Chapter 88 Yielding

Erik stood swiftly as she entered her rooms, a drink already in his hand.

Emilie wasn't the slightest bit surprised at this intrusion. After all, she'd sent him the note that had summoned him there. She just thanked God he'd found it that morning and acted on it at precisely the right time.

"Where did you take her?" he asked, sitting down again in one of the chairs either side of her small fire.

There truly was nothing he didn't see. "To the café, I wanted to try and get her to eat something," the same lie she'd told the Vicomte. She helped herself to a drink and then sat opposite him. "Until our Patron ran in and hurried her back over here."

Of course, her knight in shining armor, swooping in to save Christine yet again. He scowled as he took another mouthful of brandy. "You know, he doesn't trust you one bit, I can't imagine why," he tipped his drink towards her in a mock salute.

"As if I care," she replied, rolling her eyes. "What were they talking about in there?" she knew for certain Erik would have been listening to any meeting her managers and the Vicomte had with the Police Captain earlier.

"Nothing that concerns you. Firmin is blustering about more money, Andre is trying to keep Brigitte off the stage. And de Chagny chiefly berates them both for not finding me sooner. And then they all happily plot my imminent demise," he smiled wryly.

"This is no joke," she said sadly, watching him. "He means to be rid of you."

"Unfortunately, I believe you're right. de Chagny seems to have found his spine at last." He looked down into his drink, swirling it around in the glass. "I was watching her today… she looks…"

"Pale? Thin? Sick to her stomach with fear?" Emilie couldn't stop the accusation in her voice. "About to break in two with the pressure you and the Vicomte have put her under?"

"It was hardly my idea to hold the performance within a week."

"But the entire production revolves around her part in it. She's in every scene until her character dies. She has to learn more than anyone else and on top of that she –"

He looked up her hesitation. "She… what?"

"She has to live with the knowledge that she is only up there to draw you to your death."

"She has her fiancé to thank for that, not me," he snapped. But that didn't change the truth of what she said. He drained his glass, then rose to re-fill it. "It was meant to be the role of a lifetime for her," he explained. "To cement her place as one of France's finest opera singers. It was meant to give her the world." He sat back down again, his soul as weary as his voice. "At the time, if you recall," he pursed his lips at her, "you told me there'd been no engagement."

She rubbed the tense muscles in her neck and sighed. "At the time, there wasn't. How was I to know he'd ask her days before they returned?"

"Yet I believed otherwise, so what was I supposed to do? Let her come back here in disgrace? Let her be thought of as nothing more than one of the many harlots who've passed through here, over the years?"

"And did those harlots inspire you when you wrote the part for my daughter in your opera?"

He tried to hide a small smirk. "I may not have been in a particularly forgiving frame of mind to you at the time I wrote that. I apologise."

Well, that was a first. She looked across at him; his blue eyes looked darker in the dim light. "And the ballet in Act three - what were you thinking?"

"I think it's pretty obvious what I was thinking, actually," he scowled, remembering the fevered nights and dreams of Christine that he'd poured into his art. How the need for her had nearly killed him. He couldn't allow himself to be reminded of that now, there was too much at stake. "Is there a point to this little visit, or is it yet another opportunity for you to scold me like a child?"

"I want to ask that whatever you have planned, you don't hurt too many people."

"I told you before," he said darkly, "there's only one more person who will come to harm at my hand."

"And what if Christine is in the way?"

"Perhaps he should have thought of that before aiming weapons at my stage," he said harshly. He couldn't tell Emilie of his plan. He didn't want her to be blamed in any way, after. If they wanted him to appear, he would do so in the first act and spare as much carnage as possible. And if de Chagny thought Erik would ever let Christine be up there alone, completely unprotected, he had lost what was left of his tiny mind.

"What can you possibly do?" she asked despairingly.

"I'll get her out of there, if anything happens."

Emilie didn't have to ask further; the implication was clear. If it came to any kind of choice, Erik would lay down his freedom, or his life, to keep Christine from harm. "And what about everybody else? What about Meg?"

'Ah,' he thought, 'the point at last.' How utterly predictable. He stood up. He had no time for this. "I promise I'll do everything I can to ensure Marguerite's safety."

"And what about your own?" she asked softly, looking up at him.

"That's no longer your concern." He started to walk up through her rooms to her door.

"Wait," she stood up too, but made no move to go nearer to him. "Erik, I – " She couldn't say it. Though this might be the last time she ever saw him, she couldn't say it.

He closed his eyes for an instant and sighed. They both knew this was goodbye. He couldn't look back at her. "You already saved my life once," he said quietly.

"Then let me again," she said desperately. "Whatever it is you think to do, please, please don't do it."

He held up a hand to stop her from talking, shaking his head slightly. "No. Don't. This ends tomorrow." He sighed again, then turned back to her. "You rescued me from a prison and brought me to a dream. I came out of hell and into heaven, when I found Christine. I will always be grateful to you for that."

"But if you're seen at any time tomorrow –"

"And if I don't appear during the performance and offer them my head, what do you think they'll do?" Could she not see that this was the only way for him now?

Emilie looked away from him before he saw the tears in her eyes.

"They'll hunt me down," he said, despairingly. "They'll tear through here, through my home, my sanctuary – to find me."

"But you can't just give up," she pleaded. God, how could she bear it?

"What is left to fight for?" Erik asked, couldn't she see that it was hopeless? "Even if they don't kill me, he'll still take her away from me. At least this way – " he stopped himself before going further. He turned to her door again, his back to her. "At least this way the last thing I see will be her face," he said wearily. "If I am to die, let it be in her arms, her voice the last thing that I hear. Give me this, Emilie, please."

It was the first time he'd said her name in years. She watched as he went through the door and closed it behind him, then sat back down and put her head in her hands.