Disclaimer: I don't own these people!!!
A/N: Okay, I'm gonna keep this note short because this chapter is LONG, like the longest of the story so far. I hope you like it, I'm kinda proud of it actually. It's a step up from the last chapter. It took me over a week to get the middle right and… oh well, I promised to keep this short. Enjoy!! Please review!!
Chapter Eight: Love that Saves
Everything was silent as Christine and Erik made their way across the lake. Even the bow of the boat made not a sound as it cut through the calm black water. It was as if the air, the lake and even the boat itself were mourning for them, just as deeply as Christine felt her own heart mourn. The last time she had sat in this exact seat, she had been renewed and empowered, prepared to finally open her wings and become a butterfly. Now there were no words to describe the pain she felt. It was what the apostles might have felt had Jesus not risen from the dead as he had promised, and they were forced to live out the rest of their lives in tortured darkness without the promise of salvation. Every inch of her body screamed to tell him that¾ that he was her savior no matter what mistakes he made. She went over the words to say over and over in her head, but even when she had perfected them into the kind of speech which she knew would drive Erik to turn the boat around and take her into his arms, her tongue refused to move. Fear had once again isolated them from each other. It was an awful theme to have in a relationship, fear; Christine had not expected to still feel it as astutely as she did and was at once ashamed. Hadn't she grown up at all in the past year?
As always, Erik extended his gloved hand to Christine and helped her out of the boat. Their fingers met, sending electric sparks up Christine's arm, and as she stepped onto the shore, she let her fingers linger perhaps a moment too long on his, intending to give him hope. But as she turned around to thank him, he pushed off without a word and within a minute had vanished into the dark of the cellar. Christine sighed and began the trek up to the Rue Scribe. How had she been so confident walking down the same path a mere hour before? Didn't she know that her encounters with Erik never went the way she planned? Wasn't he always defensive and easily tempered and condescending?
And he had been so rude to her! What was it that she had loved? Was it even real at all? Had confusion and fear bred to form an emotion she could not name and so she had classified it love? Was it the last outburst in a long line of pity for the tragedy of a man?
But one question haunted Christine the worst of all, a question which led her to walk past her carriage and continue on to a nearby park, consumed in thought:
If her feeling for Erik had been false, has she ever loved at all?
Erik was lost within his own domain. He couldn't sit in his house after Christine left, with his thoughts as his only companions. Nadir's was quite out of the question; he was still much too unsettled by their last encounter to seek out another one. So he made his way across the lake, once again alone. He wandered through the dark passage ways, slinking through each trap door he came to, climbing and descending stairs wherever his feet found them. His eyes never left the ground; his thoughts only concerned colors and shapes. After a few hours or so of this behavior, when he finally lifted his gaze, he had no idea where he had led himself. The walls were familiar, but he could not place them. He could trace the curves of every stone with his eyes closed, but he could not say what floor he was on. And so he found himself lost within the structure he himself built, his homemade kingdom. At first he found it a trifle amusing, how easily he had been disheveled after this meeting with Christine, but his humor dissolved just as easily into anger. What a week he was having! It was all so ridiculous¾ his situation was ridiculous, Christine was ridiculous. Most of all he was ridiculous. His aggression streamed down from his brain to his fingertips. He grabbed the nearest object, a long forgotten glass tray used in a long forgotten opera, and hurled it against the wall. The sound was sufficiently loud enough the calm his rage momentarily and with clarity he decided that he should probably find his way back home. A stairway and a few feet later, he found himself on his well-trod road to the Rue Scribe. He laughed, not lost at all.
The sound did not echo long, for a moment after it was released, a man emerged from the shadows. He was tall and broad and carved in filth. Protruding from his dirty fist was a long, gleaming blade. He held it lightly and easily and obviously not for the first time. So the two experienced killers faced off, both armed, though only one showed his weapon.
"What are you doing here?" the man asked.
"I was about to ask the same of you," Erik replied calmly.
"I work here," he lied, raising the blade an inch.
"If you worked here," Erik commented, slowly beginning to circle the stranger (this was his home and he would not lose his command to a dirty convict, for that must be what he was), "you would know who I am and what I am doing here. I would put that away, young man."
The man hesitated, visibly unsettled by Erik's fearlessness. "Give me all your money," he stuttered, taking a step towards Erik, who had just completed a quarter circle.
"And you'll, what, let me walk away without harm?"
"Yes, yes," he replied, extending his left hand greedily. He was breathing hard.
"I doubt that," A half-circle. Erik smiled beneath the mask. "Let me guess. You're on the run from something, I assume it is the law and I assume it is on account of that knife." The man shifted uncomfortably. "You found the gate unlocked and wandered into what you probably thought seemed a nice place to live temporarily." Three-quarters. "But I live here as well, and have for some time and do not mean to share it with anyone else." The man opened his mouth to speak, but Erik continued. "You believe that you are talented enough to kill me easily. I assure you, you are not." Erik completed the circle and turned to face him. "So you had best be going, monsieur, or I will have to take action." As Erik slowly reached into his cloak, the man turned around to leave. But after three paces, he swung around and charged. He was less than a yard away from Erik when he noticed the noose around his neck and, a groan later, he fell to the ground.
Erik looked down at the body and, for the first time that day, felt a stinging fear in his stomach. It was more than sadness, more like he had broken a promise to someone. He hadn't, he was sure that this kill fell in the category of self-defense. But this was the first life he had taken in over a year, and he felt newly-damned all over again.
He sighed and bet down to retrieve his lasso from around the dead man's neck. As his fingers pulled at the knot, the sound of footsteps crept up from behind him. Erik whipped around, rope ready at his fingertips once more, and looked into the face of a frantic Wesley Pryce.
"The gate was open," Wesley explained quickly.
"Yes," Erik said dryly, coiling his rope. "No doubt your mistress neglected to lock it when she left here earlier." Wesley's eyes closed in relief as he pressed both hands to his heart.
"So she had arrived here?" Wesley asked breathlessly.
"Yes, but left shortly after."
"How long?"
"A few hours ago," Erik replied impatiently. He took a step towards the servant, whose hands were now plowing fervently through his hair. "Why do you ask?"
"She left late this morning and was due to be back at the house by four this afternoon, but never came. Around seven a groomsman was sent out and found her carriage a few blocks from here. The driver had fallen asleep and not seen anything for hours. Her husband is in a panic¾ it's not like her to be out so late, and never alone. She had told him that she was going shopping, but of course, I knew where she really way, so I hurried over here and… But she's not with you." Wesley's eyes strung with held-back tears. If anything had happened to her, it was all his fault. He had known where she had gone missing.
Erik had begun to pace. "What time is it now?"
"After ten."
"And does anyone know you're here?"
"No¾ I volunteered my services to help search for her. They only know that I am out looking."
Erik faced him tensely. "Go back and attend to your master. Make sure he eats something and if he becomes too panicked, a drop of laudanum will calm him for awhile."
"I have to help look for her!"
"Leave Christine to me." He said stately. "If I don't find her, I will find you." Without another word, Erik strode off quickly, and it was only then that Wesley's eyes fell on the body laying in front of him.
It was completely dark when Erik walked through the open gate and hurried down the street. Although his first instinct was to panic and rage about how this was all his fault, Erik decided immediately that he would be most useful to Christine if he were calm and clear-minded. Christine had made it to the street safely, he was sure of that. Not only was the fate unlocked (Christine had no doubt forgotten to lock it amidst her emotional blur upon exit), but the knife his attacker had used was spotless; he had not met with her.
She was not on a street, for she would have been able to find a carriage to take her home in time. So Erik headed to the nearest park and, sure enough, within a devastatingly long half-hour, he found her standing in a small clearing about seven yards from the back, which in the dark might as well have been a mile. He called to her softly and, with one look at him, she fell into his arms, trembling. It was only as he held her that Erik realized how truly worried he had actually been. And it was only within his embrace that Christine realized that all her questions were nonsense. She had always loved him, and always would.
"You're not hurt?" Erik asked tenderly, pulling away from the warmth of her body.
"No," Christine replied, choking back a sob. "Only a little bewildered."
"You were frightened of the dark."
"No," she repeated, wiping her cheeks. "Not of the dark." She paused here and laughed. "I just don't understand it. I've visited this park for years, since I started at the conservatory, and yet, somehow, I ended up¾ "
"Lost." Erik finished. Christine looked up at him.
"Yes." She smiled softly and they relaxed into each other's eyes. "Thank you for finding me."
He waved his hand to dismiss her thanks. "Your husband is most worried about you, or so I've heard. You'd best be getting home."
Christine grasped his elbow fiercely. "No, please, Erik. I can't see Raoul in the state I'm in. Please, let me go home with you, if only for a little while. To collect myself, you see."
Erik could not resist her. Not after the fright he just had, so he did not push hard when he said, "It is very late."
"I don't care. Another hour or two won't make any difference. I'll make up some store. Don't send me away again so soon, Erik," she pleaded. He stiffly nodded and led her out of the clearing.
Once they reached the path, Christine composed herself rather quickly and her insatiable curiosity became once more apparent.
"How did you know where to find me?" she asked.
"Deductive reasoning."
"How did you know I was missing?"
"Wesley," he answered.
"Ah, yes," she said, growing a little stiff herself. "Do explain that one to me, if you will." And he did, leaving out not one detail about his arrangement with Wesley. Though it may not have portrayed Erik in the best way, he felt that it was more important that Christine continue to feel at ease and trust Wesley. Christine walked silently alongside him as he told his story, listening patiently, but once he was finished, she had a few more pressing questions to ask.
"So he comes here, to the Rue Scribe, with notes about what I've been doing and…things like that?"
"Precisely."
"And he does this for you, without question."
"Yes," Erik replied nervously. Christine's voice had begun to quiver and he could tell she was about to draw attention to herself. He supposed that he should have waited to have this conversation until after they had reached the safety of his house.
"So you threatened my servant into passing along private information to you," Christine continued, the volume of her voice raising uncontrollably. "I wonder, what else did you do? Did you hurt Wesley? Is he missing a toe or any other part?"
"Christine," Erik hissed, his eyes darting around rapidly. She was yelling now, and people had begun to turn and look. "You must—"
"Or!" she cried. "Do you have the entire stable in your employ, so that you might know where I go each evening and which roads I take to church! Are there whispers among my stable boys about 'The Phantom of the Water Trough'? Shall I warn my horses to keep their hooves at the level of their eyes?"
"Hush!" Erik growled, clasping a hand over Christine's mouth and pulling her close to his chest. Her eyes glared at him with fire, but when he uncovered her mouth, she did not say another word. Instead she looked to where Erik pointed. Five of her husband's servants stood in front of her carriage discussing something intensely, and every few seconds scanning the open street. Christine turned back to Erik.
"Should we cross to the other side of the street?" she asked quietly.
"No," he replied, still staring at the men, "we'll walk right by them."
"What?" Christine exclaimed.
"Hush!" he silenced her again. "They'll be watching the opposite side closely. But no one ever sees what is right in front of their eyes. But you must be quiet."
Christine linked her arm through Erik's and the two set off walking evenly down the street.
"Do not think that I will stop yelling at you just because I have to be quiet," Christine whispered harshly. Erik let out a sigh, but beneath the mask he was smiling. "You said before you thought it best if we had no contact. Why then did you go to such great lengths to get information about my life?"
"In case you needed me," Erik whispered back.
"I needed you then! Where were you as I stood on the edge of the lake that day? Huddled in your house pretending to be dead!" They were passing the carriage now. Christine bowed her head to the right, pretending to cough, and Erik lifted his cloak up, shielding her from view, acting as it he was pulling his cloak straight. None of the men looked at them once.
"Christine, my dear, we've been over this before." Erik guided her around a corner and held her still. "I was under the impression that you were coming with me, as you said, to collect yourself. If your heart is set on getting upset at me further, I would rather not hear it and you might as well go home and rant in the privacy of your own bedroom." He walked away and forced himself, like Orpheus should have, not to look behind him, but trust that she would follow.
He held open the Rue Scribe gate and for a tense moment, his heart sank. But soon enough, she appeared, arms crossed and looking straight ahead. "This does not mean I'm not angry," she said, sneaking a glance out of the corner of her eye, "but I can't stay angry forever." She turned and tenderly traced the edge of the mask with her finger, smiling. "And I truly did miss you."
Erik broke their contact as he closed the gate behind them and locked it securely in place. They had already begun to walk toward the lake before Erik spoke in response. "I look at you know, after a day full of pain and surprises, and, while other women would have fallen into a thousand pieces, you are standing tall and strong. You're glowing. It makes me think that…perhaps it's not me you missed, but excitement, adventure. You were not born to sit still in some parlor and smile. Your head is far too full of pretty stories."
"I am going to ignore that comment, which we both know is not true," Christine replied immediately, "except to say that a story filled with deceit, betrayal, kidnapping and murder is not usually considered 'pretty'." She paused and looked at him intently before continuing. "You don't have to, you know."
"What?"
"Attack, kill, be ever on the defense."
"Yes, I do. You do not understand."
"No one is out to kill you anymore; everyone thinks you're dead! Once you stop carrying around that lasso of yours everywhere you go, you would—" Here, Christine screamed, having just fallen over a dead body. Erik silently cursed himself for not taking care of it earlier. At least the rats hadn't found it yet.
"Do you see this, Christine?" Erik cried over Christine's gasps, gesturing madly to the corpse. "This is what I have to do! Do you think that he hesitated to try to do this to me? The answer is in his hand—see? A blade, poised to strike. No. He didn't hesitate. So why should I?"
"Terrorizing servants isn't self-defense." She answered, having gained control over her fear.
"That again." Erik pulled Christine off the ground roughly, clutching her wrist. He extended one long finger toward her nose and glared at her. "Don't speak," he spit.
He didn't address her again until they were back in his parlor. Christine was sitting on the couch once more. Erik had just thrown his cloak down on a chair and was storming past her towards the kitchen. "Tea?" he called sharply. Christine chose to ignore that comment as well.
"We can never be together if you don't stop killing."
Erik snapped around to face her. "We can never be together anyway! You're married, I'm deranged—"
"You're not deranged," she interrupted, a smile beginning to form on the left side of her mouth.
"To the world I am!" He began to pace in front of her. "I live in a flat beneath an Opera House! Next to a lake! I have more knowledge in my head than most of the scientists and doctors in Europe and yet I am a professional ghost! My lone friend is a Persian in exile and the only thing," he continued, his tone softening, "the only thing that keeps me alive is a former opera-diva who is now married to the Vicomte de Chagny and who wouldn't leave when I sent her away for the better good. If that's not deranged, I'll be damned."
"Erik," Christine soothed. Her voice was soft and warm, and with that one word, he was undone, transported instantly back two years, once again a puddle at her feet begging for forgiveness. It is true, Christine. I am not an Angel nor a Ghost… I am Erik… He melted to the floor beside her, crying silently. She guided his head to her lap and placed a tender palm upon his skull, her fingers gently stroking his hair.
"I live in the dark," he said quietly, broken and tired, but finally calm in her touch. "You are a child of the light, fit for Angels, not devils."
"I don't mind the dark. It's comfortable, releasing."
"Rats live in the dark."
"So do pearls." Erik raised his head to look at her smiling down at him. He stretched a trembling hand to her cheek, but withdrew it a moment before contact and hurled himself to the opposing end of the room. He turned his back to her, took out his handkerchief and lifted the mask to dry his tear-streaked face.
"Erik, turn around," he heard her call.
"No," he protested. Not this humiliation again.
"Please. There is no need to hide from me." He was in no state to argue, so instead he turned slowly around to face her, exposing his naked face to her.
"Well," he shrugged, "what do you think now?" Christine's stomach lurched in automatic revulsion, but she quickly tempered it. Not a single part of her face flinched as she looked directly in his eyes.
"It's not your most attractive feature."
Erik laughed softly as he replaced the mask. "I seem to have no clever way to respond to that."
Christine shook her head slightly. "You don't need one."
"Where do we go from here?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," he said as he turned around to face the wall. "You do not understand that it is even less probable than it was a year ago for us to have even a little happiness together."
"Forget about that and turn around a look at me." He complied and found her standing now, her hands hanging lightly at her sides. Her eyes pressed into him. "We can be happy right here and now. If you love me, tell me you love me. You don't need clever twists or phrases, just tell me what you feel."
"I love you." His heart was pounding so hard that he could feel the vibrations of it from his feet to his throat.
"And I love you," she said simply. For a moment they just looked at each other, miles apart, and in the next the mask was of and they were pressed against each other, groping furiously as their mouths greedily took what was finally theirs. Neither had ever felt a hunger like this before. Erik wrapped his arms around her back to seize her, pulling her even closer to his chest. Were he thinking rationally, he would have punished himself for acting so fiercely with her, but rationality had long since left his brain. They fueled a flame between them and with each second it became even brighter; the only sensible thought Erik could muster was to wonder what force could possibly extinguish such a flame. He worried for a short moment how to end so fierce a kiss, what to do or what to say, but then lost himself in the taste of her precious lips, letting go of everything except the sense.
But Christine knew where passion led a man and a woman and, feasting upon his treasured however deformed mouth, unconsciously began to unbutton his shirt. Erik failed to notice this new transgression until he felt the heat of her hand against his bare chest. His eyes opened instantaneously and he pulled her wrists away, the flame suddenly snuffed.
"No," he said firmly.
Christine looked up into his hideous face and, bringing it toward hers, brushed her lips against his eyelids. "Erik," she said soothingly, "don't be worried. I know what I'm doing. I want this. And besides," she continued, her mouth turning upwards in a playful smile, "now I get to be the teacher."
She brought his lips to hers once more and Erik surrendered them over. He poured a life's worth of wants and needs into that kiss and she gladly accepted them, sending back a flood of healing and love. But as soon as he felt her palm on his flesh, he pulled away again.
"No," he repeated, his voice strangely hollow. He turned away from her and placed both hands against the wall firmly, as if to steady himself. "Enough. Go back to your husband; go on your honeymoon. Do not come here again when you return. Perhaps we may be able to have sporadic moments of happiness, but it will just hurt all the fiercer once you've gone again." Christine didn't want to believe that, but she knew he was right. Still, to never see him again… She could not stop herself from arguing.
"What if I refuse? What if I come right back here?"
"I'll move. And then you'll really never see me again. At least this way…if you ever do need me, you will be able to find me."
Christine was stunned into silence. For a second time now, she had given herself over to him and for a second time he refused her. She wanted to tell him that he had no right to do this to her, that she was offering him everything she had to give. But all she could do was move silently to gather her cloak.
"Before you go," he said softly, his voice regaining its natural timbre, "will you promise me something, Christine? One small favor before we never see each other again?"
"Anything," she replied, a little too quickly. His back was still turned to her, so she stared at the back of his head, silently willing him to come to her. She noticed that the mask was back in place; she hadn't even felt it leave her hand.
"You are stopping in England on your…trip, am I right?"
"London, yes."
"I would like you to seek out Frederick Garland, a photographer. I believe he works on Burton Street. Ask him to put you in contact with Winifred Evans, a housemaid. Then invite her to come and work at your estate here."
"Who is she?"
"She is no one of consequence to either of us, but I believe she will do very nicely in your employ. Promise me not to forget."
"I promise." Christine stood still a moment longer, waiting for him to say something more, but he neither spoke nor turned around. So, tears clouding her vision, she left his house and rowed herself across the lake, painfully aware that her last memory of him would contain a promise not meant for her and the image of his back turned against her. He hadn't even said goodbye.
A/N: Phew! I told you it was long! Like it? Just a bit? Tell me about it, please! Review! They're easy to write and really mean a lot! Hope you liked this chapter because, in case you couldn't tell from the text itself, this is the last time Erik and Christine will be seeing each other (…for awhile. Please, who do you take me for, Andrew Lloyd Webber?). She's off to meet my Frederick! (Not related to Frederick Lenfent, from Reality Issues. They have the same name because I love Frederick Garland and named Lenfent after him because they're both wonderful. And Fred's just a name that I instantly trust.) Nadir's coming back, though not in any better shape than when we left him. With Christine gone, Erik is able to figure out what's ailing him, just as Nadir is ready to explain all. Well, just wait and see. Oh, and Wesley's got some important stuff coming up eventually, but I bet you can tell that from the last few paragraphs of this chapter! Ain't Erik a doll? wink
