Disclaimer: I don't own Christine, Erik, Raoul or Meg but I do own Frederick and Marguerite. If you don't know that by now something might be wrong.
A/N: Okay, update. Finally. Hopefully I'll get another one in before Christmas. School's just been really busy.
Raoul… and What Followed
Dear Meg,
I could probably go on for pages about how much I miss you, but I have very little time to write. So, please, know that I miss you very much and, even though I don't write often, I think about you every day.
Now I don't know if you will understand this, but I will explain everything later. But just tell me this—and please hurry in your response—do you know anything of the Phantom? It is very important that I know—my sanity depends on it!
All will be explained when I have more time to write. Please address your response to Madam Marguerite Lenfent. She will give it to me.
With all my love and gratitude,
Christine
Christine quickly slipped to letter into an envelope and addressed it, her hand moving as fast as nature would permit. She handed it to her friend and, just as their husbands entered the parlor, Marguerite pressed it between two books on the side table.
"Hello, my dear," Frederick's voice floated lightly on the air as he quickly walked over to receive Marguerite's awaiting embrace. Christine saw him whisper something into his wife's ear as she smiled, closing her eyes. Christine's own husband came over and gave her a small kiss on the cheek.
"Hello, darling, how are you feeling?"
"A little tired, dear, but I'll be fine."
"Who's ready for a game of cards?" Frederick asked, pulling himself away from Marguerite.
"It seems we will be leaving now," Raoul said harshly. "Christine's tired."
The eyes of the three other people in the room expanded greatly and Christine cried, "Raoul!"
He turned to her with an aesthetic smile. "Pardon me, Christine, did you not say that you were tired?"
"Frederick, can I talk to you?" Marguerite asked with a wary eye in the de Chagnys' direction. "In the other room, please." The two quickly left the room, leaving Christine and Raoul in molten anger.
"I can't believe you…" Christine started.
"What, Christine, what?" Blood rushed through his veins to his temples, causing them to stick out in a very unattractive manner.
"How could you stand there and start an argument in front of our friends like that?"
"It wasn't me who started it! You are the one who wants to leave!"
"I never—"
"You're always tired! What is happening, Christine? Something is wrong and you're not telling me! Trust me! Tell me! What is your secret?" Christine looked into her husband's eyes and saw the anguish that lay beneath them. How had he known something was wrong? she thought to herself and then, for the first time, she contemplated actually telling Raoul about the dream. But if he knew she was continually escaping into a world where Erik was her husband… Why, it would cause him more pain than he ever needed! If she told him anything about the dream she would have to tell him everything—and imagine how he would react if he knew Erik was the reason she wanted to sleep more than usual. No, she would say nothing of the dream. Not now, or ever.
"There is no secret, Raoul," she said softly, placing her hand on his cheek. "I am just a little sick and I sleep frequently so that I might get better faster." Her husband's face softened a little.
"But what about the whispers between you and Marguerite? I saw her hide something as we came in."
"Oh that!" Christine cried in false enthusiasm. "She got Frederick a present, that's all. She was showing me when you two came in unexpectedly."
"Oh," Raoul said, color rising to his cheeks. "You must forgive me for being so rude and untrusting. I am sorry that I embarrassed you and myself."
"Think nothing of it, dear," she replied. She was happy that she had fooled him, but once again she felt deceitful and traitorous. This was her husband she was lying to after all! "Let's just go home."
"Yes, I know, you're tired," he repeated. With that he quickly led her out of the room, his hand placed protectively around her waist. They said their good-byes (Marguerite promised to send the letter to Paris that evening) and began the short ride home.
When they arrived, Christine (as she so often did these days) went directly to sleep after giving Raoul a small kiss. And when she opened her eyes a minute later, she found herself looking at a different ceiling than the one she closed her eyes under. She looked around, expecting to see Erik; so far he had always been near when she began the dream. But this time he wasn't, or at least nowhere in sight.
She stepped out of bed hesitantly, still turning her head from side to side in anticipation of Erik's entrance. Still he failed to appear. So Christine walked over to the wardrobe, pulled out a robe that she assumed must be hers, and put it on over her nightgown. She had no idea what time it was or if it was proper to be fully dressed by now, but Christine had no time to ponder these things; she wanted to find Erik. His absence worried her; she did not know why, but a knot was continuously growing in her stomach with each minute that she didn't see him. She felt immensely vulnerable because she didn't know where he was, like something horrific would happen if she didn't find him soon.
She opened the bedroom door and stretched her neck beyond the frame. "Erik," she called. "Are you there?" No answer. Christine stepped cautiously into the living room and looked around. She softened her footsteps and slowly made her way to the door of the parlor, which she softly pushed open. Again she called for Erik and again there was no reply. She could feel the tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she stopped them before they fell. Erik was not here but he would be back. All that she could do was get dressed and wait.
******************
The sun had shone brightly as Christine awoke into a beautiful Parisian morning. Flowers stretched their necks toward the sun, who showed his gratification for their worship by beaming harder and making their petals sparkle with color. Laughter bounced off walls on every street as children flooded their nannies with their spring cloaks and played freely in the sun-drenched streets. Lovers embraced openly, rejoicing in the rays. But of course Christine could not have known this, for she was five stories below the pavement where these lovers walked, opening her eyes in the windowless room. It was Erik who had seen this morning's sights as he was bringing fresh bread back to the house. He described all these details and more (there were just the prominent images she could remember) after he arrived home and found Christine nervously waiting for him in the parlor.
Her anxiety departed with his return and she found herself feeling incredibly happy that the dream had once again taken her to the bedroom in Erik's house and far away from her won house, where no doubt Raoul still sat, upset. Christine had decided before she went to sleep that, should the dream come again, she would enjoy it full-heartedly. After all, she did not know when this dream would end, and she meant to experience it as best she could. She decided to forget about Raoul while she was asleep, and do whatever she wanted to, whatever that means. Above all, she refused to think about their argument. It made her furious to remember how he embarrassed both of them by starting the argument in front of their friends—and in their home, no less! And it made her even more upset to know that, for all the excuses she had made up, he still knew something was wrong! Was she not—or had she not been—an actress? But she resolved not to think about him any more; she had to remember not to let her angry thoughts be thought, confusing as that may sound. Just as she thought this, however, Erik ironically said:
"I found out about this Raoul you were asking about."
Christine nearly choked on her breakfast. "Oh?"
"Yes. He was a Vicomte, right? And his brother was Comte Philippe de Chagny?" She nodded her head in awe. No! she thought. He can't come into the dream now! "Then I have the right boy. He took violin lessons with your father when he was young and I was told that you and he were very good friends."
"Yes, we spent a lot of time together when we were children. But how do you know all this?"
"His brother is a patron of the Opera. It was very easy information to get. Do you want to know what happened to your friend?"
"What happened?"
Erik laid his hand on hers so lightly that Christine would not have known it was there had she not seen the movement. "When he was eighteen, he accompanied an uncle on an expedition to the North Pole… Have you ever heard of the D'Artois expedition?" Christine shook her head and Erik sighed. "The ship has never been heard from since. I'm very sorry, Christine."
"He died?" Christine stared unbelievably at Erik. "Six years ago?" He nodded. "So… I wasn't even in Paris, was I?"
"Yes, you were; you had just entered the conservatory. What I don't understand is… Christine, you were at the funeral."
"I… I was?" she stuttered. "I don't…"
"Remember? Christine what is it? A week ago you were fine, you were singing again and then… Then what? It was like you…you didn't… you were the same but different."
Christine looked at him, at his longing to understand her and his pain at not being able to. She knew, as surely as she had known that she should not tell Raoul of the dream, that she could not tell Erik. So, since it had already become second nature to her, she once again lied to her husband.
"It's true, I have been having trouble remembering things. But not…everything."
"What do you remember?"
"Well, you," Christine stumbled, "and the Angel of Music and…" She stopped. That was where Raoul began to be an important part in their…story. Without him, events must have been different—of course they were; she was married to Erik after all, wasn't she? "And that's all," she concluded.
Erik's shoulders slumped over and she could feel more than see his face falling. For the first time in a long while, she though that he looked old.
"You don't remember anything else? Not even why you're…ill?" Christine shook her head. He paused to think. "Well, let's clean up breakfast and I'll tell you everything after."
A/N: Dun Dun Dun!!!! No you just need to ask yourselves one question: Can you handle the truth?
PS: I don't own the D'Artois expedition either. In case y'all don't remember, in the original novel Raoul was going to the North Pole to search for survivors from this expedition. See ya next time!
