Either Way You Choose
Christine's knees gave out and she slid boneless to the floor. Disappeared. Gone. Again. Oh God. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes sockets, a soundless screech clawing at her throat. She would never understand that man! He kissed her and rejected her, he gave her pleasure and called her a whore. She was a whore. Raoul, oh Raoul! The thought of her panicked fiancé searching for her only deepened her misery. Her guilt was compounded further by the tingling in her lips, the sweet heaviness of her breasts, the residual tremors of pleasure between her thighs. Erik's hold on her body was absolute.
Christine let the tears run freely, knowing she would find no cleansing in their flow. No, misery was her just penance. Christine touched the ring, its central diamond surrounded by a sunburst of smaller ones. Her betrayal of Raoul was worse than if she had given herself fully to Erik. This betrayal was of the heart, the soul, some ephemeral place that Christine couldn't even name. But Erik knew it, and held it possessively. He dominated her.
She didn't know how long she sat huddled there, weeping in a wilted heap of rose pink silk. At the heels of her shame and misery came anger. A welter of muddled emotion built, pressing against her breastbone. Why did he do this to her? Why? Did he find some sick pleasure in winding her up like a toy and watching her bump into a wall again and again?
'I will love you until the day I die.'
"Liar!" she said, slamming her hand on the grimy floorboards. Her hand closed on the soft leather of his glove. The glove he had torn off so he could touch her—flesh to flesh. She held it in her fist. Erik's glove and Raoul's ring. A soft groan left her lips. No matter what she did, someone would get hurt.
The thud of footsteps urged her to swipe away her tears, gather her skirts in some semblance of order. It wasn't Erik. More often than not, his steps were soundless, light and nimble like a dancer's. These were heavier. A turban-clad head stood silhouetted and for one hysterical second, Christine thought it was Piangi. No, too lean to be Piangi. The Persian. He half turned, sweeping aside the drape of his crimson sash.
"I've found her! Minette, she's here!" a light patter of steps and Madame Giry appeared in the door. Her fingers clutched her rosary, her lined face relaxed into a look of beatific relief. At the sight of Christine's miserable form, the look was replaced with one of compassion.
"Oh Christine. My poor dear." Those gentle words were enough. Christine crumpled into a sobbing heap. Words flew over her head without comprehension. Gentle hands guided her. One sentence penetrated the fog.
"I'll find the Vicomte," the Persian said.
"No!" Christine shouted, "don't! Please don't tell Raoul. Please. I've been bad. Please." The Persian shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, dark eyes fixing on Madame.
"It's all right, Nadir. I'll take her to her bed. The Vicomte may see her tomorrow. Go now. Go and tell him that she is safe."
Madame's cool voice was an antidote to the fever, the misery. Christine clung to her, smelling the familiar savor of perfume and starch. Madame guided her back to her apartments, tugged and plucked the finery from her and patiently washed her with a cloth and basin as if she was a child. Christine stood staring into nothing, barely noticing Madame's ministrations. When Madame slipped a clean nightgown over her head, Christine summoned speech.
"Where is Meg?" the ghost of a smile touched Madame's lips.
"Warding off her many admirers, I expect. Last I saw, she was entertaining the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac, Monsieur Obert's son, and two of the Marquis de Lamar boys." Christine offered a wan smile. Seeing Meg dance with the Baron and enjoying the masque on Raoul's arm seemed like it belonged in another lifetime. Erik ruled her thoughts.
Madame led Christine to her tiny office and poured cold tea. It was strong enough to sear her taste buds, jolting her from her apathy. Madame's hazel eyes were soft, her stern mien tempered by compassion.
"What happened tonight, Christine? Why did you not want to see the Vicomte?"
"Erik," she whispered, yearning for some tangible remnant of his presence. She had lost his glove somewhere . . .
With some prodding, the story tumbled out in spurts and trickles. Christine realized there was a sort of morbid relief in confessing even the darkest of sins. At least now she wasn't alone in the burden of its knowledge.
"S—So you ah, you and Erik were . . ." the sentence trailed off in embarrassed silence.
Madame's beloved face was drained of all color, as pale as bone beneath the cosmetics.
The moving light of the flickering candle made her eyes deep with shadow and Christine recalled Erik's death's head mask, his eyes burning like the heart flame of a sapphire. Christine squirmed in her chair, unable to meet Madame's watchful eye. Whereas Madame blanched with shock, painful red color stained Christine's fair complexion. She could feel the blood stinging in her cheeks.
"Um . . . he . . . we just . . . k—kissed. And he ah . . . he touched me and I-" she broke off, unable to finish. Her eyes sought the worn floorboards, wishing she could melt into a puddle. Madame cleared her throat valiantly.
"You . . . ah . . . found fulfillment?" Madame phrased delicately, a faint distasteful moue marring her features. Christine nodded, studying the dark whorls in the floorboards with great interest.
"Then what happened?" From the tone, Christine was quite sure Madame didn't really care to know.
Here it was. The truth. The whole painful truth.
"I told him I loved him, he called me a whore and left."
Thirteen words summing up the most miserable moment of her life, barring her father's death. Silence reigned for a small eternity. At last, Christine dared a glance at Madame. Hazel eyes simply blinked, set in a face devoid of expression. Her mouth opened and closed around words, but no sound emerged. A fugitive stab of amusement reached her. At last she had unseated Madame's supposedly unflappable calm.
"I see. Are you having second thoughts about your engagement to the Vicomte?"
Christine laughed at this, a hollow sound devoid of music.
"I have made quite a mess of things, haven't I? I love Raoul, I really do. But . . ."
Christine bit her lip to keep it from quivering. How could she face him now? Erik had showed her how much her promise was worth. He was right. She was cruel. Especially if she continued with this farce of an engagement. Terror clawed at her soul. What would she do without them? Strong men had always been there to protect her. First her father, then her Angel, then Raoul. Without the warmth of their presence around her, surely the world would freeze her to death!
"But you love Erik too?" Madame prompted. Christine managed a mute nod. Madame Giry reached across the table and laid a cool hand on top of Christine's knotted fists. Her smile was wry.
"You have a knack for making trouble for yourself, my dear. But would you like a bit of advice?"
"Yes please!" A ray of light in any direction would be a Godsend. The reply was quick and merciless.
"Break off the engagement. Quick and clean, at least until you come to better decision. This boy is absolutely certain that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. He gave you his mother's ring. It would be the height of cruelty to give half measures." Christine nodded, watching the candlelight dance within the facets of the diamonds on her finger.
"I know. I'll tell him tomorrow." Madame leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea.
"Good."
It took a moment for Christine to pluck up her courage.
"What about Erik?" Madame exhaled a breath through her nostrils.
"I cannot speak for Erik, or even attempt to understand his moods and whims. But what I do know is this: He loves you more than anything else in the world. With his temper, I'm sure he said things in haste. Especially if he knew that you and the Vicomte were engaged."
He had said something about something that had torn them apart. What did he mean? When she was drugged? He was the one to leave her! Raoul was the one to be there for her when she needed him. Christine shied away from such thoughts. To stand at the fulcrum of a balance with two very different men standing at either end . . . it would only end in pain, for all of them. A glance at the clock said it was past four o' clock in the morning. Christine set down her tea, only now realizing how tired she was.
"Thank you, Madame. For everything." Madame rose and embraced her, kissing her hair.
"Of course, my dear. Now go get some rest."
Even exhausted as she was in body and mind, Christine's sleep was fitful at best. Every moving shadow was Erik, every glimpse of starlight was Raoul. She finally gave up on sleep as grey dawn light began to seep through the windows. Christine rose from her bed in the dormitories and splashed ice cold water from the ewer onto her face, rinsing gritty eyes. She was no closer to any semblance of a decision than she was the night before. Loneliness draped over her in a familiar sodden blanket. Her longing for her father was visceral. He would have a joke or a song to cheer her, wise counsel to guide her.
An idea sparked to life and Christine immediately felt cool peace settle over her, like a damp cloth to a fevered brow. Settled in her decision, she garbed herself in a widow's black and took the precious bouquet of Erik's dried roses. Her heart melted when she opened the door and found Raoul sleeping against the stair's railing. Her white knight. Oh, he looked so young with his face relaxed in repose, a silver cross shining from the opening in his loose white shirt. The gallant boy who had rescued her scarf from the sea so many years ago.
Tenderness moved her to comb aside a wayward tendril of his golden hair. She considered leaving the ring in his hand, but thought better of it. What if it was lost? No, she would find the courage to tell him to his face what she felt. And what did she feel, a snide voice pointed out? Her emotions were wild and fickle things. No, let him rest for now. They would speak later. Maybe visiting her father's tomb would give her clarity.
XXX
Damn her! he thought viciously. What was she doing up at this god awful hour, and venturing out alone? After their encounter—a moment of frenzied madness, he assured himself—Erik resolved to speak to her with remote courtesy when the occasion demanded. And his own damn machinations had assured that it would demand, once production of Don Juan Triumphant went underway.
What would he call her? Not Angel, or even student. He could no longer claim her as that. Her Christian name was too intimate, after glutting himself on her pleasure at the masquerade, her name a prayer on his lips. Perhaps 'Vicomtesse de Chagny' was the proper title! A hard knot rose in his throat and he swallowed hard to dislodge it.
Her eyes haunted him through the night as he sat huddled in the dripping dark of his home, costume discarded, body doubled up in an agony of desire. Those rich brown eyes, full of the wounded pain of a kicked kitten. They gave him hope. Had there been some misunderstanding? Had it been him that she called for after she was drugged? He had never known Christine to use deceit or manipulation, perhaps it was all just a misunderstanding and she really did love him . . .
Was his hungry heart playing tricks on him?
"Of course it is," he said aloud, his voice reverberating in mocking echoes from the confines of his hiding place in the wall.
"She chose the boy. She wears his ring." That had come to him in his lustful madness too, the flash of diamond in the sliver of light. The ring Erik chose for her glinted innocently in its nest of dark silk. Erik was tempted to throw it into the lake. Now, he rose to the surface, obeying the tug of whatever bound him to Christine.
A dog coming to heel.
Erik moved from his place in the wall, and heard the clink of coin in the greasy palm of the stable master, bits of hay in his tangled hair and last night's ale sickening his breath. A visit to her father's tomb. Be it to the chapel to light a candle, or to the tomb outside the city, Christine only visited when she was troubled in spirit, seeking the comfort of a ghost that had long since been laid to rest.
Another Ghost would gladly comfort her, he thought with a faint smile.
In any manner she required.
Gustave Daae. Perhaps Christine was ignorant to the way the world worked, but a poor violinist who couldn't even scrape together a decent dowry for his beloved daughter would not have had the funds to provide for such a lavish sepulcher. Erik had his remains exhumed from the squalid hovel where he'd spent his final days and brought to Paris. A maudlin impulse said that Gustave would have liked to be close to her. And it seemed to bring her comfort. The expense was negligible and the challenge stimulating to craft a final resting place to the one Christine loved so well.
She looked so like the curly-haired moppet who first wept in the chapel, clad in a mourner's black, that Erik's heart softened. He could not let her go alone, so bravely fragile. He would be there, if she needed him. As ever. But why was it not the de Chagny greys that stepped proudly before the carriage? Had they quarreled? The thought spurred him on.
When Christine stepped indoors for her coat, Erik leapt from the stable's rafters with barely a rustle of his cape. The stable master didn't even see the blow that brought him down. Erik nudged the man's flabby shoulder with one toe. When he didn't so much as twitch, Erik swept on the stained, moth-eaten excuse of a cloak. A slouch hat concealed the mask's snowy glow. He finished harnessing the horses and urged the buggy into the cobbled square. His disguise was completely superfluous, as it was. Christine appeared like a wraith in the cold mist, eyes blank and faraway. He could have been clad as the Red Death for all the attention she paid him.
"To my father's grave, please," she whispered, her voice a faint thread of sound.
The merry glint of diamond shone on her finger as she climbed into the buggy. The force behind the crop flick was a tad too hard. The horses snorted in surprise and lurched into a jerky trot. Christine scarcely noticed. Erik snatched careful glances as they meandered through the deserted streets of Paris, wreathed in ghostly mist that blurred shapes and muted sounds.
Never had he been so close to her and so utterly ignored. Even when he watched her as her Angel, she always knew he was there. A chasm yawned between them now and Erik felt bereft and lonely. He didn't like the glassy appearance of her eyes, her shocking pallor. That flimsy cloak wasn't enough! It was January for God's sake! Outside the city, a long, tree-lined lane led to the cemetery. Beams of sunlight pierced the naked skeletons of the trees, gnarled hands raised to the sky in supplication. Had it been any other circumstance, Erik would have enjoyed the feel of the reins in his hands, the cart horses' jaunty step, the cold air filling his lungs.
By the time Erik pulled up at the cemetery's gate, the soupy clouds had thickened into a flat sheet of grey, and downy snowflakes were beginning to fall. Christine didn't give him so much as a glance as she disembarked a bouquet of red roses in her hands. His roses. The knot of anger and confusion tightened. What was she doing? She wore the boy's ring and cradled Erik's roses next to her heart? Erik pulled the buggy around and hobbled the horses at a patch of weeds. Shedding his stable master's disguise, he scaled the cemetery wall and leapt nimbly across the tops of graves and statuary to the lordly Daae tomb. The song that floated over the snow hushed hallow ground was of bleeding grief and longing.
Too many years, fighting back tears,
Why can't the past just die?
Wishing you were somehow here again
Knowing we must say goodbye
"Give me the strength to try," Erik murmured to Gustave's ghost.
Would her father bless Erik's attempt? Her raw grief illuminated the fact that she was simply a frightened, confused child. How can you be angry with a child for running away from the monsters in the dark? Erik's heaved sigh curled in the air like smoke. He was a fool and a masochist, eager for another round of punishment. Erik reclined on the cold, snowy arch of the tomb's dome, transfixed by the image of her approach—so small and frail, buffeted by wind and snow. Her vulnerability irked him. He wanted to cover her with his body, protect her.
No more memories, no more silent tears
No more gazing across the wasted years
Help me say goodbye
Help me say goodbye
The gilded beauty of Christine's voice, captured moonbeams and the star's tears, faded into silence.
I love her, Sir. More than my own life.
A snowflake landed on his cheek, a cold benediction.
XXX
Papa couldn't help her. Christine realized that now. In Heaven with Mama, could he even see her struggling on Earth? The snowflakes melted on her cheeks and joined the watery trickle of her tears. It was a mistake to come here. Instead of peace and clarity, being reminded of just how alone she was in the world pushed her farther into depression.
"Christine," a soft voice sang, high and sweet and clear. Christine leapt to her feet, searching for him.
"A—Angel?"
Erik emerged in all his dark glory from around the corner of her father's tomb. It was so strange to see him outside of the Populaire. In so many ways the Opera was like an extension of himself, a realm where he stood as king. But he was not the least bit diminished standing in winter's cold light. No, he seemed bigger somehow, tall and lean-bodied. Christine squinted at his face. The left side was as unreadable as his masked right, but his ice blue eyes were gentle. A sweep of his dark cape and Erik bowed with his usual remiss elegance. Christine found her tongue.
"What are you doing here? Did you follow me?" a faint smile tipped the generous line of his mouth.
"I drove the carriage, my dear." A flash of fear raced through her veins and she spoke without thinking.
"Did you hurt the stable master?" A muscle in his cheek twitched.
"When he wakes, his headache will be no worse than if he'd spent the night in his cups. I am not a complete villain, Christine." She bit the inside of her lip at the faint edge of censure in his words. What was it about him that made her so nervous, so fumbling and inept? She never felt that way with Raoul.
"I—I didn't mean to suggest that you were. I'm sorry."
Erik made a terse motion with his gloved hand. Had he found the one she lost last night? Christine stiffened and took an involuntary step back as memories of the night before rushed through her mind's eye. Heat sang through her veins. Frantically, Christine reached for her anger and found it, hefting it against the subtle persuasion of his presence. It helped push away her nervous energy, hold her helpless love at arm's length.
"Why did you leave me, Erik? Why weren't you there?" Her anger and grief coalesced in a hot, pulsating ball in her belly, spreading up and out, consuming every inch of her. She advanced on him.
"How can I trust you when you just disappear whenever the whim strikes you? Do you enjoy making me melt and surrender, then shoving me away? It makes me feel . . . worthless! How dare you!" all of a sudden she was shoving at his hard chest, tears flowing down her cheeks.
"How dare you! You made me love you!" with one last desperate shove she glared up into his eyes, daring him to deny it. Anger tightened the square, masculine angle of his jaw. Erik exhaled a heavy breath through his nostrils. A keening wind lashed at cape and gown. Both of them clad in mourner's black.
"Your boy had me arrested. Do you know what hell I suffered in the thrice-damned station, not knowing if you were alive or dead? And what do I find when I return but that same boy with you. And you reaching out for him, saying you were frightened. What frightened you? The dreadful Opera Ghost? Does he haunt your nightmares? Of course I left!" Christine wondered faintly at the both of them, shouting at each other in a cemetery's snowy yard.
"So . . ." she began slowly, trying to untangle the threads of misunderstanding and pain, "you saw Raoul? I was drugged, Erik! I don't even remember what I said. Did you ever consider that maybe it was you I wanted with me, holding my hand?"
Erik's mouth twisted in a sneer.
"And you an engaged woman. The Vicomte should keep you on a tighter leash."
Christine's hand darted out, slapping him across the face to the surprise of both of them. The imprint of her hand was red and angry against his pale skin.
"I suppose I deserved that. But I do not take kindly to being struck. Never do that again." The words were quiet, and all the more deadly for their soft tone. A shiver having nothing to do with the weather crept up Christine's spine.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The quivering, angry energy gathered in the air around him softened. A ghosting caress wiped the tears from her cheek. Christine dared a glance at his face, finding an unbearable tenderness there. It blew on the smoldering ember of hope and it flared into joyous flame.
"I am too," he replied in a voice like the sun's kiss.
A fragile peace settled between them, as improbable as a soap bubble, destined to end.
It did, with the sound of a gunshot.
A/N: Ooh, a cliffie! I'm sorry! I really don't mean to do that!
Tell me what you think!