Chapter 15

It was a long hour that I spent in the kitchen, awaiting Christine's arrival. She had not slept; I had heard her in the night, pacing endlessly about her room, or quietly sniffling against her pillow. Several times I had entertained the thought of going to her to comfort her, but then had eventually decided against it. She wanted me there little more, I think, than she wanted her own nightmares there; I would have been little comfort to her, would have served only to further remind her of what dwelled just outside her bedroom door.

I, myself, had slept little enough. The comatose state that overcame me both before and after my mask's application had grown shorter with every instance, until it now lasted just little over an hour. In between those times had been almost no rest, for my mind had been too much astir with the imminent events that awaited me come morn; I could not quiet my mind any more than I could still my heart by will alone, though many times I had in the past tried.

The clock chimed nine o'clock, and I had just begun to rise to fetch her, when she appeared around the corner. She stood, blurry-eyed and with cheeks shadowed, looking at me as if expecting chastisement; when I offered none, she continued onward and inward, and sank heavily into her chair.

Who would fill that chair, when she had departed? Even Nadir chose the one left of it; only she consistently warmed that seat with her sweet weight. The table--the room--the house would feel far more empty than ever before, once it had known what her presence felt like.

She thought my house was dark and cold, only because she had not seen it when she was not here.

"You... did not sleep well?"

"No," she said quietly, eyes fastened upon her knees. "I rarely do, Monsieur."

I lowered my head a bit, feeling rebuked. How to reply to such a thing, to such an insult? "I am... sorry, Christine. I did not mean for it to be so."

"No, I am sure you did not," she answered, still not meeting my eyes.

Silence settled between us, that impassable desert once more spreading before my eyes and threatening me with its impossibilities. You cannot have her, it said; you cannot reach her. She is beyond you, and always will be. I gritted my teeth and looked aside, finding myself too weakened to argue with that voice now. Too many times had I heard it, and I was beginning to believe it true, wholly and completely true.

Christine heaved a great and weary sigh, and slowly forced her head upwards, along with that pristine gaze. It fastened onto me, threatening me far more than any desert of silence could have, and with brow set in a grim line, she spoke: "What are we having for breakfast, Monsieur? Or am I too late for it?"

"Actually..." I glanced down at my wristwatch, and managed a meager smile--it was all I could do not to shed a tear. My voice trembled as I spoke. "I should think you would have no trouble whatsoever finding yourself a bit of breakfast, at this hour. Most cafés will still be serving, and I imagine any friend you care to visit will be just beginning their own."

She stared long and hard, unable to devour what I had given her. Lips moved but made no sound, eyelids fluttered; finally, she cleared her throat, and with glistening eyes asked, "What do you mean, Erik?"

I stood, turning my face away from her so she would not see the wince of pain I was forced to make. Her excitement, her enthusiasm for being returned--it was to be expected, but it was nonetheless painful to witness. She was killing me, my little songbird was, by taking to wing so willingly when her cage door had merely cracked.

"Gather anything you wish to take with you, Mademoiselle. I imagine you will be returning here no time soon."

Still she stared, still she did not comprehend my words. "Erik, what do you mean? Where are we going?" Her voice rose in pitch; I could see her lips fighting against a smile that desired against all wishes to grow.

My anger caught up with me, as always it did; I turned harshly from her, knocking aside the teacup I had yet to drink from. It shattered against the wall, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her recoil in terror. "Use your head, you silly girl!" I snarled. "I am returning you to whence you came--setting you free from this horrible hell!" I stood with my back to her, breath heaving, fists clenched at my sides.

Meekly she rose, and quiet as a mouse departed from the kitchen. I heard her gathering a few things into a bag, heard her quiet footsteps as she returned down the hall only a moment later, with little more than a fistful of possessions. "I.. am ready, Monsieur," she managed to squeak, though she trembled as she stood before me.

By some force of will, I managed to contain my anger, though my voice still shook with the effort of it. "That is all you wish to take?" I asked coldly. "All you wish to have, to remind you of this living nightmare?"

"This is all that belongs to me, Monsieur," and her own voice shook now, as well, with fright. "I do not feel it right to remove anything else from your home--"

"I told you it was yours, Christine!" I yelled, though I did not know why she angered me so. "And yet you refuse me, at every step, balking at any gift I offer you! Why? Because you are kind and good, Christine?" I snorted. "Or because you seek a way to hurt me?"

She drew back sharply, mouth gaping open. "Erik, how could you?" she gasped, as tears began to roll down her cheeks. I immediately regretted my words when I saw how much they had hurt her, but I could not find it in me to repent; I turned instead, away from her, and walked briskly down the hall. "Come, then," I snapped. "If this is all you wish, then all the better--you can carry it for yourself easily enough." I opened the door, and led her without.

I did not take her back into the opera house, but rather to the Rue Scribe exit. I took a moment to show her how to open it, and then pressed the key into her little hand. She stood looking at me with that same wide-eyed gaze, still as confused as cornered prey. "Should you ever wish to visit... I am trusting you, Christine, with this secret..." She nodded, lips pale and tight.

I stepped back, and she began to turn, but then paused. "Erik..." she whispered.

I held up a finger. "No, Christine. Whatever you have to say..." I shook my head. "Tell me another day, when next we speak." I caught up her hand, and slipped onto her finger my mother's old ring. "Wear this always for me, Christine, and I shall know that you have not forgotten Poor Erik."

She stared long at it, and then gave a slight nod. No words were spoken, but she offered me the tiniest of smiles, before turning away from me to pick her way slowly down the Rue Scribe.

"I love you, Christine," I whispered. She paused, and looked back at me; for a moment I thought she had heard me, but perhaps not, for she looked only a moment before continuing her journey down the street. "Goodbye..."

I returned to my little house on the lake, and found it cold and dark and empty--it was appalling, to exist within it in such solitude, after so growing accustomed to her companionship. When I entered the kitchen and saw the remains of my teacup, I snarled, and threw over her chair. I kicked it against the wall, and then staggered backwards to lean against the opposite barrier, one hand cradling my aching foot. The prospect of a broken toe serving as punishment for such unruly behavior was too much; I snatched up my cloak and hat, and swept from the room with the same speed and grace as had been mine when they had named me as that ethereal haunt of the Garnier.

However, it was not to the opera I traveled, to feast upon those splendorous colors and sounds; instead, I took to the streets, storming down lanes and casting evil glares upon all who happened past me, though there was little traffic at such an hour. All recoiled from me in the same fashion as had Christine; each caused me a second ache, a second blow to the heart--never, since my coming to Paris, had I felt the monster that I was, until then.

I traveled onwards, for what seemed an eternity, until my eyes lit upon a magnificent cathedral, backlit by the grey morning sky. I hesitated, and then with a sigh, entered that house of light. Deep within its sanctuary I traveled, pausing amongst the rows of pews and casting my eyes about the hazy darkness. There was a man kneeling in one of the foremost pews, murmuring quiet prayers; I retreated quickly, before his notice could fall upon me, and placed myself instead in one of the most distant corners I could find. I was beneath a beautiful stained-glass window, which I fixed my attention upon for some long moment; I began to feel blasphemous, however, and returned my gaze to the sanctuary.

The roof loomed high above me; light did not penetrate its highest points, and the swirls of dust lent it an air of true mystery. I leaned back, and folded my hands in my lap; my hat sat upon the pew beside me. All was silent within that gracious cathedral; it was as if the world without did not exist within. I felt my breathing slow, felt my pulse calm, until I had begun to feel completely at one with the stillness. It pervaded me and penetrated me, almost bodily forcing out all anger and resentment, until my temper was quelled and I had, for a moment, found peace.

Time ticked past, and I remained seated in utter quiet, and in a solitude that for once did not seem lonely. Christine, and my concerns surrounding her, seemed to melt away and roll off my shoulders. Never had I been a godly man--even when I had worshipped him, for those few years, I had not been what one would consider devout--but God played little part in this sudden contentment. It was atmosphere that seduced me; something within that cathedral promised of happiness and quiet and perfection, and those things were promises I could not keep from seeking out.

So long did I remain, that my presence drew the attention of an older priest; I saw him from far away, traveling towards me with the calm and stately speed of one who knows he will be waited for. I did not flee; my impulse to take flight, in fact, never kicked in. I merely remained seated, with perhaps a somewhat dull smile upon my lips, watching him and soaking in all that I could.

The priest took a seat upon the pew in front of me, and turned only a little to face me. "What troubles you, my son?" he asked softly, and still his voice echoed through the room.

"Naught, at the present," I replied, and the beautiful chords of my voice bounced from the walls; the priest's eyes lifted, as if following that sound as it rose to the ceiling.

"That is a voice, my child," the priest said with a smile, "which our God Above must be sorely missing."

I chuckled. "Perhaps," I said, though in truth I believed it was the god below who had sent this voice to France.

The priest was silent a moment, and then said carefully, "You have been seated here for many an hour, my son." I nodded slowly, and he continued. "Is there something to which you so dread to return?"

"You have the right of it, Father," I answered. "Something beyond your imagination--something truly dreadful."

"Come now," he said immediately, "your wife must not be so bad?"

I laughed, in spite of myself, and in reply held up my left hand. "There is no Madame, Father--no, it is not a woman who has sent me here, seeking sanctuary..." My tongue felt heavy with the falsehood, but I did my best to ignore it. Perhaps it was not a lie after all; I could not even be sure these days, it seemed.

"Then what, my son?" he persisted, though in friendly fashion. "What has frightened such a man into prolonged hiding?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug, and my hands parted briefly in a gesture of supplication. "I could not say, Father. Many things, and nothing."

"Ah." He turned away from me, and sat watching as the choir drifted into the room, singing softly some lamentation. That sound was a truly beautiful one; my eyes closed, and I lifted a bit, as if carried upwards upon the waves of those notes--which I may very well have been. I remained in a rapturous state such as that long enough that, when finally the music stopped and my eyes opened, the priest had departed from me. With a quiet sigh, I stood, and left that cathedral feeling far more at peace with the world than ever I had before.

xXxXxXx

"Christine!"

I jumped at the sound of a voice I had not heard for so many days, and then out of instinct ran to him. "Raoul!" I cried in return, as we came together with hands clasped tightly.

"Christine, where have you been?" he asked of me, eyes intense, and voice a mix between anger and relief. "It has been weeks! We feared you dead!"

I shook my head vigorously. "No, not dead, Raoul--" Amazingly. "--only ... away. I have been only away."

"You could have written to us, Christine!" he admonished. "Could have given us some notification, some brief instruction on where you had gone! We all have been worried sick!"

"I am sorry, Raoul," I said, ducking my head. "Please, you must forgive me. I was careless."

"No," he said, lifting my chin; his hands were warm and soft, not like Erik's; that touch, however, was not so tender, nor so elegantly executed, as had Erik's been. "You need no forgiveness," he told me. "It is that man, who has so influenced you to act foolishly, that need beg my forgiveness."

"Whatever do you mean, Raoul? What man?"

His eyebrows lowered, and he fixed me with a cold stare. "Do not act the idiot, Christine. You know exactly of whom I speak."

I turned my head away from him. "Erik... Monsieur Sartre has done nothing wrong, Raoul."

"Oh, so I suppose you ran off on your own, and of your own volition?" Those eyes rolled cruelly, and I felt myself shrink away from him. His anger, so unjustified, seemed so much harsher than Erik's--where once I would have sympathized with Raoul, I found myself now only appalled at his childishness. It was true that Erik had stolen me away, but he had no reason to believe Erik would do such a thing--and therefore, I found it painfully unfair that he blamed such an act on poor Erik...

I raised my hands to my cheeks, and pressed them there. Had I truly been so brainwashed? Why should not Erik take blame for this?

But he was so sad, and so lonely...

I felt tears rising to my eyes, tears of frustration, pity, anger, confusion...

My hand was abruptly snatched away from my face, as Raoul studied it closely, and then turned accusatory gaze upon me. "Christine, what is this?" he asked, holding up the finger that bore that incriminating ring upon it. "Who has given you this?"

I took my hand away from him, and cradled it against my chest. "Do not ask silly questions, Raoul. You know who has given it to me." What did it mean, that I had not removed the ring as soon as I was away from him? Did I truly believe he could see me, hear me? My eyes rose above me, to the rafters. Two days it had been since he had set me free, and only now had I grown the bravery to return to the Garnier. Every sound, every whisper, caused me to jump with fright, and still I had neither seen nor heard from Erik.

"Christine, what is going on?" Raoul asked sharply. "Are you, then, to be wed to this man?"

"No!" I said immediately, and then, "I do not know..."

He reared back from me, throwing his hands up in the air. "You do not know? What nonsense is this?"

I rubbed tears from my eyes, hiding my face behind my hands. "I do not know... Do not ask me to explain this, please, Raoul!"

That familiar head shook violently, and then he jerked away from me and stormed out. I leaned against the wall, hand at the base of my neck, and wept, for the thousandth time since my first introduction to Erik.

xXxXxXx

Several weeks passed, and I did not again hear from Erik. The only notification I received of his continuing presence was my constant rising through the ranks of the opera house. It was not long before there was a great argument over a presentation of La Triviata, in which Carlotta was to star, and in which it was desired that I should star. I wished to stir up no confrontation with that beast of a woman, and so meekly I stood upon the sidelines while she and the managers argued it out; I was backed only by the letters which Erik repeatedly sent to act as his ambassadors. Eventually living and angry faces, wholly present at such instances, won out over the messily-written though finely-composed letters which Erik had been sending.

This was, of course, a disaster I did not care to dwell upon. I had seen firsthand Erik's temper, and that only over what silly things I had done while with him--I could hardly imagine what should occur if his wishes were so blatantly ignored. What frightened me more was that it was not truly Erik's wishes which were being ignored, but the Phantom's. I had come to view him as three wholly separate beings, each of which frightened me in their own way, but the Phantom more so than any other. This was his truly dark side, that side which appeared when he was angered, when his tempers sent him into dimensions beyond my own grasp. The Phantom terrified me, and rightly so, and now he was being intentionally provoked.

Each rehearsal for the production grew increasingly difficult, increasingly risky, until things progressed to a stage at which even the managers refused to go on stage, for fear of falling to harm. A chorus-girl was hit upon the head with a sandbag; two stagehands, on two separate occasions, "fell" from the catwalks--they were bruised, and one broke a finger, but otherwise no harm was done. The chorus girl perhaps lost a few thought processes, but she had had few to begin with, I suppose. Carlotta narrowly escaped harm herself; she was practicing a duet, when a bucket plummeted downwards from the ceiling; it, however, caught upon the railing of a catwalk, and was repelled a few feet to the left of the prima donna. She screamed enough to have been hit, however; no rehearsing could be managed for the rest of that week.

When finally it came time for the production to take place, Erik's box was rented out, and I placed in the chorus, as usual. I minded it little enough; in truth, singing the lead was more stressful than I cared for. In my little dressing-room, which had somehow been kept for my own use through Erik's demands, I retreated only a few minutes before the debut, to put any final touches on my makeup that was required. I, also, felt that I needed a moment or two of stillness, for the world without was a raging storm of nerves and fear--none believed they would survive the night.

What I found within my room caused me near to faint with dread. Upon my vanity was a copy of the score of La Triviata--Carlotta's role was clearly marked in red ink. A note was set beside it, which read only, "Be prepared." The handwriting was unmistakable.

To go onto that stage, knowing for a fact that something dreadful would happen, took almost more bravery than I had within me. I knew something awful would happen, and soon, for he would not long put up with the noise he considered Carlotta's voice to be, not if he had a plan for replacing her with myself.

I risked a peak out into the crowd, and saw Raoul seated in his own private box, looking pale and grim-faced. Feeling tears rise to my eyes again, I retreated to my place stage-left, and did my best to settle my nerves.

Things began without a hitch, and continued on for almost half an hour in the same fashion. It was, however, in the middle of Carlotta's "most anticipated solo" (as read the Epoch), that her voice began to falter. I do not know what happened to her, exactly, but with every few notes, she would emit something that sounded so remarkably similar to a frog's croaking, that none of us could help but to laugh. Even I, knowing the demonic source of her failing, could hardly suppress a giggle, though I did my best to crush my hands against my lips.

Carlotta fled the stage, chased off by a crowd which felt much similar to myself; laughter was filling the auditorium, a horrible sound to a singer, but even I could not find much pity for the witch. The only pity I did feel, in truth, was for how little she had on this occasion deserved it; it was not her fault, after all, that Erik hated her.

"We surrender!" the managers both cried at once; they came to me, grabbed me one by each arm, and began to drag me towards my dressing room. "You shall sing it! You shall sing it!" they cried. "We cannot handle this sabotage any longer!"

It was too late, however, and I knew it would be. Too much too long--too little too late. Erik's wrath would not be so easily quelled, and I trembled as I walked out onto that stage. I hoped--prayed--that his wrath would not fall upon my own shoulders, as some sick form of final punishment. I still wore, even beneath my costume, the key he had given me, upon a little golden chain; its weight upon my breast served as a constant reminder of guilt, for not having returned to him. I could not, however, bring myself to voluntarily return to a place from which I might never again escape.

I took up my place upon stage; the conductor conversed briefly with me on where Carlotta had left off, and eventually it was decided that we should begin the aria again. I nodded once to him, and the instruments struck up their tune. My lips parted, I drew a breath, and began to sing.

Barely a few notes had escaped my throat, when the chandelier above us began to groan. My eyes went wide, and my voice faltered; the conductor cleared his throat, trying in vain to recapture my attention, but my eyes were focused solely upon the chandelier, which was now swaying back and forth. Slowly, members of the audience began to look up as well. A ghostly laugh rang through the room, and I heard his voice cry something out, though I know not what he said. With a final and mighty groan, the chandelier jerked once, and then plummeted to the ground below it. I saw Raoul rushing towards me, and then blackness washed over me, and I fell down into his arms.

xXxXxXx

When I came to, I found Raoul leaning over me, peering concernedly into my eyes. "Christine, are you alright?" he demanded immediately. "Were you hurt? Are you ill?"

"No..." I sat up slowly, one hand pressed against my forehead. "No, I am alright..."

The night's events suddenly returned to me, in one final rush, and I started to my feet. "Raoul, you must come with me!" I cried. "Quickly, quickly!" And we fled to the roof--the only place I could imagine, where Erik would perhaps not hear our words, could not spy upon his from the walls of that horrible theatre.

"Christine, have you gone mad?" Raoul demanded of me. "What is wrong with you?" He looked around, and curled his arms tightly around himself. "It is freezing out. Why have you brought me here?"

I stood bravely for a moment, looking him firmly in the eye. I had decided to tell him everything, to explain away all that had happened. Once I had tried to tell him about the Angel--I remembered how horribly that had gone. But this time, I assured myself, this time would be different... My resolve melted away, and I crumpled once more into his arms, weeping bitterly. "Oh, Raoul... Oh, Raoul, you shall think me insane!" I cried. "Utterly.. insane...!"

He murmured silly nothings into my hair, and I buried my face into the crook of his neck. Erik had terrified me so, had been so cruel... He had killed a woman, an innocent woman, just because Carlotta had sung! He could have killed hundreds, could have killed me... And Raoul was so warm--not like Erik's death-cold... and he was so strong, and brave, and good... His heart was so kind... And I had been so cruel... Cruel, like Erik!

I told him everything that night, told him of the angel, and of being taken down to Erik's lair, and of seeing what lay behind that mask... I even betrayed such warm, heartfelt secrets as the night Erik and I had spent beside that beautiful country lake, of our conversation on nightingales... I relayed our walk in the park, and how he had almost proposed, and how I had almost accepted, and how stupid I now felt for having loved him, even though that was not true... I told him about the Ancient Mariner, about the spider, about the man in the funny red cap... I told him of Erik's music, and Erik's anger, and all the terrible things he had done. I told him how much he frightened me, and how I was afraid I would be kept forever in that tomb. I told him about all the things Erik knew that he should not have, about the portrait of that woman on Erik's mantle who looked so much like me! I told him of how Erik had kept me prisoner in that place, had repeatedly almost struck me for silly anger, how he had wept when I had seen the horrible thing that lay beneath his mask... I told him of the Ancient Mariner again, told him how much that poem had frightened me--that woman, I said, she was Death's consort, and I feared that I would be too! That I would be so pale, and so death-like, just as she was, and just as Erik was, when he was not so magically transformed! Of how he had seen me, and touched me, in ways inappropriate for a man and a woman who were not wed, how he had acted so inappropriately, so against every social grace.

I told him everything, but only everything bad. I did not tell him of Erik reading poetry to me, of Erik comforting me when I had been frightened by nightmares. I did not tell him of Erik teaching me things, of Erik showing me the beauty of the Persian fairy tales, and of all the strange and fascinating things that were in his house, alongside all the terrifying ones.

I told him everything horrible, because horrible was all I could think of just then, and he listened in silence and comforted me when he could. And when I had finished, I thought I heard a sound nearby; I looked up, and for just a moment, could have sworn I saw Erik's two glowing eyes staring so accusingly at me. I cried out, and Raoul assured me they were only distant torches upon a neighboring roof, but still I felt faint with fear.

"We must leave this place," Raoul said, hands clasping my own tightly. "We will leave, and never return, and all shall be well with the world. He cannot follow you anywhere, cannot hurt you once you are out of his reach."

I nodded dumbly, and let him lead me towards the stairs. However, I did not truly agree with him--the knowledge of Erik, and Erik's pain, hurt me far more than Erik himself ever could. I had betrayed him, betrayed his every secret to a man he considered his enemy. Had he deserved that? Had he deserved such mistreatment at the hands of the woman he loved?

I am trusting you, Christine, with this secret...

I love you...

"Christine!"

I started, and turned quickly around--but saw nothing upon the rooftop. Shivering, I allowed Raoul to draw me inside, and to put his coat about my shoulders. Soon, he said. Soon, we will leave this place, and he will never hurt you again. I made him no reply, just allowed him to tug me ever onwards, leading me as if I were a little child, altering the path of my destiny--and I could not bring myself to argue. Fear and uncertainty had instilled apathy in me, and I was like a catatonic, doing only as my current puppeteer wished me to.

"I am sorry, Erik," I whispered, but no one heard me.