A/N: Took me long enough to get fed up with something else.
I don't own the Phantom of the Opera. Gaston Leroux does. Yes, he does.
This chapter isn't as good as the last one, but I'm not nearly as fed up this time around.
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It was at least three weeks later when another figure entered the library, in search of Erik.
The library was hardly recognizable now. It was still large, and still had the same fireplace and the same mirror and the same table covered with books titled The Phantom of the Opera...however, most of the bookshelves were missing, and the few that were left were filled with more books dealing with the subject of The Phantom of the Opera, as well as folders upon folders filled with sheets of white paper covered with notes in red ink.
Once there were magnificent paintings covering the walls of the library; now instead there were large boards with writing on them. Some were white with wipe-able ink, and some were black covered in chalk notes.
Before one of these black boards was the Phantom of the Opera himself. In one hand he held paper that had obviously been printed from the internet (there were perfectly formed black words, surrounded on nearly all sides by picture advertisements), and in his other hand, he held a piece of white chalk that was so small he could barely hold it, and his hand shook as he wrote. He paused in his writing, looked down at the paper in his right hand, and then continued his notes on the blackboard.
He was so absorbed in his writing that he did not notice when the blonde woman approached the board, curious to see what held Erik's attention so. She walked forward as quietly as she could until she stood on the left side of him and could better see what he was writing.
Christine Daaé – Traitor. Heartless. Whore. Stupid. Player. Naïve to the point of
She was shocked. She felt her face grow pale and tears build in her eyes. Unable to stop herself, she took a short, quick breath and began to cry.
"Oh, Erik!" she cried out. "I...I did not...surely you don't believe...!"
Erik spun around in surprise – he hadn't even heard her come in! He cursed himself for not noticing her approach, and dropped the chalk and paper to the ground before throwing himself at her feet. He gripped her dress and buried his unmasked face in the soft fabric.
"Oh, Christine!" he moaned. "Forgive me! I do not mean those things...it is simply a study of fools!"
"A study...?" she echoed numbly.
"Yes, yes!" he cried fiercely into her dress. "I do not think those things of you. I never would! You are everything that is good and pure and beautiful to me - you know that!"
Before she had a chance to respond, he'd jumped to his feet and had taken her arm and pulled her to another board. He pointed at the name atop it: Erik.
"Look, look-" he insisted. "Do those qualities describe me?"
She looked at the words beside his name, mouthing them silently to herself.
Adorable. Hot. Sweet. Sexy. Erotic. Handsome. Sex on legs.
Christine wasn't sure what to make of most of those...adjectives. She couldn't picture any of them at applying to Erik, though admittedly she wasn't quite certain what the last one meant. How could one be...
Attempting to picture Erik as intimacy with legs perhaps wasn't the best thing for a happily married woman to do, Christine decided. Instead, she gave Erik a weak smile.
"I see, Erik," she said softly. "You do not hate me."
"Never, my dear," he insisted, sighing with relief that she now understood. "Damn those simpletons for making you doubt my love! I will never stop loving you, Christine, never."
Christine discreetly hid her left hand behind her back...now would not be a good time to remind him that she was a married woman. Instead, she changed the subject.
"What are you studying, Erik?" she asked, her eyes drifting across the boards. Most were filled with notes of people she knew, such as Raoul or the Persian or Giry, the Box Keeper. Some of them made little sense to her, though. For example...when had Madame Giry learned to dance, and what exactly was a 'pimp cane'? Or when had the Persian acquired a son? Or Raoul been with a prosti – oh...perhaps she shouldn't read the boards anymore.
"Fangirls, my dear," Erik answered. "In the other world, there seem to be legions of young women who seem to think I am their perfect match, and vice versa."
Christine frowned. "Why would they think that?"
"I do not know, however..." Erik drifted off suddenly. His hand had gone to cover his forehead to show frustration, but he froze when he felt flesh there instead of porcelain. His eyes widened and he dashed to the table that held the black mask he wore only around Christine – she was the only one he didn't want to frighten!
"Forgive me!" he cried out, quickly trying the mask in place. "I have been alone in here for quite a while...I'd forgotten I wasn't...that I hadn't...oh, I am sorry..."
"It is alright, Erik," Christine insisted softly. Honestly, she had grown quite used to his face over the years; plus, she could still easily recall the Great Zombie War, when frightening creatures had attempted to take over the palace. Seeing those creatures - with limbs falling off, and rotting flesh peeling off their bodies – had made her a little less alarmed by seeing Erik's face. At least she knew he wouldn't attack her in a desperate attempt to eat her brain.
Erik turned when he was certain the mask was fully in place. "Oh, Christine...you are so good. You brave Erik's face with a smile, and reassure him when he is upset...I still remember when you burned my mask...though you were terribly afraid, you still did it for me..."
Oh, dear. Third person. And not only was he referring to himself as 'Erik', but he was talking about the past again. It was time to distract him.
"Erik, what do those...words...have to do with me and fangirls?"
"Ah," Erik said, and gave a wicked chuckle, the same sort he gave when he was thinking of tossing Raoul into the torture chamber again. "Those idiotic fangirls believe that those words describe you."
Christine gasped in shock. "But...but...why? When have I ever been heartless?"
"Never!" Erik insisted. "In fact, you care too much, if you have any flaws whatsoever."
"Then why do they call me that?"
Erik sighed, uncertain of how to explain such nonsense.
"Sit, my dear, I will explain..." he said. He walked to the table and cleared the books and papers that covered it. He put them all on the floor beneath the table and then pulled her chair out for her. He waited until she was comfortably seated before sitting across from her. He folded his hands, twining his long fingers together, and then undoing them, and then putting them together again. He was nervous; he'd never intended to tell Christine about any of this.
"Well?" Christine asked after a full minute of silence. "Why do they call me such things, Erik, if I am not like that?"
"They hate you," Erik began, and then realized how foolish that was. Christine couldn't bear it when others hated her.
"Why?" she asked breathlessly.
"They love me," he continued, now drumming his fingers against the wood of the table. "So they hate you. They blame you for not choosing to marry me...they think you are responsible for my unhappiness."
Christine frowned. "But...Raoul told me they thought he was-"
"They do." Erik shrugged gracefully. "They seem ready to blame everyone but myself for my unhappiness."
"I still do not understand why they believe such words describe me."
Erik sighed again, and turned his eyes to the board that held Christine's name and the various adjectives that followed it. "Most of it comes from ignorance," he said softly. "They have not read the true story...they have read other's versions of our story, which they wrote to fit their own fantasies."
Christine was confused. "Their fantasies are that I am cruel?"
"Only because they think it makes me more...available," Erik explained quickly. "As I said, they believe I am their perfect match..."
"And vice versa," Christine finished softly.
Erik nodded. "That particular branch of fangirl will believe anything if it means I am not with you."
"Branch?" she frowned. "How many kinds are there?"
"Many," he informed her. "I'll tell you more about the others when I've studied them further."
Christine nodded silently, folding her hands in her lap. "Earlier...you said 'most'. 'Most of it comes from ignorance.' What does the rest come from?"
"Misinterpretation," Erik answered. "Mostly of when I let you and Raoul play at being engaged."
"But you let me! You told me to do so, and I lov-" Christine stopped suddenly, not wanting to remind Erik of her marriage and possibly anger him.
"I knew," Erik sighed. "I knew you loved the boy...and that he loved you. I knew what I was doing when I told you to...or, I thought I knew. I thought he would be so miserable at having you but not having you that he would go away. Your pretending to be engaged was more my idea then your own..."
"Then why?"
"They never make sense, Christine!" Erik exclaimed, standing suddenly and pacing the room. "I've been studying them for weeks and I have nothing! Nothing! They're too unpredictable. They love the bad, hate the good, think you mad for not wanting to live with a madman...!" he took a deep breath and fumed. "They think you a – a – slu – a....!" he seemed unable to say the word 'slut' in front of her. "Because you were in love with someone while someone else was in love with you. It's not your fault who loves you. It's not your fault who you love. How can they think you a – a- a woman like that because you loved someone? Have they never loved?"
Christine tangled her fingers in her lap while she waited for Erik to finish ranting. She hoped he wouldn't throw anything this time.
"Have they never had someone love them, which they did not love? And that is turning our...our situation into the most simple of terms. You did what you could with what happened; you tried so hard to make everyone happy...it wasn't your fault that your efforts just trigged my madness."
There was a long stretch of silence. Christine decided that his rant was over, and that she really didn't need to understand anything else, if it was going to set him off again. She stood slowly while Erik caught his breath.
"Thank you, Erik...I understand," she said. "The Mad Hatter wanted to invite you to tea..."
"What, again?" Erik scowled. "When will that thing understand that I do not want to have tea him or his maddening friends?"
Christine giggled, and then went to relay Erik's declination.
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RubyMoon's Secret Place
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RubyMoon: Thanks to all previous reviews. Like loads. I appreciate it. Ja ne!