Me: Hey, we'd Erik go? (looks frantically about the room)
Me: (now beginning to get hysterical) EEEERRRRRIIIIIIKKKKKK!
E: (pained expression, hands over ears) I am right here you incessant girl!
Me: (relieved, hugs Erik forcefully) Where were you?
E: (clears throat) Even phantoms have to use…er…uh, the facilities…
Me: (runs to bathroom, leaving Erik with a quizzical look on his face…the visible half at least)
E: (puzzled) What are you doing?
Me: (grinning broadly, takes seat in front of laptop) You are such a gentleman!
E: (no less confused) What are you rambling about? Oh, see what you made me do! I ended that question with a preposition…are you happy now! You have made an uncouth imbecile out of me! (shakes hands in exasperation)
Me: (smile fading only slightly) Oh, Erik…you put the toilet seat down! (grinning broadens once more).
E: (face changing from angry to confused once more) You are insane.
Me: (stares blankly) I do not understand.
E: (exhausted sigh) Alright, have you written anything new?
Me: (beaming once more) Yep! Here it is…my newest masterpiece! You think I should name this chapter Dragima Triumphant?
E: (clears throat impatiently) My dear, (ignores the fluffy expression on her face at the sound of this term of endearment) you may call this chapter "Widdle-bunny-froo-froo" for all I care. All I ask is that you update: often and well. (stands up and waves hands madly about his head…eyes ablaze with fury) And no more foppish displays of affection for Christine from the FOP!
Me: (unaffected by the raging phantom aiming death stares at her) You seem upset.
E: (eye twitches slightly as he tries not to Punjab the little brown haired girl in front of him) ARG! (finally gathers some composure and turns to laptop monitor, once again ignoring the dreamy look on girl's face as he sits alarmingly close to her) Do you mind scooting over to your left, I cannot see the screen.
Me: (ignores him) Thanks to GerrysLoveTart for the excellent review! (curses Lara Croft under breath) How dare she kill my Gerry!
E: (Horrified look) Wait. That is it! That is what you were hiding with the cough! You (covers mouth in terrified fashion) are a Gerard Butler fanatic!
Me: (suave look) We prefer the term "tart."
E: AHHHHH! (runs screaming for the door…turns around horrified upon finding the door locked).
Me: (pats seat next to her in front of laptop, Erik gives up and goes to read)
Me: Please review!
(real A/N: I've added the following section to chapter four and am too lazy to put it in, so I'll put it here. I'll indicated where Chap. Five really begins.)
He opened his eyes, or rather, allowed himself to take in the remaining details of his surroundings. He was in a simple, though comfortable bed, white sheets drawn all the way to his midriff. He realized moments later that he could not move his left arm, nor could he sit up straight without someone's aid.
Lifting his eyes to the vanity opposite his bed, he saw his Little Lotte sleeping deeply, if not soundly. The light from a nearby window stung his eyes. He could see a tired expression on her face, marked by faint, thin lines across her forehead. Raoul knew these were lines of sorrow, not age.
She sat on an uncomfortable looking stool; it had neither back support nor a cushion. She had crossed both arms atop the vanity, using them as a makeshift pillow. She groaned softly as the first rays of sunlight found their way past the white cotton curtains and into the tiny bedroom.
Raoul saw her smile as she looked into his eyes, but it was merely a half-hearted smile. It was the expression of a woman with a cross to bear.
She is too young, much too young to bear such a load. He pushed the thought away; he wanted to allow himself one happy thought, one thankful moment before facing cruel reality. She was with him; she had undoubtedly spent the entire night by his side.
Wait.
Night?
How long had he been asleep?
The question passed his lips without him being fully aware of it.
"Just over two days, Raoul," she voiced wearily. He had to stop himself from cringing at how worn and frayed her voice had become, quite a long way from the crisp, clear soprano of six years ago.
"You are very fortunate, Raoul. The doctor has agreed to take good care of you; he was even kind enough to offer his home as a recovery room." Christine guessed his next question before he even opened his mouth to ask it.
"St. Peter's was too far to drive, you were unconscious and there was no way of knowing how long you would survive without immediate aid. I ran as fast as I could," she furrowed her brow in anxiety; Raoul could see the lines begin to deepen on her ivory forehead.
"I—I ran to the church. Thankfully, one of the monks knew Dr. Marek lived close by and sent word for him to come and tend to your wounds. We found you in a dreadful state, Raoul." Her voice faltered as she said his name. She stood with her hands clasped together on her lap, looking very much like a child who's lost her favorite doll.
"We took you to the church, and the doctor had to stitch your head right there in the apse. For a moment there I thought--," Raoul could see she was fighting a losing battle against the tears, "I thought you would not make it all the way here. I thought I would lose you right there inside the church" She covered her face with her left hand.
"Oh, Christine." It hurt Raoul to think that, after all these years, she still did not feel comfortable crying in front of him. But it hurt him even more to see her suffer; he would have welcomed another broken arm if it would have stopped her pain.
She made her way to his bedside and took his right hand with her own. He tried to move the injured arm to his side, but it was securely fastened to his chest. He took note of the thick gauze wrapped all around his left arm and chest, serving as an impromptu sling and cast all at once.
"So. We are in a house, in the doctor's house to be precise. Well then, that means you are my nurse, is that right?" He tried to make his voice sound as playful as possible, lifting his hand to touch her chin and then brushing her cheek with his thumb, as if wiping away an unseen tear.
She smiled again, this time her pain was more than obvious, vivid in her big brown eyes. Her long black lashes were still damp from crying. He knew she was only smiling to make him feel better, to ease his mind. But he was no fool; he knew a plastered smile when he saw one. He knew the real Christine Daae smile, and this was far from it.
He stared at her for a moment, trying to capture the gentle curve of her lip, every strand of hair, the soft pink of her cheeks. He wanted to freeze this moment, a moment which, for all its sadness, still brought some measure of comfort because she was with him.
She seemed to notice him staring at her, opened her mouth as if to ask him what he thought so intriguing, but stopped at the knocking on the bedroom door.
She sighed, irritated at the sudden interruption, and called the interloper inside with a swift "Enter."
Once again, Raoul noticed the quake in her voice, its gentle beauty eclipsed by what he could only guess was grief. He did not want to think about the cause of that sorrow. Not yet anyway.
He had to make a conscious effort to stave off all thoughts of Erin. His mind knew of her disappearance, but it was not yet ready to cope with the implications of the kidnapping.
Raoul recognized the tall, broad shouldered gentleman who strode into the room. Terry Sheridan was a bold- some might even say cocky and overbearing- man with a somewhat questionable reputation. He was a man who liked to follow his own rules, not the most agreeable of character traits when serving as an officer of the law. But Sheridan had never given Raoul a reason to doubt him. It had been Sheridan who had arranged for Christine's police oversight after the Ghost's first and, as it had turned out, only appearance. That is, until the demon had decided to grace them with his presence once more, Raoul thought bitterly.
Christine offered the constable a seat much like her own uncomfortable stool. He refused with a polite shake of his head and a quick "no thank yee Countess." His thick Scottish accent, coupled with a deep, booming voice made Sheridan seem like an ancient warrior charging into battle. The man might have been a Hun or a Geat in his past life, a regular Beowulf resurrected and turned policeman. Raoul often found this trait a bit unsettling, it seemed to him that Sheridan was a loose cannon, likely to fire at any moment, at anyone. He wondered, with a slight wince, what had caused Sheridan to leave Scotland; then quickly decided it best he did not know the answer.
"Glad to see ye awake, Cah-unt." Sheridan smiled crookedly at the bedridden Raoul, tipping his head slightly as a sight of respect.
"Constable Sheridan. I, too, am glad to see you are well." Raoul returned the gesture, though not quite as effectively, seeing as he was still in quite a bit of pain.
"I only regret that your presence signifies his return." Raoul's voice deepened as he finished the sentence, letting an awkward pause fill the room.
Christine, realizing this was her queue to leave, quickly excused herself, though her expression was one of muted protest. She shut the door tightly, the ratty iron hinges making a creaking noise and the knob jingling slightly as she turned it.
"I trust my wife has informed you of—"
Raoul hesitated for a moment, hesitant to retell the story, lest the guilt should find its way into his heart again. He was thankful when Sheridan interrupted him. Raoul knew impatience was another one of the Scot's character flaws.
"The Countess has informed me of everything. I wanted to speek with ye before I took any definitive steps. I do not know how much discretion ye would like."
Raoul knew exactly what the Scot meant by this. The Chagnys had taken quite a blow to their family name after the scandal at the Opera Populaire, and then the media fires had flared once more after the Phantom's visit to the manor. The newspapers always managed to draw their own despicable conclusions about the Phantom and his involvement with Christine. Even Raoul had endured more than his fair share of slanderous articles and disparaging accusations. Not the least of these had been circulated by the Héraut Parisien, which had circulated a story blaming Raoul for the disappearance of Count Phillipe. The infuriating little man who had written the article had even gone so far as to imply that the old Count had fallen victim to his younger brother's lust for power.
No. Raoul knew that in order to spare Christine's fragile temper, and save whatever reputation the Chagny name still possessed, this ordeal with the Ghost had to be kept completely confidential. Raoul suspected that was the reason why Christine had called upon Sheridan specifically, instead of simply calling the local authorities for help.
"Sheridan, let us drop all formalities, shall we?" All the pent up rage surged to the surface. Sheridan's expression was one of surprise, shocked by the Count's bold display of anger, especially since Raoul was normally such a mild tempered man. But, true to form, the Scot immediately returned to a state of wry amusement and let the Count continue his tirade.
"I want this to remain between you and me. No police, no incessant newspapers mucking up my good name." Raoul waited for a reply from Sheridan, but received only a knowing nod in return. He continued, this time with an eerily steady voice.
"I want that man dead."
Raoul's mind reeled with the image of the Phantom taking Erin into a black cloud of smoke, taking her into the prison of his mind.
"That wont be difficult, Cah-unt, yer friend is a ghost. He has been dead fer yeers," returned Sheridan with a sarcastic laugh.
One thing about Sheridan that had always bothered Raoul was the fact that, no matter how grave the situation, he always managed to make some cynical comment. Normally his dry humor would not affect Raoul this much, but he was on edge, he wanted blood, the phantom's blood. Raoul did not, however, feel like talking nonsense with an overconfident, roguish policeman.
"I don't have time for humor, constable. I do, however, have more than enough time for you to tell me how you plan to dispose of that monster and returning my dear Erin!" Raoul started to tremble after the first sentence, his eyes wild with fury and his gaze cold as ice.
Sheridan smiled; it was a closed, mirthless curve of his lips but a smile nonetheless. He brought his hand up to stroke his chin, and then ran his thumb and index finger along the corners of his mouth, brushing them past his short, scraggly beard. He took a deep breath before stepping a few feet closer to the Count's bedside.
"I do not believe I'va ever seen you quite so heated, Count. Though I understand where it may be coming from. I can't tell ye fer sure when or how, but I guarantee ye that I will do all that is in my power to get yer dahter back."
Chapter 5: Of Catacombs and Kidnappers
He carried her all the way to the carriage. His strong arms made quick work of picking up the small child and placing her on the one-horse coach.
Looking back towards the cemetery, he realized he might never see Christine again. He would have to leave Paris forever. He knew that Raoul wanted nothing short of a slow painful death for the Phantom, which was why Sheridan, and not the "official police" would be hired for the search. To Sheridan, there was no such thing as capture, only destroy.
He knew that today would be the beginning of the rest of his life. A life he hoped would be forever entwined with Erin's. He smiled as he considered the endless possibilities for his dear girl. And yet, his restless mind drifted back to the familiar fears of persecution, he recalled the unruly mob that had followed him into his lair after the Don Juan performance and a shudder ran throughout his body. He knew that by kidnapping her, he had also sealed his own fate.
Still, it would take the Count quite some time to inch his way out of the trap the Phantom had prepared for him. He recalled the sound the Count's body had made as it came crushing down onto the rocky floor of the ditch. The phantom stifled a victorious chuckle, knowing Erin could wake at any moment.
Erin. The sight of the poor child tugged at his heart with an amazing force. The taunting voices returned, filling his head with guilty, terrifying thoughts. What had he been thinking? Uprooting this defenseless child, giving her no chance to say goodbye to her past life. What if she hated him for it? What if she was able to see through his façade of decorum and elegance into the dissolute truth of his existence? What if, after all his efforts at befriending her, she still missed her old life? Most importantly, what if she loved the Count and blamed the Phantom for ripping her from her father's arms?
Yes, that would be very appropriate, he thought with bitter irony. To be rejected by both the mother and the daughter. He allowed his gaze to linger for a few moments over the girls' long black curls, her pale skin and her slightly pursed lips. A pang of longing suddenly struck his heart, and he felt physically weak.
He kneeled on the white covered floor, the snow dampening his black trousers. He brought his right hand up over his chest, clutching the delicate fabric of his gold brocade vest. A terrible shooting pain ran all through his left arm, settling over his chest. He suddenly felt as if he could not breathe. Undoing his cravat with a single wild sweep of his hand, he took a deep gulp of air and tried to calm himself.
A few long breaths later he felt strong enough to mount the carriage; he placed himself next to Erin in the driver's seat. He found her slow, steady breathing more comforting than any opera he had ever attended. With a sharp flick of the reins the horses began their stride through the thick snow.
He thought of the system of tunnels he had so ingeniously constructed throughout the cemetery. If anyone ever found them—in itself highly doubtful--they would surely believe it would have taken a team of men a decade to complete. In truth, some of the tunnels had already been there, he had merely found and restored them. They were most likely remnants of ancient early Christian catacombs. He was probably the only man in France, or the world for that matter, who knew of their existence. Dazzling mosaics, illuminated manuscripts, and a few ceremonial scrolls had provided a sizeable income for the phantom since the Opera Populaire's destruction. He had known exactly which crooked art historians to contact, ones who would not hesitate to purchase a priceless artifact simply because of its dubious origins. He had gained quite a sizeable income from his discoveries.
Still, for all his fortunes, for all his luxuries and worldly comforts, he chose to live in his old tomb. He still lived five stories below the very opera house which had led to his undoing. His life was even more pathetic now that the opera lay in ruins. Before he had been content to sit by and watch life unfold before his eyes, ballerinas and their illicit love affairs, corrupt stage managers and their shady dealings. He had even amused himself by playing a few pranks on the corps de ballet and sending the occasional extortion letter to the managers. But now all life had drained from his Opera House, there was only the Phantom, a rotting corpse of a man, a Ghost. He had to smile cynically at the wretched being he had allowed himself to become.
But no more of that! Erin would be his link to the outside world. Through her, he could experience once again the love and joy he had lived with Christine, albeit all too briefly. He would continue Erin's training—as he had been doing for the past three months—and she would, no doubt, lead the life of a diva. The life he had promised Christine so many years ago, the life she had refused in pursuit of her precious Count. He pushed the thought out of his mind, slapping the reins forcefully on the horse's back, sending the animal into a galloping fury.
He took Erin's hand and pressed it softly to his lips, he needed to feel her, touch her. He wanted to know that this was not one of his hallucinations. He often had dreams where he was allowed to live the life he might have had with Christine. A life where Erin was his daughter and not the Count's, a life where he woke next to Christine in his bed, instead of his miserable reflection mocking him from beside the four poster.
He took in the subtle smell of hyacinth embedded in her skin, the same flowers which awaited her back at the opera cellar. He knew this was her favorite; he had memorized every conversation they had ever shared. No detail was too small, no memory too insignificant when it came to his Erin. His Erin. She was for him, as he was for her, no bloody Count would get in his way this time. He would do anything and everything necessary to keep this child, or at the very least, he would die trying.
"Hyah!"
With a maddened neigh, the horse continued in the direction of the Opera Populaire. Only one more question remained: how would this angelic child react when awakened in the middle of the Hell that was his lair? The phantom would find out soon enough.
Me: (excitedly) SOOOO?
Erik: (trying to seem standoffish) Well…I suppose it will do, after all, the fop IS severely injured. But that Sheridan Fellow, I do not like him. (angry look)
Me: (knowing smile on her lips) Heh..heh…I like, I like him a lot…(smile)
Erik: (glare)
Me: (anxiously) Er…um…I mean, yeah, was a "ruffian"!
Me: (trying to change subject) Oh! (imitates Mdme. Giry) And I have a message for you from the Opera Ghost!
Erik: (annoyed) I AM THE OPERA GHOST!
Me: Oops…sorry, I've always wanted to say that though…(laughs, hands erik a note from reviewer Sugar Peaches)
Erik: (takes the note and reads…) Actor? What? I am confused with an ACTOR!
Me: (smiles) Yep…a really HOT actor…
Erik: (furiously) YOU KNEW OF THIS?
Me: (sees queue to wrap up entry) Well, it appears that it is time to go…say buh-bye, Erik.
Erik: (indignant) I most certainly will NOT!