Author's Note: I'll keep this short and sweet, like me! :D Once again I ask that y'all review and let me know how everything is going. Keep on reviewing and let me know what y'all think. I'd love to hear if anyone has any predictions, especially after y'all read Chapter 26. ;) Finally, the title for this chapter as well as for Chapter 26 comes from the song "Silver and Cold" by AFI. Read, review, and most of all enjoy!
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Chapter 25 – I Will Tremble a Prayer
Christine
Life went on and time marched forth, heedless of all else beyond unhindered forward progression. It was suddenly a strange phenomenon to me – once I truly became cognizant of even its mere existence, seemingly as if for the first time in my life – to be so aware of the absolute and unwavering hold it had on us all. But all the same, time continued moving forward as it always had, although lately it passed by in a markedly far more pleasant manner and even more peacefully so than in darker months passed. I carried on with the daily comings and goings of my life alongside Erik in his own endeavors, and we were simply happy to have a presence in one another's lives.
I wrote to Madame Giry and Meg often and looked forward to the good news they always tried to share – Meg having recently informed me that she had found herself a new beau, one that even Madame had no qualms against despite her usual fierce protectiveness over us. I returned Meg's excitement in the letter containing my reply, noting to her that my courtship and marriage to Erik had likely ensured that anyone Meg brought home would appear far tamer by comparison. I had to laugh in spite of myself at that reflection of my courtship with Erik, remembering everything that we had gone through with a sort of mingled fond sadness and knowing that there was once a time when our relationship seemed impossible at best. And yet in the end we had come together, and I assured Meg that if she had indeed found love with this man, then she would be all the better for it.
Some weeks later, it came as no surprise to me that Meg had sent a reply accompanied by the announcement of her engagement. I felt sincere pride for her upon reading those significant words; it was a welcomed occurrence to witness my dearest friend experiencing something as exciting and relatively normal as planning her wedding as quickly as her mother would allow.
I was dismayed, however, to not have heard from Raoul for quite some time – having long ago opted not to share with him the news of our loss. It seemed too personal – almost disrespectful – to share with one's former fiancé, and so I requested that Madame Giry and Meg not make mention of it either for fear of further questioning on Raoul's part. In turn, the last I had heard of him was of his own impending engagement, followed by complete silence. There was not even any secondhand information relayed by the Girys other than the assurance that he was safe. I assumed that his relationship meant no longer having contact with his former soprano love and childhood sweetheart, and I accepted that fact in good graces. It was sad to acknowledge that I had to let go, but I was comforted by the many wonderful memories we shared; I could be resolved to accept his silence if doing so meant ensuring his easier transition into the obligations and duties of his title.
Still, in spite of the abrupt distancing of a long friendship, in all other aspects of my life I felt more alive than I had in a long time. It seemed that even with every great stride forward and each valiant attempt to face every new day, I hadn't quite been aware of just how long my sorrow ran through the course of time, how much it had dampened my spirits even when I all but thought I was growing numb to its power. But when I opened my eyes each morning to our sunlit bedroom, looking over to see Erik stirring along with me on such occasions when he had chosen to remain with me late into the morning, I felt my spirit reawaken time and time again – until finally that reawakening turned into the true renewed bravery for which I had been grasping for so long.
Several weeks had passed since the night that we had finally been reintroduced to one another's bodies, and if it was possible I believe I fell far more deeply in love with my husband. To be able to find comfort and release in one another's embrace meant much more to us than simply sharing in physical intimacy – we were the keepers of each other's hearts, our making love was but a testament to how much that meant to us. In spite of everything we had endured, we could still rise the next morning and know that we had somehow once again survived together. I don't believe that I would have made it through Estelle's passing had he not been by my side.
It was in becoming ever more cognizant of those facts that I ultimately made my decision.
"I want to sing," I told him quickly – abruptly even – one morning when we were otherwise content to find relaxation in the relative peace of our bed.
He obliged my request without question, swiftly pulling on only his trousers and scarcely giving me time to find a robe for modesty as he led me downstairs and to his piano.
We resumed the roles of teacher and student immediately, almost unconsciously – as if so many years and harsh experiences had not separated us from those respective titles. He sat before his piano in his long-ago acquired confident manner, playing a short melody to warm himself up for more vigorous accompanying notes to meet the air by his skilled hands. I scanned the shelves containing our collection of music quickly as I decided upon just the right piece, distantly recalling how much more we had gathered since settling into London with a touch of pride at that seemingly inconsequential accomplishment. I would have no trouble finding something suitable to sing among the vast and varied array of scores, and indeed I was able to make short work of my efforts. I placed the sheet music before him and almost immediately began singing on my own, so excited by the thought of returning to my music at last that I scarcely gave him time to play the introduction of the piece.
"Don't you dare," he said in mock-warning, although it was clear to me that he was taking his position as maestro as seriously as ever, "Warm up your voice first."
I did as I was told, if not rather impatiently so – I didn't want to delay singing the aria itself for too long and lose my nerve. But I understood the necessity of proceeding methodically; if I ever wanted to sing again – if I wanted to continue doing so after that morning – I would have to be mindful of not acting too hastily and damaging my instrument before even giving it the change to reenter the world with any modicum of dignity.
When I was finally allowed to launch into the piece, however, it was as if I had never stopped singing. The music returned to me with a passion, almost staggeringly so – the notes met the air steadily, powerfully, even in the higher register; I was dimly aware of not only my own pride at that significant feat, but of Erik's own unmasked pride as he continued playing beside me. As an instructor, he was never one to give compliments freely, opting instead to criticize for the sake of education and improvement with an almost forced patience and let my hard work speak for itself. But on the seldom occasions that he would choose to speak in my favor, it was with a sincerity so clear that I would never dare doubt its presence. And in those moments when the final notes rang out, so had his sincerest gazes of prideful affection returned. I looked upon him expectantly when the song came to a close, a feeling of mingled self-consciousness and stubborn accomplishment overtaking my senses.
To anyone else, the scene might have appeared rather humorous, even to the point of absurdity; a married couple still in their nightclothes engaging in an impromptu music lesson while one looked upon the other as if her entire life depended upon his reaction was certainly out of the ordinary, to say the least. But to us, it meant far more than what outward appearances would suggest; it meant a substantial changing of the tides, a complete return to the very essence of ourselves. What silently passed between us initially was nearly indescribable – it was home. It was as if a spell had suddenly been broken – one I hadn't even realized had been cast until I felt its invisible weight lift from my heart. And finally, it seemed that the last of the darkness within me had been banished. I felt like myself again, my heart and soul wholly and utterly pieced back together. I felt freedom, spurred on by my utter and complete success, and I saw that love and pride in Erik's eyes that I had longed for even in those long ago days at the opera house. It was thrilling, to say the least.
"Beautiful," he said softly as he held out his hand to me and held mine tightly, "Welcome back."
I felt lighter than air.
And I laughed.
~~oOo~~
Erik
In my mind's eye, I replayed the moment that Christine found her voice again countless times in the weeks that followed that significant morning. Even after too long spent in brokenhearted disuse, her voice was as pristine as I had remembered it; I was relieved beyond words that she hadn't needed to endure that loss amidst everything else she had suffered. I knew how greatly her inability to continue in her musical studies had troubled her, and I'm not so sure that she could have taken yet another blow against her fragile spirit. My heart soared as hers clearly had when those first tentative notes met the air in trembling intensity – growing still stronger with each measure – until finally it seemed that she had found her way again. Finishing the piece confidently and successfully only seemed to complete the perfection of the scene.
It was clearest then just how far we had fallen, how even despite many great strides forward we were still struggling in even the smallest of ways to bring together the broken pieces of ourselves. I had allowed my music to return to me with time – albeit hesitantly – but it was a hollow victory without Christine by my side in that long-practiced endeavor. As badly as I wanted to, I couldn't pull her back with me – that was a feat she had to accomplish in her own time, and I knew all too well how easily her resolve could be undone with too much force from either of our sides. When she found it within herself to unleash her voice from its mournful prison, a part of me breathed once again with renewed life. It seemed more realistic than ever, in those first moments, that the suffering we had endured could truly be conquered – always a part of us but no longer able to destroy us in one fell swoop. It was well worth the wait to come to that realization together, to find that understanding through our shared passion for the music that had bound us together from the moment of our first encounter.
From that point on she settled down with me once more, and we used the experience as further proof for encouragement that we could continue moving forward with our lives. I knew what it meant to be at peace, and I was absolutely determined to extend that renewal of calm to her heart as much as my own.
I dared not question such resolute contentment; long ago had I vowed to offer my strength to Christine after losing Estelle. I refused to allow myself to overthink my good fortune that such stillness of my formerly frantic heart had actually lasted. I found my own form of serenity in the familiar, venturing away from my home only when necessary and settling myself in rather nicely within the confines of the house that I had grudgingly accepted as a good fit for us both, even if in the beginning I was wholly unable to reign in such an onslaught of doubt that I was nearly paralyzed by my fears. The idea of home was an entirely foreign concept to me until our marriage, and even for quite some time afterward. But when I allowed that notion to settle within my consciousness, I found my strength. We had persevered through a great deal of unpleasant circumstances in a relatively short amount of time, but when the dust settled I could honestly find myself grateful for my position in life. That alone was its own surprise; in my youth, I had never expected anything but torment defining my existence, but I welcomed that new knowledge nonetheless. I used it as another aspect of my incentive to carry on.
We were content, and in being so our marriage survived yet again with all odds stacked against us. I was sure that, had we allowed ourselves to remain lost beyond what I could look back upon and see as our breaking point, we would only have become distant and miserable. That was not an option, as far as I was concerned. I refused to take what we had built for granted, certainly not after fighting to win our freedom and our shared clarity of heart. Our contentment was a blessing – I wasn't so blind as to be unable to see that much. And so, in living with one another – in bearing that in mind and finding that home in each other – we were content.
The routine that we had reestablished continued on much the same as it had even before Estelle was born; we were happy, perhaps even considerably normal, and in being perfectly honest with ourselves, it was in mutual agreement that we realized that such normalcy was a welcomed phenomenon even as it was still somewhat of a foreign concept to me. Tragedy notwithstanding, we were simply husband and wife living our shared lives in relative bliss. While we both experienced the occasional bout of melancholy, as such it was not nearly as intense as the months passed unhindered as ever, and beyond that we had no reason to dwell in the darkness of the past. It made more sense to honor Estelle's too-short life by living as we were meant to – together and as unafraid as humanly possible. We had fought for far too long to go forth in any other manner.
~~oOo~~
When I work, I am nearly impossible to reach by anyone or anything in the world outside of the immediate scope of my imagination. I have always been that way, for better or worse, and I assumed that even a year and a half of marriage couldn't change that. But it was clear, on more than one occasion, that Christine alone had a knack for pulling me back into reality. While I could certainly have held a grudge against her for disrupting the flow of creativity that had sustained me for so long, it seemed that I simply couldn't deny her my full attention – and moreover, it was apparent even in my stubbornness to keep working that I didn't want to deny her. I certainly had no reason to complain about her methods, at any rate. Anyone else would likely have received the rather more intense manifestation of my wrath, yet all I could see fit to give Christine for her efforts was to give in and grant her my full awareness. She was simply too appealing and endearing to do otherwise.
One such occasion stands out in my memory as being particularly effective on her part.
I knew that the setting sun was accountable for the golden glow enveloping my study, but beyond that distant understanding I was only dimly aware of the world around me as I worked. I wouldn't quite bring myself to say that I was struggling with my latest drafting assignment, but I was becoming increasingly more aware of each sigh of frustration as a particular aspect of the building's design didn't come out just right on paper – certainly not as I had envisioned it in my mind. But I pressed on stubbornly, absolutely refusing to be bested by any creative hurtle. I had been through far worse lapses in productivity through the years, and allowing myself to become too engrossed within the utter annoyance of a lack of output would only lead to a complete stalling of my work. But even so, I would sketch awhile, ball up and discard the paper in a fit of frustration, and start over – sometimes getting no further than a rough outline of whatever damnable façade I was trying to bring to life to begin with.
I had been working at that capacity for hours, cycling through each step and coming up short at every new attempt. The only sounds around me were the clock ticking steadily on the bookshelf behind me, my pen flying across the paper in an effort to keep up with frenzied thoughts coming to fruition, and the occasional profanity passing my lips that would have Christine sighing in amused disappointment should she be unfortunate enough to pass the doorway at that inopportune moment. She had witnessed me moving from the drafting table to the lower desk in a futile effort to jog my imagination, but otherwise chose to leave me to my thoughts as late-afternoon descended.
When nighttime arrived, however, it seemed that she had finally had enough.
"I don't know what gave you the idea that your language is acceptable," she said, ultimately deciding to enter the room to confront me, "But I assure you, my darling, that it is rather unbecoming of a gentleman."
"Don't be cruel," I responded absently, my eyes never leaving the desktop before me.
"I'm only being truthful."
"It would seem to me that you're painfully unfamiliar with the creative process, then."
She scoffed, "Hardly. But I can manage myself in a far more dignified manner."
I could no longer keep my gaze away from her in my determination to feign insult, opting instead to laugh openly as I replied, "Have you only come in here to criticize me? Because I could get more work done in silence, if you please."
Then was her turn to play the victim, "Are you saying that I'm unwanted here?"
"Never," I replied quickly. Abandoning my work for the moment, I pulled her closer to me, catching her off guard and helping with steadying her before she could stumble too far.
Righting herself with a charming laugh of her own, she leaned against the desk, smiling thoughtfully, "You really ought to take a break, Erik."
"I will," I said distantly once more, eyes flicking back to the paper beside her hand and regarding the sketches upon its surface as if they were a far greater problem than they truly were.
"Of course you will," she said teasingly, "Come midnight, I'm sure you'll leave this room. Or perhaps staying through the night until tomorrow would befit your so-called creative process."
"I'm not so sure I approve of your tone," I said in mock-warning, retrieving my pen and marking the paper absentmindedly, distracted by a sudden idea that I couldn't quite translate onto the page.
"Give yourself a break, love," she sighed, "You don't have anything due for presentation any time soon."
"I'd rather not put this off and have to rush to meet a deadline."
She was quiet for a moment after my reasoning as I continued drawing, the room falling into relative and comfortable silence once again. She remained in place, watching me as I worked; I rather enjoyed her company, yet all the while I was distantly thinking that her presence proved to be accompanied by its own set of distractions. I assumed she wasn't aware of that fact – not until she began to trace her fingers over the paper. It was an innocent enough gesture until her hand strayed to mine, effectively knocking the pen aside mid-stroke.
I looked upon her with narrowed eyes, and she had the audacity to smile back at me.
"Now you're just tampering with our livelihood, do you know that?" I asked, lifting the pen away from further assault on her part.
She shrugged, "If you're that worried about it, I can always just leave."
"Don't assume again that I don't want your company. I only want to get some work done."
"Really, Erik," she started haughtily, "I can think of far better ways to pass the time. I think you need a break."
"And I don't think I do," I countered.
"Well I'm sure of it."
Knowing that I couldn't win, I tossed the pen aside dramatically and met her challenge with one of my own, "Alright, Christine. Prove me wrong."
I never did get any more work completed that night.
She gave a high-pitched laugh when I pulled her toward me and into an awkward embrace as she stood somewhat hunched to meet my height while I remained seated. The air around us changed almost instantly, going in one moment from lighthearted and playful to distinctly amorous the next. She straddled me, and while her movement was not unwanted, I hadn't quite been expecting her to move to meet my form so quickly – certainly not in the position in which we currently found ourselves. I swiveled the chair around so that my back was against the desk, winding my arms securely around her waist to support her.
It was soon very clear that her losing her balance was of no great concern; she leaned into me as closely as possible as we settled into one another's embrace, wrapping one arm around my neck as her other hand entwined itself in my hair. I didn't hesitate to pull her lips down to meet my own, kissing her with little pretense of gentleness. This was her game of distraction, and I saw no true reason for preamble just then. Words passed between us could wait until later; I wanted to show her my passion in that moment, that my desire for her truly was the only thought in my mind, and she responded immediately with as much fervor. Though even among familiar movements, I absently realized that something was markedly different about this singular encounter. Where in the time before that day and after nearly being swallowed by grief, we had each conveyed our love for one another through gentle and somewhat restrained touch, whether intimately or otherwise. Intimacy had become comfortable and familiar, but admittedly had lacked the passion that we once knew, and it was clear to me that such reservations were born of our tentative hold on our emotions; this time any hesitance or reservation was cast aside in favor of simple and undaunted togetherness. That day had proven to be its own unexpected turning point, one that I'm not sure either of us realized had been needed.
The simple act of joining lips was soon not enough for either of us – it wasn't long before wandering hands grasped at shirt buttons, corset strings, any possible article of clothing that had fast become mere impedances to our touch. In little time each of us was divested of nearly all the fabric on our bodies, yet we otherwise remained in place, Christine balanced precariously on my lap as I held fast to her flushed body. We slowed our movements then, meaning to concentrate on the immediate moments of desperate need. It was then that her hands began to wander once more, encouraged by our mutual sense of urgency and desire. They strayed all over my body, touching my chest, my arms, synchronized movements driven onward both by experience and pure instinct as my own hands grasped and held tightly. She had ignited a fire within me that made it nearly impossible to concentrate.
My body responded to her touch instantaneously, and I made no effort to hide my arousal – there was no reason to. She, in turn, allowed the disruption of the otherwise matched movements of her hands – one winding its way back around my shoulders, the other venturing lower to rest between my legs and finally taking ahold tight enough to elicit a gasp from me that quickly dissolved into an almost pained moan. I wanted more.
I was shocked, to say the least, when her hand ceased its previously firm and steady motion. But before I had the chance to protest – before I bothered to take the time to even consider if it was rude to do so – she repositioned herself quickly, opening my trousers all at once. When she lowered herself onto me, I immediately captured her lips with my own once again. Whether it was a gesture of gratitude or simply another act of shared intimacy, I could not determine. The only thoughts that seemed capable of penetrating the haze of desire within my mind were the obvious sensations of her tauntingly slow and rhythmic movements as she closed in around me, the purely carnal nature of it all. We still did not speak – we were content instead to let our bodies communicate everything we needed for us, engaging in a dance that was both enthralling and impassioned, steady yet frantic and entirely new.
I could only think that her position over me was deeply erotic, and it left me weak as the moments ticked by with her movements. I knew I would meet my release all too soon, and I didn't want our unexpected evening encounter to end there when I had scarcely been given the opportunity to return her favor. I pulled away from her slightly, met by her hesitant confusion, only to reposition us so that I could safely lead her away from the desk and to the nearby divan. Silent and smiling, we settled into the new location with little difficulty, quickly resuming deeply intimate actions. I moved to hover over her, mindful to position myself to ensure her comfort, but even so she pulled me down atop her with an urgency that didn't surprise me – not by that point. All clothing was long forgotten by then, and I reveled in the feeling of her skin against mine, of how soft and warm she was beneath me.
She never failed to strike me as beautiful, both of body and of heart, and looking down upon her then I was reminded almost forcefully of how much I loved her. She touched me without fear, without anger and blind resentment – she touched me in spite of the repeatedly broken body that I presented to her. I felt her run gentle caresses over my skin, too pale against impossibly lighter scars, barely raised now and yet entirely unable to disappear completely with time. Before her were the countless testaments of too many whips and blades against an outnumbered child, yet even so she did not look at me with pity. Rather, I saw the love in her eyes that I had long ago grown to accept as sincere. She reached up and removed the mask last, always careful yet determined in doing so, as if she were mindful of wanting to constantly reminding me that she still loved me – that she always had – and her doing so never failed to strike me as miraculous.
I leaned forward to kiss her, far more gently this time, a silent and sincere gesture of gratitude. There were times, lying in her arms, that I could truly forget what I was and who I had been.
We parted slowly, hesitant to break the connection, but I had the overwhelming urge to look at her as she had done so many times for me. For a moment, I nearly stopped short – almost confused – as if I was seeing her again for the first time. Perhaps I truly was, for I saw before me the woman that was my wife as if I were only a silent observer, a stranger falling in love for the first time; I saw the woman that she had become in our years together. My eyes trailed over her breasts, her stomach and her hips, but in those moments I looked upon her without lust. Rather, I realized startlingly just how much she had changed from the first time we had come together, what carrying our child had done to her form. Subtle changes in her curves, the faint marks upon her skin – although fewer in amount, they reminded me sadly of the scars upon my own flesh. Our bodies bore the scars of the abundant cruelties of the past – cruelties both manmade and God-given, seemingly unbidden and certainly unjust. Hers were perhaps not as plentiful, certainly born of vastly different experiences, but they ran as viciously deeply to her very soul as my own. Yet even so, she had endured, and with far more grace and dignity than I think she knew she was capable of bringing forth. I loved her all the more for that.
She lay beneath me, breathing heavily from our connection and looking upon me with dazzlingly bright eyes that had seen heartbreak, eyes that had born witness to far too much for one so innocent. I looked into those eyes, saw her soul. I saw her body for exactly what it was – perfection among and in spite of imperfection. And I loved her beyond human capabilities, beyond what words could adequately describe. I'm not sure I could ever say just how much life she had breathed back into my soul, once so fetid and distorted, but I swore then that I would never stop trying. She had given me more than I deserved, sacrificed so much for the sake of our togetherness, and yet even so there were times when she looked upon herself as the selfish one. To say that I was fortunate to have ever encountered her was an understatement – I was a fool to ever think that I could have lived without her.
I moved within her again, compelled our hips back into a rocking motion and kissing her deeply. I meant to touch every inch of her, often eliciting cries of desire among calls of my own name from her that left me breathless – I never wanted it to end. We fell back into a long-lived rhythm that eventually sent us into ecstasy, overcome forcefully in the end by a shared climax that left us both shuttering and gasping in turn. When it was done we simply lay in one another's embrace, and suddenly it seemed the appropriate symbol of our lives together – exposed and vulnerable, turbulent thoughts waiting in the wings, yet we continued protecting each other with a fierce possessiveness that knew no match.
And that was simply how we were, what we had become. Not all days were occupied by such activities - yet at the same time we certainly were not lacking in the connection of intimacy, physical or otherwise. We lived and breathed as one, body and soul, and I had no complaints.