The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French language are mine, and for that, I apologize.

Apologies for the long time in between chapters….this one is hard to write.

Please read and review.

A Second Chance

Chapter 3

Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene

Another Autumn

Winter's coming on; I feel it all around,

The leaves are moving faster along the ground…

Why have the dreams been broken all apart?

And where is all the hope that was in my heart?

Another autumn, I've known the chill before

But every autumn, I feel it more and more.

For you can dream in spring

When every hope is high

But when the fall comes in

They all begin to fade and die.

Another autumn, so sweet when all is well

But how it haunts you

When all is wrong

For one thing time has shown,

If you're alone when autumn comes

You'll be alone, all winter long…

From the Broadway production of Paint Your Wagon, 1951.

He stepped carefully around the slick stone wall, where the jagged outcropping of real rock abutted the shaped stone of the foundations. Down in the catacombs beneath the Opera lay several old twisting tunnels, carved by the natural erosive action of moving water and by the hand of workmen, laboring for the Commune or for the architect whose designs had created this immense building. Nadir Khan removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and fastidiously wiped the moisture from his fingers. One of these tunnels led to the underground house. He did not clearly remember which one—indeed the events of that harrowing time with the young Viscount had become blurred in his memory, the effect of a near brush with death. Nadir was, however, a man who had survived the treacheries of the Persian court and the dangers of the criminal underworld for most of his adult life. Stooping low, he noted the dark mark along the outermost stone of the second tunnel. With the faintest trace of a satisfied smile he set off into the maze.

She did not hear the outer door open slowly, nor did Christine detect the soft, stealthy footfalls through the underground house, until the harsh voice startled her out of the semi-somnolent state she had fallen into.

He gazed at the scene with disbelief. The state of Erik's underground home had led him to believe that there would be no one within; only the dim candlelight flickering from the opened panel door of the Louis Philippe room had alerted him to a presence. The woman they had braved death to free barely three days ago now sat again on the floor of her old room, leaning wearily against the bed, with Erik's head in her lap, streaks and blotches of blood dotting the bodice of her dress where it had seeped through clumsily applied bandages. Clearly, Christine Daaé had returned to the Opera, and had found her teacher.

"Child," he snapped, "what in the name of your god are you thinking? You should not be here!" Nadir knelt beside the young woman, pressing fingers into the bruised throat of the man who lay so motionless on the floor.

Christine pressed the back of one smudged hand to her flushed cheeks and then across her disheveled hair. "Who are you?" she whispered, her eyes dark, enormous with strain and fear at the sudden appearance of this compact and muscular man.

"An old friend, Nadir Khan," he responded calmly, jade-green gaze narrowed. "And now you will tell me what you are doing here! Where is your fiancé?" As he spoke, Nadir passed his hands down Erik's prone body, professionally assessing the damage, wincing slightly as ribs gave and a faint groan issued from the swollen lips.

"I was...I was worried about him," the young singer stumbled hesitantly. "He was once my teacher, he cared for me...I didn't know what had happened to him, I needed to find out. Raoul's not here, he's been temporarily recalled, something about a change in duty." To her horror, Christine felt the sharp prickle of tears and bit her lip, desperately trying to avoid crying in front of this harsh-voiced stranger who stood, hands on hips, surveying the room.

"Is this your doing?" Nadir gestured at the bandages and salve, the bowl of water and cloth she had used to gently pat Erik's face with, to moisten his cracked lips.

She nodded hesitantly. "I found him lying by the lake. It looked as if he had dragged himself down there. I pulled him back up to the house, on my cloak." Christine's voice broke helplessly. "Monsieur, I'm no nurse. I don't know what to do, but I could not leave him; I feared he would die. I've been praying and praying someone might find the note I left Mme. Giry and send help. He was my friend once…" She looked away from the Persian's probing glance. "How badly is he injured?" she whispered.

"I am no physic!" the Persian snapped, then sighed. "I do not know. However, I do not believe it is yet his time to die. He must have care, though."

The young singer looked up eagerly. "Let me help, M. Khan. You will need someone to assist you."

Nadir Khan glared down at her disdainfully. "You? You have already said you are no nurse, and I rather think you have done enough here! Can you not just leave him alone? Pah," he spat. "Go back to your Viscount and leave Erik. He has already suffered enough at your hands.."

"No." Trembling, she looked up him. "If I have, as you say, caused enough of his suffering, the very least I can do is to help him now. Tell me what I must do."

The Persian looked at her sharply. For this slight young woman to drag a man of Erik's height and weight back up the rough stone path to the underground house, through the darkness and alone, had taken a strong will and determination. Grudgingly, he nodded, and barked a series of curt instructions.

Together, they lifted Erik's motionless form up and onto the bed. Nadir sent her from the room as he stripped Erik's remaining tattered clothing and tended his injuries. Life as the head of the Shah's personal police, and years before that of military service and desert survival training had taught him a certain amount of the necessities of rendering aid to the injured. Rarely had he seen a man beaten to this extent, who yet lived. Grimly, he set about cleaning the wounds and dressing them as best it was possible. Periodically, Nadir ordered the young woman to find clean rags, bring a fresh bowl of water, or to fetch other items as needed. With a sigh, he pulled the bedclothes loosely up above his old nemesis' shoulders, and straightened; easing tight muscles, and stood looking down at the man whose livid injuries were now hidden. "You would hate this, Erik," he murmured. "When I return, I will bring something to ease your rest and to ease your pain. I think it…wise, if you sleep for the present."

Emerging from the bedchamber after some time, Nadir discovered Christine attempting to tidy the outer rooms. In silence, they righted the remaining furniture, and as he bent to lay a fire in the hearth, her footsteps retreated down the hallway into the kitchen, to emerge a few minutes later bearing a tray. Silently, she handed him a cup of black, bitter coffee and sat wearily in the small tapestry chair that had been her own.

"I have done my best," Nadir said after several minutes. "Erik will need constant care for the next several days, and perhaps beyond. I have known him to be injured before, and he has always recovered quickly." He fell silent, staring into the flames.

Christine glanced sideways at this enigmatic man, noting the lines of worry around his tired, sad eyes, and ventured a question. "From where do you know Erik?" she asked softly.

"Persia," he replied absently, sipping the Turkish coffee. "We were both in the service of the Shah." Nadir smiled faintly. "Erik was, for a while, the court magician, before the Shah discovered his other…talents."

"I never knew that," she said quietly. "He would never speak much of his past. I knew only he had been for a while, in the East. I had asked him once about his accent, and where he had learned Arabic."

Nadir smiled faintly, around the chipped rim of his cup. "He is a master at languages, and at other tricks, but that is Farsi he speaks. Would that we had both stayed there, and never come to this damp and dreary land."

Intrigued by this glimpse into his shrouded past, Christine pressed on. "How did you come to be friends?"

Nadir emitted an embittered sound that might have been a bark of laughter. "Erik has no friends. Though, I suppose I am in a way, his friend. He saved my life once, in a time when I had no allies, with only spies and treachery surrounding me. I have never really ever known why he did so--certainly, I was an ever-present thorn in his saddle. When he finally tired of the Orient, I followed him here, to his homeland." He replaced the cup on the low table between them. "Go home now, Mademoiselle, sleep. I will stay with him this night; you need not concern yourself with Erik."

Gathering the cups, Christine bent so her face lay in shadow, but her voice was determined. "I shall come back, M. Khan."

In her office at the turn of the corridor, Mme.Giry looked up, her sharp eyes watching and sharper hearing listening to the patter of slipper clad feet and chattering voices of the corps de ballet as they passed, heading for the first practice since the events of the ill-fated Don Juan Triumphant. M. Firmin and M. André had ordered everyone home so that they could assess the damage and try as best as possible to salvage the situation. Now, days later, they must begin the wearisome, difficult task of repairing what they could of the season, of their investments, of their lives and careers. She rose, gathering her thoughts and the list of instructions she had prepared for the girls.

A slight figure passed by, well behind the others, and stopped at the forbidding, furious expression of the ballet mistress. Mme. Giry grasped Christine by the arm and swiftly pulled the young woman into her office.

"Dieu merci, you are alright." She shook the young singer then whirled to pick up the note from her desk. "Christine, what were you thinking? How could you have gone back down there?"

Christine rubbed her arms, not meeting the older woman's black and furious eyes. "I had to know, Madame Giry," she whispered, "I had to know what happened to him." Her voice trailed off, aware of how inadequate mere words were to explain the complex warring emotions and thoughts of the last few days.

"Christine, you are a fool!," Adele Giry snapped. "And what of the Viscount? What does he think of your trip below again?"

She sank onto the nearest hard wooden chair. "He does not know, Madam Giry. He is gone…and I could not leave Erik to die…I owe him that much, at least."

Mme. Giry covered the young singer's cold hands in her own worn ones. "For Heaven's sake, child, think," the ballet mistress pleaded. "You have once barely escaped with your life. The Opera Ghost is dead…let him remain that way."

Christine looked up, her dark blue eyes suddenly shimmering with the tears and strain of the last twenty-four hours. "He is not dead, Madam Giry….he lives."

The ballet mistress dropped the girl's hands, stunned. "He lives? But I thought…the men said…"

Christine shook her head wearily, and leaned back in the seat, shutting her eyes. A tear streaked down her face and she brushed it away impatiently. "He lives. The Persian is with him now. He's horribly injured, not awake."

"The Opera Ghost lives?" she whispered. "But how?"

Christine shook her head. "I don't know…it is only by the grace of God, the Persian said. I've been down there, helping him tend Erik's injuries, but he sent me away."

"And well he should have." Grimly, the older woman stood, thoughts whirling furiously. "Tell no one of this, Christine! I will do what I can to help. Go on home, sleep if you can. I will make your excuses today—but no more! You must not return down there again!"

The young singer rose to her feet, but shook her head, her face troubled. "I cannot promise that, Madam Giry….he saved me once…I owe him that much, at least."

The Persian's cat-like tread and disdainful eyes caused Christine many hours of distress, yet daily she crept back, to prepare simple meals that she and Nadir did not consume, that Erik could not eat. Daily, she sat beside the injured man, keeping a vigil by his side, talking to him, singing to him until her voice grew hoarse, sponging his face and chest as his fever rose, trickling spoonfuls of water into his mouth. The ballet mistress had sent blankets, food, and medicines, but Erik remained unconscious and his fever soared.

Nadir bent worriedly over him. "We may yet lose him…damnation, I wish we could get a doctor." He turned to encounter Christine's wide, stunned gaze.

"He may die?" she whispered. "But I thought…he's always been so strong…."

Nadir regarded the younger singer queerly for a moment, then relented in the face of her obvious distress. "Child, he is not fighting to recover."

"Not fighting?" she repeated numbly, then walked slowly to the bed and stood looking down at the battered form of the man lying so motionless beneath the coverlet. She looked up wretchedly at the silent Persian, meeting the implied accusation in his eyes steadily. "It is because of me," Christine said quietly. "I never meant for this to happen to him, monsieur. I did not love him, true, nor did I want to marry him. But I would never have had this occur, believe me."

"What is it you do feel for him, Mlle.?" the Persian questioned, his odd jade-green eyes intense, probing.

She turned away from his insistent, sibilant tone, yet not before he caught the momentary flash of memory, of indecision in her eyes, but her voice was firm when she spoke.

"Friendship, M. Khan. And the loyalty of a pupil to her teacher."

The Persian's inscrutable gaze coldly assessed her. "It may not be enough to bring him back."

"It will have to be." She turned her back to him and walked to the bed, to sit wearily in the armchair, prepared to continue the vigil. He observed her in silence for a long minute, and she felt the weight of his disapproving gaze before Nadir Khan turned and left the Louis-Philippe room.

When she was quite certain he was gone, Christine knelt beside the bed and gently smoothed back his sparse hair before she lifted Erik's hand and pressed it to her cheek, mindful of his swollen, splinted fingers. "Oh, Erik," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. His battered face was still repellent in its extreme ugliness, but somehow in the days of caring for him, compassion had overcome her horrified fascination with and abhorrence of his features. She rubbed her cheek once, softly, against his palm, remembering another time his hand had briefly touched her face. "You must recover, Erik. I still need you, my maestro, my friend," she whispered.

A voice called him by name, urging him. Reluctantly, Erik turned from the shadows and listened. Slowly, his clouded mind focused on the tone, the timbre, the words. Christine? A pain worse than any he had yet experienced drove like a bittersweet blade into his heart. But the words were shaking with emotion, with sorrow, and he could no longer resist the aching pull of the carefully trained, melodious voice…

He opened his eyes to a dimly lit world of pain. For a moment, an oval white blur swam in and out of focus, before resolving itself into Christine's anxious face. Her long chestnut hair was pulled severely back, and dark circles under her eyes from nights of sleepless worry made them seem even more enormous; they glimmered in the candlelight with unshed tears.

She felt his fingers twitch against her cheek. "Erik?" Christine breathed, hardly daring to hope.

His voice was a barely audible rasp. "Christine…"

Nadir Khan bent over the man in the bed, leaning down close to listen to his painfully whispered words. Erik raised his good arm, reaching for Nadir, before his face twisted with the agony of movement. "Christine…?"

He sighed. "She found you by the lake, Erik, and brought you back up here."

Disbelief warred briefly with anger in the black gaze, before Erik shut his eyes and turned his face slowly toward the wall. "Get her…out of here, Nadir. I cannot…bear her presence," he hissed. "She should not have to see this—no woman should," he spat bitterly.

The Persian frowned. "She has been down here for three days, Erik, helping me care for you. It is she to whom you owe your life, for it is she who somehow dragged you from the lake and into this house, cared for you, kept you from dying." Nadir shook his head. "How could you let them catch you, Erik?" he murmured. "After all this time, you of all people should be a master at hiding."

Black eyes opened into hatred-filled slits. "Goddamn it, Nadir, I wanted them to catch me—I wanted to die!" His voice was filled with loathing and raw with pain. "I am tired of living, Nadir! I am tired of retreating down here like an animal into its lair." Wearily, he shifted slightly under the coverlet. "Now--take her and go! She chose to leave, and I do not wish to ever see her again."


Please review, and thank you for reading.