Standard Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around.
Author's Note(s): All you reviewers are fabulous. I really wanted to post a chapter for you last night, but THE POWER WENT OUT AT OUR HOUSE so I couldn't type anything. I just keep telling myself it could have been worse—I could have typed a great chapter and had it go out before I hit save... So anyway, that's why it's today instead of yesterday. You understand of course?
Author's Special Request: We have a terrible situation on our hands now, as the Persian will most definitely figure in more prominently in the very near future, and he remains nameless. I wonder what Leroux meant by giving us the name of Darius, the servant, but not the name of the more influential character... but rather than go into a long discussion of his possible reasons, let's just cut to the chase and solve this problem: I will need to name him. Kay called him Nadir, and it's become widely accepted throughout fanfiction that Nadir simply IS the Persian's name. But not everyone agrees. I'm not sure how I feel about it, so I've created (well, am creating... I expect to have it finished a few minutes after posting this chapter!) a survey (under "polls" and I hope you all will solve this problem for me. If you click on my name to go to my profile, you should see the poll available at the top. Please go to the Persian survey and choose his name. I put quite a few choices in there--I hope it's not so many that it confuses the issue too much. Thanks in advance!
Previously:
When he reached home, he marveled that he had made the majority of the journey—or at least half of it—in broad daylight without anyone accosting him and without giving in too terribly to feelings of panic. Perhaps this was a dream, unless it was more of Elizabeth's trickery. It was ironic that she was so impressed with his sleight of hand, yet she performed a magic of her own that he had not until just now paused to consider. He let himself in hastily and suddenly realized that in spite of having complained repeatedly about living underground, he had been homesick all along without being fully aware. He fairly ran through the passageway and when he arrived at the house on the lake he threw himself upon the organ with a passion and a fury that far surpassed any playing he had done when he suffered at the hands of Christine.
Though Erik no longer suffered at the hands of Christine, another man did. Raoul's patience for his future bride was wearing thin. Against his will, he had endured her singing lessons by the man's voice. He had suffered humiliation at the masked ball as the Red Death rampaged right past him and Christine stilled his hand. He had borne her stories of Erik's first revealing himself to her with a grim determination, but she had refused to let him take action against the monster. She insisted she loved him, but he always worried she had feelings for Erik. When he asked her the question of critical import—If Erik were attractive, would you love me?—she had carefully evaded answering by kissing him instead. Raoul had compared himself to the monster quite carefully, and though to all reasonable rationalizations he was the proper choice, he had the certain sense that he did not measure up. Somehow, music gave the other possession over her, and in the realm of music Raoul simply could not compete. His love for Christine had repeatedly pushed him into realms into which he never thought he would dare. He had contemplated suicide the night that Erik and Christine had passed in the brougham, and he had contemplated murder the day Christine told him of the way Erik behaved when she tore off his mask, but both of those paled in comparison to what he felt now.
Erik had mercilessly killed his elder brother—a man who had been a father to him. And now Christine not only would not renounce Erik, but insisted upon treating him as a friend, even after her own fear of him had sent her into lunacy. Perhaps she was not entirely recovered as Elizabeth seemed to think. Of course, Elizabeth still did not have the whole story. Raoul had not told her that he believed Erik had killed Philippe. Guilt surged through him as he realized he had lent Elizabeth the use of the house on the outskirts of town without questioning her. She had allowed Erik not only to come there, but to stay there. She had been in grave danger. Christine had been in danger as well. He had allowed it. In his grief, he hadn't been thinking clearly. He needed to think clearly. He needed to steel himself against the soft voices expressing the whims of the women, for these would surely be his downfall. Christine wanted Erik at their wedding. She wanted him to stand in her father's place. He had known Christine's father, and Erik was a poor substitute, even by any stretch of the imagination. The only thing they had in common was their affinity for music; there the similarities ended. Christine's father had been warm and kind, while Erik was a kind of untamed beast. Christine's father had thought of her well-being, while Erik selfishly dragged her off against her wishes. Erik had deceived her—something her father never would have done intentionally. To have Erik have anything to do with the wedding would be a desecration of her father's memory in addition to Philippe's, whether Christine realized it or not, and he, Raoul, would not be a part of that.
He lay awake all night, unable to sleep for these thoughts that plagued him. Elizabeth appeared equally horrified, and yet she had done nothing, said nothing to convince Christine otherwise. And he himself! He had dared to think she would tire of it like a childish game, but no! The remainder of the day it was Erik this and Erik that and if we do such and such it will make Erik more comfortable! Whose wedding was it anyway? Erik's? Raoul had fought down the urge to say something like "If you're so concerned for Erik's comfort, why don't you just marry him, then?" but now he was beginning to think that perhaps he should have said it. When he could bear to lie in bed no longer, he got up and set out to Paris, for the Valerius flat. It was early morning, before dawn. Regardless of the hour, he intended to tell Christine once and for all his feelings on the matter.
Christine had spent the night similarly in that she had not slept. She, however, had been thinking entirely opposite thoughts. Now that he was missing—and perhaps even in danger—she remembered Erik as warm and gentle. She remembered the nights beneath the Opera and envisioned herself in his arms. He held her tightly, but with tenderness. He murmured words of love in her ear. She embraced him. She shook the thoughts from her head, for they were anything but daughterly. She reimagined it more carefully. He was leading her by the hand, calling her child, touching her lightly on the head. Yes, that was Erik was she wished to remember him. Poor Erik. What had become of him? She imagined him being discovered in Elizabeth's house while she was out and felt a pang of guilt. Elizabeth had been here with her. They had been discussing plans for her wedding to Raoul. And even as Christine realized her desire to have Erik share in her joy, Erik was perhaps being brutally mishandled at the hands of—who? The citizens of Paris? Would they realize all these months later, his connection with the Opera? Or would they merely beat him out of their own fear when they saw him? But how would they have discovered him? What would they have been doing in Elizabeth's house anyway? Besides, Erik was far too swift, far too intelligent, far too cunning to be caught unaware by commonfolk. That left the other option. Elizabeth had told her about the plans for the wedding and he had become upset—perhaps at the idea that she would still marry Raoul, whom he loathed, or perhaps at merely being asked to appear in public. The first left her with a difficult predicament. The second, surely Elizabeth could solve. In the meantime, Christine continued to wonder and worry. If Raoul did not arrive too early, she would go to the Opera, for though Elizabeth said she had looked there, Christine still found it difficult to believe that Elizabeth knew her way about the place. After all, she'd known nothing of the mirror in the dressing room—how could she?—until she'd told her. With the Opera unused, Erik could be anywhere within it, and only she, Christine, could find him. In her mind there was a flash of an image of Erik beaten and bruised, and she was leaning over him. He would soon see that Elizabeth was not the only one willing to care for him. She shook her head again. It was nonsense to imagine he'd allow it. It was nonsense to think of it, for Raoul...
Raoul was at the door. And then he was inside. Mamma Valerius was preparing a light breakfast and Raoul was insisting that an important conversation had to be had.
"It's not that much to ask, Raoul," Christine insisted. "After all, I will have to endure a great number of members of your family who do not approve at all of this marriage."
"It is hardly the same thing. I ask you to endure a few people who cannot understand a marriage between our classes. You ask me to allow a murderer in my midst."
"Raoul, you haven't proof of that!"
"Haven't I?"
"You haven't shown a shred of it to me! And consider how I shall feel with all those eyes upon us and all your family there thinking of me as a mere opera wench and as if that were not bad enough that I have no money, no prestige, no station in life, couple all that with the fact that I have no family at all—why, Raoul, you shall humiliate your wife on your very wedding day!"
"You would come to your wedding on the arm of the murderer of your brother-in-law and it is I who humiliates you?"
"Raoul, you can't prove that. Perhaps it were simply an accident."
"I heard him after the bell rang. He asked you why you were looking at him like that. He admitted being all wet. He said it was raining cats and dogs outside! Even a man as mad as he could not expect anyone to believe such nonsense. He dragged Philippe into the water and drowned him. My only brother!"
He turned from her in grief and rage and she felt powerless to sway him. Always before she had been able to change his mind with her words. And yet this morning he was relentless. He was certainly merely talking, however. He had said such things before. The night of the masquerade he had called her an opera wench and said he despised her. He had said he would die of shame at having loved her, but a moment later when she said goodbye to him for good, he had pursued her and begged her. She'd taken off her mask and when he'd looked at her again, he begged her forgiveness. As she left, he'd continued to follow until she sent him away with finality. No. He could never keep this up at the thought of losing her.
And so she tried it. "Raoul," she said firmly, "I shall have Erik stand in my father's place at my wedding, or I shall not be wed at all."
He turned slowly and when his eyes met hers, it was as though his face were made of chiseled stone. "Then that," he said with finality "Will be your worst mistake." He turned from her again, but this time toward the door, and strode purposely through it. She stood a moment, stunned at this change in him. Then she pursued him, crying his name, but to no avail. He did not even look back once.
Christine sat down and stared at the place where he had been. She didn't cry. Instead, she felt a strange mixture of surprise and—was it relief? She sat in stunned silence, consciously unaware of her own thoughts while some deeper portion of her mind turned over slowly. At length she rose and got her shawl.
BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: I'm sorry! I know everyone wanted to see Erik in this chapter, and I'm sure you're all wondering what he's up to. All I can say is probably still at the organ. It has been weeks since he's had the chance to play... But anyway, this was another of those transition chapters. Sorry. But the next chapter should be up tonight or tomorrow to make up for it, so don't be mad.
Stuff to think about: Oh no! Raoul just walked out on Christine? NOW WHAT? (And was he serious? Will he be back? Tune in next time to find out!
Shameless Begging for reviews: (As ever...) Oh, please, please, please review me again!! (But more importantly, please give the poor Persian a name!)
