The Emancipation

A/N: Thank you to all my loyal readers for holding out for my story (if you are all still there, that is). Moving has been so stressful; I was without the Internet for more than 2 weeks. However, I did keep working on the story and I have two chapters uploaded for you. Enjoy and don't forget to tell me what you think.

He had always walked alone but had wondered what it would be like to one day have a companion. Would he hold her small hand in his large one, his masculinity overwhelming her tiny fingers and buttery palm? Or would they walk as individuals, both in step with one another but a gap of thick air and pulsing energy between them? Would both feel the need to clasp hands and walk as one or would they be content to walk closely, occasionally brushing fingertips or accidentally treading into the other's path in a brook of unsteadiness? Would Erik welcome another shadow close to his or would he be startled? What did Christine walk like anyway? He imagined she had a strong, steady gait and walked at a graceful, clipped pace. But perhaps she ambled along leisurely, one of those walkers who often gazed around wonderingly, oblivious to crowds of people trying to hurry their way past. Maybe Christine wouldn't be able to keep up, forever a few steps behind. Would they walk in silence? And of which variety: the kind with words unneeded and a well-worn comfort of being with one another; or the kind which was like a newborn colt, awkward and striving for balance. Would they walk together at all? It was normal to walk and talk and laugh together, but what did either of them know about normal.

Seeing her last night had affected him. As the gala of socialites had whirled below him in a dervish of reds and blues and golds, he had watched them with a smug grin, all the while playing commentary in his head.

This one was pigeon-chested and tried to hide it with a ridiculously overbearing string of glittering jewels. Her husband looked bored and uninterested. In fact, he looked far more interested in a redheaded woman with black arched eyebrows and a pearly grin. His wife prattled on endlessly, keeping a protecting arm around her husband. Affair, he had surmised with a snort. The rich always were looking for happiness in the wrong places, and, being as foolish as they were, paid heed to the rules of society more than their own thoughts. If they had any.

He grew bored with the crowd and was immediately struck with coiled tension in his stomach. Anticipation, nervousness, a complete lack of belief in his own abilities – they all assaulted him at once and he felt the bile begin to rise in his throat. Turning away from the dark corner he had been lurking in, he began to hurriedly rush away, needing to find a place to hide, to vomit and to expel the raging butterflies in his gut. And then he saw her. There, as the sweat broke on his brow and the blood rushed to his head and a spot of dizziness made him groggy, she appeared as a vision in black lace, frothing scarlet taffeta and red lips. She was stunning, a black widow spider. She was at his opera.

He walked hurriedly past the gossiping nobles who paid no heed to a man dressed in black and sporting a black cap tilted over his right eye. He had followed her and felt the anticipation of the night's unfolding promise abandon him. He was caught up in the chase now; he had missed it. It thrilled him, made him predatory and in control.

He had stood on the rooftop after she had fled for a long time. He did not bother to stay for the rest of his opera; whether they accepted his art or not had no bearing on him now. Not that it ever did, he chided himself.

Anger flooded him; anger for the stupid herd of nobles below him, clapping and oohing and awing in all the right places, never a cough or hurrah out of place. Sheep, lambs, stupid cows, he raged.

He was off, summoning his carriage to carry him to his hotel. He was always short but necessary with his servants, but tonight was different. He merely mumbled in a harsh growl and threw absent change at his charges before raging to his room to drink himself numb.

The bottle of brandy stared back at him, taunting. If he would drink it, he would lose himself, forget the rage and become a stilted automaton. He would cease to feel, cease to think. But he was sure to be encapsulated by its sweet deception, and his dreams would be nightmares – and more than usual. Every breath he had stilled and every heart he had stopped would come back to him in a realism that caused him to scream. It felt real because it had been.

He picked up the bottle and watched it as he felt his resolve crumble. He hurled the brandy across the room with a roar.

Erik collapsed on the bed and gathered his head in his hands, rocking slightly. Christine. Why, Christine? Why return to me when I am so close …

His train of thought halted for he was deceiving himself. He had not been close to forgetting her. Tonight, he had seen her, really seen her and known she was unhappy. Her smiles rang with a falseness he did not recognize as did her conversation. She spoke to Meg in short sentences, revealing while concealing her truth simultaneously. It had been subtle, and he was uncertain if Meg had picked up on her change in demeanor, but he knew Christine. More than anything, he knew her.

The brandy no longer an option and sleep a long way away, he was forced to think. He often thought too much.

……………………………………..

"Raoul, I think perhaps I might be with child."

She said it with such frankness and earnestness that Raoul was taken aback. He did not react, but simply stared.

Christine was lying. They had come home from the opera, all the while a terrible argument had sprung up between them.

"What did you think of the opera?" Raoul asked his lips tight. She had been late again, unapologetic, had simply said, "I was in the ladies room."

"It was … different," she replied, her cheeks colouring. She gazed off, caught up in the memory of Erik's thumb softly trailing her rouge across her lips. His lips …

He had lost her again, and Raoul sighed in frustration. The play was different, she was different. The girl he had fallen in love with, the girl whose entire life had been taken up by music, now had so little to say about music.

"Hmmm, I thought it was a little too brash. And the … sensuality was overblown. But the music was fantastic. I particularly liked the arrangement in the second act."

Christine's head whipped around at his words and Raoul trailed off. At last he had her attention.

"You thought it was too sensual?" Christine queried a note of irritation in her voice.

"Yes, I thought it improbable that Bella would move so quickly from her husband to another lover. She was an inconsistent woman, beguiled by the foolishness of her own heart." He stopped and bit his lip in consternation. "No woman with self-respect and love of her husband would play to two men at the same time. She hurt them both as a result of her ardour."

"But it was not ardour," Christine said in a rush of breath. Suddenly, Raoul's words piqued her and she felt the brimming of passion inspired by a clash of opinions spoil her blood. "She loved Marco."

"And not her husband? What madness on the part of Giacomo drove her to treat him as some dispensable piece of trash?" Raoul was excited now, and his voice rose slightly but he kept the look of brooding consternation on his face.

Christine gaped at him. "Trash? You cannot help who you love, Raoul. Or do I need to remind you." With that, she turned away from him and folded her arms. She knew she had hit a nerve but did not care.

"What is that supposed to mean, Christine?"

"It means exactly what I said it means."

"Jesus, Christine, must you always bring up the past?" It was his turn to refuse her his eyes. He felt the excitement of battle leave him and felt only sadness and anger.

"What? What past? I did not speak of the past, Raoul, it was you who made such inference," she replied hotly, guilt hammering her onward. Before she could stop it, the caustic words were spilling forth. "How many times must I tell you I did not love him? Why must you let your jealousy get the best of you all these years? He was a part of me. I cannot let that go, but you continue to prompt it, because of ego."

Raoul stiffened. "It is not jealousy, Christine. Do not pin this on me. I do not know why you have started acting this way after four years of normalcy. All of a sudden, things changed and you refuse to acknowledge it."

"Perhaps it is you who have changed." The words ran off her tongue in a chill that settled into her heart.

They had fought for an hour, going back and forth between accusations and turnabout. Raul implored his love for her which she refused to accept, only spurring on his anger. Then she would cry and he would hold her and she would tell him over and over she loved him. But then the tears dried up and so did her warm words. She became distant, falling into her past worlds, all worlds that existed without Raoul. She thought of Erik as she and Raoul made love. The next day, she made her announcement.

"How – how do you know? I mean, Christine I am so – was it last night? When did you figure this out? This is fantastic! Christine?"

For a moment, she was silenced by his happiness and the lie churned her stomach like bad food. Faced with his pleading eyes expecting her response, she replied, "I just know. I can feel it." Her voice was weak, so weak. He embraced her and a tear slid down her cheek. Raoul mistook her tears for happiness.

Alone on her balcony, she felt less than whole. She knew she had changed – at least, her façade had. Worse, her feelings for Raoul had not changed. She still loved him. His love for her cut her deep instead of healing her wounds. Seeing Erik again had forced her to acknowledge what she had been holding back.

I just want Raoul to be happy and to love me. I want to love him. That I feel for another means nothing. She sighed, for it was easier to lie to others than to herself. She did not know how long she could keep up her lie about being pregnant, but she hoped it would help. Even if it was a lie, it might bring her and Raoul closer and banish Erik from her thoughts forever. Maybe I will become pregnant, she thought hopefully. Maybe I will one day arise from this waking nightmare an innocent once more. I will wake up and my betrayal will have vanished and all my guilt will dissipate. A memory, a fiction. Maybe that's what will become of this mess I have done unto myself.

Yes, lies were a comfort.

Christine was startled by a knock at the door and turned to see a servant bearing a silver platter with an envelope perched precariously on its surface. Andre bowed slightly, and extended the letter to her with a gloved hand. She thanked him sweetly, and he left without a word.

The envelope was made of plain parchment and bore no discernible symbol or writing. Puzzled, Christine opened the envelope and withdrew a crisp letter.

……………………..

Erik stood outside the Giry household and rapped on the door. He was nervous but his determination outweighed his expectancy. He had a plot and a purpose, the symptoms of a scheming mind lacking social boundaries. The thought made him smirk.

Madame Antoinette Giry opened the front door of her estate to a familiar face – or lack thereof. There he was, properly attired, smartly polished and perfectly poised, the right side of his face obscured by a gleaming white mask. If Madame Giry was surprised to see him, she hid it well.

"Antoinette," Erik said easily, her name rolling off his tongue like caramel. "Pleasant to see you once more."

Madame Giry nodded stiffly, holding the door ajar without saying a word or shifting her weight. Erik studied her and saw the years of practicing hiding one's feelings in her unwavering façade. She had always been a master at hiding her emotions and keeping herself in check, something he admired and had cultivated in her stead. But she was not perfect. The nervous twitch under her left eye and the slight, infinitesimal quirk of her lips, drawn together a touch too tightly, gave her away. But her eyes, steely blue green orbs of judgment that burned through him now still held the same affecting shame on his person and immediately he was uncomfortable. He lifted his chin and squared his jaw, giving her the most rakish of grins.

"Will you invite me in, Madame, or have your manners escaped you along with your years?"

Antoinette opened the door more widely at his words with a final hardened glance at his arrogant countenance and stepped aside. "I see you still possess the same charming repertoire, Erik," she quipped sharply.

Erik chuckled darkly. He knew there was a reason he liked this woman.

As he stepped inside the house, he took in the no-nonsense décor and minimalist design. Antoinette had never been one for frilly accoutrements. "This place suits you. Or perhaps you suit it."

"Thank you," she said with a tight smile, her voice calm and controlled. "It lacks the drama of the theatre, but perhaps that is for the best." She levelled him with a steady gaze, one whose meaning was not lost on Erik. A moment of silence passed between them in which all pretences were dropped.

Antoinette turned on her heel briskly and walked into the sitting room at the end of the hall beside the small, tidily kept kitchen. With all the purpose of a nursemaid attending to a wounded patient, she poured herself and Erik two glasses of brandy from a crystal decanter and handed one to Erik delicately. She then gathered her skirts purposefully, alighted on a simple chair in front of the bay window and folded her hands quietly in her lap. He followed suit and settled into a chair opposite but immediately felt as though he lacked the quiet grace of the woman before him. She gave him the slightest of nods, a silent acquiescence to his purpose and he swallowed. She never ceases to intimidate, even with the smallest and simplest of gestures, he thought.

Erik was lulled into a thoughtful stupor, having lost his nerve in the wake of her absolute acceptance. Seeing his trepidation, Antoinette offered him the kindest of words. "Erik," she spoke steadily, lacking the soft, often silly whisper of most women. "Why have you come here?"

Erik sighed, grateful though he was for her breaking the breach of silence. Gathering his charm, he laughed it off, saying, "Can't an old friend visit another old friend without being interrogated?"

Antoinette gazed at him as if from afar (farther than the mere four feet they were parted) and replied, "Many thought you were dead."

"Did you?"

"It does not matter what I think. You are here, but the question is why."

"Madame Giry, I have not been dead, as you can see." He cleared his throat, and his voice dropped. "I need a favour"

"You cannot fool me, Erik," she interrupted sharply. "You send no word for years and now you come upon my door as if the passage of time has not gone by." For the first time, he saw emotion in her eyes and heard it in her voice. She was angry, but she was pleading. "No one knew what happened to you. You could have been dead."

"But I am not, Antoinette," he said with growing exasperation, "Clearly, I am here in front of you."

"Yes," she said quietly. "Now. But for a while, you were not."

"What matter is it to you anyhow," he muttered.

"God, Erik, do you ever cease to see beyond your own actions, your own intents?" As her voice rose, so did her body. She stood over him now, her fists balled and a slight quiver shaking her slim frame.

Rising to meet her glare, he returned it with a steely resolve. "My, my, you act as though you and God had any worry as to whether I drew my next breath when we both know you did not stop them. Like a mob after Frankenstein," he spat. The coldness of his words hit Madame Giry like a slap across the face.

"You fool, you selfish, pitiful fool," she murmured, shaking her head in resignation. She took one of his hands in her own. The gesture surprised Erik. She did not need to say that she had always been there for him, so she just said what he needed to hear. "You were wrong."

Her warm hand enclosing his took him aback and immediately he was ashamed. Turning from her eyes, eyes that spoke the truth he was so reluctant to face, he stared out the bay window into nothingness. He had been wrong in dragging her into his plans to capture Christine; to blame her now did not give him Christine. He needed her now, if only to fulfill his wishes. "Forgive me," he said quietly, mustering up every ounce of sincerity he could fake.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. She looked at him, strong, hard, and he knew this would be a tough battle to win. It was not that he did not respect Madame Giry; in fact, he knew that he possessed something close to caring for the ballet mistress. As much as he was capable of anyway, he thought.

Before she could speak, he motioned for them to sit down again. Once they were seated, he began: "I need your help." Sparing very few details, he told her of the past few years, from his capture to his success across Europe as a composer. He did not speak of Christine's involvement. Once he had finished, Antoinette, holding a hand to her face and looking worn and sad, simply sighed. She did not speak for many moments. Finally, she said, "That is all very terrible Erik, but what is it that you want from me?"

She did not need to say more, for he knew she was sorry for his ordeal. But Madame Giry was a woman who spoke honestly and without piety. He never earned her pity and for that was grateful. He did not want her to go one about how sorry she was for him. That had always made him ill, or worse, irate.

"I want, my dear, what you helped me to get many years ago and failed." Erik was eerily motionless now and his eyes burned green into her own. It was with all seriousness that he spoke. Right away, she was angry.

"No. No, I will not help you."

"Yes you will."

"She is happy now," Antoinette nearly shouted, growing more and more furious at Erik's nonchalance. "Leave her be. She is not yours."

"But she was." Erik's eyes swept over Antoinette's body lasciviously and for a moment fear ran through the older woman. When he met her eyes again, she knew he was telling the truth. Easing back into the chair, she studied him, the anger still apparent in her gaze.

"What do you mean?" It was barely a question.

"I told you I escaped, but that was a lie. Christine's maid stumbled upon my poor, unfortunate carcass," he said bitter sweetly, "and informed the Vicomtess of my existence. It was Christine who broke into my cage and killed my captor."

"You lie."

"I do not," he hissed, his eyes practically crackling with energy. "She took me back to her summer home while her husband was away. It was so easy. She was filled with fear, some kind of sin. And guilt. I had her before the week was over."

Stunned, Antoinette said nothing, only stared into Erik's face, half porcelain and half mask. He spoke with arrogance and a sexual mastery that was not really there. If his words were true, and she doubted that he lied, Erik would not be so lasses-faire about making love to Christine. He wanted something, that was clear.

Taking a sip of brandy, she regarded him coolly. "And what role am I to play in this little drama?" She spoke each word evenly, as if each held its own weight that had to be distributed respectively.

"She is not happy." Antoinette did not bother to deny his words. "I want to make her happy. With me."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, fear beginning to crawl into her consciousness.

"I am going to do nothing." The meaning of his words slid between them like a velvet curtain and Antoinette was lost. The cool veneer fell from her face and she positively scowled.

"Tell me why I should help you," she scathed, "Why should I help you destroy a young woman whose only mistake was caring for you?"

He regarded her with scorn from beneath his thick lashes and Antoinette shivered despite herself. He walked over to the window once more and stared out, gathering his thoughts. "I had lived in the Opera Populaire for longer than I can remember. But you, you brought me there." He paused and looked at her, baring what resembled a smile. Antoinette did not mistake his meaning, but refused to be tumbled by guilt. He turned around again.

"In all the years I existed at the opera house as an apparition, a nightmarish figment of a child's imagination, the so-called 'O.G.', never once did anyone wander into my dwelling without my knowledge. Anyone who did find themselves within the inner bowels of the opera house soon became so confused and lost within its labyrinthine twists and turns that they would give up before ever reaching the Phantom of the Opera." He laughed, but it was not a true laugh.

Madame Giry crossed her arms, growing increasingly agitated. She bit her lip and turned away from him.

Sensing movement, the Phantom soundlessly spun on his heel and faced her back.

"So it is unlikely that a person who had never once been in the basements of the Opera Populaire would find themselves in my lair – and so quickly at that." When Antoinette did not more or speak, he walked around her to meet her eyes. But she would not look at him. Gripping her chin, he forced her to look at him. She looked like fire. He searched her face and saw guilt, anger, sorrow.

"Did you betray me?"

"Yes," she said quietly. Tearing his hand from her face, she spat, "But it was the right thing to do. He loved her."

"But she does not love him!" Erik roared. "He does not love her the way I do, the way I crave her! That selfish bastard -- what chance did I have with any woman? She could have loved me. She could have loved me …" he trailed off, his voice ragged with emotion. Gathering his courage, he looked into her eyes and was surprised to see them rimmed in red and spouting tears. "She still could," he finished quietly.

"Please."

Erik was not Antoinette's son. Truth be told, they were fairly close in age although Antoinette had always been regarded as the matriarch, an odd sentiment in the least. But then again, what wasn't odd about the Phantom? That a man, abandoned by his mother as a child, would come to love Madame Giry as a son would was no surprise. Nor was the fact that he took every available opportunity to sway her to his will with lies, guilt and deception. It was no surprise that Antoinette gave into Erik time and time again as a worrisome bitch coddles a whining puppy. But Erik was no infantile dog – he had much more cunning and much more bite.

Please. One word was enough to break her heart. Had it not been for his eyes, swimming with genuine pleading that made this tall, imposing man resemble a small child, Antoinette would not have broken at the sound of his voice. I need you, they seemed to say. Who was she to quell his request?

Knowing it was wrong, knowing she was an accomplice to his sick malice and twisted plot, she sighed. For a moment she remembered her long-dead husband and the way she had shuddered beneath his blows and cried for his forgiveness. Erik did not hit her; he did not need to. He worked a devil's charm with his words.

"What do you want me to do?"

……………………………...

Christine rushed toward the Giry household, letter in hand and butterflies swirling in her gut. The letter had been vague and hurried and the tone was beseeching. Something terrible had happened and Christine better had come quickly. No one was to know, the letter had urged, so Christine had told the footman to drop her off at a local shop a mile from Antoinette's house. So here she was before the front door, quivering with anticipation and bated breath.

She knocked a few times but her knocks went unanswered. Puzzled, Christine began to fret inside, becoming more and more agitated as her calls for entry was met with silence.

Oh, God, what had happened? Why would she write me to come quick and yet not answer her door? Fear beginning to creep into her mind, she hesitantly tried the handle and found the lock unlatched. Even more befuddled, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

For a moment, she just stood there gazing into the dark hallway like a ghost melting into fog. Worry strangled her. "Hello?" came out a scratchy whisper. Feeling foolish as well as frightened, she called out once more. No one answered.

Reluctantly, she stepped into the hallway and listened carefully. The butterflies in her stomach had turned to knots. Her back was up, spine tingling, and every instinct in her body told her to run. A faint banging sound from upstairs quirked her ears and she stood perfectly still. What was it? Straining to hear, she heard it once more, a scratchy kind of clattering.

"Madame? Antoinette, are you there?" Christine stepped forward a few paces so she could see up the winding staircase to the upstairs landing. "Antoinette, it's me, Christine. Are you there?" She took a hesitant step forward and stopped abruptly.

"It's me." Beginning to take the stairs, she called out again. "Are you –?"

A slam behind her stopped her in her tracks. Christine froze. It had sounded like the front door. Whirling around, she could not believe her eyes.

"Erik …What – what are you doing here?"

He did not answer but took her in his arms. Christine was so startled she did not even react, but stood there stiffly, her arms folded in front of her chest and her mouth agape. He brushed a hand through her winding curls and hushed her gently.

"Erik, I don't understand. You came back." Her voice was questioning, worrisome. It broke his heart.

She cried out as the barbiturate entered her bloodstream. The word why was on her parted lips as her body sagged and she sank into his arms. Tossing Christine over his shoulder, Erik turned and left. Madame Giry watched Erik and Christine with the weight of the world on her shoulders.