Chapter 4.
Later Meg Giry would say they simply disappeared, because that's what it looked like.
The two of them, Christine and Erik left the room, and Meg heard Christine's footsteps echo down the corridor. Then they stopped. And when Meg rushed to the door, there was nobody there. And all the doors were still locked. Meg had finally found her voice, and she began to scream.
Raoul de Chagny is furious. His blue eyes are icy, and they are snapping grey/blue with intensity and temper. He turns his fury onto the Chief of Police, who is smiling vaguely, and wishing he were back at his post, with the bottle of gin in his desk.
"Sir, I really think...."
"Damn what you think!" Raoul snaps. "I want this whole Opera house searched."
"The search party has been and gone. They have found nothing. Not a cobweb has been disturbed." The Chief runs at his temples, tiredly. He is also fed- up with the temper tantrum that Raoul is throwing.
"I'll go and search myself." Raoul is shouting, stalking about the room like a cahed tiger.
"If you wish to put your life at risk, then do so. There's no evidence that this "opera-ghost" is back...only the word of an already flighty chorus- girl."
"No evidence-Christine is missing."
The Chief nods. "That's right...you were planning on marrying this girl next week, were you not?"
"What are you implying?"
"Well, Sir, she may have-"
Raoul cuts him off. "Christine would never run away from me."
"Wedding nerves, perhaps?"
Raoul slams his fist against a mahogoney panelled bookshelf. "No."
Christine is lying against the velvet softness of the cloak. She has not asked where she is, except she is watching the stars. They are beautiful and bright, and she's completely peaceful. He's humming a soft tune under his breath.
She sits up after a while, and searchs for his outline against the darkness.
"I'm never going back, Erik."
Erik clears his throat. "You must, Christine. I have not thought; I have no- where to take you, and they will wonder where you are."
"I do not care, as long as I am with you." She reaches out a hand and caresses the mask.
He gasps, cradling her hand and stilling it.
"Will you never trust me?" Christine asks.
Erik releases his grip, and feels her hand touch the mask again. His whimpers as he feels her lift the mask from his face. Her other hand touches the scars, and he flinches. He feels her fingers tracing across raised welts and marks, learning their shape. Christine puts her face close to his, searching his eyes despite the dark. So close she can feel his breath, thready and slow against her cheek.
"Trust me," She whispers.
Their lips brush. Christine feels a jolt like electricity run through her. Erik's moaning low in his throat. And again, drowning in sweetness. And it's healing.
All the past is fading...
There is no Opera Ghost...
He isn't the Angel of Music...
He's Erik....
Erik's gasping. Her lips are soft and silk smooth...he knows she can taste the tears that are flowing down his ravaged cheeks on his lips. But he dosen't hate himself for his weakness, for once. She is his. And he is hers.
As it was always meant to be.
Later Meg Giry would say they simply disappeared, because that's what it looked like.
The two of them, Christine and Erik left the room, and Meg heard Christine's footsteps echo down the corridor. Then they stopped. And when Meg rushed to the door, there was nobody there. And all the doors were still locked. Meg had finally found her voice, and she began to scream.
Raoul de Chagny is furious. His blue eyes are icy, and they are snapping grey/blue with intensity and temper. He turns his fury onto the Chief of Police, who is smiling vaguely, and wishing he were back at his post, with the bottle of gin in his desk.
"Sir, I really think...."
"Damn what you think!" Raoul snaps. "I want this whole Opera house searched."
"The search party has been and gone. They have found nothing. Not a cobweb has been disturbed." The Chief runs at his temples, tiredly. He is also fed- up with the temper tantrum that Raoul is throwing.
"I'll go and search myself." Raoul is shouting, stalking about the room like a cahed tiger.
"If you wish to put your life at risk, then do so. There's no evidence that this "opera-ghost" is back...only the word of an already flighty chorus- girl."
"No evidence-Christine is missing."
The Chief nods. "That's right...you were planning on marrying this girl next week, were you not?"
"What are you implying?"
"Well, Sir, she may have-"
Raoul cuts him off. "Christine would never run away from me."
"Wedding nerves, perhaps?"
Raoul slams his fist against a mahogoney panelled bookshelf. "No."
Christine is lying against the velvet softness of the cloak. She has not asked where she is, except she is watching the stars. They are beautiful and bright, and she's completely peaceful. He's humming a soft tune under his breath.
She sits up after a while, and searchs for his outline against the darkness.
"I'm never going back, Erik."
Erik clears his throat. "You must, Christine. I have not thought; I have no- where to take you, and they will wonder where you are."
"I do not care, as long as I am with you." She reaches out a hand and caresses the mask.
He gasps, cradling her hand and stilling it.
"Will you never trust me?" Christine asks.
Erik releases his grip, and feels her hand touch the mask again. His whimpers as he feels her lift the mask from his face. Her other hand touches the scars, and he flinches. He feels her fingers tracing across raised welts and marks, learning their shape. Christine puts her face close to his, searching his eyes despite the dark. So close she can feel his breath, thready and slow against her cheek.
"Trust me," She whispers.
Their lips brush. Christine feels a jolt like electricity run through her. Erik's moaning low in his throat. And again, drowning in sweetness. And it's healing.
All the past is fading...
There is no Opera Ghost...
He isn't the Angel of Music...
He's Erik....
Erik's gasping. Her lips are soft and silk smooth...he knows she can taste the tears that are flowing down his ravaged cheeks on his lips. But he dosen't hate himself for his weakness, for once. She is his. And he is hers.
As it was always meant to be.