A/N: My heartfelt appreciation goes out to all who gave me constructive criticism; I am always grateful to those who take the time to correct something in the plot that doesn't make sense (By the way, Padme Nijiri, Erik brought Christine home at night, she slept until dawn, but the day was unusually dark due to fog, clouds, impending rain, etc. I didn't know candles were only used at dusk… Couldn't they be used during a cloudy day?) Anyways, I really do appreciate the feedback on that last chapter…as I said before, it was a tough one. This one was a lot easier to write (and a little bit more fun…hehe…) It's also my longest. Yay!
P.S: Special thanks to Rachel, my 300th reviewer. I just thought I'd throw that in there for the heck of it… So yes, Rachel, you were número trescientos! Congratulations! Have a cookie!
P.P.S: I use some more Kay references in my final chapter…yes, this is it, everybody! Anyways, I address the fact that it was Erik who designed the Opera House in the Kay novel, but if you haven't read Phantom, just take note that Erik was the architect behind the plans for the Opera Populaire.
P.P.S.S: The lyrics in here are from the Phantom of the Opera theme and Gorecki (by Lamb), respectively.
DEVOTION
She fell asleep soon after, her arms wrapped tightly around him, refusing to let go even in her slumber. It was a restless sleep, filled with blood red images of death and horror… Erik touched his hand to her cheek, and her body relaxed. He himself was not tired, but as he watched her, he was filled with a sort of…natural serenity. He stared at her lovely face, and he forgot about the shadows that filled his memory…Madame Giry's murder, Christine's rape… No, he thought of only Christine, as she lay against him, her mind void of her own inner demons.
For a few moments, he felt- dare he even think it?- at peace.
Christine…his lips moved along with the name, tasting so utterly right against his tongue. His gloved hand moved across her long, pale neck, and he watched her chest move up and down steadily, a musical rhythm. The mountains of chestnut curls spilled across his shoulder, and he breathed in deeply…
He scolded himself harshly, turning his face away. How thoughtless was he? Had she not been through enough torment? In his mind he pictured her face as he walked into the manager's room, her body limp and torn from itself. Her eyes, half closed, as if she was dreaming, in a daze… it had all happened the night before. My God, what have you been through, child?
Christine stirred, her hand closing over the top of his knee. Erik fought the stirring he felt within himself, fought it with his own self-disgust. She had witnessed murder, she had been raped, she was so much younger than himself… He kept passing the notions through his thoughts over and over again, and still, one voice kept rising above all the others…
She loves you…
He had spent the better part of ten years at the Opera house obsessing over her. He had clung to the idea that he could keep her and hide her away from society's cruelties, protecting her from a world of hate and betrayal. In the end, though, had it not been he who had seduced her with his singing? He had done the very thing he had longed to prevent. She had been a mere girl when he first saw her, and he had fallen in love with her voice. But as it turns out, Fate has its own sense of humor, and so it was that he eventually fell in love with her. It had been the perfect paradox: the beauty and the beast.
And yet she grew to return his love.
That had been the punch line in Fate's comic story, the brilliantly ironic ending to its fable.
Erik leaned his head back against the leather seat, the soft, calming aroma of morning barraging his senses, and his eyes closed for an instant. The carriage continued down the road, following the small path that cut narrowly in and out of the trees. Sunlight wafted through the branches, and Erik came to realize how foreign the sensation of sunlight felt against his bare skin. He turned his head slightly to the left, and the warmth hit his right cheek for the first time. Subconsciously, he shuddered in the dawning radiance.
His thoughts consumed him, and the world outside himself and Christine seemed to fade…
The rain began soon after they reached the outskirts of Paris. Christine's eyelids fluttered open drowsily, and she glanced up at Erik's shadowy face. His eyes were locked on the road ahead and at the slowly approaching city, and he flinched when Christine's fingers touched his cheek. Her body was drawn up into a small, shaking huddle that buried itself in the side of Erik's torso. She smiled up at him weakly, the effects of sleep still overpowering her. Erik gently pulled off his cloak and draped it over her trembling frame as he held the reigns in one hand. "Thank you…" she whispered hoarsely.
"You're welcome."
Christine hid her head against his chest, and when she spoke, her voice was a muffled murmur against him. "Where are we, Erik?" With her eyes hidden away in Erik's side, she did not see the large Parisian houses that lined the streets loom over the darkened road.
Erik caught a distant glimpse of the golden archways of the Opera Populaire…somehow they looked less splendid than they did eight years ago… "Home, my love," he murmured, looking down at her as she drifted off to sleep once again. "We're home."
The emerging fog served as a blanket for them; Erik stopped the carriage on the side of the street and pulled Christine into his arms, careful not to wake her. Stepping gently out of the buggy, he glanced around the road, his eyes skimming the empty sidewalks for signs of life. The rain fell onto his face, into his eyes, and he savored the feeling of fresh water on his skin. He watched as the drops landed softly on Christine's cheeks, and she stirred a bit in her slumber. Quickly he moved out of the street and down the alleyway. The gate was there, just as it had always been…
"The Devil's Child! He's escaped!"
He closed his eyes for a moment, holding Christine tighter to his chest. The voices faded, and he turned back to the iron bars before him. It was locked, as he knew it would be. Madame Giry had made sure no thieves or bandits would destroy whatever was left after the raid… A silent sob escaped him as he thought of his old friend. Christine's screams echoed in his ears, the screams that had filled his heart with a boiling hatred…
"…She was an old woman…!"
Somewhere in the distance, thunder exploded through the mist, and Erik turned his face upward, allowing the rain to fall onto his bare face. His eyelids closed, and he sighed heavily, drinking in the heavy air. Reaching into his jacket pocket, Erik retrieved a long gold chain with a small brass key attached to the end…a key that he had carried with him for eight long years…
"Do you remember?" Yes, he had remembered. Though it had been so many years ago, he had never forgotten any of the small acts of kindness she had done for him…most importantly, how she had helped him escape. He held the key out in front of him as he carried Christine, dangling it before his eyes. "It's locked now. They will never think to look there again." But they had, Madame Giry! What's to say they won't do it this time, too?
"Time to go back…"
Erik shoved the key into the lock hidden away amongst the dust and soot of ancient brick. The bars, though aged and tarnished, were still strong and unharmed…the mob had undoubtedly stormed the front entrance. Climbing inside gingerly, Christine still clutched in his arms, he dropped onto the stone floor beneath him…and was struck by an overwhelming sense of eased nostalgia. God, how he had missed this place… His eyes wandered over the simple yet exquisite design of the walls, with their majestic French furnishings and beautifully gilded candelabras. A burst of pride welled within him.
It had been he who had designed the layout, after all.
"I had been told that if I ever had the good fortune to come across the man who drew these papers, I would have the honor of knowing the greatest architect in the history of the world… I always thought it a pretty tale, a fantasy." Garnier took a delicate taste of his champagne before turning to him, meeting his eyes directly, unwavering. "How old were you when you designed these, Erik?… Seven?… Eight…?" Erik looked away, frowning.
"If you design this Opera House, Monsieur, it will be the most magnificent in all of France."
Yes…the secret architect, the genius who discovered use for the miserable underground lake beneath the Opera House. Erik stepped past the dust-covered stained glass window, the one of the heavenly angel who held a lyre in his graceful white hand…the one he was sure Christine had pictured in her mind during those long, restless nights. Her dreams, filled with images of an Angel of Music in which she readily believed.
But in the end, it had only been Erik.
The small door had been shut tightly, and he had to push against it stiffly, a low grunt of effort passing his lips. The water in the canal was black and undisturbed, as flat as a sheet of glass before him. Christine shifted gently in his arms, and he ran a smooth gloved hand over her cheek. She burrowed down within the crevice of his arm and breathed deeply, a tiny smile passing across her lips. The gondola sat, motionless, in the far corner of the channel, dark and foreboding. Erik walked along the stone passage until he reached it, laying Christine gently down onto the wooden floor. He got in behind her, his eyes never leaving her sleeping form. "In all your fantasies, you always knew…" he sang in a hushed whisper.
Erik pushed the boat off, starting down the darkened canal.
"…that man and mystery were haunting you…"
The shadows gathered around his face, the candles long since dead and void of flame.
"You gave your love to me, for love is blind…"
Christine murmured in her sleep, her words indistinct, unintelligible. Still, she slept on, as if in a trance.
"Your Phantom of the Opera is there…inside your mind…"
His realities were mixed within his memories, and he envisioned Christine's first voyage from her mirror, her eyes wide and glassy in brilliant wonder. In dreams you came…
The iron gate was still open, just as it had been two years ago…but that was all. Nothing else was the as it had been. All his portraits, all his music…by God, even his pipe organ had fallen victim to those merciless men!…shattered and torn, burned and beaten to mere remnants of the masterpieces they had once been before. Erik felt a wave of horrified, disgusted nausea sweep over him as he stared at the bloody battlefield of shambled art, the carnage strewn throughout the catacombs with a cruel, heartless insensitivity.
He closed his eyes as if to suppress the images that kept reappearing in his mind.
Erik mentally scorned himself; had he truly expected them to leave everything as it was? He turned away from the wreckage before him, instead following the passage up to Christine's private room. His heart jumped to his throat as he stood outside the door…would they have found this room, too? He pushed his way inside, preparing himself for the unavoidable…
It had remained untouched. Erik stared around him in awe, his lips parted in silent astonishment. The elegant bed of red velvet sat majestically in the middle of the room, the black lace curtains drawn around the marble swan's head as if shielding it from the sight of destruction that lay just outside the door. Stepping lightly across the burgundy carpet, Erik stooped beside the bed and laid Christine down on the scarlet blankets gently, looking down upon her face. She looked back at him, eyes wide. He blinked, startled to see her awake.
"Christine…" he whispered, tracing his fingers across her pale face and down her graceful neck. She placed her hand over his, her eyes not breaking their gaze. He stood to leave, but Christine did not let go of him. Erik turned back to her, bewilderment lining his face.
"Please."
It was all she said. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her what she wanted, but as he stared at her, he understood. The feverish desire and desperation that glistened in her eyes answered everything. He did not need to question what it was she wanted…no, needed. "Christine…" The murmur escaped his lips, intending to sound tentative but instead coming out as a low groan. His breath caught in his throat as she trailed her fingers over his cheek, and his heart quickened, hammering at his chest. 'Damn her for still having such an effect on me…' he thought in awe, shuddering at her touch. Erik's eyes burned, and he passed through the black veil that separated them, his eyes locked on hers. "Now?"
She nodded mutely, her lower lip trembling. Christine pulled him to her, feeling his lips meet her neck. "Yes…now…" she moaned, digging her fingers into his arm. Erik was caught between his heart and his head, debating with himself. Certainly Christine was in no condition to… however, the longings and urgings his own body screamed at himself were so strong, so convincing… But surely there would be time for this later…
"I love you."
Erik looked down at her, mouth open in surprise of these words. She stared back at him, her eyes wide and innocent. Perhaps this was what she needed…only to be loved…
Slowly, deliberately, Erik leaned down against her, his body pressing against hers softy. It was like a mold, a perfect fit. He felt her breath quicken against him in a wave of dipping hands moving over her skin, digging down into the raw, uncovered base of dedication, their lips locked in a fusion of their love. He moved his mouth down her cheek and across her chin, feeling his way down her jaw and to the small hollow between her neck and shoulder. Her hands ran smoothly over his bare back, his shirt thrown to the bottom of the bed in careless anticipation. Christine entwined her legs with his, pulling him closer. His fingers danced hesitantly over her waist, waiting impatiently for the inevitable…
When they joined, Christine saw a burst of color explode before her eyes. She bit down on his shoulder impulsively, tears wetting her eyes. Erik felt her stiffen beneath him, and he enclosed her in his arms, pressing himself to her and stroking her hair. Their lips met again…and again…hard and unyielding. She cried into his mouth, delicious pain and indescribable pleasure flooding her senses. All she saw was Erik, his face floating above hers.
How beautiful he was…
Erik lay awake beside her and she slept against him, her face buried in his bare chest. He watched her, fiery devotion sweeping over him as his eyes trailed over her dozing form. Running a hand over her waist, he let his fingers lay flaccidly against her stomach, and he closed his eyes…
Then he felt it.
A light kick from within her.
Erik looked up at Christine, eyes wide. She stirred a little in her sleep, but she remained unaware. He turned his gaze back to his hand as it rested on her abdomen… There it was again…
For the first time, Erik felt the wave of fatherhood bombard his mind, an instant and complete commitment to the child that was…his… He had helped create life, and it was more amazing than any of the arias or sculptures or building designs he had ever thought up.
This was of him.
Tears stung his eyes, and a small smile crept onto his lips. Deftly, Erik slid out of the bed, holding Christine's arm gently in his hand and placing it delicately back on the pillow. He crossed the room as quietly as he could, drawing near to a small dresser that sat in the corner of the room. The top drawer held only two objects: one, a large satchel of coins (a few thousands francs, left over from his well-earned salary at the Opera Populaire), and a long black box. He removed the case…and within the case lay a dexterously crafted violin. Its deep crimson wood glimmered in the flickering light, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Christine. Inspiration was a truly a beautiful thing…
Perhaps it was the bittersweet music that awoke her…or maybe it was the light kicking of the child that lay within her. Whatever it was, Christine opened her eyes softly, gazing around the room. The song that carried through the air cast her into something almost like a trance, and she pulled the blankets off her body. Draping a thin white silk robe over her bare shoulders, Christine drifted from out the door, following the strange music, listening to his voice.
"If I should die this very moment I wouldn't fear…"
She stepped through the leaves of parchment that swept past her feet, and the violin played on…
"For I've never known
completeness
Like being here, wrapped in the
warmth of you…"
Erik had a keen ability to sense people behind him; he turned on the bench and met her eyes, the lingering echo of the violin sweeping through the caverns. Christine stopped, her lips parted, as he stood and came towards her, and still the music floated around her head.
"Could we stay right here…
Until the end of time, until the
earth stops turning…?"
He ran his hand over her cheek, and she closed her eyes, lost in his touch. His voice carried her, lone and unaccompanied by the haunting splendor of the violin. Erik took her in his arms, her back pressing against his firm chest, and they swayed gently in the candlelight. He touched his lips to the side of her neck, murmuring the words into her skin.
"I will love you until the seas
run dry…
I've found the one I've waited
for…"
Christine turned to face him, shuddering at the feel of his hands at her waist. She took his hand and pulled him closer, her feet moving lightly to the sound of his voice. He looked down at her, his words paused, good natured confusion glowing in his eyes. Christine smiled, leading him in their unconventional dance. Their bodies moved in rhythm to the dipping of the candlelight, their shadows moving against the walls. And Erik began to sing once more…
"Here is true peace, here my
heart knows calm,
Safe in your soul, bathed in
your sighs…"
The swirling of the robe was like a full skirt around her ankles, and he met her gaze, his eyes wide. She could see the hesitant uncertainty mirrored in both his feet and his face. Surely this master of the art knew of dance… But the uncharacteristic heaviness in his step said otherwise. For the first time in what felt like years, Christine laughed, a light giggle that blended with his words as if he had written it in the song to begin with.
Suddenly his eyes closed, his mouth set in a firm, determined line, and he began to lead her, faster and faster, in whirling steps. His eyelids drew open, and he cocked his eyebrow, defying her laugh. They slowed, eyes locked in a connection unbroken by the silence.
"I have found the one I've
waited for…
The one I've waited for…"
They stopped, their bodies pressed against each other. Erik tilted her chin up. "Are you afraid?"
"Of what?"
He touched his thumb to the side of her face, fingers entwined in her hair. "Tomorrow…the day after..." Erik hesitated. "…That our child will look like…" he whispered, his voice trailing off. He dropped his gaze to the floor.
Christine did not answer right away. In her mind, she saw the mob that broke into their home two years ago…the Baron, his wild, frenzied eyes gleaming in the darkness…Madame Giry, in her last moments of defiance…the men who killed her… She saw Raoul. Turning her face upwards, she wrapped her hands around his neck. With her eyes unwavering from his, she pushed herself up onto her toes and met his lips. A few moments later, she pulled away, but only slightly, still feeling his ragged breath against her cheek.
"No."
La Fin
A/N: Yes, this is my last chapter. Please note the emphasis on the word 'chapter'… :Smiles mysteriously at the cryptic meaning of the last statement: In other words, don't take me off your author alert list quite yet…
