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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 32/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1771
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Down Once More...
THE ROAD TO HELL
She was blind.
The darkness surrounding her was so complete that for a long moment Christine had no idea where she was. She reached out for Erik, but he had moved away after setting her back on her feet when they landed; everything had happened so fast that she could not even guess at how far they had travelled. Were they still beneath the stage, in some secret chamber he had constructed, or had that trapdoor led further into his subterranean kingdom?
“Erik?” she called softly, hoping that he had not left her. “Erik, where are you?”
His hand found hers unerringly in the blackness. “Not another word,” he said, “Just follow me.”
Christine fought down a hysterical laugh, for what choice did she have in the matter? She allowed him to lead her, expecting to have to constantly avoid obstacles or trip over her own feet, but he somehow knew exactly where he was going. Perhaps all those years in a twilight world had given him the ability to see in the dark. His breathing was loud and laboured in the silence; though she could tell he was fighting to control it. Before long the pace he set began to slow and by the time they had traversed a winding staircase down which they seemed to Christine to be descending into the bowels of the earth, he was forced to stop. She rested her free hand on his forearm and opened her mouth to ask him if he was all right, but before she could speak a long finger pressed lightly against her lips in wordless command.
The journey seemed to take hours, and his hand grew icier than ever in hers. Eventually she could hear the lapping of water against stone and realised that they must have reached the lake; the strange luminescence produced by the rock of the cavern was a relief after so long in darkness. When Erik lit the lamp on the bow of the gondola Christine had to cover her eyes against the sudden flare of brightness before the flame settled behind the glass. He straightened with difficulty, suppressing a grunt of pain, and held out his hand to her, assisting her into the boat. Again she tried to speak as he took up the pole and pushed off from the little jetty, but one glance at the determination etched into the visible side of his face stilled her tongue.
The strange, hollow hush of the cellars enveloped them during their trip across the lake. Unlike her previous experiences, this time the eerie light made Christine shudder, shadows from the lantern flying across the water and the cavern roof like malevolent spirits dancing just out of reach. She watched Erik anxiously; it was clear that each stroke he made with the pole was taking more and more effort and his hands were shaking terribly. When at last the boat bumped against the shore before his home she jumped out, not caring that her skirts and boots became soaked as she sloshed through the chilly water, and took his arm, drawing him into the house.
It took several frustrated moments for her to find the gas lamps and turn them up, casting a warm yellow glow over the hallway. Erik leaned against the wall, evidently trying to compose himself; once they could see each other, however, his eyes went wide and he stood up far too quickly, taking two steps towards her and gesturing to the blood which she now realised stained the front of her dress.
“Dear God, why did you not say something?” he cried, horrified, his hands hovering as if he wanted to touch her, to search frantically for injuries, but didn’t quite dare. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt, Erik,” Christine told him, a lump forming in her throat. “It’s not my blood.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Then whose - ?”
She closed the gap between them and began to lift the cloak he wore, struggling with its voluminous folds. He fought her briefly, startled by this apparent attack upon his privacy, before she found the suit jacket underneath and pulled it aside to reveal the spreading patch of crimson across the left shoulder of his shirt. Christine felt her gorge rise, but she choked it back down; he needed her to be strong, she could not afford to go to pieces now.
To her surprise, Erik looked at the blood almost dispassionately, as if it were not his wound, not his shoulder. “Ah,” he said. “That certainly explains a few things.”
Tears started in Christine’s eyes. “Is that all you can say?” she asked hoarsely. “You could have been killed – Raoul shot you!” Even as she said the words she still could not believe it; despite his threats to be rid of the Phantom, she had never thought he would actually shoot a man in cold blood. That wasn’t the Raoul she knew.
“And his skill with a pistol is as bad as I expected. The fool. He should have aimed for my head. ” Very slowly, Erik turned to meet her gaze with an unfocussed one of his own. “I’m sorry, Christine.”
“Sorry? Whatever for? Erik - ”
“I failed you. I gave you my word that I would stay away and thanks to my own vanity you could have been harmed as well.” Once again, Erik reached out a trembling hand, his fingers stopping just shy of her cheek as if to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall. “If you had taken that bullet I think I would have died. Christine - ”
“It doesn’t matter now.” She swallowed against that lump, which seemed to be growing with every passing second. “We have to get you somewhere more comfortable, and then I will fetch help. Where is your room?”
He pointed vaguely to a door further down the hallway, next to the bedroom in which she had spent her first night underground. How long ago it seemed! That evening, the gala and everything which followed seemed a world away, as though it had happened to someone else. Erik tried to take a step, but he stumbled, a hand flying out to support himself on the table by the front door; the lamp which stood there wobbled and toppled over with a crash, its glass cover shattering against the flagstones. Quickly, Christine caught him before he could follow it and slipped her neck beneath his good shoulder, gripping him tightly around the waist. He tensed at her close proximity and she felt her cheeks burn; she had never been so close to a man until tonight, not even Raoul. Erik was heavier than she expected and as he leaned on her they both almost went down under his weight.
Somehow, she managed to remain standing and get him into the darkened room, sitting him down on the enormous bed. Hastily, her own hands shaking now, she lit the candles in the branched holder on the table that stood to one side; in their light the wounded Phantom looked terrible, his unmasked features white and haggard. There were lines around his eyes and mouth that she had never seen before, and he suddenly appeared to be much older.
Christine removed the Don Juan cloak, her hands clumsy in her haste, throwing it over the nearby armchair. It was quickly joined by his jacket and waistcoat, her heart clenching at the cry he bit back despite her attempts to be gentle. Once she was down to just his shirt the injury looked much worse. Her stomach lurched as she beheld his scarlet-soaked sleeve and the rivulets of blood which had run down his arm and dried in rusty stains in the palm of his hand. The most blood she had ever seen in her life was when Giselle in the chorus had a nose-bleed; the room span around her just as it had then and she became aware that she was trembling from head to foot.
What was she supposed to do now? She was no nurse; the most she had ever been forced to deal with in her young life was a torn nail or blistered feet from Madame Giry’s punishing practise sessions. She found herself staring blankly around the room, almost hoping that someone would appear and tell her the next line, give her a cue, a direction to tell her how to act.
In spite of his pain, Erik seemed to understand the reason for her hesitation. “The important thing is to... to stop the bleeding,” he said faintly, gesturing towards the carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed.
Grateful for the assistance, Christine threw it open to find sheets and blankets neatly folded inside. Taking one of the former, she swiftly tore it into uneven strips, folding the largest under Erik’s faltering instruction to form a pad which she pressed to the wound with as much force as she dared. Loath to hurt him further, she bound it up with her improvised bandages; he bit down hard on his lip, his breath coming fast through what there was of his nose, but made no other sound. When she was done, she finally allowed him to lie back against the pillows, pulling a blanket over his chest.
“Are you sure you will be all right alone?” she asked.
His eyes had slid shut, and he did not open them when he nodded. “Take the lamp... and be careful. They have... seen me now... they may turn... nasty.” His voice faded, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “Let no one... no one but Antoinette...”
“Shush, I understand.” Christine squeezed his hand. Always cold, his fingers felt now like those of a corpse. How much blood had he lost? How much more could he stand to lose? “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promised, and reluctantly left him, hurrying back to the gondola, which waited with its lantern like a beacon in the shadows, bobbing gently in the water.
Christine had never so much as rowed a boat on the river, but she had no choice now. It would take too long to skirt around the shore of the lake as she had done before. As she stepped into the little craft, feeling it tip terrifyingly under her, and took up the pole, she hoped it would be as easy as Erik made it look.
Sending out a prayer to her father to keep her safe, she determinedly pushed off into the inky blackness of Lake Averne.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1771
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Down Once More...
THE ROAD TO HELL
She was blind.
The darkness surrounding her was so complete that for a long moment Christine had no idea where she was. She reached out for Erik, but he had moved away after setting her back on her feet when they landed; everything had happened so fast that she could not even guess at how far they had travelled. Were they still beneath the stage, in some secret chamber he had constructed, or had that trapdoor led further into his subterranean kingdom?
“Erik?” she called softly, hoping that he had not left her. “Erik, where are you?”
His hand found hers unerringly in the blackness. “Not another word,” he said, “Just follow me.”
Christine fought down a hysterical laugh, for what choice did she have in the matter? She allowed him to lead her, expecting to have to constantly avoid obstacles or trip over her own feet, but he somehow knew exactly where he was going. Perhaps all those years in a twilight world had given him the ability to see in the dark. His breathing was loud and laboured in the silence; though she could tell he was fighting to control it. Before long the pace he set began to slow and by the time they had traversed a winding staircase down which they seemed to Christine to be descending into the bowels of the earth, he was forced to stop. She rested her free hand on his forearm and opened her mouth to ask him if he was all right, but before she could speak a long finger pressed lightly against her lips in wordless command.
The journey seemed to take hours, and his hand grew icier than ever in hers. Eventually she could hear the lapping of water against stone and realised that they must have reached the lake; the strange luminescence produced by the rock of the cavern was a relief after so long in darkness. When Erik lit the lamp on the bow of the gondola Christine had to cover her eyes against the sudden flare of brightness before the flame settled behind the glass. He straightened with difficulty, suppressing a grunt of pain, and held out his hand to her, assisting her into the boat. Again she tried to speak as he took up the pole and pushed off from the little jetty, but one glance at the determination etched into the visible side of his face stilled her tongue.
The strange, hollow hush of the cellars enveloped them during their trip across the lake. Unlike her previous experiences, this time the eerie light made Christine shudder, shadows from the lantern flying across the water and the cavern roof like malevolent spirits dancing just out of reach. She watched Erik anxiously; it was clear that each stroke he made with the pole was taking more and more effort and his hands were shaking terribly. When at last the boat bumped against the shore before his home she jumped out, not caring that her skirts and boots became soaked as she sloshed through the chilly water, and took his arm, drawing him into the house.
It took several frustrated moments for her to find the gas lamps and turn them up, casting a warm yellow glow over the hallway. Erik leaned against the wall, evidently trying to compose himself; once they could see each other, however, his eyes went wide and he stood up far too quickly, taking two steps towards her and gesturing to the blood which she now realised stained the front of her dress.
“Dear God, why did you not say something?” he cried, horrified, his hands hovering as if he wanted to touch her, to search frantically for injuries, but didn’t quite dare. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt, Erik,” Christine told him, a lump forming in her throat. “It’s not my blood.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Then whose - ?”
She closed the gap between them and began to lift the cloak he wore, struggling with its voluminous folds. He fought her briefly, startled by this apparent attack upon his privacy, before she found the suit jacket underneath and pulled it aside to reveal the spreading patch of crimson across the left shoulder of his shirt. Christine felt her gorge rise, but she choked it back down; he needed her to be strong, she could not afford to go to pieces now.
To her surprise, Erik looked at the blood almost dispassionately, as if it were not his wound, not his shoulder. “Ah,” he said. “That certainly explains a few things.”
Tears started in Christine’s eyes. “Is that all you can say?” she asked hoarsely. “You could have been killed – Raoul shot you!” Even as she said the words she still could not believe it; despite his threats to be rid of the Phantom, she had never thought he would actually shoot a man in cold blood. That wasn’t the Raoul she knew.
“And his skill with a pistol is as bad as I expected. The fool. He should have aimed for my head. ” Very slowly, Erik turned to meet her gaze with an unfocussed one of his own. “I’m sorry, Christine.”
“Sorry? Whatever for? Erik - ”
“I failed you. I gave you my word that I would stay away and thanks to my own vanity you could have been harmed as well.” Once again, Erik reached out a trembling hand, his fingers stopping just shy of her cheek as if to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall. “If you had taken that bullet I think I would have died. Christine - ”
“It doesn’t matter now.” She swallowed against that lump, which seemed to be growing with every passing second. “We have to get you somewhere more comfortable, and then I will fetch help. Where is your room?”
He pointed vaguely to a door further down the hallway, next to the bedroom in which she had spent her first night underground. How long ago it seemed! That evening, the gala and everything which followed seemed a world away, as though it had happened to someone else. Erik tried to take a step, but he stumbled, a hand flying out to support himself on the table by the front door; the lamp which stood there wobbled and toppled over with a crash, its glass cover shattering against the flagstones. Quickly, Christine caught him before he could follow it and slipped her neck beneath his good shoulder, gripping him tightly around the waist. He tensed at her close proximity and she felt her cheeks burn; she had never been so close to a man until tonight, not even Raoul. Erik was heavier than she expected and as he leaned on her they both almost went down under his weight.
Somehow, she managed to remain standing and get him into the darkened room, sitting him down on the enormous bed. Hastily, her own hands shaking now, she lit the candles in the branched holder on the table that stood to one side; in their light the wounded Phantom looked terrible, his unmasked features white and haggard. There were lines around his eyes and mouth that she had never seen before, and he suddenly appeared to be much older.
Christine removed the Don Juan cloak, her hands clumsy in her haste, throwing it over the nearby armchair. It was quickly joined by his jacket and waistcoat, her heart clenching at the cry he bit back despite her attempts to be gentle. Once she was down to just his shirt the injury looked much worse. Her stomach lurched as she beheld his scarlet-soaked sleeve and the rivulets of blood which had run down his arm and dried in rusty stains in the palm of his hand. The most blood she had ever seen in her life was when Giselle in the chorus had a nose-bleed; the room span around her just as it had then and she became aware that she was trembling from head to foot.
What was she supposed to do now? She was no nurse; the most she had ever been forced to deal with in her young life was a torn nail or blistered feet from Madame Giry’s punishing practise sessions. She found herself staring blankly around the room, almost hoping that someone would appear and tell her the next line, give her a cue, a direction to tell her how to act.
In spite of his pain, Erik seemed to understand the reason for her hesitation. “The important thing is to... to stop the bleeding,” he said faintly, gesturing towards the carved wooden chest at the foot of the bed.
Grateful for the assistance, Christine threw it open to find sheets and blankets neatly folded inside. Taking one of the former, she swiftly tore it into uneven strips, folding the largest under Erik’s faltering instruction to form a pad which she pressed to the wound with as much force as she dared. Loath to hurt him further, she bound it up with her improvised bandages; he bit down hard on his lip, his breath coming fast through what there was of his nose, but made no other sound. When she was done, she finally allowed him to lie back against the pillows, pulling a blanket over his chest.
“Are you sure you will be all right alone?” she asked.
His eyes had slid shut, and he did not open them when he nodded. “Take the lamp... and be careful. They have... seen me now... they may turn... nasty.” His voice faded, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “Let no one... no one but Antoinette...”
“Shush, I understand.” Christine squeezed his hand. Always cold, his fingers felt now like those of a corpse. How much blood had he lost? How much more could he stand to lose? “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promised, and reluctantly left him, hurrying back to the gondola, which waited with its lantern like a beacon in the shadows, bobbing gently in the water.
Christine had never so much as rowed a boat on the river, but she had no choice now. It would take too long to skirt around the shore of the lake as she had done before. As she stepped into the little craft, feeling it tip terrifyingly under her, and took up the pole, she hoped it would be as easy as Erik made it look.
Sending out a prayer to her father to keep her safe, she determinedly pushed off into the inky blackness of Lake Averne.
