Author's Note—This little one-shot that just appeared one day and is written almost exactly as it came to me.
The Usual Disclaimer—These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
Thank you for reading, and please review.
~R
Three Scenes
Copyright 2016 by Riene
There was something wrong with the man's face, the priest thought, but he was near-sighted and half-blind with age…and the man steadily kept his face averted.
And there is something wrong with this wedding, too.
The bans had been posted two weeks ago, the required time, but no one had come forward to protest. The elderly priest had not recognized the names; they were not of his parish, and he did not read the papers and was too unworldly to recognize names from Paris gossip of months ago. He had done what he could though, and had pulled aside the young woman for a private conversation.
"Are you sure you do this of your own free will? Are you under any coercion?" he had quietly asked.
Her midnight blue eyes had widened in genuine surprise, and she laid a gently reassuring hand on his arm, recognizing his concern.
"I do this of my own free will," she had said, and he heard the honesty in her voice. "I an not under any pressure or threat."
They were not eloping…perhaps they were in trouble somehow.
And so he had married them, the dark man tense and utterly silent except for his vows, the woman standing quietly by his side. The man in black had placed a ring on her finger, not a simple gold band, but a stone worth a fortune. When told he could kiss his bride, the girl had turned to him, her eyes luminous, mouth parted expectantly, but the silent man had merely brushed his lips against her temple, put his arm around her, and they had departed the chapel.
Troubled, the elderly priest gazed after them. He would pray for them.
Afterwards, he found the black velvet bag of gold coins, a small fortune in this part of rural France. Thank you was all the note said.
That night she retrieved the valise from where it had been left the day before, and removed the shimmering silk and lace gown. White, as befitting her status as a new bride. It had cost far more than she could afford, but she longed to see Erik's eyes as beheld her in it. She dressed, carefully brushed her hair, and lay down to wait. But only deafening silence came to her, and as the hours passed, she turned toward the pillow so that he would not hear her weep.
Erik stared silently into the dying embers of the fire, aware with every fiber of his aching body of the woman lying down the hall. He would never impose his disfigured, grotesque form on her, he knew now. Denying himself even the temporary relief he loathed, Erik refilled the wineglass.
"You gave yourself to a monster!" he cried, horrified.
"Yes, Raoul," she said simply.
"You let him touch you!"
""He is my husband, I cannot deny him," she whispered, but Raoul stared uncomprehendingly.
How to explain that she wanted him to touch her, ached for his presence in a way she could not explain? He seduced her with his voice, his eyes, his music every night, but would not touch her with his hands. And it was that need which made her bite her lips until they bled.
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