A/N: Okay, folks, it's time to clear a few things up: Point A, I have no idea what pairing this is going to end up with. B, I do not intend this to be a Raoul bashing fic. (He's not that bad, for a fop.) So no need to worry, Lunasariel…Although I prefer to read E/C fics, I am by no means prejudiced against Raoul. Ignore the fop comment. Blame the movie. C, This is based on the movie/play/Leroux book. My own little mixture. It'd be part Kay, too, if I could get my hands on one.
Sorry about the long wait; I just got back from vacation. And then I went camping. No computer access whatsoever..grumbles But this chapter is long(ish) for me. Sort of.
Erik edged slowly into his cave, keeping to the shadows so as not to disturb Christine. The reaction to his letter, more or less, had been perfect. If, before his letter, members of the Opera had been scared, they were now terrified. The letter, his letter, had duly reminded them of the Opera Ghost's existence, and firmly reinstated the fact that he was going no where. Erik knew, from listening through cracks in walls and such, that most of the Opera cared less if Christine Daae returned to them. She was another reminder of the Ghost, another unpleasant token of first Buquet, and now Piangi's necessary demises.
Some even believed that Christine was the witch behind a plot to ensnare both his and that disgusting excuse for a Vicomte. They claimed that it was some insane lust for power - the ambition of outshining Carlotta and becoming a superb lead Soprano, as well as crawling her way up into aristocracy by marrying the Vicomte. Some even went as far to suggest that it was Christine herself who had talked Erik into kidnapping her - as a ruse to get the Vicomte to come and find her, a chance for her to play innocent maiden for him. Erik allowed a smile to assemble on his face as he approached the bed once more, thinking how the rumors could not be farther from the truth. Christine needed no playacting. And she was by no means vying for his affections.
Erik still shuddered to think of what he had done, no, what he had been forced to do to Christine. Kidnapping her was not something he was proud of, Erik admitted, but it was necessary. Christine, however, didn't seem to think so. The memory of when she'd awoke the next morning was something Erik was not fond of, when Christine had seemingly forgotten her promise, her vow to Erik.
Eyes the color of liquid amber greeted him as he crossed the room, the only sign of acknowledgement Christine gave him as she lay in the exact position he'd left her in - right down to the hand by her face. She did not seem to realize he'd replaced the rings. It seemed ironic that Christine's eyes should be a color so mysterious, as opposed to virginal blue, but still reveal so much. Erik could always tell how she was feeling, just by looking at those eyes. Right now he saw the glossy indifference that a fresh morning brought, but they were tainted with an iced curtain of fear that she could not quite grasp. Yet.
Erik did not speak right away, not wishing to break the mood. Instead he sat softly, slowly on the bed, making sure not to startle her, and whispered, "Good morning, mon amour." Her eyes clouded over. She sat up sharply in the bed, and looked in a multitude of directions, and finally at her hands. "You have slept for a long time." He waited for a reaction of some kind, and finally Christine deemed it necessary to comply.
"Where's Raoul?" the first words she'd spoken to him since that fateful night, not, Erik reflected dryly, the perfect start to their life together. His eyes narrowed in anger and annoyance. Why couldn't Christine accept that she was his? He'd thought she had, had labored under some delusion that Christine had given up hope for a rescue. He would even have gone far enough to suggest, perhaps, that Christine hadn't really wanted anyone to save her, that she was perfectly happy here with him.
Pointedly ignoring the question, Erik began pacing the room, watching her. His fingers itched to go back to the organ, but with Christine awake…
"Did you sleep well, my dear?" Erik inquired, using a dull, useless conversation to weaken the tense atmosphere around them. Christine merely nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the door.
"Where's Raoul?" she said even more softly, less demanding and more tearful. Erik moved in front of her fixation, and she looked away, at the wilting roses on her bed stand. Because even they were more appealing. Erik's fists tightened involuntarily, and he stalked towards the flowers instead, with half a mind to break the vase over her head. Why wouldn't she look at him?
"That is no longer important," Erik said tersely. "Would you like something to eat?" Christine looked at him incredulously. Another stab of annoyance hit him. Why couldn't she respond to normal conversation? Wasn't it normal for a man to inquire as to the state of his fiancé? Maybe he wasn't asking the right questions! Erik tried again. "How are you feeling?"
Those damningly deceptive eyes widened considerably. She was wide awake now, he noted glumly, and crawling away from him at an alarming rate. She was speaking again, speaking that intolerable name.
"What did you do with Raoul?" The boy. Erik nearly snorted with contempt. She thought he hadn't kept his promise!
"I let the boy go," he admonished softly. "Where he is now, I do not know. I have not felt compelled to check up on him," He added smugly. Christine looked to the door again, sadness marring her picturesque features. She didn't believe him. And he hadn't even lied.
Christine's pale, emaciated figure slowly made its way to the door, making sure to exit the bed as far from Erik as possible. She slowly pushed the heavy frame out of her way, seeming to glide effortlessly to the blackened lake. As she let the misty sheen that always enveloped the water surround her, she had never looked more ethereal. Or unattainable.
Still clothed in the muddied wedding dress, Christine simply stood in the exact same spot where she'd pledged her devotion to Erik just a few hours earlier. He had a nightgown for her - he had a whole wardrobe of disused costumes he'd collected for Christine . But she was still in the wedding dress, which Erik hadn't been able to bring himself to replace.
He couldn't see her from this angle, but Erik, at that moment standing where he was, would've sworn that Christine was crying in his soiled wedding dress, not caring that it was ruined.
That had been two days ago, and it had only gone downhill from their. Christine barely spoke, and when she did it was only a word or two. She was refusing to acknowledge, or at least discuss, what had taken place that night. Neither denying or accepting Erik, she moved listlessly through his home, taking and eating only a little of all that Erik offered her. Hardly an obedient, chivalrous fiancé, but she would learn. They were hardly pressed for time.
Erik himself was growing more and more frustrated with Christine's refusal to cooperate, so he didn't spend much time around her. He couldn't bear it, seeing his darling Christine in such a state, which happened every time he was around her.
So instead he did something Erik liked to think he excelled at - he spied. Peering at what the managers were up to, how the gossip had swayed, laughing at where the police had gone in their investigation (nowhere). Occasionally he'd even creep back into his cave and observe Christine, the lack of emotion that seemed to be permanently instilled on her face. Once or twice Erik (though not on purpose) came across the Viscount, looking, as he was all too pleased to say, exceptionally unwell.
deChagney was furious - absolutely furious. It was beautiful to watch his face contort in anger every time Erik's alias was mentioned.
"We have a new lead on the Opera Ghost," a young officer would inform the Vicomte, and Erik would struggle to overcome his urge to laugh, knowing full well that it was him, Erik, who'd placed it. It was even better to watch as the boy attempted to lead them back down to the lair, and to see the look on his face when he realized that it was pure luck (and Erik's convenient opening of the trapdoor) which had brought him down the first time. If Erik lived a normal life, he might have been inclined to state that he was at the top of his game in the career of an Opera Ghost. As it was, he could only sneer at his managers from afar, and skulk back to his lair, where the Love of His Life was wasting pathetically away.
A/N: Well, it was longer…Albeit terribly late. I actually have an idea of where this is going now, and a possible pairing. evil cackle
Is it bad to be begging for constructive criticism? Well, I am. I really need some advice, whether I need to focus on action, dialogue, and whatnot. I've never really done this before; it'd be rather helpful. J