Fiction: As Fate Falls (for echarperouge) (R)
Title: As Fate Falls
Author: monjinator
Canon: ALW
Summary: There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
Rating: R
Warnings (if any): Character deaths, violence
Total word count: 4663
Original prompt request number: 42
Author's/artist's notes (if any): This is unbeta’d, since I got stuck with very limited internet at home, so any mistakes are mine. It was good to write in this fandom again!
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
Raoul could see it happening, and time slowed horribly down. Christine’s mouth opened wide in a scream, and her eyes were huge and glossy with fear, but she’d only just shifted her feet to run and the chandelier was almost on her. Thankfully, the slowed time only gave him more time to react, even as he wondered why no one else was moving fast enough, and he was there, pushing her desperately to the side with no thought to gentleness or decorum. Gentleness was for when you didn’t have a ton of metal and glass flying at you. But he knew even as he shoved that he hadn’t quite been fast enough - his mental time clock had run out a split second back. He saw Christine stumble and hit the floor in a crumpled heap, safely out of range, even as he felt a sharp pain go through his head, tremendous weight bearing him to the ground, then darkness.
He woke up to fire radiating through his skull. Was the opera on fire? Was Christine alright? Someone had to make sure she got out okay. He tried to open his eyes, but it was difficult. And why was he laying on his back? There was too much to get his mind around, and the pain wasn’t letting him concentrate on any of it. He groaned, surprised at how weak he sounded, and tried to move.
It was a mistake. The dull burning turned into a sharp lance of pain, forcing another groan out of him, and he fell back, panting and still trying to get his eyes to open. He gave up when the pain turned into a dull throbbing that still didn’t let him move at all. But it did let him focus on the voices he was hearing.
“Monsieur, can you hear me? You have to keep still. You’ve got a bad lump on your head.”
A male voice, one that he didn’t recognize or feel reassured by. He needed to know what had happened after he’d blacked out. Had Christine been hurt at all? Had the Phantom been captured? He tried to speak, and managed to make a “c” sound.
“Monsieur, please. Rest, you shouldn’t even be awake at all.”
Who was this? Where was he? Desperation allowed him to get out a slurred, “Crrssttinne” that was barely intelligible. Nonetheless, it provoked another discussion. He could hear more of it now.
“…Daae, he was…”
“A dancer? … Well …. her here.”
“…wise?”
“…fracture… last.”
“Alright. …get her.”
The words wouldn’t connect, but he managed to grasp that they were sending for Christine. Then he couldn’t grasp anything and faded back to nothing.
*********************
No sounds or light still, but gradually he became aware of a cool sensation trickling over his lips. It was…wet. Yes, he knew that, could distinguish it through the pain easier than the words had been. It was water and wet and cool and glorious because suddenly he was aware that his mouth and throat were so dry as to make breathing uncomfortable. Not that breathing didn’t already make his head throb in double time, but by focusing on the blessed wetness he found he could push it back a little.
He turned his head slightly, trying to open his eyes, and the wetness slid down his cheek, accompanied by a small gasp.
“Raoul?”
The voice he’d been trying to hear when he’d first woken up. Christine. It was sufficient motivation for him to pry his eyes open, wincing as the light hurt. “Christine?” It was weak, and scratchy, but the water must have been doing him some good, since it was understandable this time. It took more effort for him to focus his eyes, but he finally managed it.
Christine was sitting by him, dressed in a worn gown, with deep circles under her eyes. Tears were running down her face, but she was smiling as she clutched his hand. “Raoul, you’re awake,” she said, not sounding like she believed it herself. “I’ve been so w-worried, and the doctor said you might not-“
Before Raoul got to hear what the doctor said, or indeed, could do more than absorb the fact that it was his beloved sitting beside him and that they were both alive, she burst out sobbing and buried her face in the blankets at his side. He found, to his dismay, that he was too weak to do more than fumble at stroking her hair and whisper that he was alive and alright, and it was some time before the tears and shaking stopped and he could get her to look up.
“How long?” he rasped as she wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. Quickly, she sprang to give him a sip from the glass of water on the bedside table as she answered.
“It’s been four days since the…accident.”
There was a world of shock and bewildered hurt in that pause, and Raoul cursed his inability to get out of bed and soothe her. It was small comfort that he’d saved her from the chandelier, not when the incident was still obviously causing her such distress. If that…that madman truly cared for her at all, he would not have done such a monstrous thing.
It took him a moment to marshal a response, and by then Christine had moved on. “The doctor was worried when you didn’t wake up again after the first day. They were talking about you never waking up at all. I h-heard them.” Once again, Christine’s quaking voice gave way to sobs, but she quickly stifled them in her handkerchief.
Now the length of time that he’d been unconscious sunk in. Four days? “Four days?” he choked. The severity of his injury chilled him. If he had been one second slower, that chandelier would have finished him off, and Christine would have been left without a protector…
Christine clutched his hand again. “I was so scared that you wouldn’t wake up. They said you’d called for me, and I couldn’t have born if it you’d d-died because of me!” She gathered herself together before she could break down at all this time, evidently shored by his return grip on her hand.
“I didn’t die though. He didn’t succeed,” he said softly, and her eyes jerked up to his. There was betrayal in Christine’s expression along with relief, and he knew that she was hit harder by this because of the perpetrator. Whoever this Phantom was, he had sincerely made Christine trust him, and this “accident” had ripped whatever of her childhood naivety she’d had left away from her. It hurt her. “I love you.”
The words brought a faint blush to her cheeks, one that deepened as he shakily raised her hand to his lips and brushed them across the back of it. He was pleased when she didn’t pull away, and they stayed like that for a couple of minutes, just basking in being alive and together.
Suddenly she sat up straight and gently disentangled her hand. “I have to tell them!” she said with a gasp. “The doctor was to know of any changes immediately.” She stood up, and now the smile was back on her face. “And I think your waking up is a change he’d like to know about.”
Raoul smiled back as she flitted out of the room, his headache pounding back into his attention as soon as she’d gone. He grimaced and lay back against his pillow. He would give this a few days to heal, until he could get up without feeling like his head was going to fall off anyway, and then they’d go. There was a small church near his family’s house in the country. They could be married there - he doubted Christine would have any objections now. They would be happy, she could give concerts to their friends if she desired to keep up with her singing, anything she desired, but she would never have to set eyes on the Opera House again.
He liked the thought of that.
###########################
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
It was unfortunate, Christine thought later, that she did not faint during the incident until after she’d been bundled into Raoul’s carriage on a pell-mell dash for his family’s physician. Raoul’s rush at the first creak of the chandelier had knocked her to the ground, banged her elbows and head, and frightened the wits out of her, but she was awake to feel the chandelier come down, the edge smashing her lower legs, pinning them to the stage. The adrenaline rush, spiked by the small explosion, dulled the pain to a distance, but she could still see Raoul frantically putting out flames, and around him, the mangled mess of her calves and feet. She went into shock, but remained aware as Raoul directed people in removing her from under the chandelier and found someone to stem the blood flow and splint her legs so she could be moved to his carriage. Perhaps it was her dancer training making her used to pain, but she didn’t even black out when one of the stage hands pulled her leg straight to strap it down, accompanied by a small crunch of bone.
The way out of the Opera House was hazier - the Phantom’s maniacal laughter seemed to ring out from all corners, and everything was wavering in and out of focus, but she could feel her legs acutely. Then she found herself being hoisted into Raoul’s waiting carriage and laid carefully across the seat, Raoul tumbling in across from her. He shouted something out the window, and the carriage started to move. That was when she finally passed out, as the starting jounce seemed to make her entire body dissolve into pain.
She regained consciousness some time later. She could tell she was no longer moving, but everything was held at a distance. She couldn’t seem to properly wake up, but she could feel her legs. Someone had replaced them with molten metal rods, and she whimpered as they stabbed their way up her spine. There were voices, but again they were at a distance, and they didn’t make a dent on the pain. Once again though, she didn’t pass out, even though she wanted to. But the pain seemed to follow her everywhere, and the hands that touched her, tried to hold her down, just made it worse. She tried to struggle free and protest, but got lost in the pain and couldn’t figure out what to struggle against. Finally a cup of bitter liquid was held against her lips, forcibly poured down her throat, and she slept.
When she woke up, she was surprisingly clear headed, memories popping back into place almost immediately. It was a relief to remember what happened, because not knowing was a terrifying prospect, but the knowing was like a rush of cold water as her brain presented her with the image of what her legs must look like. Her dancing career was over. It would be months before she could even walk again, if she would ever walk again, and the physician’s bills would be astronomical. Suddenly every bit of the fragile security she had built for herself was gone, ripped away by her Angel, and she whimpered slightly, louder as she moved and the pain from her legs ripped through her. There was a clumsy hand in her hair, smoothing it. And Raoul’s voice, mumbling comforting nonsense that she couldn’t bring herself to listen to, because it was not going to be alright.
But when she opened her eyes, it was to the sight of Raoul’s concerned face, framed by a luxurious room that could only be at his residence, and to a soft, warm blanket solicitously pulled higher over her shoulders. He had taken her to his house, set her up in his own rooms, and, if what she could feel was right, had dressed her in new garments. The nightgown she was wearing was much warmer and softer than her old one was. She turned confused eyes on him. “Raoul?”
His face cleared at her words. “Christine!” He nearly fell off his chair in his haste to lean closer to her. “Try to lay still - the doctor says you mustn’t move for a few weeks.”
She managed a tiny nod of agreement and let him settle her back against the pillows. Luckily for her peace of mind, Raoul kept explaining things as he did so.
“You’ve been unconscious for a little over a day, my love, but the doctor was sure it was from shock, and that you would be fine once you’d rested, since you didn’t hit your head that we could see. We’re at my house - I’ve kept watch over you the entire time you’ve been here, but there’ve been no sightings of that monster. Still, I’m taking no chances - a few steps later and he would have killed you.”
The mention of her Angel hurt nearly as much as her legs. Why would he do that to her? She remembered his insane rage in his lair, after she’d removed his mask. It had terrified her, but he hadn’t actually touched her until he was back under control. Why would he deliver her back to her rooms, only to drop a chandelier on her later? She turned her thoughts away from him with an effort - already just thinking of him had her beginning to panic. What if he followed them here? But no - Raoul was on guard.
But once she wrested it away from that dark topic, it went straight to another. She glanced involuntarily towards her legs, still just mounds under the blankets, although she could feel the pain increase as she concentrated on them. “How long did you say?” Her voice was barely audible.
Raoul followed her glance, and his face showed pain and sympathy and a faint tinge of horror. “A few weeks until you can safely get out of bed,” he said quietly, but then he turned swiftly and took her hand in his. “But he said you will walk again, it wasn’t as bad as that. D-dancing-“ he faltered, then drew his breath in and continued, bravely. “I’m afraid, Christine, that you…that you won’t be able to dance. The strain - he said the bone might not ever be up to that kind of stress again.”
Christine drew in a sharp breath. It was what she had expected, since the moment she realized how much her legs had been injured, but it was still hard to hear. Her interest may have been more in singing than dancing lately, but she was not known as a singer - her job was as a dancer. She would never be able to be around the Opera House long enough to be noticed as a singer if she could not dance. But now…
Raoul interrupted her thoughts. “But I swear you will walk again. I’m not just being hopeful. It will take time, but you’ll walk.” But he wouldn’t meet her eyes now, and his hands trembled as they held hers.
Suddenly, she was afraid he was lying. “Raoul?” Now her voice trembled too, from the thought that it was worse than he was telling her, and that she wouldn’t find out until much later. “Raoul?” she repeated when he didn’t immediately answer or look at her.
“I’m sorry.”
“S-sorry?” Christine stared at him, thrown by this.
“That I wasn’t fast enough, that I didn’t do more to protect you. I should have known he’d do something like this!” His shoulders were tense, and he looked like he wanted to get up and pace, although he didn’t make a move to release her hand.
He was sorry that he hadn’t been faster? Her legs were bad enough, but if he hadn’t been there… She shuddered - it would have been much worse. The thought that this…horrible situation wasn’t as bad as it could have been brought tears to her eyes and sent them rolling down her cheeks. She clutched tight at Raoul’s hands and tried to blink them back. But she leaned into Raoul’s other arm when it came around her, and let him pull her close.
“You saved me,” she said, mostly into his coat, once she had gotten the tears choked back enough to speak. “I would have been dead, don’t be sorry.” Suddenly the difference between life and death seemed a lot more important than dancing or not dancing. His arms around her reminded her of their promises to each other on the rooftop before the chandelier. Raoul loved her, enough to send for his own physician when she was hurt and keep guard over her while she slept. Enough to take her away from the Opera House and marry her.
Raoul’s voice echoed her thoughts. “Oh Christine, come away with me, as soon as the physician says you can travel. I can keep you safe in the country, and as soon as you’re well we can be married.”
Christine nodded against his chest. “I’d like that,” she said, looking up, “very much.”
####################################
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
She found she couldn’t move, rooted center stage in the shock that her Angel would do this, that Raoul was right - he was dangerous. It was all happening so fast that moving seemed impossible.
“Christine!” Someone hit her from the side - Raoul - grasping her elbow and pushing her out of the way. She spun as he let go of her and fell, landing awkwardly and skidding across the floor. She was still close enough when the chandelier hit to feel the heat of the exploding lamps and to have to shield her head from falling bits of glass. They ripped through the thin sleeves of her costume, and she could feel little darts of pain in her arms.
She uncurled herself as the screaming starting. There were people running everywhere, a great many of them toward the chandelier behind her. She realized with a trill of panic what it would mean if the scenery were set ablaze - fire was the demon of every theatre and the Opera House was bigger than most. The floors full of old, dried out scenery would go like tinder.
“Raoul, we need to get out of here,” she said, wobbling to her feet. Now that she could move, her thoughts raced in one direction - escape. “We can go out through the stage door-“
She broke off as she turned around. The chandelier was lying in a crumpled heap much closer than she’d thought. The fires had all been put out, but there were still lots of people rushing about. And Raoul wasn’t behind her. In fact, she couldn’t see him anywhere.
“Raoul?” He had been right behind her, getting her out of the way. He had been holding on to her arm. He should just be right there…
Her eyes slid down the chandelier, to the outstretched arms that protruded from under it. She was screaming even before she recognized the trim of Raoul’s coat.
Arms were there, holding her so that she was once again rooted in one place. She couldn’t move, couldn’t get to Raoul. And she needed to get to Raoul, because he had been right behind her. He couldn’t be under there…
There was no hope, even before they managed to get the chandelier lifted. It was simply too heavy, and it had hit the stage hard. There was blood splattered everywhere. Christine found some going up the back of her skirts, a spray that had to come from him moving towards her as he as hit. It sent her into hysterics, and they were forced to drug her to get her to sleep.
The doctor had left Madame Giry instructions to sedate her again if she showed signs of continuing hysteria, but when Christine woke up she did…nothing. Nothing they did provoked a response from her, although she would obey orders, moving stiltedly and continuing to stare blankly at nothing.
They set Meg to watch over her while Madame Giry went to go help with the investigation into the “accident.” Meg tried her best to snap her friend out of it, grieving inwardly for what Christine must be feeling right now, but she was eventually called away by a harried Monsieur Firmin to answer questions, as she had been onstage at the time of the incident. Christine was left alone, sitting huddled on her bed.
That was when her mirror opened, emitting a shadowy figure who quickly and quietly bundled Christine up and told her to follow him. She did, still without a word or a look to show that she really comprehended the situation.
There were no hesitations or backwards glances on this journey downwards. She sat in the boat without a wobble, and it wasn’t the power of the Phantom’s voice putting her into a trance this time. Rather they were both silent except for the small splashing noises made as he poled the boat along. She entered his home for the second time, sat in the chair he carefully directed her to, and did not once look towards the giant pipe organ or the monkey music box. A few hours later she rose at his gentle command and went into the bedroom he had prepared for her. She stood docilely as he dressed her in a fine nightgown trimmed with expensive lace, tucked her into bed with luxurious velvet coverlets, and brushed a furtive, cold kiss across her forehead.
The days passed, and then the weeks. Christine allowed him to dress her in the exquisite clothes he had provided. She listened to his music for hours on end. She completed small household tasks as directed. His perfect, living wife-doll. For that was what she was. She did not cringe away from his touch, but she did not seek it either. His music brought no reaction from her at all. She never did a single thing that exhibited a wish to go beyond the confines of his lair. There was a slight outcry in the Opera House at her disappearance, but none ever came down to the cellars to look for her.
His love for her remained as strong as ever, mayhap even stronger now that she did not fear to look upon his face. He never tired in caring for her, seeing to her every comfort, but he did miss the spark that had drawn him to her. He missed her singing, instructing her on the nuances of song, even missed watching her dance. It was Christine, but it wasn’t, and he wondered if his chandelier had killed her, even if her body had escaped. But then she would sit still as he brushed her hair until it was fine and smooth again and he knew that, even if this was all that he could have from her, it would have to be enough. He could not let her go. At least this way, she had someone who cared for her, and only for her.
Even if she did not know who he was anymore.
#############################
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
Christine screamed, a shrill sound so unlike her singing that it cut straight to the bone…
Erik woke up with a violent start, his heart pounding in his thin chest. He was sticky with sweat and the bedclothes were twisted around his limbs so that it took him extra seconds to fight free and sit up.
Dreams. They’d all been horrible dreams. But they’d felt real - futures that could have happened because of his revenge-fueled lunacy two days ago.
He rubbed his hands across his face, one hand automatically going to pull on his mask, but he made no move to get up. The last two nights had been like this - sleepless, terror-filled nights. The endless repetitions of Christine’s pain and terror and hurt left him feeling even more corpse-like than usual. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this consuming, merciless guilt.
Finally he pulled himself up, if only so he wouldn’t fall back asleep and have to face more dreams. Funny how he could remember staying awake for days at a time before, but now…
His knees trembled as he approached the shore of the lake, and he realized that he had forgotten to eat. He’d also gone longer without eating, but not when performing these kinds of tasks. He stooped to pick up the shovel.
The grave was nearly complete; it would only take him an hour or two of labor to finish it. He’d finished the stone yesterday. It was blocky, lacking in elegance since he lacked the tools or strength to shape the stone, but the calligraphy on its face was perfect.
Christine
He was gasping by the time he had finished digging and dragged himself over to the long wooden box that lay in state on his table. The top was open, and he leaned over it to brush his cold lips over the even colder lips of his beloved. Every curl around Christine’s still face was perfect, arranged with care around her face and over the ornate shawl that covered her midriff, where one of the arms of the chandelier had torn free and impaled her. His shawl, not the one the Vicomte had had her wrapped in when Erik had taken her. He gently shut the lid.
He closed his eyes at the memory of the wound and how she’d gotten it; she’d finally bled out after several long, agony-filled minutes, leaving the Vicomte holding her corpse and Erik making grief-stricken plans on how to get her back so he could bury her here, with him. A horrible fate, worse than any his dreams tormented him with. Worse because, in them, she lived, in some way. He would have been happy now to have her alive and hating him, instead of cold and dead and unforgiving. But even knowing that she would never have wanted to give him forgiveness hadn’t given him the strength to let her go, even in death. Instead, it gave him the strength to drag the box out to the grave. If he didn’t finish this now, he would soon be too weak to do it, and she deserved to be laid to rest properly.
The casket slid easily into the hole he’d dug, and Erik found he was crying as he shoveled earth over it. Over her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, if he’d ever cried before.
He’d meant to play for her, once he’d finished. He could hear the music, rising up in his mind in time with his gruesome work. But as he knelt to pat down the final shovelfuls, he couldn’t get up again. He didn’t have the strength or the will to leave her again. Instead, as the edges of his vision started to go black, he reached out a trembling finger to trace her name on the cold stone in front of him, slumping to the ground before he got to the final “e.”
He hoped there wouldn’t be dreams in death.
Author: monjinator
Canon: ALW
Summary: There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
Rating: R
Warnings (if any): Character deaths, violence
Total word count: 4663
Original prompt request number: 42
Author's/artist's notes (if any): This is unbeta’d, since I got stuck with very limited internet at home, so any mistakes are mine. It was good to write in this fandom again!
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
Raoul could see it happening, and time slowed horribly down. Christine’s mouth opened wide in a scream, and her eyes were huge and glossy with fear, but she’d only just shifted her feet to run and the chandelier was almost on her. Thankfully, the slowed time only gave him more time to react, even as he wondered why no one else was moving fast enough, and he was there, pushing her desperately to the side with no thought to gentleness or decorum. Gentleness was for when you didn’t have a ton of metal and glass flying at you. But he knew even as he shoved that he hadn’t quite been fast enough - his mental time clock had run out a split second back. He saw Christine stumble and hit the floor in a crumpled heap, safely out of range, even as he felt a sharp pain go through his head, tremendous weight bearing him to the ground, then darkness.
He woke up to fire radiating through his skull. Was the opera on fire? Was Christine alright? Someone had to make sure she got out okay. He tried to open his eyes, but it was difficult. And why was he laying on his back? There was too much to get his mind around, and the pain wasn’t letting him concentrate on any of it. He groaned, surprised at how weak he sounded, and tried to move.
It was a mistake. The dull burning turned into a sharp lance of pain, forcing another groan out of him, and he fell back, panting and still trying to get his eyes to open. He gave up when the pain turned into a dull throbbing that still didn’t let him move at all. But it did let him focus on the voices he was hearing.
“Monsieur, can you hear me? You have to keep still. You’ve got a bad lump on your head.”
A male voice, one that he didn’t recognize or feel reassured by. He needed to know what had happened after he’d blacked out. Had Christine been hurt at all? Had the Phantom been captured? He tried to speak, and managed to make a “c” sound.
“Monsieur, please. Rest, you shouldn’t even be awake at all.”
Who was this? Where was he? Desperation allowed him to get out a slurred, “Crrssttinne” that was barely intelligible. Nonetheless, it provoked another discussion. He could hear more of it now.
“…Daae, he was…”
“A dancer? … Well …. her here.”
“…wise?”
“…fracture… last.”
“Alright. …get her.”
The words wouldn’t connect, but he managed to grasp that they were sending for Christine. Then he couldn’t grasp anything and faded back to nothing.
*********************
No sounds or light still, but gradually he became aware of a cool sensation trickling over his lips. It was…wet. Yes, he knew that, could distinguish it through the pain easier than the words had been. It was water and wet and cool and glorious because suddenly he was aware that his mouth and throat were so dry as to make breathing uncomfortable. Not that breathing didn’t already make his head throb in double time, but by focusing on the blessed wetness he found he could push it back a little.
He turned his head slightly, trying to open his eyes, and the wetness slid down his cheek, accompanied by a small gasp.
“Raoul?”
The voice he’d been trying to hear when he’d first woken up. Christine. It was sufficient motivation for him to pry his eyes open, wincing as the light hurt. “Christine?” It was weak, and scratchy, but the water must have been doing him some good, since it was understandable this time. It took more effort for him to focus his eyes, but he finally managed it.
Christine was sitting by him, dressed in a worn gown, with deep circles under her eyes. Tears were running down her face, but she was smiling as she clutched his hand. “Raoul, you’re awake,” she said, not sounding like she believed it herself. “I’ve been so w-worried, and the doctor said you might not-“
Before Raoul got to hear what the doctor said, or indeed, could do more than absorb the fact that it was his beloved sitting beside him and that they were both alive, she burst out sobbing and buried her face in the blankets at his side. He found, to his dismay, that he was too weak to do more than fumble at stroking her hair and whisper that he was alive and alright, and it was some time before the tears and shaking stopped and he could get her to look up.
“How long?” he rasped as she wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. Quickly, she sprang to give him a sip from the glass of water on the bedside table as she answered.
“It’s been four days since the…accident.”
There was a world of shock and bewildered hurt in that pause, and Raoul cursed his inability to get out of bed and soothe her. It was small comfort that he’d saved her from the chandelier, not when the incident was still obviously causing her such distress. If that…that madman truly cared for her at all, he would not have done such a monstrous thing.
It took him a moment to marshal a response, and by then Christine had moved on. “The doctor was worried when you didn’t wake up again after the first day. They were talking about you never waking up at all. I h-heard them.” Once again, Christine’s quaking voice gave way to sobs, but she quickly stifled them in her handkerchief.
Now the length of time that he’d been unconscious sunk in. Four days? “Four days?” he choked. The severity of his injury chilled him. If he had been one second slower, that chandelier would have finished him off, and Christine would have been left without a protector…
Christine clutched his hand again. “I was so scared that you wouldn’t wake up. They said you’d called for me, and I couldn’t have born if it you’d d-died because of me!” She gathered herself together before she could break down at all this time, evidently shored by his return grip on her hand.
“I didn’t die though. He didn’t succeed,” he said softly, and her eyes jerked up to his. There was betrayal in Christine’s expression along with relief, and he knew that she was hit harder by this because of the perpetrator. Whoever this Phantom was, he had sincerely made Christine trust him, and this “accident” had ripped whatever of her childhood naivety she’d had left away from her. It hurt her. “I love you.”
The words brought a faint blush to her cheeks, one that deepened as he shakily raised her hand to his lips and brushed them across the back of it. He was pleased when she didn’t pull away, and they stayed like that for a couple of minutes, just basking in being alive and together.
Suddenly she sat up straight and gently disentangled her hand. “I have to tell them!” she said with a gasp. “The doctor was to know of any changes immediately.” She stood up, and now the smile was back on her face. “And I think your waking up is a change he’d like to know about.”
Raoul smiled back as she flitted out of the room, his headache pounding back into his attention as soon as she’d gone. He grimaced and lay back against his pillow. He would give this a few days to heal, until he could get up without feeling like his head was going to fall off anyway, and then they’d go. There was a small church near his family’s house in the country. They could be married there - he doubted Christine would have any objections now. They would be happy, she could give concerts to their friends if she desired to keep up with her singing, anything she desired, but she would never have to set eyes on the Opera House again.
He liked the thought of that.
###########################
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
It was unfortunate, Christine thought later, that she did not faint during the incident until after she’d been bundled into Raoul’s carriage on a pell-mell dash for his family’s physician. Raoul’s rush at the first creak of the chandelier had knocked her to the ground, banged her elbows and head, and frightened the wits out of her, but she was awake to feel the chandelier come down, the edge smashing her lower legs, pinning them to the stage. The adrenaline rush, spiked by the small explosion, dulled the pain to a distance, but she could still see Raoul frantically putting out flames, and around him, the mangled mess of her calves and feet. She went into shock, but remained aware as Raoul directed people in removing her from under the chandelier and found someone to stem the blood flow and splint her legs so she could be moved to his carriage. Perhaps it was her dancer training making her used to pain, but she didn’t even black out when one of the stage hands pulled her leg straight to strap it down, accompanied by a small crunch of bone.
The way out of the Opera House was hazier - the Phantom’s maniacal laughter seemed to ring out from all corners, and everything was wavering in and out of focus, but she could feel her legs acutely. Then she found herself being hoisted into Raoul’s waiting carriage and laid carefully across the seat, Raoul tumbling in across from her. He shouted something out the window, and the carriage started to move. That was when she finally passed out, as the starting jounce seemed to make her entire body dissolve into pain.
She regained consciousness some time later. She could tell she was no longer moving, but everything was held at a distance. She couldn’t seem to properly wake up, but she could feel her legs. Someone had replaced them with molten metal rods, and she whimpered as they stabbed their way up her spine. There were voices, but again they were at a distance, and they didn’t make a dent on the pain. Once again though, she didn’t pass out, even though she wanted to. But the pain seemed to follow her everywhere, and the hands that touched her, tried to hold her down, just made it worse. She tried to struggle free and protest, but got lost in the pain and couldn’t figure out what to struggle against. Finally a cup of bitter liquid was held against her lips, forcibly poured down her throat, and she slept.
When she woke up, she was surprisingly clear headed, memories popping back into place almost immediately. It was a relief to remember what happened, because not knowing was a terrifying prospect, but the knowing was like a rush of cold water as her brain presented her with the image of what her legs must look like. Her dancing career was over. It would be months before she could even walk again, if she would ever walk again, and the physician’s bills would be astronomical. Suddenly every bit of the fragile security she had built for herself was gone, ripped away by her Angel, and she whimpered slightly, louder as she moved and the pain from her legs ripped through her. There was a clumsy hand in her hair, smoothing it. And Raoul’s voice, mumbling comforting nonsense that she couldn’t bring herself to listen to, because it was not going to be alright.
But when she opened her eyes, it was to the sight of Raoul’s concerned face, framed by a luxurious room that could only be at his residence, and to a soft, warm blanket solicitously pulled higher over her shoulders. He had taken her to his house, set her up in his own rooms, and, if what she could feel was right, had dressed her in new garments. The nightgown she was wearing was much warmer and softer than her old one was. She turned confused eyes on him. “Raoul?”
His face cleared at her words. “Christine!” He nearly fell off his chair in his haste to lean closer to her. “Try to lay still - the doctor says you mustn’t move for a few weeks.”
She managed a tiny nod of agreement and let him settle her back against the pillows. Luckily for her peace of mind, Raoul kept explaining things as he did so.
“You’ve been unconscious for a little over a day, my love, but the doctor was sure it was from shock, and that you would be fine once you’d rested, since you didn’t hit your head that we could see. We’re at my house - I’ve kept watch over you the entire time you’ve been here, but there’ve been no sightings of that monster. Still, I’m taking no chances - a few steps later and he would have killed you.”
The mention of her Angel hurt nearly as much as her legs. Why would he do that to her? She remembered his insane rage in his lair, after she’d removed his mask. It had terrified her, but he hadn’t actually touched her until he was back under control. Why would he deliver her back to her rooms, only to drop a chandelier on her later? She turned her thoughts away from him with an effort - already just thinking of him had her beginning to panic. What if he followed them here? But no - Raoul was on guard.
But once she wrested it away from that dark topic, it went straight to another. She glanced involuntarily towards her legs, still just mounds under the blankets, although she could feel the pain increase as she concentrated on them. “How long did you say?” Her voice was barely audible.
Raoul followed her glance, and his face showed pain and sympathy and a faint tinge of horror. “A few weeks until you can safely get out of bed,” he said quietly, but then he turned swiftly and took her hand in his. “But he said you will walk again, it wasn’t as bad as that. D-dancing-“ he faltered, then drew his breath in and continued, bravely. “I’m afraid, Christine, that you…that you won’t be able to dance. The strain - he said the bone might not ever be up to that kind of stress again.”
Christine drew in a sharp breath. It was what she had expected, since the moment she realized how much her legs had been injured, but it was still hard to hear. Her interest may have been more in singing than dancing lately, but she was not known as a singer - her job was as a dancer. She would never be able to be around the Opera House long enough to be noticed as a singer if she could not dance. But now…
Raoul interrupted her thoughts. “But I swear you will walk again. I’m not just being hopeful. It will take time, but you’ll walk.” But he wouldn’t meet her eyes now, and his hands trembled as they held hers.
Suddenly, she was afraid he was lying. “Raoul?” Now her voice trembled too, from the thought that it was worse than he was telling her, and that she wouldn’t find out until much later. “Raoul?” she repeated when he didn’t immediately answer or look at her.
“I’m sorry.”
“S-sorry?” Christine stared at him, thrown by this.
“That I wasn’t fast enough, that I didn’t do more to protect you. I should have known he’d do something like this!” His shoulders were tense, and he looked like he wanted to get up and pace, although he didn’t make a move to release her hand.
He was sorry that he hadn’t been faster? Her legs were bad enough, but if he hadn’t been there… She shuddered - it would have been much worse. The thought that this…horrible situation wasn’t as bad as it could have been brought tears to her eyes and sent them rolling down her cheeks. She clutched tight at Raoul’s hands and tried to blink them back. But she leaned into Raoul’s other arm when it came around her, and let him pull her close.
“You saved me,” she said, mostly into his coat, once she had gotten the tears choked back enough to speak. “I would have been dead, don’t be sorry.” Suddenly the difference between life and death seemed a lot more important than dancing or not dancing. His arms around her reminded her of their promises to each other on the rooftop before the chandelier. Raoul loved her, enough to send for his own physician when she was hurt and keep guard over her while she slept. Enough to take her away from the Opera House and marry her.
Raoul’s voice echoed her thoughts. “Oh Christine, come away with me, as soon as the physician says you can travel. I can keep you safe in the country, and as soon as you’re well we can be married.”
Christine nodded against his chest. “I’d like that,” she said, looking up, “very much.”
####################################
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
She found she couldn’t move, rooted center stage in the shock that her Angel would do this, that Raoul was right - he was dangerous. It was all happening so fast that moving seemed impossible.
“Christine!” Someone hit her from the side - Raoul - grasping her elbow and pushing her out of the way. She spun as he let go of her and fell, landing awkwardly and skidding across the floor. She was still close enough when the chandelier hit to feel the heat of the exploding lamps and to have to shield her head from falling bits of glass. They ripped through the thin sleeves of her costume, and she could feel little darts of pain in her arms.
She uncurled herself as the screaming starting. There were people running everywhere, a great many of them toward the chandelier behind her. She realized with a trill of panic what it would mean if the scenery were set ablaze - fire was the demon of every theatre and the Opera House was bigger than most. The floors full of old, dried out scenery would go like tinder.
“Raoul, we need to get out of here,” she said, wobbling to her feet. Now that she could move, her thoughts raced in one direction - escape. “We can go out through the stage door-“
She broke off as she turned around. The chandelier was lying in a crumpled heap much closer than she’d thought. The fires had all been put out, but there were still lots of people rushing about. And Raoul wasn’t behind her. In fact, she couldn’t see him anywhere.
“Raoul?” He had been right behind her, getting her out of the way. He had been holding on to her arm. He should just be right there…
Her eyes slid down the chandelier, to the outstretched arms that protruded from under it. She was screaming even before she recognized the trim of Raoul’s coat.
Arms were there, holding her so that she was once again rooted in one place. She couldn’t move, couldn’t get to Raoul. And she needed to get to Raoul, because he had been right behind her. He couldn’t be under there…
There was no hope, even before they managed to get the chandelier lifted. It was simply too heavy, and it had hit the stage hard. There was blood splattered everywhere. Christine found some going up the back of her skirts, a spray that had to come from him moving towards her as he as hit. It sent her into hysterics, and they were forced to drug her to get her to sleep.
The doctor had left Madame Giry instructions to sedate her again if she showed signs of continuing hysteria, but when Christine woke up she did…nothing. Nothing they did provoked a response from her, although she would obey orders, moving stiltedly and continuing to stare blankly at nothing.
They set Meg to watch over her while Madame Giry went to go help with the investigation into the “accident.” Meg tried her best to snap her friend out of it, grieving inwardly for what Christine must be feeling right now, but she was eventually called away by a harried Monsieur Firmin to answer questions, as she had been onstage at the time of the incident. Christine was left alone, sitting huddled on her bed.
That was when her mirror opened, emitting a shadowy figure who quickly and quietly bundled Christine up and told her to follow him. She did, still without a word or a look to show that she really comprehended the situation.
There were no hesitations or backwards glances on this journey downwards. She sat in the boat without a wobble, and it wasn’t the power of the Phantom’s voice putting her into a trance this time. Rather they were both silent except for the small splashing noises made as he poled the boat along. She entered his home for the second time, sat in the chair he carefully directed her to, and did not once look towards the giant pipe organ or the monkey music box. A few hours later she rose at his gentle command and went into the bedroom he had prepared for her. She stood docilely as he dressed her in a fine nightgown trimmed with expensive lace, tucked her into bed with luxurious velvet coverlets, and brushed a furtive, cold kiss across her forehead.
The days passed, and then the weeks. Christine allowed him to dress her in the exquisite clothes he had provided. She listened to his music for hours on end. She completed small household tasks as directed. His perfect, living wife-doll. For that was what she was. She did not cringe away from his touch, but she did not seek it either. His music brought no reaction from her at all. She never did a single thing that exhibited a wish to go beyond the confines of his lair. There was a slight outcry in the Opera House at her disappearance, but none ever came down to the cellars to look for her.
His love for her remained as strong as ever, mayhap even stronger now that she did not fear to look upon his face. He never tired in caring for her, seeing to her every comfort, but he did miss the spark that had drawn him to her. He missed her singing, instructing her on the nuances of song, even missed watching her dance. It was Christine, but it wasn’t, and he wondered if his chandelier had killed her, even if her body had escaped. But then she would sit still as he brushed her hair until it was fine and smooth again and he knew that, even if this was all that he could have from her, it would have to be enough. He could not let her go. At least this way, she had someone who cared for her, and only for her.
Even if she did not know who he was anymore.
#############################
There was an ominous creaking above them and then the screech of warped metal as the chandelier detached from the ceiling and fell, looming larger and larger above her.
Christine screamed, a shrill sound so unlike her singing that it cut straight to the bone…
Erik woke up with a violent start, his heart pounding in his thin chest. He was sticky with sweat and the bedclothes were twisted around his limbs so that it took him extra seconds to fight free and sit up.
Dreams. They’d all been horrible dreams. But they’d felt real - futures that could have happened because of his revenge-fueled lunacy two days ago.
He rubbed his hands across his face, one hand automatically going to pull on his mask, but he made no move to get up. The last two nights had been like this - sleepless, terror-filled nights. The endless repetitions of Christine’s pain and terror and hurt left him feeling even more corpse-like than usual. He didn’t know how much longer he could take this consuming, merciless guilt.
Finally he pulled himself up, if only so he wouldn’t fall back asleep and have to face more dreams. Funny how he could remember staying awake for days at a time before, but now…
His knees trembled as he approached the shore of the lake, and he realized that he had forgotten to eat. He’d also gone longer without eating, but not when performing these kinds of tasks. He stooped to pick up the shovel.
The grave was nearly complete; it would only take him an hour or two of labor to finish it. He’d finished the stone yesterday. It was blocky, lacking in elegance since he lacked the tools or strength to shape the stone, but the calligraphy on its face was perfect.
Christine
He was gasping by the time he had finished digging and dragged himself over to the long wooden box that lay in state on his table. The top was open, and he leaned over it to brush his cold lips over the even colder lips of his beloved. Every curl around Christine’s still face was perfect, arranged with care around her face and over the ornate shawl that covered her midriff, where one of the arms of the chandelier had torn free and impaled her. His shawl, not the one the Vicomte had had her wrapped in when Erik had taken her. He gently shut the lid.
He closed his eyes at the memory of the wound and how she’d gotten it; she’d finally bled out after several long, agony-filled minutes, leaving the Vicomte holding her corpse and Erik making grief-stricken plans on how to get her back so he could bury her here, with him. A horrible fate, worse than any his dreams tormented him with. Worse because, in them, she lived, in some way. He would have been happy now to have her alive and hating him, instead of cold and dead and unforgiving. But even knowing that she would never have wanted to give him forgiveness hadn’t given him the strength to let her go, even in death. Instead, it gave him the strength to drag the box out to the grave. If he didn’t finish this now, he would soon be too weak to do it, and she deserved to be laid to rest properly.
The casket slid easily into the hole he’d dug, and Erik found he was crying as he shoveled earth over it. Over her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, if he’d ever cried before.
He’d meant to play for her, once he’d finished. He could hear the music, rising up in his mind in time with his gruesome work. But as he knelt to pat down the final shovelfuls, he couldn’t get up again. He didn’t have the strength or the will to leave her again. Instead, as the edges of his vision started to go black, he reached out a trembling finger to trace her name on the cold stone in front of him, slumping to the ground before he got to the final “e.”
He hoped there wouldn’t be dreams in death.