AN: Hello, lovelies. Thank you for sticking with me through this. There are only a few more chapters to go, and then it's off I go to work on The Magician's Prison again, and to also start churning things out for my latest Smut For Relief Campaign. Why, you don't know what that last bit is? Hop on over to my profile for a looky-loo, won't you?
A humongous cupcake-laden thank you to everyone who has reviewed!
We drifted endlessly in a world composed only of my songs and her whimsies. I made her food tell lewd jokes, played countless songs that mad her smile, and created entire universes with my music. My voice was in her ear without fail, always whispering, sining, comforting. I feared to be without her, so I kept her on a leash made of my voice, beckoning her to me at all times.
Sophie said nothing, just watched i careful silence as I allowed her mistress to float upon my creations, buoyed by my own insanity. But she saw that Christine smiled quite sadly, so she was quiet.
I, however, was quite furious at myself, reduced to being the plaything of a woman that held me on a rope of her own. I had allowed myself to be reduced to a pile of simpering man, not even a man, for I had traded my dignity for time spent with her.
Bought and sold, traded and told.
This simply would not do. I had to find where precisely I had dropped my pride, my ability to seduce and use without reservation, and retrieve it. Ah, yes. The answer was in Don Juan.
******************
"Fire courses through the veins,
Falling like the summer rains;
Come to me, Oh desirous one,
To the man who holds the sun..."
Her hands began to twitch, and she sighed softly in response to my voice pouring through the walls. She was sprawled across the great bed, her hair spread out above her like a fan.
"Come, and taste of lust,
Come, it is I you trust;
I am the dawn you seek,
Be you neither shy nor meek…"
Her hands came alive in a slow dance, reaching up to place them gently over her throat, fingers splayed. Oh, what new pleasure was this? I groaned softly, warm, stiff. I spoke now in melody only, my palms drumming quietly on the boards that supported me, tribal. Everything seemed to fall under a red light, following the same rhythm, endless.
Her voice. I needed to hear her sing, to hear that gilded thing that I had tuned and perfected like a beloved instrument.
"Sing, goddess of mine,
Sing, my heart is thine…"
"Sing, Christine Daae. Sing, as though you were the first to ever see the sun rise after the night."
The air was suddenly thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides; I struggled to breathe. I wriggled, twisted, trying to find a way to unhinge my pent up joints, but I was held fast by the boards above and below me.
A small sigh floated up between the slats, followed by a quiet hum. Christine's eyes were pressed tightly closed, and a series of various small notes emanated from her throat, not entirely at random, but as if she were experimenting, testing her voice. The sound rang with remarkable clarity, but also held the tell-tale signs that it had not been used as such for quite some time.
I allowed my own wolf's eyes to drift shut, and my voice began to spring to life of its own accord, caressing, stroking across her soft skin, daring to touch where I did not. She exhaled slowly through her nose, and lifted on leg, bent at the knee, exposing white flesh from the folds of her robe. I could see water still clinging to her from her bath, making her skin sparkle. Her sternum began to rise and fall more rapidly, her mouth falling open into gentle pants.
Her tiny noises continued, not singing, per se, but pushing and prodding non the less. I changed my pitch, sped the tempo, and she responded by pulling aimlessly at the ties that held her robe cinched at he waist. Her fingers struggled, not entirely obeying her wishes, and her brow furrowed in frustration.
Her moan of triumph made one side of my mouth tug upward. She struggled for a moment, then purred happily as she pushed the garment apart slightly, exposing her abdomen and the very edges of the slopes of her breasts. Her hands slid down her torso, coming to rest on her stomach, palms flat.
Her body was bowed, arching upward like a harp, and I plucked and caressed her as such, my voice wrapping around her, sliding, loving.
No.
Something was not right, and I wasn't entirely sure what. My eyes seemed to be telling my brain something, but I as distracted by my being masterful and seductive, heaving white flesh below me, lust floating through the air.
Can't you see? Do you not see what is wrong with her?
No. Tell me.
Look, you fool! Is Don Juan blind or simple?
Don Juan is brilliant--Erik, now, Erik is not so quick on the uptake.
My eyes popped open, focused, then fell shut in pain.
"Oh, my dear," I whispered, allowing the song to falter and break. she was so thin. Her ribs were clearly visible beneath her pallid skin, her belly sunk inward, and her fingers were so delicate that they appeared as if they would snap quite easily.
How had I allowed this to happen? I was supposed to be her companion, her protector and obedient servant. Had I caused this? Had all my subtle whispering sand gentle prodding with songs been too much for her already fragile state of mind? She had submitted so easily, so willingly that I had thought myself fortunate. I was truly a great ass.
Christine made a miniscule noise behind her lips, a "Hmph!" at the sudden silence that fell on her ears. I could not leave her like this, entranced and sweating, delirious with desire and song. I parted my lips, and began to sing again, but this time, she sighed like a young child, and her limbs that were flung out so carelessly began to curl as she folded into a knot.
I would have smiled at her content little snores, but my heart had sunk to the depths of my bowels, settling like an unfortunate stone. My own muscles were coiled tightly, my back humped like a cat. I dare not to sleep, as I wished to stand guard over her at all times; each time she began to stir, I would resume my low lullaby that reverberated in my chest.
She did not wake till morning next.
"Come in, Erik," Christine called through the heavy mahogany door. I bowed my head, my chin tucked to my chest in submission. I covered the space between the threshold and her four-poster bed in four strides of my long legs, but I dared not to look at her innocent face. I settled into the Louis-Philippe chair that sat next to her bed. "What is it that you want?" she continued.
I maintained my silence until Sophie had finished fussing over her, fluffing her pillows just so, and pulling the blankets up to her arms. Sophie threw an accusing glance at me, as if to ask if I had see the poor state that he mistress was in. Her condition was exceedingly worse by the light of the noon-day sun; dark circles hung below her eyes, and her hair had begun to lose its sheen.
I wet my lips nervously, my hands twitching, longing for something to toy with. I nodded slightly to Sophie. Yes. I knew.
And I would like very much to cut out my vocal cords for using them in such a way.
Sophie lifted her head then, and her upper lip curled slightly in distaste as she shuffled to the door. I breathed deeply, then hissed it out across my teeth. Christine sat up expectantly, her eyebrows lifting in a silent question.
"Christine, you know that I am loyal to you, loyal like a dog to its master, and I have no other wish than to serve you as such. But…but I am also a man, and I have been so lonely for so terribly long. Do you know what it is like to live in shadows and darkness your entire life? To have no one ever touch you without quivering with fear?" I sighed then, long and heavy. Her brow dropped into her eyes, confused, but rapt.
"I believe I have done you a terrible wrong."
The whole pathetic truth came pouring from me then, as if my very soul had been stabbed and I bled pity and guilt. She said nothing, simply stared in dismayed silence.
"You are truly a horrible man," she said slowly when I had finished. "You are not even a man; you are the putrid offal of a snake. Who are you to use that golden throat of yours to bend me to your will? You are quite awful, and you have not changed at all. I should not have hoped for anything more, you foul beast. What a great fool I was to put any sort of faith in you. Shame on me, but greater shame on you and what little pride you have for pulling me around like your own personal marionette. I have never hated someone as I do you!" she cried, then doubled over, sobbing into her hands.
I fell to the floor before her bed, my knees bent beneath me and my forehead touching floor in a reverent kow-tow. "I am yours, Christine. Lay every foul thought you have ever had onto me, and I will bear it if you desire it! Give me your every wish and I will sell my very soul to make it happen! I only wished to do as you said, to make you dream, but Erik is so weak! I tried only to please you, to do as you asked!"
"Do you truly believe that it matters? Do you think that I will ever forget Raoul, or my father, or my pretty mother? Do you think that they mean so little to me that I would turn my back on every decent thing they taught me just so I could indulge your fantasy to serve me, so that I would come to love you? No," she continued, "I do not believe that it matters what you do, Erik, because no one really gives a damn."
One tear pattered onto the rich floor, and then another, and two more. I had betrayed the only woman I dared to love, bought and sold, traded and told, all for the price of my own damnable libido and loneliness.
*****************
"I have brought you something special for dinner, Madame," I said with a stiff bow. She thrust her jaw out, and refused to look at me. "I believe that you have a penchant for Italian cuisine, yes?"
"Yes. Thank you," she said quietly. I gently placed the tray on the writing desk shoved against the wall, bowed again, and slinked silently away.
I had become nothing more than the shadow I had once been, speaking in polite tones when the occasion called for it, never singing, never lovingly placing my fingers on any of my instruments. My fingers felt dead and useless, my brain silent. A constant buzzing filled my ears, like a thousand bees, droning over all other noises so that I couldn't hear when I was addressed. My guilt had become my end, the solitude ravaging over me. Her grief and betrayal was going to be my end.
"I must leave for a while; you will be on your own for a time. Can you amuse yourself until I return?"
"I believe I can," she sniffed. Her disdain turned to curiosity. "Where are you going?"
"I must fetch some things that I left in my flight north to come to you. I miss my possessions and my treasures. I must take the carriage, and the stable master if that is agreeable to you--the boy shall stay, and you shall have Delilah and the phaeton, should you need it."
"Yes. Fine."
No wishes for a safe return, or a pleasurable journey. No questions as to why I felt that I needed to retrieve my abandoned things. I had opened a rift between us, and I did not know if I could forge a bridge wide enough to span her distaste for me. Alas, what should I have assumed, that she would gather a ghost close to her heart?
There was no room left in the carriage or on the luggage rack on the top by the time I had finished loading it with all manner of trunks and boxes. Of course, this meant that I would have to hold the most precious gift close to me while I rode before the carriage.
I did not take into account the great difficulty that would present itself in trying to keep the wriggling ball of fur both warm and still. I dropped the reins more than once, and Exodus would snort and seize the bit between his great teeth, leaping ahead in great bounds. I finally gave in and tucked the fuzzy creature into my vest and buttoned my waistcoat around it. It promptly fell asleep.
I, however, was filled with immense trepidation at my return. How would I be greeted? Would she have fled while I was gone? Around and around my brain circled in a cycle of doom and hope.
"Good evening, Christine," I murmured as I bowed.
"Hello, Erik," she replied softly, the candle light illuminating her skin so that it glowed orange.
"I have brought you many presents from Paris," I announced, and pulled a large trunk into the bedroom.
"Erik," she began to protest, but I silenced her with a flick of my index finger. I pulled open the lid, flinging the clasps aside casually. I reached in for the first item.
"I know the importance of allowing all that ails your heart and soul and troubles your mind to escape; but, as you refuse to use your God-given treasure, I thought that perhaps your hands could translate," I said as I handed her a leather-bound journal. She said nothing, but ran her fingers across the supple surface.
"I know that it is past the season, but I do believe that I neglected to give you a proper Christmas present," I continued, and placed a wad of tissue wrapping into her hands. She pulled off the paper, and delicately held a glass butterfly meant to be hung on a Christmas tree.
"Oh!" she gasped, and dangled it over her head so that it caught the light.
"I also brought wonderful Parisian foods for us to dine one, enough to satisfy even the most persnickety of appetites." I lifted several boxes of tarts and other pastries for her to examine, as well as a couple bags of hard candies. "Sophie has taken the steaks and other things and placed them in the snow to keep them."
"Erik, this is all very considerate, but it does not excuse--"
"I have not finished!" I continued. "I have been saving the best for last." I turned to the door and stepped into the hall; Sophie handed me the little creature, which I buried in the folds of my cloak. "I know that your heart is full of warmth and kindness, for I have glimpsed this myself--who else could pity a monster?" She blinked several times. "But that is not the point. I believe that you need something to fill that horrible gap that has been torn into your very being, something to pour all of your maternal instincts and kindness into."
"I do not think that--"
"Here!" I interrupted, withdrawing the twisting little thing, and dropped it unceremoniously in her lap.
"Oh…Oh, Erik! He is beautiful!" she exclaimed as she scooped up the yellow puppy, and held him close, breathing in the smell of his warm fuzz. "Where did you find him? He's so wonderful! And…" She touched the red ribbon tied around his neck, and slid a sly look to me. "Did you do this, Erik? I thought you detested dogs."
"I do. I have little use for something that bounds about incessantly and insists on slobbering on everything that it comes into contact with. This one, however, was an orphan, abandoned on the Rue Scribe, so I took him into my arms and washed him. I had originally thought that he was brown, he was so coated with filth. Imagine my delight when I realized that he matched the very hue that cascaded down my beloved's back!" A sound reverberated from deep within my belly, causing both of us to start.
I was laughing.
Christine's smile fell a little, leaving her eyes. "I do not believe that I have ever heard you laugh in happiness. I remember the ghastly sound of your laughter echoing around the stage, and the chandelier…" Her voice trailed off, leaving me full of still more guilt.
"There is one more parcel for you to open," I said softly, pulling out a large box wrapped with white paper and tied with a green ribbon. She set the puppy down carefully, and took the box with a look full of suspicion and mistrust.
She carefully pulled the ribbon off and hesitated for a moment before pulling the lid off. She said nothing, merely sat perfectly still for as instant, frozen. She began to speak, then maintained her silence. Her hand reached out, tentative, and gently stroked the deep blue satin.
With one swift motion, she shook the dress out of the box, a soft noise passing her lips. "I've never seen anything so, so beautiful. It looks like someone made a sapphire into fabric and…" her eyes narrowed, and she sneered at me, accusing. "I suppose that now you'll demand that I join you for dinner, and I wear this dress? You are dreadfully mistaken if you believe that I will endure another meal with you staring at me while I pick at my food."
"No," I said, feeling low. "No, I do not expect anything from you. I merely wished to demonstrate that I can can be kind--I am not made simply of bad intentions and selfishness. I had hoped once to shower you with gifts every day, to give anything for you to be happy. I forgot myself, and I wish for you to forgive me. I am full of regret for using my voice against you; I will never do so again.
"I only wish for us to live in peace, to maybe try and live as other people do. I wish to be a normal man."
"You still do not understand, do you Erik?" she said, her pout fading. "You shall never be able to live as the rest of humanity does because you do not number yourself with the rest of us. You cannot expect to be accepted if you do not cease this idea that you do not have to behave like a 'normal' man," she said angrily.
"Oh, my dear Christine, it is quite more complicated than that! Far more!"
"No, it isn't," she muttered quietly as the door clicked shut.
The smells that permeated the air were rich and indulgent, pungent. Although I did not eat very often, I simply loved to cook. The very idea of crafting a scrumptious meal from raw materials fascinated me. I liberally sprinkled the sizzling meat with spices that were dark and foreign, not from any French market, but brought from the lands to the east.
A minute noise, from the doorway…
"It smells wonderful, Erik," Christine said softly. I spared her a passing glance, and then turned to stare at her fully. She was dressed for the first time in many weeks, looking as if she had been born and bred into the rich countryside. She wore a dark green vest that corseted down the front over a white shirt and matching skirts that appeared to be made from some natural fiber.
I gave her a courteous bow, feeling a bit silly and naked in only my shirt and trousers. "I have always had a fondness for all things culinary," I confessed. "I take special pleasure in the confection of meats and all manner of sauces."
She came closer and peeked into a bowl beneath a small piece of cheese cloth. "I have always loved making bread," she said. "It seems almost magical the way the yeast comes alive and makes the dough rise. May I?" she asked, one dainty eyebrow arched.
I nodded briskly, secretly watching her every move form the corner of my eye. She unceremoniously poured the risen dough fro the bowl onto the counter sprinkled with flour and began folding it over and pushing into it, her small fingers disappearing.
"I am glad you have come."
"I am as well."
We said nothing, but volumes were spoken in the simple silence, from the way she smiled with one side of her mouth as she ate, to our comfort in the casual dress. I was filled with joy at the sight of Christine eating heartily, pausing only to savor the Tokay wine.
Memories threatened to shove their way into my consciousness; I had only to close my eyes and I could see Christine sitting across form me at a very different table, one carved lovingly of rough-hewn wood, years lifted from her face. She had been wearing her dressing gown over her costume, and was picking carefully at her prawns so as not to drop anything on her bejeweled dress.
I could only stare at her, still exquisite, but the sadness etched across her face in lines that appeared in the corners of her eyes. Gone was the youthful exuberance, and her feminine manners, replaced by only a sense of being, all pretentiousness gone.
"I have never seen you without your waistcoat and jacket before," she said suddenly, pulling me from my reverie. "It is a refreshing to not have to feel as if I must be on my best behavior," she said impishly.
"I have likewise never seen you looking so informal, and yet, so at home."
"You make me so very nervous when you just stare at me like that, Erik," she announced. "It seems strange that you would go to all the trouble of preparing this divine food, and not even taste it."
"It was no trouble; anything done for you could never be a chore," said lowly, causing Christine's cheeks to flush pink. "In truth, I find more pleasure in the creation of the meal than the actual consumption."
"Why do you desire me so much? What drives you to seek out my company when I have done nothing but despise you?"
My mind temporarily froze at her query; how do you explain true love? How could I possibly form the proper words and phrases to convey joy, and sadness, and happiness?
"It is because when I first stared into those cerulean eyes, my soul felt the shock of recognition at the sadness in you. I could see your immense passion, and more importantly, your deep respect for music. I could almost taste your joy at hearing my voice. I loved you from the moment I saw you--I still do. I have come to the realization that you shall never return this great emotion that I have for you, but it is enough for me to be allowed to layer you with kindness and to bask in your presence."
Christine found her folded hands immensely fascinating, her white teeth flashing as she bit her lip. She was silent, so very silent, and I feared that I had crossed a boundary of some sort. She began to rise, either to leave or for some other purpose, I'll never know, for a familiar ringing pierced the air.
"That sounds just like the Rue Scribe bell," she whispered, then turned to gaze at me accusingly as it rang again. "You have made some sort of warning device, haven't you?"
"Yes," I said smoothly. "I would not want to be taken by surprise." She opened her mouth to utter some scathing remark, but she was cut off by the unmistakable and alarming sound of someone pounding on the great wooden door, and shouting her name.