Standard Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around.

Author's Special Request: Only three votes on the issue of the Persian, but so far it looks like everyone is content with Nadir--though I must warn you, he will not necessarily automatically take on traits of Kay's Nadir, even if I call him that. Yes, he's kind, he's wonderful, he's the only sane character... but this is still Leroux-based, no matter what.

Author's Note(s): If you were mad at me after reading the last chapter, you will hate me now. All I ask is that you hang around and allow me a chance to redeem myself eventually. But I'm going to post it now anyway. Against my better judgment.


Really special note: 6/7/2008 When I first posted this chapter, I really expected folks to be very upset with me for a variety of reasons (you'll see why) but instead, everyone reviewed positively and ONE person even sent me a link to some artwork that was partially inspired by it! (I'm so excited. I think this is the first time I've ever inspired art, even partially!)

SO, in gratitude, I'd like to invite you all to view the artist's work. (The artist, BTW, is known as Smaug the Writing Dragon on FFN and as Leroux-Phanatic on deviantart.)

FFN is a little dicey about letting us post links here, so I'm altering the link so I can get it through. Read carefully: To make this "link" work, copy and paste it into your browser, then change the word "period" to an ACTUAL period so it's like the "dot" that goes in "dot com." You'll have to add those magic internet letters h-t-t-p (without the hyphens) and the ":" followed by two forward slashes yourself because FFN won't let me. Oh yeah, but don't look at the art until you FINISH the chapter. It's more effective this way.

leroux-phanatic.deviantartperiodcom/art/These-Hands-of-Death-87918428


Previously:
He stared at her. She could not see it, but his mouth had fallen slightly open behind the mask. She would stay here. Forever. What was she saying? But she was engaged to be married. "Christine. Your engagement," he managed.

She gestured with finality. "Called off."

"Oh, Christine!"

The sound was more of a moan than a cry of joy, but it was enough for her. She reached out to him. "Erik!"

He folded her into his arms and stroked her golden hair gently. "Ah, Christine," he murmured softly.


And now: Chapter 55

He held her in his arms and absently stroked her hair, saying her name again and again in disbelief. Surely it wasn't possible. And even if it were possible—well, but it wasn't! Not now! Not after... Oh, why couldn't this have happened back then? "Oh, poor Christine," he whispered so softly she couldn't make out the words. "Poor sweet child..." he whispered.

"Oh, do let's sing, Erik. Surely you are not so very tired!"

"We might—" he said haltingly, "if you like—" He paused. Even as he thought it, a part of him hated himself for suggesting it, and yet another part of him knew that it was absolutely necessary, regardless of what it might do to her. "Would you—consider—something from—Othello, then?"

She looked at him with resignation. How could he ask for that, she wondered. It had been so terrible for them both! But she heard herself helplessly agree. "Yes, Erik. If you like." How could she refuse him now, when she had nothing else left?

He slowly pivoted on the organ bench to face the instrument again and she moved to stand beside it so they could face one another. It is wrong, he thought. You must tell her first. But even as he thought it, his fingers danced across the keys and she began to sing.

She sang Desdemona. She was sure he could hear that her voice was entirely wrong, for she sang it with joy. She could not disguise her elation to be singing with him again, regardless of the words she sang. As for him, he had not a bit of trouble with his part; he was always able to summon emotions such as love, jealousy and hatred. If she had thought he was Othello the first time the sang it together, she did not know what to think this time, for the feelings were still more raw, still more real than they had been before.

She moved closer to him and met his eyes as they neared the part of the song where the terrible tragedy had occurred. What did he expect of her now? Was she to do as she should have done the first time: respect his privacy and his space--leave that mask where it was? Or was she to do as she had done but react differently? And could she do it? Could she bear it? Had she changed so much from that day only three months ago?

She had not the time to decide what she should do, however, for as they arrived at the critical measure he drew up his left hand and suddenly cast off the mask without missing a note. What could the poor girl do but continue to sing? She had seen such horrors before—she had seem him before. She had known what to expect. And her heart went out to the poor man who dared to bare himself this way before her, and she continued to sing as though nothing had happened. A moment later she dared to take a step closer to him, and as they came to the close, she was mere inches away.

When the music ended they were both breathless with emotion. She wore the same tight-lipped smile she had the afternoon she had first come to tea. He cast his eyes downward, still too ashamed to meet her gaze. But she had not screamed, he had not cried out in anguish, and he had finished the song. The past was undone. He felt his breathing become labored and fought it off. He would not cry in front of her again. Not now. Not after... He took a deep breath and steadied himself. He reached for the mask, but he had inadvertently flung it to the floor in an effort to keep playing smoothly.

She touched his hand, whispered his name. He glanced up at her, but only for an instant. "Thank you for this, Christine" he said, struggling to retain his composure. "This was—most—cathartic."

She thought her heart would overflow and she moved closer still, keeping her eyes downcast. "You don't need to thank me, Erik," she began, but he silenced her.

"Oh, but I do, Christine. And apologize. I am so sorry Christine!" He still fought tears that threatened to fall, and he hated that she could see his bare face if she looked. Yet it seemed she chose not to look. He could hardly blame her, and this time, he didn't even wish that she could. For if she could look at him without horror, what would he do then? For it was too late to change things.

Her hand was still upon his, and he gripped it with both of his. Her hand was so soft, so warm. "Oh Christine, words cannot express how sorry I am!" But she could not possibly understand, and he had to make her understand. She should not have given up anything for him. He didn't want her to anymore. He would never ask anything of her again! "Oh poor Christine!"

"Erik, how can you say that when I am here with you? How can you say that when things are finally as they should be?"

"As they should be?" His voice should be full of wonder or full of joy, but instead it sounded filled with dread, and she could not understand why.

"Erik, what ever is the matter?" she finally managed to ask.

"Oh, Christine, sweet Christine," he said softly. "What were you thinking to call off your wedding to a Comte for this?" He gestured. And though his voice remained gentle, after singing Othello, when he spoke the word "this" it was hard not to remember that night. Perhaps you think I have another mask, eh, and that this... this... my head is a mask? She shuddered slightly. She knew with his gesture he indicated his face, and she realized with sorrow the guilt he naturally felt that she would leave a normal life with a normal husband for him. She sighed heavily trembled, turned away.

He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes from arm's length away. "You are all right Christine?" he asked.

She nodded. "I'll be fine. Just, Erik, please don't say such things about yourself!" she said. "And do not feel guilty about the wedding. I didn't call it off at all, actually. Raoul did." He blinked. Raoul? The Vicomte—no, Comte de Chagny? He had called off the wedding? Why? Oh, poor Christine!

She dared to glance at him for an instant, saw the surprise in his eyes and sought to correct what she'd said, for it sounded terrible, as if she'd come to him only because... "...when I said that I expected you to be there."

There was silence. He sat as though stunned a moment, then he repeated "You expected me to be there? Why would you expect me to be there?" Surely she didn't think he would carry her off from her own wedding! And yet, he had given her cause to think such things, had he not? "Christine, I told you that you are entirely free. I would never, ever—" and then he stopped, for though he would not meet her gaze, he could make out her expression in his peripheral vision and it suggested that he'd misunderstood something.

"No, Erik. I wanted you there!" She flung herself into his arms before he realized it and it seemed the most natural thing to do to embrace her and stroke her hair as one might to comfort a crying child.

He was more confused than before. "Wanted me there? Whatever for?"

"Oh, it was stupid anyway and I'm sorry," she said shaking her head against his chest. "I don't know what I was thinking except that he has all his family and I have no one at all save Mamma Valerius and... and... perhaps... a couple of... chorus girls... and you."

Silence.

"Erik, surely Elizabeth told you. She asked you. That is why you left, is it not? Because you were not willing—" She hesitated and looked up at him. He was frowning at her and though his expressions were hard to read due to the strangeness of his face, it seemed to be a confused frown, not an angry glare.

Behind the frown, Erik was thinking of Elizabeth. She had asked him nothing of any consequence in a very long time. And there was something strange between them that he could not sort out. He would not ruin her life. She had been kinder to him than anyone had in a very long time. She did not deserve jealousy and manipulation. But he would need to talk to her at some point, for she confused him terribly. She always wanted him to say his feelings aloud, yet he didn't think she herself did so very often. If she had told him up front that there was someone in her life--ah, but she had! That young doctor. And she had refused him. Then what of the letter, so full of love? He must ask her. She might be upset he had read it, but she would likely pretend not to be. Had she ever admitted being upset with him? No... But it was too much to think about now, here, with Christine in his arms pressing her head against his chest this way! He would spend some time down here, then perhaps he would go above to sort things out. In the meantime, what could Christine possibly be talking about?

"Continue," he told Christine, still confused. And when she did not, he said, "Christine, I do not understand what you have said to me."

"Then... you didn't leave... because you didn't... because you weren't... willing... to... give me away?"

He was still confused, but he chuckled at the thought of it. "Christine," he said "That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard. Give you—Well, I never had you—" and then he stopped as the true meaning of the words finally reached him. He drew her away and held her at arms length. "Christine," he said, and though his voice was soft it held a tone of horrified surprise. Perhaps he should have felt honored, but the thought giving her away of so soon after learning that he had to let her go was physically sickening. "You would ask me to do that?"

She looked away, bit her lip, tried not to cry, unsuccessfully. "Oh, Erik, I'm sorry. It was so utterly stupid of me—"

He waited until she met his eyes again and continued "Christine, I have already done that once and it nearly destroyed me. I cannot—I will not attempt to—do it again."

She nodded miserably. "But you wouldn't have to now anyway," she said sniffling. "The wedding is called off, remember? And if you like, I will stay here with you..."

He stared at her, reality slowly dawning on him. "Christine," he said slowly "You would only come to Erik when another cast you off?" He paused in thought. She had not even waited a day but come straight here, so sure... "When that boy abandoned you, you came back to your poor hideous Erik. Terrible, ugly Erik, so alone... so pathetic he would become a poor dog ready to die at your feet for you... This is what I am to you?" He knew it was true for he had allowed it to happen. He had made himself out to be a dog; how could she think of him as anything more?

She refused to meet his eyes. She shut hers tightly and waited for the anger she knew so well to erupt. She would be ready this time, if he threw her to the floor or dragged her across the room. She could not stop it from happening, but she could perhaps minimize the pain, if she was prepared. She tensed her muscles, waited for blows.

"And you fear me yet!" he said. There was no anger, just something like utter exasperation, and he released her. "Christine," he said, "I have told you time and again I could never hurt you!" He stood and walked away from her, leaving her on the floor beside the organ bench, unable to speak. He paced the floor until the words came to him. "Christine, it was wrong of me to ever pursue you. You were merely a child... still are in very many ways, actually. It seems you don't understand at all." He paused in his pacing and looked directly at her. "You are not trying to hurt me, are you?" He said it with a soft wonder as though he had never before considered that possibility.

She looked up at him. "No, Erik, of course not! I would never try to hurt you!" she sobbed heavily now.

"Poor child," he said trying to lift her. "You really have no idea what you have done to all of us, do you?"

She looked up miserably. Could that really be Erik standing over her? Had he just called her child? She pulled away from him and on her own got to her feet in anger. "How do you call me child?" she cried "When you,"—she could barely bring herself to say the terrible word—"lusted after me, panting and groaning that it was love?" and she drew back her hand as though to slap him. Bony fingers closed upon her wrist and stilled her movement.

He saw the fear in her eyes as he held her. "I'll not harm you, Christine. I never would. Perhaps you cannot help what you do to me and I will forgive that, but there are limits, Christine, and I will not be struck like an animal." He saw clearly that she wouldn't dare, and he released her and stepped away. "I will always care for you, Christine, and you have done wonders for me these past few weeks. But it is best if you go now. This," he gestured between them, "was never meant to be."

He was asking her to leave? Erik was asking her to leave? She felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She had come here expecting to find him hurt and sobbing. She had expected he would welcome her with open arms. He knew he was not worthy of her—he had said it so many times!—and he would be so grateful to her for coming to him. And now he dared to ask her to leave? The man that everyone called a monster was turning her away?

Poor Christine. She had been utterly rejected twice in one day by the only two men alive for whom she had ever cared. She could not help what she did next, and as Erik forgave her in the next instant, perhaps the reader can find it in his heart to do so as well.

She advanced upon him angrily. "You want me to leave? You dare to tell me to leave? Oh, I shall leave Erik. I shall leave you to your complete and utter misery. For what else shall you have here in this worthless unused building? What else shall you have with your gruesome face and your corpse of a body? You and your hideous hands that reek of death!"

She saw the pain in his eyes and on his hideous bare face, and it gave her power. "You didn't know that did you? I was always too kind to tell you that your hideous skeletal hands smell like the grave? Well, they do!" She saw his surprise. Was it possible he had not even known? "Yes, that's right Erik, your hands smell of death. All of you reeks of the grave, but especially your hands!"

He backed away from her. She looked upon his trembling form and knew she had gone too far, but as hot tears of humiliation spilled over her cheeks she heard herself continue, her voice soaring to pitches and volumes she had not intended. "I lied to you, Erik. Every time I shivered in your presence it was because of your repulsive face, save when it was due to your deathlike hands. It's a wonder you believed any of it. I am not that good an actress, after all. No one is that good an actress. And to think I burned your mask!" She scoffed. He seemed to shrink before her eyes.

He uttered not a word in his own defense. But it was somehow not enough and though some still small voice in her mind whispered that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, she simply could not stop. She took another step towards him and fancied she saw fear in his eyes.

"You were a fool"—she spat the words at him—"to think I—or anyone else—could ever marry you, for you are as cold as the corpse you appear to be and what woman could bear to embrace a dead body?" She had taken him apart, piece by piece, from the opera house, to his appearance, to his odor, to his faith in her, to his dreams of humanity and normalcy. She started toward the door. He wanted her to leave. Oh, yes, she would leave, alright!

But still, it was not enough. And then she hit upon it—the blow that finished him. At the door she turned and called to him across the room, "But you were right about one thing, Erik. I was wrong about Elizabeth. That's right. I was wrong. Elizabeth pities you, Erik." She put her hand on the doorknob. "She—pities you. Nothing more." The door opened and slammed shut again and she was gone.

She trembled with resentment and rage as she rowed the small vessel back toward the other shore. She cried hot angry tears as she ran upward toward the light of day again. As she reached the surface, she began to realize what she had done, but it was too late. There was no going back.

Erik had remained on his feet, his arms hanging limply at his sides, until she slammed out the door, but when she was gone he sank to the floor. "It's not true?" he whispered. It was a question, a plea, but there was no one there to answer him. He looked at his hands in numb shock for a moment, then he wept with such heart wrenching sobs as the world has never heard.

When at last he finished, hours later, he dragged himself up from the floor and set to work to bar every passageway that led to the house on the lake. In one, he placed a locking gate to which he alone possessed the key, for despite his agony he had no desire to wall himself up in a self-made prison. The other passageways, however, he blocked easily with stone and mortar.


BleedingHeartConservative's Final Thought: Oh! Forgive me!

Stuff to think about: I don't imagine it's necessary to direct your attention anywhere, is it?

Shameless Begging for reviews: If you can even bear the thought of me, I'd appreciate a review. And I am--SO--utterly sorry!