A/N: 2007 is here; my first chapter for the New Year; Looooongest chapter yet! Hope everyone's having a great holidays and had a fantastic Christmas! Cheers!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.
Chapter seventeen.
Christine flung the double oak doors open, allowing them to crash into the sides of the walls as the night air rushed her face. The moon was riding high in the sky and a million stars shone like diamonds amongst the sparse clouds that threatened to obscure their beauty. Christine, however, paid no attention to the sky.
"Erik?" She called, her heart still thumping wildly with anger. She felt the veins in her neck pulsate as she fought to repress her rage. "Erik?!"
A footman peered curiously at her from within a carriage seat across the drive, "are you alright Madame?" he called nervously.
"A man," Christine demanded shortly, "there was a man with a white mask – did you see where he went?"
The footman was only young; a mop of messy brown hair obscured his crystal blue eyes that were set in a freckled face. He didn't look more than sixteen, and Christine suddenly felt very old, despite the knowledge that he could not be more than two years her junior. The footman screwed up his eyes thoughtfully, "yes. He's Monsieur Deveraux – the composer, right?" Christine did not answer him, her impatience served only to fuel her frustration. "He took his carriage back to the Opera House, Madame."
"Can you take me there now?" She indicated to the carriage he was sitting astride.
The young footman nodded, and Christine picked up her skirts and ran down the steps and across the drive to the waiting carriage, the stones crunching noisily beneath her white slippers The ghostly whispers of music followed her footsteps from within the parlour, but Christine paid no heed to their call. She snapped the door closed and nodded to the footman, who whipped the reins of the horses and the carriage lurched forward.
She sat back in her seat, her mind wildly replaying the events of the last two days, and found she could no longer purge the imagine of Cornelia de Martineau's serpentine limbs entwined about Erik, from her mind. She felt the anger and hatred fester within her; never before had she felt so angry. This time she would not allow Erik to push her aside. She was sick of dealing with his torturous games, his vile temper and his wild emotions, she was sick of being a puppet on his string. Everything was a game to him, so much so that he could no longer distinguish between what was real and what was not – he could no longer recognize them for what they were.
Christine refused to be one of his pieces; a pawn on his chessboard. Tonight he had changed the rules, and he had to accept the consequences – this was one game she could no longer afford to play. She would not play. She needed answers from him, and tonight she would make sure she got them. He had toyed with her enough.
Twenty minutes later saw the carriage slow to a halt outside the grand London Opera House. Christine lurched out of the carriage and pulled a small pouch of coins from her purse, throwing them up to the young footman without even bothering to count how much money was inside.
"Merci!" She called over her shoulder as she hurried up the steps, stumbling slightly over her skirts in her haste. Two doormen heaved the heavy front doors open, and Christine stepped quietly into the deserted entrance hall. The bright lights of the well-lit entrance hall glared in her eyes after the semi-darkness of the carriage, and made the whole scene seem otherworldly and surreal; as though in a dream. She quickly made her way across the vast expanse of the room to the side-door she had entered the night of Meg's debut in Night-side Phantasia. Casting a nervous glance around, she quietly slipped between a gap in the door and made her way down the passage. The lamps had been extinguished, allowing only a few lit candles to flicker pitifully in the darkness, casting grotesque shadows of the wall sconces across the wall and floors.
"Erik?"
There was only silence. Christine suddenly felt very unsure of herself and reluctantly felt some of her anger and resolve crumble.
"Erik?" Her voice echoed off the walls. As she rounded a corner, a faint glow emanated from an open door up ahead, and Christine knew she had found his quarters at last. She clenched her fists at her side, readying herself for what she had prepared herself to do. She wiped her sweaty palms down the front of her skirts, straightened her shoulders and breathed deeply; praying for confidence.
"Erik!" She rounded the corner of the door, clenching the frame tightly for support, "Erik, we have to-" The words died on her lips.
Suddenly all the hatred and anger that had lain festering within her was dispelled from her body. The hairs along the back of Christine's neck rose at the sight of the upturned furniture and devastating remnants of what had formerly been Erik's room. Torn reams of manuscript lay scattered about the room, fluttering in the slight breeze that brushed past the curtains concealing the half-opened window. A dark shadow was cast across the room as a lifeless dark form lay sprawled across the wooden floor boards, in the place where Christine knew the boards were stained crimson red. She felt her blood run cold. "Erik…?" The body didn't move.
"Oh my God – somebody help me!" Christine fell screaming to her knees beside Erik's still body, "Erik!" She cried, shaking his cloaked shoulder roughly. She rolled him onto his side and noticed how pale his face was, his lips were tinged purple and blue. Christine felt the bile rush up her throat at the sight of his dead body, and hastily grabbed a nearby basin and wretched, half choking on her own fluids as she fought to repress the sobs.
"Somebody! Please! Help me!!" She choked out, wiping the back of her hand against her mouth, pushing the putrid smelling basin from her; her heart constricting with panic, making breathing seem an impossible feat.
She lowered her head to his slightly parted lips to see if he was breathing and felt the slightest wisp of air tickle her sensitive hairs. "Erik, please! Please wake up!"
"Help me!" She screamed again.
Suddenly she heard frantic footsteps thud down the hallway, and a shadow loomed in the doorway. Christine turned frantically to face whoever it was and beg them to find a doctor. Her eyes fell upon a pair of brilliant jade green eyes set in a tanned and weathered face. Long black hair framed his face to his chin, and the man breathed one word slurred heavily by some foreign accent, "Erik."
"Please, help me," Christine pleaded, gripping the lapels of Erik's jacket in desperation.
The man rushed forward and fell to his knees beside her, his fingers quickly finding their way to the spot on Erik's neck where he fervently searched for a pulse, his jade eyes narrowed in concentration. His skin was as cold as death. He felt a sluggish pulse beneath the tips of his fingers and some of the tightness relented from his chest. His jade eyes fell upon a smashed vial beneath Erik's desk, and the man felt his stomach lurch sickeningly. "Oh no."
He lunged forward and grabbed hold of Erik's left arm, feeling the muscles beneath his fingers begin to twitch.
"What are you doing?" Christine cried frantically, "is he alive? Who are you?" The man ignored her pleas as he yanked the sleeve of Erik's left arm upwards to reveal his bare forearm. Christine had to stifle the gasp as her eyes devoured the bare flesh of Erik's left forearm, grotesquely riddled with bruises of all shades; from rich purple and blue, to sickening yellow and green. The flesh was hideously marred and scarred, tiny blue veins pulsated beneath her horrified gaze and long, ugly purple streaks ran the length of his arm, from the crook of his elbow, which was dark purple and black in colour, to his wrist. There were at least thirty fresh puncture wounds on his skin.
The man gripped Erik's arm fiercely, as his face contorted with a pained expression, "not again Erik.." As soon as those words left his mouth Erik's entire body began to shake.
"-What's wrong with him??" Christine felt herself descending into hysterics again, her breath choked in her throat and she felt as though she were drowning; who was this man, and how did he know Erik? "Why is he shaking?"
The man's shoulders shuddered and slumped as he sighed deeply. "This man is not shaking, he is convulsing. My name is Nadir Khan, I am an old friend of Erik's and the man is suffering from a morphine overdose."
Christine's heart seized upon her and all breath left her body. She felt as though she had been winded as her eyes widened in fright. Morphine?
"Shouldn't we get a doctor?" She turned wordlessly to the Persian man, whose eyes were frantically searching the room for some unknown object.
"No, a doctor would ask questions… too many questions…" He lunged across at the desk, yanking the drawers out and rifling anxiously through their contents. "Come on Erik," he muttered under his breath, all the while keeping a firm hold on Erik's left wrist. "There!" Christine watched on in a mixture of paralyzing panic and bewilderment as the Persian man pulled a small vial and what looked like a syringe from a hidden compartment in the bottom desk drawer. He held the tiny vial up to the candle-light and injected the needle into it, slowly drawing the serum into the syringe. Just as he was about the plunge the needle into Erik's arm, Christine felt her voice return to her.
"What are you doing?!"
The Persian turned his brilliant jade eyes on her and spoke calmly and evenly, "I'm giving Erik an anti-dose serum; if I don't give it to him now he could die." Christine nodded dumbly and watched on as the Persian administered the anti-serum into Erik's blood stream. She watched as Erik's convulsions slowly became less violent, and she felt his muscles relax under her touch. The Persian breathed out heavily beside her. "Is he going to be alright?"
"Yes," he answered shortly, "I think so…. We must move him to the bed; the convulsions will return again."
Christine nodded silently and struggled to her feet.
"Now, just take his feet there… yes… that's right, and on the count of three we'll hoist him up. Alright, one… two… three!"
Erik's dead weight fell down hard upon the bed and the Persian proceeded to remove his shoes and outer layers of clothing, wrapping his body tightly in blankets. Christine gazed down at Erik's limp body atop the bed, her brows furrowed with anxiety, tears prickling uncomfortably at the back of her eyelids. Whatever the Persian had given him, Erik's muscles had ceased their convulsions. His brow was damp with perspiration, and Christine placed a cool hand against his pale and clammy forehead.
"He's deathly cold!" She exclaimed in surprise, despite the sweat trickling down his forehead.
"Yes… we must purge his body of the morphine," the Persian said grimly, "his body will go into a state of withdrawal… the side-effects can be… I will understand if you do not wish to see it, mademoiselle."
"'I'm staying," she said with determination, ignoring the slight trembling of her figure. The Persian smiled at her attempt at bravery.
XxXxXxX
The hallucinations began that night as Erik fell into a fitful sleep. Christine and the Persian retained a constant vigil over the masked man, as his body spasmed and his muscled cramped painfully. The Persian reached over for the box containing the ampoules he had retrieved from the doctors and administered the Laudanum. Christine watched Erik's muscles stiffen then relax under its effect.
The Persian peered down anxiously at her, concern etched into every line of his hard, weathered face. "Mademoiselle?" Christine looked up at him, noting the look of confliction adorning his dark olive features. "There is some… urgent business that must entail me away for a while, that I cannot put off any longer. I have given Erik a dose of Laudanum, which will help him sleep and lessen the cramps. Other than that, there is nothing we can do for him until morning. Is there anything I can do for you? Will you be alright alone with him?"
Christine nodded silently, "yes, I want to stay with him."
He nodded grimly, and picked up his cloak from the floor, slinging it about his shoulders. "If he starts to vomit, be sure to replenish his fluids, and keep him warm. I shall return in the morning." He donned his hat and turned to go.
"Nadir?" Christine smiled gratefully at him, her hand resting lovingly on her angel's wrist. "Thank-you."
The Persian nodded silently before casting one last pitiful look at Erik, and leaving the room.
Christine sighed reverently and allowed her head to fall back against the bed, her brown eyes were trained upon Erik's face as his chest rose and fell; slowly and evenly. As she listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, she finally allowed the repressed sigh to escape her lips. His sporadic breathing had ceased for the time being. Her heart, however, still clenched painfully within her chest. Why had Erik yielded to his opium-induced vice?
A sudden dagger of guilt plunged its way mercilessly into her heart; twisting and ripping so much she couldn't breathe. All those awful things they had said to one another… had that driven him to this? To find the will to end his own life?
One stubborn remorseful tear worked itself free from her lashes and trickled down her cheek. She had sworn to herself that she wouldn't cry. Gently she reached for his hand, like a child in the dark reaching towards a loving parent to protect her from her nightmares; she clutched it fearfully in her own.
She knelt reverently by his side throughout the night, fighting off the fits of sleep her body screamed for her to mercifully yield to. The Laudanum had driven the convulsions from Erik's muscles, which remained stiff and his skin burned as though in fever. Christine stripped the sweat-soaked blankets from his bed, attempting to bring down his body temperature. She noted the sweat trickling in rivulets down her angel's face, disappearing behind the white mask. Christine felt her forehead crease in a shallow frown, reaching hesitantly towards her angel's face. There had been only two occasions where she had removed Erik's mask, and neither outcome had been pleasurable. Though his morphine vice had him in the grips of fever, she still feared the repercussions. Swallowing the lump in her throat her fingers hovered about the mask in a moment of indecision, before she let her fingers slide ever so gently about the edges of the mask, tenderly working it off her angel's face.
The sight that befell her was a gruesome one indeed. The sweat had collected in tiny pools about his hollowed cheek, and Christine noted as her stomach unclenched itself, that the skin had turned white and grey from the moisture – he truly did look as though he had been in a grave for months. The skin blended seamlessly from glistening grey, to twisted and ravaged red. She shuddered involuntarily, and knelt at his side, softly running the tips of her fingers across the expanse of his marred flesh. She pulled the bowl of cold water towards her, wrung out the cloth and ran it gently across his ravage cheek. Erik groaned softly under her ministrations, and she paused fearfully at the thought that she may be hurting him. She wrung the cloth out again and let it fall back into the bowl, the water slightly spilling over the sides, and leaned back on her heels.
"Maman…" Christine's head shot up as the word barely brushed past Erik's lips. Was he awake? She peered closely at him and noticed the erratic fluttering of his eyelids.
He was barely conscious, his mind straddling the void between conscious awareness and the hallucinatory prison of his mentality. Christine pressed a cool hand to his forehead as he mumbled incoherent words, his skin felt clammy and his pallor was of a sickly constitution. His body spasmed beneath the blanket as he fell into a relentless onslaught of nightmares, some testaments to his horrific past, others hallucinations of the darkest kind.
"Maman! The face will come back! I don't want it to come back! I want you to make it go away for ever!" Erik sobbed like a little child. Christine's eyes widened in horror, and she quickly reached for Erik's hand once more. His bony fingers clenched about her small hand in a desperate, vice-like grip, and Christine had to bite down hard upon her lip to stop herself from crying out in pain.
His eyes fluttered open for a moment, but his hallucination had him in a vice. His stomach seized painfully as his legs twitched, kicking out against the foot-board of the bed. Light perspiration was forming on his brow once more, as his torso trembled beneath her administering fingers. The Persian had warned her that Erik would be susceptible to severe swings of body temperature; where half an hour ago had seen his flesh as cold as ice, his skin now burned as though in fever. She placed a hand against his sweat-soaked shirt and felt his body convulse. Quickly she lunged for the bowl at her side and held her angel's head above it as his body convulsed again, sending the hot liquid contents of his stomach rushing up his burning throat with sickening regularity. She quickly wiped away the putrid-smelling bile, gently running a cold cloth across his parched lips.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, the heat searing through his silk shirt, warming her cheek as she watched the rise and fall of his chest closely for any sign of further convulsion. His convulsions and seizures had left him momentarily, and she gazed down upon his naked, albeit peaceful face with weariness and love. It was a gruesome face to be sure; the grisly details enhanced by the fever and flickering quality of the candle light which cast grotesque shadows across his distorted features. Christine sat on the floor next to the bed, knees and ankles tucked beneath her skirts, her feet beginning to numb with the familiar tingle that came from sitting in one attitude for so long. The bowl of putrid smelling liquid still sat by her side, its wafting stench almost making her gag and yet she sighed in sadness. She shifted her position slightly, reverently kneeling next to her teacher and cautiously raised a hand to his face; hovering hesitantly. She spread her fingers wide, delicately tracing the familiar contours of his face from the puckered and bubbled skin, to the abnormal lumps, scars, and the slight caving-in of the right side of his nose. She felt Erik shudder slightly under her touch, a tear slid slowly down her cheek.
"Maman?" Erik suddenly whispered into the silence of the room. "Maman, why are you crying?"
Christine felt her heart break a little, as she leaned in to take up his hand once more. "Shush, Erik, I'm not crying…"
"Yes you are! All I ever wanted was a kiss, maman… just one kiss…"
She stared at him in wonderment, slowly lowering her face to his and brushed her lips along the marred side of his face, pressing faint kisses to the red and ravished flesh. She trailed her kisses across his face, where she hesitated before pressing them lightly to his own. He sighed contently, falling back into the delirium of his restless sleep. He would never remember the first time she kissed his ravished face.
XxXxXxX
"Christine?" There was a soft knock on the door before the Persian entered. Christine gazed about her in surprise as soft, dappled light shone hesitantly through the window. It was morning. He looked down at the young Comtess kneeling vigilantly by her maestro's bedside and shook his head in wonder. Even enduring the horrible way in which Erik had treated her, she still stood by his side with fierce loyalty and utter devotion. Oh, what a fool you have been, Erik.
As he ventured closer he fought to repress his involuntary revulsion as he saw that Erik was no longer wearing his mask, and his grotesque deformity was exposed to the room. He had only seen his face on the few unfortunate incidents where he had caught Erik by surprise not wearing his mask, and knew he should be well used to sight by now, but he was not. And as the Persian's stomach gave another sickening lurch, he knew he would, and could never prepare himself enough for the sight of Erik's exposed face. The Persian's admiration and respect for the woman before him grew tremendously as he watched her look upon his ravished face with love and adoration, and internally wondered how she could look upon him and not feel repulsed. He knew above anyone that Erik deserved to find love and happiness, and he fervently prayed that Erik would learn to swallow his pride and accept that Christine was the one who could make his life complete.
As he approached her he noticed the dark circles beneath her bloodshot eyes; had this woman slept at all during the night? "Christine," he reproached gently, "you really should get some sleep; I will stay here with Erik while you rest."
Christine smiled at him gratefully, "Thank-you Nadir, that's very kind, but I want to be here with him when he wakes up."
The Persian nodded silently, "is there anything I can do?" Christine looked over at Erik's still form, "No, he's finally settled d-"
"-I meant for you."
"Oh. No, thank-you, but I am fine."
He turned to go, "Nadir?" he stopped. "W-what happened to him?" He looked down upon those wide, quizzical brown eyes trained firmly on him own jade ones.
The Persian sighed, drooping his shoulders wearily and drew the chair from Erik's desk beside the fireplace. He knew she would ask the question, sooner or later.
"Firstly, you should know that I have known Erik a very long time. I first encountered him in Persia, when I was daroga of Mazenderan a long time ago – before you were born even."
Christine nodded, silently encouraging him to continue.
"When you left Erik, news traveled quickly of the destruction of the Opera House, and I was bound, by a promise I had made long ago, to return to him."
She shifted slightly, tucking her feet neatly beneath her skirts as her hands fell to her lap; her face turned to him.
"After you left, I found him a miserable and inconsolable wreck. His home was completely destroyed, not only by the mob, but by his own raging lunacy." He glanced uneasily at Christine before continuing. "He had tried to take a pistol to his head, but for some unknown reason he couldn't pull the trigger, perhaps hoping against hope that one day you would return to him."
The Persian sighed, twisting his large, calloused fingers together, staring in the dismal remnants of the fire. "So he turned to morphine, quickly becoming addicted to those long hours in which he would cease to feel anything, no loss, no love, no anger – nothing. The doses quickly escalated to a suicidal level, and one day I returned to his lair to find him unconscious near the lakeshore, his heart barely beating; he was half-dead. I decided then that I would bring him back from the brink, for it was because of my lax attitude towards his then-small indulgence, which nearly had him killed." The Persian took a deep, shuddering breath, "it was then I vowed to purge his body of its dependence, but I could not bring him back from the cavernous void of despair that was his mind…"
He let the sentence trail off into silence within the dark room. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of Erik's laboured breathing. He stood to his feet once more and paced the room, running a tanned and calloused hand through his long black hair.
"I thought I had seen insanity in a man before… but this… this was other-worldly. His mind was so dark, his utter self-loathing so complete that he punished himself severely for what he deemed his impure thoughts regarding you, mademoiselle."
Christine's eyes flicked over Erik's face again, as the dread and self-doubt slowly seeped its way into her mind again. There was silence for a long moment, where neither dare speak and even Erik's breathing had settled to a low rasp. Candles, whose wicks had burnt low during the night, still flickered dimly about the room, casting odd shadows upon the walls. At length Christine spoke, voicing the one thing she had been coming to dread; her greatest fear.
"You needn't worry, Nadir. He doesn't love me anymore…" She said this so quietly that the Persian had to strain to hear what she was saying, and even then he wasn't entirely sure he had heard correctly.
He looked at her uneasily, "did Erik say this to you?"
"…No, but-"
"-then I believe you are grossly mistaken." he sighed as he rubbed his eyes wearily, "I always told Erik his pride would be the death of him." He looked into the exquisite girl's eyes, eyes that could draw you right in and smiled; finally coming to understand how Erik had come to develop such a dark love and dangerous obsession for the exquisite girl; she could be no more than eighteen. "Erik has loved you from the first moment he saw you."
"… but, the things he has said," Christine shook her head sadly, "he either treats me with contemptuous indifference, or acts as though he hates me."
"Not you, mademoiselle. He hates himself. His love for you nearly killed him." Christine bowed her head in shame. "But I do not blame you, Christine. Anyone put in the same situation would have acted just as you did. What Erik did was very wrong indeed."
Christine didn't say anything for a while. "Why does he keep pushing me away Monsieur Khan? How can I get him to trust me again?"
"I-it's not you he doesn't trust, mademoiselle. He doesn't trust himself with you." Christine's brows furrowed in confusion. "He fears what he became down there, alone with only his thoughts and demons. He fears going back there. He-" the Persian swallowed nervously, "He fears what he may do to you."
"Erik would never hurt me." Christine said defiantly.
"No, but you must understand that he ceased being Erik. Please don't be alarmed in my telling you this, mademoiselle, but Erik's morphine-induced persona had him convinced that the only way to purge himself of his grief… was to kill you and your husband, Raoul de Chagny."
Christine froze, her mind reeling at the thought of Erik turning his murderous temper upon her. Suddenly a shadow of a memory flickered through her mind, as her thoughts reeled back to a stormy spring night, a mere four months or so ago, and an ethereal voice that had whispered to her on the wind. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as she realized Erik had been outside the de Chagny manor that night; and how near she and Raoul had come to death.
"Thankfully the morphine's effects wore off in time for him to realize what he had set about to do that night, and he knew, for your own safety, that he could no longer remain in Paris. That's when I believe he employed the help of your dear Madame Giry."
This was all too much for Christine to take in and she felt her head spin wildly, making her feel dizzy and sickly all of a sudden. She put her head between her knees and breathed deeply, trying desperately to suppress the nauseating clenching and un-clenching of her stomach. Erik could have killed her.
"Mademoiselle? Christine…?"
"I'm fine, really." She took a couple of deep breaths, desperately attempting to steady her shaking nerves. "It's just a headache," she lied. Truthfully, the thought of her Angel being capable of harming her frightened and nauseated her, but she wouldn't betray this in front of the Persian.
"You have been awake too long Christine," he knelt in front of her, touching her arm lightly in concern. "You must rest, I will stay with Erik-"
"-but-"
"I won't hear of anything else. You are no use to anyone if you're exhausted." He looked down at her sternly before adding in a gentler tone, "please, I insist, I will wake you if there is any change."
Christine nodded silently, her tired body finally yielding to her exhaustion. The primal cry to sleep was far too loud to ignore, and she found herself being lead to a guest's quarters by the Persian.
Once inside the emotional and physical drain of the past three days overwhelmed her, and she did not even stop to remove her clothes before falling in a heap upon the bed, the sweet bliss of sleep ensconcing her safely.
XxXxXxX
Christine felt a terrible sense of panic when she woke. The room was pitch black, and there was no sound bar the soft hooting of what she presumed to be an owl. A feeling of claustrophobia overtook her, and she pressed out with her hands in alarm, only to find nothing but vacant air about her. Steadying her breaths, she slowly rose from the bed, her hands fumbling blindly along the wall until she stumbled across the door-knob. Breathing a sigh of relief, she yanked the door open, her eyes gently adjusting to the soft light of the gas lanterns adorning the walls of the hallway. Smoothing down her wrinkled skirts and rumpled hair, she quickly retraced the path she had taken with the Persian, until she found herself facing a familiar scene.
The door to Erik's room had been closed, bar a small crack which Christine peered anxiously through before she quietly stepped inside. The Persian had yet to note her presence as he sat, bent vigilantly over Erik, his dexterous fingers administering another dose of what Christine presumed to be the Laudanum.
"Monsieur Khan?" she asked nervously.
The Persian man turned at the sound of her voice, a reassuring smile gracing his lips but not quite reaching his eyes. "Ah, mademoiselle, I see you are awake."
Christine walked to his side, placing a hand on the Persian's shoulder. "How is he?"
"I am pleased to say that he is going to make a full recovery. That is, if we can manage to reverse his dependence upon the Opium."
Christine pressed a hand to her heart, feeling some of the tension joyfully leave her body in a wash of relief. Her angel was going to live! She smiled down at the Persian, whose jade green eyes stared back hollowly into her own. "I don't know how to thank you Nadir," she suddenly realized how tired he looked. "Nadir, what time is it?"
The Persian smiled wirily at her, "it is 2:35 in the morning."
Christine's eyes widened in horror at the thought of having slept that long. "Good heavens! Why did you let me sleep that long?" He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "Come, I will stay with Erik the remainder of the night while you rest."
He smiled ironically; Erik seems not to have acquired a lover, but a little nurse! The Persian got wearily to his feet and packed the remaining ampoules of Laudanum away in a case. "I have already administered a dose of Laudanum, Christine; there will be no need for more tonight."
She nodded as he tucked the case beneath his arm, gazed silently at Erik, and left the room.
She turned her attention back to Erik and watched the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest with gratitude, silently praising the Lord for every blessed breath her angel took. Slowly she slid down on her knees, tucking her arms around them as she hugged them to her chest. Her chin came to rest on the top of her knees and her eyes remained firmly trained of his chest… in… out… in… out…in… out…
Only twice did he stop in his rhythmic breathing to cough, choking on the fluids that had coated his lungs, and still Christine sat reverently watching the rise and fall of his chest. In… out… in… out… in… out… She could almost have written a tune to it, and in her head an old lullaby her father had sung to her repeated constantly, drumming up the ill memories of singing by his bed-side as he slowly died. "When I am in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you…"
Christine blinked back the tears as a soft note escaped her lips… in… out… in… out… in… out… her notes trembled slightly as the overwhelming grief threatened to envelop her, but still she sang on. This was nighttime. This was their time.
"Thank-you papa."
XxXxXxX
A new day dawned warm and bright upon the streets of London. The city folk threw open their windows in the hope of enticing in a non-existent breeze in what would soon be known as one of the hottest summers experienced. Yet despite the suffocating humidity of the evenings, one lone fire in one lone fireplace had burnt steadily though the night.
Christine's head lolled about her shoulder uncomfortably. A bird twittered noisily from beyond the window pane, which served to trap the stifling heat within the confining walls of Erik's room. The fire had burnt out long ago, and only a few sparse embers glowed where they lay in the heavy grate. A soft moan issued from the bed, and Christine felt the heavy fog slowly lift away from her brain. She opened one bleary brown eye as her foot cramped painfully beneath her tucked up legs, where she had retained a constant vigil all night, resorting to sleep on the hard floorboards. She must have dozed off some time in the early morning, for her neck was stiff and cramped in one position. Another low moan echoed through the room, and this time Christine's eyes flew wide awake. Erik!
She crawled across the room hurriedly, coming to rest by her angel's bedside. She peered at his sweaty face, and whispered ever so softly, as though the slightest noise may send him back into his comatose-state; "Erik?"
His lips parted slightly, his mouth as dry as parchment attempting to form the words to express his fervent desire… water. She reached across for the wineskin, and held it to his lips. A small trickle of water wound its way into his mouth and he swallowed gratefully. "Erik?" she whispered again, "Erik, can you hear me?"
A low mumbling was all the assertion she needed. As he slowly regained consciousness he sluggishly opened one stormy gold eye to find an extremely upset albeit formidable Christine glaring down at him with a mixture of grief, worry and… anger.
"Christine!" He whispered in alarm, as his memory slowly returned to him; his anger and shame at her finding him in such a state, flaring within his chest. "Christine! What are you-? Get out!"
Suddenly a small white hand whipped out of nowhere and came colliding forcefully with his bare cheek with a resounding slap! Christine's face was red with anger, her small fist were shaking as she glared at him. Her lip quivered slightly as she attempted to retain her resolve.
"Christine, what did you-?" Erik lay in shock, his anger festering beneath his skin as he fought tooth and nail to retain some ounce of his self-control. His utter shame and humiliation spurned within him, the primal desire to protect himself from her sudden intrusion upon the darkest part of his life in the interest of self-preservation.
There was a deathly silence in the stifling confines of the room, where Erik sat hunched over on the bed, refusing to meet Christine's eye, his face burning with shame at the exposure of his weakness.
"How dare you!" Christine suddenly cried in anguish, before flinging herself unexpectedly onto the bed; her small fists beating mercilessly upon his chest. "How dare you, how dare you, how dare you!" She sobbed repeatedly.
Erik fought to get a hold of her flailing fists, the pure shock overwhelming his distorted features, and he realized with horror that he wasn't wearing his mask. Utter shame forced him to abandon any attempt to restrain the hysterical girl lying on his lap, as his hand flew automatically to his face and he looked around desperately for his mask. His hands quickly found it lying on the bedside table and he hurriedly replaced it before grabbing Christine forcibly by the wrists, his worn and cramped muscles screaming in protest.
"Be still!" he commanded angrily, holding her thin white wrists in his bony grasp. He let her head droop to his bare chest, propriety out the window, as her body quivered on top of him. "How could you?" She whispered hollowly, her voice thick with tears, "how could you almost go and leave me?" Erik felt his voice choke up in his throat. The last thing he remembered before the ensconcing bliss and hallucinatory prison was the needle. Oh God… how had he let Christine see what he was reduced to?
He released the pressure on her wrists and she lay still upon him, her head burrowed into the folds of his shirt. Her shoulders quivered slightly as she cried silently; the emotion she had fought back as she tended to his illness flooded her body. Erik felt as though he were frozen; paralyzed by fear and indecision as the bare skin of his chest burned where her face touched him. His hand hovered in the air above her head of curls, Just this one last indulgence, just this once… than she will be free of me forever… His fingers lightly fell to the gossamer curls as he breathed her scent and closed his eyes; his weary and abused body longing for the sweet bliss of sleep to come; luring him into its soft embrace.
Erik's eyes shot open as he felt her inquisitive fingers slowly creep across his chest, and yet… for some reason he did not stop her; perhaps paralyzed by his fear. He hissed softly as her fingertips slowly grazed over one of his numerous scars; the welts amid the hard scarred flesh were remnants of payment for his wicked crimes, his lust for her… a tribute to his insanity.
He closed his eyes again as her fingers explored every crevice of his bare chest, reveling in the feel of her bare skin on his. Her crying had ceased as she took in the sight of his mutilated flesh with morbid fascination. There was no hiding from her now, she had seen him in his weakest hour, and still she had not run away. He opened his eyes wearily; feeling so tired, always so tired… and found her staring at him, an endless sadness displayed in her eyes. "Show me," she whispered.
Damn you, Christine… your curiosity will be the death of me… and yet I can deny you nothing…
He blinked hesitantly, his insecurities welling inside him as he slowly took her hand in his own and guided it over his wounds; some self-inflicted, some remnants of his life with the gypsies. Each had its own story, its own crime. Perhaps his whole life had been a crime… a crime against mother nature, humanity, God and everything he stood for… perhaps he was never meant to survive those nine months he lay festering in his mother's womb. Perhaps the greatest crime was that his mother had committed – by allowing him to live.
She sobbed heavily into his shoulder as his hand found its way hesitantly to her head. The tears fell thick and heavy and mingled with his own salty ones – he was crying!
"If only I had known! Oh God, I'm so sorry Erik!"
"Shh," he whispered, choking back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.
What was he doing? They had both hurt one another beyond measure, the grief, the remorse and regret was insurmountable. He looked down at her quivering form in his arms; was this what his cruel games had reduced her to? He had wanted to punish her, yes, he admitted it; he wanted her to suffer for all the pain her leaving had caused him… but she was just a child then! A sixteen-year-old child still afraid of things that go bump in the night; terrified of his fierce possessiveness and sheer ungovernable jealousy. By God, he had tortured her fiancé before her eyes – no wonder she had run from him! And he, in an effort to scourge his unclean and animalistic hunger for her from his festering body, to drown out her voice, his self-loathing… his hatred of the world, had turned to morphine. Oh what sweet bliss was governed by that wicked drug, encompassing him in a world without feeling, without thought. He had stolen something precious from this child, an innocence that had shone through the darkness of his mind and captured his heart now seemed extinguished. This fate was no more than he deserved.
"Promise me," she whispered suddenly into the damp material of his silk shirt, "promise me you'll never do anything like that again!" She nuzzled into his chest as he softly stroked her hair, barely touching the gossamer curls. He stared down at the chocolate lock curled tightly about his spindly fingers. Could it possibly be that she truly did love him? Even knowing what she knew now? Murderer, thief, unscrupulous extortionist, contemptible drug addict… He so wanted to believe it, to believe in her. How many nights had he dreamt of holding her in his arms like he was now?
"Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him…" he whispered hoarsely under his breath as he absently stroked the curls in Christine's long hair.. She lifted her head and gazed up at him, her doe brown eyes still swimming with tears.
"Don't leave me again, Erik, please…" He gazed at her pleading expression, the ice around his heart slowly melting. This was everything he'd ever dreamt about, all he had ever wanted; and all he had to do was reach out and take it. "Trust me," she pleaded, her small white hands gripping the fabric of his shirt in desperation.
He had not yet said a word bar the cryptic message mere moments before. She buried her head in his chest again, expecting to be rejected at any moment. "I love you," she whispered helplessly, "I just wish that you would believe me…"
For a moment there was only silence, and she knew he was about to turn her away once more, to bury himself alive in the coffin of his mind; the morphine his undertaker. Slowly, ever so slowly his thin white fingers found their way beneath her chin where he lifted it gently. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and encapsulated within his golden orbs was a silent plea for help; a heart-wrenching plea for help. She shuddered involuntarily, and perceiving it to be disgust, he tried to push her away from him. Christine's hands quickly found their way to his face, her fingers feeling the cool contours of the mask in comparison to the soft flesh of his face. She stared at him intently before pulling his face down to press a soft, searing kiss to his lips; a kiss that would decide and seal their fates.
This was untainted and pure, and conveyed nothing of the animalistic hunger they had devoured one another with in the hallway those many weeks ago. Christine felt his heart pounding painfully beneath her palm as it rested against his chest, and she slowly broke away and -like the convicted at the gallows- she awaited her fate.
His eyes remained closed as he reveled in the velvety feel of her lips on his. His face was an array of emotions; an internal war raged within him as he fought to repress his inner demons. Was this some cruel joke his deceiving Opium vice was taunting him with? If this was indeed some figment of his imagination, Erik knew that when he woke, there would be no preventing his swift and immediate decent into madness… madness that not even the Persian himself could salvage him from. A monster condemned to suffer in Hell, should never be gifted a view into Heaven.Erik feared the man he became down there; neither living nor dead, yet with no conscious decision nor freedom of thought. He was tool to the destruction of the Opium vice; a slave to its bidding. There was only so much a man could suffer through, and Erik was just that – a man. He knew that if this one last chance at salvation was eternally denied him; there would be no coming back.
At length he opened his eyes slowly, stormy gold meeting chocolate brown, and reached out hesitantly for her hand, wishing and praying for this vision before him to be real. When he felt the tips of his fingers touch solid flesh, Erik fought to repress the sob that wracked through his body, as he watched with wonderment as his cold, thin fingers interlaced with her hers in what would be an eternal promise. She was his!
"Oh Christine…" he choked out painfully. Even then her name sounded beautiful carried on the rich timbre of his voice. She closed her eyes and gripped his hand as though he might evaporate from sight. There was no need for further words; those two words breathed through tears was all the confirmation of his love that she needed; she had opened Pandora's Box and unleashed the fury within; Erik's desperate love and overwhelming passion; there would be no turning back.
His head drooped shamefully as he buried his forehead in the crook of her neck; inhaling the sweet scent of lavender in her hair. His face was moist from the tears he was shedding as he gripped her arms painfully tight.
"Forgive me Christine…"
Christine held him to her as he wept pitifully into her shoulder, feeling his body quiver beneath her.
"Forgive your poor Erik…"
A/N: Did everyone have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year?? Wow, I am officially in my last year of High School! Yay!
Sorry this chapter took so long to get out; but I found this "revelations" chapter a difficult one to write, and it's such an important chapter too. The angst is over for the time being. Please let me know what you think, and how you feel about the turn this story is taking. If there are any loose plot-holes you've spotted, or questions you need answered, please let me know. Your feedback is desperately needed and greatly appreciated!! Cookies for the 100th review!!
Thanks to my reviewers for the last chapter;
Scully 35, Ayesha, Luckii Jinx, a fan, Miss Marian Poo, miffster, allheart, lady wen, phantomphorever, Marieena.. and a special mention to my friend Free2bFroody who is in London at the moment watching Phantom at West End.. whistles lucky!!
Until next time, Cheers!
- Wing