Chapter 13: Help Me Say Goodbye
When Christine lifted herself from her huddled position above her father's grave marker, the sky was no longer clear, instead filled with impending storm clouds that bordered where it met the sea across the vast expanse of ocean.
She rocked back onto her heels and Erik's gloved hands met her shoulders, and she raised one to cover it.
"Come, Christine, you must be freezing", he told her placidly, helping her to stand.
His entire being was cloaked in black, and she viscerally guided him down the hill to the back of the chateau. She was certain he would not have approached her if the sun had continued to beat down on them. He always kept to the shadows.
Reaching into the bag swung over her shoulder, she fished out the small key, inspecting the ornate detail of lilies woven into the metal bow and stem. Her hands quivered as it approached the keyhole.
She rested her head against the door, swallowing, and Erik's patient hand met the small of her back encouragingly. Inhaling deeply, she twisted the key, the familiar clicking sound resonating. Her hand twisted the knob and pushed the door open slowly.
And for the first time in two and a half years, she stepped foot into the vestibule, a deluge of emotions flooding every fiber of her being. Her nose cringed as a musty smell filled her nostrils.
The small room was empty just as she remembered, but she still slipped off her shoes, placing them next to the door, Erik following her lead.
She slowly led the way into the drawing-room, the only light source coming through the curtains against the far wall. All of the furniture remained in the room, covered in sheets.
Almost immediately, she was drawn to the corner by the window, pulling away a sheet, and revealing a grand piano.
She ran a finger along the ivory keys. "This was our music room. My father mastered a few instruments, but he strived to teach me all he could. The happiest moments of my life were in this very room", her whisper echoed across the room.
Then another sheet was pulled away. Then another, and another until everything concealed was now revealed, awakening reveries long past.
The armchair before the fireplace, where her father had told her the story about the Angel of Music. The very one who stood beside her.
"Papa, what is an angel of music?"
"An angel of music is an entity who listens to the sound of sweet music's throne. They protect and guide us onto our own paths in the realm of music".
"Papa! Have you met an angel of music?"
"I have, in fact, met my angel of music. Your mother was my angel. Without her, I would not have the musical ability I do today".
"Mother was an angel of music? Was she my angel of music too?"
"Not everyone meets their angel of music, and I was very fortunate to have met mine, but when I am in Heaven child, I will send the angel of music to you, and your angel shall guide you on an ethereal journey of music".
"This room was beautiful", her tone reminisced, and the curtains were flung open, dust filling the air above them. "Everything I learned, I did so in this room".
She saw Erik recede back a step into a dimmer part of the room."You don't have to worry about keeping in the dark. It is quite secluded here".
Erik nodded, tentatively stepping back into the stormy grey light. "A great reassurance. Thank you, my dear".
Moving about the room, she observed out of the corner of her eye as Erik inspected the piano. Folding the sheets, she tucked them away in a nearby dresser.
"Do you wish to play? I am quite positive my father stowed away his compositions but I can search for them…"
Erik stepped away from the piano and strode over to her. "Later, perhaps. Where to next?"
Next was the kitchen, and Christine slid her bag off, pulling out the untouched bread and cheese, and laying them out on the counter. "I will run to the market later for more provisions".
She paused, contemplating what else needed to be done before continuing. "There is a well outside, so I will boil some water for us as well".
His resolute reply was immutable. "You need not do such a thing. I will take care of such matters".
"Erik, you are a guest, it would be entirely improper if I allowed you to-"
"The arduous tasks will remain my responsibility, and more", he told her firmly, his hazel eyes fixed on hers with an indomitable reserve. "Propriety and society be damned, Christine. It does not matter, nor does it exist anywhere I am present with you".
Christine opened her mouth to retaliate but closed it knowing he would not sway from his decision. While she would not admit it, nothing in his words was false.
She led him to a hallway adjoining the kitchen into the dining room, which was only furnished with a small wooden table and two chairs.
Erik's eyes were instantly drawn and fascinated by a painting of her mother on a nearby wall. "You told me your mother passed away while you were young? How old exactly, if I may ask?"
She shook her head. "I was only nine. It was hard for me to create memories while we traveled on the road. It was shortly after we settled here that she passed. I do not remember much of her", she elucidated, pulling out a vase from a china cabinet to sit on the table. "How did you know?"
Erik's eyes flickered between her and the painting. "Your eyes have the same earthly hues".
Christine smiled sadly. "A feature my father reminded me of frequently". She moved to stand beside him, gazing up at the painting with familiarity.
He continued to look at Christine, raising a hand to cup her cheek. "A very exquisite feature, if I may add. Your eyes are your own, Christine, anyone not entranced by them is blind".
Her smile turned genuine. "You flatter me, mon ange".
Leading him out of the dining room and down a corridor, she swung open a wooden to reveal a powder room. "I will add a washbasin shortly".
Moving into the foyer, Christine ran a hand along the wall until it met the threshold. Erik moved ahead of her to sheets that hung over more furnishings.
"Do you wish for me to remove them?" He inquired, pulling the thin fabric between his fingers. Her nod of approval and seconds later revealed two chaises and a table. He worked fastidiously on the other side of the room, removing other sheets.
Meanwhile, Christine's eyes narrowed in on a spot by the stairway banister, heart pounding with such disquieting melancholy.
The wooden floor creaked under her pattering feet, and she impelled herself to her knees, her eyes fluttering shut. It was all still so fresh in her mind.
Life as she knew it had changed in this room, right there.
Christine slowly descended the staircase, tightly gripping the banister while the other rested over her corset. God how much she hated it, how did women in Parisian society even begin to manage maneuvering in such a contraption?
"Father! I believe the seamstress made a mistake with this one!" She hitched up the front of the dress as she tripped on her petticoat.
Gustave Daaé leaned out of the kitchen into the threshold, a spoon in hand. "How so? It looks stunning on you, Lotte", he complimented.
Her lips thinned and she dropped her skirts from her hand, moving closer to her father. "She forgot to sew my dignity in it", she replied sardonically.
He raised a closed fist to his mouth, making an unconvincing cough. "Is that so?" He hummed, reaching forward to stir the pot then turning back to her. "Spin", his finger twirled in a gesture.
Begrudgingly she did so, the silky fabric rustling as it brushed the walls of the narrow hallway. She did not deny the dress was beautiful, the butter-colored redingote charmeuse fabric had a plunging neckline and three-quarter sleeves, and was easy to walk in, but climbing and descending stairs proved to be a much more aggravating task.
"I can say with certainty that your dignity is missing because you have misplaced it. Go to the powder room and look in the mirror, Christine. You will have suitors fawning all over you", he commented lightly.
She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Dear God, Father… if I hear you say those words again I will put myself out of my misery before a suitor can".
Gustave's laughter echoed down the hall as she did as she was told, and her hand met the cold slab of marble before the hanging mirror.
Christine barely recognized herself upon gazing at her reflection. Gone were the days she would be able to freely walk without a corset. Her tresses were no longer pinned up away from her face and drifted down to the middle of her back, tiny wisps framing the sides of her complexion.
She had tightly packed herself into the corset and her bosom swelled above the low cut of the bodice, revealing more than originally thought.
But even so, she almost felt like a woman. The person in that mirror was not the young girl she once was.
Tomorrow she was set to leave for Paris. Although she had gradually become accustomed to the change, it was an adventure to embark upon.
She was suddenly startled by her father's voice at her side.
"One day, Christine, you will show them all just how special you are".
Doubt filled her at the words, and she embraced her father tightly, burying her face in his chest. "But what about you? You've much more talent than I, and you have yet to share it with the entire world".
His arms wound around her tightly, and his chin rested above her head. "Maybe not the entire world, Little Lotte, but I have done enough in my lifetime to be at peace".
Christine sniffled and backed away, wiping her tears away with her sleeves. "I love you, father".
Gustave smiled and placed a kiss upon his daughter's forehead. "I love you too, Christine".
Warm arms embraced Christine where she knelt on the floor, and she leaned into Erik, sobbing hysterically. She clutched tightly to him as the palpable wounds of grief tore open, evoking a poignant, lachrymose.
The spot they sat upon the floor was a vestige of her loss that weighed her down like an anchor, suffocating under the immense melancholy that plagued her.
In all the time she spent in Paris, she prayed to her father, but never truly mourned him. Only two days after his passing, she had been whisked away cluelessly into an unforgiving society that continued to revolve around her as her world stood at a standstill.
She had held tight to every core memory that shaped her into the woman she became, but inside was the shell of that frightened young girl who clung to her father's corpse, surrounded by the doctor and carriage driver. Surrounded by strangers.
Strangers who looked down upon her with unveiled pity and insincere apologies that would have no impact on them at the end of their day.
Long after his body had gone cold, she was pulled from him and left alone in that very same spot as he was taken to a morgue to lie on a metal slab covered in a thin white sheet.
Her body trembled as her mind deluged open, ruminating on the invigorating life she once led. A nascent sensation built in her throat until it suffocated her.
And Christine released a keening scream.
She screamed.
Erik tremored at the agonizing sound, which tore away at every shred of his mind, body, and soul. It was a sound, a vibration against his chest that would haunt him for eternity.
His angel was falling apart in his arms, and he could only picture the feathers tearing violently away from the wings she had spread, laid bare for all to see.
How had she known such pain?
And all he could do was pull her tight against him for comfort. All he could do was catch her.
In the two and a half years he nurtured and cradled her voice, he could never have begun to imagine the sheer power of the voice that tore from her throat.
A voice he couldn't begin to register and recognize as hers.
Christine screamed until her voice ran hoarse and sound could no longer erupt from within her. All the strain in her body snapped away, leaving her entire being limp in his arms. Erik was her beacon, leading her from the darkness of plaintive, immeasurable grief.
One hand rested on her back, moving in soothing circles while another reached up to her hair, his fingers raking through her knotted curls. She shuddered violently against him and she viscerally curled up, her head falling upon his thigh.
"Oh Christine", he choked out mournfully as he looked down at the vulnerable form beneath him. He ran a hand across her tear-stricken cheek. "My angel".
His heart tugged painfully against him when her body spasmed with each sniffle, but after several minutes they quieted, and then there was silence for several minutes.
Or it was an hour, but regardless time was irrelevant to him as his watchful eyes observed her.
Later, Christine shifted in his lap and pushed herself back to her knees with Erik's hands supporting her.
The once crumpled features of her complexion were devoid of emotions as she whispered. "He died right here in my arms. He's never coming back…"
"No he's not, my dear". Christine turned to face him, and he took her dainty hand in his and he brought it to her chest above her heart. "But he will always be here". Then to her temple. "And here".
"Erik…"
"I don't believe in God, Christine. But if there is a heaven, I know, I know he would be smiling down at you right now". He brought her hand to the edge of his lip, avoiding prodding her skin with his mask.
And there it was. A ghost of a smile on her lips.
Then Christine brought herself to her feet, gaze cast to the floor, but Erik's finger curled under her chin and pulled her away from the vestige.
"Don't let your ghosts linger, my dear. Only you can control them", he told her with a firm voice.
Christine's demeanor suddenly changed, raising a questioning brow. "Any why do you linger, Monsieur le Fantome?"
Erik chuckled deeply. "I'm afraid, Mademoiselle, I am tethered to a walking angel".
A crimson blush crept across her cheeks and she slipped her hand into his. "Let us not linger here, then".
Christine led him up the staircase that hugged the corner walls, winding to a long, thin hallway. Grey light cast in from the end through a set of stained glass doors.
She released his hand to walk before him. "It's quite a narrow hallway, but the size of the rooms compensates greatly for it".
The first door they approached was on the right. "There are two washrooms upstairs. This one is personally my favorite though", she opened the door, revealing a black chandelier topping wooden walls and a marble floor, equipped with a porcelain bathtub, and a vanity with an adjoining water closet.
"Calming environment and a small tub. Father offered me his room that was connected to the other washroom, but the tub was a bit too large for my comfort", she admitted with a mix of embarrassment and shame, but quickly brushed it off.
She pulled open the empty vanity drawer. "If you prefer this washroom, you can put your amenities in here". Closing the drawer, she escorted him from the vast space.
Christine approached a white door on the left, her hand meeting the familiar inlay of her doorknob, nostalgia overcoming her. "These are my chambers", she relegated, dropping her hand away.
Erik quirked a brow in interest. "Have you something to hide, my dear? Perhaps something clandestine?"
In the most unladylike manner, Christine snorted, slapping a hand over her mouth, and she saw Erik's lip tilt upwards. She cleared her throat. "There is not much to see. Just a bed, wardrobe, vanity, and mirror. Unlike your home, I never quite took an interest in the prodigal".
Intrigued, he leaned against the doorframe. "Are you saying you do not like my home?"
"I am saying my home does is not equipped with the amount of international influence as yours. And for the record, your home is quite magnificent. One of a kind, if I dare say", she teased.
"Ah yes, because it is so common for misanthropes disguised as phantoms to reside under Parisian opera houses", came his nonchalant reply.
Christine rolled her eyes. "Well, I hope this misanthrope does not partake in abnegation while under my roof".
He leaned closer to her, and she unconsciously backed into the door. "Being the licentious misanthrope I am, I have no intention to not revel in a place other than my underworld".
Erik stepped closer, his chest brushing hers, and her gaze dropped between them. His form towered over her, casting a shadow. "Are you goading me, Monsieur le Fantome?"
The deep rich velvet of his voice spoke to her in more ways than one. "Is my presence disconcerting, Christine?"
His voice invoked a tremulous response from her, and her head tilted upwards to meet his gaze. Every time those eyes met hers, the world seemed to crumble away.
Temptation pulled tautly, to submit to the reckless abandon that was him. His music.
Her gaze flickered between his gaze and lips. To the white porcelain of his mask.
Cornered, she fumbled for the knob behind her, capriciously opening the door and walking in, snapping her eyes away from his and unfastening the hood from her dress to lay it upon the all too familiar canopy bed.
The walls were painted a vibrant green, and just as she said, her room only had the essentials and necessities, save for a bookshelf lined with leather-bound books.
He observed as she unbuttoned the outer layer of her dress, falling away to reveal his cloak that she wore.
Erik couldn't hide his pleased expression. "I trust you were warm on our journey?"
She grinned widely. "Very".
And then she delicately pulled the strings of the cloak, laying it upon the bed. She couldn't begin to express the lightness of her garments after shedding the layers.
Flattening her hands against her worn blue dress, she moved to the windows and drew back the curtains, dim light filling the room.
"I always loved the view of the ocean from my window, another contributing reason why I did not wish to take my father's room".
She often dreamt of the seaside in spring, where the grass entangled with the sand and an abundance of flora blossomed, creating a rainbow down the coast. Those were the days her father would play his violin as she danced through the sand.
Shaking her head, she spun to find Erik did not enter the room, but leaned against the doorframe, watching her intently. "I believe you told me ghosts shouldn't linger?"
"Would you prefer I cross the threshold?" He hinted, his voice laced with underlying suggestion. "I vaguely remember you saying you couldn't believe in ghosts, but you believed in angels".
"I have never seen a ghost before. How can you believe in something you can't see?" She asked him inquisitively.
Erik tilted his head. "Then why do you believe in angels?"
It was in that moment sunlight broke through a crevice in the violent stormclouds, basking the room in golden glow. The sun was warm against her back, and the light stretched inches before where Erik stood.
She outstretched her hands to him. "Please?"
And slowly, her Angel of Darkness stepped into the light, taking her hands in his.
Christine turned them around so his back faced the window, and sunlight spilled over his sides. She removed a hand to caress it against his mask. "I believe in angels because you are my angel. My Angel of Music".
Her thumb moved over the small exposed malformation of his bottom lip and Erik flinched.
The sun retreated behind the clouds, and Christine quickly pulled her hand back. "Does it hurt?"
Tentatively, he temerously pulled her quivering hand back, allowing her fingers to brush over the small area.
"Erik…" She breathed, her pinky finger drifting ever so slightly under the corner of his mask, and she could vaguely map out rugged bumps along the skin.
She stared into his eyes, obvious conflict and discomfort resonating within.
What kind of life has her angel known?
His reaction was one resembling a wounded animal, and guilt pulled at her as he continued to hold her hand on his insecurity.
Her poor Erik!
No! Now wasn't the proper time or place to do this!
"Shall we continue?" Christine whispered, and Erik wordlessly nodded.
Aggregating courage, she clasped his hand in hers again and led him away from her room.
Turning out of the room, she led them to the end of the hallway. Pointing to the stained glass windows, she said. "The balcony, although given the season, it would be unwise to stay out very long".
Then she turned right, and she was face to face with her father's bedroom door. She stammered slightly. "These will be your chambers. I hope they are to your liking".
Enclosing her hand over the knob, she twisted it and the door creaked open, and palpable grief fell over her.
Not a thing had been touched since before he passed. The duvet and sheets on the bed were neatly tucked under the pillows, which had a faint outline of where he had slept that fateful morning.
His nightclothes haphazardly hung over the side of a linen basket in the corner beside the door. She had not yet mustered the courage to bring herself to step foot in the room until that moment.
Erik squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Are you alright?"
She moved to the bed, carefully bringing the pillows into her arms, burying her face in the indent and inhaling. She bit back a sneeze when dust drifted into her nose and her head geared back.
There was no scent anymore.
"I will wash these pillows", she placed the pillows on the floor and began stripping the bed. Erik would sleep in fresh linens.
Erik pulled her away. "I will take of it, Christine. Just tell me and it shall be done". He took her place stripping the bed, quickly and efficiently.
The linens were bunched in his hands, and Christine took them, placing them in the basket. "The closet is over there, next to the washroom. Middle shelf, if my memory serves me right".
Memory served her right, and Erik unfolded the set, reaching over the bed and tucking the corners. The other layers came together quickly, the bed completely made with fresh pillows.
Erik then looked around the bedroom, taking note of the heavy music influence. Compositions were neatly stacked on a nearby dresser and one, in particular, was framed on the wall. He inspected the title.
L'Ange de la Musique
He could hear the melody playing out in his head as his eyes roamed over the notes. "Did your father write all of these scores?"
"A few. My father enjoyed playing by ear for the most part. Most of the compositions over here are ones he has collected over the year", she held up a few in her hand. "You are free to play them whenever you'd like".
"This one had to be written by him", he gestured to the framed work.
A wide smile crossed Christine's face. "How fitting. Yes, he wrote it on a whim, but after he had played it to me so many times".
"I am fairly impressed to say the least", he complimented.
Christine nodded. "Never a dull moment with my father. My mother was one of his greatest inspirations, and after she died the torch of inspiration was passed to me".
Erik looked over to her as she eyed a photograph laid out on the nightstand, but she tore her gaze from it to him. "Are you comfortable staying in here?"
"I will be quite alright, Christine", he assured her.
She breathed deeply, then fixed her eyes on the closed curtains. "It is up to you if you'd like to draw open the curtains or leave them as they are. The oil lamp is over here, although you've likely already noted that… Is there anything I can get you?"
"No, I have everything I require. Thank you, though".
He saw Christine's hands fumbled before her and Erik strode over to her, pulling her into a tight embrace. His hand drifted to her back and the other in her unruly curls.
"Erik?"
"Are you comfortable with me staying in this room? I do not wish for this to torment you by residing in his chambers…"
He felt her hands tangle in the back of his waistcoat, her cheek turning to press into his chest. "To let this room remain empty is to allow my grief to pool in here. I cannot bear to keep it pent up anymore".
Christine sighed softly into him. "Why did you offer to come with me? There will certainly be gossip if Monsieur LeFevre doesn't receive a threatening, scornful letter from the Opera Ghost".
His fingers met the skin of her neck and he worked through the tense muscles. "I chose you, Christine. Anywhere you go, I go. Letting you travel this far of all places unaccompanied is a dangerously unsafe journey. As for the Opera Ghost, Nadir is an expert in forging handwriting. He will see to the theater in my absence".
"Safe to say this is not the first time you have done this", she ruminated.
"Only short travels. None of which requires me to leave Paris".
Christine's head flew back, his hand still cradling her neck. "Really?"
Erik raised a brow. "I reside under an opera house, my dear. I've not had pressing reasons to leave as everything is already provided".
His words were poignant, and Christine found herself clutching the hand that supported her. "You must be so lonely, spending all that time in solitude".
How his angel pitied him so.
"On the contrary, music is a great placeholder of company," he spoke impassively.
Seeing an incredulous expression creep onto her features, he added "Alas I will admit the past several years have been enlightening to say the least". He attempted a grin of reassurance.
Christine nearly smiled at the feeble attempt, but even so, it wouldn't change anything. But maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of a butterfly effect.
To come home was like a new life had been breathed into her. Perhaps as she learned to overcome her grief he would begin to overcome with his and shape it into so much more he deserve.
To change his resolve into a life worth living.
Hello, Lovelies! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I found it to be enervating to write because I struggled to find a decent middle ground between how she is handling her grief while also dealing with the passionate feelings she holds so dearly for Erik. Balancing the two was a big struggle for me, and something I like to keep in mind is that not everyone grieves the same, and having Erik in all that he is, he is so to say physical outlet for her emotion. Anyways, feel free to review, because they always make my day so much brighter! Until next time!
Your Obedient Servant,
-Emma51020