Raoul
The majestic gray carriage bearing the Chagny crest passed many inns and alehouses on its journey between Paris and the ruined manor. Each time, Raoul eyed the establishments longingly, but the order to stop never passed his lips. A stiff drink would be welcome to fortify him for the sight awaiting him at the end of this trip, but he knew he would not stop at just one drink. Not with the memory of Christine and Charles snuggled up to Erik on a piano bench, the picture of a perfect, loving family, to haunt his mind. Not with the accusations he and the former Phantom had flung at each other still echoing in his ears. No, drinking would not be the answer. It was never something he had been tempted by before; Raoul felt an obscure sort of pride that he did not give into alcohol now, on what surely was one of the darkest days of his life.
Through every other pain, every other tragedy, he had always had Christine's presence to ease him. She had been with him, she had been his, and Raoul occasionally even persuaded himself to believe that he was the man she thought of as she fell asleep. For hours and even days at a time he had managed to forget that her heart belonged to someone long dead; those had been the brightest, happiest moments of their marriage. But this—this darkness, the pain of losing his home, was overshadowed by the pain of knowing that Christine was not coming to see the ruins with him. Raoul had not bothered to ask; he did not want to know her answer.
And the noblest part of him wouldn't ask her. Not when this was the first day, the first average, ordinary day in five years, that she could spend time basking in the presence of her Angel.
He could not request that she spend it with him instead.
Raoul's first warning was the scent of ash on the wind. Burned . . . still burning, even, the smoky smell that inspired fear in the hearts of any who owned a home. The carriage halted and he slowly forced himself to exit it, his eyes never leaving the smoldering ruins.
Smoke was not meant to rise from ground white with snow into the crystal clarity of a winter sky; the gray burnt wood of the former Chagny manor blended into the pale snow surrounding it, the dark forest behind it, becoming a mere specter of reality, not anything that had form and meaning in life beyond dreams.
Tears blurred his vision as he gazed at the broken shell of his home. Here he had grown; here lost parents, here mourned his brother's passing, here had loved his wife and raised his . . . Charles.
And as much as he wanted to, as hard as he tried to, in his heart Raoul de Chagny knew that he would not find the Phantom's fingerprints at the scene of this crime.
Wordlessly, he climbed back into the carriage and ordered it to return to Paris. There was nothing more to see.
Caron
Caron bit her lip as she paused in the door to the music room. She hated to interrupt the scene in front of her, but neither she nor Marie had been able to calm Charles when he'd quite abruptly burst into tears. He missed his home and his music, he had whimpered, and refused to let either of his nurses comfort him. Not, Caron knew, that they would have been much help; the second loss of a home had numbed both the sisters into an unnatural quiet. They had been able to keep the pain at bay yesterday through hard work, but in the heavy tension around the lake-house this morning, tears readily burst into bloom.
The sisters had lost their family in early winter, and had been taken in by the Chagnys immediately after; those first four months of learning to live again, coping with the grief and loss, had been sheltered in the warm comfort of the Chagny manor. For that home, too, to be suddenly taken away—albeit in a very different form—hurt more than Caron wanted to think about.
She hesitated again, looking at Erik and Christine. They were obviously absorbed in each other; their gazes never strayed from the face of their companion. The quiet tones of their conversation did not carry words to her ears, but the deep emotions concealed within them reached her quite well. Couldn't she leave them for just a little longer? Charles would be fine, and it took no ingénue to see how much these two needed to talk.
However, they had both turned, and were now looking at her expectantly. Christine's gaze was open; Caron found that she could not force herself to meet the yellow eyes. .
"Caron?"
"Forgive me, Christine," Caron answered her employer's question, forcing her mind back to the present. "Charles is crying for you—he won't listen to us . . . " She let her words die.
Christine gave her a sad smile and started for the door. "Yesterday was trying for all of us. He's in a new place and he's frightened . . . I'm coming," This last appeared to be for Christine's own benefit than for Erik or Caron, as the young mother was already out of the room when she murmured it.
Turning to follow, Caron paused to glance back at the masked man. Erik was standing with his back to her, obviously absorbed in the music on the piano, and she felt a spark of her native curiosity rising up from beneath the apathy she had been wrapped in since yesterday. What had happened to bind Christine to this majestic specter? Caron had realized that this man was Charles' father even before she saw his golden gaze; she had seen his hands first, those long, thin hands that held a promise of what Charles' would someday grow to be. Why had he appeared now?
Where had he been for the last five years? It was apparent to anyone with eyes that Christine and he still cared deeply for each other; what had happened to cause the Comte and Comtess to marry?
And what—what—lay behind that mask?
Charles was a handsome child, and not all of his appeal could be directly traced to Christine. Surely this masked father of his was the source of the boy's strong good looks, so why would he choose to hide his face?
Caron realized that she was staring.
No movement came from the black-clad man at the piano, but she could see tension in his stance. His voice came cold and even. "Was there anything else, mademoiselle?"
"No," Caron whispered, beginning to back away. That voice—how had she not noticed how terrifyingly beautiful his voice was?
He was dangerous.
But curiosity is a fatal vice.
The words were out of her mouth before she could think. "Monsieur, I don't mean to pry . . ."
Erik's voice hardened, sharpening "Then do not. I'm quite certain that Christine will be able to answer any questions you might have." The dismissal in his tone had her into the hallway before Caron realized she had even moved.
Christine
Lunch was a quiet affair. Nadir had drifted in and was making a gallant but painful effort at conversation; the rest of them—Erik, Caron, Marie, Christine, and Charles—were quiet. Christine spent most of the meal engaged with her son, coaxing him to eat just a little more; the boy had inherited his father's aversion to too much food. She was not so distracted, however, that she missed the faint tension on Caron's face, or the nervously curious glances the girl would occasionally shoot at Erik when she thought he wasn't looking. For his part, the masked man seemed content to observe the rest of them, once or twice engaging Nadir in a half-hearted debate but otherwise remaining quite silent. If he noticed the looks Caron was giving him, he gave no sign.
But then, Erik had long ago become accustomed to ignoring other people's interest in him.
Christine had to give them credit; used to caring for themselves, both of the men were quick to offer their help in clearing away the remains of the meal. She shooed them away, recognizing the telltale tightness in Erik's manner that indicated that he was quickly going to be sinking into a brood. Of any of them, Nadir had the most practice at enticing him out of his melancholy moods, so Christine waved them off to allow her beloved's one true friend to ease his irritability.
A quick nod to Marie sent her to the nursery, Charles—his earlier tears quieted—docilely in tow. As she had intended, this left Christine alone with Caron, the innocent task of dishwashing before them.
It worried Christine, seeing Caron sink into the same quiet stillness that she had displayed when first arriving in the Chagny home. She had been just fifteen then, with her thirteen-year-old sister following desperately at her heels. A good year had passed before the girl had fully opened up into the cheerful, bubbly personality natural to her; Christine did not want to see the loss of the Chagny manor throwing her surrogate daughter-sister into another such painful solitude. Christine knew it was . . . odd, that she herself was displaying less of a pain at the loss of her home than the younger woman was; but Caron had been very attached to the first place she had began to heal from her and Marie's family's deaths, and Christine—well, as much as she was mourning the loss of the home, Christine had other problems to worry at.
She had thought she would have to bring up Caron's interest herself in casual conversation; instead, as soon as the others had left the room, the girl turned to Christine and quietly started, "I have some questions . . . what can you explain to me? About—about everything. This." She indicated Erik's home with a wave of her hand. "Why we're here—what happened. Am I making sense? I don't mean to pry, Christine, truly I don't, but . . . "
"But you're curious, as you should be." Christine sighed and began clearing off the table. "I believe that you've known for some time now that Raoul—" Christine reflexively looked about, making certain her son was not in hearing range—"is not Charles' father." Caron only nodded. "And," Christine added gently, "from your lack of surprise, I can only guess that you've realized Erik is. It's . . . a long and painful story, Caron. I loved him for a year and then some before I realized it, and in the same month I finally allowed myself to love him, I lost him. For the past five years, I've believed Erik to be dead."
The red-haired girl was now standing at the sink, scrubbing ruthlessly at the dishes as she listened. "Christine, you've been married to Raoul for five years, or almost—haven't you?'
A sad smile lifted the corners of Christine's mouth. "That, Caron, is where the pain comes in. It's something you only ever hear about in fairytales and scandals; the notorious, cold-hearted femme fatale who falls in love with two very different men. Can you imagine my surprise when—at a year younger than you are now, mind—I realized I was one of those women?" Caron was concentrating on the dishes, so it was only Christine who noticed the two men she was speaking of, standing like distorted reflections of each other just outside the two kitchen doorways. She bit her lip, but continued as if she had not seen them; perhaps Caron was not the only one who needed to hear this. "I loved them both. I still do. I spent months torn between them—my childhood sweetheart, whose devotion to me had never been anything but pure and absolute, and my fallen Angel, who loved me with a passionate and staggering intensity that I was utterly unable to comprehend. Each choice, in a way, terrified me; I was easily frightened, then. And one night . . . one night Erik asked me to make a decision; to stop hurting us all in this web I had so unwillingly tangled us in. I had spent a year here, Caron—a year in this home, without ever being so much as touched. If I knew anything, I knew that I could trust him. And it was such a simple thing he asked; for me to return here, for one last night, to tell him of my decision.
"He swore that, no matter what my choice was, he would take me to the surface at any time I wished. I promised to return.
"But I did not choose, Caron. I never chose.
"I told Raoul of my promise; and, fearful of what might happen should I say no to Erik, I allowed myself to believe that I needed to leave the Opera House entirely. I was scared. Raoul asked me to run away with him; I accepted. It was not a choice between them, not how I saw it; it was only a way to get away for a while, to feel safe, for Raoul had always made me feel safe. To my mind, our talk of marriage then was as much an act as our engagement had always been. We were to leave immediately after my last performance; I would not be going down to this house on the lake to say goodbye . . ." Christine knew that tears were running down her cheeks; she knew that both Erik and Raoul had given up all pretense of absence and were in the kitchen, both wanting to comfort her and neither giving way to the other.
"Never," she whispered softly, "never have I regretted anything as much as not keeping that promise."
"Beloved-"
"Cherie-"
Caron spun around at the two voices that spoke as one; her hand touched her mouth in surprised embarrassment. Christine wanted nothing so much as to never face either of them again; but she was stronger now, a mother of twenty-one, than had been the slip of a chorus-girl she was at sixteen. Slowly, she turned to face her two loves, letting the tears freely drip down her cheeks. "Forgive me," she pleaded softly, looking each of them in the eye. "Forgive me . . ."
A moment passed as Erik and Raoul exchanged a glance; then the masked musician was holding Christine, stroking her back as his voice whispered soothingly into her ear. "Beloved, beloved, don't cry; yours were the most gentle of the mistakes made that night . . ."
"Story-time is over, for now, Caron," Raoul murmured gently to the girl. "You will undoubtedly hear the rest later. For now, would you please . . . ?" Caron quickly nodded and left the three of them alone.
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A/N: Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry; I know, I'm horrible for taking this long to update; I was just having some issues with this chapter. Forgive me? Please? The next one should come more quickly.
CrazyCarl: Thanks so much! Yes, the tension was quite fun to write :D
marykate65: Gracias, m'dear! Glad you're liking this so much . . . as for what I have in store, well . . . evil grin I could tell you, but then Erik would have to punjab you. And if Erik punjabs you, you would never finish writing Fleur, which would be a bad thing because I want to know where it's going!
MetalMyersJason: Thanks, I'm glad you like it so much! Here's a bit more for you . . .
intoxicated by eriks music: Yes, fluffy sap is good stuff. Thanks:D
Mominator124: As always, thanks millions for your review! Yes, the entire situation here is just so hard for them to deal with . . . I mean, really, what can they do! I love writing little ErikCharles bits, so you can look forward to at least a few more of them. Here's another chapter for you:)