First of all, I want to apologize profusely for the hiatus from hell. Excuse the language. As it is, I really have no explanation, save pure laziness and a lack of inspiration. But here is the next chapter, which took me a year to finish. (I actually only finished it tonight - my roommate urged me and told me I simply had to complete it!) Thus, I shall do so…in good time.
Please excuse any discrepancies in grammar or spelling...I could not wait to release it. I will more than likely go back and edit later on.
For now, here is the end to the worry and nail-biting..enjoy!
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"There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives,amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the starting-point and the goal."
- "The Murders in the Rue Morgue", Edgar Allen Poe
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She did not remember falling into oblivion, but the moment she awoke from it she had decided she had passed out from pure shock. Unconsciously, her hand clenched around the tattered folds of her dress, blinking away her stupor and forcing her eyes to see clearly. Blearily, she drew to the conclusion that she was in great, great danger, and had a very slight chance of escape.
A fresh wave of panic descended upon her, and for the second time that day, darkness consumed her.
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The barren, slate-gray expanse of the horizon took on a murky, chalky glow as the dawn approached and lifted the lifelessness in the air. The fragrance of dead winter, however, did not dissipate as the sun continued to rise invisibly through the steel clouds, futile in any attempt to punctuate the heavens with even the smallest shimmer of light.
Another unproductive week had vanished, and the Vicomte felt the everlasting, tangible blanket of despondency crystallize over his heart, clenching to his being like a second skin and wiping out all hope. The servants, by no means deftly, whispered frightened words in the halls, murmuring on about how the young master was steadily losing his grasp on reality, and how he was sinking deeper and deeper into the oblivion of depression with each day's pass. It certainly did not help that their loose tongues wagged so conspicuously, though the Vicomte paid no great heed to their cursed flippancies.
His brother had approached him in his grief, to his great consternation, on how to better occupy his time. It was his philosophy, being a businessman, that time lost was money spent, and he was steadily losing more and more with each thwarted attempt to find his beloved. He tried, to no avail, to lift the grievances of his brother by sparking his interest in other things. His favorite topic, of late, was the Mademoiselle de Douay, and how she was much inclined to share with him in his grief. Although Raoul would never ostentatiously catch another in a falsehood, he was acutely aching to acknowledge it.
His contemplations led him to return to his desk, but not before noticing a definite change in the atmosphere from the rest of the manor. He was convinced that another presence was in the room, but after taking a sweeping glance across the handsomely-attired room, he laid his mind at rest.
Just when his guard had been let down, a cold, leather-encased hand grasped his neck from behind, crushing his windpipe and causing a cold sweat to break cross his brow.
Raoul spluttered a few incoherent words, but was merely silenced from behind menacingly.
"We have precious little time, Vicomte, and pleasantries are certainly not on either of our minds, so allow me to come across, clearly, on why I have deigned to speak with you so early in the morning – or, rather, at all."
The voice was cold, confident, and deadly. While there was no doubt in his mind as to whom the speaker might be, Raoul was still baffled as to his purpose, and why exactly he was bruising his throat so needlessly.
He released him without warning, throwing Raoul forward in a graceless manner. Clutching a hand to his injured throat, he glared vehemently, or more accurately, hatefully, at his foe.
"You," he spat, his voice harsh and uneven.
The Phantom gazed back at him, and while Raoul could not be sure, he was convinced that the fiend raised an eyebrow at him behind his mask.
"I'm glad to see that we are indeed on good terms, Vicomte, otherwise any conversation would be most uncivil and disconcerting." A pause ensued. Then-
"Smugness does not bode well with gentlemen." Raoul quit his shocked and angry expression, however, and settled for a bitter, resentful one that made him look oddly pleased. "However, I'm sure it can be agreed upon that you, monsieur, are no gentleman."
The strangely yellow-hued eyes shone back with defiance and intensity, causing the Vicomte's resolve to slip slightly out of place. "To be a gentleman, my dear Vicomte, one must belong to the race of man, and I, most certainly, lay no claim to belonging to a species of degenerate, loathsome beings," he sneered unpleasantly, though the beauty of his speaking voice remained unquestionable.
His bewildered expression earned him an embittered laugh from Erik, followed by a sudden jerking movement that led him to stand a few feet farther away. He turned to him sharply, as if irritable, and peculiarly, extremely anxious. "If we are settled in our usual exchange, monsieur, perhaps I might warn you of what has happened to your precious fiancé."
If the Vicomte was shocked previously, his mien was hardly similar to what previously lie upon it before. His astonishment soon dissolved and anger replaced it, causing his fists to clench and unclench, his knuckles starch-white. He was silent, however, as the internal war raged within him, to which the masked man continued indifferently.
"She has been kidnapped."
"What?!" Raoul was livid, his face flushed a deep crimson and his body shaking.
"By Douay. It is from my understanding that you are acquainted with them." His tone, disbelievingly, was accusatory, and his eyes were narrowed. Though his tone was neutral, Raoul sensed a deeper threat, so black and ominous that beneath his hot, boiling rage, he felt an uncertain fear and deeper insecurity.
Suddenly, his shaking lessened, his eyes narrowing in turn. "Your lie-weaving only seems to continue!" Raoul replied, scathingly. "If you are searching for any trail to find Christine, you may rest assured that even if I were aware of her whereabouts, or had some semblance of a hint, I would never leave such information in your grotesque hands."
Once again, gloved hands were latched around his throat, mere seconds after his sentence was complete. Belatedly, he had wondered why he didn't sense the approaching threat, especially once Erik realized the oncoming insult. He was close, dangerously too close, so much so that Raoul could smell the horrid, frozen stench of air on his face, and met the glaring, hateful, scorching eyes of the phantom and felt his own would be pierced by the passion in his gaze.
"Make no mistake, monsieur, that with or without your consent, much less your knowledge, I will retrieve what has been taken and when I do, I will tell your fiancé of how her beloved Vicomte would not come to her aid, simply due to the prejudices he holds against her savior. Believe me, it is precisely the variety of persuasion I need to win her."
He was speechless. Gazing back wordlessly, he moved his lips without any result. After a few moments, Erik released him impatiently, scoffing in a disgusted and displeased manner.
"It's true, then? She really has been kidnapped?" he finally said in a small, strained voice.
"Undoubtedly," Erik replied simply, passing a hand over his face – or, rather his mask.
Raoul took a few minutes to take in all that had been shared. Then, "If winning her, as you've said, is your true goal, why include me in your scheming?" He could not help but bite back a resentful drawl.
Erik looked at him sourly, as if being in the room with the man was enough to make him mildly ill. "If her decision is as final as I believe it to be, then the only thing left for me to do is make sure you don't wreck what I have already invested in. And her state of mind concerning you happens to fall into that territory."
He swallowed this tidbit of information indecisively, yet allowed his guard to slip just a little to allow more questions to flow. "And you have no doubt that Douay is behind this?"
"None."
"Would you happen to know precisely who, might I ask, from that particular line?" Raoul questioned, mockingly.
Erik stared back balefully, clearly annoyed. "I did not see who, and even if I did, I would not have been able to identify the culprit."
"You saw it happen?!"
"My powers of observation serve me quite well, Vicomte. Yes, I did see her taken."
"Then why the bloody hell didn't you follow?!" he all but screeched.
"Your tone leaves much to be desired. As well as your pitch. That could easily be remedied by a noose around the neck," he hissed.
"Is that a threat?"
"Your powers of observation appear to serve you suitably as well."
Raoul glowered for a split-second, closing his eyes and appearing to take a deep breath to remedy his anger. "Fine. It falls under your jurisdiction whether or not to tell me your reasoning for not saving her when you had the chance -,"
"You do not know the circumstances…!" Erik countered, oddly defensive and frightened-sounding. The sound, however, produced more of a frightened effect on the Vicomte.
Raoul swallowed. "Be that as it may, the situation still stands that Christine is endangered. I will not tolerate it, now that I know where she has been for this long."
The Phantom said nothing, only glared and stood resolutely.
"What do you propose?"
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Her head felt unbearably heavy and dense, and her fingers and limbs did not seem to want to function properly. Nevertheless, she felt the haziness of sleep slipping away, and it was not without a morsel of remorse that she let herself become more fully awake.
However much of a prisoner she realized herself to be – again, she thought with wistful aggravation – she was not a badly treated one. Her back, though bruised from being shoved and slightly achingly from leaning unconsciously for quite a time in that carriage, was now lying on a fairly comfortable mattress with fairly warm sheets. She was, thankfully, still in her dress from whenever she was taken, and did not appear to have been mishandled any worse than she had been already.
Sitting up slowly, her head pounding to an unheard rhythm that pressed viciously against her skull, she took stock of where she was being held.
It was a decently-sized room, dressed in yellows and pale blues that reminded her of Easter, despite the frigid season they were currently in. The merry colors of the room seemed to mock her at every turn, with Swiss-styled furniture and lace window hangings shut tightly against the world.
It was a hollowly pleasant soft of prison.
"Oh good, you're awake."
She jerked, tense with apprehension, at the sound of the deep, booming voice from, what she realized, was the doorway. Being bolted minutes before, the large door was now open, a brightly golden light silhouetting the form of a man. A man she knew, by now, that was her captor and her stalker for quite time.
"This has been a long-planned ploy, then?" Christine whispered, her voice rough from her bruised body.
He approached menacingly, and with a rolling wave of recognition she could detect the way in which he walked, silent and eerie. It was nothing similar to Erik's walk. While both men gave off a definite sense of danger and violence, beneath this man's exterior there was no buried soul longing for compassion. There was simply blackness.
Pit-like, dark hazel eyes leered openly at her, taking in her form beneath the bed sheets, a maniacal and vicious gleam to them. A shiver of disgust made its way through her, and she struggled not to retch.
"Yes," he hissed, "you finally seem to have caught on." He circled around the bed to her left, appearing to find enjoyment out of hassling her. "But you seem so distraught, little girl. Are your accommodations not to your liking?"
The teasing pet name did not come naturally to his lips. In no way possible did it seem as if this man had an ounce of humor within him. Wary, Christine did not answer, only attempted to slowly sit up.
He swiftly pushed her back down with a sudden spark of violence. His entire demeanor changed in that one second, and pure antagonism exploded from his eyes, rather than just the throat of it from before. "Oh no, my dear, please do not trouble yourself."
She quietly sobbed, upset and more scared than she had ever been before in her entire life.
"But you must not cry, little girl. After all, what would Raoul say? Or even….Erik?"
Another sob hitched in her throat at the mention of Raoul, and abruptly halted at that of Erik.
"But…you can't…" she protested.
"You simply must not underestimate me, Christine. It is most unflattering." He leaned in close then, grasped a handful of her curls, and gave a harsh yank. She gave a loud howl of pain and grabbed his hand, which he had lain on the bed as if bowing her towards his figure, and attempted to pull him off of her hair. In response, he gave a second pull which completely tugged her off the bed and landed her at his face. She groaned in anguish, lying flat on her face and attempting to breath through the pain in her abdomen and lungs.
"Such a shame that such a pretty girl is so disobedient," he practically sneered, crouching down so that he was nearer to her. Taking a hold of her arm, he flipped her over so that she was lying on her back, her bloodshot and watered eyes blinking rapidly and staring at the ceiling. "And such a pretty bird you are, little girl…though, you are not so little, are you?" A calloused hand soon slithered out and rubbed against the inside of her thigh, causing Christine to bolt up at once and crawl away from him.
"Get your hands off of me!" she screeched, tears falling down her face unwittingly.
"Think you are so noble, after all the sneaking around you have gone on with? And how will your noble fiancé be able to touch you when he learns of your treachery? Of your dishonorable acts with your masked lover?"
"You know nothing," she whimpered scathingly, backing away using her feet and feeling uselessly used.
"Can you really say that comfortably when you know that I have been made witness? Many would think me a monster, little girl, but you-,"
Through her haze of anger, she raced across the room, only to be stopped in her tracks when she was met face-to-face with the dreaded evil behind the plot.
Someone she had never suspected.
Someone she had never thought to be so cruel.
Someone she should have guessed long ago.
"Leaving so soon?" Sorrel queried.
The sudden sensation of seeing her rendered her completely numb. It was a mind-crushing blow, leaving her somewhat breathless and oddly empty. Sorrel de Douay backed Christine up so far until her knees crashed into the foot of the bed, forcing Christine to sit and be at a lower level than the she-demon. Feeling emboldened despite her compromised position, Christine mustered what scattered dignity she had and replied with pride and spoke. "I had not thought you capable of such an intelligent operation, Sorrel. You have surpassed my judgement of you."
Sorrel visibly bristled. She quickly recovered however. "My, my, has imprisonment sure done wonders on your manners, Christine. Well, at least I have not forgotten mine. Indeed, haven't I provided you with all that a good host must?"
Christine took a reluctant glance around the room. She grudgingly attested that it was a fine room, and she could even see that plate had been left out for her when she awoke. However, the treatment by her henchmen and her openly glaring stare were anything but accommodating.
"What is it that you want?" Christine demanded, frustrated and frightened.
"What I want, darling, is very simple. Your life. Or, more appropriately, your likelihood. I feel as if I would sleep better without having to lead the double life that you do. How utterly exhausting that must be!"
Christine ignored the last comment. "My likelihood? What do you mean?
Sorrel did not pause in her tirade. Instead, she swung her hair to the side carelessly, examining the room in its perfection. "But your husband, of course. I wish to be Vicomtess de Chagny. It is certainly a title that you do not take remotely seriously, and therefore it should be mine. The rightful heiress to it. You are but scum that was luckily traipsed into the mansion."
Christine made a move as if to stand in outrage, but was soon pushed back by the henchmen, who moved so quickly it was as if he were a blur.
Sorrel look amused and highly superior. "If you are so anxious for an explanation, darling, I would be more than happy to supply you with one. You see, the love of your life was once in love with me, and it was to me that he was to be wed. But you see, I had a love of my own, and could not bare to be parted from him. But he was not a worthy suitor you see. Below me. He was forced from me and threatened that should he see me again he would pay. I never saw him from then on." She paused, more angry than before, but strangely vindictive in her demeanor.
"I refused to marry anyone, insisting that I would marry when I felt the urge, rather than being forced into it. My father was simply appeased that I had rid my infatuation, so he obliged. And then, I met your Raoul. He was a simple creature, charming and youthful and good and was quite taken with me, I might add," she purred, glaring haughtily as Christine raged against the arms of her enforcer. He simply tightened his grasp. "But I was simply uninterested. It was not until your dear brother-in-law-to-be came to me and simply begged that I try and separate you and Raoul. I agreed to that, and also, once you were out of the picture, to marry him as well."
"But you didn't care for him at all!" Christine shouted out. "You have no feelings towards him. Why should you destroy a perfectly happy situation?
"For several reasons, precious. One, personal pleasure. I would reap great pleasure as a sort of indirect vengeance against the world for repayment for what has been stolen from me. Two, to break the happiness of a good man, because in the end, good men always end up disappointing you." Her stony silence suddenly indicated that there was a lot Sorrel de Douay was not sharing as to her secret feelings.
"Three, money is a very large commodity which the Chagny family has. As our family is poor as mice, it is imperative that I marry and save my father from starvation. At once. And fourth…" she looked straight into Christine's eyes, more cold and calculating than ever before, "Why should you have the best of both worlds when I could not?"
Christine was speechless. She could say nothing out of shock of all the information she collected. Sorrel smirked.
"You won't live much longer to rummage through the details at any rate, so do not trouble your pretty little head. It was all end soon."
Christine met her eyes at that, and without fear, said, "Tell me, Lady Sorrel, how does it feel to know that no man will stay with you, unless it is sheer force that is outside his will?
With a great slashing sound, Sorrel ran a row of sharp fingernails across Christine face, cutting her and drawing blood.
"How very amusing, Daae. But playing coy will no longer work. You have been deemed dangerous and too knowledgeable and thus you are a liability.
"I expect her to be dead by midnight tonight. If she is not, the next sight of blood will be yours," she spoke to the man.
He nodded, regarding her hungrily.
Christine watched in despair as Sorrel exited, wiping the blood from Christine cheek on a handkerchief.
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I don't deserve reviews, but…
May I have them? Please?
I love you all. You are the best. I do hope you come back and read more!