Author's Note: I'm still alive! Just barely, but I'm here. ;) After so long between updates, I'm sure that most of you just want me to get on with the story. However, there are several things that have….changed. Evolved, really.
One thing is that I originally planned this story to be about ten chapters long- detailing from Christine's abduction to her subsequent release about two weeks later. However, the ten chapter idea has been completely abandoned, and the ending place for 'Roses' is also in question. Don't give up on this story! Hopefully, everything will be sorted out soon. ;)
By the way, if I continue the story past where I had planned to end it, odds are that Raoul will be present after all…I know that some of you will probably hate me for that, (That is, assuming I still have any readers after the unforgivably long hiatus!), but don't despair. He will never be a major character in this story, though his presence may have long reaching consequences. ;) And now, after ages of silence, I give you the latest installment of Roses (in every sense of the word!).
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Can ever a shadow be trusted?
For who knows what in it may dwell-
A demon with twisted visage,
Or an angel trapped in Hell?
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After Christine's epiphany on her river Lethe (this paradox amused her, even in such an unprecedented situation), the rest of the shadowed journey was spent in a tide of tangled emotions: a sick queasiness shared space with an overpowering nervousness, a spark of hope and joy, a touch of horror and a positive flood of macabre curiosity.
It was Erik, she was sure of it. Where had he been all of these years? What made him finally break his long silence? Where was he taking her? Why was he taking her?
Christine was starting to realize that she knew next to nothing about the man who had been her angel for so long. He knew all of her secrets, hopes and dreams. Her life was an open book for him, but she didn't even know his last name. In more than ten years of friendship, her first glimpse of him was now- in the opera's strange underworld. She remembered, now that the fog had cleared a bit from her tired mind, hearing mention once or twice of the dark, underground lake that the Palais Garnier towered above- but she had never imagined that there was a whole world concealed in the shadows below her home! It was a bit like the stage, she mused. The audience rarely gives thought to the chaotic realm behind the curtain; they rarely think of the souls that orchestrate everything that they see from behind, above, and around the lit stage. In the same manner, the Opera Ghost was the driving force behind the management of the opera- sending notes and occupying Box Five without ever allowing his audience to see beyond his own stage.
Christine was so lost in her contemplation that she very nearly screamed when the bottom of the quaint little vessel scraped against land. Shaking slightly and already suffering the beginning of what promised to be a punishing headache, she turned nervous eyes to her captor/angel/friend. Erik had turned his attention to securing the little boat, and Christine had no idea what he wanted her to do. So she sat there, watching his graceful movements and twisting the fabric of her dressing gown between her fingers.
After what seemed an eternity, he finally focused his lamp-like gaze back upon Christine. As he had done before, he unfurled his fingers in a clear beckoning. She cautiously stood, trying not to rock the boat or lose her balance. She stepped toward the embankment, putting one slippered foot over the side of the craft. She stumbled a bit when lifting the other foot, and Erik was immediately at her side, his hand outstretched to support her elbow. But at the the last minute, he drew it back, ducking his head and blinking at the ground. Christine steadied herself, watching him warily. Without looking at her, he motioned for her to follow him, as he started to slowly delve deeper into the darkness. She took a deep breath and hurried after him, before she lost sight of his dark silhouette.
The next few minutes happened so quickly that Christine was left with only the vague, dreamy conclusion that Erik was some sort of magician. One minute, she was deep within the bowels of the opera, picking her way up some invisible path, trying to keep pace with her estranged angel while still favoring her aching head; the next minute, she was in a perfectly normal Parisian parlor. She seemed to have just appeared there- she could remember no door or entrance of any sort. A fireplace of fine, dark wood and polished stone dominated one wall, several finely embroidered chairs sat strategically around a small coffee table- angled as though they had just been vacated by some merry party. But these details barely registered, entranced as she was by the roses. Crimson petals dusted nearly every surface; some withered and nearly black with age, some soft and fresh. It was like an indoor garden, and despite the odd circumstances, Christine couldn't help but find it all terribly beautiful. She trailed her fingertips across the nearest bloom, breathing the delicate scent that filled the air. It was a unique smell; the sweet perfume of the roses mingling with the musty, decaying smell of the underworld. Christine shivered. There was tragedy in that smell, that struggle of fragrances. When Erik materialized in front of her (where had he disappeared to so quickly?), Christine attempted to shake away her irrational thoughts. A single oil lamp dimly lit the scene, aided only by a few well used candles. Dim though the lighting was, it was a drastic change from the utter blackness of the labyrinthine underworld. And so, as he stood there, she finally gazed at Erik for the first time.
He was so very thin, he truly looked like a skeleton. The effect was only enhanced by his height and clothing; he wore unrelieved black from head to foot, including a sweeping ebony evening cape. Even his thick hair was black.
The most unusual part of his appearance was the mask (black, of course) that covered his entire face, from hairline to chin. Only his glowing eyes were exposed, and Christine noticed that their odd luminescence was significantly dimmed in the more substantial light.
His hands, which had shone palely in the darkness of the underworld, were now covered in black gloves that failed to hide his unnaturally long fingers. As she stared, she saw his hands begin to shake, twining around each other in obvious nervousness.
She blinked, and raised her eyes back to his. His gaze was boring into her own, and Christine felt that she would never fail to be surprised at the intensity of his eyes- even dimmed as they were now- should she see them every day.
He cleared his throat, and finally spoke to her. "Do not be afraid, Christine. You are in no danger" he whispered.
Christine sighed, her eyes nearly sliding shut. Oh, how she had missed his voice! That beautiful, unearthly voice that resonated through the very strings of her soul. Lost in a pleasure long denied, it took her a few moments to register the actual words that he had spoken. When she did, however, she felt the first tinges of anger.
"Erik!" she said, though the word came out more like an accusation. He shut his eyes, which only fueled her anger…and the sorrow that lay just beneath its surface. She studied him, the emotions fighting for dominance within her small body. With his eyes shut and that mask, she could not even begin to guess at his own feelings. Her fists clenched as a surge of anger overwhelmed the old, weary sadness. Even now, he hid from her! Christine lunged forward, intent on removing the mask and finally being face to face with Erik.
He moved so quickly that she stopped and stared. He was still backing away from her in sharp, jerky movements, his eyes wide. Tentatively, she lowered her outstretched hands. He continued to stare at her, looking positively terrified.
Christine never knew exactly what brought it on. Perhaps it was the stress of the evenings events (the chandelier falling, Carlotta croaking…), or her own sudden and frightening journey under the opera. It could have been the utter shock of meeting Erik again, or it could have simply been the residual effects from her fainting spell. Whatever the case, Erik's behavior was the final straw- Christine's eyes filled with tears and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.
She had imagined what it would be like if he ever returned. She would be beautiful and successful, and would thank him graciously for his role in her life. He would regret every moment spent away from her, and would beg her forgiveness. Then he would allow her to finally look upon him, and they would resume their easy friendship, all troubles forgotten.
But this man standing before her was so different from her childhood friend! He was distant and cold, and he seemed to be either utterly terrified or repulsed by her. She could feel his desire for her to stay away; it was almost tangible in the air between them.
She collapsed into one of the chairs, curling into herself and vainly attempting to stop tears that she knew were perfectly irrational. As she cried, she felt a slight breeze at her feet, and looked up to see Erik kneeling at her feet. His hands kept making odd, fluttering little movements, as though he wanted to reach for her, but could not bring himself to. She stared at him, his figure swimming before her watery vision. Finally, he lowered his head and touched the hem of her dressing gown to the lips of his mask.
The gesture was so reverent, so unexpected that it slowed the shaking sobs that had been tormenting Christine.
But it was his voice, his incredible voice, that halted her tears. It came from nowhere and everywhere- it floated in the air and pulsed with her heartbeat, filling her insides and surrounding her outsides; wrapping her in a gilded cocoon of sound. She was frozen, too spellbound to even wipe the salty tracks of tears from her cheeks. When he raised his head and his golden eyes locked with her own, Christine knew she was drowning. She couldn't breathe or think; there was just the song, weaving her a wings and carrying her away into the night.
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I apologize for the piecey texture of this chapter- it was written a bit here and a bit there. And again, I am sincerely sorry for the long wait! Thank you to those of you who expressed a continued interest, despite all of that. ;)