Paris countryside, 1869
"Come on, Christine!" the boy called.
"Absolutely not!" The nine year old cried stubbornly, "There is no way I am getting on top of that…that…filthy hairball!"
Erik frowned at her darkly from his place on the pony. "This is Carmen, and she's not filthy…it's called chestnut. Now give me your hand!"
"But-"
"No 'buts'! S'accélérer!" The masked boy shouted, annoyed. "I am going to teach you how to ride, if it's the last thing I do."
"Obstinate rascal…" Christine muttered. "I will ruin my dress and stockings."
"You will thank me later."
Reluctantly, the girl hiked up her skirts and took Erik's outstretched hand. With one thickly muscled arm, Erik pulled up his best friend behind him, so that they both sat bareback on top of the stout little mountain pony.
"Now what?" Christine spat angrily.
"Wrap your arms around my waist and hang on."
"Hang on? But-"
Erik dug his heels into the Carmen's flanks and mare and riders flew out into the meadow. Christine screamed and clung to him with all her might.
"Slow down!"
Erik laughed, relishing the feel of flight and the wind on his face. "Oh, lighten up!"
He leaned forward, further entwining his fingers in Carmen's thick mane. "Come on girl; let's show Christine what we've got."
The pony neighed and plunged into a full out gallop. Christine knew her life was over.
"Erik stop her now! I'm going to fall off!" She shouted into Erik's ear.
"No you won't!" He hollered back, a grin of pure joy all over his visible features.
"I'm slipping!" Christine clutched Erik's shirt, her knuckles white from effort, but her legs were losing stability around the round pony's sides...
Carmen whinnied a cry of warning to her reckless rider, but it was too late. The masked lad turned back to see that his companion was no longer behind him. Panic struck his heart like a dagger.
"No…" Yanking back on the reins, he pulled Carmen around, his eyes searching for the girl in the wide meadow. Carmen's fast gallop had sent him a distance from where the girl had fallen…he couldn't see her…
"Christine!"
No answer.
"Christine!"
His cries grew frantic, his voice becoming strangled with emotion and fright.
"Christine, answer me!"
A horribly weak whimper echoed into his ears. His heart nearly leaped out of his chest.
"Christine! I hear you!" Erik yelled, kicking the pony into an uneven canter, heading to where he heard his friend.
Crashing into the clearing he just left, he saw a lump of white linen and brown hair… face down…deathly immobile.
"Christine!" Erik flew off the pony and ran as fast as his legs would allow him. He skidded to her side, gently turning the girl over on her back. Christine moaned and Erik saw blood seeping out of her right temple.
"Erik?" Christine croaked. She winced as the boy placed a hesitant finger to her injury.
"Oh, Christine," Erik groaned, guilt striking him full on. "I am so sorry. I should have-"
"Shh…don't fret," Christine said softly, "I'm fine."
"Madame Giry is going to have my head."
"You're right, she will." Erik whirled around to face a tall, sour-faced teen with icy eyes and too long blonde hair. Raoul de Chagny sat atop his prancing thoroughbred a few yards away, his face a mixture of disgust and annoyance.
"Vicomte," Erik spat distastefully, "What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same thing, Erik." Raoul slipped off his horse with practiced ease. He tied the leather reins to a close-by tree and strode to the two adolescents. Erik stood up warily, watching his every movement.
Raoul came up alongside him, staring at the younger boy with mocking eyes. Erik met the harsh gaze bravely, standing his ground. Christine broke the intense silence between them as she often did.
"I'm fine, thanks for asking Raoul." She slowly sat up, holding a palm to her head.
"You're bleeding." Raoul replied tartly.
Christine rolled her eyes, attempting to ignore her pain. "Yes, well I am human. We have blood leak out of us sometimes, if you haven't noticed."
"You could have gotten her killed with your reckless antics, boy." The Vicomte sneered, ignoring his cousin's reply and addressing Erik.
"Like you care." Erik said his voice acidic, "I would have never let anything happen to her."
"Of course you wouldn't. Forgive me for not trusting a circus freak."
"Raoul, please!" Christine cried, anticipating Erik's inevitable and potentially dangerous reaction. "If you're quite finished could you help me up?"
Raoul faltered, no doubt expecting some physical attack by the other boy. Erik, however, glared at him before turning to tend the forgotten pony.
"It's a wonder you two aren't the best of friends." Christine grumbled sarcastically as her cousin gently lifted her off the ground. Raoul didn't retort and set Lotte on her feet. She groaned and wavered, her balance thrown off by the head wound. Raoul instinctively caught her.
"Great," Raoul snapped, "Now look what you've done. She can't walk!"
Erik's half-exposed face paled and he swallowed worriedly. "Lay across her your lap when you mount. That way you can ride back without more damage to Christine." He replied, doing his best to remedy the situation.
"Did I ask for your advice?" Raoul bit back sharply. Erik made no response. Raoul sighed, frustration evident on his entire person.
"You're insane, Christine." He mumbled under his breath.
"It seems to run in the family." She replied weakly. She closed her eyes and winced as her temple throbbed with each pulse. Christine let her head loll against Raoul's chest, an uneasy feeling of barely sustained consciousness entering her senses.
Raoul stomped to his impatient gelding, Christine limp in his arms. He scowled at the elevated saddle he needed to reach, back down at Christine and cursed. He unleashed an ugly expression on Erik who was watching anxiously with Carmen.
"The least you could do is help me stop the bleeding. It's soiling my waistcoat."
A shadow of doubt passed over Erik's face, but it disappeared quickly. Advancing toward Raoul, he ripped strips from off the bottom of his cotton shirt. He approached and wadded up a strip as he gently laid it on the girl's bloody scalp.
"Ow…" She moaned.
"Don't move a muscle Lotte or I swear I will tell Gustave everything." Raoul said unsympathetically.
"You promised…"
"I may change my mind. After this stunt, who knows what will happen to your little excursions, dear cousin."
Erik remained silent, methodically wrapping a thin band of cloth around Christine's head.
"It's secure." He said after he had finished.
"Finally." The sixteen year old Vicomte growled. "Hold her."
Without another warning, Raoul virtually dumped Christine in Erik's unsuspecting arms to mount his horse. Erik staggered but shifted the girl's weight quickly into his arms. After whimpering at Raoul's inconsiderate act, Christine glanced up at Erik's pale face.
"Hello…" She said smirking playfully.
Erik gulped hard, averting Christine's gaze. His breathing was labored, physical exertion and memories of how he was never allowed to touch much less carry human being…
"Give her to me."
Raoul's rapt command prevented Erik from dropping her in his close proximity to another child. Summoning all his considerable strength, he hefted her into Raoul's grasp.
Erik watched as they disappeared into the woods, leaving him to take Carmen back to the Populaire; alone.
A violin's mournful cry echoed hauntingly through the underground. It hummed into her eardrums quietly at first, but then became more distinguishable as she slowly breached the mist of unconsciousness. The notes were sorrowful, Christine later noted, but yet comforting. It called her, beckoned her from the torturing darkness of her nightmares. Christine groaned.
"Uhh…"
Forcing her eyes open, struggling against the foggy shadows, little Lotte was greeted by soft candlelight. The girl saw the irony. Initially, the torture chamber had blasted her with unforgiving, scathing, horrible heat; now, candlelight? That was…unexpected. Flexing her fingers, Christine immediately realized she wasn't lying on cold, unforgiving stone. It was soft.
And exactly why was the stone floor so soft?
This wasn't making any sense. Christine willed herself to sit upright. Wincing, she held her hand to her pulsing temples. The only thing near to the concept of comfort was the sound of the violin…wait. What was a violin doing in the torture chamber? Christine forced herself to open her eyes. She gasped.
'What in the name of…'
It was beautiful. The room—or illusion, she wasn't quite sure yet—was a unique architectural wonder all its own. She had never seen anything like it. There were small candelabras in the corners of the room and white furs of unknown mammals covering the stone floor. Truthfully, the room was not anything special. It was very simple in nature, only furnished in bare, seemingly unnecessary objects. But there was something different about it, magical even.
'A magical torture chamber…you have officially lost your sanity…'
But it felt real. The velvet plush beneath her felt cushioning, if somewhat low to the ground. Squinting against the dim light, she realized that she wasn't in a bed at all. It had a head…of a bird?
She leaned forward to examine the intricate engravings on it…
"Ah!"
Instantaneously, a sharp unexpected pain shot through her right foot. Whipping off the thin linen sheet, Christine found that the said foot was heavily wrapped in white bandage strips. She hissed in pain despite her gentle attempt to touch it. No doubt it was swollen.
'With your luck, it's probably all shades of purple and green too…'
Christine ignored her thoughts. She realized something she hadn't noticed before. The violin had stopped playing.
An eerie thought stole into Daaé's mind.
'Who was playing the violin?'
All of a sudden, she felt the hairs on her arms and neck rise. Her heart ceased to pump as she felt the blood drain from her face and her lungs constrict tightly; like when she was on the stage the afternoon she had arrived. She felt as if she was being watched.
Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé slowly looked away from the offending limb. Her eyes led themselves up to the doorway.
In it, stood a man.
A man with fiery green eyes and a white mask.
"Hello Christine," the man said softly, "It's been a long time."
Breathing was not an option. Thinking an even less possibility. She could just blankly stare. What she was feeling exactly, she could never explain.
His eyes. The intensity in which they looked at her was surreal. She had never seen such reservoirs of passion. Of human sorrow and frailty. These were not a man's eyes. They were his eyes.
"Erik." She breathed.
He nodded ever so slightly, confirming. Chrisitne wasn't even aware she had said his name aloud. But she had. She had and she didn't know it.
She's lost it. Antoinette told her he was dead. "Erik is dead." This wasn't real, this wasn't happening.
"I-You're supposed to be dead."
"It depends how you define 'dead.'" The man—Erik— replied. "To most, I am."
"But…you are. This…this isn't real, I'm hallucinating, I'm—this is part of the torture. I'm dead aren't I?" Daaé was visibly shaking. Her voice became strangled and high pitched. Hysteria is obviously near if not already present. "This is my punishment for leaving for you. B-but you know I didn't mean to, I was forced, you have to know that—mon dieu, you have to. I didn't—he d-doesn't know he thinks I left him… He thinks I killed him…"
"Christine—" The illusion of Erik appeared agitated, oddly disturbed even.
"I didn't mean to—"
"—Christine stop that—" He was calling her name with force now.
"—No! It was an accident! It was Papa!"
"Stop that!"
Christine didn't notice how the ghost was walking towards her slowly.
"Erik! Erik! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to!"
"STOP THAT!"
"You left her alone with him?"
Madame Giry waved the question away with a weary hand. It was morning, but for the older Giry it was simply another hour she had spent awake. She was exhausted. Spending all night bringing Lotte's fever down, while worrying herself into a grave about how she was going to explain the entire turn of events to her when she awoke. It had all happened in Erik's lair no less; with Erik there, of course. Her only comfort was that now he was fully dressed.
The Vicomte was cursing now. Vehemently cursing, actually.
"I thought you were misled before, Madame, but this—this is unexplainably stupid!"
"Raoul that's enough—"
"No, no it's not Meg!" Young de Chagny hardly ever wasted his breath to raise his voice; especially with someone who was not of noble French blood. But when he did—his resulting temper tantrum could be a force to be reckoned with. Many a fellow's jaw could attest to that. "Your mother has—is—allowing Christine—Christine, mind you—alone with Erik!"
"It's either that or harming Lotte further." Meg was trying very, very hard to remain civil with the man. "You heard in what condition Mother saw her. Erik was there. He rescued her."
"From a trap he constructed with his own accursed hands!" He shouted. With just the three of them holed up in Madame Giry's apartment on the far side of the Opera Populaire, there was a slim chance anyone else's prying ears would be a problem. "I find it difficult to believe that that poor excuse for a being, much less a man, can be safe company for Lotte."
Meg didn't retort, not trusting her tongue. Raoul, thankfully, took the moment to catch his breath, letting a tense, odd sort of silence resume. Madame Giry was suddenly very glad she hadn't told him all of the details concerning what condition Christine had indeed been in. The condition of Lotte's clothing hadn't been reassuring.
"I can't believe this. This can't be happening." de Chagny resumed his previous occupation of degrading everyone in existence—except himself of course.
Meg suppressed the urge to slap the man. She resorted to glowering at him from under her eyelids.
"Reality is a harsh fact, Raoul. It's happening. "
The glare is returned. Apparently, all the negative feelings were mutual.
"You're brutally at ease with the whole idea. Exactly, how comfortable are you with our opera ghost?"
"How dare you imply-"
"Enough!" Antoinette's voice escalated over the youngers'. In every sense, she couldn't take it anymore. "The both of you. This entire conversation is completely childish."
Raoul scowled but obeyed by dropping into a nearby chair. Meg followed suit. The ballet mistress sighed. Maybe coming back to the surface had been a bad idea. But did she have a choice?
As practically Christine's mother, probably not—maternal instinct said not to. As Madame Antoinette Giry, the esteemed head of the corps de ballet, she couldn't just disappear for an entire round of final rehearsals for the first performance of Il Muto. Things would just become worse if the population of the opera house became a little more interested in her excursions. As it was, another thing told her that if people began to suspect, Erik would be less trusting. Common sense told her being in his good graces was the best thing for everyone, especially Lotte. Besides, Christine's fever had broken and Erik was acting normal enough. He hadn't bothered her the entire night.
Despite her doubts, deep down she knew Erik would not bring himself low enough to hurt Lotte.
She sincerely hoped her reasoning would stand throughout the day.
Out of every instrument he had ever touched, the violin had the most calming effect on him. So he played. As the stringed instrument obeyed the will of his fingers, Erik's mind was stilled in a way morphine never could.
Giry had left him alone with her, surprisingly. She must have been more tired than he thought. Not that he given her any reason to think he would hurt her.
'Besides, of course, being the reason why Gustave took Christine away in the first place and the mind behind the mirror chamber...'
Yes, well, no one in his life has ever been perfect. Least of all him. But that was beside the point.
"Ah!"
His bow screeched against the strings. Immediate silence followed the ungraceful halt in his playing. The Phantom was not fooled. He had heard it. He knew what it was. He knew who it was. It was best not to lie to himself. That just made things more complicated.
Erik swallowed hard.
He set the delicate instrument on his organ bench, purposefully keeping his resolve steady when he reached the alcove containing his Swan bed.
Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé was not looking at him when he entered. The doe eyed beauty is holding her injured ankle. Somehow, Erik suspected that had he known his twisted invention would do this to Lotte, he wouldn't have been made at all. However, it's a hardly manifested regret and not nearly as important as the emotion of anticipation building up in his chest. Christine had sensed him. He could tell by the way she had tensed. Her curl covered head seemed to rise inch by inch, slowly. Christine met his gaze.
He couldn't breathe, but somehow managed to speak.
"Hello Christine. It's been a long time."
Even to his own ears, the statement seemed flat and redundant. Considering the circumstances, he's surprised he can talk at all, yet he knew he had to.
"Erik."
He nodded.
"I-You're supposed to be dead."
'That all depends on your point of view….'
"It depends how you define 'dead.' To most, I am."
Goodness. Did he just sound amused?
"But…you are…"
The situation was not amusing, however. Not in the slightest. Erik immediately saw Christine wass near hysterical. For reasons he couldn't explain, that frighted him.
"This…this isn't real, I'm hallucinating, I'm—this is part of the torture. I'm dead aren't I? This is my punishment for leaving for you. B-but you know I didn't mean to, I was forced, you have to know that—oh mon Dieu, you have to. I didn't—he d-doesn't know he thinks I left him… He thinks I killed him…"
"Christine—" Erik was shaken. Something is wrong…
"I didn't mean to—"
"—Christine stop that—"
'She shouldn't be like this…'
"—No! It was an accident! It was Papa!"
"Stop that!"
"Erik! Erik! I didn't mean it! I didn't mean to!"
"STOP THAT!"
The Phantom has his hands on her shoulders, shaking her back to reality. How he got there, only God knows. He can feel Christine's body trembling through his fingers, like she was in the mirror chamber, but he's determined to keep her awake—sane—this time.
Daaé just stares, expressionless.
"I…I know it wasn't—it wasn't your fault."
'Are you confessing?'
'Not now…'
"Listen to me," Erik eased slowly onto the bed, positioning himself near her, "I'm not dead. You're not hallucinating. Do you hear me? I am real."
Christine repeated his words, processing them in her strained mind. "I-I'm not hallucinating?"
"No. I—You found me. I am not dead. "
Erik never knew how long he sat there, holding Christine's shoulders watching, waiting, for the fog to clear from her senses.
"Oh, Erik…"
He's surprised, shocked actually, when the girl forcefully buries her head in his chest, sobbing. Instinctively he tenses, already tightening his grip on her arms to push her away. Christine, however, is persistent. She leans into him, refusing to acknowledge his discomfort.
"Christine, let go." His voice is oddly frantic.
Daaé clings on tighter, her fingers digging into his shirt and mumbling incoherently.
"I thought you were dead—she told you me you were dead. S-she…"
"Mother! Stop you're hurting me!"
"DON'T TOUCH ME!"
Sweat begins to bead on his forehead and his breathing is decidedly irregular. It shouldn't be like this. No one can touch him. He can't touch anyone, not even his own mother…
"Erik, Erik, don't leave me…not again…I'm sorry…so sorry…"
If possible, the girl clutches him even tighter, desperation evident in her voice. Christine needs him; that much is obvious. It's like when they were children, one finding comfort in the other... in something familiar, something solid, something firm in the instability of her life.
But that didn't make his breathing and acceptance of Christine's embrace any less strenuous for him.
"Let go, Lotte."
Erik knows he's at his breaking point when he lets her pet name slip. He never called her that. Only the Girys and Raoul; never him.
"Let go, Lotte."
The demand was clear, spoken harsh and low. She's emotionally distressed, hysterical, and her wits at a complete loss, but there's no mistaking the brutal command in his tone.
Christine shifts, releasing the fabric of Erik's shirt from her fingers. She sits herself up, watching him with caution.
Erik looks relieved as he stands up quickly, moving away from her. She immediately feels guilty.
"I-I'm sorry."
He doesn't seem to hear her, his eyes closed and chest heaving as if he's taking deep breaths. Christine swallowed hard.
'What now?' She pondered.
Silence is her only answer for a few moments.
"It's—it's alright. I'm fine." Erik opened his eyes. The green orbs have become intense once more.
Daaé doesn't respond right away. What does she say? She has no idea where she is, how she got there, and Erik is here. Alive.
'I'll be lucky if I don't lose my mind…'
'Maybe you already have…'
She shivers at the thought. Erik notices.
"Are you cold?" he asks, the exposed part of his half covered brow creasing slightly.
"I…I don't know." Truly, she doesn't. Do lunatics feel anything?
Her strange reply seems to concern the man. He quickly leaves the room. Christine half suspects he's been summoned back to wherever ghosts go when they disappear. After a moment, Erik returns with a wool blanket.
"Take this. You can catch your death down here."
She obeyed. Christine suddenly gasped.
"My—my clothes! Where are…?"
For the first time since she's awoken, she realizes she's in nothing but her chemise. Just her chemise. With Erik. Alone.
Christine can feel her cheeks burn.
'Apparently lunatics can still feel embarrassed…' A cruelly cynical part of her hisses.
"I took the liberty in…cooling you down."
Daaé doesn't notice the way Erik shifted his feet or the way he averted his eyes when he spoke. His odd statement confuses her too much.
"You…what?"
"You were in a dangerously high fever. I…had to improvise. The torture chamber—"
Her breath catches at that. "Oh."
Erik doesn't say anything more. There's no use. He's mentioned it.
"I—You should rest, Christine." He says after several moments of awkward silence.
Christine looks up at him. She sees the way he's just barely softened his features. The gesture makes her trust him. She nods.
"Alright."
Lotte knows it's startling how she trusts him so quickly. But it's Erik. She can't imagine not trusting him. Besides she's too tired to protest…
Christine leans back into the soft velvet plush, sighing. She closes her eyes, the overwhelming feelings of being unsure and confused rushing on all at once, exhausting her.
He manages not to visibly react. The Phantom waits noiselessly until her breathing becomes even. Then, ever so slowly, he reaches up to pull down on the black cord hanging unobtrusively above the bed. He watches as it lowers a thin black fabric over her, shielding her, protecting her.
"Sleep well, Christine."