A/N – In quick answer to clarify before the chapter begins, Erik's masquerade mask is actually a mask! I can't tell you why right now, but everything is for a reason! ;D
Chapter 28 – Her Breaking Point
Bolts of red, green and blue whizzed through the air, shimmering in an explosion of colour. Gasping, Christine pressed closer instinctually to the man beside her – had felt his flinch at the sudden gunshot-like sound – despite knowing the firework display would not harm them.
"Happy anniversary, my dear," his voice sounded in her head.
Sheltering in his cloak, Christine shuddered as two spiralling fireworks streamed into the air, lighting up the sky in which the smoke had left behind.
"What are we celebrating?" she asked loudly, after a course of 'pop' 'pop' 'pop' 'popping' fizzers.
"The day in which I first saw you, of course,"
Did she imagine that he shifted closer, that his arm draped the fabric tighter around her shoulders, so that she wouldn't be touched by the cold? But the warmth that enveloped her only confirmed the truth.
"When did you see me? I only remember that night – in your restaurant," a dozen silver and indigo firecrackers sizzled across the sky, her mouth opened in an 'ahh' of wonderment.
There was a pause, "You were young and probably magicked it from your mind, so frightened as you were. A school trip, I remember. You thought me a Spirit,"
A spirit? No, that had been a day-dream, she remembered how silly she was. How terrified she'd been when that Voice roared at her?
No. No!
It had been him? Him? He – who Papa had laughed at the story and told her that Shopping Mall Spirits were of the 'grumpy sort', and next time perhaps try and avoid wandering into a lone part of the shopping district…It had been Erik.
"I lost my favourite pencil," her words were wiped away by a sudden squeal, another firework rocketing into the sky, leaving a blazing trail of sparks behind.
She'd had to borrow Meg's pencil to tally up all the people they saw, petrified of the 'Phantom of the Mall' unable to stop herself telling Meg her adventure, but never truly believed.
It had been him, all along? Why?
Why had he shouted at her? Why couldn't she remember?
Snapped out of her introspection, there came the grand finale: fizzers, swirling golden whizzers, firecrackers, big blooming red rippers, smattering silver scatterers, igniting indigos and one final bang of blue.
And at last…
Silence.
The smoke wafted over, diffusing in the air. Settling over them as a blanket from the world.
"That was beautiful," she sighed.
"I am pleased you enjoyed such a display; I was concerned you would dislike the surprise of it," he murmured. With a little movement and she felt the cloak slide off her shoulders, Christine's hand reached out and clutched his arm.
"I did enjoy it Erik, I really did. Thank you for bringing me here, I –" she bit back the words, unable to admit the truth, "I hope you enjoyed it too,"
She liked the way his eyes seemed to sparkle, it was right, wasn't it? To feel happy that he was happy? She liked this feeling, the feeling of her lips pulling up instinctively. To know that her happiness brought his own. He was happy too, she could feel it. Tangible.
Finally, he had opened to her. He was happy.
"I…I did, I believe I did," he seemed surprised. Did he not like fireworks before this?
Her hand slipped off his arm, to take his hands in her own. They seemed so large, yet delicate. Despite the blood-red leather that covered them, she knew the beauty those digits wove underneath. Lullabies; dreams that danced to his Music's majesty.
He was there, hovering above her. He was so close, clothed in that velvet brocade, charming, dangerous, but him. The arms that had cradled her asleep, the voice that was there when she awoke, a heart that beat for her.
Why couldn't she just take it?
It could make me happy, can't it? If I just reach out, he wouldn't pull away. He wants to be there for me.
I want to be there for him.
Is there any more to it?
Her hand reached towards the mask, fingers that should be shaking weren't, cradling the cool plastic that met her fingertips. Her lips tingled as they titled upwards.
But it wasn't a bang that shattered the illusion this time, no, it was something much, much colder.
A band of cold compressing metal was being slid down a finger, specifically on her left hand, the one that was not cradling his mask, and it pushed itself over her knuckle, not too harshly, but with enough force so that it nestled at the base.
A ring.
A ring.
"Please accept this token of my most humble devotion, Christine," he whispered hoarsely, and no – he was dropping down, the fluttering of red that seemed too vivid and mocking, because he was still there, kneeling, not shot and not dead and asking – begging for her love.
"I have waited Christine, for this moment, for a very long time," there was haunted knowledge in those orbs. He was not telling a lie.
"To ask you to begin our lives anew, with one another," his grip was trembling, but he was squeezing her hand, and she didn't think he realised, "To escape, live in our music that we create, and that is our only Master, our only binding grace, besides our devotion to one another. I no longer wish to hide you, my dear, no longer wish to distrust, it makes you unhappy. I only wish for a living wife, Christine, not a lot. Erik only wishes to kiss – only touch your hands, as you permit it. Erik cannot cope without a companion and a – a – wife, he would adore you. His Christine," he rasped. A tear – a real tear trickled from an eye – followed by another from his other. He was weeping. For her.
"Chris-tine," he rasped, "Would you commit to wearing Erik's ring? Nothing would ever harm you with it on, he promises," Despite kneeling, his entire frame trembled like a leaf, the faintest breeze would knock him over. He was crying, godamnit.
She hated it when he cried.
And then she was kneeling with him, following an insane urge to embrace him, trying to swallow the mournful scream of rage and despair, block her ears at the sound of her own hope breaking into millions of tiny pieces, dying like the burnt-out ends of a firework. The stench of smoke burning her eyes.
"Of course, Erik," her voice was emotional, she could blame it on his own display, right? That her voice trembled out not of fear, but of joy? Oh, how fake it was. How fake it had all been. Betrayed and entranced, all in the span of an eyeblink. Him and her lies.
Of course – it meant that those slipped-out words condemned her fate to a monster. A monster who murdered and lied and manipulated and killed, and tortured a heart that had thought it might care for him – for it.
What a poor fool she'd been.
Silenced and speechless. Toppled from the tightrope. A noose that had been strung around her neck was now squeezing the life out of her. And he wept in rejoice at her surrender. At her breaking didn't know that he'd lost her.
"Christine, you do not know how happy you have made me, oh, my precious darling," and those tentative fingers stroked her hair, still shaking, overwhelmed, "Mon petite papillon," he breathed.
Nausea curled in her gut. She wanted to throw up that roast she'd unwittingly ate earlier, those golden potatoes, bright green beans, the salty pork and that loud, breaking, crackling.
"I'm glad you're happy," she managed to croak. God, she needed a drink. Something like that champagne she'd seen floating around.
"Oh, so very happy," he echoed into her hair, holding her to him, fingers unable to unclasp from her neck. She shuddered violently, and it brought Erik back, eyes glittering in concern.
"You need to be inside, you've become too cold,"
"No!" she yelped, rocking back on her heels, the thought of that hoard of people around them, wearing his ring on her finger –
"Very well," he placated, "Perhaps you should indeed see your engagement ring beforehand," he titled his head, waiting for her to raise her hand. To see his brand.
Her hand felt too heavy to lift, the ring was both weighty and light, and it was with great effort that she opened her eyes to flick down to her hand.
Gold. Should she have expected anything less? A delicate band, with a dazzling blue gem. Though the sides that held the setting of the stone were a in little lattice formation.
"Press gently on the tanzanite, my dear," he whispered reverently.
Tanzanite? As in that stone he told me about?
When she placed her finger against the stone and put enough pressure on it, a little click sounded, and the golden lattice opened to reveal four tanzanite bejewelled wings.
Her mouth dropped open.
"It is yours, Christine, everything I have and can bestow," Erik murmured, red hands caressing the ring and neatly folding her hand in his. She didn't resist as he helped her stand, how he adjusted the placement of her mask, like a humbled man.
Numb. She was numb. Numb and lost and an endless feeling of pain echoing in her heart.
Loss. Her loss felt so great, tonight. Her grieving would have to wait, however, as Erik continued.
"I know you must be in shock," his words felt like that they should be a comfort to her. Her comfort, but there wasn't any. She was numb. In shock. Her routine of pretend wouldn't work anymore.
"But truly, you will feel well soon, I am sure," he patted her hand and she swallowed the urge to flinch away as he led her to the doors.
"As my engagement gift to you this evening, I will allow you this time to roam freely. Spend your time dancing or fraternizing with the wider public if you wish; as long as you wear the ring, you are safe from harm. We will leave when the clock strikes midnight, we have a plane to catch tomorrow, as you well know. I will meet you on the Grand Escalier, Christine. Midnight, do not forget," he said fondly.
Unable to look him in the eye, she nodded, too lost to do much more. The floor seemed more interesting.
"Everything will be just fine, my dear, go – enjoy yourself," tentatively, oh so softly, his finger brushed away a strand of hair from her face, not commenting on the tear that had trickled from underneath the mask, "I love you very much, Christine, you do know that, yes?"
She nodded again. A marionette, her destiny achieved. Something to fix up, groom, feed, cradle in his arms when he wished to. A perfect doll.
"Yes Erik," her words were leaden upon her tongue. Her anguish was her own personal hell, now.
He waited for words that never came, a response that she knew he desired. Maybe one day she'd have to parrot those back to him, but not now. Not when she still had the power of speech.
"Go, Christine," he rasped and her pretend was that she couldn't hear the tears in his voice. Tonight. Tonight he was the monster.
The door before her had never seemed so appealing.
A butterfly! All along, a little butterfly, trapped inside a golden cage – Erik had always loved his metaphors. It only packed a punch now that it was shoved in her face, a laugh that belittled her dreams of his reformation, of tolerating humanity on her behalf. Oh God. How naïve she had been to assume that with a little bit of affection he'd wish to reach out of his shell and become human again.
Tight, it looked perfect on her finger, yet it still felt too tight. Too cold and foreign. It had meant to have been from another man, who was simple in his creativity, perhaps a ruby or something glittering set in a dainty band from a jeweller. Not an ethically sourced gem and hand-crafted ring that blossomed into a butterfly at the press of a finger. One that looked beautiful. If it had been from Raoul, it'd be too heavy and too big and perfect.
Her rolling nausea had decreased once she'd gotten out of that confining space with just of the two of them. God, all the thoughts of marriage and expectations had disappeared into the blue when she'd been with Erik. Pretending that they were friends, what a joke! What he wanted was more than that, but she'd thought she could escape with an imaginary scenario that would keep them apart. If anything, it had drawn them closer.
Illusions shattered, truly and utterly! Oh, she was angry, at him, herself, at the fact no one knew, that they'd all given up looking by now, and the undying helplessness that gnawed at her core. Wounded, aching and wanting the colour blue. To be clothed in anything other than orange and gold.
But if she dared take off that ring, she knew Erik would become angry, unhinged, even. If it allowed her the freedom of unchaperoned interaction with others, then it was more valuable than any other bauble she'd received from him. And was ever likely to receive.
I could escape.
The doors shone wantonly, glass and brightly lit, tantalising, at the edge of her fingertips.
I could walk out of those doors and he'd never know. Vanish until he'd find me, and we'd start all over again, in a new manor, and he would have all the power. Angry. Bristling. Betrayed.
I can't go back to that, I can't. I'd go mad, I would, I really would.
I don't want to hurt him, he can be good. He isn't so bad, is he? He doesn't hurt me, gives me beautiful things, loves me, makes the most beautiful music and has money to take me anywhere I want, can I ask for more? He is gentle and kind. He has a beautiful voice. He knows so many things. We even have similar interests.
Excuses, all excuses. Justifications.
Biting her lip to stop the frown threatening to ruin her composure, Christine started down the stairs. Why couldn't she indulge in some dancing? Take her mind off everything. Pretend she was someone else gay and giddy, who had one too many flutes of champagne, who took life for granted.
I was one of those people.
Her eyes alighted on one of the decorations, eyebrow raising in surprise to see her costume match a butterfly that had been glued to a streamer, one of dozens that littered the space. There was practically a monarch butterfly in every corner!
Erik had obviously had a hand in the decorating side of things.
Reaching the dance floor, Christine was pulled into a dance, those without a partner searching for an eager participant. Her first dance was with a bulbous looking man wearing one of those curling white wigs, a sort of dignitary, she assumed. His French was kindly, however and though doddering, was genial. He reminded her painfully of Mama Valerious, he had that same wateriness to his eyes, the quirk of the lips that twinkled…She lost count after three dances of the partners, one oily pirate seemed to be similar to a magician, and the Angel she'd spotted earlier had brushed her side. Just when she had thought she'd pair up with a roughish looking Zorro, a man barged her rudely aside.
"Quickly, we don't have much time," the intruder stood there as if a genie summoned from a lamp, clad in a silken turban and oriental robes, complimented with dark skin and piercing jade eyes.
"Excuse me?" she gaped. From the nook he'd pushed her into, she couldn't see the dancefloor.
"Christine Daae? That is you?" his eyes scanned her, focusing on her hair for a moment.
"Who's asking?" she shot back, folding her arms defensively.
"I am here to help, that is all. You know that man there?" following his finger, he pointed to a figure making their way surreptitiously through the crowd, an azure sash streaming behind him. His blonde hair had grown, his neat cut now ragged, golden locks which flashed under the chandelier. His eyes were under a black spotted mask, dark kohl lining his eyes – but she knew that pirate, that loveable man across all seven seas. Familiar. His blue, blue eyes, which widened in recognition when they met gazes.
"Raoul! You brought Raoul?" she nearly shrieked. Oh God, it was Raoul! Her Raoul.
"Quiet!" hissed her companion, eyes flickering from behind their shoulders. The pillar that blocked them from view would only cover them for so long. "We cannot save you if he is alerted of our position, and even that will be compromised soon. You must leave with that boy, now,"
But – Erik – Erik -
"Christine – Christ, I thought I –" she was swallowed by a pair of arms, his ebony frock coat smelling of him. Sunshine. God, he smelt of sunshine.
Tears were beginning to form, but the arms that were currently clutching at her like a lost little boy were torn away.
"Quick, make for the stairs, now!" the man, with an accent – from where she didn't know – urged them to the side, towards a corridor that further led within the hidden depths of the theatre.
"Come on, Christine, we'll speak in a minute," warmth clasped her hand, warmth she hadn't felt for far too long, was suddenly tugging her, his tri-corn hat spear-heading the crowd, the fencing sword strapped to his side batting her leg. She looked behind to meet the eyes of the man, who nodded with knowing eyes. The look said go, while you still can.
But – Erik! Her hammering heart urged her to keep up, trying not to trip on her dress and making weak apologies as she inevitably bumped into people. God, what would Erik think?
Worse: what would Erik do?
A shudder rippled through her, shocked at the deftness of Raoul pushing his way through the swathes of people, as if he'd memorised the layout of the whole building. But the fear of discovery overpowered her fear of going back to what was safe. Fuck, it was Raoul. He had found her.
They encountered a set of stairs – the ones the other man had meant – and the grip around her hand tightened.
"I know it's going to be hard work with all these stairs, but it's necessary, Christine," Raoul swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, eyes looking decidedly wet as he adjusted his cap, "Come on, we don't have time to stand around,"
Dazedly, Christine started up the circular staircase as Raoul led the way, cautiously checking each level they passed. After two staircases her knees started aching and at three, she had to stop to regain her breath, Raoul anxiously scanning around them meanwhile.
"He's the freaky skeleton in red, isn't he?"
Nodding, Christine tried to swallow down lungfuls of air, easing the tight band around her lungs. God, she was unfit. Raoul was breathing steadily, only a slight sheen to his skin.
"Ready?"
No, she was not ready, but if they didn't start again now, she didn't know what would happen. So, she took his hand again and nodded.
The next flight took them to a door that said 'Staff Only. Private Access.' (at least that was what she translated). But Raoul was unfazed, revealing a silver key and ushering her through the door with efficiency.
A chill broke through the heat that had surrounded her and Christine shuddered, fighting the breeze as she stepped onto the roof of the Opera Garnier.
Genius! I can't believe we are on the roof of the most well-known place in all of Paris!
Gaping at the sight of Paris illuminated from this height, she was unprepared for Raoul's sudden appearance.
"Jesus Christine, why didn't you tell me you had a bloody stalker!" his voice thundered and two hands gripped her arms.
Her head whipped back to see Raoul's face hovering above her and anger surged through her.
"Damnit Raoul," she hissed, she was not spending her limited time arguing with him. Her hands reached up, cradling his head and standing on tip-toes to press her lips to his.
Under her lips, his own tasted salty and warm. It was enough. It had to be enough. She needed for it to be ok. It was enough. She was fighting for them, right? How many dreams tucked under the covers in Erik's mansion, pretending she'd feel his lips back on hers, his breath tickling her cheeks and fingers caressing her hair? Raoul's hands slipped from her arms, one sliding down her back and pressing her body to his, another coming back to hold her head – and it felt right. Good people loving each other. Right? What the universe guaranteed. Good triumphing over evil.
He will hate you. He will hate you. You are evil.
Pulling away, chest heaving from their reunion, shaky fingers brushed his cheek, hardly believing this wasn't some dream.
"You're real," she breathed. No more hallucinations. Flesh and blood. "I thought I'd never see you again alive,"
His arm squeezed her slightly, that dazzling smile that should settle her nerves appearing, "As if I'd leave you in the hands of a psycho,"
A laugh fluttered but got caught in her throat, eyes catching the glimmering ring that encircled her finger. The blue butterfly twinkled. A mockery of the eyes before her now.
"He's going to marry me, Raoul," her voice shook.
His expression hardened, flinty, "That thing isn't going to get anywhere near you, we've got a plan –"
"Is it with that man I saw downstairs?"
He let go, arm falling to hold a hand instead, lips pursing, "He's a PI I hired. Nadir is the only one who has had experience dealing with him and who has given us any help in trying to find you. He's our best hope,"
"Hope? Hope in doing what –"
"Distract the bastard that kidnapped you, that's what," he snarled.
The breath she took in hurt, "You mean that Nadir is going to kill Erik?" Sick, she felt sick.
Raoul's gaze darkened, "No, not kill. It was one of his…Stipulations. No killing unless the time is right, whatever the hell that means,"
Heaving a sigh of relief, Christine rested her head against his chest.
"I'm sorry, I wish there was any other way, but that was his condition," Raoul murmured, hand stroking her back, "I would rather him dead too,"
Shuddering, Christine gazed up in horror, "He doesn't deserve to die!"
"He's done it, hasn't he?" Raoul gaped, peering closely at her as if to reveal Erik's secret influence, "That monster has made you think he's worth saving!"
"Raoul, he's not a monster!" Christine gaped at his vehemency, "He's just misunderstood,"
"What does Mr Bouquet say to that? Oh right, he's a corpse, thanks to that creature,"
Christine recoiled, failing to hold back flashes of bruising skin, yellowing teeth and the spittle flying from the mouth of a man being garrotted to death.
The yellow eyes of a man full of rage.
A man she'd not known for months.
"He's changed, he'd never do that now –" right? He wouldn't do that. Her arms clutched her body, doubt worming its way through, "God, I don't know. He's good to me, Raoul,"
"He's only 'good to you' because he's taken away your freedom," her companion spat, "He's controlling your life, Christine!"
"But he loves me," she stepped forward, "He doesn't realise right from wrong," Why was she defending him? Why couldn't she admit that –
"I love you, Christine," Raoul murmured, reaching to cup her cheek, "And I would never do anything to make you unhappy. What he has for you isn't 'love'. It's obsession,"
Obsession?
"No, Raoul," she took his hand from her cheek, remembering that softness she'd seen a dozen times in Raoul's eyes, echoed in Erik's. Only an hour ago, on a balcony. Holding his hand, she turned it over gently, cataloguing its difference. A man's hand. Strong, lithe, warm. Safe. Guaranteed protection. Why did Erik's hand seem so alien in comparison?
"He's just lonely and found someone who's compassionate enough to understand," Christine insisted, squeezing his hand gently.
Raoul's eyes narrowed, "I didn't believe Stockholm syndrome existed until now. You need to get away from him. Now more than ever,"
Away?
Her lip trembled, "I can't. You shouldn't even be here! I can't leave, it'll kill him!"
I can't kill him. I can't. I can't kill that look in his eyes. Like I'm his last lifeline, the rope that keeps him afloat.
The beauty that keeps his music from decaying.
And if I don't leave, then he won't harm anyone else.
"But why? We're here to save you, Christine. I can't stand by and watch him force you into a life you cannot want. I watched for months, helpless, as some malevolent force took you away. I won't standby now that I can do something about it. For God's sake, I love you! Does that mean nothing?" he leant forward, pressing his lips to hers, seeking out that curled tendril of love that had been pushed deep beneath hopelessness for a future.
She kissed back, trying to find that salvation, trying to hold onto the rope of his love, that life she'd always dreamed about. Kids, home, Raoul, husband. But it seemed so far away, hounded out by music and luxury, of magic and adventure. Of a life with another man, who wanted her so desperately.
"Come away with me, Christine, live the life we always wanted. Marry me," he murmured between kisses, "I don't care if it's the longest engagement in the world, I love you, my beautiful Little Lotte,"
"I love you too, Raoul," because she did, she loved him.
And that was enough, it was going to be enough.
His hand sought out hers, and it wasn't until he reared back that she'd realised that he was focusing on the ring that engulfed her finger.
"That bastard," he growled, already twisting it off.
"Stop it!" she yanked her hand back protectively, trying in vain to push the ring back down, but it was loose now, looser than it had been before, "Oh God, Raoul, I can't lose this, Erik made me promise not to take it off,"
"Can't you see what he's doing to you?" he cried, "That thing, -"
"Is the only thing saving my ass, and everyone else in this goddamned Opera House," Christine growled, forcing the panic back down. It was there, twinkling on her finger. Safe. She really needed to put it on her chain, but if Erik saw it not on her finger and misunderstood – she couldn't risk it.
"Christine, we need to leave, come with me," Raoul shook his head, before letting go and stalking across the rooftop. Hurrying after him, Christine knew her only hope rested on his shoulders. It only meant losing all sense of her control. The small amount she'd gained tonight thrusted to another in mere seconds. But it was Raoul. Her friend, potential husband! She had to trust him. If he found her when no one else could, then he could sure as hell get her out of here.
Under a looming statue was a black duffle bag and Raoul slid it out into the open, crouching.
"Now, we have one harness; you'll wear it and I'll be attached with an additional rope, so that I'm hanging off you as we go down," he laid out the harness. It looked just like the one she wore when she did abseiling. A school trip, too many years ago. He also fished out a tiny rectangular device no bigger than her thumbnail.
"This is a tracker, so that if we get separated, we'll be able to track you down," he smiled, but she saw through it. In case he finds you, we'll be able to find you again when he hides you where no one will ever visit. Her capture had frightened him; his harrowed face told her everything.
"You see, Nadir is something of a veteran and he used this out in the field; said that when enemy troops caught you, first thing they did was search you. This actually has a sticky back, like when they put those electrodes on you, so that you can put it over your heart and no one would be wiser," he passed it to her, "In order to activate it, you press it twice. Then poof, you'll be online," he was trying to make light of it, their pretend. Just Spy Boy and Spy Girl, like old times.
Nodding, Christine peeled off the back, and turned as she placed the device on her skin. Instead of placing it under the centre gore of the bra, she stuck it to the side of her breast so it wouldn't rub. It wasn't comfortable, but it was worth having a way back. In case everything went wrong and Erik took her to somewhere completely and utterly isolated – there would be hope of being found once more.
What if you give up wanting to be found?
No, she was going to try. For Raoul. For them. For their future.
But what about Erik's future?
No, she couldn't think about that, her riddle of morality. What mattered was that Raoul needed her. Right now, he could be someone she helped.
What about their agreement? What about 'Of course, Erik'? This is your fault. He didn't threaten you to say yes, did he? You're going to kill him. Murderer.
"Raoul, I'm frightened," she looked at him, finding it hard to focus. It all seemed to be going so fast. Why was it so cold out here? Was she losing her sanity?
"You're going to be safe soon, Christine. In a few moments we'll be whizzing away and everything will be just fine," he said soothingly, helping her with the utmost care into the harness. It was tight and scratchy around her bare legs and the silken fabric of her dress kept shifting. How long until their discovery?
Never in her imagination had Christine thought she'd be able to escape – had discarded the possibility while still trapped in those yellow walls – that changed to gilded curtains of a hotel room. But there was something wrong. Something missing. What hadn't she thought of?
Her Angel – that had been a mockery. However, guilt pulsated in her heart. Thinking of escaping, while he thought her down there, deep below where she could live the night out as herself.
But you'll have a hundred days more as yourself if you run now. While you have a chance! It may never happen again.
And then everything can go back to normal. I can go home. With Raoul. That will make me happy.
Just like before.
It was her choice. Time for her defiance that had never been granted to her. This was her story, not anyone else's!
"There's going to be a helicopter, OK? But we need to get to the taxi that's going to be parked outside the Rue Scribe; it's about a twenty-minute drive to the helicopter pad. I manged to snag the use of it for this evening because by day, it's a touring company. But if we get on that helicopter, no one will be able to catch up to us at the airport. Nadir's going to be meeting us at our new destination, which is going to be on the plane ticket. The paperwork is all in this folder. New identities, new everything. There's even a wig for each of us in there," Something shrill rang out and Raoul frowned, taking a phone from inside his jacket.
He paled.
"Raoul, what is it?"
"Nothing, but we've got to go. Now," he wouldn't look at her and slipped off his jacket, quickly chucking it to her, while pilling in the folder to a smaller duffle bag that had been tucked inside, a wallet, sunglasses, a wig and a hair stick, "You can't take weapons with you, but a stick in an eye will still hurt," he passed her it also, "Put the strap around you, then put on the coat,"
"What's going on?" she demanded, shrugging on the pirate frock coat he'd been wearing without complaint over the duffle bag containing the supplies. It was bulkier than she'd imagined.
Raoul grimaced as he stood, reclaiming her hand as he tugged her towards the edge of the building, towards something that looked like a sort of rig, "Slight change of plans, nothing to worry about though. You told me that you did abseiling before? This is going to be similar, but this is going to be a straight fall, so you'll just need to lean back in the harness and hold it here," he tapped a yellow loop that held a carabiner that would attach her to the abseiling device, "Easy peasy. It'll come to a stop before it hits the bottom,"
"Raoul – what's wrong, why won't you look me in the eye?" her hands closed around his waistcoat, pleading. Grimly, she heard the clink of a carabiner, and her heart dropped as he made no move towards attaching himself, "Raoul?"
He met her eyes at last and she could see true fear glimmering there, "You need someone to protect you, Little Lotte. I won't ever abandon you again. We will find each other. Just follow the instructions,"
"What? What are you talking about –" her lips were claimed once more, this time she could feel the desperation within him, just a little boy playing at being a man. She pulled back only to hug him, resting her chin on his shoulder. His arms wrapped around her tightly, just as two boring orbs glared back from within the darkness. She froze. No. He promised.
"Get your filthy hands off my fiancé, boy,"
"Run, Christine, run!" Raoul hands were the last thing Christine saw as they shoved her back and the world fell away from around her.
A scream tore from her throat as her hands clutched the yellow rope, her stomach left at the top of the building and the rest of the world thrown out of focus around her. Falling; this was one of the worst rollercoasters she'd ever been on.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I did not sign up for this!
The ground was coming up towards her too quickly and she couldn't remember what Raoul had said exactly about landing. Oh hell, she did not need this – this was turning into a nightmare. Raoul had been left with the man she'd spent the last year trying to protect him from. And all she could do now was run. Run. If she went back there, then she'd lose everything. Have nothing to bargain with.
I'm more valuable to him than Raoul will ever be.
And she'll have to meet this Nadir at the end location. Christine didn't want to know why he had stayed behind. Best scenario, the man had kept an eye on Erik. Was the one who had sent Raoul a message for them to leave. There hadn't been enough time.
She hadn't even managed to say her goodbye. Again.
Damnit. Godamnit.
A yelp left her lips as the harness caught abruptly, her feet dangling above concrete as circulation was cut off at her waist and upper thighs. Sirens wailed as she unsteadily unclipped herself from the rig, (hanging mid-air while trying to shift your weight on a carabiner with a bulky bag swinging around your waist was not the easiest thing to accomplish) and dropped to the ground, knees almost buckling, stumbling back into the corner. Her shoes that had been comfortable half an hour ago had started rubbing. Christine would be putting plasters on sores tomorrow.
Fumbling with the zipper of the duffle, she grasped the folder and snapped it open. Though it trembled in her hands, there were directions to get to the Rue Scribe – a map showed her that she was currently on the Rue Auber. Someone had dedicated time for this. Prepared this for her.
She sniffed. No. Now was not the time to get teary eyed. All raging senses told her to run back into the building, to dash up those stairs in order to save Raoul from this bad dream, to hold him and cry into his shoulder. To make a deal with the devil.
Or maybe to go back to a world where it was simple. Where waking up in the morning and deciding what she had for breakfast was the most difficult choice to make. Thinking about what she could paint, where she was going to explore. To smell the lavender on the breeze or being able to open windows inside a hotel, music at her beck and call.
A black car sat down on the path of the Rue Scribe, engine rumbling. The taxi company had been listed on the sheet, which matched the company insignia on the car. Her heels clicked down the path, glancing upwards as if she would be able to see Raoul and Erik's confrontation from below.
Am I making the right decision? I don't want them to get hurt. Raoul has risked his life for me and I can't waste this chance. I can't. I won't. Not when it means I have the chance to confront Erik as an equal.
She cleared her throat, rapping on the window of the taxi. It squealed as it zipped down, revealing a bored face.
"This is the taxi for Mademoiselle Daae, yes?"
God, please be the right one.
"Yes, and for a Monsieur De Chagny," the man confirmed, an eyebrow lifting.
"Unfortunately, Monsieur De Chagny is detained this evening, but I will still be going," she opened a door and slid inside, heart hammering, "My destination is the –" she looked down at the piece of paper, "Issy le Moulineaux Heliport, the one on Avenue de la Porte de Sevres…"
"Oui, I know where that is," the taxi man replied genially as pulled out into the road, "Your amour not a fan of heights, no?"
A nervous laugh wasn't hard to muster, "No, he fell ill and didn't think that battling heights was a good idea," her eyes didn't leave the roof of the Opera House until it was no longer in sight.
Christine tried in vain to take in a deep breath, but it felt too uncontrolled, too damn difficult under the mask. Pulling the tie at the back, the mask fell away and she regained the full use of her peripheral vision. She shuddered. Had Erik always been without the full use of sight with his mask?
Thankfully, after a few more words of small-talk about her honeymoon with Monsiuer De Chagny, the taxi driver left her alone, opting to turn on the radio. It was almost loud enough to drown out the thud of blood pulsing in her ears, the stuttering beat of her heart. For twenty minutes the man navigated the car through the night-lit roads of Paris, passing near the Eiffel Tower.
Traitor.
Erik's voice hissed through her head, betrayal lit within those eyes that hounded her on the rooftop.
She shook her head. No. No. No. She was not the bad guy.
The voice in her head told her otherwise.
"Sixteen euros, Madame," the driver said, the car slowing as he pulled to a stop.
Christine left the warm interior of the car and passed her fare to the driver, sending him a polite smile, "Thank you and good evening,"
The driver gave her a curt nod before the lights of his car flared, growling as it drew away. Searching the rest of the parking bay, Christine found it empty.
Neither Raoul or Erik – I don't know which is worse. The fact that they're not here means that Raoul is still alive... Or Erik is on my tail.
Christine shuddered and buttoned her – Raoul's – frock coat, trying her best to conceal the odd attire, snapping out of her thoughts as the doors of the building opened under her touch.
Its classy interior felt obscene in comparison to the night so far, a foyer of polished glass and warm amber lights leading her to the receptionist.
After greeting and reciting the booking reference from her paperwork that she'd had a chance to look through during the taxi trip, the receptionist led her to a small conference room, her amiable chatter wandering far over her head. French was hard to translate on a fresh brain, much less a weary one. Still, she concentrated on the briefing made by the woman (she explained that they were slightly short staffed), her lesson about the helicopter ride and what not to do, Christine was then led to a lift.
"This is not the most usual case of having a helicopter ride, we mostly do tours of Paris, but since you have generously compensated, we are more than happy to deliver you to the airport," said her guide, "I notice that there is one person missing, the forms said a Monsieur De Changy would be here,"
"I uh –" she cleared her throat, tongue rasping like sandpaper, "He's decided to stay in Paris for another few nights and well, I have an important work conference to go to," she punctuated her lie with a laugh, "You know how men are,"
Look how good at it you are now. Once upon a time you'd have fooled no one.
Christine squeezed her fist.
"Oh, indeed Madame," the woman smiled and the lift seemed to clunk in agreement.
Dread curled in the pit of her gut, the absent pang of Raoul becoming more as she stepped onto the roof, the wind whipped by rotating rotor blades lifting her mess of curls around her head.
This is really happening.
I'm leaving Paris. Oh God. Without Raoul, without Erik.
Traitor. You are selfish. Leaving without a word, without a single goodbye.
Who will look after him now?
No. This was hers. No matter how much she heard her calling, she was a not going back there. Not while she had the chance to be free on her own terms. An opportunity that Erik had quashed at all costs.
Yes, be angry. It made it easier to leave while knowing she'd broken his heart. Betrayed him.
"You're a few minutes early, but they are ready if you wish to leave now," reported the woman, eyes sparkling as she raised her voice over the noise.
"Yes. Yes, please. Sooner the better," Christine all but shouted back, squeezing the strap of her bag of which she'd put over the top of the coat.
"Come this way!" the lady's hair had been tied back in a ponytail, but still it whipped backwards as the door of the helicopter slid open.
Christine climbed in, misjudging the height of the step and on the way bashing her hand on a pole. Silencing a curse, Christine focused on securing the seat belt and stowed her bag on the floor. Wincing at the amount of noise the engine made, she quickly placed the headphones on.
Ah. The noise faded to a dull roar. Much better.
It all felt slightly surreal when it took off; the jolt of it launching into the air, the throb of adrenaline still causing her to glance around, cruelly reminiscent of the time before. But that time she had at least the hand of Raoul's clutching hers, the quiet rumbling timbre of his voice beside her. Now she had no one.
No one but herself to blame.
Good morning/evening everyone! In a certain kindness, I am releasing an earlier chapter to ease that horrible sense of doom we're all feeling regarding our protagonists. I'm a saint, I know! :P
There is an actual helipad at the exact address Christine gave the driver. I may have twiddled a few logistics and placement of said helipad, but this company even flies to English airports and to Paris and back. I found it sad to think I'm stuck and definitely not going on any helicopter! Still, one can dream, right?
However, in order to clear some potential confusion, I want to list how Erik perceives the anniversaries:
- The day in which he met her as a young girl.
- The day he saw her in his restaurant, unknown to her.
- The day they met each other. (Which is not an anniversary he mentions, but what Christine considered to be their 'anniversary'). I.E the day in the restaurant, with Steph and Christine.
Erik is anything but traditional, and of course he will remember days with Christine to be marked as special. Hope that helped! :P
Perhaps you may have also noticed some chapter titles in this chapter. Three chapters are missing including the two 'His ...' titles, but if you feel like it, take a second look. ;) And some might also see the reference to another Phantom in this chapter too!
Thank you to my reviewers(!): Qtkittee (I hope I made the mask thing clearer, sorry for the confusion!), GothicLolitaxo (please don't have a heart attack XD we can all see Erik was not mortally wounded – also, how could I do that to you?) and my new two reviewers Jenny-cjn (thank you very much! Very pleased you enjoyed!) and Spiffybunn (aww, that's so sweet! And plowing through my chonky story all in one day! I'm impressed ;) Erik's POV is both elusive and well placed, we shall see if we hear from him soon! I'm glad you enjoy his perspective!).
Thanks to everyone else reading! Don't forget to say hello. :D
Now, I bid you adieu!
Merci,
Enigma.