Disclaimer; Christine, Erik and Raoul all belong to Gaston Leroux. The story from which I'm carrying on and Nadir belong to Susan Kay.
A/N - This chapter takes place several months after the previous one. There's not much to say about the time in between - Erik's still at home with Ayesha, with Nadir still keeping a pretty close watch on him ... he's trying to keep away from Christine and the Chagny family altogether, and thus far he's succeeded ... doesn't stop him thinking about her though ...
Christine and Raoul ... well, all's quiet on the home front so far as the gossips of Paris are aware - the perfect example of happy little newlyweds. Philippe cut Raoul off, so the money's come to a bit of an abrupt halt (this is just my take, but I reckon Raoul was so lying when he told Erik he had money enough should he be cut out of the estate!!!)
Anyway, all's been quiet for a month or two ... about time something disturbed the quiet of gay Paris, don't you agree ...?
Erik
I cannot say what it was that drew me to the Chagny house that night; call it instinct, intuition or simply a premonition, the sense of foreboding it inspired was strong enough to make me break my last remaining vow. I had sworn to myself that I would not resort to spying on her; I had - almost - accepted I would never see her again.
But that night ... what can I say of the sense of impending disaster? I prowled the Opera for hours, fighting with myself, driven almost to distraction by the ominous cloud I could not shake off, and in the end, I gave in and made my silent, inauspicious way to the Chagny mansion. Just for a moment! I told myself firmly. Just to check everything's all right ... I'll go, and I'll see her, and I'll know she's all right. And then I'm coming straight back!
But moments stretch into hours; hidden in the shadows of the enormous, towering oaks which guarded the sides of their house, I watched the silhouetted servants going silently about their business through the lighted windows.
By midnight, I had almost given up. I allowed myself one last, tortured look at the house where she would spend the rest of her days, and turned away. I knew, in that last moment, that I had severed my last links with humanity. I would never set foot above the surface of the ground again.
And how little do we learn?
I have believed, throughout the majority of my sorry life, that whenever I let loose with a truly unforgivably iniquitous blasphemy, or whenever I make a solemn resolve for the good of humanity, God decides to liven up his days and teach me a lesson by playing a little game of cat and mouse down on earth. With myself as the mouse.
Only seconds after I had turned away from that God-forsaken house, the quiet of the sedately expensive street was shattered by the high-pitched cry of a woman in pain, slightly muffled by the thick walls of the majestic house.
I whirled around instinctively and retraced my steps, crossing the street in less than a second and taking up my place outside the house again, the fear coursing through me. Had he hit her again? If he had ...
I shook off the lust to kill which was currently storming through me with some willpower and forced myself to concentrate on the ridiculously elaborate front door. In moments, it opened and a slight figure came stumbling out, looking behind her shoulder as she ran down the steps, not concentrating on where her feet fell in her desperate efforts to put distance between herself and the house. The inevitable outcome; she missed her footing and slipped, falling the few steps to the pavement and landing hard on her side. I heard the muffled cry of pain, followed by her hissing through her teeth a word I hadn't been aware she knew. In different circumstances, I might have laughed. But this final fall seemed to have taken the fight out of her; she made no effort to rise, but remained crumpled on the cobbles, her shoulders shaking as she wept.
Without thinking, I stepped out into the street and moved the few feet which separated us. She was so absorbed in her own grief that she didn't even notice my approach; hardly surprising when you consider that I have moved like a cat for fifty odd years, and the habits of a lifetime are hard to break.
I knelt down beside her and gently touched her on the shoulder.
"Christine."
She sat up instantly, her hands rising automatically as if in defence. I burned with anger; that damned boy had now inspired the fear of human contact into her?
She recognised me in a heartbeat and went completely limp. With a sob of relief, she fell forward into my arms, still near hysteria, but with a noticeable decrease in tension as the moments wore on.
I looked around the street, clamping down firmly on my wildly fluctuating emotions. Everything looked quiet, but my inherent mistrust of the human race has obliterated my belief in miracles and I certainly didn't want the boy coming out to find his wife in this state.
She had crumpled onto the dirty ground, her hair and the hood of her cloak covering her face completely. For some reason, this rang an alarm bell in my head; leaning forward, I pulled the cloak away from her face, hearing my own sharp intake of breath as if from a distance. The right side of her face was one long, ugly green and brown bruise, her upper lip split and her eye blackened. For a moment, all I registered was the sudden sound of her weeping and an abrupt chill filling the air. Then I felt the rage flooding through me, the sluicegates of madness rising with increasing rapidity ... the black mists of my own insane passion were swiftly engulfing me and the urge to kill became almost unbearable. I was suddenly aware of my fingers twisting in the thick material of her cloak and in that one blinding moment of lucidity the madness receded to be replaced by a surge of remorse and intense grief.
I replaced the cloak gently on her heaving shoulders, noting how the expensive material of her dress had been ripped away from her thin shoulder blades, leaving a long tear down the sleeve, revealing more asymmetrical patterns of rage on her delicate skin. I swallowed the insanity which threatened to claim me again and forced myself to think in a calm and rational manner.
The only possible solution was to take her back to the Opera, where I could, hopefully, begin to regain her trust and mend whatever her damned vicomte had broken.
I looked down at her; she was no longer crying, and now lay perfectly still in my arms like a flawless porcelain doll, the tears still glistening on her cheeks. Her hair had fallen forward, hiding her face, but she made no attempt to brush the long dark waves out of her eyes. She seemed completely drained, and I sensed that all she wanted was, yet again, an Angel to come and take the hardships and problems of the world out of her hands and release her from her burdens.
I had been her Angel before. So it seemed, was I fated to be again.
She made no movement to stop me as I lifted her carefully into my arms and stood up, careful to make no sudden moves that might inspire the old fear into her. She was lighter than I remembered; she'd lost weight, and her figure, always slim, was now almost skeletal. Light as she was, I knew it would be impossible to carry her all the way across Paris to the Opera, and so, disregarding my instinctive mistrust of men, I signalled for one of the many cabs which roams Paris at night.
The cab halted outside the Opera, and I poured a handful of coins into the driver's palm without counting them; his sharp intake of breath told me I had overpaid him really quite dramatically. Somehow that didn't matter tonight ...
I took Christine's arm and helped her down the steps, her every movement jerky and stilted. She looked up at the building and smiled slightly, and, without waiting to be told, she moved almost automatically towards the Rue Scribe door, radiating an air of coming home which suddenly made me want to cry.
For the first few days, she was almost comatose, wavering dangerously close to catatonia. From what I could establish from her physical condition, he had done no lasting damage, and the physical pain she was in was not sufficient to account for the unspoken grief which tore her soul apart. My only guess as to why this had affected her so badly, apart from the obvious, was that the child she had always nurtured deep within her soul had suddenly been forced into the real world, and by a man she had trusted - a man she had loved.
It took little more than a month of round the clock - predominantly unnecessary - care before the physical evidence of her ordeal left her, and she was as beautiful as ever, but the deep mental anguish he had left embedded deep inside her soul took longer to dislodge.
She never told me exactly what had gone on behind the ornate front door of their home, but the little involuntary reflexes she unwittingly made every day told me more than she ever could have.
The way she would flinch at the most innocuous things; if I raised a hand to light a candle, her hands went automatically to her head in a futile, subconscious effort at defence. The way she jumped like a startled fawn every time the doorbell rang, or Ayesha made a sudden movement across the floor ... they told me more than I could ever have wanted to know.
Yet again, I was forced into the role of the father ... comforting her, calming her after yet another of the nightmares which shattered her sleep night after night, and essentially protecting her from the evils the real world presented to her.
Always the father ... the angel ... the total dependence which rendered the dream impossible. I tried to give her space ... I never pressed her for her company, however strongly I desired it ... and yet she always seemed wary in my presence, tiptoeing around me as though she were unsure of her place in my house. She should have known she was as welcome as ever ...
She retained her composure for almost all the time she was with me; an impartial observer would have said she was quite at ease, relaxed, and friendly. But to me, she was like a clockwork doll wound up too tightly; her laugh brittle and sounding apt to break, her normally sweet, genuine smile too wide, her efforts to please anxious rather than easy. This was what I found the hardest to bear; after all we had been through and shared together, she still was too ill at ease around me to allow me even a step through the wall she had built up around herself?
We never spoke about the future. I didn't know what she wanted - to stay with me in relative safety? Perhaps to return to the Opera and continue the career she had put on hold for so long? Or ... perhaps to return to the boy.
Like many people who value control above all else, bad news has always been infinitely preferable to me when held up against not knowing ... I was well aware of the implications of our situation - a married woman living, without the knowledge or consent of her husband or friends, with a man who was no relative, by blood or marriage, in absolute seclusion. Highly improper, to say the least. I cared little about etiquette, and still less about what the gossips of Paris would say, but Christine would.
I kept meaning to ask her exactly what she intended to do. How many times did I lean forward in my chair to begin the conversation which could have changed the course of both our lives, only to find that I lacked the courage and inner will to do it? I have never before seen myself as a coward, but those days revealed sides to my character I had not known I possessed ... had not wanted to know I possessed.
I had known I was not above using trickery and deceit to entice her. I had known I would do anything to keep her here, safe, with me ... but I had never known that the cowardice I have always felt below me and viewed with scorn in others was present in me too.
I didn't ask her ... and for one very simple reason. I didn't want to hear her answer.
Eventually, the question became too pressing to ignore further. I needed to know her answer, and I would have asked her ... but for a completely unplanned and unexpected event which unwittingly gave me all the answer I needed.
T.B.C. ...
A/N - OK, now, just before you review (hint hint!) this is an appeal to find the author and title of this really wonderful poem I found stored on my computer the other day. I can't find it under the POTO section. Or under Musicals/Plays or Fanfiction Poetry. But I really really would like to know who wrote it and what it's called.
This is a draft of the poem - apologies if that's infringing any copyright laws but I really want to find it again!
Close your eyes...look away...
You don't want to hear what I have to say...
Cover your ears, close your heart...
I've always loved you, right from the start.
How do I let go of something that won't let go of me?
How can I release you when you'll never leave me be?
Your every movement haunts my soul, your eyes burn into mine,
And I love you even more though we are running out of time...
A love that lasts forever isn't strong enough for this...
But if you knew, oh, you'd have never left me with that kiss...
Right, now that I'm done with the appeals :) feel free to review ...