Raoul
Even Erik and Christine could not hold a note forever. When the last echoes of that joyous promise had died, the entire auditorium was left in a deep silence. The managers and the orchestra, the servants and aides of the Chagny household, Madame Giry and her daughter, all were aware to some degree—even if only by gossip—that something had happened five years ago between these three. Firmin and Andre looked pale at the reappearance of their erstwhile and supposedly dead tormentor; the Girys were watching quietly from the sidelines as they always had; and Christine, Raoul, and Erik were simply staring at each other, a question on all of their faces: what now?
If it had not been for Charles, that silence might never have broken. Charles, who alone in the theatre was blissfully ignorant of the conflicting emotions flooding that stage, Charles who was tied to the three people in the center of that emotional whirlwind deeper than he knew—Charles slipped away from Madame Giry and ran onto the stage, joyfully crying out "Angel!"
Raoul backed away, that simple word echoing painfully in his heart. He watched as the tall black shadow knelt and held the boy close for a moment before setting him at arms' length, heard that too-beautiful voice formally ask—oh, the irony!—to be introduced to the child's mother. Despite the words he had given them, true words, Raoul felt the most human part of his heart crying out Erik, please . . . don't take them from me just because you can . . .but he forced himself to remember that he had never been anything more than a guardian, a custodian to watch over two precious jewels while their master was away.
A voice whispered commandingly in his ear. "Come here." Raoul shook his head; Erik repeated himself with a little more steel in his tone. "Come here, you wretched, foolish boy. Don't you understand?" This time, Raoul saw the slight twitch of the long, pale fingers above Charles' head. It was a beckon and despite himself, the Comte de Chagny found he could not refuse it. Unwillingly his feet carried him over to complete their wrenching triangle, little Charles standing innocently in the center. Raoul gasped as cold fingers snatched his hand; he could only watch in wonder as the fingers joined his hand to that of his wife, and then quite suddenly, the Opera Ghost had disappeared.
Christine's hand tightened on his, and he winced as the highest, most piercing scream of pain a fully trained soprano could give rang in his ears, shattering his heart with a single word.
"ERIK!"
Christine
"Mama?"
What could she do? In the few words they had spoken, in leaving her, Erik had made his desires quite clear. She was to stay with Raoul, she was to continue raising his son, she was to live her life as though he had never existed. Christine was, in fact, very nearly ordered to let go. He had not answered her scream, for all that she knew he would hate her doing such a thing to her voice, and now Christine stood in the middle of a crowded stage, her heart empty. Around her, Raoul assured the managers that all would be well—there would be no twenty-thousand franc demands—asked the servants to prepare to return to the estate, and soothed nervous orchestra members, settling everything and everyone back into their proper places. What was her place, living in a world where her Angel lived but would not see her?
"Mama?"
Of course. Where her place always was, no matter how broken her heart or tormented her mind or how lost she might feel inside: her place was with her son. Christine slowly knelt down next to him, her long curls spilling about until the two of them were shielded from the world. His trusting, innocent eyes were worried; she reached out a gentle hand to smooth his brow, run her fingers through his dark hair. "I'm here, Charles. It's all right."
"He's gone. I wanted him to meet Papa too, but he left." She desperately hope that he would not notice the tears that veiled her eyes as he said Papa. Charles was looking at the floor now, in the spot where Erik had vanished. "I wonder," he said with his natural curiosity, "how he did it? I was watching him but I could not see. Do you think he is all right?"
"Yes, Charles." I'm quite certain that he is. He always has been. It was a cheap and dirty trick, but she pulled it anyway; anything to distract him. "Did you like the song we sang?"
"Oh, yes. You have not played that one for me before." He gave her an utterly adorable scowl, as though she had been deliberately keeping precious secrets from him. "What is it from?"
"Hannibal. I played it once, here on this very stage."
"This was where you performed? In this exact theatre? Oh, Mama!" He had always been interested in her life as a diva; how had they neglected to tell him the history of the theatre they were traveling to this day?
Well. Perhaps such neglect wasn't so very unreasonable, after all.
Christine smiled at him. "Yes, this exact theatre. Would you like to see some more of it?"
"Yes, please." Charles turned around, looking for Raoul; finding him, the boy called out, "Papa!"
Would her heart always hurt when he said that?
Swiftly, Raoul was by their side, kneeling down to be on both their eye levels. "Yes, Charles?"
"Will you show me some more of the theatre? Can we see—oh, everything! Mama, did you have a dressing room, or was it a dormitory with lots of girls together? Are there ballet rooms and can we go up the staircase again? And surely there must be rooms for costumes and singing and . . ."
Raoul and Christine were staring at each other; they had both stopped listening at the words dressing room.
A/N: A rather short little chapter, but I feel kind of fond of it. Please, please review--I have had over 250 hits and 7 reviews (you can't all hate it--and if you do, please tell me why)! Thank you to the wonderful people who have reviewed the last chapters--your encouragementskeep me writing.
Special thanks to:
Mominator124--you're reviews brighten my day. Good point about 'grounding' . . . I may just go back and fix that. As for what happens, you'll just have to wait and see! Mwuahaha!
I think I've thanked everyone else--so on with the story. Back to writing I go!