Chapter Ten

Erik sat at the roughly-hewn table, a strongly brewed cup of fragrant black tea steaming before him as he watched his Angel bustle about the kitchen as she prepared dinner for the household. He had since ceased insisting on assisting her only upon her acknowledgement that if he proved stronger the next day, he be allowed to help her with the seemingly endless household chores. It was then that she set the delicate china cup and saucer before him, a small decanter of heavy cream and a cinnamon stick placed nearby. She had laughed at his amazed countenance once he had taken a deep whiff of the fragrant tea, her girlish, dulcet tones a balm to his pained, hungry ears. "Did you think I had forgotten?" she asked.

Indeed, he had. He had just assumed that those precious few days at his house by the sunken lake were treasured by him and him alone – why would she care to remember them? How could she possibly do so with any semblance of favorability when it had all ended so terribly, his bared and twisted face raging at her trembling, mewling form when she foolishly had unmasked him? And yet, here she was, smiling at him in hope and approval as the familiar scent of exotic spice wafted from the cup. She was waiting for him – no longer the child that he had raised from obscurity, but a fully grown woman with genuine confidence, yet still awaiting that look from him that said, "Well done, my child."

Carefully, he added a small amount of the cream, and used the cinnamon stick to stir – fifteen circular swirls through the mixture, counterclockwise – and the scent of the cinnamon slowly filled the kitchen. Setting the stick aside, he bent gingerly over the table, raising the delicate porcelain to his lips, and he took a careful sip of the steaming, exotic, spiced concoction. The flavor filled his mouth, its familiarity a welcome friend in a strange but warm abode, and he looked up at her as he carefully set the cup back to its resting place.

"Where did you find this?" he asked in wonder. "How could you possibly have found the exact same blend?"

She smiled again. "Mariage Frères. I had tried some of the lesser shops first, and then I realized that you would have only obtained the best. I described it to Henri and Edouard, and we whittled it down to this very blend within a few months." Those beautiful, stunning brown eyes glittered in amusement as they regarded him. "You have excellent taste, according to the Mariage Brothers. Expensive, too. This is one of the few allowances I make, and only rarely… but I had to have it near me."

Erik's mouth moved before he could stop it, "Must you? Why?"

Christine swallowed heavily, the glittering in her eyes turning abruptly into a shining mask of emotion threatening to spill over her thick lashes. "I had to have it near me, because… it reminded me of you." She cast her eyes down, as if making a difficult decision, before sitting across from her Maestro and mentor, and reaching one thin, pale hand across the table to rest on his warm flesh. "You were – I thought you were – gone. The Opera House was destroyed. I tried to find my way back to the lake, but the damage was too extensive." Her voice trembled, and the cool, clear tears fell freely past her lashes. "I couldn't get to you, I couldn't mourn you, and I didn't have anything of yours to hold close to me…"

His heart clenched in his chest, throat tight as he watched his Angel begin to weep before him, the memory of the loss she had felt overtaking her normally stoic countenance. He rose as she covered her face with her hands, and he knelt beside her chair, desperate to stop the tears that now flowed freely between her delicate fingers. "Christine…"

She turned to him, her eyes rimmed in red as she regarded him. She bit her lower lip as she examined his countenance, and laid a cool palm against his scarred cheek as he met her gaze with unabashed concern. "Erik… you… you never knew, did you? I would have done anything for you. I would have sworn my life to you, but… you always kept yourself away from me, and then the same night you thrust me into Raoul's arms, you finally tell me the truth…"

Christine shook her head and looked away, her lids closed as her tears found their paths down her perfect face. Rising to his knees, Erik reached out his long, lean arms and circled her thin frame, pulling her close to him. She collapsed against him gratefully, suddenly very tired of having to hold herself aright, to keep her back stiff and strong, to keep her chin raised in hope and determination. Christine buried her face into the collar of Erik's roughly hewn shirt and threw her arms around his shoulders as she let her emotions go in relief and gratitude. Whispered within her sobs, he could just make out her strangled words, "You never told me you loved me, until it was too late…"

Shame. Shame, rage, and a blind need to see blood run through his fingers to match the red haze that obscured his vision. As he looked around what had once been his only sanctuary, he was vaguely aware that it was rapidly becoming his own version of Hell. Behind him, that idiot child that dared to try to steal his Angel from him hung precariously at the end of his lasso, and before him, the Angel herself stood in her bridal gown and looked at him in a terrible mixture of horror, disbelief, and disgust.

The darkness in those beautiful brown eyes smoldered with barely contained emotion, and her voice trembled. "Let him go."

The resulting laugh rang from the ceiling, shimmering along the disturbed waters of the lake, and she shuddered visibly as the two locked gazes. Had it come from his own lips? He supposed it had. "So soon, my dear child? But, the games have only just begun. I'm not through with this one," he snarled, jerking his arm ferociously, causing the struggling youth behind him to strangle further, his legs kicking futilely. "Nor, my fickle Angel, am I through with you."

The shaking of her voice subsided, replaced now by a trembling in her entire being, and Erik could see the hatred rolling off of her –, waves of cold creeping across the already chilled lake waters, and hitting him like a slap in the face. Finally, he thought, she was being honest with herself and with him. This hatred, this disgust of everything he is and ever could be was laid bare between them. How could he have ever thought it could be anything different? He met her ice cold gaze with his own fiery stare and a corpse's grin spread across his countenance.

"It is time for you to choose, Christine. Your fate and his both lie in those treacherous little hands."

"What am I choosing, Ghost?" she spat in return, her fists clenched at her sides, the hem of her gown drinking in the lake waters, which slowly crawled up the fine satin and lace gown he'd so carefully constructed for their happy nuptials. Such a fool, he was. "Tell me and be done with it! I will not be a pawn in your games any longer."

"Truly, Christine? Do you think you can escape your Master's hand? Then, tell me – you can leave here today, and I will never follow. Choose the boy over me, and your life is your own, your future whatever you make of it." His grin broadened as he saw her eyebrow raised in skepticism. Smart girl. "The catch – your boy stays here with me, his corpse cold and alone at the bottom of my still lake."

Erik's heart leapt in a sick, twisted kind of joy as he saw her icy stoicism shatter with this, her lips paling noticeably along with the fine skin of her perfect face. Yes, Angel. But, it gets better.

"But perhaps, dear child, you don't wish to live your life knowing that your lover's bloated corpse lies a mile deep beneath the streets of Paris? Poor, sensitive Christine. Would you see his dead eyes every night in your sleep as you live your life, when you marry, when you have children? Would he reach for you in supplication while you wilt away on your death bed? There is another choice…"

Those pale lips cracked open when his pause grew too lengthy, the tableau silent except for Raoul's ragged breathing and weakening struggles. "Speak, then. Give me my choice, you wretched, cruel thing."

"Isn't it obvious? Free your lover from his cold, wet fate…" his eyes glittered in triumph and greed, "and spend the rest of your years here, with me, as my bride."

Christine's eyes widened as he spoke, her pallor increasing as she swayed on her feet. Yes, my lovely little bird of paradise, he thought, you understand the weight of it all.

"You… you wish for me to marry you? That is what this is about?" Her eyes burned, and cheeks suddenly flushed with life, the anger rising high in her breast as she stepped boldly forward into the waters of the lake, teeth bared as she spat, "You monstrous, foolish creature! You kidnap me, you destroy the opera house, you commit murder and all because you want me as your wife?"

Erik was momentarily taken aback by the small woman wading angrily towards him, fire enough in her eyes to catch them both aflame. Remember yourself, Erik, he chided himself internally. There was naught she could do or say to make you waver. "Make your choice, you treasonous witch! Do you end your days with me, or do you send your precious lover to his grave?"

They faced each other over the water, Raoul's struggles suddenly forgotten as their eyes locked in mutual and overwhelming anger. Christine pointed a carefully manicured finger accusingly at him, the waters of the lake now soaking up into her carefully jeweled bodice. "You know nothing about me! Don't you presume to call me treasonous when all I've ever tried to do was to make you proud of me, to make you happy with me!" Her voice thick with the tears that rapidly and freely flowed from her eyes, she choked, "I gave you my mind and soul blindly and you repay me with nothing but deception and betrayal! You are a foul creature from the pit of Hell itself!"

Seeing the child he had taken into his embrace before him, soaked and shivering, her eyes swollen with grief and anger, Erik had to steel his heart. The path is set, his choice was made, and there was no turning back. They were past the point of no return, he reminded himself. His beloved opera house was being reduced to cinders high above them, and his own actions had ensured that Christine could never see him as anything but a monster again. He swallowed the lump that was growing in his throat, stilled the frantic beating of his heart, and stepped forward, closing half of the distance between them. "Is it so horrible, Christine, this monstrous face, that you would even consider leaving him behind here in your Angel's embrace?" His voice trembled with emotion as he whispered to her, his resolve finally breaking as her eyes widened. He had laid down his cards, and she was going to call his bluff, leaving him behind with the corpse of her lover and return to the day light, to a world where she would never have to face her stalking gargoyle again. When he spoke again, there was naught but defeat there, a resolution to an ending that had no promise, no hope for the future. "I will not repeat myself. You try my patience, girl. Make your choice."

His eyes were cast to the water as he silently awaited her answer. It wasn't until the fully-soaked fabric of her dress entered his field of vision that he dared to raise his gaze, to confront those vengeful eyes one final time. When he looked up, he saw her perfect, beautiful hands gathered before her. "Pitiful creature of darkness," she spoke gently, one of those lovely hands reaching out to touch his, grasping his warm hand in her cool fingers and tugging it gently with more compassion than he could ever deserve, prompting him to look up into her eyes. Those eyes… Erik had never seen anything like them, even from his Angel. They were red and glistening with barely contained emotion, her brow furrowed in pity as she regarded him wholly. He felt as if he were being enveloped in those eyes, as if everything he was, had been, and would ever be was being assessed and, somehow, found to be worthy. "What kind of life have you known? If only you'd had the courage to see you were not alone…"

With these words she stepped forward, impossibly close to him, the chill of her soaked dress pressing against the heat of his bared chest as she reached up, her beautiful hands entwining behind his neck and pulling him down to her, her lips supple and open with welcome. His bloated lips pressed against hers, she opened her mouth slightly, a pink tongue pressing its way past two rows of perfect pearlescent teeth to touch his tainted mouth. He moaned in disbelief, his arms limp at his sides as he leaned into her embrace, his lips working in a dark waltz against hers and his eyes spilling hot tears.

She pulled back with a small gasp, catching her breath with her lips open, eyes dark with frank desire as she looked up at his disbelieving face. The beauty, the innocence he had always prized her for was transformed then, the emotions of a mature woman now awakening in her gaze. Her hands moved to his face, caressing his cheeks – scarred and perfected alike – with a tenderness he had never known. He sobbed, then, just before she pulled him forward into another kiss. This time their arms wrapped around each other, both of them oblivious to the splash behind him as Raoul's lead was released and he fell into the waters with a hoarse gasp. Their hands entwined in each other's hair, lips pressed hotly against each other, tongues dancing, blood singing.

Erik had never known anything like it.

It wasn't until his incredibly sharp sense of hearing could discern the angry voices in the distance, followed by the frantic coughing of the fop behind him, that he realized what they were doing. His Angel, entwined in his arms, soon to be found with her young lover and her decimated mentor by the mob that rightly wanted his blood spilled on the cobblestones of the streets above. He would be seized, she would be seized, and her life ruined. They could run – but where could you run that the truth does not inevitably find you? No. This could not – could never happen.

He pushed her away, more roughly than he intended, and felt her grab at his shirt sleeve to steady herself as he waded away from both of them, violently splashing in the water as he made his way back to the shore. "Take him. Forget me. Forget all of this."

Christine, dazed by the change in direction, looked blankly over to her young companion, who was wretching an already empty stomach into the waters surrounding him. Her eyes turned back to her Angel in confusion. "But…"

"Leave me alone! Forget all you've seen."

"…Christine…" Raoul's voice was weak and hoarse as he reached out to her with pleading eyes. "…please…"

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes on her Maestro's shuddering back, before she turned to Raoul and threw his arm over her shoulder, helping him to wade back to the ferry that had carried her there earlier. After leaving his panting form in the boat, she looked up to see that her Angel had disappeared.

"Angel! Please!"

Following the wet footsteps, she found herself in what she had assumed was his bedroom. A black lacquered coffin was open in the corner, its plush red velvet lining glowing in the candlelight. He sat, slumped over before the intricately detailed figurine of the Persian monkey, staring into its cold black eyes, his face a mask of pain.

"Mon Ange…"

"Christine, please… go. Don't let them find you. Take the boat. Leave me here."

Ignoring his pleas, she stepped to him to beg him to join them. Expecting to meet his warm embrace once more, she was horrified when he lashed out, his arm cutting a wide swath between them as he screamed, "GO NOW! Go now and LEAVE ME."

Once more the frightened child, she regarded him with wide and terrified eyes, unsure of whether to listen to his commands or to her heart. Unwilling to give his ground, he refused to look up again into that beautiful face, those wide and trusting eyes, knowing that if he did he – no, both of them – would be lost. A movement to his right caught his eye, a brief and shining glittering light. He looked up to see the brilliant cut sapphire that had been her engagement gift resting on the music box, the Persian monkey's wide embrace encompassing it as if protecting it.

He rose and stumbled from his bedroom in time to see Christine – brave, strong Christine – nearing the turn to the surface, the pitiful fop collapsed in the boat at her feet as she guided the vessel to the path back home. She looked back, her face forlorn and full of longing. As she disappeared, he whispered into the darkness of the caverns, his voice projecting far enough for any to hear, "Christine, I love you."

When Marta arrived that early evening with the physician and Mr. & Mrs. Dupres in tow, she was not surprised to see that dinner had been served and that six of the eight children were obediently and quietly enjoying their meal in the dining room. She wasn't entirely surprised to see that Christine's chair was untouched, and assumed that the young woman was tending to Joaquin upstairs. Leaving the tearful parents in the library, Marta sent the physician ahead to attend to the boy while she went to check on the kitchen.

It wasn't that the kitchen was immaculate that surprised her, either, nor the familiar tray of food prepared to go upstairs – this time, with a silken black ribbon tied around a freshly plucked rose stem – but, it was the lanky gentleman standing before the sink, scrubbing the evening's dishes that made her catch her breath.

He was tall, certain – of that there was no question, as Christine's need for clothing had challenged her to raid her eldest son's closet and then to release the hems from his trousers. He stood with his back to her, seemingly oblivious to her presence as he worked, and a deep vibration of a Baritone's gentle hum reached her ears and resonated within her chest. The voice – soft as it was – was unlike any she'd heard before. Rich and beautiful, it filled the kitchen much like the gentle scent of a freshly-picked nosegay.

"May I help you, Madame?" The question was asked gently, but the low grumble contained therein suggested that he knew he had been watched, and did not approve in the least.

She stuttered. "Monsieur, I'm sorry. I was hoping to find Mlle. Daae in here."

"She is upstairs, and resting comfortably." He sighed softly, in mild irritation. "The children are fed and tended to. All is as it should be. Is there anything else...?"

Marta was nearly ready to excuse herself, to turn on her heel and flee the suddenly oppressive room, when it occurred to her – she was being dismissed. From her kitchen, no less! The older woman drew herself to her full height. "Indeed, there is, Monsieur. I would like you to turn and greet me properly."

His back stiffened, and the scrubbing stopped immediately. "I beg your pardon?"

Marta sniffed at him in derision. "I hadn't imagined the man to steal that songbird's heart to be deaf. I asked you to turn around while you are in my kitchen, and greet me properly."

The air crackled with electricity momentarily as the two stood their ground – he with his back resolutely turned toward the door, and she in her summer coat and hat waiting impatiently for him to acquiesce. Then, his shoulders relaxed and moved softly as he chuckled, head shaking in disbelief.

"You must be Marta."

Maria came rushing into the room at that time, her bowl and spoon proudly carried before her like a trophy. "Ewik! I finished!"

He turned, then – the reflex of one who has sought the welfare of the innocent in the past. Marta's breath caught in her throat for just a moment, her shock not at the extent of the injury – his thinning scalp to the right and rear of his head combined with his bandaging when he'd arrived had certainly suggested that his injuries had been severe. What she had not anticipated was the age of the scarring. If she hadn't thought she'd known better, she'd have sworn they were as old as the man himself.

"Yes, I see, Maria. You've done well. Now, go read in the library while everyone else finishes up." He took the bowl from her, and placed it in the sink, turning back to find her looking up at him expectantly. When she continued to stare, his tone grew annoyed. "...Well?"

Without a word, the child placed her index finger on her right cheek. Erik's brows knitted together as he mentally surveyed his own right cheek. Was he being mocked – by a toddler? But, Christine had insisted he trust her...

Marta laughed, then, seeing the grotesque form before her darken as his anger rose. "Monsieur, the child is asking you for something."

"Well, what in God's name does the girl want?"

The woman smiled. "She is asking you for a kiss."

"A... kiss?"

The child's head bobbled eagerly in response, her face shining in delight and anticipation. Bending at the waist, Erik's twisted face grew closer, watching the child in fascination. She wasn't drawing away from him, but leaning closer, her pudgy hand still pointing at her right cheek. Gently, he pressed his bloated lips to her soft, pink flesh, and nearly jumped in response when she hastily returned the gesture in kind, planting a kiss on his scarred flesh before scampering off obediently to the library.

Erik straightened, his eyes meeting Mart's amused gaze with a hint of wonder.

"You're a sight, then, aren't you?"

The wonder vanished immediately, his face flushing quickly with anger, the only thing keeping him from launching himself as the rotund woman being his sworn promise hours earlier to Christine to avoid any further outbursts. The warning rumbled low in his chest. "Madame..."

Marta waved off his warning carelessly. "Oh, save it. T'ain't anything I haven't seen before, here. What I didn't realize, however, was that you were this way when you knew her before. Those scars ain't five years old. Those scars aren't even twenty years old." The woman offered him a knowing, genuine smile. "Stole her heart with a face like that, then? You must be something special, indeed, Monsieur. Of course, so is she."

He regarded her carefully, feeling as if in that single remark, his entire past had been laid bare by the woman before him. "Yes, she certainly is." He hesitated a moment, then stepped forward, bowing his head politely in greeting. "My name is Erik, Madame. It is my pleasure."

Marta smiled in satisfaction, nodding in greeting in return but allowing him his space. "...and I am Marta. A pleasure, Monsieur." She cast a look over her shoulder as the sound of heavy footsteps approached on the stairs. "I must be going." She looked back at the tray that was being prepared on the table and offered him another smile. "It will be a difficult night here, Monsieur Erik. Take care of that poor woman the best you can." With this, she left him alone in the kitchen, with a wet dishrag clutched in his hands.

"I swear it, Madame."

A/N: I've made some minor changes to this chapter during lunch today, since I posted this half-asleep last night and without any true proofing. The changes are minor and don't alter the plot in any way. I'd like to thank each of you again for reading, and a special super-duper thank you to each of you (Anonymous and otherwise!) who have left and will leave reviews. This story compels me to see it to whatever conclusion it may reach, but those of you who review keep me honest, so to speak. Without you, I'd find other excuses to put this off for another week. So, thank you. I enjoy seeing how this unfolds just as much as you do, and you help inspire me to keep things moving forward.