Chapter 30: Sunbursts in Darkness
Erik was drowning in a sea of pitch-black darkness. Pain was burning his left arm, but everything else was strangely foggy.
Flashes of movement and voices, muffled and fragmented, occasionally broke through to him as he drifted closer to the surface, but it felt as if they were dozens of metres away. The world swayed, and with a vague twinge, he realised that he was being dragged somewhere.
Blackness.
A clatter of horse hooves and the rattle of a carriage. Small drops were falling onto his left cheek and someone was squeezing his hand, desperately calling his name and saying something he was unable to understand. Stay? Why would anyone ask him to do that?
Blackness.
A strong tug pulled him back towards consciousness, and then he was being carried again. An iron gate clanged, and hectic footsteps thudded on a gravel path. More voices swarmed around, but he wasn't able to understand what they were saying, nor to keep his eyes open for longer than a blink. For a brief moment, he could have sworn that he saw the Giry ladies – their faces pale with worry – but a heartbeat later, the image blew apart like a wisp of smoke. He must have been arrested, and they couldn't be there.
Someone lugged him inside a building and up wooden stairs with an intricate, carved balustrade, then helped him lie on a mattress. With effort, the Opera Ghost registered that he had been taken to an unfamiliar house. It definitely wasn't how he imagined a police station, but perhaps they had brought him somewhere else to avoid the crowds and press? Before he could analyse it, an elderly, bespectacled man leaned over him and touched his wrist, asking him some questions.
Erik tried to concentrate, but the words were slipping out of his grasp.
The man sadly shook his head in reply to someone's query, then moved his fingers to the Opera Ghost's left arm. An excruciating pain pierced the Phantom's shoulder.
Erik jerked up, unable to hold back a choked cry. The room spun around him, black, distorted silhouettes encircling him. It was just like in the circus. A pair of hands shot towards him, grabbing his clothes to restrain him. Panic exploded inside him, taking away all rational thought.
With a feral roar, the Phantom pushed away the oppressor, sending both of them to the floor. The room filled with shouts. More people rushed towards him, their dim faces blurring even more. Snarling and tossing, the Opera Ghost tried to break free, but had the impression that his body and mind were made of lead. Hands caught him more firmly, immobilising him.
A fraction of a second later, something was pressed to his mouth and nose. A sweetish scent forced itself into his nostrils, pushing him back into darkness.
Pain welcomed him again as soon as he started to regain consciousness.
He was too tired to open his eyes, but he knew that he was in the cage again, dazed and weak after another beating.
The smell of his sweat mixed with the sickening odour of rotting straw. His stomach churned and twisted into a tight knot. An echo of throaty, malicious laughter resounded in his ears. The showman's whip slowly went scrape, scrape, scrape against the metal rods.
Erik felt an icy chill creep up his spine. He was aware it was pointless, but he couldn't stop himself from attempting to crawl away and curl up, despite the pain.
"Erik, please stop. If you keep moving so violently, you will reopen your wound." Two hands grabbed his shirt, and he recoiled with a muffled whimper, belatedly noticing that the touch was unexpectedly gentle. The palms were definitely too small to belong to his tormentor.
The feminine voice sounded strangely familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. And why did its owner seem to be on the verge of tears?
A petite hand slipped into his left fist. A tiny thumb stroked his skin.
"You're safe," whispered the girl. "It was all just a bad dream. Please try to relax."
Delicate fingers brushed away the wet hair from his temple. A while later, a cold compress was pressed to his burning-up forehead, bringing him a pinch of relief. The fingers returned to stroking his hair.
"I'm beside you…"
The whisper made him even more confused.
In the circus, there weren't any little girls or anyone else who would want to help him anymore. Just as always, he was alone, wasn't he?
He frowned, unsure. He didn't manage to find an answer, though, for that same second the darkness closed around him again.
The faint sound of a soft, hummed melody followed him just before he sank.
Stumbling, Erik trudged through the animated, pitch-like blackness. Its wisps clung to his arms and legs. He couldn't see anyone around, but he felt their condemning, scathing gazes piercing him like dozens of tiny blades.
Monster… Freak… The devil's spawn…
Echoes of hateful, mocking whispers swarmed around, digging their claws into his skin and pulling him down, filling his mind with a jarring cacophony.
Why was he even still trying to go on?
His foot caught on something, and he fell forwards onto his hands and knees, drowning in the black, muddy substance. Hatred burst inside him with full force, mixing with despair.
Thick tendrils twisted like serpents and crawled up his arms and legs, but somehow he couldn't find the strength to oppose them. What was the point?
The half-fluid darkness, full of dissonant noises, rose even higher, wrapping around him.
Please…
He was sure it would be his end, but that was when he heard music. It was faint and distant, but somehow had enough force to shift something inside him. A dim beam of light pierced the gloom, and a gust of wind brushed his face, carrying a delicate, otherworldly melody. With it came entirely different voices and pictures.
The darkness around him stirred, then withdrew a little.
Erik gritted his teeth. There were still things he had to do. People he couldn't leave. Besides, he wasn't a blazed weakling to give up this way!
The grip around him loosened. When he looked up, the blackness around him was no longer so impenetrable, instead lit by tiny scattered lights. Another song drifted to him, this time strangely familiar.
Rising back to his feet, Erik slowly started forwards. Far, far away, on the horizon, he saw dim silhouettes.
I'm not going to give up…
Faint light seeped under his eyelids, pulling him towards consciousness. The latter greeted him with numb pain.
Erik grimaced, mouthing a curse. He seemed to be in one piece, but every flex of the fingers of his left hand brought another stab to his arm. The frayed memories returned to him, and his stomach twisted into a knot.
The trap. The shot. The fire. The escape with a frightened Christine, and then the reunion with Raoul de Chagny in the underground, accompanied by Meg and Madame Giry.
Something constricted in Erik's chest, and he forced himself to open his eyes.
The sunlight, which he hadn't expected to see, blinded him for a moment. Squinting, the Phantom waited until his sight adjusted, then scrutinised his surroundings.
He was lying in a large bed, and judging by the soft linen, the carved bedposts of dark wood and the expensive-looking, ornamental wallpaper, it certainly wasn't a prison cell. He still had his shirt and trousers, but the rest of his clothes were gone. His left sleeve had been cut off and replaced by a thick bandage.
Disoriented, Erik tilted his head to look around. His gaze swept an elegant washstand and a screen in the corner, then moved to the right side of the room. There stood a chest of drawers, a bookstand and a few upholstered chairs, which encircled a small, inlaid table with a porcelain teapot and cups. Next to it, in a large armchair, comfortably sat Raoul de Chagny, clearly engrossed in reading.
Erik felt his eyes bulge.
"What the hell?!" The words, unpleasantly hoarse and grating, escaped him before he could stop himself.
The viscount twitched and lowered his book, revealing a nasty bruise on his cheek. His blue eyes narrowed in unhidden dislike.
"I would prefer if you watched your tongue as long as you are in my home, le Fantôme." The name was spat out as if it left a bitter taste.
Erik couldn't help but wonder if it was all an absurd dream. The pain in his shoulder and the irritating dryness in his throat seemed very real, though. His gaze flitted for a second to the teapot, but he would rather die of thirst than ask the blazed viscount.
The Phantom swallowed hard.
"Have I been arrested?" His voice sounded much weaker and raspier than he would have liked. "If so, then why am I here? And what about the others who were in the underground? Are… are they safe?"
A shadow flashed across Raoul de Chagny's face.
"Christine and both ladies Giry are under my care and they are fine. Though, of course, a bit shaken." The aristocrat twisted his mouth, putting the volume he had been reading on the table.
"As for arresting you, I wish it was that easy, but for now the answer is: no. We are at my family residence on the outskirts of Paris. The fact that you needed immediate medical treatment, monsieur, didn't leave many alternatives. The ladies managed to convince me of such a solution, but I won't lie and say I'm happy about it." His features hardened.
Erik needed a moment to process the information. The Girys must have revealed the connection between them, but still Raoul de Chagny was undoubtedly the last person he would have suspected of doing anything for him.
"For how long?"
The aristocrat winced. "I'm not sure yet. I called off the chase and reported that Christine had been… found safe and sound. But the investigation will continue. I asked the police to postpone the questioning of our group for the ladies' sakes, but we can't avoid it forever. And when it finally happens…" His scowl became harsher again. "You have a week, monsieur, maybe a little more."
The Phantom swallowed hard and nodded in acknowledgement.
"And the others in the opera house? Were… were any injured?"
For a short moment, Raoul de Chagny eyed him with a strange expression.
"A few people suffered minor burns," he said finally. "One guard sprained his ankle, and almost everyone got some bruises and scratches, but nothing truly severe. Nevertheless, the scenery and some elements of the rigging system need a thorough renovation. It all caused a lot of problems, but with the managers and the senior employees, we are trying to take care of it." The viscount sent the Phantom a half accusatory, half condescending look.
Erik gritted his teeth, biting back a scathing retort. "I understand."
For a short moment, neither of them spoke. Raoul de Chagny rose from the armchair and strode to the bed, looking down at the Opera Ghost.
"I learnt that the situation is more complex than I had thought," he drawled, "and I feel partially responsible for what happened, but that doesn't mean I trust you, monsieur." His lips pressed into a thin line, and his voice dropped almost an octave.
"You can stay here long enough to heal, but you are not allowed to do whatever you please, or even to leave this room without my or my butler's knowledge. One of us will always keep an eye on you. And if you try anything, even the smallest trick, you will be instantly reported or escorted to the police. Do I make myself clear, le Fantôme?"
The judgement hidden behind these words burned like a fire, but Erik forced himself to reply.
"Couldn't be clearer," he ground out.
"Good." With another scowl, Raoul de Chagny raised his chin, turned sharply on his heel and marched back to the table to scoop his book under his arm. Then he headed towards the door.
"I promised Meg Giry that I'd inform her when you regained consciousness, so that's what I'm going to do now. I'm not sure if it means anything to you, monsieur, but she barely slept in the past forty hours, taking care of you," he added coldly.
The last remark brought Erik another pang of guilt, but also a peculiar warm feeling.
So Meg was here too? Part of him wanted nothing more than to see if she really was all right, yet there was still one more matter he had to discuss.
"Monsieur le Vicomte?"
Raoul de Chagny stopped with his hand on the handle. Then he unhurriedly turned back, eyebrow arched in a haughty look.
Wrath seethed inside Erik with an overwhelming force. If he could, he would gladly teach the cursed fop a lesson. Unfortunately, it wasn't only about him.
Using all his willpower, the Opera Ghost stifled the dislike and took a deep breath. Supporting himself with his right arm, he pulled himself up to a sitting position with an effort; the activity demanded more energy from him than he wanted to show.
"I… would be much obliged if you could help me with one thing…" he panted hoarsely. "I need to send a few letters today, if that is possible."
The viscount's eyebrows shot even higher.
Swallowing his pride, Erik started to explain.
Erik fell back on the pillows, exhausted, as soon as he was finally left alone. De Chagny wasn't pleased, but he had agreed to fulfil his request. Nevertheless, there were still a lot of things to do.
The Phantom clenched his eyelids shut, trying to organise his hazy, tangled thoughts. He didn't have enough time, though, for just a few minutes later, the door was flung wide open, abruptly pulling him from his reverie.
Meg froze on the threshold. Her usually neatly combed hair was scattered on her shoulders in utter disarray, her face pale and marked with shadows. Her gaze found his, and her eyes watered.
"You are awake…"
Guilt seized him again with full force.
"Meg, I…" With an effort, Erik tried to sit up. He wasn't given a chance to complete the task, though.
Within a blink, Meg sprinted across the room and threw herself on him, knocking air out of his lungs and sending them both back on the bed in a tangle of bedding, golden locks, blue skirts and tears.
Erik's mind ceased to function.
"You are awake, oh, thank God, you are awake!" Meg clung to him, laughing and sobbing simultaneously. "I was so scared. We reached Raoul and then you, but you were losing so much blood! The doctor did all he could, but then came the fever and nightmares, and I– I prayed for you, but there was little more I could do. I didn't want to leave your side, but Raoul and Christine asked, and now you are finally awake and–" Her voice cracked, and he felt another sob shake her small body.
He probably should react somehow, but all sense had evaporated from his thoughts. All he could think about was how very closely they were sharing personal space.
Meg sniffled and moved higher, pressing her cheek to his. Her right hand clutched a fistful of his shirt, careful not to touch his injured side.
"I was so scared," she whispered. "But you are here now, and I… I couldn't be happier." Her warm breath brushed his neck, sending strange tingles down his spine.
"I… I'm glad too, Meg…" he replied finally, voice strangled.
In response, Meg snuggled even more into him.
His heartbeat tripped and then sang in a strange rhythm. After a moment of hesitation, Erik uncertainly encircled the girl's waist with his right arm and clumsily half patted, half stroked her back in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.
Blazes, she seemed so petite in his embrace. She really wasn't much bigger than a tiny bird, and yet somehow he often had the impression she was stronger than he.
Meg slowly calmed down, but even then she didn't let go of him.
He was glad not to admit it aloud, but he had to agree that, indeed, there was something surprisingly soothing in such a hug. In the way Meg's chest rose and fell with his in a serene harmony. In the way she still held him, emanating with warmth, life and the faint floral scent that lingered on her clothes and skin. In the way he was able to dimly sense her soft cheek pressed against his own…
The last thought sent a cold tendril of dread to his stomach.
It couldn't be possible, unless…
Erik twitched, raising his right hand. Meg instantly pulled away.
"Is something wrong? Are you in pain?" Her gaze filled with concern, but he barely paid attention to it.
"My mask…" His numb fingers stole to the right side of his face, in vain trying to find the familiar cover of hardened leather. Dread flooded every fibre in his body, and an invisible band clamped around his lungs.
"Where is my mask?" he choked out. His hands started to shake. "WHERE THE HELL IS MY MASK?!"
Meg stumbled to her feet, staggering, her eyes wide.
"I-I placed it in a drawer," she stammered. "You have a cut on your cheek and a bruise on your temple. Everyone here saw your face before, and you had a fever, so I thought–"
"Well, you thought WRONG!" His growl sounded awful even to his own ears.
Pale, Meg hurried to the chest of drawers and returned with his mask.
The Phantom barely stopped himself from tearing it from her grasp. His cheek and brow stung as the material was pressed to his skin, but he didn't care. All that mattered right now was to put his mask back in its place. To hide. To escape.
His constricted chest loosened slightly. And with it came full realisation of what he had just done.
A sickening feeling filled his gut.
"I'm sorry," he rasped. He didn't have the courage to look up at Meg. "I…" he broke off, not sure how to finish.
There was a longer pause, and then Meg's gentle countenance appeared in his field of vision as she knelt next to the bed.
"It's all right. I think I understand." She smiled faintly, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. This made him feel even worse.
The ballerina stood up and turned to leave.
"Wait." His fingers shot forwards, closing around her wrist before he could think it through.
Meg flinched.
With a burning pang of panic and shame, Erik instantly snatched his monstrous hand back. Had he squeezed her too hard? Hell, with his distorted sense of feeling, he wasn't able to tell!
"It… it was not all right,," he said hoarsely. When he looked back up, a hint of surprise crossed Meg's face, but then her features softened.
"Thank you." The amber and green flecks in her hazel irises gleamed warmly in the sunlight. This time, she smiled fully.
Meg cleared her throat. "The tea should still be warm, so maybe you would like a cup? The doctor said you should replenish fluids once you wake up. I can help you sit more comfortably, leaning against the headboard, and then pour you some," she proposed.
Erik could only agree, grateful both for the offer and the change of topic.
The dancer threw a blanket around his shoulders as he sat, and adjusted the pillows behind him. With her assistance (and a lot of embarrassing huffing from both sides), he managed to pull himself backwards, supporting himself with his right arm. In the process, the unbuttoned opening of his shirt shifted, exposing the hideous, tendrils-like marks spreading from his shoulder, along with much more of his hairy chest than could ever be considered decent.
A wave of heat climbed up his neck, and he quickly pulled the blanket tighter around himself.
Meg politely averted her gaze, blushing to the tips of her ears.
"The doctor said that the bullet only grazed the muscles and didn't cause any severe damage, but the wound had to be sewn up and it will take some time to heal," she informed him. "Until then, you should avoid using your left arm and wear it in a sling. The doctor should come tomorrow to check on you, and then next week to remove the stitches." She headed towards the teapot.
Taking advantage of the fact that her attention was directed elsewhere, Erik reached for the cursed fastening. Sharp pain pierced his left arm as soon as he moved it, making it impossible to raise it higher. The Phantom muttered a whole chain of ungentlemanly epithets and tried to use just his deformed hand. To his utter frustration, the devilish little buttons simply kept slipping through his half-numb fingers.
An exasperated growl escaped from behind his gritted teeth the same moment Meg turned back to him.
The Opera Ghost did his best to avoid her gaze.
The ballerina approached the bed and put the cup away on the nightstand. "Do you need help?" There was only kindness in her voice, but a burning sense of humiliation overcame him anyway.
"No." It was a blatant lie, and he felt even more embarrassed. "I mean, maybe," he corrected. "A little… yes." Erik exhaled loudly and dropped his distorted hand, sending it a grim glare. "Some… some more precise manoeuvres are a bit problematic sometimes."
There was a short pause, and then the mattress dipped slightly as Meg perched on the edge. Her hand gave his a friendly squeeze.
He looked even more abhorrent than usual (not to mention that he didn't smell good either). He was pitifully weak, had ridiculously uneven stubble that didn't grow properly on his right profile, and – the worst of it – his deformed side had been put on full display. And yet, Meg behaved as if none of it mattered.
A peculiar lump formed in his throat.
"May I?" The ballerina smiled at him, pointing at his shirt.
After a while of hesitation, Erik nodded in agreement, trying to ignore how his pulse sped up in a tremulous accelerando.
Meg scooted closer, and the faint scent of her perfume enveloped him again. Her fingers reached to the fastening, brushing his skin.
His breath stuttered slightly, and he hurriedly averted his head, so that his unmasked profile was hidden in shadows. He was almost sure it was now as red as the deformed one.
Hell and blazes, why was he acting like an utter fool?
With all remaining sanity, the Opera Ghost focused on an inward recital of some calming scales, but before he could concentrate enough to finish even one, it was all over.
Meg rose from the bed and returned with tea. "Here."
The cup shook dangerously as he accepted it, and Meg wrapped her hand around his to stabilise it.
His face flushed again in embarrassment, but the ballerina only smiled gently.
"You lost a lot of blood, so it might take some time before you fully recover," she comforted him.
Erik grunted in confirmation, grateful that she hadn't guessed that the trembling actually had more to do with her closeness and the fact that a part of him was afraid that he would somehow spoil everything again.
Tilting the cup so as not to knock his mask, he took a few awkward sips. Meg had added some honey to the tea, but fortunately it wasn't disgustingly sweet.
The dancer shifted.
"I'm… I'm not sure how much you remember, but we had to include Raoul in our secret. With his help, we managed to bring you here and get medical help. The doctor used anaesthetic, then cleaned and stitched the gunshot wound, as well as the cut on your cheek. Neither look infected, but in the evening you got a high fever. You tossed in delirium, not being able to tell dreams from reality. And, just as I said, I… I was really scared." Her voice trembled, and her knuckles turned almost white as she clenched her fingers tighter.
"We were taking care of you for the whole night and day. Fortunately, in the evening, your temperature started to drop. In the middle of the night, you finally opened your eyes for a moment, glanced at us and mumbled something about not going to give up." A tiny smile grazed her lips as she glanced back at him.
A wave of heat flooded Erik once more, and he couldn't help but wonder what other humiliating things he could have betrayed.
His thoughts went back to the vague memory of an unearthly melody and another hummed song. He had been almost sure that in the latter he recognised Moonlight Nocturne and a few other pieces. He also dimly remembered a small hand stroking his hair. Had that been real too?
Meg smiled at him again.
"Anyway, I'm glad you didn't do that. Didn't give up, I mean." The lines around her eyes softened in a strangely tender expression.
Not sure how to react, Erik looked away.
For a while, he could feel the ballerina observing him, and then her shoes patted gently against the carpet as she rose to her feet.
"I'll go heat up some broth for you now, but first a few pieces of information," she declared with a quiet clap. "If you need something, you can pull this fabric strap right here." When he looked back up, Meg pointed at a woven band hanging from a lever on the wall next to the bed. "It's attached to the servant bell in the hall, between the kitchen door and Monsieur Philippe's room, so somebody will definitely hear it."
Meg turned back to him.
"The servants who usually take care of the estate are quartered in another building. Raoul asked them to give us privacy, so they only drop us some food in the mansion's kitchen, using the back door. So, we don't have to worry about more people getting involved in the secret," she went on.
"As for the main house, there are only the six of us here: you and I, Christine, Raoul, Philippe and Maman, but she had to leave in the morning; all senior employees were asked to go back to discuss the next course of action, and we decided it would be best if she went. She should come back tomorrow, though." The ballerina smiled gently.
"The doctor said that you may feel faint, so you shouldn't try to walk without assistance. Please, feel free to ask for help. The lavatory is just below the stairs, but if you want to freshen yourself up, I can also bring you a jug of warm water here. The washstand is fully equipped." She directed her steps towards said place. "There are two fresh towels, soap and other toiletries, a basin, a jug of cold water, a bucket and, well… other basic items." Meg opened the cupboard door and blushed.
"Anyway" – she cleared her throat slightly, moving away – " Maman managed to remain level-headed enough to bring some of your clothes, so you don't have to worry about having something to change into." The blonde gestured towards a carpet bag he hadn't noticed before in the corner. "She also asked me to tell you that she packed all the items and documents from the drawer you showed her once."
Erik nodded.
It was a huge relief that Madame Giry hadn't forgotten about this, even though he wasn't exactly comfortable with the fact that the ballet mistress had seen all of his most important belongings.
Meg headed towards the door, left ajar in her previous hurry.
"I'll be right back with some broth." She gave him another smile.
For some reason, something in his chest constricted.
"Meg?"
The girl turned to him again, questioningly.
A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard.
"Thank you…" he whispered. The way Meg's face brightened was all the reward he needed.
A moment later, the ballerina vanished from his sight. She closed the door behind her, but he was still able to hear her clearly, as well as a note of reproach in her voice:
"Raoul, you didn't have to wait for me."
The viscount's reply was either nonverbal or too quiet, but it was hard to miss the sound of an extra set of footsteps.
Rage and humiliation burned in the Phantom's veins. He hated the fact that the aristocrat evidently planned to monitor his conversations, but, on the other hand, he couldn't deny that he would probably have done the same if their roles were reversed.
Erik scowled, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths.
Being at Raoul de Chagny's mercy was nothing less than repulsive. As was the idea of needing assistance to walk down, but the alternatives were even less tempting.
The Phantom's gaze skipped to the washstand. A flowery chamber pot stared at him ominously from behind the small open door.
Erik groaned loudly and fell back on the pillows.
At the same moment, a tiny voice at the back of his mind reminded him obligingly that if he wanted to wash himself and change his clothes, he would either have to fumble with the cursed buttons for a long time, or ask somebody for help.
On their own accord, his thoughts went back to Meg. The room suddenly seemed much too warm.
Blazes.
Author's notes:
1) Chloroform (which has a slightly sweet scent, as I mentioned in this chapter) was first used as a general anaesthetic on humans in 1847 by the Scottish obstetrician James Y. Simpson. After that, chloroform anaesthesia expanded rapidly in Europe, though the use of chloroform versus ether varied by country and region.
2) From what I've read, most 19th-century men's shirts didn't have buttons all along the front, but rather only a fastened opening. They were rather loose – usually only the collar and the cuffs were more fitted. The formal ones in the 1880s were plain white.
3) We are finally getting closer to the end – only four chapters are left, epilogue included. I apologise that it all takes so long – real life can get quite demanding sometimes. As always, I would be happy to hear more of your opinions about the current chapter or the whole story. Thanks for reading! Your comments always make my day! ‹3