Hymn Angelic does not own any characters, places, phrases, etc. from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.
Chapter 3:
'Care'
Sleep came quickly to Christine. She was thoroughly exhausted by the turmoil of the day. It was hard to believe that the uncomfortable encounter with Jean-Luc, the dinner with the Baroness, and the trip to the Opera House had all occurred within less than twenty-four hours. As soon as she reached the quarters she shared with Raoul, Rosalie had helped her strip out of her elaborate outfit and into a simple shift. Sensing the strain the day had had on her mistress, the maid had not asked for any details. She had contented herself with the knowledge Christine would be sure to share in the morning. Christine was extremely grateful for this courtesy, and was under the covers before Raoul even reached the second floor.
Her husband had changed into his own nightwear in a separate room. He entered silently, knowing by the darkened lamps that his wife had already retired. He had slipped beneath the linens, and leaned over for a good-night kiss. However, his simple and affectionate gesture was not returned. Because she was already fast asleep.
Though her sleep was sudden, it offered her no solace. It was light and tumultuous, and dreams invaded on what she had hoped would be a quiet night of rest.
Flames loomed over her, ropes lashed at her sides and she could not tell which was to turn to escape the terror. The Phantom of the Opera stood in front of her, his hideous face revealed, and he reached out to her. As she stared down at his hand in perverse fascination, it slowly began to melt away until only glistening bones remained. White bones. White mask. She was grabbed from behind and she scratched viciously at her attacker before she stared up in horror to discover it was none other than Raoul. Blood gurgled forth from his mouth and she screamed and tried to flee as his corpse fell to the ground. She ran straight into the Phantom, who wrapped his vice-like arms around her.
"You are a murderer. You are mine. You are me."
"No," she sobbed, wishing to struggle, wishing to fight, but finding herself powerless. The Phantom buried his face in her hair and she could not fend him off. She didn't want to. God, she didn't want to.
"I will love you forever, my angel," he pulled away, and she could see blood pouring out of his mouth, just as it had come from Raoul's. "Angel…" his voice trailed off into another gurgle, and he staggered, strength gone. But he did not release her as he toppled over, into the lake. His heavy body weighted her down as she gasped, breathing in water instead of air. She was sinking, faster and faster, unable to break out of his death-grip. She shook her head violently, trying to free herself, trying to find oxygen somehow. At last his arms drifted apart and she swam to the surface.
She gasped as she returned to the air, and climbed out of the lake, sending droplets sputtering all across the lair. She breathed heavily and rubbed her arms, where his skeletal hands had left marks. When she looked up, she spotted Raoul, alive and unharmed. He smiled at her, and she ran to him in relief.
"Oh, I was so worried!" She kissed him, taking relief in his returning kiss. But when she pulled away, it was Jean-Luc who she saw, leering down at her.
"I knew I was right about you," he chuckled, and she whipped around to see both Raoul and the Phantom staring at her in hurt disbelief.
"Lotte…" Raoul murmured, at the same time the other man whispered "Angel". They both began to fade, and she was frozen, not sure which one to run for, which one to grab onto. Jean-Luc just stood behind her and laughed heartlessly as she tried to decide who she should embrace. Finally, she sprinted towards Raoul, arms held outward, ready to enfold him. But the moment she reached him, he was gone, and she once more tumbled into the icy lake.
She was cold. So cold. As her eyes fluttered open, Christine shivered. Why was she so cold? The blankets were still wrapped around her, so what warmth was she missing? She realized it when she fully awoke. It was Raoul. He usually slept with his arms tight around her, but now, he was curled on the other side of the bed. Nothing important, nothing meaningful, just the position he had moved to during sleep. She knew she shouldn't feel so uneasy, but after the unsettling dream, the lack of his presence seemed ominous. She shivered again, remembering the dream. A mix of everything, every man, she had been fretting about during the day. It was a most exhausting dream emotionally, and she felt nearly as tired as when she had gotten into bed.
However, she forced herself to sit up and she slipped quietly out of bed. Raoul grumbled something in his sleep about his horses, but he did not awaken. Christine walked over to the armoire in the corner and pulled on a thick robe. She slid her feet into slippers and walked to the door, feeling much warmer already, but still cold and sick inside. She turned the doorknob slowly, and pulled the door open with aching smoothness to prevent any noise that would disturb her husband. She slipped between the door and the frame, then shut it carefully. She pressed her ear gently to the door again, listening closely for movement. There was none.
Pulling her robe tighter, Christine set off down the hall. It was early in the morning, and the coming daylight was still hazy. Servants were starting to prepare the house for the day, and they were startled to see her up. Many came over to offer her assistance, but she dismissed them calmly. She rubbed her arms absentmindedly as she walked, still feeling icy inside. She was beginning to feel guilty about leaving Raoul in bed. He would wake up soon, and be worried about where she had gone. There was no reason why she couldn't have waited for him. Except that she couldn't. She simply couldn't. She had to go now.
Finally, she reached the door to the guest room currently occupied by the Phantom of the Opera. Repeating the action from outside her own room, she leaned softly against the door and listened. This time, she heard the unmistakable sound of someone moving through the room. Her eyes widened, and she had to stifle a gasp with her hand. He was awake already. He had looked so frail and sick before, how could he have healed so quickly? Perhaps he hadn't really been sick. Perhaps he was just superhuman, able to resist all disease. She wasn't sure, and she wouldn't know until she opened the door. He could still be sick, stumbling around the room in a hallucinatory haze. But, she listened closer, the footsteps from inside were not faltering. They were strong and sure. She wouldn't know what was happening until she opened the door.
It was amazing how so simple an act became so difficult. Her hand rested on, and gently caressed the doorknob. She didn't know what he would do when he saw her. He hadn't wanted her to be there, back at the Opera House. He could be angry now, pacing the room, just waiting for her to enter. There was nothing that displeased him more than when she defied him. He hated to lose control. She had seen him at his weakest, and he would no doubt punish her for that. The only question was, what would her punishment be? She had always been sure that he would never hurt her physically, but with the circumstances changed, who knew? She might be dragged back underground, never to surface, never to see Raoul again.
But maybe he wasn't angry. Maybe he was glad she had rescued him. After all, he would have died had she left him. And no one wanted to die. Maybe he was hurt and confused at waking up in a strange place. He might not even remember seeing her. She would enter the room, and he would look on her with lost eyes. But as soon as he saw her face, they would flicker with thankful light. He would embrace her and things would be as they once were. She shook her head at that thought, blushing although no one was there. A shameful thought. Things had changed. She was married now, and she could not be affectionate with a man who was not her husband. And he was certainly not her husband. She felt a stab at that thought. He had wanted to be her husband. He had wanted her to stay with him forever, but she feared all-encompassing darkness and couldn't stay.
She lay her free hand against the smooth wood of the door and sighed. What was there to do? She had to go in. Guessing and supposing would do her no good. She had to open the door, something she had done countless times, and enter the room. She would be stately and elegant. She wouldn't let him know that her insides were in turmoil. She wouldn't let him see the conflict in her eyes. She would be Countess Christine de Chagny: cool, unattached, polite. He would have no choice but to respect her here, in her world. She had spent all her time in his world, his Opera, where he was in control. But this world belonged to Raoul and Christine, and she would not let him intimidate her here. She was mistress of this house, and he was nothing more than a shadow. He was, she thought to herself, steeling herself, never anything more than a shadow. She knew that was horribly untrue, but she would not admit it to herself. She had to believe she was stronger here and now. She had to convince herself that she would not crumple and go sobbing into his arms as soon as he held them out to her. That if he told her to sing, she would not sing until the heavens wept. That she had some modicum of control and choice when it came to the mysterious Opera Ghost.
Determined and courageous, she turned the knob without another thought and pushed open the door. The room was still dark, the curtains still drawn. She squinted through the darkness, trying to find him, knowing it was useless. Darkness was his element, and he controlled it like no other. She walked forward slowly, keeping herself erect, head held high. She would not come submissively like a disobedient dog returning to it's master. She scanned the walls, looking for a shadow that did not quite lie flat. There was no sign of him. Had he escaped? She looked immediately to the window. The curtains were still; it had not been broken. She glanced at the door at the side of the room. It was partially hidden by a curtain. She couldn't imagine he would find it so quickly. She was extremely confused, and she took another step forward. Her gaze fell on the bed.
He was lying exactly where she had left him. It looked as though he had not budged since she lay him down there. A frown wrinkled her forehead and she walked to the bed. But how? She sat down on the bed and lay the back of her hand across his forehead. Warm. Feverish, she supposed. How was this possible?
"Christine?"
"Oh!" She squeaked in surprise at the voice behind her, and she turned her head quickly. Rosalie stood in the doorway, holding a pile of blankets, and looking very confused.
"What are you doing here?" Both women asked simultaneously. Rosalie grinned.
"I thought Monsieur Fântome could use some more blankets. He's clammy." Christine sighed. So it had been Rosalie walking around the room. Both relief and disappointment swept through her. A sudden thought occurred to her, and she looked seriously at her maid.
"Rosalie, I know you are only fulfilling your duty, but please, this is very important. Never enter this room without my express permission, and never," she paused to make sure the generally jovial girl was understanding the seriousness of this, "never touch the mask."
"Of course," Rosalie said, sounding confused. "Whatever you wish, Christine. But-"
"Please," Christine shook her head, "do not ask me why." She didn't have the strength to tell the story, and she respected his privacy. He would share whatever he chose whenever he awakened. And besides, she couldn't stand the thought of Rosalie's expression when she looked at him, knowing who he was, what he had done. She couldn't imagine the maid caring much about whether or not the man was 'clammy' after that, though Rosalie was a kind person. Rosalie looked at Christine, slightly wounded that she was not sharing. Christine wanted to console her, let her know that it was nothing to do with her and all to do with him, but Rosalie shook it off in a few moments.
"Shall I spread the word through the staff?"
"Oh," Christine couldn't believe she hadn't thought of that. "Yes, please. Thank you so much, Rosalie."
"Only doing my duty," Rosalie smiled. "Why don't you head downstairs? I believe Sophia has started the ovens." Christine smiled to herself, for the first time that morning, at the thought of Sophia's delicious cooking.
"I will stop and see if Raoul is ready to eat," she decided aloud, then smiled again at Rosalie. "Thank you."
"Stop thanking me," Rosalie mock-scolded, "and go eat. You're won't be able to keep Raoul's attentions, much less juggle them with the mysterious Monsieur Fântome's, if you waste away." Christine blushed at the thought of juggling affections, but obeyed Rosalie's order and left the room. Rosalie watched her mistress depart, then sighed to herself. She set about the task she had reentered the room for in the first place, and lay the blankets over the still man. She also prepared a compress the doctor had recommended on the bedside table, and lay it on his forehead. She would check back later this afternoon. Her hand lingered after she released the compress. What could it hurt, to peek under the mask? If Christine could not summon a reason why not to, surely it could not be such a terrible thing to do. But she stayed her hand before her fingers grazed the white leather. She was thinking above her station. Christine was kind to her, and made her feel more like friend than maid. It was times like this, however, that she thought perhaps it was not such a wonderful thing.
No matter how Christine treated her, she was still a maid. She was paid to follow her mistress's orders, and to think casually of defying them? It was one thing to joke and tease, and she did love nothing more than seeing Christine's delicately pale cheeks flush with rosy embarrassment. But disobeying a direct order would land her no where but back on the filthy streets of the city. Her father was dead now, and her adopted mother would have nothing to do with her. They had maintained a cordial relationship when she was young, but now that she was older, they had their understanding. Rosalie knew that she was truly her father's child, and it was made clear to her that her adopted mother knew this as well. She really couldn't blame the older woman for despising her, she supposed. To live everyday, raising the product of your husband's extramarital romance? It must have been painful.
Rosalie turned away from the bed and exited the room without looking back. There was no good to be found in there. She had work to do, and an order to distribute. The rest of the staff would not be pleased, she supposed. She knew that many other maids were jealous of her friendship with Christine. They thought it unfair that a girl born without a surname would rise to higher favor than themselves. The friendlier members of the de Chagny household staff, especially those who had worked for the family longest, were pleased that Christine was brightening. Several of them had heard Raoul's tales of the beautiful songbird he loved. Though his accounts were doubtlessly exaggerated, they had expected a radiant angel when he brought home his bride. What they received was a worn, haggard little waif who stared out at the world through hollow, fearful eyes.
According to Xavier who, despite appearances, was quite the gossip, Christine barely spoke, and spent most days sitting in her room and staring out the window. She seemed terrified of something. And though he would never admit it, they could tell Raoul was just as frightened. They knew that some misfortune had befallen the Opera the night they left, and decided she must have just been shaken at the loss of her home, and Raoul worried about her. He tried everything to make her happy but nothing worked, or so Xavier said. She was wasting away in the midst of splendor most girls could never hope for. But then, the matronly cook Sophia would tell Rosalie, stroking her hair, you came along.
To this day, Rosalie wasn't sure why she had been hired. She had no references, few skills, and certainly didn't seem like a very good maid. She had failed to be hired by several manors previously. It was, she was sure, because of her mother. However, it never occurred to her to lie about her parentage. She was honest and hard-working, and if she couldn't get a job with the truth, it wasn't a job she wanted. So she didn't have much hope when she entered the de Chagny estate. Xavier was everything expected in a butler. She despised him. His nose seemed pointed permanently upwards, and he barely looked at her. Today, she couldn't believe the transformation he went through shifting in and out of his "butler" persona. But back then, she saw him as nothing more than an overstuffed peacock, inflated no doubt by spoiled aristocrats. Her opinion didn't change much when, to her surprise, she was presented to 'the lady of the house'. Christine de Chagny was obviously an aloof little china doll who wouldn't recognize hardship if it stamped on her delicate little foot. She accepted Rosalie as her maid, against all odds, and when she made eye contact, Rosalie felt things might develop differently than she had first thought. She was right.
By this time, she had reached the kitchen, where Sophia was commanding a busy army of assistants preparing breakfast, as well as making preparations for the rest of the day's meals.
"Rosalie," Sophia smiled, face creasing into familiar lines. "What are you doing down here? Don't you have a patient to tend to?" Rosalie returned the smile. Sophia was very easy to get along with, and generally cheered up anyone in the vicinity.
"That's why I'm here. Madame le Vicomtess," she always used Christine's title when out of her presence, "wished me to deliver a message."
Immediately, all work seemed to halt, and expectant faces turned towards her, many covered in baking flour. She considered how to phrase Christine's order, then decided to use most of her original words, to remove confusion.
"No one is to enter Monsieur Fântome's room without her permission, and no one is ever to touch his mask."
"Why does he wear that mask?" A young stableboy who had snuck into the kitchen hoping to filch some pastry asked curiously. Rosalie shook her head.
"She did not say."
The kitchen dissolved once more into a flurry of activity, the questioning stableboy was thrown out at once by a laughing, but firm, Sophia. Work seemed to continue as normal, but as Rosalie passed through, she heard from all sides talk about Madame and Monsieur de Chagny's strange guest.
"I have heard," a girl with her arms buried in dough said to her neighbor, who was slicing fruit, "that he was an admirer of hers at the Opera."
"He tried to kill himself," another girl whispered as she placed a loaf of bread into the ovens, "when she spurned his affections."
"Everyone who has removed his mask," a third hissed across an old wooden table, "has gone insane, or died!"
Rosalie simply rolled her eyes and continued on. Gossip. She liked to share stories as much as any of the other girls, but what they were saying was simply insane. Christine would have mentioned anything so exciting about her life. She wondered for a moment why it was that Monsieur Fântome was masked. To hide his true identity? But if he was recognizable, the mask should have covered his entire face. It didn't. She sighed. Nothing was making sense this past day at the de Chagny household. And she was caught right in the middle of it.
Christine disappeared after breakfast. The staff, as well as her husband, had no idea where she had gone. They began checking rooms, and it wasn't long before they found her. She refused to leave the guest room, insisting that she had to care for her patient. Raoul was, unsurprisingly, none too pleased about that. However, even he could not convince her to budge from her designated place on the side of the bed. She did not emerge for meals, despite Sophia's enticing dishes, choosing instead to accept only a small platter of fruit that she could eat while she cared for him.
She worked diligently all day. She changed the compress regularly, and she sponged his face and neck with a cool cloth. He didn't even twitch the entire time she sat by his side. It filled her with worry, his motionless state. Why would he not move? He didn't respond to anything. Her only consolation was that when she pressed a glass of water against his lips and poured it gently, she saw him swallow weakly. That meant he was alive, possibly even semi-conscious. It was her victory of the day, and, in case he really was awake inside, she hummed quietly to him. She had wanted at first to sing, but thought better of it. Who could say what would happen if he heard her singing again? It never seemed to turn out well when she sang for him.
She knew the entire staff thought she was going mad. She wasn't entirely sure she wasn't. Why was she sitting here, feverishly tending to a man who almost destroyed her? She thought for a while that he had destroyed her. Nothing made her happy, nothing made her feel like she once had. She was so tired all the time, unable to summon any energy for the emotions that had once filled her soul. It was better now. She was healing. A thought suddenly occurred to her, one that almost made her drop the compress. Whenever she was at her weakest, he always seemed strong and powerful. Now she was regaining strength…could it be possible she was draining his strength away from him? Was his immobility her fault? She banished the thought from her mind quickly. That was nonsense. She bit her lip softly. Just as ghosts and a phantom residing in an opera house was nonsense.
It all made no sense at all, really. A little girl who believed she was visited by an angel? A man who was more specter than mortal? Two childhood sweethearts suddenly reunited the very night one of them was whisked away to a world outside of reality? That place, a cavernous expanse in the cellars of the Opera, where night never ended and the real world was denied? A mad genius, with a burning passion and obsession for music, and the girl who he felt embodied it? That this girl would choose to stay with the devil, to let her love go free, only to see him collapse in tears and order her to go? None of it could be real. None of it could have actually happened to her. So why was she sitting here, with her master and phantom, squeezing his hand in a silent plea.
In a moment, the emotion was too much for her. She couldn't contain it, and she began to sob, first silently, then loudly. Her entire body shook with the power of her weeping, tears streaming down her face. Why did she have to stand this trial again? Why was she tormented like this? Why couldn't she have a normal life? Why were things so confusing? Why?
The door flew open and Raoul entered, breathless.
"Christine, what's wrong? What did he do? Did he hurt you?" Christine bit her lip again, striving valiantly to rein in her unbridled emotions.
"He…he…he," she failed, and a fresh torrent of tears poured forth as she wailed. "He won't wake up!" Raoul shook his head in disbelief. He had run all the way here, hearing her racking sobs in his study, certain that something terrible had happened to her. And here he found her, distraught that this monstrous man was not awake. Personally, he was immensely thankful. Everyday the Phantom did not wake up was another day to increase his hope that the Phantom would never wake up. He couldn't understand Christine's obsession with helping the man who had tried to destroy their lives, and almost succeeded! He supposed she was just so kind-hearted, she couldn't stand to see anyone in trouble, no matter what that 'someone' might have done to them in the past. He steeled himself and sat down, only inches from the demon, and wrapped his arms around his wife.
"It's all right, Christine. Things will be fine. We've done all we can." Christine clung to him, and sobbed even harder, if that was possible. He rubbed her back soothingly.
"But why won't he wake up? I'm doing ev-ev" she stuttered as she sniffed and gasped for air, "everything I can think of. And it's not helping!" She buried her face in his chest, clenching his shirt so hard her knuckles turned white.
"Christine, Christine," he leaned back and lifted her chin gently, and looked into her normally clear eyes, now cloudy with tears and surrounded by vicious red tearstains, "If it's meant to be, it will happen. You're working so hard, and I'm proud of you. But you cannot stop living to try and give him life. He wanted you to live, Lotte." Christine sniffled and nodded. She knew he was right. She had been given a second chance at life, and now she was "wasting" it. But still…
"Thank you, Raoul," she wiped her eyes with the handkerchief he offered her, and inhaled deeply. He was still looking at her as though she might shatter, and she smiled slightly. "I'm not going to cry anymore. Don't worry about me. I'm fine now."
"Are you," Raoul rose and paused, not wanting to set her off again. "Are you coming to dinner?" Christine considered it. She shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Raoul, but…I can't leave him. He gave me this new life, the least I can do is to do the same for him."
Raoul looked down at her, the pain obvious in his eyes. Christine had to look away.
"I'll ask Sophia to send something up for you," he turned from her, and her eyes snapped back to where his had been a moment before, hoping to communicate. But it was only his back now.
"Raoul? I love you," she whispered, sounding lost and frightened. Raoul paused in the doorway.
"I love you too, Lotte." In an instant, the door was swinging shut, and he was gone. Christine looked at the wooden barrier between herself, this room, and the rest of the world. All she had to do was push it aside, and reenter the world she knew. Where her husband was waiting for her. All she had to do was stand up, and walk away. It was not difficult. It wouldn't be hard. But even as she thought this, she knew the truth.
It would not be difficult to leave…but it was impossible.
So ends chapter 3. I hope you all enjoyed it! I tried to get back a little more to the more introspective style of the first chapter. Like it? No? Concrit? Also: Beta-ing? Any takers? Any at all? This chapter went in a bit of a different direction than I thought it would. I really didn't think I was going to be able to talk about Rosalie for more than a couple paragraphs and, lo and behold, she really dominated the chapter. Bad Rosalie, taking over the fic like that! I'll tell Raoul to give her a pay cut. Well, I'm off to work on the next chapter: 'Awakening'. Ooh…can you guess what it's about? Ha ha. Thanks a ton for reading (and reviewing!) Love you all very much.
Vicangel: You're just on the ball with the reviewing, aren't ya? Glad you like…so, mad props again! (I adore saying props, and if you don't think it sounds stupid, I shall say it to you as much as possible)
Terpintine Mind: Thanks…I'll keep my eye on the descriptors and work on that in the future.
Emmanuelle Grey: Heh…just to lay your mind to rest, honey: 'Staring Into the Abyss' is 100, pure, unabashed EC. It is not, however pure fluff. At least it's not supposed to be.
Tamelia: Jean-Luc is becoming popular. Loveable little man-whore. The camera will travel a bit when other characters become more entangled in the plot, but it will generally be on Christine I think. I like focusing on Erik, but the poor dear is unconscious at the moment, so it wouldn't be particularly interesting . Of course, it sort of drifted to Rosalie this time, which I didn't exactly plan.
Chocolate Covered Icicles: I'm glad you like it! Hope you hang around and keep reading.
Feri-san: I love compliments. You rock. Jean-Luc is just the most popular guy ever, isn't he? I'm glad you like my OCs…I tried very hard to make them interesting and realistic and not just throwaways. Jacques is definitely teh cute.
AMaskofanAngel: Poor oblivious Raoul. Sigh. I'm glad you like it! Thank you very much, and I'll do my best to preserve the high-quality of the fic.