Fanfiction apparently is a temperamental beast so I am sorry if I was late responding to anyone's review! I appreciate them all tremendously, and you've all been so kind and encouraging. I thank thee!
Anyway, enough of that. Onward!
III
Though his intention was simply to see that Christine suffered as little as possible, he could not deny that he also appreciated that the small dose of laudanum also allowed for him to continue his compositions while she slept.
He welcomed the distraction.
Erik could not explain why, but though he had only spent a few hours in the girl's company, he was already beginning to grow fond of her—something for which he berated himself thoroughly.
Was he truly so desperate that he would accept any feminine attention, regardless of the fact that this particular girl was young, hurt, and entirely at his mercy?
His fingers pounded a melody with a punishing intensity, hoping to clear his mind of any such thoughts. She had to leave. Perhaps he could give her a few francs that would ensure her immediate comfort and then take her aboveground. He would not use a lantern, but would simply walk her above stairs and allow her to wander away as she pleased.
He cursed that such a thought was not as equally pleasing to him.
She was not a stray kitten to be taken in; she was a living, breathing young lady that would inevitably grow to despise him—if she did not do so already.
Erik sighed and ceased playing, the organ notes still ringing faintly in the air before eventually dissipating into silence.
Except... it was not all silent. Perhaps it was not even actual sound, but instead a pure awareness of her presence, making his underground home feel not quite so lonesome.
She needed to leave at once.
To grow attached to her would only lead him to despair all the more when she turned from him. It was far better to focus on her flaws, feed her a simple meal, give her a small purse that should allow her to find shelter in an inn, and then never see her again.
It was obvious that it was not specifically her he wanted, merely the vague concept of a companion. A kind woman with soft eyes that would be happy to see him whenever he returned home...
A pet. He would take the girl above and immediately seek out a familiar who would satisfy his growing fondness for company without any ridiculously romantic notions of domesticity.
Almost without conscious effort his fingers resumed their playing, only this time with the soft cadence of a lullaby long since forgotten.
His attention however was diverted by the sound of a quiet thump from the Louis-Philippe room.
Erik hesitated before rising from the instrument and going to knock on her door. "Christine?"
The sounds of yet more sobs was her only reply, and he found himself growing frustrated. There seemed to be no end to her tears! Though he had also faced the cruelties of humanity—for much, much longer than her—he had coped quite well. Christine seemed only capable of crying whenever humanly possible.
Though he turned to stalk back to his organ and continue his composition regardless of his guest's emotional outbursts, he found himself unable to do so. She was just a girl and there might be something seriously wrong with one of her injuries that would require his intervention.
"Christine, speak now or I am entering your chamber!" He chastised his own reference to the room being hers. She was not staying and a mere one night's sleep most certainly did not count toward a transfer of ownership.
Receiving no reply, Erik walked into the room.
She was a huddled mass in the corner, the sheets he had so carefully arranged on the bed the night before wrapped tightly around her as she sobbed her seeming despair into her knees.
She had never looked so much like a child.
"Christine?" Erik ensured that his voice was a soothing lilt, as he was certain anything more would merely force the girl into further hysterics. "What has happened?"
She hiccupped quite unbecomingly and raised a red and tear-stained face toward him. "I do not know where I am and my leg hurts and you..." Her voice took on an ethereal quality that startled even him. "I will send you the Angel of Music..." The look of devastation on her face was paralyzing. "Why did you not come sooner?"
Erik blinked rather stupidly. "Of what are you talking?"
"Papa said that when he died, I would be visited by the Angel of Music—that you would look after me. But then Mamma Valerius died and I had nowhere to go, and you must not have been able to find me!"
Erik was by no means a simpleton, but he found himself quite unable to understand what the girl was saying. Her father was dead, as was her mother? Guardian? And apparently he had now been promoted from monster to angel—at least according to the girl.
Christine continued to sniffle even as she choked out the rest of her thoughts. "I know now why you wear a mask." He stiffened. "I am no longer pure enough to look upon your face!"
Now he was truly dumbfounded. "Christine..." Where to begin? Selfishly he had absolutely no desire to disillusion her as to his identity. That someone would choose to believe that he hid his face for some other reason than to mask his hideousness would be refreshing in the extreme. But could he allow this girl to take such a burden upon herself as to believe it was due to her own failings that he hid from her?
He cleared his throat and rose to his full height. "Christine. You must not question me about my mask. But I can assure you, your own past dealings and sufferings have nothing to do with it."
She did not look at all convinced. "But, Angel..."
Erik shook his head determinedly. "I have told you, my name is Erik. You will make use of it."
He should have disabused her of any childish stories of angels and her father's ability to command them. She was hardly a woman grown, and he knew how much he would have liked to hold on to his own childhood for as long as possible. But it seemed as if circumstances were determined to strip such fantasies away from them both—though Christine obviously held hers with far more tenacity than he.
Christine nodded, but it was readily apparent from her expression that she still considered him an angel, and therefore her acquiescence was based solely on his perceived command.
He did not know how this development would affect his plan of sending her on her way. To do so now would mean she was being rejected by her father and the keeper he had supposedly sent to see to her care.
"I shall make you some tea. Do you have any preferences?"
Her mouth opened, but she closed it quickly. "Whatever you see fit to provide."
Erik scoffed. "That was not the question."
Christine apparently felt she had displeased him, for she quickly amended her statement. "Sugar please. And cream if you have it." Her request was so soft he barely heard it, but as soon as she had spoken he quickly vacated the room, grateful for the respite of the kitchen and its uncomplicated activities.
He would see to the girl's breakfast, and then reconsider his options. The goal mustremain the same—he simply could not allow her to continue on as his permanent guest. The concept was far too appealing. Besides, there was evidently something wrong with the girl's mental faculties if she should think him a heavenly being.
She had recently suffered a trauma to the head...
Erik had no idea what to offer her, but remembered vividly that the after effects of the drug he had administered used to cause unpleasant nausea in his youth. With that in mind, he prepared simple toast, opting to provide butter and preserves for her to apply should she feel so inclined.
It still felt bizarre to be making breakfast for anyone, let alone a clearly disturbed girl.
He placed everything once more on a tray, this time laden with its intended teapot and cups. He had no penchant for cream and sugar himself—it inhibited the vocal range terribly, no matter how seemingly pleasant the texture. But he would not begrudge the girl her own tastes.
She had apparently had enough of the floor for she was now sitting on the small sofa in her—his—spareroom,and was rubbing at her leg absently.
"I trust you have not damaged your stitches. I would be rather cross if you had after that dramatic display." He placed the tray on the side table, pouring himself a cup of tea before taking the seat farthest away from her.
Christine immediately pulled her hand away from her leg. "No. At least, I don't think I did." She blushed, and he noticed that her complexion was improving from the red mass it had turned after her morning histrionics. "Would I be able to tell?"
Evidently she had never had stitches before if she did not immediately know when a stitch had pulled. "Yes, you would know. It would be very painful and would bleed quite a lot."
"Oh."
She was staring at him again, though her gaze was very different from the day before.
It made him no less uncomfortable.
"Drink your tea."
He was pleased when she complied and that she also added large helpings of preserves and butter to her toast, humming happily as she began eating her small morning spread.
Erik did not have the least idea how to begin the discussion of her relocation. He still was not convinced she would not do herself harm if he should make it perfectly plain that he was not in fact the angel she supposed. But if he played along with the charade, would that not make him the same kind of monster that preyed upon an impressionable girl's innocence?
Just as she had with her previous meal, Christine tried to hold all of her food and drink as close to her body as possible. The teacup rested precariously on the arm of the sofa while the toast was kept in hand—getting crumbs over his fine Persian rug, he noticed with a grimace.
His own black tea was sipped placidly.
"Have you given much thought to where you will go once you leave here?" Perhaps she would make this easy for him and offer a brilliant plan that would negate him from any feelings of responsibility—and also desist thinking him some sort of benevolent creature sent from above.
But apparently the girl was determined to make him feel as wretched as possible as she clutched her tea and toast tightly and turned to him with over-large, shattered eyes. "You do not mean to keep me?"
Oh, what a question! He chastised himself thoroughly for the hope that swelled within him at the possibility that living, breathing person should actually choose to stay with him. There could be no mistaking her reaction, as just as her eyes had spurred him into disposing of her attacker, they now clearly communicated her desire to remain.
To be cared for.
As if he knew how to care for anyone, let alone a damaged girl. She needed nutrients and quite a lot of them if she would ever lose the gaunt and slightly sallow appearance that turned her youth into fragility. He barely remembered to eat one meal a day.
And surely, she would know nothing of music, and that was his one true joy in life. He would not cease his composing, and surely she required sleep like normal people. Some of his best work was produced at night.
He would have to be considerate.
No, it would be far better to point out to her the inadequacies in her deluded plan. If he did so successfully, she would want to leave of her own accord. And though it would sting at first, he would huff and say 'good riddance' and think of her no more.
But looking at how upset she was at the prospect of returning to the streets, he decided a few more small enquiries could not possibly cause further complications. "Child, why do you call me the Angel of Music?"
Her eyes brightened considerably. "I heard you playing my lullaby! And you made my leg feel so much better." She picked at a crumb of toast with her finger, even as Erik was convinced she had confused his medicinal prowess with the pain relieving properties of the laudanum. "And if you were a man you would have wanted to do that, and you did not. So you must be an Angel."
Erik stared at her incredulously. Because he had not violated her, that meant he was not a man? How many scoundrels had used her after her father had passed that that should be her conclusion? As for the lullaby, it was not one of his own compositions, but was fairly well known throughout the continent. What trouble him most was how accepting she was of her erroneous assumptions.
How could he allow her to wander off alone to be further abused? Whether or not he particularly liked her, or whether or not this was pure selfishness on his part, he had begun to steadily feel a responsibility for her. And if that meant that she should stay with him—grow to love him? Would that be so very terrible?
He firmly pushed away such thoughts. "Is there nowhere else you might stay? An acquaintance perhaps?"
She looked away thoughtfully. "There was a boy..."
Erik stiffened. "Yes?"
Christine shrugged. "I have not seen him since before Papa died. He... he kissed me once and said he would remember me..." She sighed, looking forlorn once more. "I tried to find him when Mamma Valerius died, but..." she shrugged again and took a large mouthful of toast.
"What was his name?" He could not justify keeping her if there was a home available to her—one that did not include the likes of him.
"Why does it matter? He could not have been with me when I was just the poor daughter of a violinist, why would he care for me now?" She made a vague gesture over her person, clearly referring to her recent injustices.
Erik grimaced as he saw yet more crumbs falling onto the rug below.
"Your father played the violin? Did he teach you also?" Maybe she would not be entirely opposed to his compositions flowing throughout the house at all hours of the day if she had been subjected to such musicality since birth.
The girl actually laughed. It was short and breathy, but the brief twinkle in her eyes affected him more than he could say. "Oh no! Papa would play, and I would sing!"
Erik remembered the strained and hoarse voice she had used yesterday and tried to imagine anything of quality being produced from her vocals. This morning her timbre was more pleasing, but still held a twinge of disuse.
"And if my Angel has finally come, then I can sing once more!" He nearly groaned when he saw her eyes turn misty. "I tried to sing in the parks for spare centimes, but when Papa died... my voice died with him."
"Did you sing with him often?"
She smiled, and again, it caused an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. "Every day! We used to play and sing for Professor Valerius. He always called me his little soprano songbird. But then he died too..."
Erik was tempted. If her father had been a musician of such quality as to have any sort of patron, she would have been trained from birth. Tragedy often had unexpected effects on the vocals, but with proper coaxing—and if anyone was able to coax potential from a soprano it would be him—he would have a companion not only for meals, but also for his music.
Assuming she had potential of course.
But he had to admit, he was intrigued. The idea of sending away someone with talent—someone who had expressed a sincere desire to stay with him—seemed like an absurd handling of the situation. And if in the meantime while her voice healed she came to understand that he was simply a man, and that not all men were quite as dreadful as the ones she had encountered, so much the better.
"Can I not stay with you? I promise not to be any trouble." Her voice was so small when she asked it of him, and his thoughts briefly drifted to his previous determination to find a pet familiar in order to fill the void this girl would leave once she abandoned him. How quickly he had adjusted to the thought of her intruding upon his solitude...
"If you stay with me, Christine, it will not necessarily be easy. To live in this realm of darkness means to devote oneself entirely to music. You say you were promised the Angel of Music, but you have yet to prove to me that you are worthy of his attention."
She nodded emphatically. "I could try to sing for you now! And I know I will not be as good as I used to sing with Papa, but I will improve now that you are with me."
Erik moved quickly and took the teacup away from the arm of the sofa, as he feared in her enthusiasm she would manage to topple the remaining liquid onto his rug. "You will do no such thing. You will heal and you will eat. When I feel it is time to test your voice, I shall tell you." Of what seemed to be their own accord, his fingers twitched as if to grasp her chin, and he was grateful when she looked at him without his unwelcome prompting.
"And if I find you are worthy of my tutelage, Christine, you shall never want for a home again."
Christine wept, and Erik sighed.
Sooo... Christine might have made a teensy mistake about Erik's identity. Oops! Poor thing has just suffered a head wound and some rather... horrifying times, so I guess some allowances can be made... maybe...
Remember, I give snippets for reviews!
