(A/N – This chapter is a combined Epilogue to "A Gift from the Past" and a Prologue to this story, thus the title TRANSITIONS. It represents the aftermath of the aftermath, if you will, giving the states of mind of the principals as they move forward.
The original story was intended to "fix" the ending of POTO25 – I have, however, mingled in some Leroux and Kay with the ALW imaginings of the story. The main characters belong to them, however, during the course of my first story, a number of new characters were introduced and they are my property [they actually belong to themselves as most of us writers have discovered}.
Thank you all for reading and reviewing – I hope you will find this sequel to be a good read.)
TRANSITIONS
The hot water soothes aches in his body he was not even aware of. The struggle with Georges Robert Boudreaux accentuated how little he actually uses some of his muscles – while always agile – running up and down through the tunnels daily kept him quite fit – he, nevertheless, always preferred wit and stealth to actual physical contact with his opponents. Physical contact of any kind always being a challenge whether benign or hostile.
Despite this one level of relaxation, he feels decidedly awkward in his naked state with Christine bathing him – particularly considering the addition of lavender scented Epsom salts. Toss in the ongoing battle about the state of his hair and scalp, he finds his agitation growing by the minute. Not anger, certainly not anger with his angel, but a definite irritability.
"It takes too much time to do all those steps – shampoo, rinse, mineral oil massage, wait, wipe oil off, shampoo, rinse again, dry."
"Just try it for a week – that is all I ask – and do not wear your wig all the time."
"I would still wear the wig. However glorious the mane you predict will be produced by these ministrations – half of my head would still be bald. I simply do not see the point."
"Please."
"All right."
"I can really do this myself. You know I much prefer the shower to bathing," he complains. There is a profound difference between lovemaking and having your beloved wash your body. The remnants of his violent past are completely exposed to her – his awareness of them greater now, seeing what she is seeing. During his regular ablutions he simply does not observe himself.
The scars are so numerous, there appears to be not one square meter of flesh left untouched by a knife or a scourge. Tears well up in Christine's eyes, mindful of the pain Erik has suffered throughout his life all because of his face. Forcing a cheerful, if fussy tone, she says, "The doctor said the wound must not get wet. You have limited use of the arm, so this is the perfect solution. Left to your own devices, you would no doubt become frustrated and wind up making a mess of everything,"
"Not unlike my current state, you mean?" he snorts. "Are you quite finished, you have scrubbed me raw?"
"Oh posh, I have done nothing of the kind," is her sharp return. "Grasp my hand, so I can help you stand."
He complies with her request. Wrapping a large towel around him, she guides his steps from the tub. The excess water is first blotted, then she vigorously rubs him dry from head to toe.
"You have likely removed whatever skin I had left with that toweling."
"You are all nice and pink like a baby's bottom," she teases.
"What I have always dreamed of," he sniffs. "More likely it is all of my blood rushing to escape this body through my weakened epidermis you failed to remove completely with all your scrubbing and rubbing."
Taking up a large woolen puff, she dusts him with one of the scented talcum powders he gifted her with when he was creating this new home for her. With his body still damp, he is now coated in a white film transforming him from baby's bottom to ghost.
"Is this really necessary?" he asks before sneezing.
"Gud valsigne dig," is her reflex response, continuing with a resounding, "Yes. You know it feel goods and smells good and you will be more comfortable."
Holding up one of his fine linen nightshirts, she carefully slips his wounded arm into one sleeve, then stands on tip-toe to pull the rest of the shirt over the top of his head. "Put your arm through the other sleeve." Finally, she pulls the shirt down over the rest of his body. "There."
"What about you?"
"Do I not look like I have already taken care of myself?" Holding out her arms, doing a saucy little turn to display her newest nightgown of pale pink batiste trimmed with Irish lace. "After the brandy you imbibed almost immediately upon walking into the house, you fell onto the settee and promptly went to sleep. I bathed while you napped," she says, "Are you hungry? I have no appetite myself."
"Not even for your herring or macarons?" he teases. "No – just weary. More of a nap – in bed, with you at my side would welcome." Even her beauty and the mild teasing could not dispel the depression he was feeling – as if he had fallen into a well with no possibility of escape. "The bath relaxed me – thank you for forcing me into it. I am sorry for being such a curmudgeon."
"My pleasure." Pressing a hand against his chest, she tilts her head. "What is it, my darling? What is wrong – I have not seen you so grim in a very long time?"
"I feel as though all the years I did not sleep have caught up with me," he attempts a laugh, toeing his feet into his slippers, he wraps an arm around her as they leave the bathroom.
Once in bed, Erik nuzzles his nose into Christine's hair, her scent blending with his – lavender and chamomile. "Both flowers bring peace and calm – something we both need after the events of this afternoon."
As he pulls her closer to him, she tightens her own embrace, wrapping a leg over his hips, molding her body to his.
Cozy in the fresh nightclothes, sheltered by the Egyptian cotton sheets and wool blankets, Erik remarks, "This is perfect, exactly what I need – to hold and caress you."
The solitude and peace of their bedroom sooths not just the physical aches and pains suffered, but the deep fear that gripped both of them earlier – put aside by the necessities of the moment. Dealing with the business of attempted murder and murder – if Monique's act could truly be considered as such.
"I thought you were dead – or near dead. When I saw the blood…" Tears again threaten to flow from her aquamarine eyes, but she holds them back. He does not need to see her tears now. His is the fear that she must tend to. Still, being safe in his arms right now, allows her the freedom to relieve some of the anxiety that gripped her heart.
He kisses the top of her head, the fingers of his left hand stroke her arm, still damp with the lotion she applied after bathing. "You smell so lovely, my dear."
"And you," she laughs lightly. "We are our own little garden."
After a moment of silence – initially comfortable, then strained as tension grips him again. A shiver wracks his body.
"Please talk to me," Christine pleads, nestling her head against his neck. "I feel as though you are disappearing into yourself – please do not leave me to my own thoughts and fears about what distresses you."
"I thought he would succeed in killing me after so many years of escaping death – it crossed my mind that this was God's ironic plan – give me all those things in life I had dreamed about, but never hoped to attain – then rip it all away at the hand of a gross, barbaric creature who assaulted women for pleasure. Who killed a poor old dog. Who tormented a frightened child. After forty years of hating someone he did not know, he would finally achieve the goal of bringing about that child's death." Exhaling deeply, he says, "The greater irony is that I was actually supporting his life – at first my mother, but ultimately it was my lax handling of the estate was providing for him and his evil."
"You did not know."
"No, I did not – the problem is that I should have known." Another humorless chuckle. "I think I must see Pere Mansart again."
"You have not sinned." She strokes his deformed cheek with the backs of her fingers, gliding them across his lips – those swollen, oddly shaped lips that she loved kissing and loved being kissed by.
"Then why do I feel as though I have?"
"You are a martyr, my darling."
"Is that so?"
"It is," she says. "I am seeing your pattern. Hurt, damaged and frightened – so frightened – you fight back by being petulant and cranky – misbehaving to distract from the fear. Then you act as if nothing is wrong at all – you are in control. The last act is taking all the responsibility for the evil and foolishness of others on your shoulder."
"My goodness, you have learned all that about me?" His tone joking, but considering of her words. Not much time was given to thinking about how he dealt with his life – if he was feeling introspective, he wrote or played or sang. Looking back, though, Don Juan Triumphant likely reflected what she was saying. So his music did speak to her. His heart leapt with the faintest bit of joy at that recognition.
"It was in your Opera – both of your Operas. If anyone was paying attention, they would know this. You cannot help wanting perfection, planning everything – trying to prove that you are not your face."
"What?" He flinches, drawing away from her.
"Come back here." Resting her head on his chest, she follows the tortured patchwork lining his chest. "You are not your face. You do not have to be perfect to be loved."
Erik becomes very still. "You called me a brat – you have used that description before, in Swedish, snor…?"
"Snorunge."
"I was being a snorunge – everything was going as planned. You were safe, thankfully, so, I taunted him. Is not pride one of the seven deadly sins?" he chuffs. "When he pulled out the gun, I was enraged – the plan was so perfect – how dare that cretin disrupt my well laid out plot? How dare he have a weapon and turn it on my Nadir? Raoul had tripped over the mannequin, so Nadir was the clean target. He was not supposed to be hurt or even threatened. I was to throw my lasso, Robert would be caught and I would be acclaimed," he snorts. "Then in a moment, all the fine plans became moot. I had to fight in a way I knew little about, with someone who was physically superior to me – my wits would be of no use. If Nadir died, it would be my fault and I did not know how I could continue to live if that happened.
"I was so afraid – I do not remember ever being so afraid."
"Not for yourself, but for someone you loved," she says. "Thank you for telling me. I am here, my darling man," she croons:
*Ensam går jag här och vankar,
Söker efter vännen min
Ensam går jag här och vankar,
Söker efter vännen min
Se, jag möter honom här,
Han, som är min hjärtans kär
Vill du såsom förr med mej
Svänga om I dansen säj?
Tral la la la, la la la la,
La la la la la, la la la la la,
Tral la la la, la la la la,
La la la la la, la la!
Barely waiting for her to close the bedroom door, Nadir pulls Adele to him and presses his lips to hers, holding the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her body close with the other. An image of Robert flashes across his mind – is this the primal urge that drove him? Did Robert somehow transfer his irrational lust to him? Was that even possible? His mind seems to have lost control of his emotions.
The urge to push him away is strong – this is not his usual behavior – their passion is strong, but never so intense, almost brutal. Still, she allows this to play out, whatever it may be. There is something he withheld in his recounting of the events surrounding M. Robert's death. With this instinctive knowledge, she relaxes into his embrace. By her doing so, he adjusts his hold to one more loving than desperate, finally releasing her, dropping his arms and turning away.
"I am sorry," he says. "That was not appropriate. I do not know what came over me."
"What is it? You are cold as ice, I felt your trembling." Taking his hand she leads him to her bed to sit down, taking a seat next to him. "What did you not tell me earlier? Something happened to you." Taking his chin in her hand, she turns his head to face her.
His hazel eyes are bright with tears – filled with fear and anguish.
For whom? She wonders.
"Erik saved my life today," Nadir says. "Why that should be a shock, I do not know. I am so accustomed to protecting him, watching out for him – like my child."
Taking both of his hands in hers, she leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Tell me."
"My life has been at risk many times. Living under the control of the Shah was living in fear of imminent death for any misstep – I was extremely fortunate that I was not killed when I set Erik free. This was different." Shifting his position, he puts his arm around her, kissing her temple. "You smell like your Ivory soap – you look to be someone who would choose patchouli or some dark spicy fragrance, but, no, just fresh, clean soap."
"In this city, sometimes a clean smell is more valuable than an Oriental oil," she retorts. Nuzzling closer to him, she kisses his neck, then returns her head to shoulder. "Tell me."
"I opened the door, not knowing what I would find – just that Christine was terrified and I felt Erik needed help – knew I had to be there for him. What I did not see in my intuitive vision was that I would ultimately be the reason for his distress. His plan was for me to wait for his word – much of the plan consisted of him giving directions with his vocal tricks. He wanted to be the target – wanted everyone else to be safe."
Adele sits upright, shifting her position to see his face. "And he gave no such direction to you – to assist him?"
Nadir shakes his head. "He would use the lasso, as he had with Raoul on the rooftop, to incapacitate Robert – then he would call me and I would handcuff Robert – again, as we did with Raoul."
"But you burst through the door, altering the situation."
"Robert's was the face of true madness. I do not know if the mirrors crazed him – they were known to have that effect – or simply made what was already present worse. His eyes were full of hate, such as I have never seen. As cruel as the Shah could be, he was sane. The gun was pointed at my face. We did not consider that he might have a gun. I heard the pistol cock. Closing my eyes, I said a brief prayer to Allah – preparing to die."
Adele's breath catches in her throat. "Erik stopped him?"
"Yes," he replies. "There was no gunshot – I was alive. When I opened my eyes, they were scuffling on the floor. I pulled my own gun, but they were entangled, so shooting would be too much of a risk," he says, shaking his head. "Then there was a shot and a cry that I knew was Erik's."
"But he was all right…"
"He was alive," he says, correcting her. "They both struggled to stand – Robert got his footing first and was now directing the gun at Erik. I aimed, not knowing if my bullet would reach Robert before his pierced Erik's head. Then shots rang out from another revolver."
"Monique?"
"Yes. Robert was dead and we were blessedly safe – not through any of our own behaviors or meticulous plans. Still, we were safe."
Adele stands up, her back to him, she unbuttons her bodice, removing the blouse to reveal her corset and chemise. "Could you assist me? I think we need to take pleasure in our lives right now." Her bustle, then skirt fall to the floor.
"The children?" He asks, unlacing her corset.
"I do not care, let them wonder," she says, turning to him, she returns the kiss he gave her earlier, now understanding his intensity. "I am not certain I could survive losing you. If the children are offended in some way that I want to appreciate your love, it is a problem for them to deal with."
Meg and Giselle lead a scrubbed and fragrant Monique, wrapped in Meg's chenille robe, from the bathroom – her coppery hair still damp from her toilette. "I feel like royalty," she giggles. "To what do I owe this special attention?"
"You seemed particularly affected by the accident at the theater, perhaps due to seeing your captor again. Having encountered him myself, I understand," Giselle responds. "In any event, we wanted to make you feel special."
Darius carries a tray from the kitchen – teapot, cups and saucers and a plate of meringues, enough for the four of them – and sets it on the dining room table. "I prepared chamomile tea," he says. "We have all suffered a challenging day and this will calm us. As for the meringues, I hope they are all right to serve."
Giselle helps Monique to her seat, then sits next to her on the window seat. Meg and Darius take the two chairs. Meg hosting – pouring the tea.
"They are Maman's, she tends to hoard them – I am surprised you found them – but I should think it will be fine. We have been going through our treats rather quickly these days, I fear," she pats her stomach. "Maman has commented on my weight, says I have not been working off all the macarons I have been eating. In any event, I suspect that she will not be noticing since she is otherwise engaged." Her eyes drift to the closed door to her mother's bedroom and giggles.
"M. Khan almost died today," Darius tells her, taking her hand. "He likely just informed her of this."
"I did not know," Meg gasps, "How? Who? M. Robert?
Giselle shakes her head at Meg – indicating Monique with her eyes. "Let us not speak of what happened – I for one am still quite rattled."
"Did M. Robert point the gun at M. Khan? Is that why he fought with M. Erik?" Monique asks. "That is what Mme. Christine told me."
"I believe that Giselle is correct – perhaps we should save this conversation for another time. I am sorry I introduced it," Darius say. "My apologies to all of you."
"No. I want to talk about what happened," Monique insists. "I was there and I do not remember anything." She reaches her hand across the table to him.
He pats her hand lightly, then removes it quickly.
"I recall leaving Raoul's house and walking to the Opera House. I entered the stage door and then I heard Mme. Christine sing her song," she says slowly, pulling her own hand back – staring in front of her, recalling the scene in her mind's eye. "The plan was for her to walk to the mirrors when told Robert was there. If that happened, then everyone else was instructed to leave or hide."
Meg nods. "That is what we were all told. You remember that, Darius, do you not?"
Darius exchanges a look with Giselle, who shrugs. "Yes," he says, "best we all know the facts. What do you recall, Monique?"
"He must have been there – she walked through the tunnel." Her pale eyes search each of theirs – Meg's deep blue, Giselle's brown and Darius' hazel-green, all waiting for something – for her? Why? "Of course he was there. I saw him…on the floor…dead." Her heart feels heavy in her chest and breathing becomes difficult. "Oh."
"Are you all right?" Giselle asks, holding the cup to Monique's lips. "You are becoming stressed. Please drink some of the tea."
The offer is refused.
Monique presses her fingertips into her scalp, tapping her forehead, trying to awaken her memory. "I saw him follow Mme. Christine." Her eyes find Darius' face, a small frown creasing his brow, then search the room, trying to see through the darkness of her memory. "She was safe. I saw her run past the dressing room. The doll was there." Pressing her thumb against her lips, she gnaws on the nail.
"He continued to follow her." She nods excitedly, the events coming back more rapidly now. "Yes, that is when M. Khan was in danger. Robert had a gun. He pointed it at M. Khan. M. Erik leaped out from behind a curtain. They fought. The gun went off. Once. Just once." She turns to Meg for confirmation.
Meg shakes her head. "I do not know." Pain is limned on her face – for her friend, for herself.
Monique turns to Giselle.
"Yes. Just once."
"I know," she asserts. "They got up. Both of them got up. Robert pointed the gun at M. Erik. He was bleeding. He had no weapon."
Tears pour down her cheeks. "Oh, God. I shot him. I had Raoul's gun. I shot him. I killed him," she wails, head thrown back, her frail body wracked with sobs. "No."
Giselle wraps her arms around her. "Shush, shush. It is all right," she says, rocking her gently.
Adele and Nadir rush into the room – both garbed in dressing gowns – hair mussed, faces still flushed from their lovemaking.
"What has happened?" Nadir asks.
Adele rushes to join Giselle in comforting Monique.
"I remember," the girl tells her, grasping the older woman's robe. "I remember."
"That is good, Monique," Adele comforts her. "I am happy you remember." Taking the girl's shoulders, looking her directly in the eye. "The most important thing to remember is that you saved Erik's life."
Monique swallows hard, surveilling the faces of those around her, she sees confirmation of Adele's words. The tears soften along with the smile that hesitantly appears on her trembling lips. Looking down, attempting to recall for herself that this is the truth. She nods and says, "Yes, I suppose I did – that gives me such joy."
"But?" Nadir asks.
"But, that is not why I shot him," she admits.
"Monique?" Meg exclaims.
Darius places a hand on her shoulder.
"I wanted him dead. I took Raoul's gun so that I could kill him." Her voice devoid of emotion. "I remember all of it now." A deep sigh is released. "I am happy, so happy that M. Erik is safe. That all of us are now safe from him." To Nadir, she says, "What now?"
"The police?" He shakes his head. "Nothing. It is officially recorded as an accident," he tells her – tells all of them. "As far as the police are concerned, it is over."
Monique nods, then falls against Giselle, exhausted from her recollections and confession, relieved of her worst fear. "I am not certain I deserve that. Poor Raoul, must feel terrible."
"Raoul will be fine, do not concern yourself with him now," Giselle tells her.
"I gave him leave to visit you tomorrow – if that is not satisfactory, I can advise him in the morning," Nadir says.
Monique brightens. "That is fine. He meant no harm. He was only trying to protect me. I do love him – I just do not know how to get past what happened – both the abduction and what happened last night."
"We still intend to investigate the burning of the Boscherville House and the property surrounding the Inn," Nadir says. "We expect to find evidence against him in the abuse and, who knows what else, of other women."
"That does not expiate what I did."
"You must take this up with God, Monique," Adele pats the girl's hand. "We shall go to church and you shall go to confession, it may ease your soul and your conscience."
"But I am not sorry – how can I ask absolution if I am not sorry?"
"Then we wait until you decide what you need to do," Adele says. "As for us, we love you and we are grateful to you. If Raoul wants to be a man and be welcome here, he will feel the same."
"Thank you," Monique says. "That must serve me for now – until I can straighten all of this out in my own head and heart." She shifts in her seat. "I think I should like to go to bed now."
"Of course," Adele gets up and allows Monique to rise from the window seat.
"Do you want some company until you fall asleep?" Giselle asks. "After which I will take my leave. Living so close is such a relief."
"Yes, I think I would," Monique smiles. "I suspect Madame and M. Khan might like to retire as well – and it appears that Meg is longing for some time with our wonderful Darius."
"That is not true," Meg argues, blushing and side-eyeing him, so that everyone knows she is lying.
Darius simply lowers his eyes, long, dark lashes dusting the tops of his cheeks.
"Go, spend some time with him. Giselle and I will talk of dance and theater and silly things," Monique insists. "I, too am happy that Veronique offered you a place to stay."
The two women leave the dining room and close the bedroom curtain behind them.
"Take a walk, you two," Adele tells her daughter and the quiet Persian gentleman. "Nadir and I are going to have a cup of tea and finish the meringues you pilfered from their hiding place in my cupboard."
"Madame, I am sorry, I thought…" Darius mumbles.
"I am making a joke, Darius," Adele smiles at him. "You did nothing wrong – well, not too wrong. Now, go."
Raoul precedes Phillippe into the library. His mood frantic, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I need to do something for her."
"Leave her alone for now," Phillippe insists. "She is receiving what she needs from her friends."
"I am her friend," Raoul insists.
"Sit down and get a grip on yourself," Phillippe orders. "Pacing like a caged lion will get you nothing."
"She killed him with my gun."
"Yes, she did. How does your tantrum change that?" Phillipe says. "No one cares about you or your feelings right now, Raoul. Can you not understand that?"
"They all hate me."
"No one hates you. No one is even thinking about you, except me." His eyes roll to the ceiling.
"You want to be rid of me?" Raoul sneers. "I am a burden."
"Stop it." Phillippe grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. "Stop this behavior. If you want to help her, learn something that will benefit her. She has been roughly treated and acted out of a deep pain. She has no ability to help you deal with your guilt."
Raoul falls onto the couch. "What can I do?"
"I do not know," Phillippe says, sitting down next to him, putting an arm around his brother's shoulders. "But we shall figure this out together. M. Khan suggested you visit her tomorrow – start there."
"I am sorry, Phillippe."
"I know."
Meg pulls her cloak tightly around her – still in her ballet costume, the light wool cape is her only protection from a late spring breeze that comes up to tousle her hair.
Darius puts a protective arm around her. "Are you quite warm enough? We could stop at a café if you do not care to walk."
"No," she says, "the air feels fresh and clean with the bit of wind. It gets so stuffy inside and walking is good… Oh, Darius, I feel such a fool, such a stupid little fool."
"Meg, sweet girl, why?"
"Just that – you called me a girl. I am almost as old as the others, but everyone treats me as a child."
"You are innocent – that is quite different from being foolish or stupid or a child."
"All I can remember of today is people giving me looks or telling me to be quiet."
They reach one of the public benches situated under one of the trees that line the street. "Let us stop here," Darius says, allowing her to sit before situating himself next to her, draping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "Do you recall when I told you I thought you were honest and how much I admired that about you?"
"Yes. Yes, I do." She nods, her frown turning into a smile.
"Because of the state of Monique's feelings, that she did not remember what had happened, some of us felt it might not be wise to remind her."
"She became very angry with me when I put her off when she wanted to talk about what M. Robert did to her. Now everyone became angry with me when I tried to find out what happened," she looks at him, her azure eyes wide, confused.
"I think you just need to continue being Meg – even if sometimes other people do not approve of what you say," he tells her. "As it turns out, speaking of what happened made her feel better."
"That is true!" Her spirits revived.
"So worrying about what others think may not be the wisest thing to do," he concludes.
"I only care what you think," she says. "Maman will love me no matter what. Christine and Uncle Erik, too. At least I believe that is true."
"I believe so, too," he laughs. "What about M. Khan? Would he still love you."
"He had better or Maman will be displeased!" She chortles. "So, that leaves you," Not looking at him, her small hands fussing with her cloak. "I could not bear it if you thought I was silly or stupid."
"You shall not have to bear anything of the sort," he says, lifting her chin to look at him. "You are my sweet girl – yes, girl – do not be so anxious to be worldly."
"But…"
"In good time, I have my own anxieties to deal with and must prevail upon your goodwill and patience with me."
"Is it so hard to love me?"
"It is too easy – I do not wish to disappoint you."
"Well, how will we know unless we try?"
Darius bursts out laughing. "That seems to be a valid argument. So much for you being stupid – although this relationship might be considered foolish by some."
"I only want to kiss you – that is not foolish – that is wise – at least I think it is," she smirks. "Would you kiss me again – like you did when we went to the café?"
He leans into her, cupping her cheek with his hand. Gently pressing his lips to hers, he releases a sigh, wrapping his other arm around her, bringing her closer to him.
Meg, in response, tilts her head slightly to the right, opens her lips, feeling him return her invitation. Reaching up with her hand, she touches his cheek.
Breaking away, they both swallow and look down. Darius touches his forehead to hers. "We shall have to do that more often – you seem quite adept already."
"Oh…Christine and I used to kiss the back of our hands to practice," she giggles. "It is far more fun kissing you, though. I think that now would be a good time to continue our lessons."
"I agree. You are a most admirable instructress."
"That song was lovely, can you translate it?" Erik asks.
Alone I walk on paths I know
Looking for a friendly face
Alone I walk on paths I know
Looking for a friendly face
I look to meet him once again
The one whose love is in my heart
I want to see you once again
And dance again with you my love.
"A friendly face…" Kissing her lightly on the tip of her upturned nose, Erik continues his story. "When I heard the gun go off and felt the bullet enter my arm, I was so grateful the shot had missed anything significant. I could not easily stand up – the fighting having taken its toll on me. Struggling for my footing, I saw him from the corner of my eye – the gun pointed at my head – all I could think of was you. There was the series of gunshots. Giselle seemed to come from nowhere to fly at Robert's legs. Nadir had his gun and I thanked God for both of them when he fell at my feet."
"It is over," Christine says, "Now kiss me, my husband – my love." She brings her lips to his, their mouths finding the special way they fit together, their tongues teasing, first his, then hers. She loves being inside of him. Their bodies naturally adjust for the most physical contact, seeking to meld into one being.
His left hand glides down her back, resting on her hip. An attempt to lift his right arm to join the left in caressing her fails, the pain is too great. "Damn."
"Not to worry, my darling, I shall take care of everything. You need only lay back and relax," she chuckles softly.
"May I ask a favor?" He whispers, so quietly his voice is barely audible.
"Of course. You are still so shy about your needs. What would you like from your wife?"
"Could we just…kiss? He asks. "When I thought I might not survive tonight – my only wish was to kiss you once more." His fingers graze her cheek, stroking it with his thumb. "Your kisses gave me life once before – I need them now as well, I believe."
"Then you shall have all the kisses you may think you want and more."
A/N – The song is a traditional folk song called "I Walk Alone and Wander Here." There was no citation for the composer.