(A/N:Sorry, Sorry, Sorry...author grovels in front of angry and impatient mob. It won't happen again. Excuses: 1)A bad case of writers block, 2)A new semester with a new load of homework, and 3)Writing another fanfic withanother friend, who just developed a crush one one of my characters - what can you do, eh? Anyway:
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Persian, or the song "For Always". Is that good enough for you? It isn't? Well, see previous chapters then. By the way, the race is on between Elizabeth and Christine for Erik's love. I lost control of my characters a bit in this chapter, and Christine suddenly started being a real bitch. I really didn't know she had it in her. I hope for Erik's sake that either Christine starts behaving better, or he falls out of love with her, because he probably won't like what she seems to be turning into. Oh, well, we shall have to wait and see... On to chapter eight.
8. "Shocked, Appalled, and Disapointed!"
December 29, 1881. Later.
Elizabeth had never been much given to praying, but over the course of that nightmare-ish day she said every prayer she knew and then some. Erik continued to worsen. His extreme lifestyle had finally caught up with him, and he simply hadn't the strength to fight this illness. His fever continued to rise, despite Elizabeth's efforts. She didn't dare try to sweat the fever out of him, for she knew thata temperature too highcould cause brain damage. To make things worse, he continued to call out for Christine, and he seemed able to sense that Elizabeth, despite her answering to both names, was not reallyhis beloved. As his temperature rose, so did his agitation. Elizabeth wished she had some way of soaking him in the lake, that would probably bring his fever down.
Where in heaven's name is Christine? She wondered desperately. She kindled a small fire in an uncarpetted corner of the room, and began heating some water, lemon juice and honey for Erik's poor throat. When she returned to Erik's bedside she felt his forehed and bit her lip. He seemed even hotter than before. Then an idea hit her. One didn't need a lake to soak someone. Wet blankets would cool him down just as well.
It took several trips to the lake to thoroughly soak Erik and the bedding. He was most uncoopperative; he kept trying to throw off the blankets, complaining of cold.
"Keep still!" Elizabeth finally snapped at him. "I know it's cold, but it will make you feel better soon." To her surprise Erik almost ceased his thrashing.
"Yes, mother," he muttered. He was not being sarcastic. Elizabeth wondered if it was a good sign or a bad one that he was regressing back to childhood. She felt his forehead and wondered whether there was any improvement. At least he was no worse. She attempted to feed him the lemon-honey drink and with a great deal of coaxingFrik got most of it down. Soon after, though, he lapsed back into a semi-consious state. Elizabeth felt the blankets and found that they were still much cooler than Erik was, so she sat down on the edge of the bed with a feeling of hopelessness. There was simply nothing more she could do for him. He was not responding to her. She wished yet again that Christine would come. She stroked his face and head, sadly.
"Please get well, Erik. I know it's hard, but keep fighting. For Christine's sake, and mine. What will she do without her Angel of Music?"
"Christine...Sing...Please...?" Erik rasped. Elizabeth was taken aback. It was the first coherent thing he had said in nearly an hour. Still, maybe it was a good sign. Now if he would only go on thinking she was Christine, even though they sang so differently. She chose a song that she was positive Erik had never heard before; For Always.
At the end of the last note she approached Erik and saw that he seemed quieter. She felt his forehead, and her heartbeat skyrocetted with excitement. His fever was definitely lower!
"Thank God!" she breathed. Erik muttered something inaudible and Elizabeth pulled herself together. He was not well yet, not by a long shot. Just then she heard a voice call her name from th other room. She hurried out and saw a dark-skinned man.
"Are you Elizabeth?" he demanded.
"Yes," she responded.
"I am the Persian. I have a letter from Mlle Daae, and a newspaper article that may interest you." He handed her the letter. It was merely folded in half. Elizabeth read it with mounting rage.
"Dammit!" she swore on finishing it. It was impossible to tell if the Persian was shocked by her outburst. The letter said in a very roundabout way that Christine would not go to Erik, because she was afraid of becoming ill herself.
"I don't blame you for being angry," the Persian said. "Why Erik loves the selfish bitch is a mystery to me. He should have fallen in love with someone like you," he finished blandly. Elizabeth glanced at him sharply. He merely handed her the newspaper clipping. A portion of text was underlined.
"The citizens of Paris will no doubt be pleased to learn that M. le Vicompte de Chagny's illness was quite light and he was nursed by his childhood friend, Mlle Daae, who sings in the chorus with the Opera de Paris."
"Good God! In your own words Monsieur, the little BITCH! How dare she go to him when her angel is in delirious agony and calling out for her. It is good she is not here or I would strangle her."
"Is there anything I can do to help?" the Persian asked, anxiously. Here at last was someone who shared his (admittedly, very low) opinion of Christine. Perhaps Elizabeth would succed where he could not, and convince the Opera Ghost to give up 'Mlle Daae'.
"If I thought kidnapping Christine and bringing her here would help I would have you do that, but that won't do it."
"Perhaps you could shame her into coming by sending a letter to the editor of the newspaper with the whole story?" the Persian suggested. Elizabeth almost smiled, but was too tired and discouraged to manage a proper smile.
"I'll try it. Will you wait here while I write it?"
The Persian smiled back and sat down to wait. Eilzabeth found some more paper and wrote a stinging, but truthful account of the whole situation.
"Dear Editor,
I was shocked and appalled to read in today's paper the story of Mlle Daae's 'heroic' actions concerning the Vicompte de Chagny. I would like to imform yourself and your readers that Christine Daae is in fact a selfish coward. The paper stated that Raoul's case of this influenza is 'quite light', and yet it was implied that Mlle Daae showed great strength of character in going to his aid. I find this state of affairs appalling because her beloved music teacher, the 'Angel of Music' is extremely ill with a dangerously high fever, and is calling for her in his delirious agony. If she is as heroic as your paper makes her out to be, why did she refuse to go to come to him, on the grounds that she is afraid of becomming ill? I include her response to my letter, which begged her to come. I believe that the people of Paris have the right to the true story behind Christine Daae's heroism.
Elizabeth handed the Persian the letter. Just then...
"Christine...Christine...Where are you...? Please come back..."
"I must go. I hope your idea works. God bless you for being a true friend for him," said Elizabeth, as she hurried back to her post at Erik's side.
