Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera, Susan Kay's Phantom, or Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical.
Turn of the Tide:
Raoul:
The rest of the evening was spent with an air of sad suspense hanging in the air. While I did not weep for the one that lay dying, my heart grieved to think of what Christine must have been feeling. On the outside she appeared composed at times, while other moments she looked utterly torn between confusion and despair. Her love for this man was not the sort of love she shared for me, but it weighed heavily on her heart.
The Persian, too, received my sympathy. The entire night he remained there at the bedside, carefully eyeing Doctor De Lorme's movements and watching the figure on the bed for any reaction. Erik simply lay there, still struggling quietly for breath. Renee worked diligently, and the Persian assisted in whatever needed to be done. The bleeding had stopped, but irrevocably the damage had been done. I waited patiently for the end to come.
Much to everyone's surprise, though less so the Persian's, Erik managed to survive the night. By now Renee looked nearly as worn and ragged as Erik did, no wonder. When I entered the room in the morning carrying a tray of tea for the poor man, I found him sitting to the left of the bed, his cravat hanging untied about his neck and his fingers buried in his silver hair.
"God knows how, but he lives," Renee muttered, thoroughly exhausted.
"So I see, though you do not appear much better," I noted. I prepared a cup and offered it to his trembling hand, then turned back to pour my own. "Have you managed any sleep?"
"None," he began after he took a sip of the hot liquid. "I lost a pulse in the early morning hours and was quite certain that was the end. But as you can see, he's managed to keep me up since then."
I scoffed. "Yes well, he has a habit of doing that to others."
"I am beginning to resent him for it," joked Renee. "Do you know the man well, Raoul?"
Slowly I sipped my tea and carefully pondered my response. "Erik? I cannot say that I know him well at all. Why do you ask?"
"You seem the epitome of composure in this situation, I questioned your attachment to the man, is all."
"One could say that Erik and I have been at odds with each other for some time," I admitted.
"Over the young lady?" inquired Renee. Why did I not see his ridiculous interests in my affairs coming? Hadn't the man a hobby?
I drew a slow breath and answered. "At one time, yes I suppose so."
Renee tilted his head slightly in curiosity. "No longer then?"
Inwardly I smiled. "I am quite confident in that state of affairs now."
"Such ambiguity from a man of your age. You shall have nothing left when you get older." Not long after, Renee left to return home and attend to another patient. He assured us of his return and that Erik's condition was not likely to change while he was away. I returned to the room and once again found the Persian, Nadir Khan, at the bedside. Slowly, I closed the door behind me and leaned against the wall in silence.
"I had thought it to be over this morning," he muttered.
"Your friend seems quite content to lead us all on," I said quietly.
"Friend…" Nadir whispered, a small smile flickering on his features. "Yes, I would think at times he would beg to differ with that."
I shifted against the wall and crossed my arms. I was curious about the relationship between these two mysterious characters. "How do you know him, Monsieur Khan?"
Nadir looked up from the bed and seemed to contemplate for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with both a fondness and a sort of quiet horror. "He was under my protection as the Shah's daroga," he began. "I was sent across a continent to retrieve this man for the Shah-in-Shah. Rumors of his magical talents had spread far and wide Monsieur…Do not look so surprised, Monsieur! Erik spent the majority of his life abroad, making a reputation for himself as an artist, architect…"
"Magician," I interjected.
"Of course. He was in the service of the Shah for several years entertaining in a variety of instances…" the Persian paused. "His most amazing accomplishment by far was the design and construction of the most magnificent palace Persia had ever seen. 'Genius' simply cannot adequately describe it."
"This seems to be a reoccurring notion with him."
"Rightfully so. I suppose one could say I was officially his bodyguard, but I should like to think that I managed to befriend him at some point. He was of some great assistance to what was left of my family during his stay…I curse and hail him for it every day," Nadir trailed off sadly. He paused once more in my silence before continuing on.
"Erik possesses more talents than you may possibly fathom. In all our years of hesitant friendship I still could only scratch the surface. He could have held the world in his hands, Monsieur, but even the most basic rights in life were denied to him." I said nothing in response. Nadir seemed to sense my thoughts and paused for a moment.
"He was not born a monster, Monsieur le Vicomte. The world made him into one."
I lowered my eyes to the floor. My pity for Erik was undeniable to me now. It pained me some to think of what he could have accomplished had he been "normal," but even with a perfect face the man would never be normal. If he was truly as extraordinary as other had said, he must have been troubled. He was troubled! The human mind cannot cope with such abilities without its shortcomings, of this I was sure. At this time I had not heard more than a fraction of his tragic past, though I could leave a good majority of it up to conjecture, especially with the evidence his body bore. But I steadfastly stood by my convictions. The man murdered others, whether by necessity or some perverted pleasure. I could not quite discern where my pity ended and my hatred began.
The Persian kindly refused my offer of tea, and I silently retreated from the room. The house was doused in silence, so it seemed. As I passed down the hall toward the more lively areas, I could not help but notice the curious stares of the household staff. I could feel their eyes boring into the back of me. I shoved my hands into my pockets and continued walking.
Later that morning I took Christine to see Mamma Valérius. Our departure was delayed some as one of the geldings in my usual two-horse team was acting oddly in harness. When he began displaying signs of colic by pawing restlessly and looking several times at his aching abdomen, the hands unhitched the two black geldings and returned them to the stable. They then returned with my grey team, and we were off.
Mamma Valérius was eased to see Christine well and I assured the sweet old woman that she was no longer in danger. Naturally she insisted that never was Christine in any danger with her Angel of Music. I merely allowed her the beliefs that she had lived so long on and turned my attention to Christine. She was putting on a good show of composure for her guardian despite the drama that had been occurring in her life. If it is even possible, my respect and love for her grew exponentially over the past several days in light of her bravery.
I left Christine with Mamma Valérius for the majority of the day, as Christine felt that it would be important to return to a sense of normalcy. I suspected she would return with me that afternoon to return to my home as she still had clothes and whatnot in her room there, but I would not protest should she decided to once again stay with her guardian.
After I left the two together I proceeded to visit our residence in the heart of Paris. For two days now I had heard nothing from Philippe and worried terribly about his health. While I hoped he had merely taken ill at neglected to send word to me, I feared the worst. I unlocked the door and as I removed my hat, I made my way up the stairs. The house appeared deserted save the small staff. I searched for Philippe in his quarters, the parlor, the library, everywhere I could think of. None of the house staff had seen nor heard from him. Frustrated and confused, I swung around and dashed my hat against my knee.
Philippe and I were close. He took it upon himself to raise me, and as a young man he did admirably. I worshiped him as a brother and in many ways idolized him growing up. When I took my commission in the Navy, he was enthusiastic and supportive, where most fathers were expectant and unforgiving. Though we had been at great odds over Christine, I still felt that underneath the façade of the Comte, he was in favor of our love. His well being meant the world to me.
For an hour or so I paced the streets of Paris with my head down, deep in thought. I ran through every possible scenario to explain Philippe's absence, but none quite seemed to fit. He had no business ventures planned, and would most certainly never leave unexpectedly on a trip without informing me, especially after the events at the Opera. Eventually I forced myself to stop and gaze through the glass at the various shops lining the streets. I took a casual interest in the jewelry store and finally the quaint little music shop.
It occurred to me that my piano – mine only that it resided in the same house as I; I possessed no talent for the thing – was most likely in desperate need of servicing. I had never bothered to touch it, and Philippe was not the musical sort either. Mother at one time played, and I daresay we bought the instrument to remember her by. Unfortunately for us, neither of us possessed the skill to make it into anything else than a picture shelf.
As I stood there on the street side peering through the window of the music shop, it suddenly – and most randomly – occurred to me: Erik was never able to do something so simple. I found that terribly sad. I shook my head before returning to gather Christine and return home.
Two more days passed uneventfully, with little development with Erik or word from Philippe. The authorities had long been aware of my brother's absence and assured me they were doing all in their power to find him. Meanwhile, Erik was still alive despite wearing Doctor De Lorme's nerves to oblivion and practically sending him to the mortuary himself. Erik's breathing, at least, seemed much more even and less labored, and I wondered if perhaps he was actually beginning to recover. To be perfectly honest, I was unsure how I felt about such a notion.
The hours passed slowly. Whether I was upstairs monitoring Erik with Nadir and Christine, or downstairs in my parlor, I could not escape the ticking clock. Desperately I needed to escape from the uncertainty, but I dare not leave Christine. More than anything I wanted to see Philippe walk through the door unscathed, demanding to know why I had made such a fuss over his absence.
It was late one evening when I finally received news. Christine and I dined, and retreated to the sitting room for a short time before we planned to check once again upstairs. We had been reading together for a short time before my valet showed in one of the Inspectors. At his suggestion I took a seat next to Christine as he informed me of Philippe's disappearance.
Philippe had been found dead in the cellars of the Opera. Nearly every other word out of the Inspector's mouth was inaudible to me as I tried to process the horrific news. Just that evening they had been coming the cellars of the Opera as a routine inspection following Erik's capture and came across the body. His body had been positively identified by his valet and they requested my identification for confirmation. Christine took my arm and held fast. A rush of emotions came to me and I felt as if I were drowning.
Quickly enough we made our way and identified my brother's body. They said he had drowned in the underground lake – my feelings easily suggested the culprit. Rage boiled within me at the thought that I was housing my brother's murderer under my own roof. My grief and Christine's strong grasp were the only things keeping me from betraying Erik's identity and whereabouts to the authorities at that moment.
We returned home and I spent what seemed like forever in front of the fireplace, staring aimlessly into the flames. I vaguely remember throwing myself onto the sofa and collapsing forward with sobs. Christine's arms were wrapped around my shoulders and I thanked God in Heaven that she was there with me that evening. The moments were a blur and lack detail, though I am sure of what I was feeling later.
Christine had dozed off on the sofa next to me, and once she was asleep I gingerly made my way up the stairs, utterly stricken with grief and anger. From my room I removed my pistol and loaded it before making my way down the quiet corridor leading to where the monster lay.
The Persian was in the adjoining room. Consumed by my loss, and convinced that Erik was to blame, I turned the knob and opened his door. I did not know if I wanted to shoot him or merely beat the mess out of him, but looking back it was quite possibly the stupidest decision I had ever made.
This was confirmed when I opened the door and turned toward his bed. I had not made more than three steps into the room when I felt a crushing pressure on my throat and was thrown backward.
Erik!
In four days the man had gone from death to deadly force. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I fought for my breath, I was able to focus on him. He wore a mask once more, undoubtedly brought by the Persian, and held me fast against him with his left hand. Initially panicked, I clawed at his arm, but was unable to snake from his grasp. My pistol became useless to me, and he snatched it away.
"You murderous…bastard," I spat as I struggled against him. "You will hang. I will see you hang for Philippe!"
"That," Erik began thoughtfully, "was not my doing, dear Vicomte." I could not believe him. I struggled even more at his impertinence. His grip somehow managed to tighten and I began to feel weak. "You think I did this? You ignorant wretch! What would I gain from destroying your brother?"
"To wipe my name from the earth…" I declared with contempt.
"I did not kill the Comte de Chagny," he said as I struggled once more. "The more you fight the more I shall take pleasure in crushing your wretched throat. Now I suggest you listen and listen well. I had nothing invested in your brother, he meant nothing to me. Did he have a head wound? Did he? Contrary to what you may believe about me, I do not kill for sport. I would not want to kill him, much like I am not going to kill you now." Erik's grip softened just enough for me to draw a sustaining breath. He then threw me to the side and after I fell, I turned just in time to see him sink to the floor, holding his right arm against his side.
And there we both sat, crumpled and broken on the floor, gasping for breath. We were both silent for a time. I was about to stand when I looked in horror to see Erik casually studying my loaded pistol. I froze as I stared at him, waiting for his next move. He merely sat there against the wall, wounded right arm still pressed against his wounded right side as he gazed at the weapon.
"I have been conscious periodically over the past day or so," Erik muttered. "Nadir told me about Comte Philippe after you had left to identify him." His voice had lost the threatening edge it possessed just seconds before, and to my shock was now genuinely soft and remorseful. He paused and looked over the gun once more before placing it on the floor and sliding it to me. He followed the gun with his eyes and muttered, "I am sorry about your brother."
I sat there, dumbfounded at his words. We remained there, sitting silently in the dark, two men broken in spirit.
Author's Notes:
Pertie – Thank you very much for the lovely comments. I'm an Erik girl through-and-through, but I respect Raoul and always think of it as R/C. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE a good E/C fic, but in my mind's eye I believe Christine made the right decision (trying to think of it logically) by choosing Raoul. Plus, this leaves Erik open for me. ;)
Thanks again to everyone who is reviewing, I love it!