The sound of the front door slamming shut barely registered. It was merely confirmation of what Erik already knew: she was gone. He had chased her away. Once again he was alone and he only had himself to blame for it. Those thoughts echoed around his head, continuously beating against the inside of his skull.
He felt his legs give way beneath him and sank to the floor as he became fully aware of the consequences of his actions. All he could see was Christine's wrist, an angry red imprint of his fingers visible where he had grabbed her. How could he have done such a thing? How could he have lost control so completely? He had sworn that he would let no harm come to her while she stayed under his roof, and now he himself had caused her injuries, leaving bruises on her soft, pale skin. He had only proven himself the beast he had always claimed to be.
Christine had every reason to flee. How could he expect her to stay after the unthinkable things he had said and done to her? No, the further away from him she fled, the safer she would be.
Where would she go, he wondered? No doubt the only place she could go was the hospital, to see her father, but what then? Would they set out to travel again once he had fully recovered? Would Erik spend the rest of his miserable life wondering where she was and what she was doing and if she was healthy and cared for, fully aware that he had forfeited any right to be thinking of her at all?
He sat there on the floor, staring at the walls and pondering these questions for what might well have been an hour, or even longer. The first sound he became aware of other than the pounding in his head was a heavy gust of wind that rattled the windows. He reached for his mask, discarded on the floor next to him, and put it on again, then stood up, glad to stretch his legs after sitting on the cold hard floor for so long, and went to one of the windows looking out over the garden.
It could not be later than five o'clock, he thought, as it was still pitch-dark outside. It was raining heavily too. Anyone out there would be soaking wet within minutes…
Christine! How could he have been so foolish as to let her run out in this kind of weather? She might know her way around the gardens in the light of day, but in this darkness she would not see where she was going. If she got lost and was unable to find her way out on her own, she would be stuck in the freezing cold, with nowhere to shelter from the rain. And even if she did manage to find the gate and leave the estate, it was not safe for a young woman to travel alone, especially not at this early hour.
He had to go after her and bring her back inside. If she refused to be alone with him, which would be entirely understandable, he could wake Madame Giry to keep her company until the coachman could drive her to the village, but he could not let her wander the roads on her own, or freeze to death in the garden. He already had too much blood on his hands.
Erik rushed downstairs, stopping briefly to grab a lantern from the table in the entrance hall and lighting it before running outside. In no more than half a minute, he was drenched to the skin. He immediately regretted not wearing a cloak, or at least his hat to shield his face from the rain, but he had no time to lose. His own discomfort was of no importance. The only thing that mattered now was finding Christine as quickly as possible and making sure she was safe.
The vast darkness of the garden opened up before him like a big gaping black hole. With the lantern he was at least able to discern the stone path beneath his feet. He methodically combed through the garden, calling out Christine's name every few seconds, although it was highly unlikely she would even hear him as the rain and the wind drowned out every other sound. The minutes ticked by and still there was no trace of her. Was there a possibility that she had found her way out after all? Unless she too had taken the time to light a lantern before leaving, he strongly doubted it. But then where was she?
Just as he was truly starting to despair of finding her, he nearly stumbled over her. She was lying face-down in the grass near the rosebushes, unmoving. Unfortunately, his relief at finally having found her was short-lived. Bending down to lift her wet form, her dress sticking to her skin, he noticed how cold she was, her delicate frame trembling in his arms. She had been out here too long. He cursed himself for not having come out to look for her sooner, and for not bringing anyone else along to assist him, as he struggled to carry her to the house while holding up the lantern to light his path.
At least the front door had not fallen closed behind him when he had left. He shouldered the door open and was immediately faced with Madame Giry. Never had he been more grateful for her tendency to rise before anyone else, or for her ability to stay calm in dire circumstances.
"Have a fire lit in Mademoiselle Daaé's room immediately, and fetch her something dry to wear," he ordered. The housekeeper rushed off right away, obeying without question while Erik carried an unconscious Christine up the stairs to her bedroom. He was briefly reminded of the one time he had held her in his arms like this before, although back then, he had no reason to fear for the girl's life.
He placed her down on her bed and lost no time in undressing her. Propriety be damned, he must get her out of those wet clothes as soon as he could. If she fell seriously ill, or, heaven forbid, died under his watch, he would never forgive himself.
Water poured out of her shoes as he pulled them from her feet, forming little puddles on the floor. As he removed her stockings, he saw her toes were already turning blue with cold. If only there were a way to warm her up faster. This would take much too long.
Soon Madame Giry entered the room, followed closely by a young servant who immediately set to work on the fire. Erik was ushered out of the room by Madame Giry as she took over undressing Christine, mumbling something about keeping up some semblance of decorum despite the circumstances. She shoved some dry clothes she had brought for him into his hands before closing the door in his face.
While she helped Christine out of her wet clothes and into a nightgown, Erik gave orders to fetch a physician from the village straight away. With the exception of Nadir, no one from the village had set foot on his estate since his father's death, but he did not care about any of that now. It did not matter what those people thought of him, as long as Christine got the help and care she needed. He changed into the clothes Madame Giry had handed him and then started frantically pacing the hallway, muttering under his breath.
Once he was allowed into the room again, he settled into a chair by Christine's bed, determined to stay there until she opened her eyes and he was certain she would he alright. He hardly moved for hours on end, simply watching over her as she slept fitfully. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind, and if Madame Giry had not urged him to eat or drink something every few hours, he would have forgone sustenance as well. He only had room on his mind for Christine.
The physician arrived shortly after dawn. Much to his displeasure, Erik was forced to leave Christine's side as the doctor examined her. She was still unresponsive, and when the doctor came out of her room to talk to Erik, he could only confirm that there was little they could do for her at the moment, except keeping her warm and dry and waiting for her to regain consciousness. If she developed a fever, they were to try to keep her hydrated as best as they could, and bathe her arms and forehead in cool water to reduce her temperature. Other than that, they could only pray and hope for the best.
As soon as the physician had left, Erik rushed back to his place by Christine's bedside. He wanted to reach out and hold her hand, yet barely dared touch her after what had happened earlier that morning. This was all his fault. He had caused so much pain and suffering already, and now he had turned Christine into his next victim. Would it never end? Was he bound to always bring harm to the people closest to him, whether he intended to or not? If only he had been the one to drown in the lake that day rather than his brother. No doubt the world would have been a better place for it.
Over the next few hours, Christine did indeed develop a fever. She moved restlessly in her sleep, and when Erik gently placed a hand on her forehead to feel her temperature, she was burning up. Soon a sheen of perspiration glistened on her face, her throat, her arms. Before the day was done, Madame Giry had to change her into another nightgown, as the one she was wearing was already drenched in sweat.
Meanwhile, as he was not allowed in the room while she changed Christine's clothes, Erik took the opportunity to write a quick note to Nadir, informing him of Christine's ill health and the events leading up to it. He needed to tell someone what he had done, and he knew Nadir would not judge (at least not too harshly) and would try to help in whatever way he could, although Erik did strongly urge the man not to come over, promising to write again as soon as he had more news. He did not need Nadir's interference right now, no matter how well-meant. He only sought to assuage his own guilt a little with his confession.
Christine's health remained precarious. Between the two of them, Erik and Madame Giry managed to sit her up a little and pour some water down her throat at regular intervals, although she ended up swallowing barely half of it. She had yet to open her eyes. The two of them took turns washing her face and arms with a cloth soaked in cool water, as instructed by the physician, but Christine's temperature remained terribly high, as if a roaring fire was consuming her from within. Once in a while Erik would let his eternally cold fingers trail across her forehead and cheeks, hoping the coolness of his skin might offer her some comfort, and at times he imagined she leaned into his touch, but other than that she did not show any reaction at all.
When Madame Giry had retired to her room that evening to rest for a while, promising she would return in a few hours, Erik finally gave in to the despair he had been feeling all day. A loud sob rose in his throat, and he let the tears fall, feeling them trail down his deformed skin but not bothering to remove his mask to wipe them away.
Lying before him was the only good thing to have happened to him in over twenty years, the only pure and genuinely kind person to have crossed his path in all this time. If she did not make it through the night, if she paid for his mistakes with her life, then there truly was no justice left in this stinking, rotten world. If there was anyone who should be punished, it was him. Not his Christine.
He had not cried after his brother had died, nor had he shed a tear for his father, but he wept at the thought of Christine being ripped away from him. Was this what it felt like to love then? This desperate need to protect someone and keep them close to you? The utter powerlessness when realizing that you might not be able to do so? He would gladly burn in hell for eternity if it meant Christine would be spared any further suffering. Well, he would burn in hell regardless. He only hoped he would do so with the knowledge that he did not have her death on his conscience.