A/N - Here it is - the chapter I've been looking forward to writing ever since I started writing this fic! ... all Raoul-haters will love this chapter! *tee hee*
T'Res - Hmm, hadn't really thought of it ... *hides face in contrition* I'll bring her into it a little later, promise! Still a bit of a short chapter :s sorry ...
"He doesn't want your mind, the fool, and I don't want your body. I don't grudge him that ... but I do grudge him your mind and your heart ..."
Rhett Butler, Gone with the Wind
Erik
It was a crisp, coolly refreshing winter morning. Not that she would have known - she had steadfastly refused to set foot out of doors since her return, the sole reminder of the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her damned vicomte, the shadow of fear which stalked her silently at the memory of the outside world ...
Be that as it may, it was my favourite type of day ... the sort of day which could tempt me out of my sanctuary. Having completed the little business I had to deal with in Paris, I made my way home, savouring the tangible pleasure that is our capital city in twilight in winter.
I entered the house, and made my way to the drawing room in search of Christine. I found her sitting in the armchair, reading a book with a slight frown of concentration partially obscured by her hair falling forward over her face.
I smiled slightly. The book she was reading was Madame Bovary, and far above her intellectual abilities. Intelligent as she undoubtedly was, she had always preferred cheap romantic trash novels to anything with a little substance and a plot deeper than a dinner plate. The irony of that particular choice was not lost upon me, although it would probably have passed her by while making her selection.
She looked up and smiled as she saw me, an even, genuine smile which warmed me from the inside.
"Where were you?" she asked. "When I woke up you'd gone."
"Paris," I replied. "A little business to attend to."
She nodded, apparently satisfied with my excuse for my absence.
I gestured at the book she had dropped on the glass table. "Madame Bovary?" I asked.
She laughed, ducking her head in a charming display of feigned embarrassment.
"I can't get into it," she confessed.
"That doesn't surprise me, my dear," I said. "It's hardly your normal reading matter, is it?"
She shook her head. "I wanted to try something new. Something a little different ... perhaps where there isn't always a happy ending and ..." her voice trailed off and her eyes fell away from mine.
There's our difference, my dear ... I seek the happy ending life has denied me in literature. Perhaps when you have had it all, you tire of perfection more easily ...
"Go and change for dinner, my dear," I told her, "and I'll see if I can find you something a little more suitable. A Bronté, perhaps ..."
She smiled and rose obediently, leaving the room with a subtle fragrance of lilies and the general peace she always brought with her mere presence. I walked over to her chair, still bearing the faint imprint of her body, and ran my fingers lightly over the cushions, tracing the contours of her slight frame.
I love her ...
No. That's not what she needs from me ... not what she wants.
I bit my lip until the blood flowed, relishing the pain it brought. How can it be that that sort of pain is so easy to bear ...?
I turned away from the chair with an effort, and began searching along the bookshelves for something a little more suitable for her with which to occupy her mind.
I was brought back to the present with the jarring loudness of the electric bell which I knew from some long-buried instinct wasn't Nadir ...
I moved with the silence of a lifetime's practice back into the front room. When I saw who it was who had dared to approach this Minotaur's labyrinth of mine, my heart stopped and then jumped with a painful extra two beats.
Raoul.
Despite myself, I was shocked at the change in him. The last time I had seen him, he had been undeniably attractive and well-built, the memory of which had tormented me mercilessly.
Now his face was fleshy, his muscle predominantly wasted through lack of exercise, and his entire form distinctly thickened, with a puffiness around the eyes which I fear could only be attributed to excessive alcohol consumption.
No, the man who stood defiantly on my expensive carpet made a shockingly raw contrast to the perfect Adonis of only a year ago who had charmed Paris and swept Christine off her feet without even trying.
Reassuring to know I'm not the only one Christine has the ability to destroy utterly ...
Not that she was the same girl ... the shy dancer who had defied the odds and won the heart of Paris with the inherent sparkle anyone could unearth in her, if they were only prepared to look for it was long gone ...
Paris had lost interest in its newest star months ago - would that it were so easy for me.
"Where is my wife, Monsieur?" he demanded with barely restrained civility.
I felt the anger rise in me, but forced myself to remain calm ... if I lost my temper now we would all be swallowed by the insanity which was rising slowly in me ...
"Your wife?" I repeated coldly.
"I know she is here," he said, matching my tone. "Where else would she have gone?"
"She has other friends," I said icily.
"Other lovers?"
The pure cruelty of this icy bombshell knocked the wind out of me, and had Christine not walked in at this point, I dare not think what carnage might have ensued.
We both turned to face her, his expression changing quickly to a smile, appearing not to notice the way her face drained rapidly of colour and the instinctive step towards me, clasping her book to her chest.
The Vicomte took a step towards her, his arms outstretched.
"Christine ... my darling ..."
She went a little whiter, and backed away from him, moving closer to me in an instinctive flight or fight reaction I dared not read too much into.
I stepped in between them, feeling rather than seeing her fear.
"While you remain on my ground, you will not touch her," I warned him. For my sake as much as hers...
He looked appraisingly at me for a moment, judging whether or not he dared disobey the experienced killer who stood before him.
Something of the hardness in my eyes warned him that I had not scrupled to make an attempt on his life once before, and my morals had not altered.
He turned his attention to Christine once more, taking on a cajoling tone.
"Christine ... darling ..."
She shook her head wildly, backing off again.
"I believe Mlle. Daaé does not wish to speak with you," I said levelly, facing him head on and obliging him to meet my eyes.
"Mme. de Chagny!" the boy snapped. "She is my wife, and I would thank you to remember that!"
I looked back at Christine, trying to disguise exactly how acutely that last shot had hit home.
The boy appeared to lose his temper at my silence; he reached out, and would have grabbed her wrist had I not swiftly inserted myself between them again with a warning glare at him.
"Come, Christine!" he ordered in a manner which suddenly put me in mind of the way he would address his servants. "We'll have no more of this nonsense. You're my wife, and you will come home with me right this instant!"
She shook her head, her eyes large with fear.
"I believe you have her reply," I said coldly. "Now, if you would care to remove yourself from my house ..."
"Of course she refuses!" the boy exploded, a little of his former energy showing through the deteriorated exterior. "She's terrified of you!"
I went cold. The desire to obliterate the boy from the landscape was now overwhelming, and yet ... and yet, what if he was right? If she truly was afraid of me? Even now?
I turned to her, suddenly feeling very tired.
"It would appear we have come full circle, my dear," I said wearily. "You have nothing to fear from either of us ... however, it seems there is a decision you must make. You may remain here, as you are very welcome to do, or you may return above the ground with ..." I swallowed and forced myself to continue, "with your husband."
She looked blankly up at me.
"Do you understand me, my dear?" I asked, very gently.
She nodded dully.
Your choice, my dear ... your Apollo ... or your Orestes?
(A/N - Orestes was an eternally damned Greek "hero" who was pursued by the Furies for all those who haven't been blessed (cursed?) with a classical education!)
Christine
I looked from one to the other, both looking at me - Raoul looking irritatingly confident with his hand outstretched to me, Erik gazing helplessly at me with an expression in his eyes I can only describe as despair ...
It occurred to me that it might hurt him more now than ever before should I leave to go with my rightful husband - if he truly considered me the daughter Fate had denied him, it would be a doubly cruel betrayal ...
I looked at Raoul, and went cold with fear once more. I had loved him, and perhaps a part of me still did, but the scars were embedded too deeply in my soul to be washed away with a few pretty words, and I could never see him in the same way again ... that part of my life was over for good.
I moved closer to Erik and took his hand, for support as much as anything else, feeling him stiffen slightly in surprise as I did so, then close his fingers around my own with the same gentle comforting pressure he had displayed when he soothed me from the demons of my imagination.
Raoul took a step towards me, his expression one of anguished disbelief.
"Christine!" he said with dismay. "You can't mean ... you can't stay here! Think of what people will say!"
My fear melted into anger such as I had not known since the day he had tried to prevent me from bringing a wedding invitation to Erik ... my God, so long ago!
"That's just it, isn't it!" Emboldened by the encouraging touch of Erik's long fingers on mine, I continued, losing my temper as I went on and the anger rose in me.
"Always what people will say, what people will do ... always your bloody reputation!"
I felt, rather than saw, Erik raise his eyebrows in surprised amusement. Raoul looked thunderstruck; he had never heard a lady swear before, and I'd certainly never exploded at him like that until today.
He took a step towards me, thinking better of it and retreating as Erik cast a threatening glance at him, turning away to look around the room.
"You truly want this?" he asked incredulously, contempt evident in his voice as he surveyed the semi-dark space. "You want that?" gesturing towards Erik's mask.
I felt Erik stiffen, and pressed his hand gently, warning him to let it go. It doesn't matter anymore ...
Raoul threw up his hands in disgust.
"Have it!" he said viciously. "See if I give a damn. You ... you're welcome to her, Monsieur," he spat, with one last contemptuous glance at Erik.
He stormed out, banging the door behind him.
Erik and I stood in silence for a long moment, before the weight of his gaze compelled me to look up at him and meet his eyes. Slowly, he lifted a hand and traced the line of my hair. I caught his hand and held it to my cheek for a moment, before he hesitantly reached out and took me into his arms.
He held me for a long time, cautiously at first, then closer as the moments wore on. I laid my head against his chest, savouring the warm comfort of his embrace, and surprised at how easy it was.
It came to me like a shower of raindrops slowly condensing, like quicksilver darting around my brain before gradually coming to rest and bringing me to tears as I realised the cruel truth.
I loved him.
I loved him ... and he no longer loved me.