A/N: Thank you for the reviews, they are much appreciated ... as you know.
Chapter 11
By the next day Christine felt more energetic and she woke up early enough to find that Erik was still asleep on the floor nearest the door. She sat for the long time in the darkness of the room, listening to the almost silence of the ticking mantel clock. It occurred to her that she had never really seen him sleep before.
He slept softly.
His breathing was quiet and gentle, he made no sound and did not move, his sleep looked dreamless and for a moment she was caught in the peace of another persons slumber. She was not really sure how long she had sat in the bed watching him but when his eyes opened and he turned to face her she made no move to look away.
He stared at her quietly for a long moment before breaking the silence with, 'You're awake,'
She nodded her head.
'I usually wake before you,' he clarified, as if his statement was strange.
'I know,' she smiled. 'I woke early this morning,'
'You should have…'
'I didn't want to disturb you,'
He sighed and pushed himself up so that he was sitting. Sleep agreed with him, she thought as she noticed the sparkle in his eyes, they looked clear and alert, even more so than usual. He glanced at the clock and sighed. 'We can't stay here for long,'
'I know,' she said and then, after a short pause, added, 'How long?'
'Another night, perhaps, to rest,' he stood and walked to the window, nudging the drapes back with his finger he looked out onto the winter morning.
'And then? She asked.
He moved from the window, letting the curtain fall back down, 'We move on,'
'To where?'
'To retrieve the document,' he said.
She frowned, worried, 'For what purpose,'
Seemingly without thinking, Erik pulled off the night shirt he had been wearing and said, 'To save our lives,' he leant over the back of the chair and lifted his white shirt from it. As he slipped it over his shoulders he turned to face her, showing hard stomach muscles and a scarred chest.
Not scars like the ones on his face, these were wounds… slashes.
She blinked and turned away, embarrassed that she should see him looking so vulnerable.
A few moments later, 'You can look, I'm covered,'
She took a breath and faced him again. His shirt was buttoned up and he was pulling his jacket on but, when he looked towards her, his eyes were cold.
Unsure what to say she chose the path of least resistances and remained entirely silent. The air between them was suddenly frosty and the warmth she had felt for him as he slept began to slowly seep into her stomach and settle there as fear.
Erik left the buttons of his jacket undone and walked briskly over to the bedroom door.
'Where are you going?' she asked.
He pulled the door open and, without a word, walked out letting it slam shut behind him.
Erik's stomach bubbled with anger as he strode down the hallway and into the breakfast room. He took a seat in the corner of the room and sat staring out of the window. Barely able to push the rage back down he touched the scars on his chest and shook his head. Simply another part of him that she found utterly disgusting. Not that he should be surprised, she was used to Raoul, smooth and unharmed. God forbid she should be subjected to the sight of his scars.
Absently, he began to drum the fingers of his right hand on the arm of the chair. Soon he realised that there were several people staring at him. He glared back at them until they all, one by one, turned away.
He should have known better than to come on this stupid mission. The only thing it was doing to him was playing with his mind, hurting what little pride he had left. Christine would always be the same, she would always be the one who rejected him… she would always be so shallow.
So, why?
If he knew all of this about her, if he knew the way she was, if he knew that she would continue to hurt him, again and again, then why did he continue to protect her? Being around her was pain itself, the sight of her almond shaped eyes, dark as the night, would always burn his heart.
Never again would he tell her of his feelings but just because he did not speak of them did not mean that they did not exist.
He became acutely aware that he was rocking in the seat and made a conscious effort to stop himself, it was difficult, it was something he did without thinking, something he did when he was angry… troubled.
He wasn't sure how long he had been there before Christine walked in but he was sure it was much longer than necessary for her to dress. When he looked up at her, he noticed that her eyes had faint red rings around them and he deduced that she had been crying. No sympathy entered his heart.
Instead he stood and brushed past her.
'Erik,' she said, trying not to raise her voice. Always keeping up appearances.
Aristocracy had ruined her.
'What?' he snapped, turning to face her.
Eyes wide she asked again, 'Where are you going?'
He stared at her incredulously. 'I'm going for a walk,'
'Can I come?' she asked with some hesitation.
'No,' he answered simply.
Momentarily, she looked hurt by the curtness of his response but the look faded and she asked, 'What should I do then?'
'Eat,' he replied, and then added. 'Then go back to the room and cry for Raoul,'
She swallowed but did not rise to his comment, instead she said, 'When will you be back?'
He shrugged his shoulders and skulked out into the cold morning air, as he did his warm breath turned misty in front of him and he dug his hands into his jacket pockets.
By the time he returned to the room at the inn the night was as black as jet and bitter with cold. Christine had curled herself up under the thin blanket on the bed and tried to make herself comfortable. When the door creaked open and he walked in she said nothing but watched him closely.
Erik closed the door behind him but stood still, his eyes meeting hers through the blackness of the room. 'Did you eat?' he asked.
She stared at him, willing her eyes to remain stony, 'Breakfast and lunch,' she said coolly.
He didn't seem to notice her tone.
'That was a long walk,' she added with more softness.
'I needed to clear my head,' he explained, which was a lot more than she had expected.
She wasn't sure if she should say more but decided that, while lines of communication were open, she should try and keep them that way, 'Where did you go?'
He was still staring at her and had not moved a step, 'I found us some horses,'
'Were they expensive?' she asked.
'No,' he replied.
'Are they… good?'
He nodded his head, 'They're good enough,'
Finally he walked into the room and over to the chair where he had rested his nightshirt. As he lifted it from where it rested he turned to the window, noticing that the drapes were open slightly. 'Did you open the curtains?'
She nodded, swallowing hard. 'Did I do wrong?'
He moved over and pulled the gap closed. 'No, it's fine,'
Silence settled again as he drifted back across the room with the nightshirt in his hands.
'Erik,' she said gently.
He turned to her. 'What?'
'Why are you so angry with me?'
'I'm not,'
She laughed. 'Don't treat me like an idiot, Erik,'
He didn't respond, instead he turned his back on her and pulled his shirt off, quickly replacing it with the nightshirt before turning back around.
'I think you misunderstood,' she said.
He sat on the floor and pulled his blanket over his knees but he didn't say anything.
'Earlier… when you were changing…'
'Leave it, Christine, what is done is done,'
She shook her head, amazed at his obstinacy, 'I turned away because…'
'I don't…'
'Listen!' she shouted, feeling her voice crack with tears. 'I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings,'
'You didn't hurt my feelings,'
'Don't be so pig-headed,' she snapped. 'I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings, I turned away because I shouldn't see you shirtless… like that, I'm married,'
He glared up at her and just when she expected him to fly into rage, as she steeled herself ready for the force of his anger, his eyes softened and he said, gently, 'He's gone, Christine,'
Her mouth felt as dry as parchment, 'I know that,' choking back tears she added, 'But I still…'
Before she could finish he interrupted her, 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'You're right, I misunderstood,'
After a moment of silence she asked, 'How did you get them?'
She saw him blink his eyes in the darkness, 'They're old scars,'
She nodded.
'I was a boy,'
She waited.
'It was a long time ago, it was nothing,'
She felt her heart swell with sadness for the youth he must have lost. 'They don't look like nothing,' she said gently.
'I barely remember,' he said but it was a lie, they both knew it.
She slid to the side of the bed, letting her feet dangle over the edge as she looked at him.
'My mother sold me to the circus,' he said finally and frankly.
Christine felt her throat tighten. 'Your mother…'
He nodded and turned his face away.
'How could she?' Christine whispered, more to herself than to him. The thought that any mother could be so cruel, so merciless, was foreign to her and she stared at him with a newfound sorrow etched into her heart.
'You'd have to ask her,' he said, in answer to her question.
'Is she still alive?' she asked as he turned his face back towards her.
She caught a glimpse of his smile. 'I'm not that old,'
It was good to hear a little levity in his voice.
'I didn't say you were,' she returned his smile.
'She's alive,' he answered.
'How old were you?'
He blinked.
'When she did that, how old were you?'
'Four or five, I think,' Erik replied. 'The years all merged together for a long time,'
She nodded, trying to understand, 'They hurt you,'
'Only when I didn't obey them,' he explained.
She swallowed the burning sensation back down her throat.
'It's not as bad as it looks,' he said.
Again, she nodded.
'When did they release you?' she asked.
He laughed. 'They didn't,'
Christine frowned.
'I escaped,' Erik clarified. 'Antoinette Giry helped me to escape,'
'How did you know her?'
'I didn't know her,' Erik said. 'She visited the circus and decided that she didn't like the way that I was treated. That's one thing about Antoinette, she is a woman made up of all the good things… compassion, strength…'
'How old was she when she helped to free you?'
'Not much older than I was,' he said. 'Around thirteen or fourteen I think, a few years older than I was,'
'Do you actually know how old you are?' she asked, confused.
Erik shook his head, the whiteness of his mask moving from side to side. 'I figure that I am forty-five or forty-six,'
'You don't look that much older than me,'
He laughed gently. 'A rare compliment,'
'I can take it back,'
'Don't,' he said, the laughter gone from his tone, his voice soft. 'I'll treasure it,'
She felt her cheeks grow hot and changed the subject quickly. 'How did you escape?'
He turned and lay on the floor, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders, 'Antoinette came back that night with a hacksaw… we sawed through the bars… it didn't take long, looking back, they were really quite flimsy,'
'Where did you go?'
'Antoinette's father worked at the Opera Populaire and she knew it had a cellar, she took me to it,'
'You lived under the opera house for all those years?' she asked, astonished.
He nodded. 'It was my home,'
'Weren't you cold?'
He smiled ruefully, 'Living in a cage prepared me for any cold I might feel,' she saw that he had closed his eyes and so she lay back on her bed. 'It's why I barely feel the cold anymore, I think my body accustomed itself to it,'
Christine closed her eyes, feeling a little sleepy as she asked, 'What did you find when you first went into the cellars?'
'Not much,' he replied. 'Antoinette brought blankets and food,' he sighed gently. 'And books,'
Christine turned onto her side so that she was looking in his direction. She could only see his shoulder, the rest of him was hidden by the edge of the bed.
'I think I might have gone crazy without the books,' it sounded as though he was talking to himself. 'Without her,'
'She was your friend,' Christine whispered.
'The greatest friend,' he confirmed quietly.
'How did you survive?'
'Antoinette was the only reason I survived for the first few months, bringing me food and new clothes, books to read, gas lamps for light,' he explained. 'My eyes had already adjusted quite well to the dark but they helped with reading the books,'
'What books did she bring?'
'All sorts,' he said and she could hear the smile in his voice. 'History books, politics, newspapers that her father had discarded… fiction, a lot of Shakespeare, some medical texts and music books,' a sigh escaped. 'I loved the music books… I found a way to sit under the stage and listen to the orchestra while the operas were being rehearsed, glorious music,'
She swallowed, tears pooling in her eyes.
Erik was no longer talking to her, he was talking to himself, remembering aloud. 'The music became my salvation, so sweet and powerful… emotional. Finding different ways into the theatre so that I could see the conductor… teaching myself to read music… using the instruments at night when everyone had gone home. Antoinette would sometimes sneak in with me, I would let her listen to me play… I discovered that I really could sing quite well. She once told me that my voice moved her to tears… I didn't think anything would do that to her. From the carpentry books I learnt to build things, I created my labyrinth… to keep safe… and I made a bed, cabinets, bookcases,'
'You did remarkably well,' she finally said, thinking of him becoming a young man locked away and almost entirely alone. 'How did you meet Nadir?'
'He too was a fugitive of sorts,' Erik explained. 'I took to going walking in the dead of night, when I felt safest and he was being chased by the police… I don't know why I helped him, but I did, I took him back with me to the cellars and hid him with me,'
'Did he stay for long?' she asked.
'No,' Erik answered. 'He went home but returned the following day with pastries for me to eat,'
'Why was he running from the police?'
'He had stolen some money from a man,' Erik said. 'But the money was rightfully Nadir's… it's a long story but Nadir was grateful for my intervention that night. We stole a piano a few nights later for me to keep in my home,' he sighed. 'We travelled a little, I got to see more of the world, art and culture… slowly Antoinette began to visit me less, she married and gave birth to Meg… that was hard for me,'
Feeling drowsy Christine reached her hand down and let it hang over the side of the bed. 'I'm tired…'
'I know,' he whispered.
She let her hand dangle until he took it in his.
His grip was light but comforting.
Safe and warm, she finally fell to sleep.
