"Christine! Christine! Something tells me that we are wrong to wait till to-morrow evening and that we ought to fly at once."
"I tell you that, if he does not hear me sing tomorrow, it will cause him infinite pain."
"It is difficult not to cause him pain and yet to escape from him for good."
"You are right in that, Raoul, for certainly he will die of my flight."
-Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
She had promised him, the lovely girl. Promised to return to her poor Erik, to spend time with him in his house and sing with him, to sit by the fire and read as he composed, to eat the meals he prepared and sleep in the bed in the Louis Phillipe room. He would buy her flowers, and perhaps they might go for another carriage ride out by the Bois.
Christine was so very lovely, a true angel. She always kept her promises. It was important to remember this as he sat, crouched and shivering beneath an alcove, and waited for her to return to the Opera House. She was only a little late, but she was coming. She had promised.
The thought crossed his mind that perhaps she was in danger, but that wasn't it. He'd already asked his contact, one of the men who supplied him with food and other supplies, to follow her and he'd reported that she was safe. In the company of her boy even, and while Erik hated the fop he was a member of the navy and thus capable of handling any ordinary threats to her safety.
It was beginning to concern him, though. Perhaps she shouldn't leave anymore, if she was unable to be punctual. It was for her safety, but he shuddered with delight at the thought of Christine staying. Watching her leave was surely the worst fate in the world, and she insisted he do it again and again! Ah, but what had she promised him? She could only hate him if he kept her prisoner, which meant that she would never hate him as long as he allowed her these frivolities. And with time she would learn to love him.
He'd never been loved before, but he could imagine it. She would smile at him, and take his cold skeletal hands in hers and warm them, and if he was good enough she'd even embrace him. He could almost feel it, her arms enveloping him and pressing his awful face into her bosom, so he could hear her beautiful heartbeat as he let himself drown in warmth. He was swaying forward just slightly, caught in this vision of the future, and pulled himself back with a huff. Throwing himself off the roof of the opera was not how he'd win her love.
But if it was he'd do it without hesitation. Did she know that? That she drove him mad with a single glance, that he'd do anything for a single touch? Surely she'd love him if she knew. He'll be the gentlest of men and dedicate all his days to her happiness if only she'd love him, if only she'd agree to be his wife. He'd make her understand this once she returned, perhaps by playing her a song to demonstrate the depth of his love, and she wouldn't be able to resist marrying him.
He couldn't feel his fingers anymore. He tried to hold his hands closer to his chest, to breathe some warmth onto them, but it was a fruitless endeavor. His circulation had always been poor, and he hoped that Christine would come soon so he wouldn't actually damage his hands. He needed them to play the organ for her, and the violin, and to compose music. Without them she would no longer admire his genius, no longer accompany him in music lessons. He might be a hideous husband but he would not be a useless one as well. But surely he'd only have to wait a few moments longer. She would arrive very soon.
He tried to distract himself with images of their married life, of their new house and the way holding her hand would feel, but there was a growing ache in his chest. He needed Christine to stop the horrible things his mind was telling him, the way he wondered even now if she had abandoned him. Even though he knew that Christine had promised to return, his mind insisted that she was gone, that her boy had convinced her to flee and he had to pursue them or lose her forever. But she still wore his ring, and she would be most upset if he acted as if she'd taken it off. As long as she wore the ring she would keep her promises, and Erik must keep his and be her respectful friend. He would be good, and he would wait for her. Wouldn't she be happy to see how he trusted her?
He would wait forever for his Angel. No matter how cold it got, or how he shivered, or how his bones began to ache. Eventually he stopped shivering, and he finally sensed her. She was coming from behind him; he must have missed her entering the opera house, since his eyelids were very heavy now. But he had stopped shivering and he could smell her, a beautiful floral scent that was suddenly sharp and clear, and he knew the soft sound of her footsteps.
"Erik," she whispered, and suddenly her arms were around him and wrapped him in their warmth.
"I knew you'd come," he gasped, leaning back into her embrace. "Christine." And she filled his thoughts completely until he knew no more of pain, nor his agony over having waited so long; he was entirely immersed in her love.
The Daroga found the Opera Ghost the next morning, frozen stiff atop the roof. He was perched below a statue of an angel with his eyes locked on the street below, a gargoyle lying in wait. He buried Erik in an unmarked grave. An extra security precaution he doubted was still necessary, there being only two souls in the world who still knew his name, but he abided by the wishes of his old friend.
He decided not to alert the other soul, as Christine was still on her honeymoon with her Vicomte. They were so young, and there was no need to warn them of the gruesome fate they'd narrowly avoided when they'd chosen to elope that fateful day.