A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Also, with Christine's accident – in the possibility of a concussion, I know the patient should stay awake. However, from what I could discern, that knowledge came with more modern medicine, because I couldn't find any instance of such instructions when researching this time period. With that in mind, I wrote the story accordingly, with only the knowledge they would have had then – and besides, M. Giry is no doctor. ;-)
Under his wing
Chapter XI
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Christine lay on her back and stared with annoyed frustration at the transparent dome of ebony silk enclosing her. Trapped within the luxury of his majestic bed, she wished for Erik to return and sit by her side to keep her company. To talk to her, perhaps read to her, hopefully sing to her. At this point, she would even gladly endure one of his dour tantrums, often brought on as a result of someone, usually La Carlotta, "murdering the opera." To hear his voice and have him offer companionship again, she would suffer through anything!
Instead, he kept to himself, silent and distant as the Opera Ghost of his stature.
Was he still upset with her for taking the underground journey to his lair alone?
Angry with her for breaking through the wall of his false disregard in demand that he show his true feelings - and at last recognize hers?
Enraged with her for her ill-conceived kiss with Raoul on the rooftop during the Bal Masque?
Was what Erik had to tell her so horrendous that he felt he must put off speaking entirely until the final night of her stay, in his certainty that she would leave him and never return? Did he not hear a word she'd said? Did he not realize all she'd endured to be with him and that his silence only made matters worse?
She was beyond weary of people telling her how she must act or what she should feel: The managers with their arrogant bullying, Raoul with his forceful persuasions, Meg with her foolish reasoning. Erik spoke of giving Christine choices, but she chose to hear what he would say now.
And he would have none of it.
He had been to her an angel, and she revered him as supreme authority in her childhood. She had always obeyed her teacher and still respected him as her Maestro. But each time Christine visited Erik, as the woman she'd become, she grew more comfortable seeing him as the man he truly was. Still imposing and powerful, yes, but she experienced an ease she'd never completely felt with the nameless entity of his pretense. For a moment she thought about that, her face growing warm with the wicked secret she'd carried for so long, in believing his. Now that she knew the truth, much of her insecurity and awkwardness had vanished. And she simply would no longer tolerate being treated as an ignorant child!
She had made her choice, she had almost died for that choice - but Erik still refused to see it.
Her head began to throb. With distaste, she reached for the bottle that sat beside the musical box with the Persian monkey, also taking the silver cup Erik had provided, three times the size of a thimble. She poured her evening dose of tonic for the pain and drank the foul potion down with a grimace.
She was certainly no stranger to seclusion. In the world above his lair, when not sharing time with Meg or engaging in practices, Christine often kept her own company. But her solitude had never gone on for such long stretches and without the ability to move at will. She could not remember ever being confined to her bed.
She understood Erik had not asked for her ongoing presence in his home. Still, she had not believed he would so utterly ignore her and had been surprised when earlier he refused her softly beseeching plea for an explanation and walked away, with the swift excuse of seeing to her meal. Within minutes, he'd brought her a plate of cheese and fruit. Then, after a curt nod to her smiling thanks, he turned on his heel and left before she could utter another word.
That had been what surely must amount to several hours ago, though it felt ten times that.
"Oh, bother the Maestro Angel - more like Phantom Fiend," she bit out under her breath in disgusted frustration, sick to death of being ordered to bed and forgotten, put away and secluded in a pretty little chamber, like his mannequin doll.
She had thought after their forthright discussion, which had ended in the whirlwind kiss, that they might finally put all misunderstandings behind them. Obviously that was not to be.
At the sound of brisk footsteps, she lifted herself up on her elbows, watching the entrance intently, hoping he might soon appear. Once again her expectations were dashed, as the ring of his steps grew distant, moving to the other side of the lake room. She sighed in annoyance and flopped back to the pillow.
She had difficulty connecting the exciting man of uninhibited passion who'd held her so fiercely and kissed her so desperately with the cold, aloof ... ghost of a being who preferred to keep residence in the adjoining room.
Warmth tingled through her veins at the memory of his mouth searing hers, of his cool hands on her equally cool skin, both which soon warmed in their shared passion, as if two empty souls were coming to life again. And that was exactly how she'd felt.
She did not regret kissing him, even if it had been a shocking thing to do for a girl with no experience. She'd dreamt of his kiss for some time, ever since the night he first brought her here, no … even before that. And if she could live the moment over, she would do it again. Though she might have chosen a better method of reaching his lair, or at least thought to bring matches. She'd done well enough until her torch blew out.
Granted, he had accustomed himself to a life of seclusion in his strange pretense to become both Angel and Phantom. But they were hardly strangers. She had shared other nights with him in this lair, in taking her lessons. So why did he snub her now, treating her with such a confounding lack of interest?
Frowning, Christine sat up, the need to remain in bed no longer a directive she could acknowledge. She tipped the lever to raise the slightly lifted curtain the entire way and swung her legs over the bed. A dizzying sense of displacement had her clutch the scalloped edge, its sharp outline pricking her fingers, and she wrinkled her brow in confusion, for the first time noting the variation of silver metal compared to golden bird. The foundation for the mattress looked like ... a shell? Whoever heard of a bird with a shell? Was there such a bird? Christine shook her head trying to clear it. Whatever drug the potion contained made it difficult to think.
Once out of the covers, the brisk air chilled her flesh and she gathered Erik's black velvet robe around her, tying the long sash, thankful he'd left at least something of himself behind. The hem trailed the floor by several inches. Yet her train was not what made her stagger, and she slapped her hand to the cave wall so as not to fall. She could not seem to walk properly and assumed the potion caused the weakness in her limbs as well.
"What are you doing out of that bed?"
His curt question made her start – how had she not heard his footsteps this time? She frowned, looking over her shoulder at the formidable stance of her Phantasmal dark angel.
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
At her equally abrupt rejoinder, his eyes widened in evident astonishment that she would speak to him so brusquely.
"I told you to stay in bed and rest."
She narrowed her eyes. "Forgive me, Maestro, but sometimes your orders cannot be followed to the letter." She resumed her sluggish walk, using the wall for support.
"Stop acting like an impudent child and get back in that bed before your legs give out beneath you. Or you step on that absurd sash and stumble."
"I can't go back! Not yet." Her face flushed hot and she looked away, wishing he would just go. Of all times to finally make an appearance, he could not have picked a worse moment.
"What do you mean? Why can you not …" His voice trailed away as he suddenly must have noted the direction she headed. "Oh."
"Now will you go and leave me be?" She felt her entire body flush in mortification and wished for one of his trap doors to open beneath her feet and swallow her whole.
His steady footsteps approached seconds before she felt his strong arms slip around her. In the next instant she found herself hoisted into the air and held against the hard wall of his chest.
She kept her lashes lowered, unable to look at him. Whereas before she anticipated his presence, now she lay rigid in his arms, wishing only to evade his company. At the same time his strength left her feeling weaker and more flustered.
"I can walk," she insisted, despite knowing she couldn't.
"Don't be ridiculous."
He carried her down the narrow corridor to the entrance of the small chamber and set her on her feet. She pulled the edges of his robe tightly together under her throat in self-conscious unease, still unable to look at him.
"Do you wish me to wai—"
"No!" she hurried to say before he could finish and whirled away through the entrance, thankful when she heard his footsteps swiftly retreat into the distance.
She tended to necessity quickly, but lingered at the edge of the chamber until her legs could barely hold her yet she felt certain he'd gone. She'd taken no more than a few awkward steps, when he reappeared in the entrance.
Resigned, she watched his approach.
This time no words passed between them as he carefully picked her up and carried her back to bed. He came to a stop beside it. Her embarrassment for him to catch her in the awkward situation had lessened to a degree, but still she could not meet his eyes.
"You're trembling." His voice came low, almost gentle. "Do you fear me?"
"Of course not. I'm only cold." She had removed her stockings earlier and the stones had chilled the soles of her feet, but that wasn't what really made her shiver. Nor would she admit it was due to the heat of his skin that warmed every point of contact where her body touched his …
"Christine …"
"Tell me." She looked at him at last. "Tell me what you wouldn't say before."
He released a weary sigh. "Tomorrow."
He laid her down in the plush bedding with extreme tenderness, as if she were breakable, and pulled the coverlet over her, up to her neck. In light of his sudden consideration, she could almost forgive him for his remote treatment of the entire day.
"When you no longer need the tonic and can again think clearly I will tell you," he said. "What I have to relate, you will need to be coherent to understand."
"Promise you'll tell me?" She hated that her words had begun to slur. She could barely keep her eyes open.
A wry smile tilted his lips. "Yes. Did you take another dose of the tonic?"
She nodded groggily against the pillow.
"I told you to take it only when I give it to you. Must I take it away?"
"Must you treat me like a child?"
His brow lifted in curious surprise at her clipped answer. "I merely do not wish you to become confused under its potency and take too much."
Instantly she felt bad for snapping at him. She supposed her disposition could also use improvement. Lowering her eyes, she barely nodded her thanks.
He straightened to his full height.
"Erik?" She spoke quickly, not wanting him to go yet.
He turned to look at her.
"Why is your shell a bed and a bird?"
"What?" His features slackened in perplexed confusion, and she realized then what she'd said.
"Your bed. A seashell ... a bird … why?" Her words came lethargic. Drat the strong tonic and what it did to her.
He seemed amused. "Someday, perhaps, I will tell you."
"Not now?" she pouted.
"No, not now."
"Will you say nothing to me?" She yawned, with just enough strength to slip her hand up to cover her mouth with her fingertips.
"Yes, Christine … sleep."
His calm smile seemed oddly sad before she closed heavy eyelids, unable to keep them open any longer. The last fleeting memory before deep slumber overtook her was the whisper-soft touch of his fingers running along her cheek.
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X
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Christine awoke to the most beautiful music. Without opening her eyes, she smiled dreamily as his haunting aria seeped richly into her senses. Oh, how she had missed hearing him play and sing! She took such pleasure in his expertise and her spirit soared with his stirring voice as she listened from the comfort of her Angel's bed.
Tomorrow she must leave his home and return above ground. She wished she did not have to go, but of course she could not stay...
Or, was it tomorrow already?
How strange that she rested five levels beneath the earth, where there was no sun or moon or stars. Yet the moment she heard the resonant timbre of his dark lyrical voice and heard the masterful strains of his captivating music, she floated higher than when she stood on the opera house rooftop, able to touch the heavens.
What thrilling hold did he possess over her? What mesmeric power that enabled him to reach so deeply into her senses, as if controlling them? She did not understand it, she could not explain it, but never did she wish to lose it. It had become a part of her, ever since she was a child.
The music continued, its sweet enchantment along with the effects of the mind-numbing potion lulling her back into deep slumber, taking her to a place where she floated amidst the clouds ...
The next time she awakened, he had exchanged the mystique of his pipe organ for the poignant strains of his violin.
This time she opened her eyes, noticing he'd left one candle flickering near the bedchamber entrance, its pale light enough to reassure without disturbing her slumber. She wondered if he composed another concerto or worked further on his Don Juan masterpiece.
The memory of their duet encouraged the recent memory of their kiss and she clutched one of the pillows close with a sudden strange breathlessness. Indeed, the tantalizing music he now played brought those two momentous events and all manner of scandalous thoughts to mind. She had no idea how much time passed as she laid there, her body almost feverish with a strange tingling ... longing. But when the music ended she felt both saddened at the abrupt silence and relieved as her heart calmed its rapid pace.
She heard him move about for some time afterward, the rustling of papers and thumps of objects being moved and coming from different areas of the main room making her wonder what task he engaged in. Perhaps he cleaned what earlier he'd scattered. She found her mind picturing him at work, his form lithe and tall and trim ... which led her wandering down the intriguing path of their long association, taking her to her debut night and their wondrous meeting when she first took his hand and he brought her through the mirror door ...
The most heavenly aroma tantalized her senses, and her stomach lurched in its desire to be filled, as he had fed the deepest pockets of her soul.
Erik's tread on the stone staircase leading to the bedchamber made Christine sit up in expectation. Suddenly filling the entrance, the sight of him she'd been envisioning fairly took her breath away.
He came forward, setting a plate on the table by her bed, then took the candle already lit and touched its wick to a nearby candelabrum of four to shed more light, though the effect remained pleasantly subdued.
With shock, she eyed the meal he brought her of Coq au vin, one of her favorite seasoned dishes of chicken, lardons, mushrooms, carrots, celery, and onions cooked in a thick flavorful sauce rich with wine and brandy.
She blinked and looked up at him. "You made this?" Before he had given her apples, cheese, and bread. She had not expected so elaborate a meal.
He chuckled at her amazement. "Do you see a chef lurking in the passageway?"
His music seemed to have improved his temperament and she smiled with relief, also feeling more at ease, especially now that he'd joined her.
"There are numerous skills I've needed to learn to dwell in my solitary existence," he went on to explain. "Madame brings provisions from the surplus in the kitchens but she does not stay to prepare them. She has no such skills."
"But how did you learn?"
"I was fortunate that the opera house cook wrote down his creations in a book that mysteriously ... went missing." He gave a careless little magician's wave of his long, graceful fingers as he said the last.
Christine grinned, certain by the cavalier tilt to Erik's lips that the lost book was one of many stacked on his shelves. She took a bite of the aromatic dish. Her eyes rounded in pleasure. "It's very good. Better than Pierre's." Eagerly she tasted more.
"Merci." He inclined his head in gratitude and watched her eat, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
She felt relieved that he no longer seemed angry. When he'd been so furious with her, his eyes had blazed a stormy green. Later, when he kissed her so passionately, they had darkened to polished obsidian, until almost the entirety of green had disappeared, something she'd never seen them do before. But this evening, they glowed as clear as pure jade.
"Will you not dine with me?" she asked hopefully.
"I dined earlier, while you were sleeping. How does your head feel?"
She touched it. "Only a little sore. At least I no longer feel as if I had one too many glasses of wine with dinner and was then forced to perform a tours chaînés déboulés." The series of continuous twirls made her dizzy even without wine.
His mouth thinned in disapproval at her light remark, and she assumed he recalled her nocturnal trek to find him. She set down her fork, regarding him just as somberly.
"Erik, if I had not come to you, would you have returned to me?"
"No."
"Never?" she whispered, helpless tears of shock clouding her eyes.
"I could not accept the risk."
She shook her head in hurt disbelief. "What risk?"
His mesmerizing eyes regarded hers with steady resolve.
"If I would have come to you, Christine, if I would have dared, I would have taken you. And I would have never let you go."
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xXx
