Disclaimer: Since it's been so long since I updated, I'll reiterate: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of it's characters (primarily Christine, Erik, Nadir and Raoul). I do own, however, Wesley Pryce (though the name belongs to Joss Whedon, yadda yadda yadda).
A/N: …Hi… Okay, so it's been a long time since I updated. I know. The funny thing? I've had this written for awhile. But don't I always say that? I'm home from college (halfway done, can you believe it!) and ready to get this baby roaring. …I already have what I consider an amazing idea for a sequel. But first, gotta finish this one. First on the list, HAPPY BIRTHDAY (and a month) to Holy Darkness! Yayyy! One year old. Aw, I love it. Secondly, I want to remind everyone what's happened so far so that you all don't have to go back and re-read the story (but it would be wonderful if you just wanted to!). So…
Previously in Holy Darkness…
Nadir fell under another one of his memory loss spells and accused Erik of murdering his son. As Erik fled his house, he was spotted by Christine. She then also discovered his connection to Wesley and angrily went to confront Erik. He, however, was waiting for her, and after a fiery conversation, Christine leaves again, only to get lost in a nearby park. When she doesn't come home, Raoul sends all his servants out to look for her. Wesley goes directly to Erik, who promptly finds her with his wonderful Erik-sense. She returns with him to his house and they have another conversation, this one much more deep and meaningful, which climaxes in a kiss. Erik then sends her away, and, confused and upset by the dead end in their relationship, she leaves, promising not to return again.
And without any further ado…
Chapter Nine: I Raised Up the Mountains
The house was cloaked in silence when Christine entered in the latest hour of the night, or perhaps the earliest hour of the morning, however one views it. The door seemed to echo as she closed it behind her, pulsing through the foyer and along the hall. Then all was still, not a sound in response. She realized guiltily that the household servants were most likely all out in search of her. Quickly, she made her way through the empty halls to her husband's study, where she had no doubt he was pacing up and down, waiting for any news of her. She opened the door cautiously, so as not to startle him, her alibi fully formed and on her tongue. But the room was empty. Christine felt her brow wrinkle and her lips purse. She had not expected him to be anywhere else. She looked around the darkened room, at the fireplace ashes, the papers covering the always organized desk and the large dents in the eat of the easy chair. He had been here, probably for quite some time. Perhaps he had gotten tired of waiting and went to search for her as well. With no where else to go, Christine shrugged off her cloak and tiptoed upstairs to the guest room she and Raoul had been using while their own room was being restored. And there he was, lying fast asleep on top of all their bedding, still fully dressed. He must have fallen asleep our of pure exhaustion. She dropped her cloak over a chair and crawled across the bed to lie next to him, their noses barely two inches apart.
"Raoul," she called softly. A strand of blonde hair had fallen across his eyes and she gently tucked it behind his ear. It was getting very long, she thought, and she must have it trimmed before they left Paris. Her hand glided over his smooth forehead and down to the rough stubble over his jaw. It had been a long time since she had watched him sleep. She had forgotten just how beautiful he looked. Peaceful. One would never be able to tell from his face the stress he had just endured; his mouth turned upward even in sleep; his face relaxed completely without a sign of a single tension line. She hated to stir him, but knew that he would be exceptionally angry with her in the morning if she did not. "Raoul," she called again, a little louder. Not an eyelash moved. "Raoul." Christine grew anxious. Ever since the fire, she had been waking up in the middle of the night, nauseous with the fear that he had died beside her in the darkness. She would press her ear to his breast and listen to his heart beat, but was never convinced he was fully alive until she felt him move to accommodate her. Only then could she return to sleep, soothed by the steady lullaby of his heart.
"Raoul!" she cried, her panic fluttering in her chest. "Raoul! Raoul! Raoul!" Christine shoved her palms against his chest, pushing him onto his pack. His arm dangled limply off the bed and she knew he was dead. She opened her mouth to scream when Raoul rolled himself back onto his side, mumbling incomprehensible nothings. (It seems, dear Reader, that Wesley had overestimated the amount of laudanum to give him.) Christine gulped back a sob. She slid off the bed and covered her face with her hands, determined not to cry for yet another time today.
Sleep, she thought, smoothing her skirt, I just need to sleep. She quickly changed into her night dress and got into bed, shivering under the heavy bedding, willing herself to sleep. Of course, as most know, Sleep is the greatest of all teases; she overcomes you when you least want her and smugly refuses you when you beg for her mercy. So it was with Christine, who lay completely awake, betrayed not only by Sleep, but also by her mind, which could focus on nothing but Erik.
Thinking back on the evening's events, Christine couldn't help but blush. How incredibly forward she had been! It was actually embarrassing even now; she couldn't bear to think of it. Of course, that just meant that she could think of nothing else. The scene played again in her head and every remembered touch brought a brighter shade of red to her cheeks until they felt like they would melt under the heat. She smothered her face with a pillow and laughed at how ridiculously foolish she had acted, and then laughed harder at how ridiculously foolish she was being now.
What must he think of her? What would Raoul have done if she had approached him in that manner? He would probably have been incredibly confused; Christine had never initiated their love-making. True, she had never been opposed to it, indeed she often craved his touch--oh, this was too embarrassing to even think!
But even though she still blushed in embarrassment, Christine really did not know why she did. Erik was alive, their love finally reciprocated in the present. The embodiment of the being she worshiped for a year stood before her and she wanted him. Her blood had been on fire and she had acted without fear. But perhaps she had gone too far. Erik had been incredibly upset, but still ever the gentleman. Had he not… She must remember that he is just a child in such things, needing to be coddled and stroked and tended to. He might have always seen her as the child, but she thought that he was, what with his tantrums and… Perhaps they were both children, two children who needed each other to grow up. Next time--
No, she thought. There will be no 'next time'. Erik will see to that. Sharply, Christine threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Her attempts to sleep were failing; she was much too restless. She would go and drink some tea, to calm down, and hopefully fall sleep after that. She slid on her dressing gown and made her way down to the kitchen.
Christine was surprised to discover that she was not the only one awake at this late hour. Wesley was likewise surprised. The two stared at each other uncomfortably for a moment before Wesley rose from the table and bowed slightly.
"Welcome home, madame," he said nervously. He was unsure how angry at him she still was. "May I get you anything?"
"A cup of tea, please," she replied, her chin lifting without her knowledge. Wesley immediately began preparing her request as Christine sat down across from Wesley's own teacup. He kept his back to her as he worked, which was perfectly fine with Christine, who had no idea what to say to him. She wasn't entirely pleased with what he did, but after talking to Erik, she could understand why. He was, after all, just trying to do what was right for Raoul and herself. Still, she would not admit she had been wrong. Had Erik not kissed her back so fiercely, perhaps she would have thanked him for shielding her from that pain. No, she could not thank him, but she could forgive him and lull his own guilt.
He spoke first, his back still turned. "I am very happy you made it home safely, madame. Everyone was very worried."
"Everyone but you, I presume. You knew where I was." Christine saw a shiver run across Wesley's shoulders. "Turn around, please, Wesley. I have spoken to enough backs for one night." He complied, and met her eyes, prepared to take whatever punishment she had thought of for his betrayal. Instead, she smiled slightly and said, "Thank you." Unsure what to say, Wesley brought her tea to her and stood aside until Christine asked him to sit and finish his own. As he sat across from her, he felt a wave of relief; it seems she had forgiven him. After sipping her tea, she continued speaking.
"Erik told me everything." She pounced on the subject directly. "I understand why you did what you did, and I thank you for keeping my family safe." Wesley bowed his head slightly, and when he raised it he found a single tear gracefully skimming Christine's left cheek. He watched it fall and as soon as it left her skin, new tears began to silently streak her face.
"Madame," he said, reaching his hand to her, "are you¾ "
"I'm fine, Wesley," she protested, her voice strong, "or if I'm not yet, I will be. You were right to keep him from me. Together all we cause is pain and suffering to ourselves and everyone close to us. And now I have this wound, this open, stinging wound, and it will never heal because I know he's alive and I can never see him again! He's forbidden it! Wesley was speechless. His hand retreated back to his teacup slowly, and Christine buried her face in her hands to sob. When her voice rung out again, however, her voice remained as steady as if she were merely commenting on the weather.
"Oh, God, am I an adulteress? I am in love with two men; doesn't that mean in everything I do I betray one of them? And what is that anyway, adultery? Is it a physical act, or a spiritual one? Do I wrong my husband because I have given my soul to another? Or do I betray Erik because I promised my heart and body to Raoul?" She looked up at Wesley, her eyes seeking answers he didn't have. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn piece of paper.
"I don't have any of the answers you seek," he started, honestly. "I can't pretend to know what you're feeling right now. But I do know about loss and…well…" He slid the paper across the table and under Christine's fingers.
"What's this?"
"A great English poet who died too young, as they all seem to do, wrote this. It's soothed my mind for years. Can you read English?" Christine nodded and picked up the paper.
Music, when soft voices die
Vibrates in the memory--
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone
Love itself shall slumber on.
-Percy Bysshe Shelley
"It's lovely," she said after a moment, and tried to hand it back to him, but he refused.
"I know it by heart," he said, smiling, tears in his own eyes now. "And it seems you need it more than I do."
"Thank you," she replied, holding the poem tenderly in her lap. A moment passed between the two, and no one knows what that moment entailed besides Christine and Wesley. It was a strong moment, whatever it was, enticing Wesley to break the line of their relationship and reach over to place his hand on hers. Christine smiled back and, once the moment had passed, laughed and broke the bond of their hands to rub her eyes.
"I'm really quite tired," she yawned, "but my mind won't let me sleep. Raoul, however," she laughed again, "Raoul is so soundly asleep that he won't be stirred."
"Oh, that…" Wesley said, blushing slightly. "I may have given him too much laudanum… I mean, I didn't know…"
Christine lifted an eyebrow. "Do I even need to ask who told you to do such a thing?"
"Probably not. Would you… like me to do the same for you?"
"Thank you, Wesley, that would probably work. Not as much as you gave my husband, though, please." And as he left to fetch the drug, Christine thought of Erik, one last time.
Erik, however, was not thinking of her. Or at least he was telling himself that he was not thinking of her. After Christine left, Erik swam across the lake and retrieved the boat, changed his clothes and, without even attempting to go to sleep, began to mix laudanum into his own drink. He was much more skilled at this process than Wesley. Laying down on the couch (he was unable to set a foot in either bedroom in his house), he drank the contents of his glass in one swallow and closed his eyes. He felt his mind begin to clear almost immediately. As the drug swam through his veins it pushed aside all thoughts of Christine. Christine with her dark hair and illuminating smile. Christine's lips on his own, Christine's mouth as it formed the words "I love you". Pushed aside. Stored away. Christine sitting stunned and not moving. Nadir sitting, unable to move. Pushed away.
Nadir.
Nadir coughing. Nadir screaming.
Nadir unable to realize who Erik was.
And then he knew, knew at once, what was wrong with Nadir. Oh God.
Sleep was upon him before he could fight it.The next morning, when Erik awoke, he left immediately for Nadir's house. Unable to hail a carriage on the busy Parisian streets, he began to run, taking no precautions to cover his mask. Let them gasp, let them stare. He had no time to concern himself with them. Arriving, he pushed by Darius (who had answered the door) and ran through the small house, until he came to Nadir's bedroom. He flung open the door, winded from the long run. Nadir was sitting up in his bed, eating breakfast from a tray. He did not seem at all surprised to see Erik.
"Good morning," he said cheerily, slowly bringing a spoon to his mouth.
Erik was still panting. "Is it…" Before the word left his mouth he prayed silently he was wrong. "Syphilis?" Nadir turned his head toward him and stared. After a moment, however, the edges of his lips pulled upward like two marionettes into a grim smile. He nodded twice.
"I've always said, there is nothing in the world like a Persian concubine. It's your Parisian whores;" he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, like a child divulging a secret, "they're dirty." He turned back to his breakfast. Although he had guessed, Erik was still stunned. He could only move to sit in a chair near the door and stare at the carpet. He began to grieve. He was going to lose his only friend, the one person he trusted. He would die, and Erik would truly be all alone. He couldn't bear to look at him, the diseased body which held the most courageous and genuine soul Erik had ever known.
Without looking up, Erik whispered, "How long?"
"A year and a half since the diagnosis, but who knows how much longer before," he answered conversationally. "And don't say that you would have noticed--you were far too preoccupied with you-know-who in the beginning and later, well, I made sure to hide it from you. The trembling of my fingers was never too great and I tried mostly to stay seated when you visited. It surprised me that you hadn't noticed when I stopped going to your house, but I thought it all for the best if you didn't worry about me." He sipped his tea slowly and raised his eyes toward Erik with the cup still between his lips. "What, if I may ask, tipped you off to my…condition?"
"Just a moment of clear headedness," Erik replied flippantly, although his stomach had tightened at the thought of truthfully answering that question. He hated to think of the words Nadir had spoken to him that morning; there was no power in Heaven of Earth that could make him repeat that damning accusation back to the man who had said it. Erik met Nadir's eyes and knew at once that he didn't believe his explanation. As his friend opened his mouth to speak, Erik prayed that he would ask him anything but why he had left so suddenly two days ago.
"Yesterday?" Erik nodded, realizing that he was holding his breath. "It's not like you to be patient," he said, his mouth hinting at a smirk. "Why, may I ask, did you not barge in here immediately? What kept you?" Erik released his breath and unclenched his fists. He could talk about his encounter with Christine for days as long as he need not speak of that other subject.
"Christine," he shrugged. "She discovered I wasn't dead."
Nadir nodded. "I admit I've been waiting for that. What happened?"
"What would you expect from two people who never decided what the nature of their relationship was? We fought, quite rabidly I must say… By God, I think she even hit me. Huh. And, in the end, we decided it was better that she continue her life, pretending I was dead. She leaves soon to go abroad with her husband." Erik spoke easily, detached. He didn't tell Nadir of the intimacy he and Christine had shared; he knew that by not saying anything, Nadir would infer it. He must have noticed his detachment, but merely continued nodding, accepting whatever information Erik put forth.
"I imagined as such." There was a slight pause in the room as each man delt with his own thoughts until Erik suddenly spoke rapidly.
"You must ease my mind on one more thing, Nadir."
"Yes?"
Erik took his time to ask his final question. "How long do…you have?"
"Oh," he replied with a chuckle and a wave of his hand, "years. Years." Erik returned his smile.
Neither man believed that.
A/N: So…How'dja like it? I know it's short, I'm sorry. But after re-reading it, it's a pretty good chapter to have after a long hiatus. It reviews things pretty well, no? Okay, PLEASE review! And to mirror the Previously on…
Next Time In Holy Darkness…
Christine and Raoul begin their honeymoon… Italy first. Anyone we know been there? But eventually off to LONDON to complete Erik's request.
