An Empty Cellar
Disclaimer – Totally don't own it.
Epic Insanity – Thank you so much, and also yay first reviewer on this story. I'm glad you like my ramblings XD.
A/N – Ok here's a proper chapter for you, this one actually has dialogue! Wow! –shot-
The fall was terrifying, Christine could hear the commotion above them before the trapdoor snapped shut again, plunging them into darkness. They landed on something soft, something taut like the nets they used at the circus in case the trapeze artists fell. Had he put that there? Just how long had he been planning this? Something had caught her shoulder blade on the way down, perhaps a stray nail or a splinter of wood, regardless it had ripped though the back of her costume and tore her skin beneath. She had barely noticed in all the chaos but now the sting began to make itself known and she winced from the pain. Was she bleeding?
Without a word, he led her down that familiar route to the house on the lake. The place was darker than before, with only a few lanterns hanging on the wall, the hundreds of candles and books and curiosities were nowhere to be found. She couldn't help but gasp in shock when she saw that the place had been almost completely emptied. If the towering pipe organ hadn't remained in its alcove she would have thought that they had come to the wrong place. The instrument looked terribly lonely, without its usual blanket of half-written scores and scribbled notes. On the other side of the lair in front of a tall mirror, on its side lay the doll, undressed and lonely revealing a body of carved wood and ball joints. The effigy was like everything else her angel made, a work of pure genius, and in her half dreaming state it had looked as though it had been alive. In all the stories she had read, seeing one's doppelganger was never a good omen.
The thing still unsettled her, even more so now that the wedding dress was removed. She had always been a little afraid of dolls. As a child she had received one as a gift from one of her father's patrons. The little blonde thing had a head made of hardened beeswax and she remembered that she had foolishly left it in the hot July sun all afternoon and had found it with half its face melted and disfigured with its glass eyes staring out at her in accusation. Why was her passive copy to be left behind? Had it fulfilled its purpose? Did he no longer desire it now that he had the real thing?
"You're hurt." He broke the silence first, making her jump.
She touched her shoulder and felt the cut, the blood already beginning to clot. The wound was long but fairly shallow, really only a bad scratch in places.
"It's nothing." she said softly. He gave her a pained look, as though he didn't quite believe her, but did not comment. He fetched a bundle of clothes from...somewhere and handed them to her.
"Put these on, you can change in the other room."
She took them without protest, somehow expecting the bundle to contain the wedding dress the doll had modelled but was surprised to see a plain black day dress and an equally dark travelling coat, completed with a veiled hat and a sturdy pair of boots. The outfit confirmed her suspicions. Of course he did not simply intend to keep her down here, that was far too obvious, and if Madame Giry knew of this place then they could easily be found. He was about to take her away, she had no idea where to and the thought frightened her. Would they be on the run? Would they be pursued? How would they even get out of the opera house and even if they did, could the two of them really live together? She realised that she knew nothing of this man, the angelic voice of her youth had been gone for a long time and yet she still clung to the illusion like a foolish child. Aside from their first meeting she had only seen him when he was angry, a rage that thinly veiled a whole plethora of misery. Had she not seen his face that time, she would not have noticed this sadness, but the raw emotion of it still haunted her more than any physical deformity. His passion onstage was something she had never witnessed before.
She changed quickly in the empty bedroom which had been reduced to a cold and dank hole without its splendid furniture and tapestries, the clothes fit her fairly well but the shoes were a little too big for her and she had to lace them tightly in case one o them fell off en route. She returned to find that her unusual companion had also changed into his customary dark suit and cloak; his black mask had been swapped for a more discreet flash coloured one. In the darkness he could almost pass for an ordinary man.
"You look troubled, Christine. Are you having second thoughts?" he asked, noticing her worried expression.
Was she? She didn't dare think of the consequences if she left him now. There would certainly be blood spilled if there hadn't been already. She couldn't bear the thought of someone dying because of her and she couldn't bear to lose the man who for so many years had been her dearest friend.
"Where do you intend to take us, Monsieur?" she asked, changing the subject. "More importantly, how do you plan to get us out of here? There are armed guards on every exit."
"Of course, you fiancé's little trap..." he said derisively his voice dripping with sarcasm "Truly a tactical masterpiece." He pushed the mirror aside to reveal another hidden passageway behind it. "Now I'll ask again, are you having second thoughts?"
There was a long pause. The scenario was beginning to feel a little like the duet they had just shared for this was most definitely a point of no return. Of course she was absolutely terrified. This was probably the stupidest thing she'd ever done, even thinking of getting involved with someone who had almost certainly committed at least one murder, and probably the most exhilarating...
"It's a little late for second thoughts." she replied. "I won't deny that I'm frightened. But I haven't changed my mind."
She had come with him willingly. And now she was with him, in the remains of his home, telling him that she wished to follow him. He still could not believe it. Although he had been counting on her to lose her nerve, to not be able to go through with the little plan her lover and those two idiots had thought up. They didn't know her like he did. They didn't realise that Christine was a gentle soul who felt sad when she found dead flies on the windowsill. She would never be able to let a person be harmed, even a monster like him. She had certainly grown up a lot since he had first seen her, but a shred of the child remained, lost and alone with her head filled with her father's pretty stories and idealist views.
She hadn't exactly given him an ideal answer. There he was pouring his morbid little heart out and all she had to say was "let's go"? Still it was better than "There he is! The man who kidnapped me, the one in the mask!" which was what he had been expecting as a worst case scenario, or worse she could have just ripped his mask off like she had done that first night. Actions spoke louder than words after all. But she had seen his rage that day, and knew better than to expose the cream of Parisian society to that kind of wrath. He had a plan for that as well, if she were to betray him so terribly he would have burned the opera house to the ground and made her watch.
But then she would only have to look at him with those damned eyes of hers and he would lose his nerve. He could never stay angry at her for long. Even during their lessons she would look so upset when he scolded her about her breathing or her posture that he would always apologise later and sing for her or bring her roses. If she held so much power over him back then when she was just an innocent child and his affection for her had only been as a friend and teacher, it was nothing compared to what he felt for her now. He would worship her until the day he died if she would only let him, but ever since they had met face to face they done nothing but tear each other apart.
He couldn't blame her though. He had been the once to deceive her, who drove her to look behind the mask and in his rage he had driven her straight into the arms of that boy. Oh he hated Raoul deChagny, simply for existing and being everything he couldn't be, but the greatest object of his hatred was himself.
While she had asked for them to leave together, she had managed to avoid giving him an answer to his fevered proposal. "Let's go" was neither a refusal nor a true acceptance. Perhaps she had not understood what he was asking; he had not given her the ring yet, so it was a possibility. He had never explicitly made his intentions known to her before that evening just as she had made him no promises. But surely she must have had some ideal; he had practically made love to her on stage, or at least it had been the closest he had come to making love to a woman. Every tortured note in that damn opera had been written for her, to the point where it almost seemed improper for the audience to hear it. But that was ridiculous; he couldn't exactly leave the theatre in silence for four minutes and thirty three seconds. That was a little too avant-garde, even for him.
He had wanted so desperately to make her happy, after his outburst. The first thing he could think of was to advance her career, thinking that perhaps if he could give her money and fame and wonderful leading roles to sing then perhaps she would return to him. Of course that had all ended in disaster and he had only pushed her further away with his threats and violence. And it became clear that although she loved to sing more than anything in the world, she did not the attention she received for it. Nor did she like the scandals surrounding her because of him and from being courted by the Viscount.
Then the idea had struck him, if he could just take her away from it all, try to give her a quiet and normal life, then perhaps she might grow to care for him again, only not as an angel this time or the intimidating phantom but as a man.
And so in the last six months or so he had set about the mammoth task of finding a property for them, finalising the sale and moving all of his possessions to the new house. The money he had demanded from the managers all those years was more than enough to buy the property a short distance away from a village on the northern coast known as Regneville-sur-mer. The house was perfect, it was out of the way, and the place it was out of the way from was practically empty for most of the year and the grounds were surrounded by high walls so they could remain hidden if they wished.
But as he had led her though the bowels of the opera house he had felt her tense and for a horrible moment he had though that she would turn from him and try to run. Her hand remained in his though and it was only when they came into the light did he notice that she was bleeding and her dress hung tattered from her shoulder. That was his first mistake; he had not thought to see if the fall from the trapdoor would be safe for two people, nor had he kept anything to treat it with. How could he have been so foolish, he had only taken her a few minutes ago and she was already injured, how on earth would he be able to take care of her if this was the best he could do.
He could not stop staring at the exposed white skin of her back and shoulder blade every curve and plane of it was perfection, and the sight of the angry red wound, staining the fabric of her dress was like a tear in a priceless tapestry. And like the disgusting creature that he was he found that both the perfection of her skin and the mark he had inadvertently afflicted filled him with an intense rush of desire.
He could see the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty. Perhaps she knew what he was thinking, or perhaps she was only afraid of the empty cellar, or of the doll. He wished he had never made the damn thing, its cold perfection was always there, staring at him lifelessly, judging him. It only enhanced his loneliness and made him feel pathetic and ashamed. He should have destroyed it a long time ago but felt that it would be disrespectful to burn Christine, even if it was only in effigy.
He had sent her way to change into the travelling clothes he had bought for her. He did the same and tried not to think of her undressing in the other room, now was definitely not the time to get distracted. If they were to make it through the mines undetected they would have to do it quickly. When she emerged, the unease in her expression was still obvious. He could tell so much from her eyes that they could probably communicate fairly well without her ever speaking to him at all.
"You look troubled, Christine. Are you having second thoughts?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"Where do you intend to take us, Monsieur? More importantly, how do you plan to get us out of here? There are armed guards on every exit." She was getting unnaturally good at avoiding his questions.
"Of course, you fiancé's little trap..." he replied opening the hidden passageway behind the mirror. If she was not going to answer him, he though childishly, he certainly wasn't going to answer her. "Truly a tactical masterpiece. Now I'll ask again, are you having second thoughts?"
She hesitated, and he felt his heart turn to lead in his chest, she was definitely going to change her mind this time.
"It's a little late for second thoughts." she replied after what felt like hours. "I won't deny that I'm frightened. But I haven't changed my mind."
"Do I frighten you, Christine?" he whispered. "Does the memory of this face fill you with terror?"
"It is not your face, Angel, more that I am about to go to an unknown place with a man who has not even told me his name."
"My name is Erik." He breathed, the name sounded strange he had not said it for a very long time, and had never once been addressed by it. He had many names throughout his past. The Devil's Child, The Living Corpse, Hamzaad the singing ghost, Israfil the death bringer, Xi Tong the white devil, The Phantom, The Angel of music. Erik seemed so ordinary after titles such as those it was almost laughable. Still she repeated his name and he felt as though his heart might explode from the speed it was beating. No woman had ever called him by his real name.
"Now will you come with me?" he asked, holding out a gloved hand, feeling that rush again as she took it and let him lead her through the darkness.
Lieutenant Patrice Mifroid was sceptic of the highest order. So when he was assigned this particular case the sheer preposterousness of the accounts given to him had put him in a foul mood. But perhaps even more than the whole stupid affair, the men who had reported it put him in an even worse disposition. There was something about the two managers that he did not like; a certain inherent sense of entitlement that was a breeding ground for dishonesty. An opera ghost demanding money? The whole idea was ridiculous, and it was far more likely that it was the managers themselves scraping a little of the investors money away for themselves. He'd seen many fraudsters in his time and these two were definitely beginning to fit the bill.
And there was the third man, some nobleman or whatever on earth he was. Admittedly Mifroid couldn't exactly blame the boy for being a naive idiot; the upper classes were all raised that way and it made the socialist in him mutter and grumble in the corner. Whatever happened to all men being equals?
If there was indeed a disfigured madman living beneath the Opera House all these years undetected, which was possible he supposed, then he would surely be a little more cautious than the young viscount proposed. Also the involvement of civilians in this little plan of his was sure to end badly, if this Phantom character was provoked, they would be looking at a hostage situation at best. Personally he was horrified at the carelessness of the plan and doubly horrified when his superiors had not listened to his reasoning and forced him to follow orders. His dislike for the viscount had intensified when he discovered that he was planning to use his own fiancé as bait to lure out a possible murderer. Yes, the man was definitely a marvellous catch for any young woman.
That had been before the performance. Mifroid had never liked the Opera, far too screechy. The arts in general left him feeling as though he had missed something important, that everyone else seemed to understand except him. He was a science man. You knew where you were with science. Like enforcing the law, you find a theory and then you prove it with evidence. This Opera was different though. As he watched from his post in Box Five, praying that none of the officers would get spooked or trigger happy and shoot someone by accident, he couldn't help but be moved by the score. It was as though someone had found the source of all his suffering and his sins and his nefarious thoughts and taken a sledgehammer to it. It made him feel very uncomfortable, and he could see that the audience felt it too. The music accused you; it pointed fingers, the music made you feel the way its composer felt. It was the sound of loneliness.
The girl looked nervous but her voice was perfect, he knew if their roles were reversed he would be terrified, but then again he would never have agreed to participate in anything so unnecessarily dangerous. He had been so swept away by the performance that he didn't realise until it was too late that the lead tenor had grown a few inches taller and lost a considerable amount of weight. Perhaps there was a problem backstage and he was an understudy? Although with a voice like that it was a wonder why, he had never heard anything so beautiful. If it wasn't an understudy then...no, it couldn't be... It was! It must have been because the viscount looked as though he was about to cry. This was the point where he was supposed to order his men into pursuit, but this so called Phantom was onstage, holding the prima donna as though they were lovers, but God only knew what he could do if they got too close. He gestured wildly for the gendarmes to hold back, and he only hoped the woman up there remained calm. A sudden moment of panic could prove disastrous. And if the masked man had known of their plan all along, how else had he outfoxed them? Why, the whole audience could be in danger somehow.
And before they even knew that had been outwitted, the 'ghost' and the soprano were gone and the body of Ubaldo Piangi was discovered in the wings with a rope around his neck.
Christine found herself in a subterranean labyrinth far more intricate than the journey to the underground lair. The tunnel seemed to stretch for miles of twists and turns and the faint lamplight illuminated alcoves and chambers, or other passageways leading downward only to be flooded. The most disturbing part of the journey was the mounds of what looked like human skeletons that littered the cavern floor and the rather strange graffiti that had been scratched and painted on its walls. Did he build these tunnels? No, they looked far too old for that, and not her Angel, or Erik as he'd revealed to her, would be able to dig something this vast on his own. It was getting dank and claustrophobic, the ceiling was getting lower, any lower and they would have to crouch or crawl along the ground with the spiders. And that damp smell, the smell of human decay, she thought that she might throw up at any moment. What if they got stuck? Or lost down in this hell forever?
"Oh dear Lord, what manner of place is this?" she whispered frantically, feeling the familiar swell of panic and nausea just before her foot caught on a mouldering skull and she stumbled forward.
He was as quick as lightning as he turned and grabbed her by the arm with his free hand to steady her. It was funny how he was always there to catch her.
"We're almost there." He said, not making any move to let her go, as if fearing that she would bolt the other way.
"I don't like it here. Oh god, how can you stand it? All this death!"
"Just a little further, Christine, and then we'll be outside." He whispered and began to pull her along. She couldn't exactly run away, or she would surely get lost. So for now she had to trust him. There would a time for confrontations later on, when they were safe and no longer on the run. Perhaps if they could just be alone for a while, and talk without anyone else interfering, perhaps they could go back to how they once were. These past months she had missed her unusual angel, her dearest friend and most brilliant teacher.
"Well, I hate to say I told you so, Monsieur, but..." Mifroid looked at the spot where Christine Daae had last been seen, the managers were out in the foyer refunding all the tickets they had sold, and as his men saw to the body he was left with a very anxious viscount "It appears as though things didn't quite go according to plan."
"Well can't we follow them?" the viscount cried, looking distraught. "We have to save her! Who knows what that monster plans to do to her down there?" Mifroid raised an eyebrow, he should really have thought of that before he put her up there like a sitting duck. But he decided against pointing out that little detail.
"Well by the looks of things our friend seems to have rigged a series of trap doors to open simultaneously, from this switch here." He gave the wooden lever a sharp kick to reveal a sheer drop, the end of which was concealed in shadows. The Shaft remained opened for a few seconds, just long enough for someone to fall through, before it snapped shut again. "And then it shuts itself automatically. That's very clever, very clever indeed."
"Clever! My fiancé has been kidnapped by that madman and all you can do is admire how clever he is? Why did your men not shoot him when you had the chance?" Raoul shouted, his distress had made his temper short. He ineffectual rage reminded Mifroid a little of his wife's pet dachshund, but he managed not to laugh, realising that if Mme Mifroid had been taken from him, he'd probably be in a similar state. Although in all honesty, Mlle Daae hadn't looked all that distressed. Perhaps she was in on the whole thing, there was really only one way to find out, and that was to apprehend the murderer of Ubaldo Piangi.
"It just struck me as rather ingenious, that's all. And it means that he must have been planning this for some months, and you my friend walked straight into his trap, not the other way around. As for not ordering my men to open fire, apart from the very real possibility of a stray bullet hitting a cast member, this..." he pointed to a rather taught looking rope "if you would care to follow it, is the only thing holding up the chandelier. Another of our friends tricks. If we had made a move he could have crushed the audience and probably torched the entire building to boot." He hadn't discovered this until after the performance but thought it proved handy to make his point.
Raoul de Chagney gave him a defeated look "Then what do you propose we do?"
"We, which is to say the officers and I will track them down of course." said Mifroid, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "You on the other hand will stay here and make a full statement along with everyone else we're currently questioning."
"I'm coming with you." He said stubbornly.
"You will do no such thing, you'll only slow us down, and id a confrontation occurs you'll become a liability."
"I've fought him before and I can do it again. If Christine hadn't stopped me he would be dead already."
That was interesting. So the girl didn't want this man dead. Was just a gentle soul or did her reasons run deeper. Perhaps it was be better for him to keep the viscount close and get more information out of him. "Very well, you may help; just try not to do anything foolish. Now the first thing to do is to find a way to follow them."
The Viscount nodded, "I'll fetch Mme Giry; perhaps she can lead us to him."
"Do you actually mean to tell me that you know someone who knows of his whereabouts?" the lieutenant rounded on him "Are you actually telling me that the whole time my men were wasting their valuable time carrying out your stupid, juvenile and frankly, dangerous plan when we could have simply gone to his home and taken him by surprise!"
"I'm afraid that would not have been possible, Inspector." Someone said behind him. He turned to see a striking woman in mourning clothes "The contraptions he had built under the stage are nothing compared to the traps he has built down there. To go down there is certain death." She sighed "But I shall take you as far as I can. There have been too many accidents; someone must put a stop to them."
"Madame, a man has been murdered!" the lieutenant replied "Now if you know anything that can help us find this man faster, it would be prudent to give us that information."
After what felt like hours Christine finally felt a breeze on her face and even dared to see a glimmer of moonlight ahead of them. Through the rest of the trek, she had not once let go of Erik's hand, and being careful to watch her step, taking comfort in the fact that at the very least he knew how to get them out of this place. He had not spoken since her outburst. His silence frightened her, and once more it became painfully obvious that she knew virtually nothing about this man. Perhaps he had lied to her once again and he intended to keep her down here with him forever, or even kill her and leave her here in this darkness with the other human remains. But if that was the plan then she would probably be dead already. After Joseph Bouquet had been found, she had thought that he would surely come after her next. She had seen his face, she had betrayed him, surely that was reason enough for him to strike her down. But instead he had disappeared for nearly six months, and that had worried her even more.
"There is out exit." Her strange companion stated, gesturing to an old grating above them "Now once you're outside I want you to stay close to the wall and off the tracks, and whatever you do, do not let yourself be seen."
"Tracks? You mean we're..." she did not have time to finish her question before he had reached up and moved the iron covering aside.
"We're currently beneath La Gare Saint-Lazare, and if we don't hurry we'll miss our train."
Before she could ask any more questions, Christine felt his hands at her waist and was suddenly lifted as though she weighed nothing at all. She gave a surprised squeak but somehow managed to get her footing on a small ledge and reach the exit to pull herself up and out into the freezing night. She could have probably been able to climb up on her own, but perhaps he was being impatient.
Once she was outside she did as she was told, they were beneath a bridge made of iron, blackened by years of burning coal. Beyond its entrance she could see the glass structures of the station platforms and the clock tower whose hour told her it was far too late for passengers to be travelling. She could have used this opportunity to run if she wanted to, or if she had any sense. Surely he must have known that. But she had broken too many promises already and would not make that mistake again. He emerged from the storm drain she had just climbed out of, with more speed and practise than she could ever hope to achieve, and once again took her by the hand and led her towards the station, being careful to stay in the shadows. She understood the need for them to wear black. In the daylight they might have looked like a couple in mourning but at night they were virtually invisible.
"But it's the middle of the night. The last train had gone already." She whispered, burning with curiosity.
"Yes, that would pose a problem if we were planning to travel that way." They came to a halt by a large freight train complete with a large collection of boxcars and wagons.
"You can't be serious." Christine said nervously "What if we get caught?"
"Were you expecting fine horses?" he sneered, the comment stung and she remembered how hurtful he could be if he lost his temper. She flinched at the comment, so he had been there that night...
"Forgive me." He whispered "But if we use a conventional route we'll be easily recognised and the authorities will be able to follow our trail, and if we wait until morning they'll have already found us."
She nodded in understanding. They were already on the run, she had gone with him willingly but other might not have seen it that way, so how could stowing away on a cargo train make things any worse?
"Andre, I have a feeling that our foray into the arts is at an end." Firman concluded. "I mean why us? Why out of all the theatres in the world did we have to pick the one with the crazed killer in it?"
"Because that bastard LeFevre neglected to tell us that little detail." His business partner answered "I wondered why he was so anxious to get away. And the worst thing he had to deal with was that thing dropping a battleship set on Carlotta during a performance of Il Trovatore. After this, a battleship would be a walk in the park, or even a nice weekend away in the country."
"Do you have any idea how much it costs to have a chandelier fixed?" said Firman angrily "I do, it costs more than my house."
"Better that than having it fall, friend." said Andre "We're lucky to be alive according to that lieutenantfellow."
"How did he do it, that's what I'd like to know? Who wakes up in the morning and decides to rig a two ton crystal chandelier so it'll fall on an audience full of wealthy patrons. And more to the point, how did he do it without anyone noticing?"
"I'd like to know how he made off with all our money without us noticing. I checked the safe, it was empty."
"What! Why haven't you reported this?"
"Because if the police know then we'll have to show them our accounts and if we show them our accounts they'll get suspicious and go on to discover the extent of our 'manager's perks' and you and I will go to prison for fraud!"
"Do you know something, Andre? I truly despise the Opera."
Madame Giry had been telling the truth when she said that the cellars were filled with traps. More than once now, the lieutenant and the handful of his subordinates he had brought with them had had to free the young viscount from a net or pull him out of the way of trap doors and falling objects. And still the lad insisted on going first. Perhaps he was braver than Mifroid gave him credit, but he was still an idiot. Still they had managed to follow the woman's directions without getting lost and finally came to view the large cavernous space on the other side of a portcullis.
"This must be the place." The boy cried "But how do we get in?"
"Are you certain? It doesn't look particularly lived in." said an officer sceptically.
"I'm fairly confident we're in the right place, Verlan, there's no need to grumble." said Mifroid "Now help me find the switch that opens this thing."
"How do you know it's a switch?" said Raoul.
"There's a punt in there, so I would imagine our friend comes through this entrance via boat. Therefore he would need a mechanism to open the gate remotely possibly by using the pole." He looked around the sides of the gate until he found what he had been searching for; the lever was hard to notice and was unfortunately out of their reach above their heads.
"Verlan, Moreau!" he called triumphantly "Give me a leg up."
The boxcar was filled with bundles of newspapers. That morning's copy of Le Gaulois would be transported to the northern towns early and would be replaced with bags of cement and other materials to be taken back to Paris. That was how things worked, the raw materials went into the city and manufactured things went out. You could literally set your watch to the schedule. And Erik had been watching their movements for weeks now. He had even tried the journey a few times. It was hardly the most luxurious way of travelling, she deserved something far better. But he could not let them be seen, not after what he had just done. He had sworn to himself that he would never kill again, but the man had struggled too much and he had been heavy handed and nervous. She'd leave him for certain if she knew of it if her reaction to the Bouquet incident was anything to go by. Was there to be even more lies and violence? He knew that she had only caught a small glimpse of his true colours, the distorted creature that lived within him.
It was freezing, even through their heavy travelling clothes, and the journey was loud and uncomfortable as they huddled in the corner. They would not be in Caen for several hours, then it would be morning and relatively safe for them to take a passenger train to Saint-Lo, they would have to travel the last thirty miles by road but he had already planned for that. With any luck they would reach their destination by early afternoon. Then the new life could really start. Then he could try to be what she wanted, what he wanted to be for her so desperately.
"You should try to sleep." he heard himself say "we still have a long way to go."
"A long way to go where?" she repeated, perhaps the reality of what was happening had hit for even the darkness he could tell she was on the verge of tears.
"Somewhere safe." Was all he could tell her, the truth was far too long a story and not one he wished to tell. Not yet.
"I'm so sorry Erik." Her voice was a tearful whisper. What was she referring to? Seeing his face? Betraying him with that boy? Was she about to tell him she had changed her mind?
"You don't have to apologise for anything." In truth he'd never been able to blame her. He had been the one who lied and started all of this. And any anger he did hold against her was mostly directed at that lover of hers. No he couldn't let his jealousy get in the way. She had chosen to go with him and he had promised himself a new start and that meant forgiving her for everything and not thinking about how she had let that insolent viscount steal her first kiss on the rooftop, and wore his ring around her neck. He had taken great satisfaction in selling the thing and hoped with a sick pettiness that it was a priceless deChagney heirloom.
The other ring, the one that belonged to him, felt heavy in his pocket. He had meant to give it to her back in his lair but had lost his nerve. She deserved a better proposal anyway, something quiet and romantic when she was no longer afraid of him.
"How can you say that when we have to run away because of my foolishness. I should never have let them get involved" she cried "Won't you miss your home?" so that was what she was apologising for.
"That was no home, it was a prison. You have no idea how much I've come to hate that place, Christine." He said trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
"I'm still at fault. We did not even get to finish your opera." she replied unhappily. "Now no one will know how it ends."
"What did you think of it? Did you enjoy the performance?" he said perhaps a little too eagerly. He didn't give a damn about what Paris thought of his work. They could ban it for all he cared and have it burned in the streets. Christine had once told him that she sang only for him, back when she still believed that he was a voice from heaven, and in a similar way he had found in recent years that every composition of his was intended for her. Her praise and gentle criticism had become his latest addiction.
"I thought it was a masterpiece." She whispered, in the dark he could almost imagine that she was blushing "I could listen to your music forever."
"And the ending? What did you think of that?"
"After the dress rehearsal, I couldn't stop crying. Everyone thought it was because I was afraid, they didn't understand how much the end had moved me."
The train moved on relentlessly as the remainder of their journey was spent in silence and eventually he noticed her eyes close and her breathing become even. He found it touching that she would trust him enough to sleep in his presence or perhaps she was just exhausted from crawling through the catacombs all night. Perhaps she wanted to be with him or perhaps she was only martyring herself to keep her fiancé and opera company safe from his torment, perhaps both.
As soon as they made it into the chamber the Viscount gave a horrified cry at the sight of what looked like a body in the corner. The poor fool looked as though he was going to be sick, and so did the other officers and for a horrible moment the lieutenant thought his theory had been wrong about the pair and the phantom truly did mean the young girl harm.
Moreau was the first to take the initiative and darted over to the limp form that was covered in a red curtain below a mirror, with only a few waves of dark hair flowing out beneath it. Hesitantly the officer pulled back the covering and gave a startled shout. Mifroid rushed to his side fearing the worst but was met with the blank stare of a life sized doll made from wood and wax.
"It's ok, it's only a model!" he called back to the others. "You three search the place; look for any signs of where they might have gone."
"What is this inspector? Some sort of sick joke?" Raoul deChagny said shakily peering over Mifroid's shoulder.
"He might have put it here as a distraction or to scare us." Mifroid agreed "Or perhaps...he just gets lonely."
"How can you say something like and not be utterly horrified?" his worried companion said.
"Because, Monsieur, my men and I have seen things far worse than a waxwork and if you had any sense you have stayed upstairs like I told you."
"Sir, perhaps you should come and look at this." He heard Verlan call from the other end of the cavern and Mifroid felt a chill run through him.
"Monsieur, I think it would be wise for you to stay here." He said turning to the Viscount before joining his colleague.
The other room was completely empty, its only contents was the tattered costume Mlle Daae had been wearing during the opera. The dress was torn is several places and sported an obscene bloodstain near the neckline. Yes it was probably best if the boy did not see this.
"Do you think we should assume the worst?" Verlan asked but Mifroid was already deep in though.
"You haven't moved this, have you?"
"No, sir."
"Very strange, what do you make of it?"
"Me sir? Well I don't like to say so but it looks as though Mlle Daae was...assaulted here at which point her captor murdered her and disposed of the body elsewhere."
"That's possible I suppose." Mifroid said, "However before you jump to conclusions, look at the floor. You see that there is no blood, so the stain on the dress was caused by a relatively minor wound. You will also notice that the dust is mostly undisturbed so it doesn't look as though there was a struggle."
"Just what are you implying, Sir?" the officer asked.
"Well you can't make a getaway in a flimsy theatre costume, can you?"
A/N - After writing this I got the urge to draw Erik as Rudy the Psychedelic Monk from the Mighty Boosh going "Some call me the Angel of Music, others call me the Shadowdweller. I am sometimes called Peppercorn... by the Dutch..."
Also was that a John Cage reference? Erik is obviously ahead of his time. But if experimental arty music was around back then I'm sure he'd think it was all a load of bullcrap.