When the momentous contact between demon and angel was broken, it seemed as though the foundations of the Earth itself released a shuddering breath. The feathery touch of Christine's delicate hands drifted down the sides of his face to rest upon his shoulders. She had been overcome by the curious sensation of being adrift in a sea of molten flame, utterly unable to resist the leaden feeling that consumed her. Her breath was even and deep, her tears had ceased their painful flow. All the frantic rise of desperate emotion that had waged a battle within her soul just moments before had effectively been halted with a single action. No thoughts of betrayal, denial, uncertainty, terror, or guilt were allowed life inside her swelled heart. Not any longer.
It had felt so right.
The raging hurricane in her mind was calm and tranquil, as completely still and transparent as a sea of glass. Christine found no words, no possibilities of vocalizing the apparent power surge in her soul as she gazed into those haunted eyes above her. He too was breathing in short, deep gasps, accenting the rise and fall of his chest mere centimeters below the place where her hands rested. His eyes no longer shone with a fury hotter than the sun, no longer reflected a swirl of unreadable emotion. All she could see in his misty blue eyes was the expression she knew must mirror her own. They were glittering brightly with a look of pure wonder.
In the first moments after contact had broken, Erik had been aware of only two things. The first was the desperate beating of his heart, throbbing so heavily he truly thought it might balloon out of proportion and be visible through his chest. The second was the clear sensation of Christine's hands coming to rest upon his shoulders, not releasing him from her touch. Consciousness fluttered upon him, returning his mind to its capacity of thought once more. He denied the questions that flooded his thoughts, the questions of her meanings and motivation. He refused any attempt to understand the events that had transpired on stage in the past few minutes.
All he wanted was the present.
Christine was wholly focused upon him, unmasked, with sheer wonderment in her dark eyes. Her tears had stopped, and her face was brushed with a beautiful pink glow. The light he saw in her eyes had been reminiscent of the gaze she had bestowed upon him when he first revealed himself to her that night so long ago. Yet, there was something quite different about her now, something significantly brighter in her dazed expression. Now her face was alight with the shimmer of understanding, with longing. Over the faint sound of his own breathing, Erik slowly became aware of the fact that the music had stopped. The silence in the air was weighty and thick, filled with the stunned presence of the entire captivated audience.
He needed to act.
Taking in a solid, deep breath, Erik snapped his focus away from Christine. There would be time to understand her actions later. Silently willing that she be able to grasp his intentions, he turned to face the audience, gently removing her hands from his shoulders. Trembling to the depths of his essence, Erik grasped Christine's hand in his own as he made a slight bow to the multitude that hinged on his every movement. The act had ended and it was time for the curtain to fall. An entirely new fear had wrapped its thorny vines about his mind, grasping his racing heart with a different sort of terror. This had not come into his plans for the performance. He had not anticipated facing the audience this night. He felt Christine's hand begin to quiver in his firm grasp as she gleaned understanding of their strange situation. She too made a faint bow, utterly focused on the blurred sea of faces focused upon them.
The very skies burst apart with a deafening roar.
The audience was upon their feet, a resounding applause quaking through the Opera Populaire. No one had ever seen or heard such a performance, such sheer masterpiece. Erik's breath was stolen from him in a dizzying sensation, barely able to comprehend the thought of the world praising him. And yet here they were, so enthusiastic that their applause sent vibrations through the very stage beneath him. His emotions had spun wildly out of control in the past few moments, all bounds of his logic shattering in the wake of impossible events he was experiencing. With a triumphant sweep, the grand velvet of the deep red curtains at the front of the stage descended upon them, veiling the couple in the glowing light of their simulated fire. Neither one found the ability to speak as they were both enthralled by the audience reaction they had received.
Raoul de Chagny felt as though the seams of his heart had been unmercifully ripped out, one by one. How could this be happening? How could it truly be possible that the world around him was applauding the rupture of his young heart? His love, his dear, beloved Christine, had turned to the arms of the Phantom. Just hours before the performance, she had confided to him that she was terrified the man would take her life. How could it be that she now surrendered herself to him? The rest of the audience might have believed the act, believed that Don Juan was supposed to have been disfigured in the Opera. But he knew better. He knew exactly what Christine had done.
She had flipped off the monster's mask in an attempt to expose him, to call for help. And yet none had surfaced, because no one realized it was the Phantom on stage with her. All she had to do was utter a single sound of distress, emit a solitary signal to the officers placed upon the catwalk, and everything would have ended. And yet she had remained silent, and indeed, shed tears for her actions of exposing the creature for the monster he truly was. She had apologized to him through song! Every word she sang was unscripted, unhindered betrayal. His fiancée had effectively declared her loyalty to the very man that had attempted to kill him, that had killed who knew how many others besides Joseph Buquet.
Why?
Raoul was still paralyzed in his seat, tears flowing down his perfect face. He had managed to retain some dim shred of hope that perhaps this was still part of her act, still part of her plan to destroy the Phantom. But all pretenses had been dissolved the instant she pressed her lips to his. Christine had kissed him. Christine had kissed the Phantom of the Opera. The thought of it made Raoul's stomach churn in revulsion. How could she? How could she possibly do such a thing? He had been mildly aware of her attachment to the man, of her reluctance to be an instrument of his doom. But he had never imagined that in the end, she would choose the darkness of her own free will.
Sorrow collapsed to the anger building in his heart. Perhaps it wasn't of her own free will at all. He had witnessed himself the power the Phantom held over Christine that night at the graveyard. Perhaps the madman still held some kind spell over the girl's fragile mind. Raoul's resolve crept back into existence, spurring him out of his seat and down the stairs. He had to reveal the monster for what he was, and end this waking nightmare once and for all.
Not long after Erik had appeared on stage, Madame Giry felt her strength unhinge. Fully aware of the police lurking around every corner of the Opera Populaire, she had been unable to remain a moment longer and witness the demise of her dear friend. For so long she had shielded him from the horrors of the world, for so long she had admired his ability to spin beauty from darkness. She knew her soul would not be able to hold up under the impossible weight of his death. And so she had hastily departed, pushing her way past the captivated stagehands. There was not an individual among them who was not fully aware that it was the enigmatic Phantom of the Opera making his appearance at last.
Wildly pushing past the others with no specific destination in mind, Madame Giry had stumbled upon the sprawled form of Piangi, splayed out across the glossy wooden floor just beyond the curtain leading to the stage. Feeling a terrible sensation of dread grip her, she knelt down to inspect his still form. The man was still breathing. She swiftly removed the lasso from about his neck, feeling carefully for any broken places. His neck had not been shattered. For some reason, Erik had left Piangi intact before taking his place in the Opera. Madame Giry whispered a silent prayer of thanks as she took a handkerchief from her dress pocket and began to blot away some of the blood running down the large man's face.
All the while, the Frenchwoman kept one alert ear tuned to the situation taking place just beyond the heavy velvet curtain she crouched behind. Christine was holding herself in character, and there had been no alarm yet sounded. Madame Giry's mind raced as she frantically assessed the situation. What possible way could there be for Erik to escape this disaster intact? If he managed to survive to the curtain fall, how could she assist in his safety? Piangi was certain to be discovered, and it would not take long for Erik's identity to be revealed to the Police. She had no doubt they would open fire upon the man they thought to be so terribly dangerous.
Madame Giry froze as she heard the blood chilling sound of the audience screaming in horror. Drawing in a raspy breath, she reached a quivering hand to pull back the curtain just enough to see what was going on upon that stage of fire. From her vantage point, all Madame Giry could see were the shadows of the players flittering about frantically. She could see neither Erik nor Christine, although she soon heard his voice once again lift up in song. Maestro Reyer seemed to have missed a beat or two, for the music sounded uncertain to her well trained ear. Soon enough it properly continued, closely following the music Erik sang. So all was still well.
Except for Piangi.
The Ballet Mistress shuddered to think what might befall Erik if Piangi and his beloved la Carlotta were allowed to speak out against him after the act had drawn to a close. Every single member of the cast and crew must have instantly recognized Erik as the Phantom they had lived with for so long. The superstitious fear of him hung over the hearts of many, which would spur enough of them into silence of his identity. No one wanted to incur the wrath of a demon, after all. But la Carlotta would succumb to no such course of action. She would identify him as the Phantom he was, effectively drawing his life to a close at the hands of the officers drifting about the Opera House.
Her mind began to race furiously as she constructed possible courses of action that would save Erik's life. There was one certain way to rid the Opera Populaire of Carlotta for the night, and Madame Giry meant to take it. She rose and attempted to regain her composure before seeking out one of the so strategically placed uniformed guards. She quietly informed the young officer she discovered of Piangi's sudden fainting spell, and she strongly suggested that Carlotta accompany him to the hospital for inspection. After all, a fainting spell might have spurred all kinds of hidden health problems, and it was best the couple be together. The Soprano had been forced to remain quite silent, as there was still a performance going on just beyond the curtain. With quite a bit of showy fuss, the two of them were removed from the Opera Populaire, just as Madame Giry had intended.
She turned her head immediately when she heard the deafening roar of the audience's applause. Madame Giry took a deep breath as she saw the light dim from the falling of the heavy velvet curtain, and she stepped forward onto the stage to meet two of the three people she cared for the most in life.
Christine made no movement to release her hand from his trembling grasp. Forgetting herself, Christine felt her heart soar. Her Angel had been able to receive the recognition he deserved for his genius at last. And he had done so without hiding behind a mask. Furthermore, she had received the impossible opportunity to make several of her childish fantasies spring to life by singing on stage with her otherworldly tutor. This time, the tears that sparkled in her clear brown eyes were those of joy, a glimmering expression of her wonder. She squeezed the man's hand once, just enough to refocus his attention. His dazzling eyes sharply turned to meet hers.
The frantic hiss of wind and turbulence within his mind only heightened when Erik turned his attention to the young woman holding his hand. Christine was smiling at him. Wonder of wonders, a look of pure joy had lit her features, a faint glitter of tears in her astonishing eyes. A solitary tear skittered down her satin cheek as her smile grew in sincerity. Raising his free hand, Erik traced the path of the moisture upon her face with his finger as he reveled of the sensation of her flesh against his.
"It's him! The Phantom of the Opera!" Raoul's sharp voice rang clearly through the dim murmur of the backstage activity. The small world Erik and Christine had shared for just a moment was shattered by the sound of his accusation.
"No!" Christine called back frantically, eyeing the officers off the edge of the catwalk she stood upon. The men were shaking their heads, as though coming out of a thick daze. Christine swallowed thickly. So she was not the only one her Angel could entrance with his voice. Applying a quick burst of pressure to her Angel's hand, Christine released him and began making her way down the spiraling staircase, descending into the inferno that had been created below. She knew that he would follow, and she only prayed that no harm came to the man she loved this night.
"Of course it is!" Raoul looked at Christine in disbelief as the crew began to gather. Uncertainty appeared to be a tangible fog in the air upon the stage, and hushed whispers were flying across the gathering assembly. Indeed, it was the Phantom, but what would befall the mortal foolish enough to assault him?
"This is the man?" One of the Sergeants voiced the question gruffly, with the hint of a threat echoing in the air. He shifted his long, dim blue coat to reveal the deadly shine of a pistol in his hand. The Sergeant had been told of this murderous man who disguised himself as a Phantom in order to exploit the unfortunate individuals who worked in the Opera House. He had even go son far as to murder a man to drive his point across. There was no telling what a man so close to an auditorium full of unsuspecting upper class Opera goers might do when panicked.
"Yes!" Raoul exclaimed, locking Christine with a stare of accusing disbelief as she joined his level on the stage. Erik followed close behind her, not daring to let so much as a breath slip past his lips. His life was in peril, yes. For so long, he had managed to be safely tucked away in the dark folds of the lair below the Opera House. For so long, he had avoided condemnation, avoided the soul crushing truth that raw hatred was lurking just beyond the shadows edge. In one night, his years of hiding had come crashing around his ears as he faced certain death at the hands of the Parisian Police department. Even worse, at the hands of the crew members he had so long haunted, so long terrified into submission.
But Christine had denied it.
Christine Daae had almost instinctively contradicted her fiancée, with one, emotional burst of denial. Her single word carried much greater weight than she was aware of, in that it might result in Erik obtaining his life. He was standing straight and tall upon the wooden floorboards of the lower stage, now fully in view of all concerned. A curious flow of dancers and stagehands continued to drizzle in around him, all staring at him as though he were on display. A rough feeling scraped through his thoughts like sandpaper as he recalled the depths of cruelty humanity was capable of. Exactly as things had been in the times of his childhood, he was standing, exposed, before a curious crowd of onlookers, awaiting some horrid fate. He desperately fought down the compulsion to cover his face, to find a way to slip back into the darkness he deemed so familiar. At the word of the Viscount, the Policeman raised his pistol, and the other two officers that had found their way to the stage also began to advance towards the man cloaked in darkness.
"What do you think you are doing?" A different voice called out, and all attentions turned to Madame Giry as she made her way past various stagehands. She sounded so clearly annoyed, as though chastising one of her Ballet Rats for missing a step. "That man is not the Phantom of the Opera." She placed herself on the inner edge of the onlookers, twisting her long, brown braid about a finger. She gave Raoul a curious look and shook her head. "This man is Erik Angelle, a last minute replacement for Signor Piangi."
"What happened to Piangi?" one of the dancers touched Madame Giry's shoulder, worry and terror upon her face. It was evident that she assumed the Phantom had murdered the lead tenor of the Opera House. Madame Giry frowned and focused her attention upon the young Viscount.
"I discovered Signor Piangi just beyond the back curtain," she replied, her voice crisp and commanding. "He was unconscious, and blood was dripping from his mouth. When I took a pulse, however, I found he was quite alive. Erik had run across the unfortunate man's body and quickly informed me of it, asking me what should be done. Since I know this man is quite talented from his involvement in the Opera House, I told him to take Piangi's place while I summoned help. Two policemen and la Carlotta accompanied Piangi to the hospital, suspect the Phantom had been at work, attempting to sabotage the performance."
The Sergeant appeared to be at a loss. He had the frantic, insistent word of the Viscount de Chagny, the man who had called them there in the first place, that this man was the Phantom of the Opera. And yet the Opera House workers did not appear to agree with this accusation. He tightened his grip on his pistol and turned his attention to Madame Giry.
"And who might you be, Madame?" He could not simply be satisfied with what could be a quickly crafted tale to conceal the Phantom's identity.
"I am Madame Giry," she replied coolly, all the while avoiding any eye contact with Erik or Christine. "I am the Ballet Mistress of the Opera Populaire."
"She is lying to protect him," Raoul spoke just loud enough to be heard, the anger evident in his voice. "Madame Giry is the one who always received his notes, and indeed, she is the one who first brought the Phantom to this place to save his life, years ago."
"And what of me?" Christine stepped forward, her entire poise steely. "Why would I lie to protect the man I feared, not hours ago, would take my life? You of all people should understand that I wish the Phantom gone from my life. This man, this man is simply Monsieur Angelle, as Madame Giry has stated." She desperately prayed that no one could see the quivering she struggled to control. There was no hiding the fact that Raoul could see right through her, that he was all too certain who the man standing just behind her truly was. Raoul had fought with the Phantom! Of course he knew who he was! The look he fixed her with reflected the searing questions in her own mind. He looked betrayed, unnerved, and shocked. How could she lie to protect this creature of darkness?
Raoul felt as though the ground began to give way beneath him. Had the entire world gone mad? The cruel pangs of desperation began to sting at his mind as he looked from Christine to the Ballet Mistress. This could not possibly be happening.
"I too must assure you that this is not the man you seek," a new voice cut into the heavy situation. Erik thought he could almost see the fabrics of reality shredded as Maestro Reyer stepped forward. Erik was fully aware that the man had been there for most of his career, had been in the Opera House even longer than he himself had. Reyer most certainly knew exactly who he was. He had heard Erik's menacing voice enough times over the years to have immediately recognized him for the Phantom he was. Erik had dismissed the Maestro's earlier action of continuing the progression of the music to professionalism. So why was the elderly man speaking in his defense now?
"And who might you be?" the Sergeant was growing increasingly agitated.
"I am Maestro Reyer, the music conductor here." He cast one lingering glance to Erik before stiffly straightening his tuxedo front. "I have been in this Opera House since the Phantom first surfaced, and I have had quite a bit of experience in witnessing the madman's appearances. This man, this is my personal assistant. Erik Angelle shows promising talent in many musical areas, and in some, far surpasses my own. This is why he knew the music to be sung tonight, and why he was able to replace Piangi."
"This is absurd!" Raoul was clearly suffering from desperation. "Piangi was on stage moments before the Phantom appeared! How could this man possibly have had enough time to dress in costume and apply that face disfigurement paint in a matter of seconds?"
"Viscount," Reyer maintained his cool composure. "Monsieur Angelle was dressed in proper attire. On Performance nights, we all dress differently. As for his disfigurement… take a closer look. You shall see it is not paint that covers the right side of his face. Alas, that is truly how he appears. His face is marred by an unfortunate disfigurement, which is why he could never before apply for a part on stage. But oddly enough, in this strange Opera, the script calls for such a disfigurement, which made Angelle a perfect candidate for performance."
The Sergeant again turned his attention to Raoul, awaiting another protest to insist that the singer wasn't who they said he was. The Viscount was rapidly shriveling under the weight of the pressure.
"Well Viscount? Do you still insist this is the murderer you summoned us here to capture? I am assuming I shall receive the same sort of explanation from the others gathered here." The policeman locked the unnerved nobleman with a piercing stare as the dancers and stagehands offered dazed nods of agreement. No one dared to speak out against the Phantom now, or worse, to go against the word of their Maestro and Ballet Mistress. Raoul could only weakly shake his head, feeling utterly defeated.
"Alright, alright," the Sergeant waved to the other two officers gathered in the circle of onlookers. "Come, we need to search elsewhere for this oh so deadly ghost we have been summoned to capture." With that, the Policemen made their departure from the dimming stage, making their way back out into the fray of activity just beyond the curtain.
"Christine," Raoul walked towards her fragile form, barely able to contain the emotions raging through him. "Swear to me you are telling the truth about this man. That it is possible he is exactly who all of you say he is. I shall ask you only once, and accept your answer above that anyone else here could offer." He knew he was not mistaken. He knew the man they all lied to protect was the very same who had attacked him that cold night in Perros. And now he would discover where Christine's loyalty truly lay. He had offered her a chance at freedom, a way to rescue her from the darkness that loomed mere inches from her. If she told him the truth, now, her mind was not past saving. If she told him the truth, now, he still had a fiancée.
Her heart collapsed when she saw the raw emotion playing out upon her fiancée's face. What was wrong with her? What was she doing? Why couldn't she return his adoration? After sharing that solitary, electrifying kiss with her Angel, Christine knew the truth. She could never again touch Raoul without thinking of the fire ignited in her soul by the darkness. The sensations of this night, this dance were burned into her soul for an eternity. There was no going back now.
"Raoul, this man is no Phantom," she tried her best to sound convincing as her hand flitted skittishly upon her Angel's sleeve. "He is a singer, just another musician." She saw the pain in his narrowed eyes before her fiancée turned his back on her.
"I am sorry," he said tensely. "But I cannot openly destroy myself by pursuing this farce any longer. If you truly wish to humiliate me by turning to the arms of this Phantom… you have chosen your fate. I am not abandoning you, but I cannot force you to come with me unless you first tear yourself away from this sick veil of twisted flesh you call an Angel. You know how to reach me, and at a solitary word, I shall release you from this prison. Until then, goodbye Christine." Without so much as a backward glance, Raoul vanished from the stage.
It seemed as though all gathered released a collective sigh of relief. Christine felt a wave of dizziness overcome her, and she finally wavered where she stood. Instinctively, Erik grasped both of her arms from behind, steadying her. In all honestly, he too felt as though he were going to waver and collapse right there on the fiery stage. He raised his piercing gaze to meet the eyes of those gathered there, those who had spoken in his defense.
"You know exactly who I am," he fought to keep his low voice even. "Why?"
"You are the Phantom," Reyer answered quietly. The elderly man was clearly nerve wracked, and he tightly clamped his hands behind his back in tension. "Now, I am certain that there are many here who chose to speak for you out of fear. No one wishes to incite your wrath, sir. Indeed, the death of our comrade, Buquet, is still all too fresh in our minds. But there are some… like myself, who have different reasons. You have been a part of this Opera House as long as I have, if not longer, Monsieur. Things would simply not move along properly without you." He nodded decisively, as though the explanation were satisfactory. As though it would define the indefinable actions of the crew and himself that Erik had just witnessed. In effect, Reyer had flat out stated that some members of the crew were attached to the concept of the Phantom of the Opera.
Erik was utterly shaken.
"I must go," he cleared his throat and mustered up as much dignity as he could manage. He straightened himself out and attempted to look as presentable as possible, despite the fact that he was painfully aware of – he was without his mask. "I am in your debt," he added with a nod of his head. He motioned to slip away, beyond the heavy curtain that led to the dark safety of the backstage area, when Christine pressed her palm against his upper arm. Erik froze instantly at the contact, his mind locking in place.
"Let me come," her voice rang with an inquiring tone. She could not imagine the effect hearing those three simple words had on the already fragile man beside her. He drew in an unsteady breath, fearing that his heart would blister and burst with the heat of emotion searing through his chest. He could not face her, could not bear to look at her. His control was wavering dangerously, and Erik was already well aware that he had abandoned the waking world of reason. He nodded once, sharply, decisively. With that solid action, he gently pulled away from her faint touch and sought to emerge himself in the darkness once more.
A/N: Alright, after much thought, I decided to continue this story. This one shall not be updated as regularly as "The Strength to Try", however, because it takes quite a bit more effort to write. I'm trying to make this story written to the best of my ability, so that takes quite a bit of editing and whatnot. Thank all of you for your encouraging reviews – that is what prompted me to continue this. I suppose I was writing this because I got tired of bad things happening to Erik. I don't want Erik and Christine to pursue a relationship while on the run, and I didn't want to loose the setting of the Opera House right away. Besides, I think everything falls into a good place of "what if"….
Please review!