A/N: Dear readers, once again i am sorry for the long delay, but my internet has been down since the 11th of December, and has only just been fixed today. One good thing did come of this absence, and it is that I have now 2 chapter updates for you. And this is my longest yet. I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year - I know I am dying in this Australian heat; it is around forty degrees! Thankyou for your patience.
Chapter twenty-one.
One month previous.
Her body trembled in the still night air, jerking and twisting, the sheets ensnaring her slender form; tightening, constricting… A pale hand clawed at the material, clenching it tightly within her fists, as sweat drenched her nightgown, soaking her curls. Christine's eyes fluttered wildly beneath her lids, her mind once again caught in the fits of her nightmares.
… Raoul laughed again sardonically. "The Phantom of the Opera? Is that what they called you? Only a façade for a depraved and repugnant man without a chance in even the lowliest of society. Why, even the gypsies found you too atrocious – what makes you think Christine could ever love you? You are nothing more than a discarded piece of waste that nobody else wants to deal with. I am doing the world a favour in taking your life…"
Erik twisted from under Raoul's grasp, continuing to struggle against the two guards and taste vengeance upon this wicked creature. Undoing his leather belt, Raoul strode briskly behind Erik and bound his hands tightly together. He jerked Erik's head up by his hair, breathing hotly into the marred side of his face as he spoke.
"But remember this, phantom, as you lay dying, suffering and alone, may the last thought in your head be of her with me – her husband… Her thoughts will not linger on you for long, my friend, when she lies so warm and yielding beneath me!"
"No, Raoul! Please don't!"
Raoul's eyes blazed with fire. He choked the knot of the noose longer than necessary, seething at this potent and impervious being that seemed impossible to destroy. He backed away slowly, his eyes searching Erik's face for any sign of fear or submission, but he was unsuccessful. Erik was defiant to the end. His gaze flickered to Christine – eyes of a man that carried all the love in the world with only a single glance.
"Erik, no!" Christine cried, her expression painted with torment and angst. She frantically looked over to Raoul, grasping his stiffened arm with hands that shook uncontrollably. "Please, Raoul… no!"
In another part of the manor, the Comte lay unconscious and unaware of the horrific part he played in Christine's nightmares. Last night had found him within one of the estate's luxurious guestrooms. Rich fabrics in tones of red and gold covered the windows and bed. Dark mahogany furnishings filled the space; every piece hand carved and exquisite. The room was fit for kings, yet lying there, atop the rumpled but still made bed, was Raoul. In such a complete state of dishevelment, he lay sprawled across the bedcovers. Barefooted, his shirt unbuttoned, and wearing a pair of wrinkled trousers, he was almost unrecognizable. The previous evening's glass of brandy had turned into several, until a whole tumbler had been drained and he had passed out in that very position. The Comte had not ever bothered to undress himself, or cover himself in sleep. The empty tumbler of brandy sat on the bedside table, an entirely empty glass set beside it.
So blissfully unaware was he, until the sound of a woman's screams shattered the subdued atmosphere of the manor.
Raoul jerked awake; his head rolled from side to side as his heavy, red-rimmed eyes slowly blinked open.
Had he just heard…?
A woman screamed again. Christine.
Agitated, he stumbled uncoordinatedly from the bed, wrenched the door open and staggered down the hallway towards Christine's bedroom and the source of the screaming. Christine was fast within the clutches of her nightmare by the time Raoul burst through her door and clambered over to her bed.
"No, Raoul! Let him go.. please," she sobbed hysterically, clawing her hands wildly in the air. Her usually tranquil doe eyes were flung open, wild and frantic. Her gaze was glazed, as she saw not Raoul leaning concernedly above her, but his cruel hands ripping the life away from her most beloved angel. "Please Raoul, don't do this!"
Raoul's heart sunk as he realized he was the source of his wife's pain. Again. Whatever hell she was currently existed in was all due to him. Desperately he reached out and grasped her flailing wrists, trying to deal with her as gently as possible for fear of reopening her wounds. Whatever he tried, he could not break her from the fierce grip her nightmare had on her. Holding her arms down, he deftly straddled her hips, frantically trying to ease the convulsing of her body. Several of the servants had gathered outside her bedroom door, awoken by her screams, and anxious to see what was going on.
"Christine! Christine, wake up!"
…Raoul hovered above Erik as his upper body sagged downwards in response to the excruciating blow, yet was still held up by the two guards. The noose constricted painfully against his throat, crushing his windpipe.
"The devil's child shall be sent back to where he belongs! That angel in hell is your proper title now, beast!"
Raoul grasped Christine's face roughly in his hands. "Christine, wake up!!"
Christine's eyes flew open, sweat trickled into them, the saltiness stinging and bringing her out of the hellish realm that was her nightmare.
"Raoul! Get off me! Don't touch me!!" She shrieked hysterically as his murdering face hovered above her, his grip on her arms unrelenting. "You killed him! You killed him! You murderer!!"
"What? What's the matter with you? What are you talking about?" Raoul struggled to fully comprehend what she was saying. He shook his head irately and blinked repeatedly; anything to banish the cobwebs cluttering his mind. "I didn't kill anyone!"
"Get off of me!"
"If you calm down, I will let you up!"
Christine's flailing stilled long enough so that Raoul could clamber off her, his body shaking partly from his lack of sleep, partly from the huge quantities of alcohol he had consumed, and partly from the reality of Christine's visions. He took a hesitant step towards her, but she drew back fearfully, wrapping the drenched coverlet around her trembling form in a protective manner.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Christine." He hissed through gritted teeth, aware of the spectacle he and his wife were creating in front of the servants.
"Don't come any closer!!" She screamed, gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned bone white.
Raoul rounded angrily on his gawping staff. "Don't you people have to work to do?!" He barked. They looked taken back, but scattered almost immediately. He slammed the door behind them. Christine's screaming wasn't doing wonders for his already splitting headache. "Will you be quiet!!"
Christine shuddered involuntarily and curled her small frame into a protectively ball. Harsh sobs wracked her body, leaving her to gasp for air as the vision of Erik's broken neck seared into her brain. Oh God, he can't be dead.
"Christine… Christine, look at me…" Raoul's voice, softened, was distant in the background, fading in and out of her consciousness. A firm, but gentle hand upon her wrist jerked her back to the present. She stared coldly at his fingers entwined about her wrist. "Let go of me."
As though burned, he jerked his hand away from hers. "What is wrong with you Christine?"
"What have you done to Erik?"
"Christine…"
"What have you done to him!"
Raoul turned away from her, his breathing laboured as his hand curled tightly into a fist.
"Did you kill him Raoul?! Tell me what you did to him!!"
"What any man would do given my circumstances!" Raoul's voice thundered throughout the room, causing Christine to withdraw within herself once more. "Do you think that I savour some sick, abhorrent sort of pleasure knowing that MY wife lusts after another? But not just any other… no, a torturer! An extortionist! A murderer for God's sake! An evil man not fit to besmirch the streets of this fair city, and let alone to bed my wife!"
"How dare you! I did no such thing!"
"Oh no? But how many times have you in your dreams, Christine? Do not think for one moment that I know not of the secrets of your slumber!" He stepped towards her, slowly but surely. His footsteps burning a path in their wake, his eyes alight with a raging fire born of jealousy and hatred. "I know what fierce desires burn beneath your flesh and in your heart… even as you lay in my bed. The very thought of it sickens me, Christine. You torture me, little wife; I long to throw you from my sight, which is no more than you deserve, and yet I cannot give you up!"
Tears now flooded unrestrained down Christine's pale and lifeless cheeks. "Please Raoul… please… just let him go! Do what you will with me, but please, let him go."
Raoul's breath felt hot against her cheek as his words hissed softly in her ear. "No! I can't let him go… you will go back to him, Christine. I know you. He will come for you…" His voice softened as he ran his fingers through her moist curls. "I can't lose you Christine… not to him. You will love me, and all will return to the way it ought to be… you'll see…."
Christine turned her face away from him, her eyes cold and hard. "I will never love you again, Raoul. Nor will I ever forgive you."
Her words cut him deeply, the sting of her blow bringing tears, unbidden, to his eyes. He blinked them back furiously, rising to his full height. He made as if to say something, but decided against it; swallowing the cruel words that rose so easily within his throat. Without another word he left the room, leaving his wife to her internal torment, trembling upon what was once their marriage bed.
XxXxXxX
The hairpin clamoured in the latch for a moment before finally unlocking the apparatus. The last heavy shackle fell to the floor, dragging a large weight of rusted chains down with it. Erik stared at the young girl before him, dimly amazed at her boldness and brilliance.
"I confess I did not think you could do it, mademoiselle." Erik whispered dryly, dragging himself to his feet. He shook slightly on his legs, the strength in his muscles waning from the loss of blood. Meg reached out a tentative hand to steady him, her fingers lightly brushing the bruised and battered skin of his forearm. He recoiled slightly from the unexpected touch, and then cursed himself inwardly as he observed the fleeting look of hurt flit across Meg's pretty features. "I'm sorry mademoiselle. I am… unaccustomed to people touching me."
Meg nodded silently.
The pair stared at each other for several long moments, when suddenly, a loud commotion from outside the cell door echoed down the stone passage, causing both of them to flinch from their reverie. Erik seized Meg protectively, pulling her closer to him, despite his evident weakness. Grasping her waist, he pushed her behind him like a mother protecting its young and stood resolutely in his place. Meg held the back of his arms tightly; fear coursing through her veins as a pair of steadily angrier voices thundered down the passageway.
"You imbecile! I told you there were to be NO unauthorized visitors!"
"But sir, the girl was sent by-" A second voice yelled desperately.
"-you ignorant fool! It is a ploy!"
Suddenly the door of his cell flew open. Through the darkness it was almost impossible to make out any clear distinction of the three figures that loomed in the entryway, but their presence received the attention of everyone in the room. Meg let out an involuntary gasp, and stumbled back slightly. Once again, the stout guard's lustful gaze, mingled now with anger and humiliation, devoured the bare flesh of her body. Erik shrank under their harsh gaze, feeling his remaining energy drain from his weary, beaten and broken limbs.
"Come to kill me have you?" He sneered.
The guards turned to eye him with expressions marred with contempt. "There were to be no visitors to your cell, swine! The Comte-"
But what the Comte's explicit orders had been, Erik had never heard, for at that moment, the Persian's jade eyes appeared, glowing, in the darkness of the shadows surrounding the three guards. They quickly darted from Erik's, to Meg's and back again. A small smirk twisted Erik's lips; so the Daroga has a plan after all…
"I'm sorry to disappoint you, gentleman, but the lady and I weren't quite finished. So, if you'll excuse us…"
The three guards stared in morbid fascination as the monster with the macabre face clutched the beautiful golden angel in his filthy, lustful hands. Erik murmured a quiet pardon in Meg's ear as his bruised and calloused fingers crept slowly across the soft mounds of her breasts, which heaved with every ragged breath she took. His golden eyes blazed furiously behind his grossly disfigured visage, tempting them, toying with them, mocking them. He knew the stout guard wanted her, he could see the lust swell within him, see the hungry look burn within his dark, soulless eyes.
"Erik!" Meg whispered in his ear, as he turned her harshly in his hands, ripping the sleeve of her dress to expose her pale shoulder. He pressed her against his chest as he peered over her shoulder with sneering eyes at the guards. She reached a timid hand within her bodice, her small fingers curling about the soft strip of hide, leathery and thin, and began to pull. The rope burned her skin as she tugged it haphazardly from its place of concealment. Erik stared wide-eyed, his lips curling into a nefarious smile. It was the Punjab lasso.
"Really, my dear; the items you ladies procure astounds me," he murmured quietly into her hair.
He lowered his face to the crook of her neck, scanning the room behind her. Unable to contain his lustful longing any longer, heightened by his sense of humiliation, the stout guard took careful, measured steps towards him, his eyes wild with vehement anger, and his pistol hoisted heavily within his sweaty hands. Nadir, positioning himself just behind the remaining two, bent over as if to rub his ankle and gave the most unperceivable of nods.
"Unhand the girl, demon"
It was now or never. With deft fingers, Erik grasped the loop of the lasso and spun the girl away, throwing her to the ground. He whipped the rope above his head and loosed a cry of fury, feral eyes blazing, chains clanking, and hurled the lasso towards his prey. The rope fell effortlessly around the stout guard's throat, then was pulled taut – abruptly silencing the man's cries of surprise and cleanly snapping his neck.
Meg's eyes squeezed shut and she let out a terrifying gasp as the first man's body hit the cold stone floor.
Erik's eyes flew to his Persian friend; Nadir had already felled the jailer who had dared to lay his filthy hands upon Meg with the dagger he had concealed at his calf, and was lunging at the second, his coat tails whipping about his body. Erik watched the scene unfold as if in slow motion. Nadir was maneuvering the guard closer. If the man would just take a few more steps inwards, he would be within the punjab's reach.
Nadir grunted in pain as the man lashed out with a concealed knife, ripping a jagged streak across the Persian's shoulder. Blood leached from the wound, the crimson flow soaking the sleeve of his white shirt. Meg's eyes flew open at the sound of Nadir's groan, just in time to see the lasso go flying from Erik's person and cinch tightly about the third guard's throat. This time, his prey's neck did not snap as nicely as the previous kill's. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Meg watching in horror as the man struggled against the rope like a trout hooked by a line, the monster at the other end dragging him forward with a power altogether unreal from such a haggard, severely beaten body. And then Erik threw the man to the floor and pulled the rope… pulled and pulled, choking the breath from the fallen guard and with it, his life. The man's face turned an ugly shade of purple and the veins bulged and pulsated within his neck, and Erik stared down at him with a vehement rage that consumed his every thought. Time ceased to exist for him, as he watched with satisfaction, as the life left the man's face… choking…
Meg opened her mouth to scream in horror, but no sound came out. Blood stained her hands now; ugly, red… never to be washed away. Erik loosed the lasso from the dead man's throat, and she saw that it was broken and ruddy, angrily streaked with the mark of death… forever haunting… just like Buquet. She covered her face with her hands, tears of terror spilling down her cheeks. She did not want to be here. She did not want to witness this hideous sight. Death. That's all this man ever brought… death.
Meg blinked and turned to the grisly scene again, only to see that Erik was now finished with the man, and was hunched over retrieving his lasso.
"Get up, both of you!" he ordered, stowing the lasso at his waist side. Struggling to his feet, he reached down and lifted the young girl to hers, then hobbled into the dark path to his right.
"But Erik! The exit is to the left!" he heard Meg cry. "We do not know where that path leads!"
"We cannot go out the way we came in; that path leads only to death! Can't you hear the guards' cries? Your presence did not go unnoticed!" Meg listened and sure enough, the shouts of the alerted guards echoed through the dank stone passage. The Persian took her hands and dragged her along, stumbling, in pursuit of Erik.
"Hold off, my friend, I know where it is we must go!"
Erik allowed him to pass begrudgingly, the Persian hoisting the lantern before his face to light the way. Erik saw no need for the lantern, as he was perfectly capable of seeing in the dim light. Years of living five storeys beneath the opera had procured for him rather extraordinary eyesight.
The sounds from the staircase behind grew louder and louder. "Come on, Erik!" Meg grabbed Erik by the arm before he collapsed under weakened legs, taking no notice of the heavy weight that now bore down unbearably upon her slight frame. The Phantom's face was drawn and wan, and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow and soaked through his ragged shirt.
"We must go through the underground canal that leads into the city. Listen for the sound of water!" Nadir's calls echoed dimly off the stone walls, the pale light of the lantern flickering on ahead as they made their progression down the passageway. Erik's ragged breathing came in short gasps, and the thought struck her that several of his ribs must be broken. Pulling his arm around her shoulder more securely, she steadied him as best she could. It was clear that he had more resilience than any other man ever created.
They traveled down the black passageway slower than they would have liked, for Erik's weakness hindered them from moving faster. Stumbling, Erik leaned heavily against the stone wall, his face grimacing in pain as he clutched his throbbing side.
Catching his breath, Erik clasped Meg's shoulder and continued onward. After only a few minutes, the sounds from the back passage grew fainter and fainter. The darkness of the tunnel covered their bodies and surroundings entirely, and it was assuredly of no comfort to Meg. Suddenly, a strange and welcoming sound began to resonate in between the stone walls. Erik stopped Meg abruptly, raising a finger to his lips.
"Nadir! Do you hear that?" He turned his head sharply, listening intently.
Meg eyed the man curiously. "Yes… water! Let us keep moving, it must be up ahead!"
Nadir continued to run ahead, his lantern bobbing dimly in the darkness, illuminating only a small sphere about the man himself. Although the sound grew louder in pursuit of it, Meg began to grow disheartened upon not finding its source. Sweat now trickled profusely into her eyes, mingling with the saltiness of her barely suppressed tears, before spilling down her cheeks. Her small figure shook under the weight of supporting Erik – the man for whom she had risked everything; the man who she had seen murder, not once, but twice before her eyes mere moments before. She shuddered at the thought, causing her and Erik to stumble slightly.
"Nadir!" Erik panted, leaning on Meg for support. "How many levels below ground are we?"
The Persian man halted in his tracks, "Three."
"Where in Paris are we?"
"South-eastern suburbs."
Erik clutched at the rough stone of the wall, each ragged breath he took sending bolts of pain searing throughout his chest. "The subterranean tributaries of the Seine run at least five levels below ground level in this part of the city. We must continue moving downwards. Keep moving!"
The faint shouts of the guards met their ears once more, coming now from both ends of the twisting stone paths. Soon, they would be trapped within the passageway, fighting back to back if they did not move with haste. Erik pushed onwards, refusing the support of Meg and taking lead of the Persian. He turned another corner and shuffled further, then stopped to stare down at the damp stone floor. It was a trap door of sorts – an ancient one with thick hinges and an iron latch – presumably a sub-level dungeon where those, society and those within the asylum wished to forget, were hidden. He stretched out his jagged fingers and reached for the handle. It would not open. Pulling at the door one-handed, he juggled the rusted latch to no effect. The door was locked.
"Be of use, Nadir!" he ordered.
The Persian grasped at the latches, driving the pointed end of his knife within the rusted bolts… chipping away. Nadir flipped the knife about in his hands and fell hard against the door, driving the hilt of the knife into it several times until, finally, the old stone began to crumble ever so slightly from under the latch and hinges; exposing a weakness.
"Hurry Nadir!" Meg's frantic voice echoed through the darkness.
Finally Erik and Nadir managed to fling open the door, and lower themselves through the floor. The air below was damp and heavy. Breathing deeply, Nadir reached up for Meg, slowly lowering her to the loose stone of the floor below.
"You're welcome, my friend!" the Persian exclaimed as he helped Erik pull the heavy door shut."
"Save tales from your brief career in heroism for another time, daroga," Erik stated dryly, pushing on through the darkness. The distinctive sound of water was undeniable now. They were getting closer.
It was not until another five minutes of walking that they finally reached a small set of widened steps that wound their way down to a steep stone embankment. Nadir hefted the lantern once more, peering warily into the darkness that seemed to stretch before them midst the rushing sound of water. Walking cautiously towards the water's edge, Nadir once more held the lantern outwards to assess the situation. The canal was not anything like the waterways beneath the Opera Populaire, the same channels that had first delivered Christine to her precious angel – the same ones that had guarded Erik's dismal isolation from the world he claimed to loathe. The water spiraled in all directions; surging into obscurity at a brisk, almost dangerous current.
"What are we going to do?" Meg's voice wavered slightly in trepidation, relieved that the darkness shielded most of her fear from her companions.
"It is obvious, isn't it Mademoiselle Giry?"
"Surely we're not…?" The look in Erik's eyes was all the answer she needed. She swallowed the lump building in the back of her throat. "H-how?"
The Persian stepped forward, "this canal runs right beneath the city, with street access by way of several man holes placed along its length. The current here is strong, it will carry us… but it may separate us. We can't allow that to happen, so we must stick together. Mademoiselle Giry?"
"Y-yes?"
"You will come with me. Erik, though injured, I trust you can manage on your own."
"A fair concession, Daroga."
Nadir set the lantern aside, and crouched down on the embankment. Cursing silently under his breath, he found a groove to steady himself with his foot while he slowly eased himself into the rushing water. He sucked in a lungful of air in shock as the full force of the frigid liquid hit his body. He pushed back his hair and swore silently, motioning for Meg to join him.
"Don't worry, mademoiselle, the cold soon passes."
Erik quickly lowered himself into the frigid water, the temperature soon numbing his wearied muscles and providing some sort of relief for his broken and aching bones.
"Daroga! This is by far the most lunatic plan you have ever devised!"
The Persian merely grimaced as Meg soon joined them, hissing audibly as the cold water slammed her slight frame. Drawing her arms tight about his neck, Nadir turned and nodded to Erik. He pushed off from the embankment and was immediately swallowed by the water's overwhelming current.
"Hold tight mademoiselle!"
XxXxXxX
The roar of the water as it rushed through the waterway was deafening. Several times their bodies were thrown against the harsh stone walls, tearing jagged gashes in flesh and bruising bone. Erik hissed sharply against the pain as his hand was crushed against the jagged rock. Raising his head above the suffocating water, Erik's yellow eyes blazed as a small cone of light beamed down from the dark tunnel's ceiling several metres ahead.
"Nadir!" he shouted above the roar, as the current dragged them ever closer.
The Persian had already spotted their exit; a series of metal handles embedded into the jagged stone. The daunting ladder – only a few feet away from reach – seemed to be the only outlet to safety. Yet even a few feet could feel like a mile with the strong current against them.
"I see it!"
Nadir hoisted Meg up further out of the water's reach, binding his muscular arm around the top of her thighs as he dragged another powerful arm through the water. His booted feet lashed out behind him, slowly dragging their bodies across the face of the current. Erik was floating a few feet in front of him. With a desperate lunge, Erik felt his bruised fingers snare the first metallic rung. Once he felt the cold iron beneath his fingers, he constricted his powerful grip and pulled himself towards it. Quickly slipping his forearm under the metal to relieve the mounting pressure in his hand, he bit down firmly on his lip to harness the intense pain searing throughout his broken fingers.
"Nadir!"
He held out his hand for the Persian. If he missed they would be separated, with no way of knowing where they may end up. Meg wrapped her arms tightly about the Persian's neck and leaned into his shoulder. He kicked out against the lashing water, all power in his legs completely deadened from the water's icy encasing. Reaching with an outstretched hand, his fingers briefly snared Erik's before the current dragged them apart.
"No!"
Meg threw herself from Nadir's shoulders; the added momentum allowing her to grasp Erik's outstretched hand. The Persian clutched desperately at her ankles. Breathing raggedly, Erik winced as she grasped his broken hand. The pain was almost excruciating and he knew it would only be a short time before the pain controlled him completely.
"Meg, quickly… reach up for this bar!"
Grimacing under the extra weight the Persian's body, dragged by the current, forced on her own, Meg reached an outstretched hand to clutch the bar, grasping the iron between her fingers with all her might. She could hear Erik's laboured breathing, as he tried desperately to drag his friend to safety, the frigid water still lashing his body. The distance between each rung seemed like an eternity to Meg, as she heaved her body forwards. Erik finally was able to grasp Nadir's hand, and using their combined strength, pull him to safety. Although she was telling her body to move, Meg's limbs felt foreign to her. Her left leg trembled briefly before slowly rising to meet the next step.
"Keep… moving…!" Erik hissed brokenly through gritted teeth, urging on their slow progression to the final rungs of the ladder. Slowly they progressed, until finally they arrived at the top where a round metal grate was the only thing hindering them from the surface ground. Meg clung tightly to the bars, her teeth chattering wildly and uncontrollably. Erik pushed himself up to lift the heavy barrier out of the way, his own fingers so numbed he could barely feel the metal beneath them. Slowly Meg pushed her way into the light of the outside world. After she reached the welcoming ground of the cobblestone street, Erik quickly followed and Meg turned to the Persian on her knees, grasping his forearms and shirt in an effort with all that was inside her to lift him up to safety.
The moment their bodies collapsed on the hard, cobble stoned street, Meg fell to her knees, tears of relief steadily leaking down her cheeks. Her two companions sat beside her, breathing heavily.
"We cannot stay here long," the Persian grunted, breathing warm air into his cupped palms. Meg was shaking profusely, despite the warm humidity of the night air. Her blonde hair, plastered to her forehead, was in complete tangles and dripping. Nadir lifted his arm and gathered her close, willing his body heat to transfer to her. Meg gasped slightly at his forwardness, but settled into the shared warmth of his embrace.
"Erik," he began suddenly, weariness etched into every syllable he spoke. "Have you retained ownership of that mansion… the one in the woods?"
There was a short pause. "Thornhill?" Erik grunted against the pain searing in his ribs.
"Precisely."
"It has been vacated for many years, Daroga. I have not been there since I was a boy… but I believe it is still legally within my possession. Why do you ask such questions?"
"Because, my friend, that is precisely where we are headed. We need some place inconspicuous – well concealed. A place nobody knows about, nor could place a connection to you. The Comte will presume you have hidden yourself within the city, as he knows of no other place, and is aware you have enough sense not to attempt a return to London. No, that would be too easy for him. Thornhill shall serve as your sanctuary."
"That, my friend, Thornhill has never been." Erik stated dryly, flexing the fingers in his good hand.
"I am aware of that, Erik, but as it is we have no other alternative."
"What of Antoinette? And Christine – I want her with me!"
"Patience, my friend. I have located Madame Giry's whereabouts, and we will be working to recover her as soon as we see you to safety. As for Christine, if all goes to plan then she shall soon be free from the clutches of her husband… if she so chooses."
"If she so chooses? She will come back to me… if that boy so much as-"
"-Then you have nothing to fear, my friend."
"Daroga…" Erik seethed dangerously. The Persian got wearily to his feet.
"There is nothing you could possibly do for mademoiselle Daae in your present condition, Erik. It would be foolish of you to think otherwise." He gazed intently at Erik with his cool jade eyes. "We have risked much to free you, my friend, especially mademoiselle Giry…
Come, we must get off the streets. I have an apartment in town where we may hide in safety… for the time being. It will not be long before they come looking for you."
XxXxXxX
Present day
The room was dark. No lamps or candles lit the space and the curtains remained closely drawn, but even in the darkness the devastation was clear, the room was in complete shambles. The broken shards of a glass lantern littered the floor, chairs lay toppled over, and the contents of Christine's wardrobe lay discarded in a furious mess.
Christine lay sleeping in her bed; her young body finally giving in to exhaustion after too many long restless nights spent in tears and worry. Her arms were free of bandages. While the wounds had healed cleanly, her forearms were now streaked with ugly red scars. She quietly hoped that they would pale with time; the red contrasted so terribly against her beautiful pale skin. Her body twitched and convulsed beneath the covers, her sporadic movements jarring her muscles. She was dreaming again.
Dreams had become her lifeline. Much as they had been in the period of her marriage, it was her dreams that allowed Christine's mind freedom, allowed her union with Erik… allowed her her sanity. No longer was she constrained by Raoul's belligerence, his threats. No longer was she imprisoned by his iron will, or by her own poor choices. In her dreams Erik, once again, sat beside her.
A dark shadow slowly crept across the bed linens, bloodshot blue eyes watching her in sleep, his breathing keeping perfect time with every steady breath that escaped her lips.
"Erik?" she asked, her voice low and husky with sleep. She hadn't been sure if she was really seeing Erik's form sitting at the edge of her bed, dressed in his traditional black trousers, his white shirt neatly pressed, and the chin beneath his mask perfectly shaved. He sat with his legs crossed; one booted foot balancing elegantly atop the other knee as he stared intently at her, his gold eyes ablaze within the darkness. Was this another dream teasing her with the false allusions of her angel?
"Mon Ange…" he whispered quietly, his voice rumbling deep within his chest. She sat up and felt for his arm.
"Erik… you're alright! Oh God, I've missed you so much…" she whispered fearfully, still groping wildly for his arm.
He grabbed her roaming hand and entwined their fingers. "I could never leave you, mon ange… Nothing will keep us apart… I swear to you!" He pressed a feverish kiss against her palm, holding her small hand to his chest, where she could feel his heart beat longingly for her. She moved closer to him, desperate to feel his warmth, to touch his face… his lips.
"What happened, how did you escape?!" Her hands found the smooth contours of his mask, and she stroked the exposed side of his face longingly. "Please tell me that you're real… please, tell me that I'm not dreaming."
He smiled and
leant forward to capture her lips, slowly pushing her small frame
back down into the bed, where his mouth gently consumed hers, prying
her lips open.
"Mon
amour…"
That voice, that unearthly voice… My Erik…
Raoul leant over his wife's trembling body, his anger receded and his heart ached with longing at her look of pure innocence. She was still beautiful, her chocolate tresses splayed across the pillow, her lips parted and inviting…
He bent down low, his lips gently brushing hers in a chaste kiss. When she did not draw back in disgust he took it as an invitation, and gently delved within the warmth of her kiss, softly kneading her tongue with his own, willing for her to come to life within his arms. "Oh, Christine…."
Her heavy eyelids began to open, as Raoul tasted her, allowing his longing to fill him. He pulled back slightly to look at his wife's face. His blue eyes softened as she returned his affectionate look, her chocolate orbs swimming with desire…
His blue eyes? BLUE?!
"Raoul!" she gasped, her hands flying to his chest where she pushed with all her might. "What are you doing? Get off of me!"
Her small fists pummeled his chest, fear gripping her insides as he used his weight to push down on her body, grinding her into the mattress.
"Christine!"
"Raoul, get off of me! Please… I can't… you can't…!"
Comprehension slowly dawned across his aristocratic features. "It wasn't me you saw, was it?! It was him!" His harsh voice rang out through the still night air, anger and rejection laced in every syllable he spoke. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, the sour stench making her choke and gag as he sneered down at her face. "Answer me, damn it!"
She whimpered beneath his crushing weight, throwing her head from side to side to avoid his looming face, her eyes clenched tightly shut.
"Were you thinking of that monster Christine? Were you dreaming of his touch?" He dragged his hand across her face, over her forehead and pressed her head down hard against the pillow, yanking her head back and exposing the soft flesh of her neck. His eyes burned savagely as he lowered himself to her neck, biting and scraping his teeth across the soft flesh, leaving bruises in his wake.
"Raoul, stop! You're hurting me!"
He ignored her plea, refusing to let her up. He used his position and weight to keep her pinned, his hands coming to her arms where he grasped her firmly in his hurt and anger.
"Why?" He hissed savagely. "Is this not what your demon lover does?"
"No! Raoul, stop this, please." She sobbed. "You're drunk!"
He paused in his assault of her, wrenching her face to meet his so that he could stare her in the eye. "Oh, I'm drunk alright. But the alcohol does not fuel my need…" Christine was sobbing almost uncontrollably now. He stared deep into her swimming orbs, a satisfied smirk curling the corners of his lips maliciously. He tugged at the sheer material of her chemise, exposing the soft, creamy skin of her shoulder and traced her soft contours with his tongue. She shuddered as his hot breath swept across the rising mounds of her chest. Suddenly, as though coming to his senses, Raoul shoved away from her and staggered from the bed.
"What? No! I will not become that man for you!" His eyes grew wide and erratic.
"W-what are you talking about Raoul? Please, just leave me alone!"
"You did this to me!" He cried hysterically. He hunched over with his back to her like a wounded animal, his words festering with hatred and a new sense of self-loathing. "It's all your fault! You made me this way!"
Christine crawled to the far side of the bed, grabbing fistfuls of bed sheets and pulling them protectively in front of her as she continued to cry.
Raoul's shoulders stopped shaking with anger, and she watched him drag a hand across his face, trying desperately to hold his tears of frustration and betrayal at bay. "Why Christine," he began hollowly, refusing to turn and look at her. "Why am I such an awful person that you could never bring yourself to love me?
What the hell is wrong with me?"
Silence.
Without warning he lashed out at her, sending her sprawling from the bed.
"Look at me! What the hell is wrong with me that you hate me so much?!"
How was she expected to answer such a question? When exactly was the moment that their innocent love disintegrated into the mutual animosity they now felt towards one another? Where had her childhood friend gone, with his boyish good looks and charm? The sweetest boy she had known, with the mildest temperament and the most carefree smile? When had the saviour of her scarf from the sea died… to be replaced with the cruel and heartless man that she knew now?
Where had it all gone wrong? When?
Christine shivered from her position on the floor, and tugged the sheet closer around her body. Tears still spilled freely down her cheeks. Ugly blue and purple bruises blemished across the tender skin of her neck. She winced every time she strained the lithe muscles in her neck.
"I love you Christine." He whispered the words so quietly, that Christine wasn't entirely sure she had heard them at all. "I've always loved you. But you hate me, don't you? "
More silence.
"H-how did we get here? What's happened to me…?" He shook his head sadly and rose slowly from the bed. The bare muscles of his back rippled as he stooped to retrieve his shirt and vest from their resting place on the floor, and shrugged them on haphazardly. Still, he refused to look at her. Her quiet sobs echoed in his ears.
"Goodnight, Christine."
XxXxXxX
Patrick's eyes slowly traced the movements of a burly guard, whose wanderings were bringing him ever closer to Patrick's place amongst the underbrush.
He silently prayed that Meg and the Persian had managed to free this man, Erik… the Phantom from his imprisonment. Whatever this man was to Christine, it was evident that she loved him so greatly she had been willing to sacrifice herself to a life of emptiness and heartache in order to preserve that love. She could never love him, nor learn to love him. Patrick had come to accept that. No, whatever this man was to her, he was her soul mate and Patrick would be damned if he allowed that de Chagny braggart to imprison Christine in a marriage against her will. She did not deserve that. Though risky and dangerous as this plan was, it relied heavily upon the two rescues occurring at the same time. If one succeeded whilst the other failed, both Christine and Erik could be placed in serious jeopardy.
Patrick froze. He could hear the soft rasping of his breath in the still night air. His pulse raced within his veins, his heart hammering so loudly within his chest he was sure the guard nearest him could hear. He crouched down lower amongst the dead leaves and bramble, desperate to conceal himself from the approaching guard.
A twig snapped.
The man's head whipped around at the sound; eyes narrowed, silently scanning the dark forest to his left. Alert and tense, his hand clutched the handle of his metal revolver. With slow, deliberate steps, he inched his way closer to the bush behind which Patrick concealed himself. Every muscle in Patrick's body contracted as he watched the guard's slow progression. Any second now he would happen upon Patrick, and then there would no escape. He only stood a chance if he could take the guard by surprise.
Suddenly, throwing caution to the wind, Patrick flung himself around the bush, unsheathing his boning knife with a slight metallic trill.
The men's eyes locked, wide with surprise.
"Merde!"
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Patrick watched the scene unfold before his eyes, as though he were a spectre outside of his own body. The guard drew his revolver, and for a brief, chilling moment, he believed his life was forfeit.
In an instant, Patrick's arm flew around. There was a brief glint of silver and a searing bolt of pain as a knife blade plunged into flesh.
The guard's body convulsed, blood drained from his face as his eyes grew wide with shock. With a violent thrust, Patrick ripped the boning knife upward. The man groaned in agony as heat spread throughout his abdomen. Patrick watched as blood trickled from the guard's mouth, his chest slumping forward against him. He took a step back; the ruined man's body collapsing to his knees. The air was still and silent bar the faint gurgling of the man as he crumpled to the ground at Patrick's feet. His hands clawed at his abdomen as blood gushed in systematic spurts from the jagged gash in his flesh. Eventually the scraping of his hands stilled, and his lips parted in a silent scream.
Patrick stared down at his blood drenched shirt in horror; a crimson stain upon his soul that nothing could scourge. The stench of death rose up around him; he was a murderer.
The hands that clutched the boning knife trembled as bile rushed up his throat. Doubling over, his body convulsed, sending waves of vomit to choke his throat until he was sure there was nothing left inside of him. God, what had he done?
"I'm not sure you know what you're getting yourself into, Monsieur Raynaud."
The Persian's cool jade eyes assessed the young man before him, stern, yet kind.
"I know."
"Do you monsieur? It is not all gallantry and heroism. You may be forced to take another man's life. Are you sure you can live with that on your conscience?"
Patrick lowered his green eyes, troubled thoughts plaguing his already wearied mind. With a cool resolve that surprised even him, he answered with a determined nod.
"I can. If Christine is in danger, than I will do what I must..."
What I must…
Patrick stood over the dead man, his eyes riveted to its horrific image, the ugly face of death. His body still trembled from the violent ending of life and he cringed at the return of the unwelcome sensations. Swallowing the bile that rose once more in disgust, he fought to steady his breath.
Bending over the dead man's body, he pulled the knife from the lifeless mass, wiping it clean on the man's shirt. It was then that he felt the cool night air as it met with the warm stickiness of his hand. It was one sickening image he would be forced to carry with him. But it had been his decision and his alone. He wiped the blood from his hands, scrubbing aggressively in his eagerness to be rid of the vile substance. Once satisfied, he returned the blade to its sheath at his waist and immediately turned his attention back to the body. Grabbing the man's limp wrists, he slowly dragged his body back into the forest with him, dumping it amongst the thick bramble and thorns.
He needed a diversion.
Panting from the exertion of carrying the man's dead weight, Patrick's brilliant green eyes scanned the length of the estate. A large wooden building jutted out on the horizon, a dark shadow looming above the estate grounds. The de Chagny stables.
He kept to the outskirts of the forest as he wound his way through trees and thick underbrush, creeping like a shadowy wraith towards the stables. Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder, he pressed his cloaked body flat against the wooden wall, quietly maneuvering himself towards the entrance.
At least eight horses were sheltered in small stalls within the stables. Patrick crept diffidently towards the horse in the stall nearest the entrance.
The animal whickered nervously, as though it could smell the blood and stench of death that clung so vigilantly to Patrick's clothing. He reached out hesitant fingers to stroke the softness of its velvet nose, willing his touch to calm and reassure the animal. The horse jerked back, the smell of Patrick's blood-encrusted fingers sending a bolt of fear surging through her powerfully muscular body. She was a beautiful honey-coloured mare; well kept and groomed. A fine animal bred solely to bear the hides of nobility. After several apprehensive moments, she eventually settled into the softness of his caress, allowing him to run his nimble fingers up the bridge of her nose and down the powerful arch of her neck. He smiled, murmuring quietly to the mare. "Good girl."
He walked silently past her towards the end of the stables, where he saw there was a back entrance to the structure. Returning to the animal's stall, he began loosening the bolts that held the latches steady on the enclosure doors, working his way towards the back of the stable. Once he had assured himself that all the stall doors would give way with a little force he leant back against the warm wood of the rear entrance.
Sweat trickled in rivulets down the nape of his neck and disappeared within the cotton folds of his shirt. Patrick blinked his eyes slowly, willing the frantic hammering of his heart to slow, and his breathing to steady. The smooth metal of the revolver's handle felt warm and sweaty beneath his palm. Settling himself around the back of the stables, he crouched down low and slowly raised the revolver above his head. Clinching his jaw, he squeezed the trigger. The resulting bang thundered though the stables and ricocheted throughout the deathly silence of the estate. The de Chagny horses reared; rising up on their hind legs and screeching wildly. Shouldering the gates to their enclosures forcefully, the horses stampeded out of the stables, kicking troughs and feed bins over in their wake.
Shouts of alarm echoed across the grounds as the horses trampled the perfectly manicured lawn, the whites of their eyes wide and glistening in the pale moonlight.
Patrick sheathed his knife at his side, maintaining his firm grip on the metal revolver as he quietly crept out the back entrance to the stables. He prayed fervently that the men who scattered from their posts and who were now desperately trying to reign in the frantic horses did not inadvertently discover the body of the guard he had killed mere moments ago. Like a ghost he crept across the grounds, keeping low to the grounds, his dark cloak whipping silently about his ankles as he moved with stealth towards the high outer stone wall of the manor.
Patrick's green eyes narrowed as he counted windows in the darkness. Third balcony on the left… east wing… Flattening his body against the cool stone of the outer wall, he kept to the shadows, moving with as much stealth as his stocky Irish build would allow. Lifting his gaze, Patrick chose a narrow ornamental balcony, barely wide enough to stand on. Detaching the rope that clung to his waist, he threw the coil over the railings, tugging the end back to the ground. Knotting the rope adequately, he began his ascent… two storeys of sheer stone. With only a sliver of white amongst the stars, the few lighted windows that surrounded him now served only to cast a faint golden sheen on the wall he now pressed himself against and the lush grass below.
Climbing atop the railing on the opposite side of the balcony, Patrick lunged across the abridging distance, landing with cat-like grace on what he deemed to be a larger and sturdier balcony. Two floors below of vertical nothing. Traversing the natural juts in the stonework, Patrick crept onto the third balcony. This was it. Removing a small metal tool from his inner pocket, Patrick stooped before the lock which imprisoned Christine within the estate. After several minutes, his nimble fingers finally disabled the mechanism, where it fell with a soft clang to the floor of the balcony. Patrick's blood ran cold. He shivered and gave the door a slight push to check the hinges. It inched forward soundlessly, the broken latch detaching itself from the inside wall.
Christine stirred at the faint sound, her eyes fluttering open.
Patrick remained on the balcony, the rope in his hands. His black cloak merged with shadow. There was a movement inside the room, and a candle flickered alight. Patrick's fingers coiled around the rope, his other hand moving to the boning knife at his side.
It was her.
The silhouette of a cloaked man, his hands clutched about a lasso greeted Christine's weary eyes. She shook her head to ensure she was not dreaming, for surely this could not be real. Her heart hammered wildly beneath the thin material of her chemise.
"E-Erik?"
Patrick stilled at the sound of her heavenly voice. It was her.
"Christine!"
"W-who is there?" Her voice trembled with a mixture of disappointment and trepidation.
Patrick slowly emerged from the shadows of the balcony, his usual stocky and gentle visage cutting a striking contrast to the man who stood before her. Shrouded only in black, his blonde curls slicked back from his forehead and his green eyes alight with some unnamed emotion, Christine felt her heart swell within her breast.
"Patrick!"
He swept her into his arms, her slight frame pressed firmly, yet securely against his broad chest. She breathed in his familiar scent, clinging to his dark shirt with her small fingers.
"Oh, God! I can't believe you're here!"
She pulled back to look at his face, prying her hands from his shirt. A crimson imprint pulled away with her. She stared with horror at the blood staining her cream palms.
"What? Oh God… Patrick! You're hurt!"
"No," he placed a reassuring hand atop her chocolate curls. "Shh, it is not mine…"
His eyes told it all. He had murdered a man to get to her… to save her. She shuddered involuntarily. Erik….
"Erik! Where is Erik?!"
"Hush, Christine." He pulled away from her, picking up a small case and tossing it upon her bed. "The Persian and Meg have gone to free him. I will explain all to you later, but for now we must leave! Quickly, grab only what you must, there isn't much time!"
XxXxXxX
"So, Daroga, tell me of your plans to free Antoinette from her unlawful imprisonment." Erik unfolded his long frame gingerly upon the couch, stretching and flexing the cramped muscles in his arms as he pulled a steaming Persian concoction across the table towards him. He wrinkled his nose slightly as the putrid smell of the herbal medicine wafted towards him.
"I have discovered that Madame Giry was taken to a holding prison close to the city centre. As soon as we see you safely to Thornhill, Allah willing, Monsieur Raynaud shall then accompany Mademoiselle Giry and I back to Paris."
"Monsieur Raynaud?" He took a casual sip, concluding that the brew tasted far worse than it smelt.
"The man who is assisting Christine in her escape."
Incredulity sparked deep within Erik's piercing eyes, "You sent a stranger to ensure her safety?!" He slammed the mug back down upon the countertop, causing some of the green liquid to slop over the sides.
"A stranger he may be to you, Erik, but a friend he has been to Christine and Mademoiselle Giry. He has aided her in escaping the Comte before; he knows what is at stake."
"Before? What aren't you telling me, Daroga?"
"It is not my place to disclose."
"Daroga!"
"If you wish to know, than you must consult Christine on the matter; I shall serve no part in this."
Erik seethed and continued to glare at him, the veins in the side of his neck pulsating as the knuckles of his good hand turned white as bone.
"If your incompetence brings Christine to any sort of harm, Daroga, you will pay with more than just your life!"
The Persian shook his head, weary of his friend's murdering antics and violent threats. "With any luck Mademoiselle Daae will join you at Thornhill…"
Erik lapsed into silence, the steam from the Persian brew rising in the space directly before his face.
"If I may ask, what exactly do you plan to do with the girl once she is with you?"
Erik shot the Persian a dark look from the corner of his eyes, not bothering to lift his head from the abhorrent herbal remedy. "Not that it is any concern of yours, Daroga, but I plan on making her my bride." He stated dryly, his golden eyes flashing dangerously.
"In the eyes of society and the law, mademoiselle Daae is still the legal wife of Raoul de Chagny."
"I am aware of that! Since when do I care for society or the laws of common men?!"
"Perhaps you do not, but mademoiselle Daae may. Do you not think it wise to consult with her feelings on the matter?"
Erik's yellow eyes narrowed in the darkness as he glared at his old friend.
"You've got some nerve, Daroga."
The corner of Nadir's lips curled up in a small smile of victory. "Yes… I flatter myself I do. And yet we'd be all the worse for wear without it, my friend."
XxXxXxX
Escaping the de Chagny estate undetected had been difficult. After scaling down the stone outer wall, Patrick and Christine had fled across the grounds, the sound of stampeding horses still echoing in their ears. Patrick hoisted the revolver within his large hands, ready to fire should another guard stumble unknowingly into their path. As they neared the edge of the forest, a low guttural voice shouted out across the grounds.
"Stop where you are!" The metallic click of his revolver echoed in the silence.
Patrick pushed Christine ahead of him, into the underbrush of the forest. "Go!" he mouthed silently. Her eyes widened in fear, yet she obeyed him immediately, scrambling through the thorns and bramble. Patrick straightened, keeping his back turned resolutely towards the approaching guard. Silently he reached down to the boning knife concealed at his waist, slowly removing the weapon from its leather sheath and clutching it to his chest.
"Turn around slowly. Let me see your hands!"
Patrick let the revolver fall to the ground with a dull thud. Raising his eyes to the sky, he murmured a quick prayer for forgiveness, hunching his shoulders.
"I said turn around!"
With stealth to surpass even that of a cat, Patrick pivoted on his heel with lightning speed, hurling the knife straight at the guard's chest. The blade pierced the man's flesh with surprising accuracy – burying itself right to the hilt just to the left of his breastbone, where his heart beat erratically, and then ceased to beat at all. A low guttural moan racked the stillness of the air, as blood began to seep from the man's wide open mouth. He fell with a sickening dead weight, crumpling in a heap upon the ground.
Patrick stared down piteously at the man's bloodied corpse and leapt forward to retrieve the knife, throwing himself into the bushes in pursuit of Christine.
He caught up with her just as she neared the clearing where he had concealed two horses. They would ride the horses back to the city, where they would transfer to a carriage. Soon the Comte would be alerted to his wife's disappearance, and then the pursuit would begin. By changing to carriage, their chances of being tracked to their new destination would lessen drastically.
"Patrick?"
Christine's timid and weary voice wavered in the stillness of the night air. Only the sound of hooves beating against the dirt track broke the eerie silence that had descended the moment she and Patrick had set foot within the carriage's stifling confines. He raised his head from its resting place, his green eyes boring into her timid brown ones with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"Where exactly are we going?"
He frowned, threading his fingers through his golden curls. "The Persian seems to think that this man of yours –Erik- owns a house outside of the city, well concealed within the forest."
"Erik owns a house?" Incredulity sparked within Christine's brown orbs.
"That is what his friend believes."
"But he never said…"
Patrick cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. "Forgive me for speaking so candidly, Christine, but I doubt I would be wrong is assuming that there is much you do not know about this man."
When Christine failed to supply a response, Patrick allowed his head to thump back softly against the carriage wall, returning his gaze to the country-side that slowly rolled by.
Christine remained silent and spent the remainder of the journey thinking about Erik. Questions ate at her mind like acid, why did Erik have a house?
Her mind kept relaying Patrick's words; much you do not know about this man… How much did she really know about Erik?
She knew she loved him. Heart and soul.
It was almost a different world as they continued to venture past the main city's borders and into the Parisian countryside. The unending fields were lush with wheat and interspersed with symmetrical grape vineyards. A few grand chateaus were scattered over the rich soil, owned primarily by wealthy noblemen who desired a residence outside the mixed-class and crowded life of the city. Yet these homes were by no means examples of typical "country" living. These majestic estates were erected from gold and the finest materials, stocked with a household of staff, and encircled with massive tress to guard against common onlookers. The lights from the chateau windows sprinkled in the night sky sporadically like stars.
Suddenly the carriage veered off the road onto a narrow, beaten track. The carriage rocked and jarred dangerously along the unkempt road, causing Christine to clutch onto anything she could to prevent herself from being thrown from her seat.
In the distance sat the faint outline of a darkened estate resting at the end of the winding track, guarded by old and crumbling stone pillars. As the house came into view Christine's heart plummeted. It stood on a hilltop surrounded by woodland; a large and imposing old structure that rose on the horizon, eerily majestic in the night sky – just like the man who owned it. Christine felt her heart trill with excitement and awe – was Erik going to be joining her here?
The carriage came to a halt outside the rusted iron gates, as Patrick peered out at the ominous sight. Swinging the carriage door open forcefully, he helped Christine down the steps and turned to pay the remainder of the fare to the drivers, plus a little extra to buy their silence. They stared at the young woman inquisitively, as she stood rooted to the spot, awe-struck by the regal aura that seemed to exude from the place. As the thumping of the horses' hooves died in the stillness of the night, Patrick placed a comforting hand upon Christine's shoulders, "shall we?"
As they made their way through the rusted iron gates, Christine felt an imperceptible chill race up her spine. Their footsteps crunched across the loose gravel of the driveway, as they came to stand before the old oak doors of the estate manor. Patrick pulled a small metal tool from within his cloak pocket and inserted it into the old brass lock of the door. Grunting with exertion he heaved the heavy wooden doors open, an eerie creak rattling through the night air as he swept cobwebs from his face. Deep red and purple drapes and furnishings were evident under the inch of dust that coated the place, as soft moonlight flooded through a large glass window opposite, bathing the foyer with an eerie silver sheen. Christine sucked in a large breath; it was no where as large or extravagant as the de Chagny mansion, but there was a regal aura to the place. Despite the dust and disarray sprawled before her eyes, it was evident to Christine that this was once a beautiful home. Why then, had Erik cared so little for it?
As Patrick explored the lower level, Christine padded softly over to the antique staircase. The stairs creaked and groaned beneath her feet as she made her slow progression towards the landing. Family portraits hung high above on the walls, dusty and cobweb ridden. The stairway split into two landings, rich carpet coated in a thick layer of dust stretched before her as she turned left and continued out across the landing. She paused outside of the first heavy wooden door, turning the blackened brass handle forcefully within her hand. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a magnificent room. A large four-poster bed presided over the room, a settee at its foot, rich rugs laid snugly over polished floorboards. A large, ornate fireplace stood out opposite her, gloomy in the darkness. Dust swirled in spirals in the pale sliver of moonlight that threaded through the musty curtains. Christine sighed to herself, knowing that with a little cleaning, love and care, this room could truly be spectacular. The dark, rich wood of the furniture reminded her of Erik. Everything about this room reminded her of Erik; it seemed to emulate him perfectly. Exiting the room, she quietly closed the door behind her and could hear Patrick rustling around downstairs. After opening several more doors, Christine had so far discovered that an old and beautiful bathroom was located at the far end of the hallway, two smaller bedrooms, which she assumed were for guests, and a beautiful old study filled with shelves of dusty old volumes. Yet of all the doors she had opened, none had revealed anything that even remotely resembled a music room. It seemed this entire house was devoid of the one thing its master esteemed above all; music.
In the study Christine had discovered a cracked and decaying painting, of a striking stone manor set against a beautiful forest backdrop. A small brass plaque ornamented the bottom of the wooden frame, the letters barely distinguishable under the thick layer of grime. She wiped her fine lace cuff across the plaque, scrubbing back some of the dirt to reveal an ornate scripture. Her brown eyes narrowed slightly, as she held the painting up to the moonlight.
Thornhill Manor.
Thornhill…in some distinct way the name suited him; it possessed a rich and regal power within that one word. Everything about this place was dark and mysterious, much the same as the man who owned it…
Erik.
TBC
A/N: No more school! Just awaiting university placements to be issued.