They walked in the damp and chill darkness, and she held tightly to his hand. It bothered her that if he should collapse in this tunnel, she would have no idea where to go; she would have no choice but to backtrack for help. She moved closer to Erik, willing him to keep going.
He watched her constantly from the corner of his eye; she had re-entered his life so suddenly, that it stood to reason she could leave it just as quickly. His hold on reality was still only tenuous at best. He tried to force the cobwebs out of his head, feeling a dizziness which caused him to stumble. For now, he needed to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. He glanced down at the woman beside him, overcome with love for her. He stopped abruptly in the passage and pulled her to him, cradling her head with his long fingers and kissed her, plundering her mouth. As sick as he felt, her taste was still delightful to him. He had hungered for this. His fingers were restless on her face, stroking and touching her eyes, her cheeks.
It occurred to him once more, that this could all be a magnificent lie his confused and weary brain had cooked up. With their own will, his hands left her face and traveled down her body, feeling her sweet curves. She was solid and warm. He reluctantly broke the kiss and struggled to control his breathing, his surroundings seeming to shift and move on the periphery of his vision.
Christine had both arms around him, murmuring words of comfort, frightened by his weakness. After a few minutes, they continued on. She was in awe of her surroundings. In all her imaginings, she never thought he could live in such an environment. The stone passages were dank and depressing-far from healthy, the walls shiny from moisture. She heard noises in that stygian darkness. Rustlings in corners, and the plink, plink of water from somewhere. Their footsteps sounded hollow, and amplified back to them from the vaulted blackness surrounding them. Dr. Frankenstein, I presume. Or maybe Dracula would be more at home down here. Why live in the cold and dampness, Erik? No wonder your're so sick!
She shivered from the chilly air and he saw it. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her small shoulders. She tried to hand it back to him, citing his illness, but he shook his head. "I'm more than accustomed to the cold down here. You however, are not."
She very soon realized he would not budge on this, so continued on, clutching his arm tightly, lending him her strength. The completely irrelevant thought occurred to her that she spent entirely too much time walking long distances with him in shoes vastly unsuited for it. In dark and dank tunnels. But they stopped often, her concern for him growing as he became more exhausted. But finally they made it to a...lake? It looks downright freaky. Anything could be in there swimming around. Hell, maybe even Nessie.
She didn't think there could be many more surprises, but here they both stood beside a body of chill, black water that stretched off into the gloom. A small wooden boat was tied to a little dock. Her jaw dropped at the uniqueness of it all, her mind trying to disconnect the fact that they were still in the opera house, which was five stories over their heads. He took her hand to help her into the boat, but instead pulled her into his arms again and kissed her.
Bending down from his superior height, he leaned his forehead against hers. "You are everything to me," he whispered.
"I wish you would have told me that before you left Gettysburg, Erik."
"You saw me that night. Your face...it...it was very telling. I frightened you..."
She squeezed his hand and glanced nervously at the lake. "We can talk all we want after we get to your, ah, your h-house."
He nodded and helped her into the little boat, then slowly and carefully got in himself.
She insisted on rowing them across the lake, still shaking her head at the ridiculous notion of a lake in an opera house. He refused her offer and proceeded to wield the oars, unable to look away from her. Halfway across he stopped rowing, winded and shivering forcibly; what little strength he had was used up. Christine very carefully got up and moved over beside him.
"I'll row us across. Just show me the way."
She put her arm around his thin shoulders and gently shook him. He nodded, and with weary eyes, gave her the direction; after ten minutes or so of clumsy rowing, and furtive glances down at the fearsome-looking water, thankfully they were there, tying up to another tiny dock. The amount of light in the vastness of the underground world of the cellars had never been much, but her eyes adjusted a bit, and she was able to make out some detail. It seemed no more than a stone cavern to her, and bore no relation to an edifice dedicated to music and dance.
It was if anything, hostile to her senses, and she hated the thought of Erik living alone in this place. The ever present dankness and cold, coupled with the darkness, was enough to dampen the most ebullient spirit. It was hardly any surprise to her, that his touch had always felt chill. The environment from the cellars had more than likely, seeped into his very bones and no amount of sunshine would warm him.
Christine threw the looped line over the iron hook set into the dock post, then turned to Erik who was sitting with head down, hands dangling between his knees and doing his best to keep awake. She put her hand under his elbow and somehow got him to his feet. They were able to get out of the boat without tipping it over, and she slipped her arm around his waist, and at his direction, helped him over to a murky recess in the wall. There in the shadowed niche was a wide entry door; one that appeared like any other gracing the front of a residence, albeit one cleverly tucked away from view.
Erik managed to open it, and they crossed the threshold entering his home. As uninviting as the world outside his door seemed to be, this was the exact opposite. It was warm and welcoming, and reflected a taste that was refined- even elegant. Christine would never forget her first glimpse of his house under the opera. Her first thought was that he lived better underground than many did above it.
Paneled walls in warm cherry wood. A stone fireplace with a wide mantle of the same rich color, and Persian carpets scattered over basket weave parquet flooring in warm shades of caramel and cinnamon. There was a hallway on each side of the entry leading off to other rooms. For now she only wanted to find the bedroom.
When she requested the direction to his room, he sighed wearily and rested his chin on top of her head. "I have no intention of...l-letting you out of my sight."
"You're sick, Erik. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here, okay?"
He had to believe her. He was very close to collapse and he knew it. He cursed himself for not taking better care of his health. With Christine's arm around him, they entered his room and she helped him lay down on the bed, after which she removed his shoes and covered him with the blankets. His bedroom at first glance, consisted mostly of maroon and black, with black being the predominant color. The furniture, including the large bed, was mahogany with more of the beautiful Persian rugs spread over the floor.
He sighed heavily and reached for her hand. "I am sorry you have found me like this." His voice was slurred and becoming faint. "I would change it if I c-could." His teeth chattered as another chill went through him.
"Hush. First things first." She tucked the covers tighter around him and tried again. "You need a doctor."
He was cold, and the shivering would not stop; his body felt heavy, unresponsive to his will, and the panic crept in causing him to force himself up toward Christine, grabbing for her hand once more. "D-Do not l-leave."
She gently forced him back on the pillows, soothing him with her voice, trying to ease his anxiety. "Hey," she said softly, "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here when you wake up. Promise." She took his hand and held it tightly, giving the thin fingers a reassuring squeeze.
He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Each lid had five pounds of weight attached, forcing them closed, but still he fought the blackness trying to take him. He concentrated with difficulty on the coolness of her hand on his hot skin- the lulling quality of her voice, and felt calmer. He was afraid to close his eyes, fearing she would be gone when he awoke.
"On...on my desk. Address book. B-Bernard will...he will..." He slipped into unconsciousness.
Christine put her hand to his neck, and with a sigh of relief, realized he was only asleep. She spread her hand over the center of his chest, reassured at the strong and steady beat of his heart. She watched him a moment longer, then went looking for his desk. She exited his room and tried the door across the hall, finding another bedroom.
Next, she opened the door at the end of the hall, and could only stare at what looked like any doctor's examining room she'd ever been in. The room was small, but held a wheeled table, a sink and metal counter and a large stainless steel lamp. An array of assorted drugs and bins holding medical supplies took up a goodly portion of the counter. Why would he have a doctor's office down here? Is this legal or God forbid- illegal?
The night had been strange enough. This was merely icing on the proverbial cake. Just another surprising anomaly of her masked man. She shrugged her shoulders helplessly and very gently closed the door. She returned to the entry and went down the other hallway.
A quick glance through the first doorway on the left, revealed a modern kitchen with oak cabinetry and black countertops. It seemed every surface contained dirty dishes or a bottle of some kind. A round glass table edged in black chrome with two black chairs sat in the far corner. The room was well lit with recessed pot lighting in the ceiling, and three long stemmed pendant lights were suspended over the counter.
She continued down the hall, until she came to another door. Upon opening it she found a music room, an ebony baby grand piano taking up one corner of the large room, and music sheets spread haphazardly over much of the dusty surface. She noticed the dust thick everywhere in his apartment, and his usual neatness was absent in the few rooms she'd been inside. The rest of the paneled room was filled with books, more books, a guitar leaning against the wall, and a saxophone resting on top of a wooden cabinet filled with what looked like more sheets of music. And what she sought, sitting opposite from the grand- a roll top desk.
Christine located the address book in the top drawer and went rapidly through the very short list of names written there, until she found a Bernard Prideux. She only hoped they'd be able to understand each other. She picked up the phone on the desk and tapped in the number, then waited impatiently for someone to answer.
When a man did, she let out a pent up sigh of relief and tried English. "Hello, I'm calling for Erik Reauchard. Is this Bernard Prideux?"
She heard nothing for a moment, then warily, "Yes, this is he." He paused and said hesitantly, "This is highly unusual, mademoiselle. Explain, s'il vous plait."
And so she did. After Christine was done, it became clear to him who this woman was. Erik's woman- the very same one who had caused him such misery.
"I know exactly what to do, Mademoiselle Daae. I will be there in a half hour or so." Then he added, "Do not worry. This has happened before."
And on that cryptic note he hung up, leaving Christine to return to Erik. She was disturbed to find him tossing restlessly in bed, his breathing labored. She left hurriedly and found a bowl, filling it with cold water and got a small towel from the adjoining bathroom. She dragged a chair close to the bed and sat down, wringing out the cloth and placing it on his neck to cool him down.
She wasn't sure, but she didn't think there was anyone other than Mr. Prideux, and Erik hadn't seen fit to bother him with the particulars of his gunshot wound. She shuddered, wondering what would have happened to him if she hadn't arrived when she did? How long could he have lasted, sick as he was right now?
But as she watched him, she slowly came to the conclusion that the mask needed to come off so he could breathe easier. The thought made her uneasy, but she fought down the fear before it could take hold.
His life was what mattered, not her reaction to something he couldn't help. She refused to consider any outcome other than his complete recovery from this. You hear me, Erik? You're going to get better. I insist.
Her hands shaking, she reached for the ties and carefully lifted the mask away.