, or would they see the pile of Christine's letters, read them and then understand why he had needed to leave? He hoped that they would not come after him; Erik didn't want to have to worry about yet another person. For he was heading for the de Chagny town house, his intent to find the foul, warped beast that lived inside and to beat him until he was a bloody pulp before killing him. Raoul de Chagny had done many things that Erik had wanted to kill him for; beating Christine, for subjecting her to marital rape and making her feel that she had deserved it, for destroying the woman she had been, for having affairs with other women to hurt her, being an arrogant fop and for marrying Christine in the first place. But he had told himself to be strong, that he was a better man than the de Chagny ape and that by killing him he would only upset Christine.
But now- Erik gritted his teeth and clutched at the lasso he held in his hands. Raoul de Chagny had crossed one line too many; his brutality and cruelty had gone too far this time, and Erik knew that nothing in the world would be able to calm him down from this enraged, murderous state until Raoul lay dead on the floor, preferably having suffered extreme pain beforehand. It was sadistic, evil and horrific, but as he walked the empty streets, Erik could have wanted nothing more.
He had with him several weapons, though he doubted that the fight would be difficult- he was lethal when angry and Erik knew that Raoul was weaker than Christine when it came to fighting. Still, he had misjudged the fight with the assassin and that had ended disastrously- he could not afford to fail this time, not when his happiness and Christine's life depended on it. The lasso in his hands, which he now gripped to prevent himself from unleashing a furious bellow into the night, was likely to help him more than the dagger or gun, both of which lay in his pockets. He disliked daggers and blades, never having taken to duelling and stabbing as he had with his lasso, and guns where even worse to his mind- they allowed the user to separate themselves from the killing, making it easier to do. After causing many deaths with his chandelier stunt, Erik never wanted to kill lightly again. Even now, he felt a little uneasy with the knowledge that he would definitely cause someone to die, but Raoul was hardly an innocent on the sidelines. He remembered the words of Monsieur Thiland; "You are a changed man, of that I am in no doubt, and I know that you do not want to murder or terrorise for the sheer hell of it. But these villains you speak of- they took your friend and mean you harm. Trust me, any man would fight and defend himself when facing such a threat. The only difference is that you have the skill to do so, and to succeed."
This time it was not a friend who was at risk, but the love of his existence, the one person who had made his life worth living all those years ago. And it was true; Christine Daae, the little girl of seven years old who had adored her Angel of Music, had changed the course of his live forever. She had been someone worth living for; someone who made each day important, who brought back some form of hope and positivity to his life. Erik hissed a little as he thought of Christine lying bloodied and beaten that night he had broken the window and beaten Raoul with the silver candlestick- quite suddenly, he felt far less worried about the prospect of killing.
The route to the townhouse was embedded in Erik's mind, from the days when he had journeyed to her window and guarded her each night. He laughed a little to think of what the threat had been in those distant days- a bumbling farmer paid to shoot her. Somehow far less sinister than a sadistic husband, who was already inside the house with Christine. The déjà vu was painful as the house loomed into view, making his chest ache as he found the entrance to the stables and padlocked gates. He easily climbed over the stables, jumping down with catlike agility, his eyes already adjusted to the darkness. He looked around carefully, taking in the overgrown garden, the green water in the fountain, the cobbles littered with horse manure and straw. Such abandon and messiness was clearly due to the lack of servants- Erik remembered how in her letter, Christine had fretted over the sudden dismissal of every single servant. How had the de Chagny's, dependant on service as they were, possibly survived? Had they- Erik snickered a little despite himself and the current situation- had to cook and clean for themselves?! He took great delight as he imagined Raoul trying to cook a meal for himself, or the Comte brandishing a duster, managing to calm himself down as some of his stress disintegrated into muffled laughter.
The dogs that had once patrolled the gardens and stables were gone too; Erik could easily walk right up to the house without the fear of bloodthirsty hounds, no doubt tormented by their hideous master, snapping at his heels. The whole thing felt too easy, as if there should have been a thug waiting at each entrance to hack him to pieces with a scythe or something equally as rustic. But Raoul was not the warped sadist his father had been, planning an elaborate trap or scenario to inflict as much pain and thus enjoyment for him as possible. Hopefully, that would make finding Christine easier once he got inside the house.
Erik easily climbed the wall and used the bricks as leverage, heaving himself up and onto balcony and standing for a few moments to recover from the sudden wave of painful déjà vu that hit him again, unexpectedly. It had been here, or rather inside that very bedroom he could now gaze into, that Christine had once again chosen Raoul over him. He had not been to this ostentatious home since that night, and the painful memories still hurt him. But, as he stared into that bedroom which looked untouched, he remembered that at Antoinette's home his daughter was sleeping; a daughter who had been born in that very room, a daughter whose existence was proof that Christine loved him. Suddenly an image came into his head; an image of himself and Christine standing together, gazing down fondly on their daughter, Erika Rosa Daae. He closed his eyes, focusing on the image, the smile on Christine's face, how she looked so happy in this dream, this fantasy-
And suddenly he was reaching out and smashing open the French doors, exploding through them in a shower of fine, glittering pieces. They fell to the dark floor with the same melodic twinkling they had made all those years ago, but Erik was in no mood to be sentimental. He charged into the room, his feet crunching on the sinister confetti, tearing open drawers, ripping back the bed covers, wrenching open the doors to the huge wardrobe. He was desperate not to miss a thing, to cover every possibility, but as expected there was nothing of interest in the immaculate bedroom.
As his hands over turned the many trinkets and ornaments littered over her dressing table, he came across the one bottle of perfume, or rather, rose water. He stopped in his frantic search and, before he even thought about it, his hands were unscrewing the top and lifting the bottle to his nose. He shut his eyes as he inhaled the sweet, feminine scent, remembering the smell of her creamy skin, remembering how he had held her when she cried and smelt that divine scent, or how that night at the Black Rose he had fallen asleep with her in his arms, inhaling the heavenly perfume of Christine, his Christine...
His search through the room soon ended, having brought him no successes, and his efficient yet somewhat frantic searches of all the other bedrooms, bathrooms, dressing rooms and even a library brought him that same feeling of frustration, but no help. His feet were silent on the staircases, hurrying lithely across polished floors or thick rugs. His eyes never stopped moving as he crossed through hallways or went into rooms, constantly sweeping over every piece of furniture, every doorway, his ears pricked and straining to hear quiet footsteps, soft crying, perhaps a whispered curse of hatred. But he heard and saw nothing, even when he examined the macabre content of what had clearly been the Comte's private study. Near to giving up and starting to worry, for he had found no evidence that anyone was even living here, let alone trapped inside, Erik angrily left the room and stalked down another corridor until he reached what must have been the servants staircase. Cursing a little under his breath and fighting with the urge to slam a door or punch a wall, he quickly made his way down the far narrower, worn down steps, imagining how many times the poor servants had dashed up and down this dangerous flight of steps on the whim of a lazy de Chagny.
It was dingy, dark and musty smelling, and he nearly tripped several times due to the lack of light. Clutching at the whitewashed wall- he could just make out the greasy finger marks of countless servants who had presumably done the same- Erik took the steps a little slower. As he reached the last one, he looked up from his feet and into the servant's corridor, immediately freezing where he stood. There, coming from the dormitory further down the corridor, on the right, was the faint glow of a dim light. Erik could hear the thump of his heart within his chest; he could feel his knees begin to shake. He was so close, so close- even upon looking around him, he could see that this was where Raoul had been hiding recently, like a rat living in his own filth. The kitchen, which Erik could see clearly into from his standing place on the bottom step, was littered with dirtied dishes, discarded food, rags, unwashed clothes, broken furniture and also- Erik suddenly broke into a run. Many of the clothes discarded all over the kitchen were dresses, and many of them were stained with the sinister dark red that Erik knew instantly to be blood.
Suddenly overcome with fear, he no longer cared if this mad charge lost all the elements of surprise regarding his attack- he made for the door, behind which a dim light was shining into the darkness, and upon wrenching the door open so that the hinges nearly broke, Erik let out a choked up groan. There, lying on the floor in the corner, frail as a victim of starvation and bone white, was Christine.
Erik ran to her, falling to his knees as he landed hard beside her, the pain of the impact with the hard stone flooring nothing compared to the anguish that racked his body as he bent over her protectively, lifting her feather light body and placing her head in his lap, his tears dripping onto her grimy face. Her face was so pale and she felt so cold, her eyes shut and underneath bruised with purple from exhaustion. She looked so ill, so worn down and fragile that Erik could barely touch her for fear of hurting her with even the lightest of fingertips. Her dress hung off her bones, no hint that she had once been swollen with pregnancy, and Erik found himself questioning how such a healthy baby had been born to such a clearly unwell woman. His fingers brushed the thick, glossy curls- the only part of her that had remained the same it seemed- the expose her neck, his fingers finding her pulse. For a moment, one agonising moment, he could not find the steady beat and he was all set to collapse beside her, but then he felt the faint yet constant throb of a vein with the calloused tips of his skeletal fingers, and he at once began to cry again.
This time, when the hot tears leaked down his face and dripped steadily onto her forehead, she murmured something and moved a little in his lap, before opening her heavenly brown eyes. She seemed confused, disorientated, but then the brown orbs of beauty locked onto his own tear filled eyes, and she seemed to realise just who was here beside her.
"Erik?" she asked in a hoarse voice, the realisation making the conviction in her voice stronger as she struggled to get up, suddenly transforming from weak to hysterical in once second. "Oh dear God, it is you! Oh God! I thought you would never come- I thought that I was going to die! Oh God, oh dear God!"
Erik pulled her up and into his arms, crushing her frail body to his own warm chest, holding her as closely as he could manage, feeling her shake and tremble with the tears he could feel seeping into the material of his shirt. She felt so cold as she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him for warmth and comfort in this place and time of such fear and uncertainty, so Erik moved back and removed his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders in a feeble attempt to keep her warm. Then, he pulled her back against his chest and embraced her again. And in that moment, that short blissful moment, it didn't matter that he was sobbing like a fool, or that she was starved and ill. As Erik crushed Christine against his chest, his arms wrapping fiercely around her as if he could never let her go, the dull ache in his chest began to ease; he felt whole again, just having her in his arms. His heart was racing, his breathing harsh and ragged into her hair, and quite suddenly the death wishes and sadistic desires evaporated. Raoul...Raoul didn't matter; the vile fop was insignificant, a mere blot on this vast open expanse of clean canvas that was their future, bright, untainted, free-
"Christine?" Erik whispered, pulling back from her and finding spots of pink blooming on her cheeks as she looked up at him, a ghost of a smile on her face. He had forgotten how truly perfect she was, forgotten how even the hint of her beautiful smile had the power to send his emotions into a spiral of insanity, turning him upside down. He had to remember that he was speaking, not just gawping uselessly at her. "Christine we have to go now, before your pig of a husband arrives to stop us. Can you walk? Never mind- I will carry you. Erika is with Antoinette, if we can just get out of this damned place-"
But Christine gripped tightly onto his shoulders, her eyes welling up with sudden tears as she began to tremble. Erik faltered- what was wrong with her?! His eyes began to frantically search her body, checking to see if she was injured or bleeding- if he had come this close only to have her ripped away from his side again, he didn't know what he would do. He would surely die; his already fragile heart would not survive the anguish-
"Erik, I...you have Erika?" she whispered, suddenly looking desperate, her eyes huge and wild as she gripped onto his shoulders with surprising force, her nails digging in with a sting that made him wince a little. "You...you intend to care for her?"
"What else would I do? Drown her? Give her to a beggar woman in the street?!" Erik looked down into her eyes, seeing the fear pooled there, and instantly felt anger bubble under his skin. She still doubted him- still thought that he might not love her, that he would gladly abandon her and Erika. He reached out for Christine's shoulders, holding her in the same way as she held onto him, gripped and frozen into place. "Christine, I intend...I intend to never leave your side again! And Erika- she is our daughter, Christine! You cannot know how I craved such a thing; you cannot even begin to comprehend! I am here, sobbing like a wretch, and you doubt my intentions?! Christine, I- I love you, you foolish girl! How could you ever think otherwise?!"
"You- you love me?" Christine repeated, her lip quivering and tears suddenly exploding from her eyes as she began to sob noisily and hopelessly, bowing her head. Erik could feel her shaking as he gripped onto her shoulders, and sighed with a slightly infuriated eye roll. This was hopeless- the servants quarters of the de Chagny townhouse, where a sadistic madman could burst in any minute, was not the time nor the place to declare such things.
"Yes." He said in a gentle voice, letting go of her shoulders and gently pushing her chin up so that she could look at him, see the truth in his eyes. "Of course I love you, Christine. When have I not loved you? You... you have been cruel, and a foolish girl at times, but who am I to say such things, when I am guilty of murder and kidnap? Stop crying, and we will leave this disgusting dump."
He took both of her hands in his, managing a small, hesitant smile. She was still looking at him, her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes red from the sudden sobbing, and quite suddenly Erik found himself lowering his head and kissing her. Her lips were cold and tasted slightly of iron- blood, he thought distantly- but it was as if he was melting against her, soaring into the sky that was now streaked with grey and white, the night finally relenting and surrendering her grip on the world to morning. Christine was crying again, silent tears that he could taste as they ran down her face and met their lips. The salty tang surprised him, and he drew back, intending to ask her why she kept crying.
But then Christine screamed, and as if in direct correlation, Erik felt a hand roughly grab him by the collar and throw him across the room with astonishing force. He felt the brief surge of air around him as he was airborne, but then he found himself crashing down against one of the wrought iron beds in the dormitory, sending him sprawling on the hard, stone ground. His head cracked the floor and pain exploded across his forehead, making him gag with the nausea, but then the laughing started. Not cold, calculated, cruel laughter, but a shrill cackle, reminding Erik of lunatics and madmen, not sinister villains. And who else could it be, with such a pathetic, insane laugh of triumph, other than the original weakling playing at being villainous; Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny? Erik scrambled up, but too late, far too late. For there, standing where he had just been kneeling and kissing Christine, now stood Raoul de Chagny, his hand wrenching Christine's head back by the hair, a gun pressed against her temple.
He looked dreadful- white in the face, shaking involuntarily, and his eyes were darting round the room, refusing to hold their gaze with even inanimate objects, let alone Erik, who now began to get up, slowly yet surely, his eyes blazing with pure, unadulterated fury. But as he took one menacing step, Raoul dug the gun harder into Christine's temple, causing her to whimper. Erik froze- he could not move. If he did, Raoul in this insane state would pull the trigger. Why had he let his guard down and kissed Christine when he could have been fleeing this place- why had he been such a fool, an unforgivable fool?! In a sudden fiery burst of rage, Erik fell to his knees and pounded his fist against the stone flooring, over and over until his knuckles were a mess of pink, mashed up flesh, covered in his own blood. Then, with a shaking breath, he stood up again and held both hands out to the shaking de Chagny, forcing himself to swallow the hatred collecting like bile in the back of his throat and meet Raoul's eyes.
"Vicomte." Erik began to speak, his voice harsh and coarse. The title tasted sour in his mouth, but he could not call him other names that were spiralling through his head for fear of angering him further...bastard, wretch, scum, filth, monster, beast-! "Vicomte I...I implore you, please...put the gun down. You don't want this, I know that you don't- Christine is your wife; you love her! Please..."
"Hah!" Raoul yelled back, his voice as insanely high pitched as his laugh, his pupils wide like a crazed horse's. His face was pinched and grey tinged with stress and anxiety, but his eyes were hard and resolute. Erik could not tell if the Vicomte would shoot if provoked- who knew if, in this crazed state, he would be able to do it? "Say that again, Phantom! Fall to your knees and beg at my feet, as I begged you that night in your perverted lair beneath the opera! For this time, this time I hold the sword- I am in control this time! How does it feel, repugnant beast?! How does it feel to watch helpless as I clutch all you hold dear in my grip!? At last I dominate the Phantom of the Opera- you will not dare to disobey me! Beg, you ugly beast from hell, beg as you lie on the floor weeping for your miserable fate!"
Erik stayed still, his jaw clenched and his fists flexing at his sides. He knew he could not, he knew that he mustn't provoke him and endanger Christine any further- oh, but how it would be to run over to that snivelling fool and rip his throat out before his very eyes! How he would delight in such a thing!
"De Chagny." Erik said again, his voice audibly strained as he fought to retain his composure. "Please. You don't need to do this, not to Christine."
"Don't I?! DON'T I?!" the man screamed, pulling at Christine's hair until she cried out, before kicking her in the side with his booted foot, his eyes blazing with madness and fury. She collapsed on the floor beside him, and he dropped his fistful of her hair, instead pinning her down by placing his foot on her back and exerting just enough pressure to cause her pain. Erik was shaking all over, trying to decide whether he should risk it or not- the gun, no longer pressed against her temple, was aimed directly at the back of her head. It was still too great a risk. "Oh, you cannot understand how very foolish I felt when I at last realised the truth of this matter- when at last I recalled just who had the name of Erik. You have challenged me, Phantom; you have fathered her little bastard daughter, you have taken what is mine from me and I do not take kindly to such things! You challenged me, Phantom, and I rose to the challenge; this time I will win!"
Erik felt tears form in his eyes, hot tears of desperation, and Raoul's face blurred in and out of focus as they streamed out of his eyes and down his cheeks. He didn't know what to do, how to act- the lasso was on the floor beside Christine, he could not charge at Raoul for fear of triggering the gunshot...he was helpless. Utterly and truly helpless. All he could hope to do now was to use words; to either talk the fop out of this madness, or to torment him until he left Christine and tried to kill him instead. Yes...that would work, wouldn't it? Erik took one last glance at Christine, and then forced himself to stare back at Raoul. He knew what to say- dear God; he knew exactly what would enrage this foul excuse for a man. All the words, all the hate that had built up ever since he first saw Christine again, the bruises, the tears, the pathetic submission-
"I adore your company, Erik." She replied in a voice that could challenge angels for beauty. "How could I not? I value you so much; of course I want to see you!"
"Erik...it means the world."
'Erik, Erik, I am a pitiful wreck without you. Why is that I can only realise how disastrously I love you when it is too late? Oh God. Forgive me, Erik, forgive me.'
'The child, as mentioned, is called Erika. Erika Rosa Daae. Erika for you, Rosa for your Black Rose Opera House and Daae as her surname, for my father. She is yours- of that, I am most certain. I love her with all my heart, and know that you will too. I cannot ask your forgiveness, for I am too far gone for that now, but I ask that when Erika asks of her mother, you will tell her stories of Angels of Music, of operas and ballerinas, of a foolish young woman who realised too late what real love truly is.'
Raoul had begun to speak again.
"You see, Phantom, you are weak in ways that I never was, and never will be! You may be able to kill a hundred men with your lasso, or wreak havoc on the unsuspecting villains but now you are faced with your weakness, your one true weakness, and you cannot overcome it!" Raoul taunted, delighted. "Look at you- you will not move, simply because I have Christine at gunpoint! Just as the threat of your little foreign friend's death brought you running from England, or how you became so angry when my father's assassin approached the Giry dancer brat- she never did tell you that I barged into her home once, did she? She knew that your weakness was love- you care far too much, Phantom! But tell me, before I get bored and my hand slips on this trigger, why do you even care about Christine?! She loathed you, chose me over you! Why are you not singing my praises for ending her dull life?"
"And this is where we differ, de Chagny." Erik stated coldly, the words dripping with distaste and disgust, so that Raoul bristled a little and stood up straight, trying to seem imposing as he sneered. "You are selfish and egotistical- a typical narcissist fop. As soon as Christine was no longer worshipping you and your Prince Charming act, you hated it. You are...you are self-obsessed and a bully! There was a time, not so very long ago, when you were a good man- such a good man that I loathed you; loathed you for stealing away my Christine with your kindness and your charm. You had her love- you had Christine Daae's love and you saw fit to use her, beat her and then discard her. I love Christine because she...because she is Christine. There is not a bit of her that I could change or perfect, because her flaws are perfect too. And my love for her is unwavering, unconditional; it will remain until the day I die. But you...you never loved her."
Raoul went red in the face, baby tears welling up in his crazed eyes, and he looked about frantically for some sort of object to hurl at Erik- failing this, he took off one of his own shoes and launched it at Erik's head, missing him entirely. He resembled a toddler, throwing a fit or a tantrum when he had not been given what he demanded.
"I did love her- I still DO love her!" the fop hissed at him, nearly sobbing with his hysteria. Erik waited, willing him to drop the gun and charge, so that he might finally attack and put an end to this tortuous waiting game. "But the stupid bitch didn't understand- nobody understands! I offered her everything, the world, I risked my dignity marrying a common singer, but she still wanted you! You the ugly, foul, murderous beast who lured her into your clutches- YOU POISONED HER MIND!"
"You know that you lie." Erik hissed, taunting him. "You know that it was your abuse that drove her away."
"I was a good husband!"
"Don't you dare say such a thing to me!" Erik snarled. "I saw the bruises, I saw her after you raped her- raped your own wife! You destroyed her, de Chagny, mutilated her! Just as your corrupt father tainted and warped you. You are broken- if you can really go so far as to hold your wife at gunpoint and tell me that you love her, then you are past saving. You are as good as dead!"
Raoul sniffed once, suddenly reaching and pulling Christine forcibly up by the hair again, showing her unconscious, pale face to Erik with an evil grin. Then, slowly, with exaggerated drama, he removed the safety catch of the little pistol and placed the gun against her temple again, softly, almost tenderly, before then grinding the metal against her bone white skin with a devilish laugh. Erik swore under his breath, seeing the skin grazed by the metal, the blood so red against the stark white-
"It doesn't matter- you are far too late. Such a pity that you didn't leave as soon as you had her rather than staging a tender greeting on the floor. You would have escaped, too." Raoul shrugged, sounding almost childish. "Oh well, you are the only one who is missing out. Now I will kill her before your very eyes- but don't fret, for then I will put you out of your misery and kill you, too. To think, I am about to bring about the fall of the Phantom of the Opera! Such a pity that my father's elaborate plans of mimics and mobs didn't work- you almost deserve a dramatic death. But then my father was only concerned with covering his dirty tracks, saving himself- there was no passion behind it. Whereas I...I have dreamed of this moment ever since you gagged me with your lasso! Oh, how fitting- I have your lasso just here, beside me!"
Raoul looked down for one second, grinning sadistically at the rope next to his feet. But that one short second was enough- enough for Erik to leap at the raving Vicomte and to tug him forwards, to send him crashing down to the ground away from Christine.
He fell with him, tumbling and sprawling as Raoul gripped his foot and tugged him towards him, waving the gun in his face with hideous delight, clearly enjoying himself. Desperate, Erik stretched, trying to reach the lasso, but just as his fingers brushed the rope, Raoul saw his plan and kicked the lasso to the other side of the room, laughing.
"Come on then, Phantom!" he crowed. "Fight me!"
Erik could not turn down such an inviting prospect. He grabbed the fop by the neck and squeezed hard; lifting him up and then throwing him back down against the stone floor, over and over, loving the fierce cracking noise that his no doubt empty skull made when it hit the hard flooring. Raoul, looking very pale all of a sudden, head butted Erik with all his might as he was hauled up again, sending Erik sprawling backwards, blood gushing from his nose and trickling down his face in a warm, iron scented river. Raoul had dropped his gun and in the struggle accidently kicked it across the room, so he dove for it, Erik following close behind.
They both went for the sinister black object, and collided with some force, bouncing off one another and falling backwards. Raoul had a lump the size of a large egg already swelling up on his forehead, and Erik's bleeding nose was throbbing like his own heart. Raoul grabbed the gun and charged him, but Erik spun on his heel and leapt for the lasso. He had the thick rope within his grip just as Raoul jumped him from behind, knocking him to the floor again. His chin hit the floor and pain exploded across his face, so that he roared in fury and found the energy to grab a fistful of the fop's long girlish hair and tug with all his might. The fop screamed out in pain, a few of the hairs being tugged out completely but the majority clinging on, inflicting burning torture on his scalp.
Erik let go off his hair and in a flash had the lasso around his neck, already starting to tighten the rope, but Raoul managed somehow to knock him backwards. He pinned Erik against the floor with his knees, one on each shoulder, and then grinned as he took the flesh coloured mask from Erik's face.
"Clever, very clever- discreet, but not discreet enough, Phantom."
He then proceeded to throw the mask to the ground beside him, and used the gun to completely obliterate it, crushing it with the barrel and shooting it until all that remained was a smoking pile of flesh coloured debris.
"Next, it's your face!" Raoul hissed gleefully, pushing the gun right down in the centre of Erik's exposed forehead. "Goodbye, Phantom, may you rot in hell!"
Erik flailed wildly, thrashing about like a fish beached in shallow water, and he managed to wrench one arm free and lock his hand tightly around Raoul's neck. He squeezed as tightly as he could- and then suddenly blood was everywhere, Raoul's hiss of pain accompanying the gushing red, and Erik was astonished as Raoul collapsed, the gun clattering to the floor as he slumped and fell sideways, dark red blooming and spreading on his shirt.
Erik sat up quickly, looking down at his hands, especially the one which had gripped Raoul de Chagny around the neck. They were covered in blood, but so was all of him- how had he managed to kill the fop? It didn't make any sense- where was the blood coming from? He collapsed, falling backwards, his head swirling thickly and the hideous stench of blood clogging his nostrils, making him feel sick.
He rolled slowly away from the Vicomte, before lying frozen on the floor, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He was saturated with Raoul's blood, drenched in it, but how had he managed to inflict such a wound?! His hands had not done that, they couldn't have. He forced himself to sit up again, this time breathing deeply and making himself crawl over to where the boy had collapsed, drenched in red blood and gasping for air. As he stared down at the sallow face of Raoul, his eyes tightly shut against the pain and his breathing laboured, he felt a surge of pity rip through him, making him reach out and position the boy so that he lay comfortably on the floor. Raoul's eyes shot open at his touch, and disappointment clouded them instantly; who had he expected? Christine?
But instead of feeling angry at the audacity of Raoul's expectations, Erik felt incredibly sad. Lying on the floor, dying and covered in blood, no doubt in great pain, the self-assured attitude and the insanity had faded away, leaving only a frightened young man. Erik looked down to avoid the Vicomtes scared eyes and saw his hands in his lap, bloodied hands. The sight of them nearly crushed him.
"Phantom...Erik...whatever you...are."
Erik looked up as the soft croak of the Vicomte filled the aching silence of the room. It was astonishing, dreadful yet astonishing, how a mere ten minutes ago he had been leaping across the room set to kill this man without a second thought. But now he lay dying and as Erik looked down at his bloodied hands, he realised that this was not what should have happened. Though Raoul deserved it more than anyone...Erik still felt the cruel stab of guilt pierce his heart. Nadir, if the old fool where here with him, would probably say something along the lines of 'guilt is good, Erik, it means you are a better man'. But how could guilt- this crushing feeling of remorse and horror-ever be good?!
"Yes?" he said quietly, moving closer to the dying man.
"Don't...don't ever break...her heart." he suddenly coughed, gagging and spitting blood out onto the floor. A trickle ran down the side of his face, coming from his mouth and Erik sat frozen, feeling utterly horrified. "I...I trust...you. She always wanted...you...anyway. Make...her...happy, Erik." He seemed to seize up suddenly where he laid, his muscles going rigid and his eyes rolling in their sockets. "Feud over...Phantom."
And then, without fuss or dramatics, he died. On the floor, drenched in blood, next to Erik.
Erik bent his head and turned away. He could not look at the body a second longer, as each moment he remained looking, the more his heart ached. He did not care that Raoul was dead- he did not wildly declare that Raoul had been a good man in the end, that his life had been too short. But he did ache, for the misery and hopelessness of such a situation. What a pointless death, what a futile existence- Erik realised, with bitter acceptance, that Raoul de Chagny and himself were not incredibly different from one another. Only he had managed to continue with his life, bearing the pain with the help from others, true friends such as Nadir...but Raoul...once he lost Christine, he lost the only one who had ever cared about him. They were both pathetic.
A faint rustle of material made him turn, sharply, turning his back from the bloody corpse. His breath caught as his eyes met the scene behind him, his face draining of colour as he stood up and went over to her- his stomach felt uneasy with the emotions mixing and colliding inside of him. He reached Christine and knelt beside her, taking the bloody dagger from her frozen grip and immediately pulled her back into his arms, embracing her with all his might. Of course, it made sense now- he had not killed the boy, but Christine had. She was wearing his jacket, the jacket whose pockets held a dagger and gun. Erik's heart gave a nauseating shudder as some of the guilt fell away; he clutched her tightly to him, as if she were a piece of driftwood in a stormy sea, something for him to cling onto amid this chaos, something that would not let him down.
"Erik." She sobbed, sounding so wretched that Erik, for one moment, feared that he might have been the intended target, not Raoul. "Oh God, oh God! I regained consciousness and saw you fighting with him- it seemed that he was about to shoot you! I don't know what happened, but I found the dagger and then- and then- oh dear God, I killed him!"
Erik drew back a little, stroking her hair and making gentle soothing noises, the same noises he had calmed Erika with when she was crying after his outburst. His worry and pent up desperation was clear in his eyes; he did not need to tell her how scared he had been that she might die. Christine was crying, crying from the same guilt that had just crushed him, and he knew as he held her tightly that she would never forgive herself.
"Christine, Christine, everything is going to be fine. We are alive; we can leave this place, you never have to return here again. Don't cry, my Christine, I'm here, beside you, and I am never going to leave you again."
"I am such a fool." She whispered, the tears clogging up her throat and making the words thick and strained. "But I...I love you, Erik. Thank you, thank you..."
Erik closed Raouls eyelids before lifting up the frail, sobbing Christine, carrying her out of the blood smelling room, out of the townhouse prison, out of her trapped existence as Madame de Chagny, Vicomtess. It was still early and too cold for many to be out and about, so there were no huge crowds to gawp and stare at a hideously deformed man and a severely ill woman galloping through the biting November wind on one of the de Chagny's best horses.
And as Erik carried her up the steps to Antoinette's front door, and was met with a hysterical Antoinette and a furious Nadir, he realised something, something that seemed almost irrelevant compared to the fact that Christine had told him she loved him. Almost irrelevant...
His mask was crushed, his hideous face exposed, and yet she had not screamed or fled from him; she had looked upon the distorted, deformed flesh, and she had told him that she loved him.