This is the sequel to Mon Aimé Eros.

READ THAT FIRST TO UNDERSTAND THIS!

2 year now, is it? Maybe. I am so, so sorry that I have been absent from this world. I gained love, lost love, gained it again. My writing has improved so much! (Well, in my eyes). I hope you enjoy the rest of the story just like you enjoyed the first part.

If you're just now stumbling upon this, I would advise you to read the first book. It is on my old account, Tanglepaw of WindClan. Here is the link to it:

www . fanfiction . net/s/2801410/1/MonAimEros

Remove the spaces and you are in!

So, without further ado...

Coup de Foudre

"J'ai eu la vie facile mais je n'servais à rien,

Puis j'ai partagé sa peine,aujourd'hui je suis quelqu'un

Sarah,reine des femmes, devant elle je m'incline

Car je peux voir ce matin un ange dans ma cuisine

Sarah elle est belle mais seulement quand elle est nue "

- Kyo's "Sarah"

Part 3: You Kiss By The Book

Act 3, Scene 1: Lachrymose / Laceration

The cold outside was bitter, biting at their skin and tearing at her scalp. She wished for nothing more then dark butterflies; those akin to finding a face in the moon and the next day seeing it sweep away in an eclipse. Those dark butterflies whose wings were much more feather then fragile material in hues of purple and gold. And then she wished for fire, fire to burn away the butterflies and scold the man whose blood was now on her. Fire, she imagined, would dance about him, engulfing his hands, heart, and FACE.

Alas, for that was the sole reason she was here. She was the fire spewed forward to consume a marred face and soul.

The cold outside was bitter, but not as bitter as the cold inside of Raoul.

He had brought them both to a lake, not unlike one next to a door in the wall, not unlike one that holds houses for sirens, but varying in likeness so what would've been a source of familiarity melts to one of freezing oddity.

Raoul opens a door to the cool mansion by the lake, not seeming to be intimidated by the way the house looms so high into the clouds that its' shadow touches the banks of the water, even though those are far off to keep erosion at bay. She, on the other hand, is so scared of the house and what it might hold that her heart beats in her throat.

Without awareness of Christine's terror, Raoul enters the threshold. She is but a rag doll to him now, a tiny plastic peg in the toy car. Or, better yet, the German puzzle box he could never figure out as a kid. Philippe always had to ravel the pieces back together for him.

If he had seen Raoul now, what would Philippe think? Would his thoughts run dry from shock in his own brother's animalistic behavior? Or would the river of his mind overflow with horror upon seeing the new caricature minted onto Raoul's skin?

He knew what Philippe would think. And that was why he led Christine into the first room, one painted sky blue, and pushed her to the floor. That was why he grabbed the dagger that had been lying silent in its sheath and pointed it to her glistening forehead.

"Please, Raoul…" Her voice was shaking. "Don't do this. I can help you, believe me. You can be normal."

"You call this normal? How can I ever be normal again?!" He turned the blade and directed it towards his own face. The skin was like the first stitches Christine had put into the duck: messy, lopsided, and with threads of it hanging out in awkward places. But all of the blood streaming over his lips, flecking his eyelashes, and mixing with his tears made it all seem worse then it actually was… this was what Christine hoped.

Not too long ago they had been running on the edge of the knife, and now, it seemed, they had toppled over. Erik had slashed Raoul's face like one might curtains. Raoul had grabbed Christine and fled.

Christine bit her tongue. "I…" She stopped, and leaned forward. Her hand touched his, and though his skin did twitch, he did not recoil completely. She let her fingers wind around his tense hand.

"Lie down, Raoul. I can find the kitchen and begin to make you tea; that, or also retrieve bandages from a cupboard. You're still bleeding. Do you know this house well enough to tell me where those things are? …Raoul?"

While she had been speaking, Raoul had sunk to his knees. Christine had assumed he was just going into hysterics, but really he had fallen asleep with his hand in hers. Sighing, Christine gently pushed him to the ground, opening his mouth slightly so he would still be able to breathe. His nose, she saw, had taken quite a blow.

She rose to her shoes. Now, finally, she could think. Raoul's injuries had to be seen too; she should call a physician. On the carriage ride to the house she had not seen any houses; Christine figured that if she ran on the road for long enough she'd hit a doctor.

Then there was the simple matter of Erik. His whereabouts, feelings, health status. As she wandered the house, not knowing if she was looking for a way out or bandages for Raoul, she pondered. What had happened to her angel, anyway? Why had he let Raoul spirit her away?

She stopped walking. That last question lingered in her mind. Why had he let Raoul kidnap her? Take her? Take her from him? She was in a stark white room, with chairs pushed to the walls, and a wide window. Through cracks in the window glass the sticky night air escaped into the room. Christine went to that window, pressed her hand to it, and viewed the sparkling lake from her second story perch. Silence was her only companion now.

Tears she hadn't let come before, not even on that long carriage ride, puddle in the dark hollows beneath her eyes. It was one of the first times Christine had ever cried for herself; she had always been too proud to succumb to an act of such self-pity. Tears had always been Erik's thing.

Now she cried. 'Everyday we would count the similarities between us… my pale skin used to be enough to satisfy that thirst, too; his thirst for wanting me to be like him,' Christine mused. 'Now is my mind finally cracking from his games? Is this but another challenge put forward to test me? Is this another spade, another gun, another lake?'

The lake.

It glittered through the leaves, echoing whispers from years gone by. It was all of the black butterflies and Don Juan's and V shaped dresses in Paris. Somewhere, a clock boomed once. The clock's boom sent shivers through her ribcage and reverberated through her skin. She found the latch to the window and opened it.

"Christine… Christine…"

For a moment, she died and went to heaven. Who else knew to say her name with such love that it slipped off of the letters and collected at the bottom of the word? Her nails dug into the window latch. The lake blurred in front of her

"Christine…!"

Raoul's cry matched the one her heart was making. Slammed back into a reality of dying, disfigured men she turned and left her window to cloud.

Their first night was spent in separate rooms; Raoul had cried himself into what appeared to be a coma and Christine had spent the night by the window. The following days proved to be just as interesting as that. He took to smashing mirrors and she filled her hours with cleaning up the glass. He found books on facial deformities and Christine slipped vodka into his tea to make him forget everything he read.

The only strain of hope was the scars that wrapped around her flesh. They were the only consistencies in her life. 'Once upon a time,' Christine thought as she stood by the window. The cool breeze, hinting at a chilly afternoon, barely lifted her thick brown curls. 'An angel loved me.'

She looked down to the windowpane. A single piece of rolled parchment rested on the white wood. She unfurled it, knowing instantly whose hand it had come from.

Tax me of my face and receive your fine

See to it for me to be by the clock at nine

On the twenty-first ring you shall be mine.

-Raoul

So. It had finally happened. Raoul had snapped (even more) and was going to murder her. Drown her in her lake. Hang her from her window. Both ways would be ironic and would satisfy his need for revenge. Oddly enough, Christine wasn't worried. Death never had imposed itself upon her life; not in the sense that it was coming for her.

Erik was coming for her. The beast beneath him threw back its head and whinnied to the open sky that message. Noon had turned to night then daylight had whipped the stars away, and still he urged himself forward. There had been no breaks for food, for water, for anything important. She was what was important. Christine, his Christine, in the manipulative fingers of another madman. When the horse grew tired he went on foot. Then he found another horse and was galloping again.

The moment she left his view his heart rate spiked to astronomical levels and hadn't come down since. Towns whizzed by in his panicked search for her. It was just that he didn't know where to look! That wretched, disgraceful boy could've taken her anywhere!

It is hard to describe how miserable, dejected, horrified, and crazed Erik felt at the moment. Remember that age-old question, the one you must have thought at one point: If my house were burning, what one object would I save? Christine was Erik's object; even Christine's lifeless, rotten cadaver would be Erik's object. She was what was important.

He didn't breathe.

She took a deep breath and followed her ears. The clock was booming once, twice, thrice, four times, five, and she knew her time was slipping away with it. Through her window she had seen the night settle in, and with it settled into her heart quiet determination. Her fingers tugged her skirt up so that she may follow the booming at a better pace.

Six times…

Through a violet-colored room she traveled. It had no windows, but a piano and bookshelves. Also, a fireplace carved into the violet wall. She stopped for a moment to share in its warmth and then was off again.

Ten times…

"Zut!" She had lost time. How fast was this clock booming?! It was closer, at least, then it had been before.

At the nineteenth boom, she was standing in a hallway. In that hallway also happened to be the clock. It was giant, and made of the sweetest ebony. A thick bronze pendulum, speckled green from an unknown source, sent its silent swings into the air. Protectively the wrappings of an Egyptian corpse wound their way around the clock, looping and twisting and jumping into the minute hand itself. It was surprising that, even so tightly bound, the clock could still bellow like it did.

Boom! Twenty one times for twenty-one moments that Christine did not dare to think straight. Her eyes, glassy green, now scanned the dimly lit hallway, searching the light gray walls for evidence that she had been sharing a house with another person.

When Raoul did appear, it was not out of a picture frame or a doorway, like she had been expecting. He simply was behind her, examining her the way she examined the clock.

"You… have robbed me of my very identity… of the stamp God gave me to tell his subjects that I was who I was: Raoul de Chagny, viscount, brother. I hope I'm good enough for you now."

Christine had been standing very still while he spoke. Her stillness was broken at his last sentence. Her surprise marked her face as she turned to look at him. Her surprise turned to shock when she saw a mask looking back.