One heart's darkness

Disclaimer: ... Just in case you forgot: I don't own POTO!

Erik: So, this story is very nearly done, isn't it?

Me: Hmm, I don't know if I'd say very nearly. Four more chapters!

Erik: And then?

Me: Don't worry, I already have the sequel planned. Don't know about that prequel, though, I kinda like adult!Maddy, I'm not really in the mood for child!Madeleine.

THANKS to my almighty reviewers! It's cute how you're all concerned for Julie. Doesn't help much, I'm afraid, but it's still cute. I apologise if this chapter is slow or short or whatever, but, as you know, even chapters like this one are important to the story.

Chapter Sixteen

Christine sat at her daughter's bedside, eyes never leaving the flushed face and the knotted brow of her little angel. She only moved to take one of Julie's hot hands in her own or to wipe away the beads of perspiration that glistened on the sick girl's forehead.

Her sleep had been fitful a while ago, now it was calm and quiet, but not in a good way. Her spirit was leaving her, so the doctor had said. Her petite body might have already given up the fight.

Christine couldn't cry anymore. The tracks of dried tears were still visible on her face, but she calmed down somewhat. Her daughter needed her strong until whatever end.

Erik had left an hour ago. He, too, was worried for Julie who had always been kind to him and who had become such a loved companion to Madeleine.

Her thoughts went back to shortly after her eldest daughter's birth, when she had still thought she had given birth to a dead child and might never conceive again.

Raoul had assured her time and time again that he loved her regardless and that they would be happy without children, but Christine had always felt empty, especially in the first months after Madeleine's birth, when her breasts ached because no child was there to feed upon the milk that filled them to the bursting point. Her arms seemed too light without the sweet weight of a babe in them and she sometimes lay awake in the night, listening to the non-existent cries of an infant.

Julie's birth had filled that void after almost two years of mourning and longing for the fulfilment that, in Christine's opinion, only motherhood could bring.

And yet, even while with Raoul, she had never forgotten the path with Erik she might have taken, had fate not prevented it.

Now she had indeed walked down that path and now Julie lay dying. Was this her punishment? Was this the price she had to pay for Erik's love?

A candle on Julie's bedside table flickered and died, it's wick drowned in the molten wax.

Christine rose from her chair, the skirts of her scooped neck dress of pale blue linen making soft whispering noises, and used a match to free it, then re-lit the candle.

Before she sat back down, she looked around the room and remembered the way she had decorated it eighteen years ago, in happy expectation of her first child.

She remembered how she had so carefully selected the pale yellow colour of the walls and how she had personally sewed the golden curtains. Those and the wall colour were the only remainders of that child's room it used to be. Where the oak wood crib had rested now stood Julie's mahogany four-poster bed, with golden drapes matching the curtains.

A thick carpet in dark blue softened the sound of footsteps, and so Christine was startled when suddenly Raoul placed his hand on her shoulder.

He was dressed in loose-fitting slacks and a white shirt that was only partly tucked in. His soft brown hair was left open and hanging around his face in tousled strands.

The shadows under his eyes were so dark that they almost resembled bruises and the hand that was not resting on Christine's shoulder was clutching a cognac snifter, though he hadn't taken more than one or two sips from it.

"No change?" he asked, his voice hoarse and low.

"None," she replied, "she is just a little calmer now."

Raoul removed his hand from her shoulder and sat down on the chair next to hers. His sapphire eyes were fixed upon his daughter's bluish eyelids and her parted lips, which very pale and dry.

"I can't lose her," he said simply, "I just can't. I'd have nothing left. I let you go because I still had Julie, and now…"

Christine silenced him by putting a hand on his arm.

"Don't think about it too much. Pray for her and be there for her when she needs you, whatever happens." Her eyes glistened, but she was past the point the tears. "It's all we can do, Raoul!"

OooOooO

Sitting once more in a darkened corner of Box Five and glancing out over the auditorium, which was beginning to fill up dancers and chorus members getting ready for rehearsal, Madeleine pondered over the question of what was worse: being sick or loving someone who was sick yet being utterly useless.

She couldn't really decide on the issue, as she had never been severely ill herself. She had been injured many times, to the point of life-threatening injuries and she knew that had caused her father many a headache, but she had never been the victim of an illness.

As for being useless, well, she was beginning to get to know the feeling.

After having calmed down somewhat, she had returned to her subterranean home, once more begging her father to take her with him when he returned to the Chagny estate, as he was preparing to after gathering some clothes and toiletries for Christine, but he had steadfastly refused, arguing that he was unsure whether Julie could endure having so many visitors at once.

Tomorrow, he had promised, he would take her with him.

Madeleine sighed heavily. Tomorrow might be too late.

In the eternal gloom of their house, the whole weight of the Opera seemed to be pressing down on her once more, so she had only changed out of her crumpled dress into a soft mulberry taffeta gown. It had long wide sleeves, a scooped neckline and full skirts. The décolletage was trimmed in black lace.

Here, in Box Five, she sat upon a small footstool, her back against the hollowed pillar that she had also used as an entrance. The mask lay discarded on a seat cushion, so the cool and slightly damp air could reach her face.

The orchestra was warming up, the profane chatter and laughter of the ballet girls, as usual conducted in voices which were far to shrill and loud for comfort drifted up to the boxes. Life went on as usual. Nobody knew that the patron's daughter was fighting for her life.

A fight, Madeleine brutally reminded herself, she was probably going to lose. She closed her eyes, a sense of defeat washing over her. Finally, the lack of sleep caught up to her and she dozed off.

Thus she was unaware of the door opening, the velvet curtain being pushed aside and another's presence in the box.

Jean looked down onto her sleeping for, deeply surprised at having found her here, off guard, for once. He slipped the short letter he had prepared back into the pocket of his charcoal coloured suit jacket, smoothed his black cravat, ran his fingers nervously through his dark chocolate curls and then knelt down to gently shake her shoulder.

What he did not expect was to receive a vicious blow to the chin which threw him backwards.

Madeleine, scared to death by the sudden touch, leapt to her feet and raised her hands defensively.

Jean came to his feet slowly, holding his jaw. Her knuckles had hit him hard and he was surprised at the strength in her small lithe body.

His grey-green eyes met her golden ones and her posture relaxed.

"What do you want?" she asked sharply.

He gave a half shrug.

"I wanted to talk to you again. I wanted to apologize and ask you for another chance at getting to know you. As you know, thanks to Raoul de Chagny's intervention, the managers are no longer concerned with finding you. And I know you're not well at the moment, so I thought… perhaps you'd need a friend."

Madeleine turned half away, one hand coming up to press against her deathly pale lips, which were shaking under a new threat of tears.

"Don't be nice to me," she whispered brokenly, "I couldn't bare it!"

Suddenly, he was right in front of her, his strong arms encircling her frail body and pulling her close. His embrace was light enough to break, but firm enough to make her feel held and secure.

Madeleine froze. She'd never been held before by anyone but her father, and she had certainly never felt this way. Warmth seemed to rush through her entire body, accumulating in her head and her belly. Hesitantly, she brought up her own arms to wrap around his waist under his opera cloak and put her head on his chest. It was only when she felt the silk of his shirt against her bare skin that she realized that she hadn't been wearing her mask during the entire exchange and that he had embraced her regardless.

At that thought, she buried her face in the ruffles on his shirt and the brocade of his waistcoat and cried.

Jean kept an arm securely around her with his one hand on her shoulder, while running his other hand gently through her curls.

"I'm with you," he whispered, "I'll never hurt you again, I swear it!"

Madeleine held onto him, as if afraid he'd disappear if she let go for a second. A strange emotion tore at her heart. It was both the saddest and the happiest moment of her entire life.

A/N: Poor Maddy. She needs comfort, too, so she turns to the one person who'll give her that. Good for Jean, though. He could have met angry!Madeleine and a very punjab-ish end! So tell me your thoughts, as usual. There will be some more about the wedding (night (?)) and the first time after it in upcoming chapters.

Here, all of you, have a slice of cake. It's Erik's and Christine's wedding cake (yes, annoying spirit. Evil was stirring in Mordor! Sauron made them a cake!) but Meg made too much, since she herself doesn't even eat sweets. (In case you're wondering, it's a chocolate cake with whipped cream and nougat decoration. Very heavy! So if it's too sweet for you, have some more Phantom cookies, Erik made another batch, they're not quite so sugary.)

Love you all!

P.F.A.