A/N: I'm so sorry for the terrible lack of updates! I was gone to Spain for ten days, and now I'm back. While I was gone, I did a lot of thinking and developing of the story, including one later chapter I can't wait to write...anyway...on to chapter three!
She held it for a moment, gazing in disbelief at the scrap of stained leather before it dropped from her trembling hands.
Erik's mask.
Erik is dead.
Dead.
How could he have survived such a blow? The bullet hole went straight through the mask, and Erik was never without his mask.
She cried out in pain as she imagined his final moments. The men had been without mercy, she was sure...she did not know how many men came down for their vengeance, but he had certainly been grossly outnumbered. She pictured him after she had left in the boat and the angry crowd had taken over his fate...he was on his knees, not to beg for his life, but rather in defeated submission. They had him surrounded and were ready to break this already broken man, this man already abandoned and humiliated. Abandoned and humiliated by her - Christine. She had gone off with Raoul, her mind so numb she was hardly even thinking about the mob that was already descending into the lair. She had probably been whisked off in a nice, comfortable carriage as they...as they killed him. Perhaps his body lay beneath the icy depths even now. It was no wonder she had felt that she heard his voice echo through the walls, for that's all he was now - an echo, a mere shade.
What had she done?
The colors and lights around her began to swim in front of her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and began to sob openly, her candle hissing as it fell from her fingers and was extinguished by the water lapping at her dress. There was no denying it. Not only was Erik dead, but she, Christine, had caused it. She had left him alone in his darkest hour, leaving him prey to an angry and rambunctious group eager to see him dead. She had delivered him straight into the hands of fate. She had killed him.
Picking up the mask once more, her stomach began to twist into knots. She felt slightly dizzy. A sour liquid was rising in her throat and she gave in, vomiting over the side of the boat. She turned away, feeling even worse than she had before.
An icy sensation began creeping up her legs, and she was suddenly very aware of how much the water was rising around her. Panic seized her. She needed to get out of there - fast. The edge of the lake by Erik's posessions was much closer, but she knew she could not handle seeing his beautiful lair trashed and burned and achingly empty. Turning around and rowing all the way to the far shore from where she had come was her only option.
Shivering and with her eyes blurred with tears, she began to row furiously toward shore. She did not look at the walls. She did not look at the mask. She stood on sudden haste to leave the Opera Populaire and never return, for every future visit would be marred by the death of the angel she had adored and murdered.
She was fighting a losing battle. The water seemed to rise faster and faster. Her skirt was now nearly completely soaked, and the water was inching threateningly closer to the bodice of her dress...
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something floating away...
Erik's mask!
Without thinking, she grasped it and tucked it into the top of her dress, and frantically resumed her rowing.
Now that the candle which had guided her thus far was lost forever to the lake, she was glad for the candelabras that lit her way, however dimly. She peered down the passageway - still a long way to go. Anxiously, she picked up the pace, but even as she did, she knew she could only row for so much longer before she would have to swim. She tried to put the thought out of her mind, but it lingered. By now she was shivering uncontrollably and her flesh was covered with goosebumps. The water was creeping up her dress at an alarming rate...
And the boat became completely submerged.
Christine allowed herself to be pulled into the water. It cut like knives at her exposed skin and her arms quickly grew numb. She dared to look down the passageway again. It drifted in and out of focus. It would be a long swim...and a long walk afterwards.
Trying to keep her head above water, she rose a hand to her breast, tucked the mask in a little deeper, and began the long journey to shore.
Within minutes, she could not feel her body, and the feeble waves she produced were the only thing that let her know she was still moving forward. She fought to stay focused and alert, but it was difficult with the water clogging her nose, mouth, eyes, and senses...she prayed she was still moving in the right direction. Her dress weighed her down considerably, but there was no way she could remove it now. She pushed on, dizzy and disoriented.
At long last, she felt solid ground beneath the water. She collapsed on the shore, shivering and grateful. Her body was wracked with shivers and her teeth were chattering violently. She coughed and coughed, desperately trying to rid her body of the enormous amounts of water she had inadvertently consumed during the swim. Her breathing was hard and irregular as she lay there, her energy spent. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and notice that she was in almost total darkness. During the last part of the journey especially, she had not been looking where she was going, and had no idea that she had long ago passed the last of the candelabras she had lit on the way down.
As the feeling gradually returned to her arms and legs, she gingerly pulled herself into an upright position. The glow of light was very, very faint. There was no way she had the strength to be able to swim all the way back to the candelabra and swim back with a candle - a lit candle, no less. She would have to ascend blindly.
Saying a silent prayer, she tested the strength of her legs - not much, but she had no other choice - and began to feel for the walls, stumbling around, fumbling for the right path, trying desperately to recognize the way she had come before. Her ankles twisted at odd angles on the uneven floors, and she was suddenly reminded of a similar run she had made just a few short hours ago when she had fled the de Chagnys. How much had happened since then...
She set her face determinedly and put all thoughts, except thoughts of escaping this sanctuary turned hell, out of her mind.
When she at last arrived at the mirror, she paused for only a quick moment to catch her breath, and then slid the mirror open and continued her walk as fast as she could. She did not look around when she reached the dressing room, nor the hallway, nor the entranceway. She did not take care to be quiet. She had no time to linger.
Finally, she was taking in the free air of Paris in gulps. She shut the enormous ornate doors of the Opera Populaire behind her for the last time. And yet, she felt nothing - not relief, not joy, not regret - nothing. She merely ran down the stairs as fast as her small legs would allow.
And she continued running. She ran throughout the streets of Paris, not stopping, not thinking, not feeling anything, only pumping her legs in a desperate attempt to escape. It wasn't until she was on the outskirts of town that she finally realized she could push on no more. Unbearable pain shot through her legs and chest and head. Her emotions took over and she collapsed against a huge brick building, sobbing and shivering and breathing raggedly.
And it wasn't until then that she realized she had left all of her wordly posessions in a few suitcases that were sitting in a damp, dark passageway beneath the opera house.
She had nothing. She was nobody. She had absolutely nowhere to go. All of her family was dead, and she would rather die than go back to the de Chagnys and face Raoul's mother and her friends. The opera would not take her back. She had turned her back on them long ago, and they had no need of her.
Christine curled up into a tiny ball, her body shaking with fresh sobs.
"I am n-nothing...I am nobody..."
Earlier she had thought she had hit rock bottom; evidently, she had been wrong.
"I ha-have nowhere to g-go..."
Suddenly, she was aware of a strange object in her bodice she had forgotten she had put there. A piece of leather...the memory struck her like a bolt of lightning. She cried aloud.
"Erik, I'm so sorry! Forgive me! I am a monster! What have I done...what have I done?"
Her strength began to ebb. She spoke in barely a whisper.
"Forgive me..."
That was the last thing she remembered before she slowly, mercifully, began the descent into a darkness where the nightmare of her past did not plague her.
ooo
Adrien Lefebvre was in a very good mood. He hummed as he exited the door to begin his morning walk. Beautiful spring days such as these always put him in a good mood. And besides, business was good. The bookstore he worked at on the outskirts of Paris was enjoying great success at the moment. Lefebvre's Books was home for Adrien. The shop was actually a large house - his family's house for generations, and they still lived on the upper floors - that had had the main floor converted into a cozy bookstore and library years ago, when his grandfather decided to start a business as a young man. Edouard Lefevre still ran the bookstore as well as he was able - the inevitable passage of time was beginning to take its toll - and enlisted the help of his grandson, Adrien, and a friend that he had met a few years back, Olivier Guerin. And, truth be told, Grandfather had been showing some favoritism to Olivier, and it was beginning to annoy Adrien - but today was a new day, and he was not going to let it get off to a bad start.
He was feeling quite good as he reached the corner of the large brick building he called home. He paused for a moment. Go straight...or turn left? A man of routine, Adrien was not one to change anything on the spur of the moment, especially not in his precious and strictly kept routine. But, since he was feeling particularly good today, he decided to go left instead of the usual straight.
He was walking down the small side street, admiring what a lovely day it was, when something caught his eye. He glanced over. Just a lump of fabric, he thought. But as he turned to continue his walk, he saw something else - a hand...and another. And there was a shoe sticking out - and a face...
Adrien rushed over. "What in the..." He stopped as he drew closer. It was a young woman, no older than twenty. Her chestnut curls were limp. Her clothes were damp and clung to her body. She looked positively ill.
"Mademoiselle?" he said quietly, gently shaking her. "Mademoiselle, are you all right?"
Her eyelids fluttered for a moment, then widened in surprise. She sat up slightly and her blue eyes stared into his. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, she fainted onto the cobblestone walkway.
Adrien gasped. His heart was pounding, but he regained his calm once he realized she had only fainted. He spoke to her softly, though he knew she could not hear.
"Come on, mademoiselle. I'll carry you inside."
