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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 1 year

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When the Longing Returns

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

Chapter 3

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Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Rating: M

Chapter Summary: Christine continues her deception of Raoul while rest of the Opera Populaire discuss the scandalous connection between Christine Daaé and the Opera Ghost.

Chapter Word Count: 7,176

This Chapter can now be enjoyed with my custom immersive soundscapes! Follow the links in the story!

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When Christine awoke, she had no illusions as to her extraordinary recollections of embracing the Phantom (in both the figurative and the literal sense) and deceiving Raoul having been a dream.

Quite apart from the quality and position of sunlight in the dormitory attesting to the fact that she'd slept the morning through and it was now noon (or some time past that), Christine had never, even in her most secret dreams, had a vision so vivid and so sensory—she remembered the contrast of the frosty air on her cheeks and the Phantom's warm breath on her lips so clearly that it almost made her shiver—as that incredible morning.

There was also an infinitely more tangible proof of the veracity of those remarkable events: the subtly masculine ring now resting in her hand, which still curled around it with the innocent elegance of sleep. Gold setting and murky cat's eye stone were both exactly as she remembered them before she'd drifted to sleep.

In fact, Christine did not think she'd dreamt at all; or if she had, the dreams were not of particular consequence, and had faded as soon as she'd stirred.

She must have slumbered very deeply, though, for she had fallen asleep facing the wall, and facing the wall she had awoken; she, who had now been so long in the habit of waking every few hours, shaking off some fancy of horror (or, she could now more easily admit to herself, hidden pleasure), turning to lay on her other side and falling asleep again.

The Phantom's shadowy form had loomed over her repose even when he'd seemingly ceased his haunting. Every night following that fateful premier of Il Muto, she had feared hearing his echoing whisper of her name in her sleep; and even after three weeks had passed with no phantom summons, still she had gone to her bed with a sense of trepidation that she'd tried to chase away with most benign thoughts of her courtship with Raoul. This trepidation had faded, very gradually, over the following months, though latent fear—and longing—had still disturbed her rest and left her, invariably, turning again and again in her bunk.

It seemed telling, she now thought, that her first truly peaceful rest in months should come in an attic dormitory replete with intrusive sunlight, and after she had secretly cast off her promise to a virtuous man of exemplary character and nobility in favor of one to a half-disfigured rogue whom all the world cursed for the very Devil himself.

Christine wondered that no one had yet awoken her. She dared not stir enough to cause Raoul (if he was watching, she couldn't tell without lifting her head) to think that she was awake, for she was content to lay there as long as she was allowed.

She moved only to uncurl her fingers slightly further so she could look at the ring with a better view. It still held its green hue from before, but it was darker again, in the diffuse noonday light of the dormitory. She gazed into it deeply.

She'd often looked at Raoul's ring, with all its tiny, glittering, clear white jewels, and appreciated its magnificence, but the admiration had been shallow. Any child would have looked at the sparkling bauble the same as she had. She had been flattered that he'd bought such a grand piece—at the very least it had proven that he would spare no expense on her—but it held nothing meaningful of either her or him; nothing personal. It was dazzling, and it was costly, and that was all. Raoul had purchased it hastily the morning after Il Muto. Hastily he had proposed to her and, hastily, she had accepted.

But she regarded this ring—this warm gold and its solid, tenebrous gem, shimmering with unfathomable depths and enigmatic hues—and all she saw was him. It was a sort of mesmerizing thing, but it did not make her head feel cloudy or intoxicated; rather, she felt clear-minded when she held it and looked at it. It fortified her.

A sound caught her ear; fabric chafing, followed by a wooden creak, of the kind that might be produced by adjusting one's seat in a chair. Then a sigh.

Raoul. So he was there.

Christine fought a sigh herself.

Raoul, what will I do with you? she thought balefully. She did feel regret, thinking of him and his well-intentioned hovering. She could hardly blame him for this, it was partially her doing after all.

It had been he who proposed sleeping outside her room the previous night, though Madame Giry had naturally objected to having a man, even the patrón (especially the patrón) spend the night in the ballet dormitory. But Christine, shaken by what had passed unspoken between herself and the Phantom at the foot of the grand staircase, had begged for it to be allowed, and Raoul had then insisted.

She fairly kicked herself for it now.

What an absurd thing to do! As if keeping Raoul close could wash away the memory of how inexorably she and the trembling Red Death on the stairs had moved closer and closer to each other. This thought distracted Christine because it made her realize how completely she'd subconsciously dedicated the Phantom's image in that moment to memory.

Every aspect of his pristine costume had been so immaculately designed. Prior to that, she'd only ever seen him in his cloak, or a banyan, or his bulky (still perfectly tailored, though several years outmoded) suit.

But that costume; such vivid scarlet! The beautiful detail of the gold embroidery, the way the fitted trousers had hugged his powerful thighs as he descended the steps... he must have made it himself, she realized; and then she thought of the wedding gown and the likeness on which it hung that had made her faint. He must have sewn that, too. The next time she had the opportunity (soon! tomorrow... her stomach swooped to think of being with him in that cavern again), she must look at it more closely. She could only imagine the care he'd lavished on the garment in creating it—if his own clothes were so impeccably made, how much more exquisite would the work be on a gown for his beloved? A bridal gown at that...

But she'd let her mind wander... how easily it wandered from Raoul.

He truly hadn't believed her when she'd told him about her stay in the Phantom's lair. She'd hoped desperately that some part of Raoul would have given credit to her ability to trust her own senses, but he hadn't. And rather than argue with him she'd ignored it—ignored that he brushed off her fear of the Phantom just readily as he had her confession about the Angel.

And then the Phantom himself had proven him so very, very wrong.

She could only imagine how his appearance at the masquerade had shaken her fiancé. To be sure, Raoul had acted quickly in an attempt to catch the Ghost, but to do so he had left her there, at the foot of the staircase; left her to face him alone. Raoul really had no idea the depth of her connection to this man, the hold he had on her, or he would never have allowed for her to confront those angry, hurting eyes by herself.

Perhaps it was at that exact moment, when Christine felt Raoul leave her side, that he had begun to lose whatever hold of his own he had on her.

Raoul was gone, and then his ring was gone, and as the Phantom himself disappeared, she knew, deep in the pit of her stomach, that there was a very real possibility she would have followed him, if she'd had time to regain her nerve—if he'd given her the chance. Perhaps he'd seen that in her eyes; known that she'd already begun to waver. She'd realized when she saw him shaking, saw the change in his entire demeanor when he looked at her, not only the hold he had on her, but that she held sway over him as well.

It was this very knowledge that had so disturbed Christine after the fact; that had made her beg for Raoul to be allowed to sleep outside the dormitory, clutching on to her girlish affection for him even as she felt it slipping away.

It was fear of this same knowledge that had kept pulling her from sleep; kept her awake, contemplating, anxiously rationalizing her engagement.

What would her father have told her, had he been there? she'd wondered. Her stomach had clenched at his memory; an acute pain that she hadn't felt for many years and that left her doubled over in her bed, clutching her pillow desperately. It was as though she were a little girl again, and he'd only just died and left her.

Her angel, no comfort to her now, was rather a torment to her mind and heart, for he was a villain, and yet still she could not hate him. She had longed for him to sing her to sleep again, and that longing had frightened her.

It seemed so foolish now.

All of her fear, her terror, had just been the telltale signs of her love for the Phantom. An exquisite kind of love which thrilled her, and which she could not, then, bear to admit to herself.

Her thoughts turned again to Raoul, as he was now (or as she pictured him, at least), slumped in the chair, but awake this time, ruminating. It made her itch.

She had used him quite ill, she thought. Cowardice had driven her into his arms on that rooftop. Fear had deluded her into honestly believing—into giving him hope—that he could be the answer to her dilemma; her girlhood dream come true! Her kind, rich sweetheart grown fine and handsome, with the promise of a life of stability and comfort... wouldn't he make a such perfect prize?

Turn my head with thoughts of summertime, indeed! Her head had been turned. She had run backwards to him. Back to that idyllic childhood summer—the last happy summer with her father.

But Raoul had promised her what he could not be sure he could give. Her life with him could hardly be as free as they had both fantasized about that night. His responsibilities as the Vicomte de Chagny extended much farther than just being the patron of the Opera Populaire ; or they would, in time, when he inherited the title of comte from his father. His wife, the comtesse, would have to share in those responsibilities, of course. Responsibilities, expectations, that Christine had no inkling of, no preparation to handle, and no real desire to execute.

Had he no thought for that at all? Or for what whispers their marriage would expose them both to, perhaps for the rest of their lives?

For him, it would likely be little enough trouble. He would perhaps be laughed at for stooping to marry his opera singer, rather than just making her his mistress as any other nobleman would have done. That would be a small trial, but then, Raoul—who, though very earnest, was also very proud—hated nothing more than to be laughed at.

And for her? What disdain would she have to endure? What insults would follow her? Upstart? Fortune-hunter? Harlot? She doubted would have many friends. Perhaps her maid if she was lucky.

How long would their whirlwind romance be enough to fortify them against that adversity? How long before he began to resent plighting his troth, in youthful impatience, to an opera wench?

But none of this had seemed to trouble Raoul. He was so nearsighted. So naïve.

As had she been.

She remembered how indignant he'd been when he'd told her what the managers had insinuated about them—what Carlotta had accused them of to his face on the morning of Christine's return. And Christine had shared that indignation; but now she thought about it, and, well, really, what else had he expected when he'd walked so freely into her dressing room right after her stunning debut? Alone, unannounced, at that! He'd not even had any right to expect that she would recognize him after all these years!

Insolent boy, the Angel had called him, and it had stung her at the time, to hear her friend, her old playmate, disparaged like that by the figure in her life she most respected. Of course she now knew that the Angel's ire had been simple jealousy, but thinking on it, she couldn't deny that he'd been right.

Christine realized as she lay there, feeling Raoul's eyes worrying into her back, that her feelings for the Phantom were not the only concerns she'd been repressing for those many months. All of these worries had cropped up in that time, but each one had been tamped down as soon as it occurred to her by her desperate insistence that loving Raoul was the right thing, and would protect her. It had only taken a fraction of these perturbations, exposed to the cold light of dawn, and faced with the Phantom's kindred, passionate tenderness for Christine to realize her folly in accepting Raoul's proposal.

The Phantom had been her angel—truly her closest confidante—for so many years, while Raoul... well, all told, she'd only known him as a man for a few weeks when he proposed. And before that, just one summer, when she was a little girl. Raoul didn't know her; and she hardly knew him. What had they in common, other than childhood picnics in the attic?

Over the course of their attachment he was forever coming and going, giving her gifts and presents—jewelry she could not yet wear; candies, most of which ended up being eaten by Meg; and endless bouquets of luridly bright hothouse flowers for which she had no room, and which clouded her in thick perfumes that caught in her throat—but never staying long enough to exchange any thoughts but whispered expressions of love and idealized dreams of their future. Three months they'd been engaged and, though he doted on her, she could hardly think of a single subject over which they had deeply connected, other than reminiscences and fantasies.

Even without the Phantom waiting in the wings, Christine knew that she could not marry Raoul. But how she wished there was a way to free him of this doomed engagement—they both should have realized it was doomed when she had begged him to let it be a secret—without hurting him!

The sigh she had been fighting escaped her, and Raoul stirred in his chair again. She very carefully closed her fist around the ring and slid it under her pillow as she heard him stand and come near her bed.

"Christine?" he said softly.

She turned her head and rolled half onto her back as though she'd only just awoken. He was kneeling at her bedside. She blinked dazedly at him, and he smiled.

"Did you sleep well, dearest?" he asked, reaching out to stroke her mussed curls.

No, Raoul, please don't, she thought as he did so. It was exactly what she'd said the night before at the ball, when he'd leaned in to kiss her. Then she'd had an excuse ("they'll see!"), but now, in private, she felt powerless to stop him and simply had to accept the gesture with grace.

"Perfectly well, thank you," she said, her voice weak with sleep still. She rolled fully onto her back and lifted her head to see his chair in the doorway. "Have you been here all this time?" she asked.

"Of course," he replied, obviously assuming that this was a great comfort to her. "I couldn't leave you all alone up here."

Her returning smile hid an internal grimace.

"You're sweet," she said, unable to think of any other way to respond.

"My utmost for you, my darling," he said, bending forward to give her one of his clean little kisses. It was such a strange thing how often he flouted propriety, and yet did so without any hint of improper motivation. On the one hand it was sweet. On the other, it was careless.

He lifted her hand now, kissed it and held it, his thumb rubbing over the empty spot on her ring finger ruefully. After several silent moments, his brow furrowed over dark, distant eyes and he continued this action, harder, in a kind of trance—as if he hoped, by repeating the motion with enough force and will, he could bring the ring back. Christine was unsettled by it and wanted to free herself from his hold, but didn't want to openly pull her hand away.

"Raoul?" she said, placing her other hand lightly on his wrist.

He looked up quickly, his eyes coming back into focus. "I'm sorry, I was just thinking about..." he stopped himself. "Never mind, dearest." He still held her hand, and traces of his brooding remained, darkening his face.

"What time is it?" she asked, as a way to change the subject.

"Half past noon. Do you want to sleep longer?" he asked, his expression a little lighter.

"No, I'm quite rested enough, thank you. If I sleep any more, then I'll be awake all night."

She couldn't have that, she wanted to be well rested for the resumption of her lessons, as she had promised her teacher she would be. Her teacher... she must not think of him, or she would blush. Tomorrow night seemed unbearably far away.

"Then I will go see about bringing you something to eat," Raoul said, finally releasing her hand, though he looked almost as though leaving her alone for just that amount of time would drive him mad.

Christine didn't want to encourage this hovering and she would much rather take her lunch in the refectory than have it brought to her here. She had a horrible notion of him staring and brooding as she ate.

She sat up, holding her covers to her chest.

"Raoul, you don't need to bring me anything here. There's no reason I should not be able to take my meals as usual. I-I doubt the Opera Ghost is going to crash into the refectory and steal me away from the table." A nervous tremor accompanied her soft chuckle as she said this; one that Raoul would surely take as fear peeking through an attempt at nonchalance.

She fought not to allow the image she'd described too much space in her mind, but she couldn't help picturing how the other girls would shriek in terror if the dreaded, cloaked Opera Ghost flew out of some dark recess, seized her with an arm around her waist, and hauled her helpless, swooning form into the shadows like one of those intentionally ghastly pulp cartoons the street vendors sold. Maybe it was callous of her to indulge such a farcical scenario at the expense of her peers, but it did fill her with a kind of satirical mirth.

She had hoped her attempt at humor might lighten the oppressive anxiety that was radiating from Raoul, and he did chuckle at first, but she should have known better; his face quickly became grave again.

"How can you jest like that after what happened this morning?" he asked. He seemed half disapproving of her tempting fate, and half in awe of her fortitude.

"I have faith enough in God that He will not allow me to be stolen away against my will when I have such a vigilant protector."

Her flattery only seemed to darken Raoul's mood.

"And how can you say that," he despaired, "when I was so negligent as to allow him to drive away with you!" He shuddered horribly at the thought.

"Raoul, Raoul," she said calmingly, not reticent to take hold of his hands; she did want to put him at ease in any way she could. "Please do not berate yourself. It was equally my fault that I found myself in his path. Had I been more observant, I would have seen who it was in the driver's seat... but what's past is past, and I am safe, and we must be thankful for that blessing."

"How can I not, Christine?" he said, not half as placated by her words as she'd hoped he would be. "How can I not hold myself responsible when I am to be your husband? It is my duty to protect and watch over you!"

The words were a towering black wave that crashed suffocatingly over Christine, yet she managed—just—to hold her composure.

"You cannot keep vigil over me every hour of the day, though, not to the neglect of yourself," she reasoned with a caring vehemence.

His expression remained unconvinced, but it was at least slightly less severe now. He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand.

"Lovely, selfless Christine," he said kissing her again. He at least had the wherewithal to not embrace her in her current state of undress.

"May I have a moment to dress?" she asked, blushing.

"Of course," he said apologetically. He stood quickly, closing the door of the dormitory as he left, though she knew he would be standing right outside it.

Christine sighed heavily, and reached for her stockings.

She dallied with her corset laces, in no particular haste to be in Raoul's anxious presence again. She mustn't take too long, though, or he would surely feel the need to check on her.

Once she was laced in, she retrieved the Phantom's ring and slid it onto her finger for a precious moment, just to feel it there, before sighing and tucking it into its now customary spot between her breasts. It thrilled her to keep it there. The skirt she intended to wear had pockets—nice, deep ones that would be perfectly adequate for keeping it safe, but as had been the case that morning, she didn't like the idea of not being able to feel it against her skin in some way, and she wanted it close to her heart. She pulled on her petticoats, corset cover and a white blouse before the dark blue skirt.

Glancing around the sunlit room, she was sad to sense that her angel was not near. Disappointment flooded her, but it then occurred to her... was he perhaps resting too? She'd never given a thought to him sleeping before, even though she'd seen—had slept in—his bed. Whenever did he find time to sleep? He'd pointed out how little rest she'd had the night before, but had he slept at all? She hardly thought he could have. What kind of state had he been in after his stunning exit from the masquerade? Furious or exhilarated, or both? And then he'd followed her down to the carriage house, so he must have already been up and lurking. He'd entreated her to rest (unlike Raoul, who had insisted upon it with overbearing pressure), but what about him?

What does he look like when he sleeps? she now wondered. Did the lines of care fade from his face? Did he often have dreams of her, as he had haunted her dreams...? She was certain that if he did, they must never interrupt his slumber as hers had. He could have no reason to start awake sweating, for he was in no denial of his feelings for her.

Christine was lost in an image of him peacefully curled on his side—she could only imagine he would sleep on his right side, with the malformed half of his face hidden in his pillow—on the plush velvet that covered his beautiful bed... when a sharp rapping on the door interrupted her reverie and made her jump.

"Christine?" Raoul called, trying too hard not to sound worried.

Just as she had predicted. She was pleased that he hadn't simply opened the door and walked in, though.

"I'm quite alright," she responded with patience, crossing the room to open the door and face him.

Raoul's face relaxed and he smiled when he saw her, but it seemed that the slight pinch that had taken up residence between his brows since last night would become permanent before long.

"Do you know how very lovely you are?" Raoul said, working to make the compliment approach something like his usual candid charm.

As a matter of fact she did. He had told her little else for several months now.

"Raoul, you always say that," she said giving a flattered smile. She'd couched her words so she could say what she thought while still concealing how she felt. Part of her misliked how easy she found it to play him false. But then, it seemed likely to her that her skill in deceit was not so very great; it was a rare thing that Raoul saw what he didn't want to. How long had he denied the undeniable existence of the Opera Ghost?

"I say it because it's true," he rejoined, holding his arm out for her to take.

She linked her elbow around his and hesitated only for an infinitesimal moment before lifting her forearm to curl her hand around his bicep. This had been her custom whenever they'd walked alone together throughout their engagement, so she knew she must maintain the habit.

She'd enjoyed holding his arms; they were not very muscular, but plenty firm. They'd been strong enough when he picked her up in a burst of youthful exuberance, spun her around the rooftop, and then held her afterward. What blushes and flutterings she had experienced, to feel the firmness of a man's arms around her! It was a sensation she'd tasted for the first time not very long before, and she had dearly wanted more.

Not these arms, though, pleasant as they were, and not this man; but she had stubbornly denied the deficiency of the substitute.

She had no response to his rejoinder, and therefore simply smiled and glanced down. He smiled in return, under the impression that she was gratified by his rather unimaginative praise. Or that, at least, was what she assumed.

~~~~~

Christine was no longer merely a ballerina in the corps--she had, after all, been given several singing roles in the time since gala night: Stefano, the page in Roméo et Juliette; one of the 'Three Ladies' in The Magic Flute; Brangäne,the maidin Tristan und Isolde; and, most recently, Siebel in Faust, which Carlotta had mockingly told her was "quite the coup". All minor roles: trainee roles. And she was not treated as if she had moved up at all in the hierarchy of the Opera Populaire : she still slept in the dormitory, still ate in the refectory, and still had no dressing room of her own.

Raoul escorted her downstairs to the refectory with its long tables filled with dancers and chorus members and other lower ranking Opera denizens.

Christine knew it was Carlotta's doing; she had connections who could influence the managers, and the other singers were quite on her side: despite coming up from rather tawdry roots, Carlotta was, at least, a singer and had, upon her discovery and elevation, been conventionally trained by renowned vocal coaches before making her debut. Christine's mysterious, and apparently sudden, genius had not made her popular with the other singers who felt they had been passed over for their chance at a breakout role in Hannibal (never mind that not one of them had, even secretly, learned Elissa's part for fear of Carlotta's reaction) in favor of this sneaking 'Northern Fairy' who had snatched the lead role without ceremony.

So Christine was not welcome to dine with the Divas. Nor did she want to. She was perfectly content to try and fade into the chattering crowd of ballerinas as she had been used to doing. Some of the other dancers looked askance at her, especially since it was an open secret that she was being courted by (or at least "on terms with") nobility, but most of them left her be.

Christine had always been shy and retiring, but she'd also done her very best to be as kind and agreeable as possible to everyone she met in the Opera. She was on very good terms with the seamstresses, the carpenters, the sculptors, the painters, the shoemakers and so on, whose legends of the Opera House (those far pre-dating the infamous Ghost) she had always enjoyed listening to; and they delighted to have such a youthful and interested audience for their tales.

Today, though, the crowded refectory hushed when Christine entered the room.

Of course the confrontation at the masquerade, as insular as the interaction between herself and the Opera Ghost had seemed to her, had been witnessed by one and all. And then he had openly declared himself her mysterious teacher! Christine could only imagine the opportunity Carlotta had taken to twist this to make her look as scheming and wanton as possible.

In addition to that, Christine was horribly aware of how she must look, escorted by the conspicuously prim Vicomte. To trail on his arm around the opera, particularly in the less grand settings such as this, was tactless. It would look flaunting. It was something Carlotta would have done.

She immediately pulled her arm from Raoul's, and even he seemed to have realized the faux pas.

Meg hurried up to Christine and, bobbing a curtsy to the Vicomte, said, "Christine, come sit next to me." She took her friend's hand and pulled her to an end seat at one of the emptier tables.

Raoul, seeming satisfied that Christine would be alright in the crowded room with her dearest friend by her side, discreetly took her hand and said, "I have some things to discuss with the managers, and I'd also like to speak to the porter again. I hope you won't mind my leaving you for a few hours?"

"No, of course not," Christine replied, sweating from the heat of having all the eyes in the room fixed upon her and Raoul, who seemed to have abandoned all pretense of secrecy as to their attachment—as he had been longing to since it was established. The Opera Ghost knew now; why should not everyone else?

"Christine, we're going to go out after we eat, for a walk, you'll come with us won't you?" Meg chimed in.

"That's an excellent idea!" Raoul said with enthusiasm. She would surely be safe outside of the Opera house, in the fresh air, among friends.

Christine was not averse to the idea herself, though she had walked plenty that morning.

"Yes, I'd like to,” she said. “We can get some of those sugar plum pastries from the bakery on the corner," Christine suggested. Meg lit up at the prospect and, as the girls sat down to lose themselves in their plans for the afternoon, Raoul took his leave. Christine felt greatly more at ease for his absence.

Once Raoul was gone, Meg quickly changed the subject.

"What happened this morning, Christine?" she whispered urgently. "Monsieur le Vicomte was quite mad with worry when he found you gone. He was sure the Ghost had stolen you away!"

Well, Christine thought, feeling her insides tighten at the thought of "the Ghost", he hadn't been wrong.

"It was nothing like that," Christine insisted. "I went to the cemetery to visit my father's grave. I only wanted to be alone, and I knew that Raoul would want to go with me if I told him. I suppose I should have realized what it would look like if he woke up before I returned."

"Well, it's a good thing most everyone else had gone to mass¹³ before he did, because otherwise they would all be talking about you. Well... more than they are already...." After several moments of heavy silence, she asked, "Is it really true, Christine?" She whispered, barely making a sound. "Your tutor...the Angel...was it really... him?"

Christine's could feel her heart thudding in her throat, her face suddenly becoming very hot. Trembling, she gave a tiny, almost indiscernible nod.

Meg gasped quietly, her sloe-eyes widening.

"I didn't know, though," Christine said quickly, in hushed tones. "I didn't know he was the Ghost until... until Il Muto. I recognized his voice." This was a lie, of course. Christine had realized instantly, when she had followed him down that tunnel, that the Opera house's malign specter and her beloved teacher were one in the same.

"Was it very terrifying? At the masquerade? When he was so close to you?"

Christine trembled harder as Meg's questions brought the memory to the surface again; how absolutely overcome he'd been at the sight of her... the sensation of his leather glove brushing her cleavage as he snatched away Raoul's ring...

"Yes, it was." Christine said solemnly.

Sublime, delicious terror.

Meg, for once, didn't seem to have a response. She stared at Christine with curious concern, but had no more questions for her friend. They ate in silence as Christine tried to focus her thoughts on subjects that would not make her head muddled.

"I wonder what Raoul wanted to talk to the managers about?" she thought aloud.

"I don't know," Meg said "but he will be lucky if they see him. M. Reyer said they have been locked in their office since early this morning and demanded they not be disturbed for anything. He said he listened at the door, and they were arguing over the opera—the one that the... the Ghost composed," she mouthed the last three words with considerable mortification.

"Arguing about what?" Christine asked.

"Whether to produce it! M. Firmin is adamantly against it and says that he won't be bullied, but M. Andre says they have no choice."

This, Christine had no doubt, was the subject on which Raoul wished to converse with them. Probably to insist, on her behalf, that she would not perform in it if they did produce it. She found herself grinding her teeth, but pushed the thoughts away. She didn't have the patience to think of this right now.

"Let's not talk of this anymore," Christine sighed. Meg agreed, but it was hard to think of topics that did not involve the Ghost or his opera, so conversation was sparse, and Christine had to keep humming songs (popular songs, not opera) to occupy her thoughts until they were finished eating and out in the fresh, wintery air.

The hum of city sounds, the bright daylight reflecting off the snow, and the general, mundane ordinariness of the environs outside of the opera house were sufficient enough to clear Christine's mind and keep it away from her frustration with Raoul and flustering thoughts of the Phantom alike. It seemed to clear the minds of the other girls as well, for not one of them gave Christine an odd look or mentioned the Opera Ghost for the whole of their outing.

They got their pastries; piping hot, flaky, buttery pastries filled with rich cream cheese and sweet plum compote—a treat that could make you forget anything in the moment Afterward they had washed their sticky fingers clean by spending the afternoon gathering snowballs in the Bois and throwing them at each other, and other such wholesome winter exercises as can and should be enjoyed by anyone of any age.

The afternoon had been both invigorating and exhausting.

It was fully dark by the time they returned to the Opera Populaire, about five o'clock.

Christine was quite surprised that Raoul was not waiting at the door when they returned. When she wondered aloud at this, she was informed by the doorman that the Vicomte had had a very loud argument with the managers and left abruptly, but had asked him, the doorman, to assure Christine when she returned that he had gone home for a few hours and would be back by eight. Christine sighed and thanked the doorman before proceeding back to the dormitories with Meg. Thankfully none of the other girls had lingered to hear this interaction.

They all enjoyed a lovely warm supper and the rest of the evening passed without incident. It looked like all of the girls who had enjoyed the day out of doors would be heading for early beds.

Meg and Christine both had hot baths at around seven, talking and laughing about the afternoon's delights in very merry spirits as they undressed (Christine being very careful as she surreptitiously removed the ring and hid it in her clothes).

During this bath Christine reached for her soap and then stopped. She had two bars in the bag for her toilette: one was the French lavender soap Raoul had regularly gifted to her (one of his few useful presents), which was very fashionable; the other was a bar she had not touched in months, a modest honeysuckle scent which had previously been her customary favorite, as the scent reminded her of the home she had left so young. She was not overly fond of lavender herself, (she found it cloying rather than calming), but had used it religiously for the past three months to please Raoul. She knew she should continue to, but it couldn't hurt to use what she honestly preferred this time, when she had been so assiduous for so long. If Raoul even noticed, he would likely attribute the change to homesickness or heartsickness for her father in her time of trial; she was, after all, just a sentimental girl.

They were warmed through and scrubbed clean and headed back to the dormitories when they passed the corridor that led to the staircase down to the chapel. Christine stopped for a moment. A painted rose bush on a pasteboard scenery for Margarita's garden made her think of the roses she had taken to the cemetery that morning for her father, which she, overcome by passion, had left laying rather unceremoniously on the steps of the mausoleum when she had stood to approach the Phantom. A wave of guilt washed through her, and she decided that she had best, at least, go light a candle to make up for it.

"Christine?" Meg asked when she saw her veering off toward the chapel. "You're not going down there alone, are you?"

"Wait for me here, Meg," Christine said softly. "I won't be long. I only want to light my father's candle."

"But Christine, isn't that where..." Meg couldn't seem to decide whether to say, 'the Ghost' or 'the Angel' and so simply whispered 'he' with emphasis, "used to come to you? What if he's there?"

What indeed.

"Don't worry Meg, I won't be there long. He won't keep me from my prayers." Christine said this with a calm surety that she would never have chanced with Raoul.

Meg looked extremely unsure about this fit of filial piety, but she knew Christine too well to argue when she set her mind to something, and so stood sentinel by the archway to the stairs as Christine went down to the little chapel, for the first time in ten years, solely to do diligence to her father's memory.

She lit the little white candle and looked fondly at her father's memorial photo, saying a prayer in the quietness of her heart; then she addressed her father's memory:

Father, she thought. I know he is not the Angel of Music you promised to send, for he is not really an angel at all, but I also know you would appreciate everything he's done to bring my song back to life. He is not, I think, the protector you would have expected me to choose for myself, but he is the one I was given, and he is the one that I want. He has helped me to achieve what you always dreamed I could, and will, I hope, take my voice and my heart and my soul to even greater heights..."

She could have added more to this silent soliloquy, but she had promised to be quick, and knew she should be, for Raoul would surely return soon and she did not want him to catch her here alone, so she left her reverie there, feeling quite satisfied with it.

As she gained the doorway, she suddenly felt his presence again and her heartbeat quickened.

His. He. Him. Angel. Ghost. Phantom.

It struck Christine that she did not know his name, or even if he had one. She would ask him tomorrow night.

For now she simply smiled to herself and said very, very softly, "Goodnight, Angel."

"Goodnight, Christine," returned an ethereal whisper, so quiet only she would hear.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and then forced herself to climb the steps back to Meg.

Meg looked relieved as she turned, upon hearing her friend's slippers whispering tst-tst-tst up the stone steps.

"I told you I'd not be long," Christine said, smiling as she reached her, linking their arms and continuing on their way.

~~~~~

It was just eight when the sound of a man's boots coming up the wooden steps made all the girls in the dormitory glance at Christine with expressions varying from salacious teasing to acidic envy.

The patrón was come again. Christine looked away.

Mme. Giry was again heard, attempting to dissuade him.

"My good woman," he replied tersely. "I have already had one very unpleasant argument today, I do not wish to have another with you."

Christine could almost hear her guardian's nostrils flare, but the woman said nothing except, "I suppose you will want to see her before she retires?" in most a most frosty tone.

"If you please."

She did not, but the door was opened anyway and Christine, very embarrassed, sidled through.

"Christine," Raoul said, reaching out and taking her hands in his. He kissed her cheek and she, with subtle reluctance, kissed his.

"How are you? How was your day? I'm sorry I wasn't here when you returned."

"I'm very well, Raoul. We spent a lovely afternoon outside," she assured him with a sincere cheerfulness.

Hopefully, if tonight passed without incident he would be more easily persuaded against playing sentry tomorrow night.

"I'm glad," he said, his face more relaxed at seeing her in such good spirits. "Well, I don't want to keep you from your rest. Sleep well, Little Lotte," he said, kissing her forehead.

She let it wash over her as she had that morning, said, "Goodnight Raoul," turned away from him and returned to her bed.

She was momentarily daunted by the idea of feeling his eyes on her back again, but as she slipped her hand under the pillow and stroked the smooth stone of her ring, this irritation was quickly quashed. She would sleep well, knowing that Raoul was not the only one watching her.

~~~

Author's Notes

#poto fanfiction #the phantom of the opera #the phantom of the opera 2004 #phantom of the opera 2004 #phantom of the opera #poto 2004 #christine x erik #erik x christine #eristine #when the longing returns #poto erik #christine daae #erik the phantom #erik poto

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bewarethewolfarmy · 10 months

Text

Fate Moves Again

(Should have posted this a while back, meant to, forgot, sorry, fixing that now

Erik gets dragged further into a world he is probably not prepared for but what else is new?

Chapter Five: Ancient Conceit

Chapter Seven: Mission in the Dark )

Surprises upon surprises seemed to collect for Erik as one afternoon he found himself awakening from a nap to not be where he was before. At first a sense of panic came over him; a part of his mind was convinced by some dark belief that he'd been dreaming for a long time and was only coming out of it now, that the Library, Tsuki, Nel, it all was truly just that. The peace, the serenity, the confusion and awe and uncertainty in equal parts, all just a lie cooked up by a mind that was entirely too lonely. In that moment his heart broke only to heal once he realized that the room he awoke to was not any from his old home, that he did not recognize it in the least, and that he could still feel the soft texture of Tsuki's hoodie on his skin. Something smelled of lavender nearby and he sat up to try to get his bearings.

It appeared in all ways to be an office of sorts; he sat upon a couch, in no ways fancy or remarkable in it's design save for the fact it was obviously long enough to allow someone of Erik's height to lay upon it comfortably enough. The lights were dim, giving the faintest glow to the room around him, but used as he was to darkness and shadows his eyes were sharp enough to pick up details nevertheless. Pictures on the walls contained faces he did not recognize, paintings of landscapes and creatures that could only spawn from dream were scattered here and there. The furniture denoted simplicity yet his mind could not help but tug on the sense that something did not feel quite right; it took him a moment to find the source of the smell but a smoldering incense held by what seemed to be the statue of a dragon reasonably was the culprit to him. In some ways the office reminded him of the manager's one at the Opera Populaire, a place he'd been so many times he need only close his eyes to pull up it's image once again. Then again on thinking on it that place was far more grand and far more lit; this one on the other hand felt deliberate in it's dimness and plain sense. The only piece of furniture of any true interest he decided was the desk, a large piece made of dark wood that seemed to swallow all light that came near it; papers were scattered upon it and as he stood and approached, reaching out to take one to examine it better, he found the handwriting to be incredibly neat but written in a language he had no understanding of. A frown found his face and he set it down quickly, examining the rest of the things there: a phone that looked like it belonged in his time, a small lamp that was currently off, a paperweight shaped like a cat, a jar of ink with a quill, bound file folders and a book without a title. His curiosity settled upon the book.

“Ah I see you're awake.” Yet before his hand could make contact from behind he heard two things: the soft creak of the door as it opened and a deep warm voice that made him immediately stop.

Erik turned around to face the speaker, his expression like a child being caught being naughty. Light from the other side of the door flooded in, hurting his eyes in the change and making it hard to quite make out who it was. A soft noise he recognized as a chuckle came next and the figure in the doorway touched something on the wall, causing the lights in the room to brighten; he could now both make out the dark patterns on the walls and the one who had startled him and he suspected brought him here to this unfamiliar place.

A man of indeterminable age, the figure stood about as tall as Erik give or take an inch or two. Dark hair that was a touch too long framed an almost handsome face; it was hard to pinpoint what made it feel off though Erik would put his money on it being the far too sharp look in the man's deep brown eyes. Or maybe it was the slightly crooked angle of his smile; whatever it was, it was not a physical deformity like his and by instinct he found himself pulling on his hood to make sure it was still there and covering his face. The man wore a white shirt under a dark blue vest, formal but not overly so, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strange tattoos that littered his tan skin, designs that Erik could only partially see and certainly not make out to any reasonable degree. The man was putting on an appearance of amusement and geniality but something in the phantom's mind could not shake a sense more of being watched by a predator, some beast from the darkness of the forest that was still deciding whether to strike or not, based on whatever it's prey, Erik, did or said next.

“I apologize, you must be so confused,” said the man with another light chuckle as he stepped forward, moving further into the room.

Erik never let his eyes leave him, as if by some primal instinct that he not let the man leave his sight lest he do something terrible, but all he saw was the man cross the room, pass by him and go to stand on the other side of the desk. A faint aroma of roses followed him, tickling Erik's nose and he nearly sneezed as the man spoke again. “How about you sit down and I can explain to you why you're here?”

“As well as where here is I hope,” Erik stated finding himself instead of obeying crossing his arms over his chest, still watching the man carefully; a stubbornness grew within him and he was not about to bow now, “And of course who you are, good sir.”

The man's smile grew slightly despite Erik still standing. “Of course. You may call me Darius, I hope that will be sufficient for your needs.”

It was not but Erik was reminded of the incident not long ago with the god Thoth and Tsuki's words about giving out names when magic was involved. He supposed then it would have to do.

“I am the head of an organization called Elysium; I assume you have not been told anything about it,” Darius continued, his words coming out plainly enough but the word he spoke confused Erik and it obviously showed upon his face for the man chuckled once more, “I thought not.”

“What is this 'Elysium' you speak of then?” He knew of the place in Greek mythology, the fields of those blessed after death, but he did not feel dead at the moment nor did he find he hoped to be for once. Not while he had the goddess and the librarian waiting for him he was sure. “Elysium in simple terms is a group dedicated to the regulation and protection of magic within the city of New York City. We live in an age still where magic and the supernatural is the stuff of stories, both good and bad, and though the witch trials ended centuries ago there are still dangers that exist to harm those of us who wish only to live our lives without fear of being murdered or worse. Groups that would exploit our powers. Individuals who would have us hunted down and killed for being born. Mortals do not understand magic and thus they both fear and are obsessed with it; to protect and guide those who live here in this grand city Elysium thus exists.”

There was pride in Darius' eyes and yet something still predatory in his smile. Erik did feel a sort of kinship to the idea of being exploited and hunted, of being feared for a quirk of birth, and thus the surface felt like something he could appreciate. His mind though, looking deeper, for more meaning, more explanation, could not help but feel unsettled by something: the man's tone? The smile? The choice of words? Something else, something deeper, something primordial that tugged at his mind and told him that there was more to this story than just protection and guidance.

“And what does that have to do with me pray tell?” he asked sounding more confident than he truly felt in this moment.

“It has come to my attention that you had appeared without much warning within a building here in New York, one that Elysium keeps a very close eye on nevertheless,” Darius said and Erik narrowed his eyes at him, “As well as that you have had contact with not only persons of interest to my organization but an elder god as well.”

Thoth. Though admittedly for Erik the fact they knew about that birdbrain and him meeting didn't worry him as much as the fact that he was certain he knew who those persons of interest were and did not like it.

Darius continued. “All of those things are rather unusual in and of themselves but the truth of who you are is perhaps the most unusual, Monsieur Fantôme de l'Opéra.”

Erik did not know for certain where it came from but he had one of his red lassos in his hands fairly quick and had only taken a step forward when he was aware of some force pushing him back. His mind racing and his panic raising though the force seemed to disappate and a look of surprise and confusion crossed Darius' face as the disfigured man made his move to attack, the same force that had once tried pushing him back seeming now to sending things flying in all directions. Darius tried to speak but Erik's angry eyes seemed to glow from under his hood.

“Did you bring me here to taunt me, kill me, take me from my place of peace to torment me anew?” Erik asked his voice low and dangerous as he brought the noose around Darius' neck, “For I warn you, though I may be but a lowly creature of hell, I will not stand for such things again.”

“Incredible” was the answer he got the other man, breathed with such awe and surprise that Erik was almost taken aback by the utterance. But his true identity had been spoken and fear of exposure, least of all to those two who helped him so and were so kind to him, filled him instead with the need to bloody his hands once more to prevent it.

“Incredible you say; I wonder what you will say to save your life,” Erik stated and pulled tighter,

Darius winced but continued to smile. “I did not bring you here for any of that; I honestly just wished to talk and give you an offer.”

“An offer? And what would you be able to offer me?”

“Freedom from the Library.” In that Erik's grip did loosen some but a deep laugh left him, dark and less amused as it was incredulous.

“You think I find my sanctuary a prison? That place of learning and awe where I found myself after wandering in darkness. I walked to my death, good monsieur, I prepared myself for such; instead though I was given a chance for salvation by a goddess and an angel, given clothes, a place to stay, food and care. Freedom from the Library you say but to me the Library is freedom, from the darkness and cruelty of my past.”

“Yet you have only ever left once, when you went with them to get clothes. It may not be a prison in a traditional sense but you are trapped there whether by the will of others or your own.” Those words were truthful and dug deep. Erik narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip, causing Darius to wince some as he continued, “I should warn you that if you do not stop then I cannot guarantee the safety of Tsuki Kokuryuu.”

This man was smart. A threat to Erik would have been like nothing to him, yet another to add to the pile from a lifetime of hatred and revilement for the simple sin of being born the way he was. But Nel and Tsuki were a different story entirely; they had shown him kindness and while Nel was a goddess, powerful as she was, capable as she was, Tsuki did seem to be human and so delicate. The scene in the rain played again in his mind and he immediately removed himself, pulling back and staring at Darius with wide eyes.

The other man rubbed his neck. “Yes I thought that might get through to you though threatening her is not something I revel in. Her current existence, that Library of hers and her abilities are of use to us but you, you sir are too rare and intriguing of a find to pass up.”

“If you harm a hair upon that angel's head...” The threat hung heavy and Erik thought of Tsuki's smile, her gentleness in leading him from his hiding place in the cellar, the thousand and one little kindnesses. No doubt to him Nel, that goddess who seemed to care so for the mortal Tsuki, would bring upon fire and brimstone, perhaps Thoth too with his strange obsession, if anything ever did happen to her but he did not wish to be the cause of it nevertheless. For a wretched creature of hell, her warmth was more precious than any stone or gold in the world.

“Then perhaps you would be willing to listen to my proposition now,” Darius said and that strange slightly crooked smile returned; Erik decided upon himself that nothing could ever make him trust or like this man.

Darius gestured with the unspoken command to sit once more; this time the phantom did comply, though his posture as he sat upon the couch he'd awoken upon was stiff and ill at ease. His eyes stayed upon the other man who though obviously aware of the displeasure simply nodded and spoke once more, “As I was saying before, I offer you freedom from the little world you seem so content to entrap yourself in and a way to make use of those legendary skills of you. I have heard the stories about you of course, the grotesquely deformed man of pain and talent who hid himself away from the world under the Opera Populaire, who let his obsessions and cruelty get the better of him and thus caused the downfall of not only that place but the woman he professed to love. A man it is said who once had acted as assassin to the Shah as well as architect and genius composer and thus possesses a great talent for murder.”

Erik felt like sinking into the couch. Not a word Darius spoke was incorrect but he felt himself become not only uncomfortable but sick with each of them. He did not wish though to let this man see him falter and wither though and thought of him as he did Raoul, Andre and Firmin, Bouqet, pretty much all of those idiots he had had to deal with once before. An idiot, a fool, who was an obstacle in his world.

“Elysium as I said before is an organization for the protection of the magical communities of New York City, a way to give them peace of mind in a world which would harm and take advantage of them,” Darius spoke fingers templed as he leaned over his desk, “We go about this in many ways but unfortunately circumstances sometimes require us to employ more...aggressive methods. On occasion those possessed of power decide to make use of it in ways that draw too much attention to them and we must intervene to intercept them and try to impart upon them the importance of secrecy; many take our warnings to heart and cease,” something told Erik that those warnings were likely quite similar to the one he had been given, “but others prove more stubborn or in some cases more malicious in their actions. For those individuals we sometimes must unfortunately make sure they are eliminated as swiftly and quietly as possible to keep the rest of us safe.”

“Murder you mean,” Erik spoke and saw Darius' eyes sharpen in response; used as he was to such looks the phantom did not falter and continued, “Those you deem unwilling to cooperate are to be killed, for the safety of others.”

“We give them many chances,” Darius countered, “Attempt to get them to see the error of their ways. Such measures are not taken without much thought and only if it is deemed absolutely necessary for the protection of those with magic in this city. Not all of us have the privilege of having a god protecting us after all.”

“You call those without magic mortal yes? The way I see it, mortal or witch, nothing is different; I was tasked to kill for the grace of my masters before, you wish to make me do it again with threat upon one of the few people to show me kindness in this strange world and time. Because you deem those you wish killed unworthy of life.”

“There are monsters in the shadows, ones like you who have killed innocents and others for the pettiest of reasons,” Darius said with a frown and again with that strange force that tried to bare down upon Erik, making it hard to breathe, “Using powers they were blessed with to do so and thus threatening us all with exposure if they are not contained. If they will not stop on their own and they will not leave New York willingly, then the only other option is their death.”

What of imprisonment, thought Erik. Or surely some way to restrain their powers. It seemed to him, layman as he was to the ways of magic, that there surely were other ways, other avenues to follow and partake in. But Darius seemed uninterested in them and the questions themselves stayed within his head instead of spoken aloud. He knew men like this one before, gods in their own eyes. Indulging them was a dangerous game and questioning them was not something that ever led anywhere good. Erik knew what it was to be singleminded to all other options, which made it all the easier for him to recognize it in someone else.

In a perfect world then he would deny this, walk away and be done with him. But the threat against Tsuki hung above his head like the sword of Damocles and he could not move for fear that thread would snap. He did not wish to be anyone's weapon ever again, to be at another's beck and call as such, to be someone else's monster; his hands clenched the lasso tight and he remembered the escape from Persia to France, and he wondered how long it would be, how bloodied his hands again, before this self-important monster decided as well that he was better off killing the bound phantom rather than let him truly be free. This was no offer of freedom and they both knew it; the Library was that but he was already trapped and he saw he had no choice if he wanted to protect his gentle, warm little world of kindness he had found.

“I don't care for your justifications and lies, Darius,” Erik said his voice formed of coldness and cruelty that resembled the Phantom but not Erik; for a moment he was the Opera Ghost again, confident in his disgust of a human being, “I will accept your offer only because I will not allow any harm to come to the one who has shown me nothing but generosity since the moment we met, know that now.”

“I suppose that is as good as anything,” Darius said and again with that strange uneven smile; the force disappeared again and Erik stood up, Darius doing the same, “I will give you your first assignment soon; I do look forward to working with you.”

A hand offered in handshake, as if they were friends, as if this was anything less than an absolutely abhorrent situation. Erik had been taken from his sanctuary to meet a man he did not like, had his friend threatened, his secret exposed, and now to be made into an assassin once again. He would have much preferred reading or listening to more stories of the gods from Nel, anything but this, and he surely would prefer anything to actually touching Darius. Surely refusing that would not put Tsuki in any danger. What felt like an eternity passed before it seemed to dawn to the other man that the phantom would not be shaking his hand; a sigh passed Darius' lips and he lowered the hand before speaking again.

“All agents of Elysium go by a codename, to protect their identities,” Darius said and Erik did his best to hold back a laugh, “We will need to think of one for you, one that does not involve your precious alias'.”

“That is fine by me,” Erik said; though the titles of the OG, the Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera were so ingrained in his existence and story, they were ultimately just more metaphysical masks for him to wear. To be called the Angel of Music had been the closest to something precious to him but that now too was tainted by memories and actions that had ultimately been his own fault. A new appellation would mean no more or less than any of the others, including his own name.

Except Nel and Tsuki called him Erik and it sounded so sweet. Not monster, not the living dead, not grotesque or abomination. They called him by name and that alone made it precious enough to need to be protected.

“I wish to go home, you can figure out that codename by yourself, monseiur,” Erik said waving it off.

“I cannot nor will I return you to the Opera Populaire.” For a moment Erik was frozen, unsure what he meant until he realized the man was serious.

He frowned. “I meant the Library.”

Darius blinked, seeming surprised by that, genuinely surprised. But he nodded and waved his hand towards the door. “Right. Well then simply go through that door then; you will find yourself outside the Library once you do. Unfortunately because of certain magics upon the place I cannot simply transport you back inside, it was hard enough getting you out without alerting the shadows or Nel, but I assume you will be fine to get inside on your own.”

Erik did not care to ask more questions though they did come up from that comment. He simply wanted to go home, needed to go home, and without a second glance at Darius he headed to the door, stepping through without hesitation. He had no doubts the man watched with a crooked smile.

It was cold and raining and he was standing in the same backalley that Nel, Tsuki and he had used when they went to Henry's. Behind him was a blank wall though he had walked through a door to get there; in front of him was the door to Tsuki's home. A thousand questions bore down on him, alone as he finally was, and the full realization of agreeing to kill for a man he did not like or trust tried to crush him. Erik was sure Tsuki and Nel would never approve, least of all if they knew why he'd agreed; perhaps instead he should have called the man's bluff, could anyone actually touch Tsuki with Nel around? Why hadn't he thought of that before?

Because of panic. Erik was terrified to lose his safety and to lose this peace he had managed to find; hearing it be threatened frightened him and he had acted and spoken without thinking it all through first. And now he was bound by word to a man with a crooked smile and too sharp of eyes; this could not possibly end well.

“Erik? What are you doing out here?” Tsuki's voice broke through his thoughts and he turned to see her standing only a few feet away, umbrella in one hand and a bag hanging off the other arm. Her expression was soft and confused, to be expected when he was not the type to leave without being made to.

He watched her as she approached, examining her as she examined him; he could not and would not tell her the truth. Instead he smiled weakly and shrugged, “I simply wished to step outside for a moment, I am fine.”

“It's raining and all you're wearing is that hoodie, you'll get soaked like that,” she said in response, sounding more confused than convinced.

Her hand reached out to him and suddenly the world before him juxtaposed with the past. Her gentle voice, gentle then, gentle now, her long thin fingers, and a deep, dark loneliness that strangled his heart; she'd almost died back then, he wasn't sure how he knew that but he did as surely as he knew that he had made a mistake once more. Darius' implied threat had rattled him and like him returned him to that night, reminded him of the monster he was and the weaknesses he indulged in. But to agree to be another's assassin once more, how would she react? This pure angel, this kind soul, so afraid was he to call her friend; surely not well. The idea of it shook him more and he startled as she touched his face, warm despite the cold rain.

“We should get inside, I'd be devastated if you got sick,” Tsuki told him.

Erik could only think to nod. What else was there to do? He couldn't tell her what happened, he couldn't admit to the newest mistake he'd made. Her smile usually made him feel warm, like smiling as well for once in his cursed horrid existence; seeing it now just made his heart sink more and he let her take his hand, leading him back inside.

He just hoped Darius never did call upon him to act.

#poto #phantom of the opera #angel of the night #nehalennia #tsuki #fanfic #fanfiction #erik destler

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