A/N: I meant to post this a lot sooner but Easter weekend and life got in the way. Whoops.
No further need for death glares (Child of Dreams), there is a major event in this chapter.
2 May - Day 5
It was music that coaxed her eyelids open.
Not just any simple tune but a melody worthy of the heavens themselves, music that proved the existence of the Lord and his angels. The sublime beauty which moulded and interwove each note promised to inspire painters and sculptors, bring sight to the blind, and instill faith in the most vehement heretic. And it called to her, it spoke to her.
Others would feel its ambrosial draw, would recognize its loveliness, some might analyze and annotate each component in the language of music, but only she truly understood it. The hidden words and furtive intimations within its strains were meant solely for her ears, a tongue she alone could comprehend. It beckoned her, gently beseeching, suggesting, and she followed. With quiet surety Christine stole from the tent.
Empty, of course, it was always empty.
Silvery beams of moonlight revealed the encampment to be similarly so. There was no sign of Erik, she was alone in the night with only a waning moon and the music for company. It troubled her not, the ethereal pull anesthetized her to all feelings save curiosity, enticing her to unearth its origins, daring her to find its source.
Ephemeral, whimsical, compelling it lured her. In bold confidence she walked along unshod. She feared not, for nothing could harm her: not root, not thorn, not rock. The music was her sanctity and safeguard and she its disciple. Her soul obeyed its every whim; her heartbeat formed its refrain; her steps matched its tempo. Christine's pace sped up in urgency alongside the melody, which had transitioned from whimsical teasing to gentle pleading to violent longing; it was becoming impatient.
She was running now, dashing towards a finale, the foliage blurring into a long tunnel of green on either side of her. Christine could see the end: stunning, inviting and illuminated by moonlight; racing faster still, her feet carrying her forward with deistic speed, needing the music as much as it did her. Strangely there was not the barest hint of fatigue in her muscles or lungs. Every chord breathed new vigor into her body. Never before had she felt so robust or healthy, this music gave her life.
At last she emerged from the forested labyrinth into a wide clearing. Here there was not tree nor bush, here there was naught but a plush carpeting of grass and a single stationary object in the distance. Whether person or thing, she could not tell. Her momentum reduced to a smooth glide as she approached it, the only other entity in the expanse. Nearer and nearer she walked across a ground softer than velvet, cooler and smoother than satin. It felt wonderful beneath her feet, each blade caressed her soles and tickled her toes.
The music, meanwhile, was no longer imperative but sweet, hesitant and haunting and every bit as alluring; cajoling her the last few steps towards her destination. She was proximate to whatever body (animate or inanimate) lay ahead, its silhouette shifted, clarified, became distinctly human in appearance.
A lone figure veiled in blackness, its back to her. The melody swelled with the thrill of discovery, excitedly rewarding her for a job well done. Slowly the entity turned, the notes faded with each degree of rotation, tapering off completely when he faced her.
Erik.
He stood with his hands clasped behind him. There were no sounds other than those of nature; the song had ended, ended with him. Erik was the source of it all, he and the music had been one in the same, parts of the same whole.
Shock failed to take root, it was no real surprise. Somehow she had already known the truth. In the dimmest fathoms of her core there dwelt a part irrevocably and inexplicably bound to the music, to his music. The exchange between them was nonverbal but still perfectly received, two souls communicating on a special plane.
Each stepped forward.
Christine, he greeted succinctly.
You know. It came as a statement not a question.
Oddly she felt no panic, no sense of dread that he had uncovered her deepest secret; if anything it was relief that rushed over her. She was glad he knew, now there were no more barriers between them. They both took another step, coming together as unprofaned as the day they were christened: pure and unburdened by sin.
I always have.
The how of the matter dwindled in importance as the space separating them closed. Her breathing grew constrained with anticipation. His jaw clenched with apprehension. A tangible barricade of tension erupted between them but unlike stone or iron one could pass through. All they needed do was reach out.
What happens now? she asked once they stood near enough to touch.
Take my hands, He offered them to her, palm up and expectant. Do not be frightened.
What would come next? There was only one way to know. Christine reached towards them, shaking with heady nervousness. Her hands hovered over his, separated by millimeters, prepared to seal her fate with a holy palmers' kiss. Closer they edged. She could feel the warmth of his skin.
It was not to be.
Shapes began to flit from the blackness. Acute fear spurred her heart into a frantic gallop. These were not friends but foes of the most malevolent sort. They hemmed in with the precision of a fishing net surrounding and trapping her and Erik.
As the light caught them she could see that the silhouettes had faces. Awful, leering faces: their skin rotting, melting off their bones like candle wax. Dead. They were corpses. No, not just corpses, corpses of the men who had chased her that night, the men that Erik had killed. Each of them wielded a weapon and each oozed vengeance like tarry slime.
Christine was paralyzed by the macabre sight. Her lungs stuttered and refused to inflate; her limbs forgot their function; her brain seized in the constant stream of terror. She was sure to die, her traitorous body willing to abandon her to a gruesome fate. That's when she remembered.
Erik. She was not alone. Her palms were still poised over his, all she had to do was take his hands. A sad, trusting smile graced her lips when she met his eyes and looked down. With horror she noticed that his hands were different, distorted. His long, elegant fingers were now gnarled and deformed, tipped with jagged ebony claws, his palms slick with crimson blood. These were not his, these were frightening, monstrous. They were the hands of a vicious, murderous beast. She withdrew hastily but as she did so the space between them also stretched, he was getting farther and farther away.
Then the earth beneath their feet began to buck. Swaying, buckling, and writhing and with a single, mighty rumble it cracked. Over the thunderous rive of splitting earth could be heard the protracted, high-pitched whistle of a bullet. Her gaze snapped up and located the source with horror.
Thirty yards away was the huge, oily brute who had nearly bested them both, a savage smile carved into his hollowed, decomposing features; his pistol was pointed directly at Erik's chest, wisps of smoke curling wickedly from the barrel.
She shrieked as if the noise could shatter the brittle metal before it reached its target. It was too late. His eyes met hers, those eyes where storm, sea, and sky converged and formed a new, nameless color. The calm acceptance that shone within them was heartrending, he had already given up, already embraced his demise. Under them the ground still heaved and lurched, its cracks opening wider, snapping up their dead enemies like morsels until only the two of them were left.
Please, no... Christine begged someone, anyone.
His gaze glowed bright with something more powerful than life or death. His hand extended towards her face. It dropped before his fingertips grazed her cheek.
Run. One word. His final word.
Then he fell back into a rift. He was gone.
Dead.
Again she screamed, her legs failed and she collapsed into a heap. Sobs shook her entire body in time with the tremors, sorrow paralyzed her every part. Erik was dead. It was the truth, the indisputable truth, she had seen it unfold. Christ Almighty, he was really gone, never to return to this world.
Gone forever.
Distantly she watched the fissure spread, inching towards her own broken, miserable body. Had she the strength to run she would not flee like a coward. Instead she awaited the end with patient meditation. Just as she had told herself earlier that day, there were worse ways to go. Whatever emotion weighed her down, scorching her chest from the inside, also brought with it a serenity.
The earth beneath her was fracturing, fracturing, shifting, quaking and thundering. Her time was up. Christine took one last deep breath before terra firma crumbled from under her and she too plunged, regretting her decision almost immediately. Dead faces loomed in the darkness, rotten mouths gaping with laughter, insects wriggling between the decaying teeth, threatening to swallow her up. Erik was nowhere in sight. She plummeted down, down, down for hours or days maybe. Until she couldn't remember when she hadn't been falling. All the while the corpses guffawed and leered at her savoring the fear arisen from prolonged death. They could wait an eternity for their meal. What were minutes, years, or decades to the already dead?
Halfheartedly she scoured the abyss for anything to grab ahold of but it was just as that afternoon: nothing but air, hot and sulfurous. The descent stretched onward, her senses growing numb. Then suddenly the rushing draft was replaced by something thick, strong, and immovable.
Vines? Tentacles? Hallucinations? Only cognizant that her movement had been completely arrested, she fought against whatever held her captive tooth and nail flailing, kicking, punching. All to no avail, it only squeezed tighter, shook her harder. A cry, very likely her last, escaped her right before something warm and moist closed over her mouth.
Being robbed of breath, her final sensation.
Wake up! Come on, you must wake up!
Words. A voice.
Her ears recognized that voice; her eyes obeyed it, his sensational voice, and shot open.
A canvas sky swam into focus. The tent. She was in the tent. But how? Erik sat next to her, a trace of alarm in his otherwise impassive gaze, and very much living. One hand gripped her shoulder firmly and the other rested solidly over her mouth, so large it spanned earlobe to earlobe.
"You were in danger of waking Saint-Pierre with your screams." he explained, jerking his hands away as if he had laid them in something disgusting. They left a dying heat in their absence.
"You... you're a-alive." Christine whispered as soon as her mouth was uninhibited.
"I should bloody well hope so. Nevertheless, I am sorry to disappoint you." The biting sarcasm did not completely conceal his surprise, which manifested itself in a downward quirk of his lips.
"B-But I saw... I saw you die." Her jaw quivered with the admission as if speaking of it might strike him down on the spot. He studied her curiously, his face unreadable.
"It was a dream, nothing more. Go back to sleep, Christopher."
She wanted to throw her arms around him in celebration then, to embrace him and never let go but the use of her false name stopped her. He was her escort and she was Christopher, the thorn in his side. Were she to reveal herself in that moment she doubted he would have welcomed the gesture any more than if he still believed her a boy. The thought stung keenly for some reason.
"I d-don't want to. W-What if they return?" Sleep still tugged at her eyelids, her body already relaxed and waiting for her to sink into slumber. She fought it, lingering fear keeping her afloat within the realm of consciousness. Christine would not give in, she would not welcome more torment.
"I will be close by," His expression softened, his tone lowering soothingly, "I've already given you my word that nothing will harm you."
Said promise was all it took to allow sleep to claim her. The knowledge of his presence acted as a talisman and kept the bad dreams at bay. Or at least that's what she rationalized, that reassurance prevented further nightmares. Nevertheless she was appreciative and grateful to Erik. A phenomenon, she noted with chagrin, which was becoming somewhat of a frequent occurrence.
One glaring fact surfaced: she cared for him; and not for reasons owing to self-preservation but out of legitimate concern for his welfare. How was such a thing possible? She had known him for less than a week and most of that had been spent quarrelling. Christine had disliked him from the first, she found him repulsive, ill-mannered, arrogant, infuriating, amoral, and beastly. Hardly anything had changed in their few days together. They got on slightly better and the occasional nicety had been exchanged, then there was the business with his wound but at the root of it still remained that initial enmity. And simultaneously at the root of her being there was a tenderness, a compassion for him. It resided deep within but it was there as sure as her heart or soul, lurking: the Mr Hyde to her Dr Jekyll.
o o o
Morning came earlier than ever before and far too soon. They were on their feet, the entire camp packed up, before the sun even thought to rise. There had very nearly been no coffee but Christine had managed to convince him that she needed it if he expected her to travel ahead of the dawn. Reluctantly he had agreed. Though not without staring and hovering to ensure she downed it in what he deemed a 'timely' manner. A fact which, in her opinion, defeated the whole purpose of morning coffee.
The hike itself was better than the day before at least in terms of the general mood. Erik, while not in a temper, was apparently hell-bent on making up for lost progress. By the time the sun fully shone Christine was sweating, gasping and begging for a reprieve. Their stops today were few and far between and, her exhaustion notwithstanding, she took this as a sign that his shoulder was on the mend.
Part of her wondered if his determined pace was a clever strategy to avoid her usual questions and attempts at conversation; it was nigh impossible to speak when one was struggling to catch a breath. She wouldn't be surprised if this turned out to be true. But unknown to him Christine was loath to jeopardize the progress they had made last night for the cheap thrill of irritating him.
Had her dream affected her more than she realized? Good Lord, her brain had to be as fatigued as her body if she was willingly foregoing the chance to annoy him, a pastime which had come to prove endlessly amusing (for her) since they first started off.
However it was not solely the novel want of a truce that interrupted her usual hobby but a combination of things. She hadn't forgotten the kindness Erik had shown after her nightmare, which, loomed over her like a harbinger of some kind; Christine could not determine its significance or, in fact, why it haunted. Then there was also the flora, a greater variance than previous days. It was the last that really bothered her and set the botanist within anxiously cringing because she couldn't study them.
They passed interesting plant after interesting plant and with each her nerves grew more frayed. Plants were the entire reason she had come to Martinique and donned this whole damnable disguise, yet now she was expected to simply disregard her passion and to what end she couldn't speculate. To evade those who sought her? To make better time? To serve Erik's needs? She didn't ken. Nevertheless here she was grinding her teeth, fingers twitching with every flower, shrub, or grass she spotted.
When luncheon rolled round, the sun proudly marking high noon, the urge became too great to ignore. She gobbled her meal of tinned pork and biscuits and extracted a small journal from her rucksack hoping to abscond unnoticed.
Naturally that was not to be the case. Then again, had she genuinely believed otherwise?
"Where are you going?" Erik was staring at her skeptically, head slightly inclined, forehead furrowed, a piece of pork speared at the end of his knife.
Lying was pointless, he had an infuriating talent of seeing through her falsehoods. Well, all except her biggest fabrication... Thank the Lord he was still ignorant of that! Christine took a deep breath and closed her eyes for support.
"I've observed several specimens of interest, some of which I've not seen around Saint-Pierre—"
"I assume the specimens to which you refer are plants."
Obviously. What else would they be? Her actual response was more mediated than that of her mind.
"Yes."
Rather than replying immediately he popped the bit of meat into his mouth and chewed slowly. Christine wanted to shake him for the delay, she was already frazzled enough without his games.
"We haven't the time for such frivolities."
"We're already stopped and I've already eaten, surely it makes no difference whether I sit here or walk about." she ground out, trying to keep herself from shouting what she really wished to, something which involved a great deal of swearing.
"I said we haven't the time." he repeated without looking at her.
"And why not?"
"The mountain." Despite his vagueness, she knew to which 'mountain' he referred. Christine suppressed the impulse to roll her eyes, his doom-saying was getting wearisome.
"What of it? I'm positive it will continue to stand if I take five minutes to study the flora."
"Do not be so sure." Erik returned coolly, finishing his lunch.
"If you're referring to yesterday afternoon, tremors have been a regular occurrence since anyone can recall. The elders say the same thing happened fifty years ago, nothing came of it and I'm more inclined to trust their word over yours."
"Then you, young Daaé, are as much a fool as they are." He stood and handed her the rope that tethered them. "Yesterday's earthquake was no benign tremor but a small-scale eruption, a herald for something worse."
Not intent to let the matter go so easily she momentarily put aside thoughts of botany and ran after him arguing all the way.
"Pray, how have you reached this conclusion? I was unaware your specialty was volcanology."
"Mock me if you so desire, little prince, however one needn't be an expert to recognize the indisputable signs."
"And what might said signs be: earthquakes, superstitions, correlations? Have you ever seen a volcano or an eruption?"
"I have seen many both simmering and hibernating but I've not seen one erupt and hope I never will."
"Well, should the cataclysm happen, Pythia, I think we're far enough removed from the mountain to be impacted."
"Perhaps you should reconsider... When Krakatoa erupted twenty years ago it took nearly the entire damn island and most of the archipelago with it. That which was not immediately destroyed was washed away by the subsequent tsunamis, corpses floated about the Sunda Strait and surrounding ocean for months. In the preceding days and weeks there were certain portents, many of which have been happening here: earthquakes, fleeing animals, smoking vents, and floods among other things. A child could recognize the pattern, the foresight of an oracle unnecessary." Christine hid her grin. No matter how repellent she found every other aspect of his personality she was enamored of his scholarship.
"All that from a bit of lava?" The thought hadn't been meant to be spoken aloud.
"Not precisely, no. Lava is not generally harmful, it moves slowly in most cases. The real dangers hail from the surge of heated debris and gases, spates of mud and tsunamis following the eruption."
"Tsunamis?" It was the second time he'd used the term and the first occasion—in recent memory—she had encountered an unfamiliar word in conversation, clearly borrowed from a foreign tongue so her ignorance was not too shameful. Even so that did precious little to assuage her wounded pride over having to ask Erik for clarification.
"A combination of the Japanese words: harbor and wave, an uncommon word in the English language. You would likely know it as a tidal wave, although that term is erroneous as tsunamis are caused by displacement not tides."
Tidal wave. Yes, that phrase she knew. She'd read about these terrible disasters; her mouth dropped into an O at the connection.
"They are but one of an eruption's numerous deadly effects. The first are impossible to outrun and shelter from, so unimaginable is their rapidity, their temperature so high that it melts flesh from bone, not even a barrier of water will spare you; the second creates a raging torrent of mud and ash that buries entire towns and solidifies once it loses momentum, obliterating all in its path; and the third inundates whatever the other two have spared, flooding coastlines and tossing unwary ships inland like toys, waves can reach monstrous heights. All three accompany history's most devastating eruptions: Vesuvius, Tambora, Krakatoa."
It was useless pretending his words didn't send a chill through her. Unconsciously she quickened her steps, throwing wary glances over her shoulder every so often for the rest of the afternoon.
After they had made camp and eaten, Christine tended his wound; it had scabbed, the redness and inflammation already beginning to recede. Satisfied that crisis had been averted she bade him good night.
To her shock Erik crawled into the tent behind her. Was he actually going to sleep tonight? The unfurling of his bedroll confirmed it.
This bizarre turn proved unexpectedly beneficial and soon she was of a mind to sneak off and explore. Presently she lay unmoving and waited for the slow, regular breathing indicating her companion had fallen asleep. Once she was quite sure he had Christine crept outside carefully, silently. The hour wasn't late, by her estimation she had opportunity aplenty to sleep and pursue her hobby. Besides, it was not as if she was impinging on their hiking time.
So she took to the dark that evening, heedless of wrath be it Erik's or La Montagne's.
In the gentle moonlight she traversed the path collecting this or that, bending to gingerly inspect leaves and roots, stroking the velvety petals of the slumbering flowers and rasped tree bark alike.
At night everything seemed more beautiful, more surreal; she relished how the jungle came alive under the veil of darkness. And, for a period she simply explored content to pretend she had all the time in the world. In eventide she lingered floating along, a spirit trapped in a mortal world, singing a forlorn melody as she went.
However unlike a spectre she could not wander for an eternity.
With a resigned sigh she realized it was wise to turn back; their rapport had considerably improved over the past couple of days and she had no desire to regress to their previous tense silence. Erik would doubtlessly condemn her midnight adventure, it was best to not disturb the peace.
Singing a tune from childhood Christine started upon the path to the shared tent, samples and journal tucked into a little satchel at her hip. It dawned on her then how tired she was, how much she longed for the comfort of her bedroll. Now the only thing remaining was to slip inside unnoticed.
"You have a beautiful voice."
Too late.
Lost in her song she failed to sense she was being watched. A stupid, stupid error. Would she ever learn? The speaker's identity was no mystery. Like a panther, Erik emerged from the shadows, stalking, circling, black as a clouded, moonless night; swiftly he approached. Her limbs seized and she froze on the spot wondering what he would do, wondering and waiting for the mortal blow whether it be dealt by words or claws.
Slowly she opened her eyes when no harm befell her, hazarding a timid glance. He stood a meter away, close enough to see by moonlight, too far to reach out and touch. Within those eyes that crackled with blue fire there was a peculiar look, a nameless thing she couldn't interpret. Attempting to translate his expression was akin to trying to decipher hieroglyphs without the Rosetta Stone, futile. His face might as well have been carved from the same kind of rock.
Whatever it was, she found it more discomfiting than his ire; indeed, she'd have been more at ease had she been the recipient of his rage. Erik continued to appraise her, to scrutinize her like she was a relic and he an archaeologist.
Quiescence endured. His inspection was patient; her mind was frantic. One thought kept repeating in her head, echoing as a shout does on a mountaintop... he had guessed. She prayed he hadn't, prayed it was paranoia. Please let it be something else, she implored, I'll suffer anything but that.
Flashbacks from her dream trickled into her ears; 'I always have' he had said. But the two situations weren't comparable. The man standing a few feet away was not his dream-world twin, he was wilder, more unpredictable, more dangerous.
"How old did you say you were?"
The query caught her off-guard. Erik had broken the silence to ask her age. Why? There was no logic in it, none that she could deduce.
"I-I never did. I'm n-nineteen." she replied evenly, tilting her chin in a show of fortitude. Let him play his games, she would not bow so easily.
"Nineteen, you say? Most intriguing." His eyes glowed like twin braziers in the moonlight, alight with strangeness. He took a step nearer, just one, but he might as well have been hovering over her, touching her. Christine's throat tightened and her lungs locked up as rigid as her knees.
"Why ... Why is that?"
"I could be mistaken but..." He trailed off - maybe in contemplation, maybe for effect; the why of it was inconsequential. "If you would humor me by singing again, young Daaé, I'd be better able to provide you with an answer."
Christine was certain she didn't wish to hear the aforementioned answer and even more certain that she needed a diversion.
"I c-can't. My throat... it's too d-dry."
"Too dry?" She nodded unflinchingly. "Interesting... Too dry to sing, not too dry to prattle. A true pity, such a sweet soprano I've never heard. I was unaware that castrati still existed with the practice having been outlawed over thirty years ago."
He knew.
He knew and he was only toying with her. Christine spun on her heel and walked off, she could not stay here in this clearing where the air was rank and stagnant and impossible to breathe.
"Where are you going?" The question was merely a whisper but struck a blaring chord in her ears all the same. She paused but didn't turn, unable to bring herself to face him.
"Back to camp."
"Why? You were in no hurry before now, before our paths crossed you were quite content to sing and strut about."
"I'm tired."
It was her second bid at freedom. She took another step forward and was met with a tangible impediment: his hand, around her arm, his fingers overlapping the thin limb. Were his hand a belt, it could have wrapped around her twice or more.
"Exactly what do you think you are doing?"
"I t-told you. I am returning to camp because I'm fagged." Brown irises narrowed and small nostrils flared, lending her the appearance of a small, scaleless dragon. "If you'd so kindly release me," Indignation concealed panic, yet beneath the stoic breast beat a rapid pulse, erratic with fear.
"I don't believe I will... At least not until you sing for me. One song is all I ask, anything of your choosing. Sing for me, Christopher."
The stakes tripled, she had to fold. Even the most oblivious gambler could see that her front had crumbled.
"Let. me. go." she growled through clenched teeth.
"Or...?" In her periphery she could see that he practically gleamed with conquest. "Or, what? What will you do?"
No answer. Subterfuge at an end there was naught she could say. He smirked darkly, fingers maintaining their iron grip. Her own hand twitched with the urge to make contact with his cheek as revenge for exposing her.
"Lyric coloratura," he said on an exhale.
"What?"
"Your voice. I would classify it as a lyric coloratura soprano: rich and bold yet sweet, like a good Sauternes; a favored voice type in Baroque operas."
"You're either drunk or delusional and wholly misguided either way. Now... let me go!"
With supernatural speed, Christine was whirled round and pinned against a tree just as she had been yesterday, both arms ensnared in his grasp. It happened so quickly her brain couldn't process the resulting dizziness.
"I am none of those things. Least of all misguided, you'll find I never am where music is concerned." It was uttered with such raw conviction that it rebounded upon him revealing a secret of his own; her eyes widened as it came to her. Why hadn't she made the connection before?
"It was you." Though audible the statement was meant only for her.
"What?" Now it was his turn to be addressed in ambiguous riddles.
"That night at the bar, that night you followed me... you were the pianist."
"Yes," he hissed. "So you see, music is a subject as familiar to me as mind and body and your voice is extremely fascinating."
"I don't see why it should be. Surely we can have this discussion at another time."
He ignored her request. "I'm sure you're aware of the obvious differences between the male and female voice. Young boys were once castrated to preserve their vocal range before adolescence and while a castrato can sing within the soprano range there are subtle discrepancies between his voice and that of an adult female."
"This is all very captivating, Erik, but I am quite exhausted and—" A firm shake cut her off.
"What are you hiding beneath those pretty curls, boy?"
There it was.
She had been found out. Her only hope now was to deflect, perhaps soften the blow.
"You dare accuse me of deception, you who hides behind a mask?" She winced as he pushed her harder, the coarse bark biting into her neck and back.
"I warned you to never again mention it!" Erik snarled.
There was an abrupt shift in the atmosphere. Something was building. Something bigger and deadlier than anger, secrets, or lies, something terrifying. Dread began unfurling its petals deep within her, one by one, and it had nothing to do with the raving, murderous man trapping her. That's what truly scared her.
"I did so to illustrate your hypocrisy! You only theorize I harbor a secret whereas you most definitely do, yet I don't corner and interrogate you."
"ENOUGH!" he roared, shoving her into the trunk and yanking her away again, fingers digging into her arms with bruising strength. His incandescent gaze met hers and she found herself petrified and lost and breathless all at once. Before she knew what she was doing Christine reached up her digits grazing the edge of his mask.
"What do you hide, Erik?" She instantly regretted her action when he slammed into the tree a new fury unleashed in his eyes, flinching as she watched his hand raise...
The blow never came, only a thunderous noise that seemingly severed her from reality. Something clapped onto either side of her head. Her ears were covered?
Another furious boom resounded within her chest. The ground contorted, swayed, and shook with untold ferocity. Just like her nightmare. Would ghosts emerge from between the trees? Christine curiously waited to see.
Dimly she was aware that she was moving, pulled along at a frightening pace by an unknown force. Her eyes saw nothing; her ears heard nothing; her body was corporeally there but hollow, her consciousness driven out of its mortal shell by sheer, unfathomable terror; the soft, but firm grip around her wrist the sole thing tethering her to the Earth. Suddenly her legs went cold, now there was more resistance to her movements. Water, mayhap? Still she flitted along without much struggle cool droplets splashing her face and neck. Thereafter came a truly odd feeling... air whipping at her cheeks, stomach floating in her chest, and then a sharp impact and crisp nothingness.
She bobbed, unable to move in this unusual dense, dark place wherein breath couldn't be drawn; though she didn't really wish to and was happy to simply be, sinking deeper into bliss until—rather rudely—she was hauled upwards and deposited onto something hard.
Christopher. Christopher! Are you injured?!
That voice.
Where had she heard it before? She sat up hesitantly, still engulfed in blackness, still not completely present.
Answer me, damn you!
Someone was speaking, in spite of the gruff swearing, it sounded inhumanly beautiful. There was ... an angel? Almost visible despite the void, she could discern his outline. Could she be dead? She reached out to touch him, yearning to feel his divine form, groping in darkness. Her fingers skimmed material. Only a few more millimeters...
A flash of illumination blinded her. Was this what happened when a mortal touched an angel?
Blinking, she lowered the arm shielding her face to find none other than Erik standing there, the otherworldly light emanating from a metal tube in his hand. They were in a cavern of some sort. He crouched before her, his loose khaki tunic and breeches sticking limply to his body, hair sloppily plastered to his forehead, dripping. On his face was an expression of grim concern but in his darkened eyes burned a smug affirmation.
He knew.
Positively and irrefutably.
No more denial.
"So... the little prince is actually a princess." he said softly.
The cat is officially out of the bag... Uh-oh.
A/N: I decided to time the big reveal with the eruption that occurred at 11:30 pm on May 2nd 1902. During April/May 1902, Mount Peleé had a few minor eruptions leading up to the major one on May 8th. Most of the activity leading up to the disastrous event was concentrated in the area around Saint-Pierre, including random river floods (without rain), a lahar (mudslide mentioned by Erik), and a tsunami.
Although the eruption in this chapter was small, both our characters would have heard it even miles away.
*The Pythia is a reference to the oracle at Delphi in ancient Greece and was the mouthpiece of the gods.
Reviews? :)