Chapter 69 Absolution

It was with great reluctance that Emilie decided enough was enough. It had been two weeks since Erik had crashed into her rooms, and they'd argued and she hadn't seen or heard from him since. That; she expected. But the fact that nobody else had any new tales of the Ghost and that not one note had been sent to her managers after such tumultuous events began to nag at her conscience, denying her any peace of mind whatsoever.

It was not entirely ridiculous to think what Erik might do to himself once his anger turned to grief, as of course it would with time. So why did she feel as such when she placed the lantern she was carrying down on the floor next to her, just outside the Chapel, to unlock the door before her? The irony that she'd led him through this exact door when she'd first brought him into the Opera House was not lost on her in the slightest. Where she'd once thought she was giving him life, would perhaps now lead her to discover his death. But it was the only way she knew to his home.

He'd offered not that long ago, to re-open her staircase for her and of course in her pig-headedness, she'd refused. How she regretted that decision now, as she walked gingerly down each step, hanging on to the banister with one hand as she felt ahead on each one with her foot, before pressing her weight down upon it entirely; expecting to fall through to her death at any moment. "This is going to take hours," she muttered to herself ruefully, looking down the long expanse before her.

And it did. 'Though at least,' she thought grimly, as she came down from the last step, 'I survived.' With that obstacle out of the way, she strode with more purpose down the corridor leading from the stairwell. She hadn't taken more than a few steps into it, however, when an iron grate shot out of the wall behind her and slammed into the other side of the corridor with enough force to make her scream. Whirling round to see her exit blocked, she dropped the lantern and grabbed onto the grate, shaking it with all her might; without it moving even an inch.

Cursing loudly in the darkness, her lantern broken and extinguished at her feet, her hands went to her hips and she meant to turn and go forward, shouting for Erik all the way. But as she moved off, she was jerked back and almost fell. The iron grate had caught her dress in three places, pinning it into the wall.

"Damn it," she swore again, already imagining how much penance it would take in confession to absolve that curse as well. She pulled at the dress, but it was stuck fast; and after a cursory examination with her fingers, which revealed that her petticoats and chemise were also caught in Erik's trap, she had to let go of any idea she'd had to pull herself free. There was too much fabric pinned into the wall for her to be able to rip away part of her dress without revealing far more to Erik than she'd ever be able to live with. She was stuck fast. Pursing her lips with a cry of pure frustration, she actually stamped her foot in the darkness. Folding her arms, she leaned back against the wall and prepared to wait.

It didn't take long. She heard him well before she saw him. The noise was so faint at first, and the darkness so complete around her, that she thought it was perhaps a rat come to slither over her feet. But when the noise faltered, as if he had stopped in his tracks for a moment and she heard the quiet, exasperated sigh, she knew she'd be freed at last. "You didn't think to bring a light?" she asked accusingly.

"I prefer to kill in the dark," Erik answered.

It was the strangest sensation; to not be able to see him at all, to only hear his voice. 'Was this what Christine had felt?' she thought, as she moved as far away from the grate as her skirts would let her. The heat of his body was next to hers for a moment, contrasting with the ice-cold wall at her back, then she heard his small grunt of exertion as he yanked the grate back and she was able to move again. "Thank you," she said quietly, catching her breath.

"How did you get down here?" he asked. He was both irritated that she'd managed to evade the seven points in the stairwell that would give way underfoot, and relieved that he was not dragging her broken body out from a trap far more deadly than the one he'd just freed her from.

"Very carefully."

"What do you want?" he asked wearily; he was in no mood for her sarcasm.

"At the moment," she answered, "nothing more than a torch."

"I don't have time for games."

"But perhaps you do have time for manners?" she asked, unable to work out where he stood now that she could no longer feel him near her.

"Meaning?" He faced her across the corridor, his back against the wall, with no intention of anything but seeing her walk back upstairs and away from him again. This time though, he'd be glad to see her fade into the distance. He'd not yet forgiven her for keeping Christine's whereabouts from him. He doubted he ever would. Though it was slightly enjoyable to watch her eyes darting all around her and her hands reach out slightly to try and find him, before she thought better of it and pulled them both back to her sides. Had she forgotten that he was quite used to seeing in the dark? Or, more likely perhaps, had she left him to rot down here before he'd perfected that particular skill?

"I've just walked down a stairway where death mocked me at every step," she said curtly. "Your trap has just ripped through each layer of my clothing, which will take weeks to repair. My feet are soaked and I'm freezing cold," her voice rose with each listed inconvenience he'd put her through. "The least you could do is offer me a drink."

He pushed himself off the wall then, with an amazed and disgruntled snort. Did she really expect him to take her to his home and treat her like an honoured guest? After all she'd put him through in the last two weeks? Did she know nothing of how his need for Christine had almost driven him to complete madness? How his nights were filled with nightmares where he fought against relentless waves of obstacles, to finally find her, only to have de Chagny snatch her from him again? That his soul wanted nothing more than to die, while his heart fought to keep him alive until he could see her one last time? "As you wish, Madame," he ground out at last, quite unable to believe he was granting her absurd request.

Reaching out with his left hand, he grabbed her around her right wrist and smiled grimly at her gasp of surprise. Yanking her away from the wall, he began to walk quickly back down the corridor, never once loosening his grip.

If hearing only his disembodied voice in the darkness had been disconcerting, it was nothing to how she now felt with that band of leather around her bare skin, like a vice. As he pulled her along, uncaring of how she stumbled and almost fell, she could see nothing ahead of, or behind her. And though she tried to push the absurd thought away, it felt as if the Devil himself was dragging her down into Hell. Her heart beat fiercely and she was about to protest and pull away from him when a door opened before them and he led her through it into light at last.

He dropped her wrist the instant she could see again and leaned around her to close and lock the door after she came through it.

Emilie winced at the brightness, but as her eyes accustomed to it, she was stunned by all she saw. "But what?" she asked. "How…?" Where had all the water come from? She shook her head slightly, trying to clear it and piece together her memories with what was before her. A deep lake, with a gondola tied up at the bottom of some steps, knocking quietly against the dock. "There was never this much water before," she said, incredulously. "Is that from 'Orlando Furioso'?"

"Yes," Erik replied briskly, indicating that she should get into the gondola. "If you'll remember," he said, as Emilie sat down, and he pushed off from the shore. "I was particularly enraged that it had been included and had no wish for future productions to go along the same route."

"Yes," she nodded, relaxing slightly, despite their situation, at the memory. "I doubt Isadora had a decent night's sleep throughout that whole production, the way you behaved."

"As well she shouldn't," he said. "How Doublet could have given in to her insistence that 'of course' Angelica would arrive on the island in a gondola if Vivaldi wrote the opera, I'll never know."

She bit her bottom lip to keep herself from smiling. Erik had only been in there a few years, but even then he knew more about opera than practically everybody else. He'd been scandalised at Isadora's assertion that if a Venetian had written the opera, then a Venetian gondola she would have. Of course, the fact that it was totally incongruous to the story and that the mechanics of moving it seamlessly across the stage each night were practically impossible, did nothing to allay her demands. Emilie never understood why Doublet had given in to that one, given the griping he'd had from the prop department. But she later learned that Isadora held particular sway over Doublet because of certain 'preferences' of his that she was quite willing to accommodate and was thankful that the production of Orlando Furioso signaled the demise of Isadora's reign there. In no small part, of course, to the Opera Ghost's constant harassment of her throughout the production.

Erik was oblivious to her amusement as he continued, "So I brought it down here as soon as I could. If we ever did 'Orlando' again, I was determined that this," he indicated down to the boat beneath his feet, "would not be part of it."

"A wise choice," she replied, gaining a 'hmph' in reply. They spent a few moments in silence, and she felt her heartbeat go back to normal. How nice it had been, if only for a moment, to share a memory between them both that did not involve Christine. She sighed quietly and looked around her again instead, to allay the hollow feeling returning to her heart. "Was there a flood?" she asked sadly, determined to set her thoughts firmly elsewhere.

"No," he replied. "I changed things somewhat. In order to live in peace; undisturbed." He closed his eyes momentarily at the absurdity of those words. As much as he'd clung to his sanctuary down here, he still craved the world above equally, if not more. And to think of just who had destroyed the tenuous hold he'd had on both worlds caused a pain to tightly clench around his heart. "There is much down here now that you'll not recognise. But then it has been - what - fifteen years since you last graced me with your presence?" He could not help the harshly bitter tone of his words.

Emilie had meant to spend the rest of the journey in silence after that, but as they passed beneath two matching statues of men holding up the cavern ceiling, she could not help herself. "Where in Heaven's name did they come from?"

"Why, I commissioned M. Rodin. Though he was most inconvenienced to be working in three feet of water," Erik said, sarcastically. "For God's sake - where'd you think they came from?"

"You?" she said, amazed both at the skill involved in such a project, and the fact that both statues were covered in signs of decay that only the passage of time could bring; meaning he must have accomplished the task when he'd still been nothing near a man in age.

"I know it has been quite some time," he put particular emphasis on each of the last three words. "But I am sure you remember how I spent my years here learning everything that I could, to keep myself from going insane with -" he stopped. The last word he had meant to say to her had been 'loneliness', but admitting that to her, when his one chance of companionship in this world was being kept from him by her hand, was impossible.

Thoughts of taking Christine on this exact journey threatened to overwhelm him as they continued in silence, and he was never more grateful to go towards the open grate of his portcullis and go beneath. He heard her exclaim quietly in continued amazement as she saw just how much his home had changed in the intervening years. Pushing the boat up onto the shore, he jumped out and leaned the pole against the wall there, with his back to her. He busied himself by slowly taking off his gloves and left her to get out of the boat without his assistance. He knew it was appallingly uncouth behaviour, but to take another woman's hand and lead her into his home, as he had done with Christine, would break the tenuous grip he had on his emotions and leave him a complete wreck before her. And he would never give her that satisfaction.

He turned back only when he heard the sounds of her steps upon his floor. "Would you like your drink now, Madame?" he asked, bowing his head slightly. If she wanted 'manners', he'd give them to her, dammit - even if she choked on them.

She nodded, looking with continued amazement at his home. "Yes, thank you."

"You'll have to excuse me for a moment then," he said, "I keep my liquor where I need it most; in my bedroom."

He moved quickly away from her, across his home, and disappeared behind a curtain that she recognised from the last time she'd stood where she was now. Yet everything else around her had completely changed. There was an extra curtain now, between his bedroom and the steps to the organ and she wondered briefly where that led.

There were so many more mirrors than there ever had been before - in fact, her brow furrowed, had there ever been mirrors? She lifted her head and looked across at them again and then noted that another stood on the other side of the organ, and one was directly behind her too. A memory came unbidden, into her mind - "Should I ever get dreams above my station, I have plenty of mirrors in my home to remind me of what I really am."

Her stomach clenched with guilt at the thought. Was that their purpose? Then her eye caught on the numerous paintings on the wall opposite where she stood, and she found she could not look away.

Walking slowly towards them, she barely registered the miniature stage as she passed it and didn't notice the broken figurine of Il Muto's Comtessa lying in pieces in the centre. Her feet crunched on broken glass, which she kicked distractedly out of the way as she moved towards the pictures, her hand outstretched to lift the top ones to see what lay beneath. Christine's face. Over and over, it was all there was. Christine's eyes, filled with sadness and longing, staring back at her. She swallowed thickly, her mouth too dry for words and suddenly craved the drink he'd offered.

She turned from the wall quickly as she heard him come back through the curtain and start down the stairs, coming towards her with two full glasses in his hands.

"Here," he said, offering her a glass, then downing the dark liquid in his own in one motion.

"Thank you." The strength of the alcohol took her breath away as she swallowed a small amount. Good God, if he was drinking as much of this as she suspected, he must be rotting his stomach away. Now that she could see him in some light, she knew that summation was correct. He looked appalling. His mask was still in place, yet the black wig above it was disheveled and loose at the sides. He wore a dark burgundy waistcoat, unbuttoned to show the white shirt beneath, which was also open at the neck. There were marks of dirt on his black pants, as if he'd laid on the floor to sleep and not even made it to his bed the night before. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, and every line of his body was etched with rage.

But it was the pain in his eyes that was hardest to look at, even though he kept his gaze firmly averted from hers. When his head at last turned back to her again, the pain had been replaced by hatred and she had to take a mouthful of her drink, needing the numbness that the alcohol mercifully provided.

He looked down into his own glass and grimaced. He was almost out; there were empty bottles strewn all over his bedroom floor. He'd been careful not to hit any of them as he'd scrambled to find the last bit of brandy he owned, not wanting Emilie to hear the noise. What good would it do for her to know that he'd spent most of the last week in an angry, drunken stupor; reeling from his bed, to the organ and back again, in an never-ending, fruitless quest to conquer the torment inside him.

"When did you last eat?" Emilie said, needing to break through whatever it was he was thinking that was making his eyes unfocused and drawn with grief.

"What?" he snapped. "Is this what you came here for? To play nursemaid?"

She tried not to flinch from the anger in his voice. Taking a deep breath, she steeled her resolve. If he wouldn't take care of himself, she would. "Do you have a kitchen?" she asked, gesturing around her with her hands. "Or do you eat off the floor and have table manners that match your state of undress?"

He took a deep breath in through his nose, trying hard to contain the desire to strike her across her face.

She knew she might have gone too far and braced herself for the blow she was certain was coming, straightening her shoulders and lifting her head in challenge. Saying nothing, her eyes defied him to do what he was thinking and then know the consequences.

"Yes," he ground out at length, "I have a kitchen." He stomped off in the opposite direction to where she stood and disappeared behind yet another curtain.

She let out the breath she'd been holding, then moved to follow him. Ducking beneath the curtain she took in the chaos before her. Broken china littered the floor, along with discarded food. A copper bathtub stood empty in the corner, though it was surrounded by mildewed clothes and towels and a quantity of empty bottles. A large wooden box of herbs lay open in front of her, with the contents strewn all over the table, and the floor beneath. She knew without a doubt, that this innocuous little box could hold death for Erik, if he so chose.

So she went to it first and placed her glass down beside it. Picking up the packets and vials off the floor, she rose and put them back into the box; then gathered up the others until she could shut the lid with a snap and conceal temptation from him.

He stood watching her, standing next to the fire, as she moved past him to the only cupboard in the room. "Are you my maid now, Madame?" he asked coldly.

"Somebody has to be," she said, leaning over to look into the milk jug, only to find the contents revoltingly congealed at the bottom. Bending down, she opened the cupboard, only to find it full of equally rotted food. Spying a lump of cheese at the back, she pulled it out and set it on the table, then cut off the surface mold. "Here," she said, holding it out for him to take.

"No, thank you," he said quietly, his eyes dark.

She fixed him with a glare, put the cheese down on the table between them; then played her trump card. "I received a letter from Christine this morning," she said, pulling out an envelope from her skirt pocket and holding it out to him. "Would you like to read it?"

His heart leapt into his throat and stuck there, hammering so hard he could hardly breathe. "I -" he faltered. He wanted nothing more than to rip the small envelope out of Emilie's hands and devour the words, but knew that was impossible. He would not survive another day if he had to read, by Christine's own hand, how happy she was, and how much she was in love with her future husband, Raoul de Chagny.

Emilie understood his reluctance perfectly and with a nod of acceptance, pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. "She is well," she said, hardly able to bear the renewed tension radiating across to her from Erik at her words. "She is with friends."

"Where?" he snapped, advancing across the room towards her.

"She doesn't say," Emilie answered, moving backwards slightly to keep the letter out of his reach.

He wanted to snatch it out of her hands at that point and read that for himself, but was too afraid of what he might read next. "And?" he prompted, irritably.

"She has plenty of chaperones," she continued. "And everything is entirely proper. She asks if Meg could perhaps join them for Christmas."

"Christmas?" he echoed, sagging with disbelief. But it wasn't yet November. He sank into the chair next to his table and put his head into his hands. So that was it, she was gone forever. Oh God, how could he stand it? How could he bear such pain and still be living?

She knew exactly what he'd be thinking and wondered, not for the first time, whether to leave it at that and not tell him the rest. Would it be easier for him to think everything was done - that he had no chance whatsoever? Or should he know the truth? She sent a small prayer up and swallowed hard, before continuing. "But there has been no formal engagement or marriage."

"What?" his head shot up at that.

It was hard to bear the blazing hope in his eyes. If only she could have looked away. "They're not married, or yet even officially engaged," she repeated, dully. "There's been no announcement." She should know, she'd been scouring the newspaper daily to check. She'd wondered why he hadn't done the same, but knew from looking at him that it would have been the final blow.

"But - " Erik's words trailed off as he processed the information. De Chagny hadn't married her - or even asked her to? Then what the hell was he playing at? Did he see Christine as merely a fling, a conquest, and nothing more? Could it be that she'd return - her heart bruised, but not broken? That Erik would take her back instantly was never in any doubt - even if her virtue, by that point, might be.

"She ends with another urgent request for Meg's presence," Emilie finished, sadly.

He stood up then and snatched the letter from her hand. Going across the room, he stood again with his back to her. He wanted Emilie gone then, as his heart melted seeing Christine's handwriting. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with this tiny part of her and cherish it, reading the words over and over again until they blurred before his eyes. He knew, shaking his head slightly at the thought, that he would sleep tonight - at last - with this letter in his hands. Running shaking fingers over the paper he imagined her bending her head to write it, at a desk somewhere, lost in concentration. He turned back to Emilie with renewed fire in his blood. "She must go," he said firmly. "Can you go with her?"

"I - what?"

He moved forward and grasped her forearm. "Marguerite must go there. Can you go with her?" he repeated. "And bring her back to me."

"I - no. I can't," she answered firmly, horrified. "There's the Bal Masque and Il Muto does not finish until December 28th. I can't possibly - "

"Please?" he said, his eyes pleading with her for understanding. "I am dying without her."

'Oh God,' she thought, 'please don't do this to me.'

"Each day that I can't see her is like a vice around my heart," he continued, oblivious to her distress. "If you go to her, you could tell me how she is - what she does, everything she says."

"But -"

"And you could make her come back," he pressed. "I need to speak to her. If only I could speak to her…" his voice trailed off and he closed his eyes tightly for an instant, his face drawn with regret.

When he opened them again, she knew he'd won. "Very well," she said. "I'll see what I can do."

He let go of her arm then and stood back slightly, letting out a breath of relief as he did so.

"But I will do nothing at all," she said, picking up the cheese again and holding it out towards him. "Until you eat."

He grabbed the cheese out of her hand and stuffed it into his mouth. The heavy dark circles around his eyes seemed to recede slightly as the fire within burned with renewed hope. He'd do anything she asked - anything at all - if only she'd help him find Christine again.