Chapter Text
She was still shaking after they boarded the train at the Gare du Nord; still locked in a state of shock and despair that hadn’t allowed her to utter one word or attach her view to anything happening around her, now, for what seemed hours on end. No, she sat stiffly on the seat, staring straight ahead, the bruise on her forehead rapidly turning a dark, mottled black and blue, the pain in her head now deep and constant. They had escaped with their lives, she reminded herself, the words punctuated by each angry throb that tried to veil her inner voice from herself. Rather, he had escaped with his life; she wasn’t as sure what she had taken with her from the ghost’s home deep below the opera house where, for a time, the fate of everyone in the building had rested upon her shoulders. She had done all she had known to do to not have to bear that burden of choice she had been confronted with; to marry the man she so feared, or to be the cause of the death of hundreds in the building with the turn of tiny brass grasshopper sitting upon a cluttered mantle. In the end, she had saved them all, including the young man in the sleeper compartment with her, who anxiously moved about from the window to the door leading out into a narrow aisle that ran the length of the car, guarding them from the man who had imprisoned and nearly killed him just hours before. He wouldn’t be able to settle, even the smallest bit, until the train was underway and he was sure they weren’t being followed. Christine didn’t have the heart to tell him that, if they were being trailed by the Opera Ghost, there was nothing that he, Raoul, the Vicomte do Chagny, could do about it
The steam whistle of the train sounded and Raoul jumped, but Christine continued to sit in her painful silence, though now she reached out a hand and took his, a small gesture that brought him back to the present. Raoul looked down at her, and it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. His breath caught in his throat and he fell to the seat beside her, gathering her close and holding her tight for the first time since their escape. It was then that he realized her silent stillness wasn't merely the result of the bruise on her head.
“He’s dying, Raoul…” she whispered against his shoulder, “he’s dying because of me; because I am leaving him behind.”
“And good riddance to him, if that’s the case.” He replied fiercely, his hands smoothing her long, golden curls down her back.
“I promised him, though.” This in the meekest voice Raoul had ever heard from the woman he loved; whom he was saving from the creature who had haunted and hunted them both for over a year. “I promised…”
“You owe him nothing!” Raoul said sternly, pulling her away so he could look her in the eyes.
“But he will die, and there will be no one to bury him. I promised him…”
“Enough!” Raoul exclaimed, shaking her roughly, just as the train lurched forward and another whistle sounded.
With the shaking and moving, Christine felt as though billiard balls were cracking together behind her eyes. Fortunately, a wash bowl stood on its stand between the two benches in the compartment, and she was able to break from Raoul’s hold and retch into the thing. The purging of her stomach seemed to the thing that unlocked everything she had been holding in her heart and mind, and before Raoul’s confused gaze, she slumped to the floor at his feet, hysterical tears flowing freely where she rested her head upon his knee.
“Oh, Christine!” He choaked out, as he got to his feet, reaching passed her to open the bed on the other side of the compartment. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!”
The bed open, he stood and lifted her weeping form and laid her upon the bed, grabbing pillows from up above to place under her head. He didn’t know what had happened to her head, but studying it a bit more closely, he couldn’t imagine that it didn’t hurt terribly. He laid a blanket over the top of her.
“My love,” he said, not even really knowing if she heard him, “I will be back soon; there must be a doctor on this train.”
And with that, he was out the door.
As Christine lay there, trying to breathe more calmly by trying to matched the measured beats of the train’s wheels, she was finally able to think back over all that had happened to bring them to where they were.
First, Erik- the real man, not the opera ghost or Angel of Music- had realized her plan for escape when he saw the sewing scissors in her hand; he quickly divested her of those and any plan she might had to use them in a deadly manner, either on him or herself. He had gone to far too much trouble to secret her away from the stage and to his home beneath the opera house for her to do anything foolish, now. Angered by her intention to be away from him, one way or another, he tossed her into the bedroom he had created for her, forced her to change into an elaborate wedding gown of his own creation, then locked her away where he believed she could not harm herself or him. Realizing she was trapped, she began to scream until it felt like her vocal cords had been torn to shreds, hoping he would no longer want her if he could no longer use her voice for his own pleasure. With her fingernails, she scratched at the delicate rose printed wallpaper so violently that each of her nails broke off at the quick and her fingers began to bleed. Oh, but she wished to push herself through the thick plaster walls of that room; oh, how she felt like a wild beast, pacing to and fro, wringing her hands, knowing she had no choice but to sacrifice herself to the carnal desires of the man who held her prisoner. Soon, she stopped screaming, soon, she stopped crying, soon, everything about her went numb as she resigned herself to her fate, like a prisoner being led to the guillotine.
Christine knew that Raoul and the Persian man were trapped in the monster’s torture chamber. She had never thought of Erik truly as a monster until that night; before that, he was merely a man with a deformity who brought her adulation and music. Her Angel of Music, now fallen from heaven and into the darkest pits of hell; the actual monster that had always lain dormant, just beneath the surface. She no longer recognized the man who had so sweetly sung to her on so many occasions; who had taught her to use her voice in a new and different way, who had allowed her to soar on the wings of his music. No, the man she had believed she loved with the most pure and chaste kind of adoration was, in fact, the worst kind of monster: That which resides within the very soul, having nothing to do with outward appearance.
She leaned against the wall of room, looking up a short set of stairs to where a light brighter than that of the clearest summer day glowed; where she knew her childhood sweetheart- her real fiancé- and the man who had guided him to Erik’s home were slowly dying from the heat of the mirrored chamber. By the time she had been locked in the room, she no longer heard their voices; their pleas for mercy and for her to do something to save them had all ceased, in that terrifying silence, she turned to the wall upon which she leaned, and with one determined motion, cracked her head against the sturdy plaster, pitting it the expensive paper, spattering it with blood.
When Christine came to, she lay upon the floor of the bedroom and Erik hovered over her.
“You’ll find that banging your head against the wall is a very ineffective method of ending one’s life. It did nothing more than stain my wall and your wedding gown with blood and leave you with what, I am sure, is a very unpleasant headache.” Then, he knelt down beside her. “There is no escaping the decision you must make. If you turn the scorpion, you will spend your life with me and your little vicomte will be saved. You already know what will happen if you choose the grasshopper…”
“It will jump jolly high.” She agreed, robotically, trying to sit up with arms that felt weak, as though they trying to balance upon the soil of a loamy bog, and a head that did, in fact, pound and cause the room to move and shimmer like heat waves upon desert sand.
“I do believe it would be selfish of you to choose anything other than the scorpion, but then again, keeping promises doesn’t seem your forte, now does it?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.” She tried to explain. “I thought if you heard me sing one last time…”
“That you running off with the boy, without ever saying goodbye would pain me less than your honesty?”
A drop of blood ran down her nose, pooling for a moment at the tip before dripping down to the bodice of the gown. She wanted to explain that there had been no good way to tell him. She had seen his rage too often; knew too much of who he was and who he had been; the lengths he would go to see her attached to him, alone, for the rest of her days. But the time had now long passed to consider other options, and there upon the bedroom floor, all she could find she could do was utter the words that would seal her fate, making her his forever.
“The scorpion.” She practically whispered. “I will marry you, just please, set them free.”
He looked surprised, at first, and then a bit confused, for once unable to find pretty words and unable to intimidate with terrifying threats.
“You…you will marry me?”
“Just let them go free…please…”
With the room still spinning and unable to find her own balance, Erik reached down and lifted her to her feet. She stumbled and almost fell on multiple occasions as he dragged her to the sitting room. Holding her upright beneath her arms, between him and the mantle, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at the two brass insects in front of her.
“Make your choice.” He growled into her ear. “Turn the one you choose; don’t just tell me.”
Her vision was doubled, and she swayed unsteadily from side to side not that she was standing. She tried to reach up to turn the scorpion, then drew back as though she had touched a flame, her peripheral vision going black even as she tried to concentrate and turn the correct brass figure.
“Erik, please,” she begged, tears now tracking through the blood on her face, “please help me lay my hand upon the scorpion. I do think that I might faint…”
The last thing she remembered was him grabbing her hand and placing it where it was meant to be. As soon as she turned the creature, blackness filled her vision, and she fainted into Erik’s arms.
When Christine next awoke, she was somehow perched upright in a wing-backed chair, and on her lap sat a small red Bible with the page marked for the beginning of Song of Solomon. She sat up a bit, opening the tome to that place.
“I’ve not much use for religion.” Erik’s exhausted voice came from behind her. “I know you do, though, and I know this is the great poem of the groom for his bride that instructs as to how one should feel towards the other. I have a great respect for King Solomon as one of the preeminent poets and musicians of the Bible. Perhaps, one day, I shall set this to music, or maybe David’s Psalms. Do read me the first lines of the bride.”
“Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth.” Christine read, tears pooling in her eyes. “For your love is better than wine; your anointing oils are fragrant; your name is oil poured out…” she faltered, “therefore virgins love you. Draw me after you; let us run. The king has brought me into his chamber…”
There were no candles lit in the room, only a bright fire in the fireplace that cast a terrible orange glow about the space. Using the chair to support herself and leaving the Bible aside, she stood on shaking legs and turned to find Erik sitting on the bench of his piano mere steps away. Letting go of the chair, she fell at his feet, and with all that was in her, she looked up and locked with his dark eyes.
“I am very dark, but lovely,” she continued from memory, “O, daughters of Jerusalem, like the tents of Kedar, like the curtains of Solomon.” She skipped forward as her tears overspilled her eyes and ran down cheeks that had been cleaned as she slept. “Tell me, you whom my soul loves, where you pasture your flock, where you make it lie down at noon; for why should I be like one who veils herself beside the flocks of your companions?”
“Christine…” He was crying, tears flowing down his unmasked face.
He made to reach for her, hands trembling, but then he pulled them back, clenched into loose fists as he looked away from her. Slowly, she got to her knees, bracing herself upon his, reached up with one hand, turning his face back to look at her.
“Poor Erik,” she sighed, now wiping his tears away with the soft pads of her thumbs, “all he ever wanted was the be loved for himself, like any other man.”
She didn’t think of it as an act of courage, for in that moment, her heart truly did cry out in love for the broken man who sat before her. He loved her in the only way he knew how. In a life that had only shown him violence, he believed that the only way he could possibly be loved was by taking, by dominating; through fostering guilt and pity. But, when she took his tear-streaked face in both her hands and softly pressed her lips to his, tasting the salt of both their tears mingling, she was honest in her belief that she did, in fact, love him, and was willing to grant him his greatest wish of being loved for himself.
After a time, she pulled back from him and smiled, and then, to his great shock, she clutched her arms around him, pulling herself even closer and kissed him even more passionately. When she finally broke her hold on him, his shaking hands came to cup her face as he looked deeply into her now-tranquil eyes. The sigh that escaped him, then, was so deep and so final that it seemed to take her breath away with it. With one gentle movement, he leaned towards her, closing his eyes as he did, and pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead, just above the growing bruise.
“My living bride.” He whispered. “You did not die for kissing me.”
“No.” Christine said, her voice quaking. “I’m still here, and I am never going away.”
He nodded once, taking a second to breathe in the sweet floral scent of her soft blonde curls.
“I know.” He said. “And I thank you for giving me the greatest gift; for loving me as I am. But now you must go to your young man who can give you the life I never could.”
She looked up at him, her eyebrows knit together, now in her own confusion.
“But, Erik, I love you!” She insisted fervently, taking his hands into hers. “I told you I would marry you; that I would spend my life with you. I made a promise!”
“You did.” He agreed, standing to his feet and pulling her up with him. “But so did I. I promised that I would love you forever, and I will; but you are light and I am darkness, and for me to fulfill my promise to love you forever, and I must let you go back to the light where I will never belong.”
“Erik, please!”
“Come with me.” He commanded, though his voice was still gentle. “Your Raoul will need tending to. Just promise me this: When I have died and the newspapers announce “Erik is Dead”, please return to me to see that I am properly laid to rest; that no one will ever find me and display my body as a curiosity.”
Even though she sobbed and fought him and pled with him to not make her leave, he finally led her to a dark room in the fifth cellar of the opera, opened the door, and raised his lantern to reveal the crumpled form or Raoul within. Instantly, Christine rushed to him, begging him to wake up and to go, but when the young man did open his eyes, it was, at first, hard to discern what he was seeing.
“Please help me help him, Erik…” Christine implored, but when she looked back at him, all she found was the lantern hanging from a hook by the door, and Erik was gone.
***
It was a slow and arduous trip from the fifth cellar to the exit of the building on the Rue Scribe. Christine and Raoul were forced lean upon each other as they went, as they were both still weak and broken from their tribulations. When, finally, they reached the gate and saw the light of early morning beckoning them forward, they emerged to a cold, pouring rain that soaked them both through and also seemed to waken them to the reality that they were alive; that they were free. Raoul was the first to speak, his throat still rough and parched from his time in the heat of the torture chamber.
“We must go from here immediately.” He informed her, taking a brief moment to look at her in the light; take in how frail and broken she appeared. His arms immediately wrapped around her and pulled her close, his strength returning to him if only to extend it to her. “Oh, my darling! You are safe, now, and I will ensure you stay that way. We will leave Paris; we will go to the northernmost railroad station in the world and we will start our life, together, as far from this nightmare as possible.”
Christine looked back at the gate into the cellars, then hollowly responded:
“Yes…yes…I suppose we shall…”
***
Only two stops were made on the journey to the Gare du Nord: First, at a bank where Raoul withdrew all the accessible money he possessed in the world- A paltry sum for a man of noble birth, to be certain, that mainly consisted of a small, monthly allowance received from his brother, and his earnings from his two years in the French Navy. Fortunately, that two years of savings amounted to enough that he was confident that he could get them away from Paris and comfortably settled when they reached their final destination: Norvik, Norway, the location of what was then the northernmost railroad station in the world.
The second stop was at Christine’s home that, for years, she had shared with the elderly widow, Madame Valerius, who had helped to raise her after she and her father had arrived in France from Sweden seven years before. There, she gathered her father’s precious violin, her own savings from her time with the opera, and a valise packed with a few changes of dress, her night clothing, and sundry other toiletries and baubles tucked carefully in amongst the fabric of gowns and underpinnings. Finally, she stepped in Madame Valerius’ bedroom where the old lady still sat abed, waiting for her daily visit from the nurse who aided her in dressing and make her her meals for the day. It was a tearful goodbye, but one that Raoul felt compelled to rush, even though he felt cruel in so doing. In his mind, all it would take was a sway of mood and change of heart from the monster that still loomed in the deepest pits of the opera for them to be captured, once more, and who knew what that would entail for them both.
When they left the house, Christine continued to silently weep, turning just once to look upon her old, beloved home for the last time.
From there, they made their way to the train station in the safety of a hired brougham, and Raoul held Christine securely to his side. He had to remain focused on getting them out of Paris, out of France, and then beyond to their new Nordic life; anything else could wait to be addressed until they were underway.
So, when Raoul left Christine in her bed to find a doctor, he stood outside of their compartment door for a few extended breaths, allowing one fleeting review of all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours pass before his mind’s eye. All that lay before him was unknown, and now and forever more, his only mission in life was to ensure the safety and happiness of his Christine.