Erik hurried through the streets of Paris, his head down, staring at the body that lay in his arms. For once he cursed the darkness, for it made the figure in his arms only a figure. He couldn't see that it was Christine, he couldn't see that it was alive, and he couldn't see that she had come back for him.
Finally he tore his eyes away from the unmoving shape and realized he had no idea where he was or where he was going. His feet didn't stop their pounding and his chest didn't stop its breathless panting.
Suddenly he stopped cold, remembering. The scene was not long ago, not long at all, down under the cellars. His mind replayed it over and over. The scene was between Nadir and himself.
"Erik," Nadir had said as he had entered the catacombs. "Erik, where are you? I've something to tell you."
Erik had waited silently until Nadir had crossed the lake in his black gondola, dragging the pole along the stone floor.
"Yes?" he had replied as his friend hopped down into his lair.
"I've gotten you a house," Nadir had said importantly.
"What!"
"Not for you to live in, Erik," his friend had laughed, "just in case. If you are discovered, you are free to hide out there. The house belonged to my late uncle, and it just came into my possession at his death two months ago. As of this moment, it is yours."
Erik had thanked Nadir politely, but he hadn't seen the need for the house. Now, he praised Nadir as if the man were a god.
Returning to the present time, he tried to recall the address. The only memory he had of the house's location was that it was across from the Musee D'Orsay.
Hurriedly Erik found the Musee. He ran through the streets like a blind bat, turning this way and that, craning his head around to search for the names of the streets. Finally, he found the house. It was large and dark in the middle of the night, but when he tried the doorknob he found it unlocked. He stumbled into the black darkness of the front room.
He shifted the girl in his arms, pushing her gently over his shoulder. His free hand groped around in the dark, finally finding the wall. Along the wall it found a little table. And on the table, he found a candle and a match.
His heart began to pound even harder in his chest. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He clutched the girl tighter as he struck the match, then touched the flame gently to the white wax candle.
It illuminated the room only a bit, but Erik could tell that the room was a parlor. There was a great green couch and a wooden table, the same kind of wood as the desk where he had found the candle. He tiptoed silently to the couch and, oh so gently, eased the girl onto it.
His eyes filled with tears when he saw her. He bit his lip to keep the sob from escaping. It was not his Christine, and it never would be.
He whipped off his black gloves, dropping them carelessly to the floor. Shakily he grasped the girl's hand, placing his fingers firmly over the inside of her wrist. He waited for a moment, then felt, though very faintly, a beat of the girl's heart.
He found himself shaking at the thought that the girl might not live. This girl meant nothing to him. Why was the thought of her death driving his mind to the deep end? His mind softly replayed another voice, who had last sang with him just hours ago…
"He kills without a thought, he murders all that's good, I know I can't refuse; and yet I wish I could…but if I'm to agree, what horrors wait for me in this, the Phantom's Opera…"
Oh, Christine! He felt a tear fall gently onto his bare hand. Ignoring the tears, still grasping the candle, he leaned in closer to examine the girl.
Her face was black with ash, as well as her hair and clothes. She hadn't stirred since he had first found her. Erik realized that he was still crying as a tear fell off his cheek and onto hers. It left a small streak of the clean skin that was underneath.
Erik watched her silently, tear after tear leaving streaks in her ash-colored skin. He wondered what would be her fate, and what of his own?
Suddenly her eyelids fluttered and finally opened. Her eyes were sea green, as mysterious and misty as his own. He watched as they fixed on his face. "Oh…" she murmured, her voice soft and light. She slowly raised an ashen hand and placed it lightly on his face.
With a gasp Erik remembered that he wasn't wearing his mask. His hand flew to hers, in instinct to pry it off. But he couldn't. He just held it there, pressed to his twisted, malformed face, crying as the memories weighed him down. He felt the fingers underneath his own move slightly, stroking his cheek. Vaguely he realized that the pouring tears weren't only his own.
