A/N-This short story falls after Red Rose and A Second Chance, just a short vignette one night in their married life. I'll probably change the title at some point. Please read and review.

Disclaimer—All characters used in the Night Encounters series belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, or Andrew Lloyd Webber. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, music, and the Opera Charles Garnier, all errors and liberties taken are mine.

-Riene

Healing Balm

2017

Riene

The clouds appeared willing enough to hold off rain for another hour at least, so Christine Daae made her way to the back entrance of the Opera House, the area that held the temporary stables. The current production utilized a team of horses, and the temporary stables saved much time in transporting the great beasts to and from the country fields they called home.

She made her way down the row of stalls, patting familiar velvet noses thrust hopefully out between the wooden bars, until she came to the end of the row. She slid back the crossbar and stepped into the stall, lifting her skirts above the straw. "Hello, Caesar," she murmured, stroking an arched neck as the gelding whuffled over her in delight, slobbering on her cloak. Christine laughed, running her fingers through his mane. "I believe you know I've brought you an apple, don't you?"

"Aye, and you'd best give it to him before he ruins that fine dress of yours," came a gruff voice behind her.

Christine laughed again, a bell like peal that brought a smile to the old man's weathered face. The white horse stamped an impatient hoof, watching her with intelligent eyes. She fished the apple from her cloak pocket and presented it to a delighted Caesar, who happily munched the fruit in messy bites.

"Here, you, get yourself away from Mlle Christine," Jakob said, pushing the animal's head away and looking at her from under bushy brows. "What brings you to the stables, Nightingale, and getting your fine feathers so dirty in the straw?"

Christine ducked her head and smiled at the old nickname and perched on a bale of hay as she had so often in years past. The old man's stern face softened, watching her. Once she had come regularly to the stables, a lonely child who preferred to spend her few spare moments among the stock and sometimes sang to them all in her thin, sweet voice of girlhood.

"I had a question for you," she said, rising to stroke the great animal's glossy neck again.

"Oh, aye?"

"If you had an…an animal, in your care, one that had been hurt before, whipped and b-beaten, to the point it was rather…badly scarred…is there anything you could do for it? Any salve or ointment that you might use?"

Her face was hidden by the horse, her voice slightly muffled, and Jakob stared hard at the young woman. "Aye, there is, yes…but you will tell me now if you know of someone mistreating one of God's creatures, Mlle." His voice was firm and she hastened to reply.

"No, no…please don't think that. It is an old injury of which I speak. I just thought …you were the first person I thought to ask."

Her ears were pink, from where he could see them, partly hidden in the dark curls swept up and pinned carefully. The gold ring on her finger glimmered in the dusty light, and a terrible thought struck him.

"Nightingale," he said slowly, "no one is hurting you, I hope?"

Christine looked up, her blue eyes so open and horrified he felt an immediate sweeping sense of relief. "Oh no! Of course not!"

Jakob awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. "Now, don't worry, Nightingale, I had to ask. Yes, I have something that might do the trick. A salve, useful for softening and easing scarring. I make it myself. If you want some, I can spare you a jar."

"Yes, please," she said softly and he nodded, stumping back into the tack room.

The old man returned a few minutes later. "It took me a while to find a bit of string to tie the lid on, like," he apologized. "I've wiped it off and wrapped it in a sack for you." He looked directly into her eyes. "It won't hurt your hands, if you want to rub it on skin…it won't hurt a person at all."

"Thank you, Jakob," she said softly. "I'll let you know if it works." Clutching the small flat jar to her chest, she gave him a heartbreaking smile and, shaking the straw from her skirts, walked away.

The inevitable sewing done for the night, Christine drew her knees up and stared into the flames. It was a relatively warm evening, the book she'd chosen was at a dull place, and it was nearing time to retire. She glanced over at her husband; Erik sat at the piano as he often did at night, leaning on one hand, fingers idly wandering the keys, soft phrases and melodies taking the form of his thoughts. His eyes were shut.

She'd leaned early on in their marriage that Erik rarely simply went to bed. He had nothing that resembled a normal sleeping schedule.

I am somewhat of an insomniac, Christine; so do not be alarmed if you hear me up and about during the night. I will endeavor not to wake you, though, he'd said, but this she'd found was an understatement. Erik tended to work himself into a state of exhaustion and often fell asleep where he was. Many nights she'd found him, head pillowed on his arms at his desk or the keyboard, or leaning sideways against his hand in his chair by the fireplace, and only occasionally beside her in bed. He would sleep a few hours at best, then the nightmares would begin. There was little she could do, she'd learned, except to hold him as he twitched and cried out in his fitful sleep. It broke her heart, listening to the disjointed words, wondering what horrific memories rose up in those dark hours, memories he would never discuss afterwards.

She came to stand behind him, gently resting her hands on his bent shoulders, squeezing the tense muscles. After a minute he relaxed into her touch, his breathing evening out and sighing once, deeply, in pleasure.

"Come to bed, my love, and I'll continue this," she murmured in his ear. He made a half-hearted, token protest, but followed her willingly enough into their shared bedroom. Her husband, she'd discovered, craved her touch, her hand in his while walking, her fingers wavering through his thin hair, any idle caress. "You're just a big cat," she'd teased him once, and he'd looked so hurt and offended. She'd immediately felt badly afterwards, remembering his neglected childhood.

He'd changed into a nightshirt by the time she emerged from the washroom, for even after some years of marriage he was reluctant to reveal his disfigured body to the light. It took very little persuasion for him to lie down, and she eased the nightshirt up. Erik immediately reached for the candle, but Christine stopped his hand, stroking the marred flesh of his back soothingly. "Relax, my love…I've seen you many times before," she said softly, and straddled his legs.

"…shouldn't have to…" he mumbled, and exasperated, she leaned forward and deftly removed the mask as well. His eyes flew open and she scowled.

"I want you to relax, and you can barely breathe with that on. Now, husband, no more arguing."

"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly, and shut his eyes.

Christine rubbed her hands together, warming them, then dipped her fingers into the salve, sniffing it curiously. The ointment had a vaguely herbal scent, not unpleasant or medicinal at all. She leaned forward and began stroking his back, long caresses, smearing the balm over his tight, scarred flesh. Erik arched and rolled his back under her weight, stretching and easing the tension, then allowed himself to relax. She leaned forward, using her body weight to put some pressure against the hard, tight muscles. Erik groaned in pleasure as she kneaded his back, and within minutes was deeply asleep.

Christine pulled down her husband's nightshirt and curled up beside him, one arm around his narrow waist and her cheek resting between his shoulders. It would take time to see if the salve might do anything to help the old wealds and marks on his back, but for now she was content just easing his pain. Her friends would never understand the depth of her love for this deeply flawed, scarred man, with his violent past and uncertain future, but he was hers to love, to cherish, to stand by and help as best she could.

With a smile, Christine pulled the covers up around them, and blew out the remaining candle.

I hope you enjoyed reading this! Please be kind and review. :)