A/N: I love reading what you guys think might happen - and thank you! - but please remember – this is inspired by my favorite time travel books. Please don't look for total matches, though there will be some similarities here and there. But I'm doing my own thing too. ;-) … and now…
III
"Damoiselle…"
A large, warm hand slid beneath her neck, lifting her head, and Christine moaned with the pain thrumming through her skull.
"Drink this. It will help you."
Pulled from the thick murky blackness not by the thought of whatever elixir was offered to dull her anguish but by the deep, familiar, achingly seductive voice that set wings to her soul, Christine opened disbelieving eyes to behold the impossible.
Not dead. Not dead.
He was not dead…
Erik crouched before her, wearing what looked like something that belonged to the wardrobe department of the theatre. Absent of any true coherent thought in the wake of her shock she blurted the first thing that came to mind.
"Why are you wearing those clothes?"
He cocked his head in that oh-so-familiar manner that mocked, his lips twisting into that oh-so-familiar wry grin that caused her heart to skip a beat, his mesmeric eyes sparkling with life...
Not dead...he was not dead...
"You would prefer me without my garments?" His gaze dipped lower, to her generously exposed décolletage then lifted again to her eyes. "And will you go without the constraint of yours as well?" His probing look enflamed her.
"What…? No!"
At the bent of his familiar words, not growled in anger this time in ordering the removal of her costume, but still agitating her with the light mockery of his tone, Christine struggled to sit up, feeling the burn in her cheeks. The mantra of elation in her mind over his startling resurrection dwindled to give way to embarrassed confusion.
Gracefully he stood to his feet and stepped back to give her room. To cover the awkward moment, she grabbed the leather flask he held out, only just noticing he had untied her wrists, and with shaking hands she upended the contents into her mouth.
Fire scorched her throat, burning a hole down to her stomach. Hastily she pulled the container away, coughing and gasping at the vile brew.
"One not familiar with spirits," he said casually, "should not drink with such haste."
She squeezed the alcohol induced tears from her eyes. The stuff was quite horrid, but she appreciated the immediate ease of warmth that settled through her blood, also alleviating the ache in her skull. The libation gave her a measure of calm and the wherewithal to speak.
"Why are you here?" she asked barely above a whisper, as if to speak more loudly might somehow make him disappear.
She still could not fully believe Erik was standing little more than an arm's length away. He towered above her, and she struggled to her feet with the need to be on more equal footing, to see better into his eyes, though even standing, he topped her by at least five inches.
"For what purpose did you come to this forest?" she insisted. "To Brittany. Did you follow me? Did you know I was here?"
.
xXx
.
The masked leader of renegades stood, curiously eyeing the slender woman who had sprawled so gracefully at his feet and now faced him as regal as a queen, tall for a woman, elegant…and bitterly angry.
By God, she was a beauty! That was clear to see even with the dirt that smudged her cheek and brow. She had flawless skin of purest cream, and lush red lips made to be thoroughly plundered. Eyes of rich dark velvet, impossibly huge eyes, flashed and studied him with cross expectancy. An unruly mass of thick dark ringlets rolled to her waist, and for a forbidden moment he imagined how they might feel trickling across his bare chest. Slender in stature, she was a woodland goddess. Her breasts were high and well rounded, the top moons shamelessly exposed and inviting his gaze, though he was temporarily bemused by her peculiar dress and the odd manner in which her skirt billowed out beneath an impossibly tiny waist. She spoke as if she knew him, and he searched his mind in months past for just such an encounter, for surely he would not have forgotten a maiden so memorable.
"I shall ask the questions," he said in sober regard, reminded of duty first. "Why were you skulking on the grounds of the Chateau Martinique? What business have you there?"
"I was not skulking," she said somewhat petulantly. "I'm a guest there."
His eyes narrowed. "Of de Chagny's?" He looked again at her odd bell-shaped dress composed of expensive cloth and brocade. "You are his intended then?" he clipped out the question as more of a statement, the idea strangely unsettling.
He had heard, as had all who dwelt in the village, that the faithless noble made plans to marry another from a foreign land, his bartered bride expected to arrive any day.
She squirmed, clearly uncomfortable. "I haven't given him my consent yet. Actually," she took a deep breath, clasping her hands demurely in her skirts as if thinking better of her response, and rectified her words. "I told him I cannot marry him."
He crossed his arms and regarded her distantly. "A maiden of such fortitude is a rare find. You are not the least bit tempted by his coffers of great wealth?"
She brew her dark winged brows together. "Erik, why must you say such things to me?" Her voice was hurt. "Must we engage in this same tired dance, again and again? I showed you how I felt. I made my choice when you asked it of me, that night…"
Hearing the name she spoke gave him pause, but he did not respond.
"I would have gone with you, would have married you. You told me to leave with Raoul. I only did what you ordered me to do, though I have yet to understand why…."
He eyed her intently as if he could probe into the inner chambers of her heart and find access to the secrets that lay hidden there. Her gaze slid miserably to the ground.
"Had I experienced such a stroke of good fortune that you should desire to lie willing beneath me, damoiselle," he said softly, "I would never have turned you over to another man."
His surprising words brought another flush of becoming rose to her cheeks. Her eyes snapped up to his. "What are you saying?"
"Simply this. You are mistaken. We have never met."
She stared at him, blinking madly, her mouth agape.
"Is this some cruel joke?" she asked hoarsely. "Some other masquerade? Will you now pretend not to know me, after all the years we shared - after all we've been! What of our music and the opera?"
He looked at her oddly. "The opera?"
"Oh!" she fumed in clear offense, then did something that greatly surprised him – of itself a difficult feat to accomplish.
Closing the short distance in a rush, the woodland goddess lifted her hands to his jaw and pressed her lips heavily to his. Soft lips… Full. Warm and inviting, as were the generous curves she pressed flush to his body.
Desire flashed through his blood like heat lightning, his every nerve instantly charged with fiery lust for the bewitching creature he drew closer with one arm. He seized control of the kiss, his palm against her cheek, his fingers delving into her thick curls. His tongue plunged hot into her parted mouth, taking every bit of sweetness she possessed, and she groaned and pressed herself closer, wrapping slim arms about his neck, running her palms along the back of his shoulders.
He had done his fair share of wenching, but never had a kiss affected him so strongly. Confused that it should, he drew back, ending with a tender nibble to her lower lip, unable to prevent one last taste of her allure.
She opened dazed eyes, expectant and shy. Virginal eyes, and it shook him after such a bold display that she might be an innocent.
"You are most desirable," he said thickly, "A man would have to be a simpleton to resist your charms. Gladly I will lie with you, belle jeune fille, though it does not change what is true – I do not know you."
Her jubilant smile faded bit by bit with each statement aired. She looked deeply into his eyes then stepped a little closer and lifted her face to see him more clearly. He remained motionless, without expression, and stared back. Abruptly she let out a soft little gasp, her features stricken.
"My God…you really don't know me…"
He inclined his head to acknowledge her horrified words. Her hands lifted to cover her cheeks, and she slightly swayed. He grasped her tiny waist to keep her from again falling over and narrowly missing the fire pit.
"You must rest, you are weary," he said. She took a sudden step in retreat, breaking his hold, her eyes now guarded. "We will talk more on the morrow." He wanted additional answers but they could wait.
She stared at him then glanced toward the pile of furs in the corner of the tent.
"Where will you sleep?" She nervously cleared her throat. "That is, if you intend for me to stay in this tent, which I assume to be yours?"
He raised his brow at her tight query, but did not remind her that only moments ago she had eagerly offered her body up for his pleasure. She may now play the shy maiden, but soon, he vowed, he would know every silken inch of that pleasure.
"I have matters to attend. You may have the bed to yourself…" He motioned toward the pelts. "For tonight."
Sweeping her in another head to toe glance, lingering over sumptuous curves and the memory of how they felt crushed against his body, he nodded once in parting and left the tent.
.
xXx
.
Christine woke some time after dawn, her body better rested, her head sore but no longer hammering out a repetitive crescendo. Bruises she had acquired through the night were more irksome than painful, accustomed to such, when learning difficult dance programmes. The cut on her hand had formed a scab and looked no worse, so at least was on the mend.
What sleep Christine obtained was filled with dreams of events she would rather left forgotten. In wakefulness, Paris lay more than a half day's journey behind her, but in dreams it dogged her every step. She was no longer sure where her destiny lie. Would she find the needed answers in the city that had become her home? Or were they to be found elsewhere, in this camp of brigands?
Her silk dress was a hopeless ruin, the black she'd worn for mourning, a dark, drab color that need no longer apply. One sleeve was coming away from the bodice and the hem bore a jagged tear. She wished she possessed the skills to mend. Mend the gown and so much more…
Long minutes after he had left her, once she awkwardly managed to loosen the stays of her corset and slip out of the stiff garment of boning needed to give the skirts of her gown the degree of formality the de Chagnys expected, at least reclining had been a comfort. It was his male scent on the silky pelts that drove her to distraction and stirred restless slumber. Of candle smoke and earthen forest and spicy musk. A scent familiar and new and never forgotten…
Better able to think with the dawning of a new day, she revisited the memory of their last meeting and played over the puzzle of his words. She entertained no doubt that this rebel leader was Erik, could be no one else. She had seen him a week ago, for pity's sake. His features had not changed, not one iota. Even his mask was a replica of the one he'd worn in the Don Juan.
So overjoyed to see him after endless days of sorrow, after thinking him dead, followed by the angry confusion to hear him deny even knowing her, she had acted on impulse and catapulted herself into his arms, determined to make him admit he'd not forgotten her. And in his kiss that had surely scorched her soul, she felt a tremor of that wild hope. Yet no recognition had flashed in his eyes, though she'd seen and felt his desire burn through her when he looked at and kissed her. There had been a keen interest in her as a woman he wished to bed, but no hint of the adoration she'd come to know as the woman he once said he loved.
She did not want to believe it, God, how could such a thing even be possible? But it must be – he truly did not know her!
It occurred to her that he could just be a consummate actor playing a role as cleverly as he played her Angel for ten years, but intuition told her that wasn't the case. Being in his presence had felt so intensely familiar…and yet there was a marked difference. He displayed his usual debonair grace of seduction, so much a part of him, but there was a sense of self-assuredness and control that had been missing from the Phantom of the Opera. Not enough of a disparity to make her reject the idea of his being Erik, but it did give her cause to wonder.
But if this was Erik, (as it must be), how could he not know her? Had his memories been stifled somehow, the night of the great fire perhaps? The elderly were wont to forget, though he was decades away from being old. A sickness of the mind? Yet those were often related to madness, weren't they? He seemed sane enough – asking logical questions, stringing articulate sentences together…It made no sense. Or, and this thought bore great reflection – did he have a twin identical to him in every attribute? He once cried out to her of his mother's rejection but never mentioned other family. That did not mean they didn't exist, and it would certainly explain this strange sense of knowing him while still seeing him as a stranger.
In the long and short of it, she could comprehend three possibilities. One, that he again deceived her and played an outstanding pretense, cruel and complete with a host of men to aid him and gain whatever retribution he felt he was owed. Two, he truly had somehow lost all knowledge of who she'd been, as well as his own identity. Or, three, he had an identical twin brother who haunted the forest of Brittany at the same time Erik had haunted the Paris opera house.
She would watch him closely, speak of things that could stir his memory. And if he gave the slightest indication of awareness, she would know…
When he entered the tent that morning, Christine was ready for him. Still shaken from the night's ordeal of events, but resolved in her purpose she stood and faced him across the expanse, the whole of which was half the size of her former dressing room.
"Since I am to be your guest for a time," she said quietly. "Might I know your name?"
He set a wooden bowl of berries on the ground, bending to a crouch as he did, then turned his head and regarded her without rising. Embarrassed to be caught staring, she swiftly brought her attention up from his red-clothed derriere.
He smirked as if he knew exactly where her focus had been. She bristled at the mockery.
"I am known throughout these lands as Le Masque."
Le Masque. She snorted in soft contempt. How many times had she impulsively rid him of his mask that seemed always to close her out? Once out of besotted curiosity, and she was sorry for that. Once out of fear-induced survival, for which she knew no remorse, except for the hurt it caused when he erroneously thought that one desperate act a betrayal. Hells bells – the gendarmes would have shot him dead on the bridge, right there in the midst of the entire wretched performance – Raoul had been so determined to have him killed – had she not intervened and forced Erik to flee.
"Have you no other name?" she asked, displeased with his answer.
"I do not." He, too, seemed perturbed. "And what is wrong with Le Masque? It is the name my men gave me when I joined them." He waved a hand to his face. "You cannot say it is inappropriate."
She could say many things, but chose not to.
"Well, I don't like it. It's not really a name at all. Never mind. I shall give you a more fitting name by which I shall call you." She paused, watching him closely. "I think…Erik is who you shall be."
He narrowed his eyes. "The name you spoke last night? I think not. I have no wish for you to look at me and call me by another man's name. I have no wish to share you with this Erik…"
He rose in one lithe, graceful movement and prowled slowly closer, reminding her of a sleek, calculating wolf. Silvery blue eyes regarded her with avaricious intent.
Her heart beating fast at his words, Christine backed up nervously. "Would you prefer Opera Ghost?"
At her dry words, he tilted his head in curiosity, his pursuit relentless. "What exactly is an Opera Ghost?"
"Never mind. It would take too long to explain – stop right there." She put her hand out, surprised when he did. "Alright then. I believe I have a name we can both agree on. I shall call you…Phantom."
She watched closely but the rapt gleam that entered his eyes showed no sign of remembrance, only discovery.
"Phantom." He looked her up and down. "A name for one of stealth, with the ability to blend into the night and remain undetected, to roam unseen and untouched in his agenda. A name that many would respect and many more would fear…"
Her heart clutched at his words, words Erik would say.
"An odd name, but I will allow it."
Needing the familiar by which to address him, she nodded in relief.
"Alright, Phantom," she tested the form of address on her tongue. It did not glide as smoothly as Angel, Maestro, or even Erik, but at least it was a name he once claimed as his own. "What exactly should I expect from this, um, arrangement? Do you intend to hold me hostage?"
"And what shall I call you, belle jeune fille?" he asked, ignoring her questions.
She inhaled deeply at his choice of words: Fair Maiden. The second time he had called her that. Meeting as strangers, the proper form of address to give him to use would be Mademoiselle Daaé. But she longed to hear her name on his lips again and softly uttered the familiar.
"Christine," he repeated after her, drawing out the syllables in the gentle, melodic purr that always sent warm shivers tingling down her spine. "Christine…" he said more softly. "It suits you."
She willed her legs to remain solid and standing. He towered over her, close and alluring, his lean, muscular form pronounced by the fitted costume he wore. Wide shoulders and chest tapered into slim hips and long muscled thighs, and when earlier he had bent to his task, she'd caught the curved perfection of his tight backside devilishly outlined by the red hose. Oh to be sure, the long frock coat and heavy cloak had hidden much. She had seen him in his shirtsleeves and form-fitting trousers that final night at the opera, but the attraction she'd felt had been buried deep beneath the fear and horror of all that swiftly transpired…
There was no fear now. No horror. Perhaps there should be. Was she not a captive?
"You didn't answer me," she insisted. "What is it you plan to do with me, Phantom? Do you intend to hold me for ransom?"
She caught and held her breath when he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek to chin with the back of his knuckles, so reminiscent of Erik it nearly brought her to tears. She worked to hold them at bay.
"You will not be returning to the Chateau Martinique, not this evening, not on the morrow, not on the next. You will not be returning at all."
Stunned, she could think of no response. She certainly had no desire to go back there and felt it frivolous to state otherwise, but his words seemed to hold a deeper meaning she was afraid to work too hard to unravel.
His fingertips ghosted down the other side of her face in a reflection of his first stroke. She struggled to remain focused.
"Might I send a letter, to let them know I've come to no harm?"
She certainly did not want Raoul to worry, or worse, send out hunting parties to scour the forest for her – and find Erik.
He snatched his hand from her jaw, his eyes giving off a sudden icy chill.
"To warn the de Chagny scum, so that he will send his men in a pathetic attempt to entrap me? Not likely…"
She stared at him and felt so maddeningly and painfully confused. Apparently, whether cognizant of his identity or not, his feud with Raoul remained intact. It was only with her that all bonds of remembrance had been severed. Was hatred for his nemesis stronger than his love for her, that he would know the Victome but completely forget her existence? The idea hurt. Hurt dreadfully, like a shard of glass cutting into skin.
"I wish to go back to Paris," she said, airing her earlier plan hatched once she left the stones.
He studied her a long moment. She did not once flinch.
"Have you kith or kin in residence there?"
Kith or kin? Puzzled by his question, she shook her head.
"I have friends living there who are like family." She lifted her chin and glared. "But if you think to seek a price for ransom from them, you will be sorely disappointed. Madame Giry and Meg worked at the Opera House until, well, until they could no longer work there. They have no money to part with."
He looked at her curiously as though fascinated and shook his head.
"I have no intention of demanding ransom from anyone, kith nor kin nor favored enemy." He chuckled, as if at a private joke, though a harshness glittered in his eyes. "I will think on your words, Christine Daaé. Until that time, it would be wise to remain in the tent. You will be safer here."
Without so much as a fare thee well, he turned and left.
Shaken and finally allowing herself to show it with his absence, Christine moved to the opening of the tent on legs that no longer wished to support her. Lifting the tent flap, she watched him stride across the forest floor, his stride sure, his carriage tall and lithe. He was the same man she'd known, and yet…so different.
He had not rejected her request upon hearing it, and that buoyed her spirits. She dearly hoped Madame Giry could shed light on this bizarre set of circumstances, or, at the very least, help her get Erik back from wherever his mind had departed.
xXx