Chapter Nine
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. Etc, etc. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Weber. Etc, etc.
Author's Note: So sorry this took so long to get up… hectic last week, which left me with little time to write. I want to thank you guys who still read, and for all the lovely reviews. You all are amazing.
"Pray that your loneliness may spin you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for."
-Dag Hammarskjold
"Christine! My God, what happened to you?" Instantly, the young Comte was kneeling next to the couch where Christine sat. His hands, quivering in relief and concern, clasped one of her own as he gazed into her blue eyes; confusion bombarded him when she did not return the look of happiness at his presence. Her eyes shown with some diluted form of contempt, as if she were accusing him of some betraying deed. "Christine?"
"Raoul, I asked you not to follow me," she said softly, finally finding words even though her throat was parched. Her voice sounded hoarse and strained, and she knew that the entire room probably heard her heart pounding and her blood pumping.
"But Christine, you left without so much as a notice! I had to come make sure you were all right… and apparently, I came right in time. You look absolutely horrid! What on earth happened?" He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand; her skin was cold.
"She just had a small tired spell, is all," Madame Giry supplied. Both Raoul and Christine turned to glance at her. Christine saw the woman's quizzical dark stare that was aimed in her direction alone; she completely ignored Raoul's confused blinking.
She knows, Christine thought dismally. Oh Lord, she knows.
"She will be just fine," the older woman said, nodding sharply. Christine looked away from her.
Raoul turned to look at Christine, his eyebrows creased. "Christine?" he whispered, his voice strained. "Why did you come back to this place?"
Christine raised her gaze to his but said nothing. Everyone in the room watched in curiosity as Christine pursed her lips, refusing to speak. Raoul felt something inside of him snap. He wasn't sure if it was his heart or his trust. Maybe it was both. "Christine?"
"Raoul, I asked you not to follow me," Christine said blandly, repeating what she had said minutes before. She suddenly felt very weary and wished that Raoul and everyone else would leave her alone so that she could sleep.
"I had no choice, Christine," he replied, looking into her eyes pleadingly. "You just… you just left!"
"For good reason."
"One that you did not tell me."
"And I do not plan on telling you," Christine scoffed, slightly irritated.
Raoul's eyes widened in hurt and surprise. "What?"
"You really shouldn't have come here, Raoul." Christine shook his hands away from her own, scared he would feel the pounding pulse in her fingers. Guilt, though that of a different kind, welled inside of her heart. What was she doing? Raoul did not deserve the pain she was destined to bring to him. "Go back to the estate, Raoul…"
"I will not leave you here!" he suddenly exclaimed, his voice raising to a pitch much out of his character. His eyes were blazing blue, and for a moment, Christine wished they were golden.
"Raoul, please," she whispered softly.
He shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "We are going back to the estate together. I refuse to leave you here in this place, Christine. I do not know why you chose to come back to this hellish edifice, or what is going through your mind. But I fear for your safety, and I will not leave you here!"
Everyone, including Corin, stared at the young Comte with surprise. His voice was laced with annoyance, and under that, a hint of anger that was very much unlike him. A man of dominance and demand had replaced the concerned, compassionate young man, though only for a moment.
Christine only sighed, unfazed by his sudden outburst. She had spent the morning under heavy weight of the harsh, accusing words of Erik. Nothing Raoul said could make her skin crawl with fear. "I will not go back with you today, Raoul…"
He stared down at her incredulously. "You dare disobey me?"
"You're not my keeper…" She looked up at him with sad eyes.
"I am your fiancé!" Raoul cried, an edge coming into his voice. Christine winced at the desperation that drowned him and rung like bells. His eyes changed from domineering to pleading as he tried to understand. What could be so important that she refused to be with him? That she demanded his company not exist while she went through whatever it was that she was hiding?
"I need to go…" Christine slowly eased herself off of the couch, still slightly weak. However, she didn't think twice about pushing past Raoul. If she stood there with his presence drowning her for another moment, she would tell him what she had come there for, and what she had been met with. That, she feared, would only lead to tears and possibly worse.
"And where do you plan to go?" Raoul snapped, his control slowly waning. He felt pure animal instinct rising in him and the sensitive nature of his spoiled upbringing vanishing, all over this woman and her petty excuses.
Christine did not look back at him. She walked, smiling weakly and giving Corin a nod when he quickly moved out of her way. With small, but quick steps, she hurried down the hall.
Two voices mingled at once as she quickened her pace, not quite sure where she was going. One was deep and melodious, full of pain and confusion; it grabbed her and pulled her toward it, and she fought not to stray even though she wanted to with all of her being. The other was shrill and angry, confused as well, but much less beautiful and more so boyish; she had the urge to run from it and not look back.
"Christine!" Raoul called loudly after her in uncertainty and sudden fear. His footsteps sounded behind her faintly, and Christine picked up her dirtied skirts, ready to run. She still felt weak, but that didn't stop her movements from quickening. She couldn't see Raoul right now, for if she did, the events of the morning would spill from her lips like water from a fountain. She wouldn't be able to contain the guilt of betrayal and the love for the masked man in one body. And as Erik would not except her love, the guilt would be the first to leave her.
Christine! the other voice bellowed in longing, the sweet syllables of her name rumbling through the walls like lightning.
It was that one word, her name, coming from his lips with such need that caused her to suddenly turn into a smaller corridor before reaching the Entrance Hall. The corridor itself wasn't even really a corridor, but more of a pathway that lead to a timeworn door. Hoping the door was open, Christine pulled on the handle, but the door held shut. As Raoul's calls and footsteps became more prominent to her ears, Christine pressed herself back into a corner, hoping the shadows would prove sufficient cover for her.
She saw Raoul pass by in a blur.
Relief coursed through her entire body.
Pushing away from the wall, Christine pulled at the doorknob that separated her from a room that most likely was home to one of Erik's trap doors. Every room, she thought with a small smirk, had a door for Erik's convenience. Her hands were no longer shaking with edgy quickness and the weakness that had plagued her body a few moments before had seemed to dilute with the thought of descending once more into Erik's home. She easily was able to get a good hold on the handle. With one hard tug, the door opened, and Christine hurried inside, closing the door behind her.
The room was dark, spare for two small torches that sat high on the walls, blinking light across the tiny room. It was only a few feet long by a few feet wide, and tools and random objects used for cleaning occupied a good portion of it.
Christine wasted no time in letting her hands roam over the cold walls of the room. Her fingers frantically searched for the button that would give her passage to Erik.
She didn't know how much time went by before her fingers fell upon an almost unnoticeable difference in stone. Tears had started to form in her eyes against her will as frustration taunted her. With a tortured sigh, she frantically ran her fingers around the area, searching for the small, nail-sized button that would make the stone crack open.
When she found the small button, she pushed it. The stone started to creak and she clasped her hands together, saying a silent prayer of thanks. Hurrying toward a wall that donned a torch, she stood on her tiptoes and grabbed it from the metal holder. Unlike last time, no fear of the dark staircase troubled her. With renewed hope, Christine stepped into the stairwell. She pressed the button, and the stone enclosed her.
The darkness was cold, but beautiful. Much like Erik. Christine's throat suddenly throbbed with the urge to sing, which surprised her. She hadn't sung since her days in the Opera House, specifically the performance of Don Juan Triumphant. Sometimes Raoul has asked her to sing, but she had adamantly refused, as the notes of her voice sounded empty.
But back then she had lost what had made her want to sing. Her soul had been buried inside of a man she had convinced herself to fear, leaving her with no reason to create such melodious sounds. Now, she refused to leave the Opera House without that motivation that had once made her voice so angelic and beautiful. She refused to leave without his voice caressing her and pulling her in. The sudden ache to hear Erik's voice pulsed through her. She didn't understand it, nor did she care.
She started to sing softly at first, a small lullaby she remembered her father singing to her when she was a small child and afraid of the dark. The words fit surprising well to her feelings, which made a smile creep onto her lips. And it felt so good to have her vocal chords stretch and shudder as she lifted her voice! It had been too long since she had taken the freedom to exercise her voice.
Christine descended down the stairs casually, lost in the reverie of music that had been absent from her life for far too long. It didn't even cross her mind that her voice would attract him like a flame did a moth.
Erik sat in front of the fireplace, his eyes locked on the flames that leapt and danced to some unheard rhythm. Besides the random crackling of the fire, the only other sound was that of the bustling Daroga, who busied himself by cleaning up the mess Erik had made of his palace. Shards of glass and wood littered the floor as if a tornado had swept through.
Erik tore his eyes from the fire to glance down at his bandaged hands. The wounds were starting to throb now that the initial adrenaline had faded out of his body. Soon, they would be horribly sore, and Erik would grow horribly frustrated. Or more frustrated than he already was, anyway. But then again, he rarely needed his hands for a specific purpose, spare he decided to spontaneously build a contraption. He rarely played the organ these days, unless he was for some reason inspired to write a piece of music. But nonetheless, he healed rather quickly, despite the infection that raided his body.
His throat felt dry and scratchy from the yell he had released a while before. He had been sitting in the exact same spot, with the Daroga cleaning dutifully, when he had suddenly slammed his fists against the floor in front of him and screamed.
Christine!The Daroga had frozen, and Erik had fought for breath, as his throat seemed to constrict on him. He didn't have a clue where the sudden exclamation had stemmed from; the urge to call to her had just boiled inside of him until he could hold it down no longer. Slowly, he had calmed his racing pulse and sat frozen, his eyes locked on the dancing fire. He disregarded the Daroga's stare that was eating holes into his back, refusing to speak to the dark-skinned man. His friend had already said enough to torture him. Words would only serve to stab his black heart even more.
And now, he still sat in front of the fire, his face blank and his body lax.
However, the muscles in his back and shoulders started to tense when a melody reached his ears. With lightning-quick speed, he was on his feet, glancing around. The Daroga had paused as well, blinking in confusion and looking about the room. When his eyes fell on Erik, he saw the masked man staring at the doorway that lead towards the lake with wide, unseeing eyes. When he concentrated, the Persian man could tell that's where the beatific music was lingering.
One word from Erik's lips had the jade-eyed man understanding.
"Christine…"
