A/N: This Christmas, I have something special for you, my wonderful readers. In my story thread for Symphony in the Twilight, at story's completion I said that I would entertain the idea of story vignettes (short plot scenes with the E/C characters of SitT, like one-shots) and that I would take requests. This is one of those requests that the majority of you readers asked to see. :) (Also, I have plans for a couple more, and if anyone has a request for certain vignettes of this story, please leave it as a review. It's easier to find and keep track of them that way than to wade through hundreds of PMs - ;-)). I decided to make another thread for this, since Symphony has a whopping approximate 460k in word count (and I didn't want the link to break by adding more. lol)
Please take note: Not all vignettes will deserve the M rating – but this one does. And so, I give you…
A Long Winter's Night
.
Christine attempted to ignore the anxiety that had haunted since the carriage rolled into the drive. Resolutely she stepped up beside her husband and slipped her hand into his large one. Despite the faint squeeze he gave her gloved fingers, his entire body was ramrod stiff, his muscles tense, his frown taut beneath the rim of molded black leather.
In the privacy of their home, where they spent the majority of their days together, he had at last adapted the habit of going without a mask. After months of being indoors, (once her pregnancy made it difficult if not impossible to travel), it was an adjustment to see his face thus covered, shielding more than two-thirds of his expression. She did not like it, did not like this step back into former ways set off by old fears, but she could not fault him his decision. True, he always wore the mask when in public, but this was more than that. No smile did he offer, no joy sparkled from his beautiful green eyes, at the moment as stormy as the tempestuous weather …
The bitterly cold air blew from the north and around them, stirring her voluminous skirts and causing their cloaks to flutter sharply in the wind. Together, they stood at the edge of the curved drive and stared up at the grandiose manor set back within an oasis of snow-flocked evergreens. With its embellished alcoves, sprawling wings, and tall, round turrets, it appeared much like their own home of Château de Lumière, the difference being that theirs was cozy and inviting, its plentiful windows allowing both sunlight and moonlight to pour inside. Without even crossing the threshold of this dissimilarly equipped chateau, she felt a distinct chill ice her heart that had nothing to do with winter's breath, as if the manor itself barred itself against them and demanded their departure…
No matter that they had been invited.
Although the second invite was more of a demand.
The initial invitation to dinner, with Raoul and Meg also attending, they had needed to decline. One of the twins had developed a cough and low fever that caused Christine to fret and fuss, and she had not wished to stray more than a few feet from the bassinets. Erik, in turn, had been concerned for her health, as well as his daughter's, and often kept Christine company while she sat vigil; in his beautiful voice, he had sung to them a lilting string of lullabies that calmed both fretful infants and soothed Christine's soul. Within days, their little Belle had thankfully recovered; Gustave, too, was well - and when a second invitation arrived this morning, containing a note of urgency, they saw no valid reason not to accept. Though if the deciding factor had been ruled by emotion, their refusal would have been immediate.
Christine brought up her free hand to clasp his hand in both of hers. "Erik, if you wish to turn around and take the carriage back home, let us do so. We don't need to do this."
"Are you so sure?" He turned his head to look at her, his smile at last visible, though it came dark and dour. "We, too, have had personal experience with those Spirits of Christmastide and their warnings, living in dread fear of their threats of what would occur if circumstances did not alter: those wretched shadows of things to come. The prospect that we might be endangered if I choose not to accept this invitation to hear his damnable message is the only reason I'm here. Had I not known and seen those vindictive Spirits face to face, to become aware of their twisted power, I would never endure this now. Never would agree to meet with that pompous fiend…"
That fiend, of course, was his father, who turned his back on Erik when he was but a small lad. Christine fully understood her husband's feelings, for she too found it hard to think civilly toward such a man. Yet it was the stepmother who enacted the vilest of deeds, in selling three-year-old Erik to gypsies, and Christine wasn't sure she could treat such a horrible woman without contempt and display the politeness society required. Christine was now a Comtesse, and certainly did not wish to be a poor reflection of her husband by acting in a manner unbefitting to her station. Yet after reading the journals of Erik's mother, she was even less inclined to believe she could do this...
But no matter their qualms or contradictions, it always came back to one question: What choice did they truly have?
"Shall we?" Erik glanced her way then resolutely set his sights ahead to the uninviting manor.
Christine gave no reply, only shifting her tight hold to loop around his arm.
A butler answered Erik's heavy, insistent rap of the door knocker, a tall, thin man who regarded them with a haughty eye. After giving Erik a full onceover, he held the door open for them to enter, without asking for a name or their business there. Christine supposed she shouldn't be surprised; she doubted other potential visitors would come masked, the staff likely having been given a description of the vanished heir. They allowed a maid who appeared out of nowhere to take their cloaks, hats, and gloves, afterward following the butler down a corridor and into a large parlor, where a Yule log burned brightly inside a large hearth.
Boughs of evergreen bedecked with crimson velvet ribbon stretched along the mantel and gaily decorated the walls. A tall tree of pine shimmering with lit candles, golden apples and walnuts, and festooned with red velvet bows stood to one side of the room before a picture window, its draperies closed. And in a wing-backed chair near the hearth, a man sat and stared solemnly into the flames.
"Your guests have arrived, my lord."
Christine had no need to ask the identity of the man whose profile was turned to them. Even without his expensive suit of clothes that labeled him a gentleman and the pipe he held clenched between his teeth that suggested his leisure, she could see the astonishing truth the moment the butler announced them and the master of the manor looked their way…
For more than three decades, the former Opera Ghost wore a mask to hide the monstrosity that was the right side of his face. The left side had been without flaw and never gave him grief - until now. For as he stared at the Comte de Chagny, Erik saw an older version of his own features, and it was to his distress that he bore the fiend's reflection.
"You came."
Two words, delivered gruffly, almost as if the bearer of their message hoped that they would not have arrived.
"I had no choice."
Four words, full of all the ire and bitterness of a lifetime of torment.
No formal introductions were made, but then, none were needed. The two Comtes stared somberly at one another in grim assessment, until the older one sighed and vaguely motioned to the empty chairs and sofa.
"Please, be seated."
Erik might have refused, wishing only to get down to the order of business, learn what he must, and return to the comforting privacy of his own chateau, but for the telltale tremble of his wife's hand against his arm. Softly, he patted that hand and moved with Christine to the short sofa designed to seat two people. A love-seat, he had once heard it called, though in this residence, such a furnishing seemed entirely misplaced.
With her ridiculously puffed skirts that landed halfway in his lap, perhaps a wiser choice would have been to take the adjacent chair. But he sensed Christine needed him close, that this was just as difficult for her, and he always welcomed her nearness.
The Comte raised a slight brow of disapproval at the image they made, which riled Erik further. He had no right to criticize! If she wished to sit in his lap, she was welcome. He felt Christine fidget against his hip.
"Perhaps I should…"
Before she could move or finish the statement, Erik clasped her hand to stop her, gently preventing her from rising. He never looked away from the arrogant man seated before him.
"I understand you have a message for me."
The Comte de Chagny let out a weary sigh at the reminder and curtly nodded. "I presume that Raoul told you of what he perceived as my dream?"
"He did." It was all Erik would offer.
"Am I correct in also assuming that you understand its validity and that it was no dream? Namely, three Spirits from the netherworld visited me on the eve of the Noël and warned me of a dire future if certain matters in my life went unchanged."
"And what is that to me?" Erik asked coolly.
"Everything…it is everything." The Comte took a puff from his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
Erik fidgeted in his impatience. "That tells me nothing, monsieur. If there is no more you have to say to me, we should go."
To Christine's surprise, the Comte softly chuckled. "They warned me you wouldn't be amenable to this idea. They said you were one of their most difficult assignments and pigheaded to a fault."
All pretense of indifference crumbled as Erik shot to his feet. "I will not sit idly by and listen to your criticisms, sir." He turned to his wife and held out his hand in command. "Come, Christine. We are leaving."
"Sit down, Erik. I meant no offense."
It was the final straw. For Christine's sake alone, he had tried to maintain a civil attitude and keep his simmering temper in check, but now he rounded on the smug bastard who had the gall to address him with such familiarity and so calmly stare up at him as if nothing were wrong.
"Offense? You dare speak to me of offense?! You allowed your shrew of a wife to dispose of me, selling me off to gypsies! And you did nothing to find me!"
"I conducted a search -"
"A halfhearted effort designed to waylay suspicion."
"You cannot know that."
"No?" Erik retorted dryly. "I read my mother's journals, depicting what sort of father you were." He spat the title as if it were poison. "You are guilty of gross neglect and a host of other faults too numerous to list."
"It is true," the Comte sighed and nodded. "I never had a rapport with children. They were always in the way and underfoot."
Erik gave a brusque, dark laugh. "You expect me to believe that this face was not the cause of your antagonism toward me? This face, which Mother wrote that you insisted must remain hidden behind a mask..."
The words, themselves, compelled him into his next act as he stalked the short distance to stand before the detestable man. Rebelliously he brought his hand up and tore away the molded leather.
"There! You see? It is the same vile face that fostered your great revulsion and distance toward me. What has changed I ask you? Not a damn thing!"
The Comte flinched, but did not look away. Erik heard Christine's soft, indrawn gasp, but she touched and kissed this horrid face every morning and night, and he knew her dismay had nothing to do with what was revealed, but rather, the impetus that revealed it.
"I am guilty of many transgressions," the Comte said roughly, "I do not dispute that. I should have sought out physicians who might have helped you, but my vainglorious pride disallowed it. I was ashamed of your existence, yes I will admit it. I was foolish and ignorant in my youth, and that never was made more clear to me than on the night with the Spirits. Yet, upon my word, I never wanted the future for you that Raoul told me you lived."
"Raoul knows nothing of my life or what hardships I endured." Over time the truce between himself and the Vicomte slowly evolved into an uneasy friendship – but he'd be damned if he would have his half brother speak for him! Raoul had not been there, instead enjoying a life of plenty while Erik wallowed in filth. And though he might have learned of his boyhood in a cage and a life lived underground, he certainly did not know the extent of the Angel of Death's murderous stint in Persia. Did not know much of anything about his wretched past at all!
"The Comtesse told me you had run away. I had servants look for you, but you couldn't be found. Only many years later did I learn of my wife's true actions that day. Upon my word, once I did, I hired a detective to find you. He came back with news that you had departed on a ship bound for the Mideast. Years later, when I learned of your return, quite by accident during our seaside stay at Perros, I thought to send that same detective to seek you out then, but due to reasons I have no wish to go into, I refrained from doing so and returned home with my family instead."
Erik blew out a disgruntled huff, the Comte's reaction to learn of his existence hardly a surprise. "What purpose would you have to send him to find me at all? Did you fear I would come out of hiding and stain the honored family name?" he asked sarcastically. "A scandal to be sure! Perhaps you planned to use him, to dispose of me for good?"
The Comte shook his head as if appalled by the idea. "Whatever ill you think of me, whatever my faults, you are still blood and a de Chagny. After your mother's death, my plan was to send you away to a monastery, to be raised under the care of monks. They preach of love and God, and I assumed you would have been well-cared for in their company. It was while I was away on business that the Comtesse acted against my authority and sold you to a traveling band of gypsies; I had no hand in that."
Erik struggled with the candid admission, a fragment of his soul wishing to believe in the Comte's blamelessness to cause him harm, even as a pall of bitter heaviness cloaked his heart to hear how his father had not wanted him near. Still, what else should he expect? What kind of father failed to search high and low until his small son was found? He knew, from his own investigation into the matter, that those same gypsies had camped outside the town district, where they remained for the rest of the summer…where he had been kept as their latest sideshow, a 'devil's child' within a cage.
"And how is my dear stepmother?" Erik's tone came sweet and deadly. He glanced around the room and into the hall with mock surprise. "Will she not be joining us for supper?"
"My wife is currently staying with friends to attend affairs with regard to a charitable institution for the impoverished that they manage. I don't expect her back until morning."
Erik blinked in aghast bewilderment. "What hypocrisy!" His words lacked volume but did not falter in strength. "With one hand, the woman aids the poor; with the other, she destroys a child. And I would wager, despite your 'word' and claim to the contrary, that you are no better." He slipped the mask back over his head and snapped the cord into place. "If it were my son who was missing, I would move heaven and earth to find him and would not stop until he was returned to me. Christine…"
He felt her come up beside him the moment he addressed her, and sensed she wished to be gone from this house of perfidy as much as he. "There is nothing more to be said. Good evening, sir," he said dryly, wishing him to rot in the furthermost pit of Hades.
Erik was halfway to the parlor door with Christine, when the Comte spoke, "You speak of love for your children, but when their lives are at stake will you walk away and ignore it?"
The words were like a shock of ice water through Erik's veins. He spun around to face the older Comte, clenching his fists at his sides. "Dare you sit there and threaten my family? I am no longer that weak and vulnerable boy you wished to be rid of – and if you so much as speak one word with the intent to harm my loved ones, I vow that you will find me a formidable foe."
"Yes, I have heard of your exploits as the Phantom of the Paris Opera House. Yet it is not I whom you need to fear."
"Then what do you mean by those horrid words?" Christine broke in, her first occasion to speak since they arrived.
"Comtesse…" the de Chagny patriarch said in a pacifying tone that caused Erik to narrow his eyes. "I assure you, if any harm comes to my grandchildren, it will not be by my hand."
"I ask again, sir – what do you mean?" she insisted. "What harm?"
"I would assume that if I speak to you both of Shadows of the Future and ghostly images of what could come to pass, you will comprehend my meaning?"
Christine's fingers tightened almost painfully against Erik's arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. He also felt as if the breath had been knocked out of his lungs. "Go on," he said quietly.
"The final Spirit, a grim caricature of death, showed me a future with the two of you kneeling and weeping before a pair of small gravestones sculpted with angels, upon which the names Gustave and Belle were inscribed."
Christine let out a little cry of horror, and Erik slipped his arm tightly around her waist, bringing her close to his side in support, fearing she might collapse to the floor.
"My babies," she whispered, voice trembling, "dead…? How? Why?"
"The details were vague; I wasn't given the reason," the elderly Comte went on wearily, "The second Spirit, of the present, told me upon her departure that the visions I would be shown could alter, but were solely dependent on my decision to change. Three things I was told, one of which concerns you." He looked at Erik. "I have contacted my solicitor as the start of it, with plans to change my will."
Erik laughed bitterly. "And is that supposed to appease me and rectify years of abandonment and disgrace? I don't want your money – I don't need your money. I have a title equal to yours, a home and a fortune - all on behalf of my maternal grandfather. Give your assets to your chosen son. I want nothing from you."
"Be that as it may, your public inclusion into the family is part of what is vital to change the future as it was shown me. Despite what you think of me, Erik, I do not wish ill upon any member of your family. For the children's sake, somehow we must make amends. Do you not agree?"
A host of blistering and cynical replies rose to mind but he could not utter one. In a mire of frustration, Erik glared at him, unable to counter with a fitting response, for blast it all – the old man was right. His wife, his children, were all that mattered. Pride, hurt, revenge; none of those when compared held importance.
"Pardon, my lord…" The butler spoke from the doorway, "I came to inform you that dinner is served."
"Thank you, Frederick." Once the butler departed with a deferential little nod, the Comte returned his attention to Erik. "I do not condemn you for your ill will toward me; I deserve no less. However, may I suggest that we put old grievances behind us and attempt to find some manner in which to mend what has gone between us?"
He asked for the moon and the sun and the stars combined. Old grievances? A weak term for the depth of turmoil and rejection Erik suffered his entire life! Had it been anyone else but his family at stake, he would turn a cold shoulder and leave the fiend's presence, never to return.
Sensing that Christine watched him intently, he turned his head and caught the plea in her midnight dark eyes.
"Perhaps tonight could prove as a new beginning," the Comte added. "Will you stay to supper?"
Erik hesitated, and though every fiber of his being wished to tell the Comte what he could do with his damnable supper, right before he exited out the front door, he frowned and gave a terse nod. "Very well."
He sensed rather than saw Christine relax into a grateful smile.
xXx
Inside the elegantly constructed dining room, festooned with boughs of evergreen and sprigs of mistletoe and holly, Christine was seated on one side of the long table designed to accommodate eighteen people. Erik sat across from her, and what amounted to two place settings down from where the Comte de Chagny presided over the head. A careful distance: close enough to converse comfortably, but not too close to feel crowded.
A course of Bouillabaisse was followed by foie gras smothered in a rich creamy sauce and onions confit. Once a servant took their plates away, a third course of roasted capon stuffed with chestnuts and served with mushrooms was brought for the diners' consideration, a different wine served with each course to complement its flavor.
A servant took away Christine's barely touched moëlleux of semi-sweet wine and replaced her drink with a glass of red Bordeaux. After her champagne debacle of more than a year ago, she was careful with how much fruit of the vine she imbibed, and sipped sparingly of each offering. Erik, however, seemed to tip his glass more frequently than to pick with his fork at his meal. He barely ate each of the first two courses and glared at the serving of roasted poultry that the servant laid upon his plate before taking a few paltry bites. He had worn his soft leather black mask, which gave him more freedom to chew than the half mask of ivory did (which thankfully he no longer pasted to his face, but had fashioned to strap around his head) – yet he showed no proclivity to enjoy the sumptuous repast.
She knew how difficult this was for him, to sup at the same table as his father – it wasn't easy for her to make polite talk with the man directly and indirectly responsible for the majority of her husband's nightmares. But for Erik, for her children, she managed her best to forge whatever bond must be met, to alter the shadows of what must never be…
The conversation, initiated by the Comte de Chagny, soon led into a discussion of the musical establishment so dear to Christine's heart. Even Erik grew alert, glancing between them, though he remained silent.
"Since my husband has assumed partial ownership, I believe that once the theatre reopens next week, it will flourish as it never has before," Christine enthused.
"Much more, I would presume, than under his exploits as the Phantom."
The words were delivered in dry amusement, not intended as a jibe. Nonetheless, Christine noted Erik tense and felt likewise needled, compelled to clarify, "Nothing more dire than creative pranks and threats. All of which served to propel the management to initiate much-needed improvements…"
"Christine," Erik said under his breath, his tone telling her to stop.
But she had one last thing to say and would not be silenced. "My husband has only ever had the good of the opera at heart – why, on the night of the revolutionists' capture, he instigated the scheme that led to the end of those leaders who'd done us nothing but harm."
"My wife is prejudiced in her views," Erik said, his first time to speak since they entered the dining room. "My motives were hardly pure." Indeed, he had cut down the chandelier only for the sake of saving Christine from a madman, more fanatical than he.
"Oh, darling, I disagree," she said sweetly, "as would the bevy of ballet rats to whom you gave shelter until the danger passed."
"Ballet…rats?" the Comte asked, clearly confounded.
A tiny smile tipped Christine's lips and she noticed a glimmer of amusement in Erik's eyes as well.
"Theatre-speak for the dancers of the chorus," she explained.
The Comte nodded. "I am inclined to agree with your assessment, Madame. It was surely due to your husband's influence that the leaders were killed or captured." He turned his attention to Erik. "I owe you a debt of gratitude, as those same men were those who posed threats against our family, in trying to force us to cave in to their demands for the majority of our fortune. It is why we fled Paris."
"I did not do it for you." Erik's words came clipped.
"No, of course not," the Comte said matter-of-factly. "Yet Raoul told me how you once saved him from the clutches of those same bloodthirsty revolutionists, who most certainly would have killed him."
Erik brooded, saying nothing in his defense, never quite certain why he interfered that day in the mirror chamber. Not then, when he and the Vicomte were no more than enemies and had earlier fought with swords, with the intent to kill each other at the cemetery.
The conversation between the elderly Comte and his wife shifted into Christine's illustrious career, now at a temporary standstill while she sought the joys of new motherhood. Two more courses were brought, one of hard cheeses with figs along with a beautifully molded gelatin garnished with holly. The last course presented was a tempting array of tarts and candied sweetmeats, all of which Erik also ignored, but noticed with tender fondness that Christine sampled with childish delight.
He took a drink of the newest wine served, welcoming the manner in which such liquid refreshment numbed chaotic feeling; even so, he was careful not to over imbibe.
With the dinner at last complete, the Comte de Chagny addressed Christine. "Let us retire to the entertainment parlor. I wonder, my dear, would you honor us with a song? I should like to hear this voice I have heard so much about."
Erik clenched the napkin hard that rested beside his plate. It raised his hackles to hear his excuse for a father speak with a level of intimacy toward his wife – as if she would sing for him! On the flipside of the same coin, to hear his Angel's sweet voice, after the travesty of this evening, would most assuredly soothe his troubled soul.
She looked toward him, a lovely picture of innocence and hope, a question in her sparkling eyes. Still she sought his permission as her Maestro, and the gesture eased the dull ache in his heart that had manifested and continued ever since their arrival. He gave her a slight nod of approval and she rewarded him with an effervescent smile.
x
The entertainment parlor, as the Comte called it, contained furnishings more elegant and feminine than the parlor to which they'd first been brought. The cheery décor of the season filled this room as well, and a grand piano stood in one corner.
As the Comte took a chair near the glowing hearth, Christine looked toward Erik with hopeful eyes. "Will you play accompaniment for me? My voice isn't up to form to attempt it alla capella, what with so little practice."
"And whose fault is that, my love?" he whispered close to her ear. "As your teacher, I have been lax in giving into your demands, no matter how delightful the outcome."
The warmth of a blush touched her face, but she only smiled. He had hardly complained either time.
"Rest assured, Christine, your voice is as lovely as it ever was." He brushed his thumb against her jaw. "Now, what aria do you wish to sing?"
"I think, perhaps, the carol I shared with you on the first night of the Yule. Do you recall it?"
Meg taught her the olde English carol in years past, and Christine sung it for Erik this past week. With his skilled fingers, he had quickly picked out the chords. The last two verses however, she had not sung, having been interrupted when a servant entered the room, needing Christine's instructions for the festive dinner she was hosting for their dear friends, Meg, Raoul, and Madame Giry.
Erik lifted his brows but nodded and took a seat on the bench, flipping free his coattails. Placing his fingers on the keys, he played a short intro to limber up, while Christine waited for her cue.
She possessed a hidden motive for her selection, hoping it would soften hardened hearts, or at the very least ease the tension so prevalent in the air. She understood Erik's resentment, but somehow they must try to forgive, mustn't they? For the twins' sake. Shaking away the trickle of fear that thought caused, she took her cue and began:
"God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay,
Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day;
To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, o tidings of comfort and joy…"
She skipped to the last two verses, those she hoped might provide the gentle push needed, noting the surprise flicker in Erik's eyes when she began the lyrics he'd never heard, though he never faltered in his notes.
"Now to the Lord sing praises all you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas all others doth deface -
O tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, o tidings of comfort and joy..
God bless the ruler of this house, and send him long to reign,
And many a merry Christmastide may live to see again;
Among your friends and kindred that live both far and near.
That God send you a happy new year, happy new year,
And God send you a happy new year…"
Christine finished her song, noting how Erik's jaw had hardened. Quickly she looked toward the older Comte, who gifted her with his applause.
"Brava, my dear. You indeed have the voice of an angel. I can understand why my son anticipates your return to the stage."
Erik snapped his gaze the Comte's way, and Christine wondered to which son the Comte referred, but decided it best not to inquire. "Everything I am and have learned, I owe to my teacher. To Erik..."
To her shock, he stood suddenly to his feet. "The hour is late. We must return. I thank you for your hospitality, monsieur." He said the words with a mockery of graciousness, as though they left an acrid taste. "Come, Christine."
The Comte quietly said his farewells, and Christine thanked him for supper, noting her husband's stiff demeanor as he practically herded her toward the door, with a hand to her elbow. The butler brought their cloaks and hats, but when he opened the front door once they donned all outerwear, a frigid swirl of snow blew inside, dusting them and the black and white checkered floor. Outside, their vision was blocked by a fierce blanket of white.
"Damn!" Erik growled and struck the doorframe with the flat of his fist as the butler quickly shut the door.
"You cannot go out in that," the Comte declared, "it is much too easy to get lost and freeze to death in a blizzard. You will have to stay the night."
"I am well aware of the dangers, sir." Erik clenched his teeth at the hopelessness of the situation, deliberating for a time before he resignedly shook his head and looked at Christine. "The chateau is too far to travel to attempt it in this icy tempest."
"But Belle and Gustave –"
"Will be alright for one night. Madame Giry will tend to them. We have no choice in this, but I promise you, Christine, you will be reunited with your babies tomorrow."
"Once the snows have ceased, you may take the sleigh," the Comte de Chagny graciously offered.
Christine nodded in solemn resignation, also aware the situation was out of their control.
The Comte arranged for a servant to prepare them a room and bid them a good night. Erik offered no more than a nod of acknowledgment, his gaze remaining fixed to the wall sconce, though Christine gave the older gentleman a soft smile and bade him good night in return.
A short few minutes of silence later, the young Comte and Comtesse followed a young maid up the wide stairs and down a corridor, opening one of the doors there. "This is your room, my lady," she told Christine. "If you need anything, just ring the bell." She motioned to a thick ribbon of tasseled velvet hanging near the four-poster, canopy bed. "Monsieur," she said a bit nervously, eyeing Erik's mask. "Your room is through here." She opened another door next to Christine's chamber.
Christine stared in puzzled shock. His room?
Erik nodded, his mouth a grim line. "Goodnight, my dear." He kissed her forehead and disappeared through the adjacent door.
Christine blinked owlishly, staring after her husband in confusion. Clearly Erik was still upset, and not just with his father. Perhaps he was miffed at the maid's pointed curiosity of his mask. Perhaps he was still angered by the weather that forced them to stay the night…or perhaps his aggravation was with her, and her choice of a carol to sing.
"My lady, is there anything else you require?" the maid asked uncertainly when Christine lingered in the hallway.
She tore her eyes away from Erik's closed door. "No. Thank you." She managed a faint smile and entered the chamber she'd been given, shutting the door softly behind her.
The room was luxuriously appointed, twin gas lamps illuminating the room and bringing out the lush green and bronze of the décor. Yet despite the small fire in the hearth to heat the room, it felt cold. Cold and empty… Never had she spent a night absent from her husband since their departure from the Opera House nearly a year ago.
With a heavy sigh, she doffed her fur-trimmed cloak and removed her hat, setting them on a chair by the door, removing her kid gloves as well. She looked toward the closed adjoining door, tempted to try the handle, but instead made her way across the room to the heavy floor-to-ceiling draperies that took up part of one wall.
Putting her hand to the folds, she pulled the curtain aside. Thick flakes of snow hit the panes with the force of the wind that drove them, the towering evergreens that she remembered just beyond the drive completely shielded by winter's sheath of white. The howling wind battered against the window in demand, as if seeking a crevice to blast its way inside, and she shivered at the fearsome spectacle.
She sensed him near in the moment before the warmth of his hands cupped her shoulders, and in that coveted moment, a thaw warmed the icicles that had frozen her heart. His entrance was so often silent, and the roaring storm outside had aided him in his stealth. His name was a faint utterance on her lips as he swiftly turned her round to face him and caught its breath from her mouth.
"Erik…"
His lips were fierce against hers, and she could barely breathe much less think as with his body he brought her swiftly back against the wall near the bed.
"I thought you were angry with me," she managed to whisper as she felt buttons give and clothing shift, all the while his mouth found purchase in what skin he unveiled.
"What cause would I have to be angry with an angel?" he countered in a silken rasp.
"But you went into the other bedchamber."
"And now I'm here." His hot tongue found the spot behind her ear and she felt her bones liquefy. "Such traditions of the noblesse make them true fools – why would a man not wish to sleep with a wife so radiant? And what business is it of theirs whose bed I choose?"
Christine pulled away his mask, tossing it to the floor and threading her fingers through his thick hair. "Come morning that will be made obvious by the untouched sheets."
Erik chuckled. "You disapprove?" His lips brushed against the breast he half-bared, causing her to shiver.
"Oh no, my husband – I approve most heartily, though I don't understand the subterfuge."
Her blithe response was rewarded with a firm suckle, and she gasped and held to his shoulders, so as not to fall.
He was not gentle, his lips and tongue voracious against her skin, the strokes of his hands rough and utterly possessive – and she craved the lusty fire that fueled his passion and sparked her own – needed to become violently one with him, to forget all of what happened before. They vented the days' frustrations through the outlet of their desire, as clothes were impatiently shoved aside, their hunger too strong to take the tedious time to shed the ridiculous amount of layers. Not when blood roared and hearts pounded while the desperation soared ever higher to be joined…
At the urging of her insistent hands his trousers slid to his ankles, and Erik stepped out of them, kicking the encumbrance away. His hand slid between her legs, finding her wet and wanting. With no further hesitation, he hoisted her stocking-clad thigh against his hip and held it there, at once burying himself deep within her walls of drenched velvet.
She let out a faint moan of satisfaction, and they held together for several fractured breaths, in the awe of their coupling, before he began to move inside her.
His strokes came steady, sure and strong, her hips thudding into the wall with each weighty plunge, silks and taffeta rustling with their movements. She clutched his shoulders, then grasped beneath his tail coat to pull at buttons of his waistcoat in her desperation to seek out more skin. Likewise, wishing to embrace her soft warmth, Erik pushed her bodice and chemise down to her waist on one side, fully baring her breast and cupping the generous globe with his large palm and long slender fingers.
He pushed into her silken heat with repeated urgency, the music of her unbridled moans driving him mad. But the jarring of their violent motions caused the wide hem of her festive skirts twice to drop down and impede them, the impatient wresting away of material always brief before they again formed an obstruction.
With a vexed growl, Erik slipped his free arm around her back and swung them around to bring them both falling to the bed a short distance away. Snapping her gown and petticoats up to lie in frothy mounds against her stomach, he resumed his darkly passionate efforts until she was crying out his name. Much sooner than expected, she shuddered violently and he felt her clench tightly around him as her fingers dug into his back. Several strokes more, and he joined her in the bliss of electrifying sensation and blessed release.
Together they lay sated on the made-up bed, clothing askew and disheveled – what there was left to cover them – but both at last having found the contentment that eluded them all day.
Erik did not pull out of her, lifting himself only enough so that he wouldn't crush his beloved wife while with one hand he unlaced and unbuttoned, until her bodice and corset fell away and the ribbon of her chemise was undone. He pulled down the lacy edge, pressing his ravaged face against the satin valley between her breasts, and inhaled deeply of her scent.
She mewed and cuddled, bringing one arm wrapped around him to clutch at his skull. "Oh, how I love you," she whispered. "I worried when you didn't join me. I couldn't bear the thought of sleeping away from you."
He kissed the inner curve of her breast and the beads of dampness there. "Again I ask, what cause would I have to be angry with you, dear wife?"
"My song," she tentatively reminded, uncertain if she should speak of such things when he lay so relaxed, against and inside her.
He did not tense in anger, only kissed her dewy flesh again before lifting his eyes to meet hers. "I know your heart, and that it means only well for me. You haven't a cruel bone in your body, my dove. Your decision was a nudge in the direction I must take. I cannot fault you for that."
He left her then, but his ministrations toward her did not cease. He pulled away her stockings, rolling them down, one by one, then slipped the pins from what hair still remained upswept, allowing the long ringlets to fall past her shoulders. With his help she shed the festive gown the remainder of the way from her body, along with her undergarments, until she lay only in her chemise, which she pulled back over her shoulder. Once accomplished, she struggled with his clothing, and he gave her aid, until he was deliciously naked before her.
She pulled back the down bedding, eager to slip inside and within the warmth of his arms. He clutched the hem of her chemise, his intention made clear.
"Erik – no," she said, suddenly self-conscious and fearful for him to see her. Since the twins' births, when they were again able to make love, it had been in darkness with a sole candle burning in the distance or within the shield of their clothing, like tonight. In the unforgiving glare of nearby gas lamps, nothing would be kept hidden.
"Christine, you are beautiful to me," he insisted, "and always will be. I long to see my wife fully naked again."
"You say that now …" She swallowed hard. "But there are …marks that came about with the pregnancy. I look nothing like you once knew me."
"I don't expect you to. You gave me a son and a daughter – me, the deformed Opera Ghost – and every part of you I shall eternally cherish for that reason alone. But Christine, you are mistaken if you believe I would be repulsed by your scars – truly Mon Ange, have you forgotten whom you address?"
His silken voice worked its magic as she dreamily stared at his beloved face. One truth she grasped in the haze that was fast becoming her mind as his lips grazed hers. Despite his overwhelming fears of her reaction toward him, he had bared himself to her. She could do no less.
She almost wasn't aware when he pulled her chemise up to reveal her pale stomach, still somewhat round and covered with those awful rose and violet lines. His fingertips traced the ragged lines, and then – her heart leapt to receive his touch while tears of relief misted her eyes – his mouth brushed against them. Seeking each, his lips were a caressing balm that served instantly to soothe all fear and call it foolish.
By no means was her situation equivalent to all of what he suffered for three decades, but for the first time, she truly understood the reason for her husband's obsessive need to hide his scars. If she felt so strongly about several small marks, usually hidden, how must he feel about his poor ravaged face! And she lifted a gentle hand to adoringly touch those scars.
Erik grabbed her fingers to kiss them, then pulled the chemise over her head and tossed it away, bringing Christine with him to lie beneath the cocooning warmth of the covers. She pressed against him, the heat of their skin creating its own inferno as the winter storm wailed beyond the thick, papered walls.
They lay in silence for a time, his kisses now and then brushing the top of her head.
"Erik," she said drowsily, "I do think he means well."
He had no need to ask what she meant, but she lifted herself to rest on one arm and meet his steady gaze. "In his eyes, I see the same look you had when you were resolute in your desire to change. I know it's difficult, Mon Ange, but I cannot see that we have much choice – perhaps, during this Christmastide, it would be wise to accept - and offer - the olive branch of peace."
He had arrived to the same conclusion, for the sake of his wife and children. To receive his father into his life was a daunting prospect, and tonight had been more than a little harrowing to undertake. Much as the decision made over a year ago, when he'd been forced to change, due to similar warnings from the Spirits of the Yule. But the bounty he received for his efforts far outweighed any discomfort to enact them: a loving wife and companion, a true home and a position with the opera, and two children to call his own, created from the wealth of passion he shared with his beloved Christine. Most importantly, her death had been avoided, as had the crippled child Tina's, and so it would be with little Belle and Gustave. From his own experience with forcing change, he was certain of that.
"Perhaps we should extend an invitation to visit Château de Lumière in the New Year, and perhaps we should also invite him to the grand reopening," she went on thoughtfully, "He did show an interest in the opera…"
He beheld his living wife, his temptress, a vision of sultry beauty that made the blood rush so hotly within his veins. Even now, even after they had so recently shared their passion.
Slipping his hand to the back of her wild curls, he brought her head down to partake of her full lips. "Perhaps…" he whispered against them, slipping his tongue inside to taste her, earning him a soft, delighted murmur. "But at this moment, all I wish to concentrate on is you."
Erik took his time, treasuring her every detail, his mouth languidly following where his hands first explored. He wrung every delightful note from her lungs, as slowly he made love to his beautiful songbird, their passion ringing long into the night.
As the winter storm raged dangerously outside, they held fast to one another within the safety of the thick bedding. Exhaustion at last took them drifting into sweet slumber, their minds at peace in the knowledge that whatever the Shadows of the Future might bring, they would always face them together.
xXx
A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this first vignette. :) Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night - and if I'm unable to get another chapter posted next week of whatever story is next to update - have a Happy New Year as well! :) Added to say - I just posted an E/C & R/M Christmas video based on this story - to the song Last Christmas - it's on my Youtube channel if you want to see it. :) at: honeyphan2