I know it's been awhile. Sorry for that. But here's an extra long chapter that's mostly E/C stuff! That should make up for it, right? :p
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Spring 1864
On the day of the trip, Christine was allowed to walk the grounds around the asylum. It was the first time she'd been truly outside since she arrived three months prior - not counting the tiny garden, of course. And it was the first time she'd ever seen the area in daylight. She could see why they were so isolated - the building, though large, was dwarfed by the estate, which was covered in massive trees and budding flowers. Much of the landscape seemed overgrown… and yet… deliberately so. A work of art under the guise of chaos.
This place would be completely hidden, she realized. No one would find it if they did not already know where it was.
Then how did that gypsy get here?
Eventually she made her way to the modest stables behind the main building, and was surprised to find Erik there. She briefly entertained the idea of running - or at least hiding - but Erik heard her before she could reach a decision.
"Always lurking, Christine. You are not very good at it." She screamed when the voice sounded as if it was murmured directly into her ear. He turned and his voice returned to him. "And always screaming… though you are quite adept at that."
"I was… I was only looking around. I did not expect to see you here."
"Clearly," he responded, dryly. "Yet, here I am. You might as well come in." When she did not move, he sighed, "It will be a very long week if you are determined to avoid me."
With a cringe, Christine shuffled inside, taking great interest in everything but the tall man ahead of her. There were only a few stalls to each side, mostly empty save for a stubby gray pony that was far too absorbed in her grain to even notice Christine's presence.
At the very end of the stables, away from everything else, a white nose emerged... seemingly intent on poking Erik in the shoulder. Christine almost smiled; the beast was far braver than she would ever be.
Erik lightly shoved the head away, but the horse leaned forward, jabbing him even more persistently. "Impertinent creature," Erik muttered.
Christine inched forward, grateful for the distraction the horse provided. Erik had not stopped staring at her, but she absolutely refused to meet his gaze. So much had happened to them in the last few days; 'awkward' did not even begin to describe her feelings around him. Nothing was resolved… so much remained unsaid…
Through her lashes, she peeked up at Erik. A Death's Head stared back at her, tattered and pulsing. She blinked rapidly and the vision disappeared, leaving the austere masked man in its place.
"Are you unwell?" he asked, and Christine realized how heavily she was breathing. He must think she was having some sort of attack. She shook her head, clenching her hands to hide their trembling.
"No," she quickly answered, "I am fine."
"Lying," Erik observed, but made no further comment. Instead, he gestured to the horse and beckoned Christine closer. "The other horses are employed with the carriage… I suspect this one feels a little neglected. Would you like to see? It is a favorite of mine."
Christine obediently came forward and the white stallion turned in her direction. He eyed her up and down with a wary snort. After a moment, deeming her worthy of his attention, he abandoned his harassment of Erik and leaned his face against hers, nearly knocking her over in the process. Erik twitched, trying to decide if he should offer a steadying hand, and was taken completely off guard by her delighted giggle.
"Well, hello to you to, sir," she said laughingly. Erik tilted his head, fascinated by her playful behavior. To his recollection, he had never seen her behave so. It suits her...
"Such a beautiful horse!" Christine marveled, stroking the beast's soft nose with her fingertips. "What is his name?"
Erik blinked. "It is a horse," he said slowly. "Why would it need a name?"
"Well… he is a living thing…"
"Then shall I also name the blades of grass that it eats?" Erik's annoyed confusion seemed to melt away into something altogether smug and patronizing and Christine realized he was teasing her. Mocking. She flushed, suddenly feeling very small and stupid. And angry.
Her hand dropped from the horse and fiddled with the buttons on her new cloak, ardently wishing for one of her threadbare frocks. It was uncomfortable wearing clothes that he had given her, when he was being so mean-spirited. She was literally surrounded by her debt to him. A constant reminder that she should endure whatever nastiness he decided to throw her direction.
She'd be colder in her old clothes… but she'd have a shred of pride, at least.
"Alright," Erik said, startling her. "If it pleases you, you may give it a name."
Christine looked up at him; his gaze had turned sharp again - always watching, always assessing - and she shuddered. Still, he seemed to be offering an olive branch, of sorts, which was more than she'd expected of him. Considering the animal, for a moment, she answered, "César, I think." Petting its nose again, she confirmed, "Yes, I think that's a good name for you."
Erik laughed - a hearty sound that startled Christine with its sincerity. She hadn't realized a man as icy as he was even capable of laughter. Or, if forced to imagine, she might have pictured more of a… mad cackle. But this… this was something else entirely! He has a nice laugh, she realized.
"Yes," Erik said, catching his breath. "Yes, I believe that would be appropriate."
She looked up and saw a genuinely amused glint in his eyes. They sparkle, she marveled... barely restraining her look of horror when she realized where her line of thought was taking her.
When he could breathe, once again, Erik sighed. "You are a truly singular creature, Mlle. Daae. Has anyone ever told you that?"
His tone was one supreme gentleness. It stilled her heart. If it had been anyone else...
Before resigning herself to a life of imprisonment, she'd often entertained girlish fantasies about a man speaking to her in such a tone. To hear it now seemed to make a mockery of her lost dreams.
"I have something for you," Erik said softly. Christine felt tears burn behind her eyes. The words are right but the voice is wrong… I should not be hearing this from him. I don't want anything from you! Unwilling to look at him, she looked down at the neatly folded piece of cloth that he seemed to have pulled from thin air.
"A scarf?" she asked.
"I realized I have been remiss in providing for you. I thought your wardrobe complete, but later it occurred to me that I had given you nothing to protect your throat from the cold. You have been safely inside, where it is warm. I would be a shame to ruin your voice on your first outing."
Christine bit down on a thread of bitterness that he was the reason she'd been 'safely inside' for so long. As she struggled with her anger, Erik made quick work of securing the scarf about her neck - managing to wrap it perfectly without actually touching her skin with his gloved hands.
The fabric was warm and impossibly soft. She hated it.
Erik then produced a lump of sugar, which César snatched up greedily, and said to Christine, "Come along, then. I suspect the captain will have everything ready to go, by now. Best be off."
"Bastien is coming?" she asked, grateful for the sudden change of direction. She fingered the edge of her new scarf, but dared not remove it in front of him.
"Are you asking or hoping?" Erik responded, voice devoid of emotion.
Christine had the distinct feeling she was walking dangerous ground, though she could not fathom why. "Just… wondering… I suppose," she said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. "I had thought it would just be the two of us…" she trailed off helplessly, not sure how to finish the sentence. She had the sudden urge pull out her hair; Her emotions seemed more turbulent than normal, today. Because he is playing with them, as he does everything else.
A moment of awkward silence passed as he seemed to be awaiting further explanation. When none was forthcoming, he affirmed with a nod, "The captain will be accompanying us in his own time. I prefer to have my own transportation in Paris so he shall be following behind with my personal carriage.
"But are we not… ah… well, how are we getting there?"
Erik unfolded his arms with the theatrical elegance of a magician. "Why… the faster way, of course!"
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Erik's mode of travel was as precise and efficient as anything else he set his mind to. They switched back and forth between carriages, ferryboats, and even a train. Christine had only ever travelled on foot or carriage, depending on their finances at the time. This complicated itinerary was fascinating to her.
Each new mode of travel was so very exciting that it scarcely bothered her that Erik preferred to stay hidden whenever possible. He shared carriages with her and always met her at each leg of the journey to shuffle her from one place to the next… but, if ever there was a chance that they might be confined with the general masses, she found herself quite alone. She honestly had no idea where he went off to - was he traveling with the cargo? - but she found herself so distracted with the trip that she did not have time to dwell on it.
Travelling with Erik was lonely, but it was never boring!
His private carriage was a sight in and of itself. It was unlike anything Christine had ever seen before. When she told him this, he simply nodded and agreed. Still, she had the oddest feeling that he was proud. When it started to move, she commented that they were going faster than she'd expected and wondered aloud if it was even safe. Somehow that unleashed whatever enthusiasm he'd been holding back and he launched into an extended explanation of the workings of the vehicle, specifically designed to be as light as possible, to cause the least resistance on the horses and allow them to travel greater distances at quicker speeds. His own creation, obviously. Well that explains the excitement, then. She wondered how often he'd had his work openly appreciated.
Given the alternative of silently staring at each other for hours, Christine had made a hesitant attempt at a dialogue - half-expecting to get a curt response and irritated glare for her trouble - and was pleasantly surprised to find that Erik could be quite conversational when it suited him. His lecture about the carriage - and their unorthodox travel itinerary, in general - seemed to put him at ease. That is, if a man such as Erik could be truly at ease. Still, his eyes were softer and his voice, lighter. He could have been a teacher, if circumstances were different.
She carefully sidestepped their ever-growing list of forbidden subjects, but he was well versed on a great many topics. It made sense, given his intelligence, but she had just never given it much thought before. It seemed there was a great deal about him she had never bothered to see, before.
Christine was most interested to hear about his travels. Erik had been to a great many places and had so many stories to tell. None of them personal, of course, and that suited her perfectly.
Christine had traveled a great deal, herself, but her experiences differed greatly. Erik had been a scholar, a physician… Christine had been a poor musician's daughter, following her father's dream. He had explored palaces, she had seen hovels. She was not resentful - she wouldn't trade those days with her father for anything - but she was fascinated by their different memories of the same world.
And she couldn't help but notice that, in his discussion, Erik held the mien of an entertainer. His gestures, his inflection, the fluidity of his words… they reminded her of some of the circuses or travelling theaters she'd watched. She was certain there was a story there, but she refused to ask. It fell into the 'too personal' category, and - even if he did decide to share - she did not want to feel obligated to reciprocate.
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"You never did tell me where we are going," Christine pointed out. "That is… I know we are going to Paris, but you never mentioned what we planned to do there."
"I thought we might take in an opera while we are there… if you are amenable." Her bright smile confirmed his assumption. "But, in truth, my purpose there is for business."
Christine's face faltered a bit. Suddenly, her expectation of exploring the city turned into countless hours, alone in a hotel, while Erik attended meetings.
"That is what I truly wanted you to see," Erik continued, perplexed by her sudden change of mood. "I am long overdue to inspect the new Paris Opera, in construction."
"Construction? But… but I thought you were a doctor?"
Erik flinched, offended. "Truly? That was your assumption?" Surprise had kept him from wiping the emotion from his voice. He attempted to reign in in. "I am a doctor, yes. But I am a great many other things, as well. In my youth, I received instruction from the School of Fine Arts in Paris." He did not mention that the 'youth' he referenced was not yet six years old. She would not believe him. Nor did he tell her that his horrendous appearance required him to study by correspondence. She would pity him. "And, as a young man, spent several years as a practicing architect."
Christine leaned forward in interest. Erik drew back another fraction, extremely uncomfortable with the nature of his thoughts. By sheer will, he managed not to fidget, to keep his posture relaxed and indifferent.
"That is fascinating! How exciting it must be to have a mastery of so many subjects! You must have had many adventures!" Christine abruptly shut her mouth, realizing she had overstepped her own boundaries.
Erik sat straighter in his seat and allowed his voice to fall back into the tone of a lecturer. "When I heard of the competition for the Paris Opera, I was very tempted to enter it, myself. But, I had not the time to commit to what is bound to be a decade long project, so I withdrew my name. The winner of the commission, however, asked that I remain as a consultant throughout the construction. The majority of our collaboration is by post, but the occasional excursion to the construction site is necessary." That was, of course, the abridged version of the story. Erik did not tell her how it pained him to withdraw, how he wept as he burned his submission, just hours after putting the finishing touches on it. How he used every power of persuasion - just short of literal hypnosis - to wheedle himself into Garnier's good graces and secure his place as an architectural confidante.
The winning entry had been there, in his hands, when he'd received word that one of his patients had jumped from a balcony and broken her arm. His patients. The words had clogged his throat as he realized their truth. For better or for worse, when he had murdered the mad doctor, these helpless individuals had become his patients. His responsibility.
He'd cast the designs aside and went to tend the patient.
It had been his first ever act of self-denial. He did not tell Christine how much it ached. She would only mock him.
Instead he babbled on, extolling upon the historical and cultural details of all she would see on their tour. He could weave stories that would enchant her. She would accept nothing more.
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Erik was pleasantly surprised by the amount of progress that had been made in his absence. Descriptions via their written correspondence did not do it justice. He was doubly pleased to notice that most of the improvements he'd advised had been already implemented. Erik hadn't been impressed with Charles' original designs - honestly baffled by the immense praise they'd received from the jury - but was determined that, with enough well placed (though seemingly innocuous) suggestions, the structure might pass even his own exacting standards.
Arrogant as ever, a voice whispered in his ear. A phrase wearily muttered by countless people who both despised him and desperately needed his services. He took it with a certain degree of amusement, now.
The stage itself was well underway and Erik found himself quite eager to see it. He was strangely eager for Christine to see it as well. Though he doubted she would appreciate the extent of the architecture, he suspected that she would delight in the promise such a structure would conveyed. He wanted to - just consider it and experiment, Erik - see if he could recreate the lighthearted sweetness she'd graced him with in the stables, back home.
"It's beautiful!" Christine said, eyes wide with awe, and - as much as he wished to deny it - Erik found himself more pleased than he would be with any mere experiment.
Some new brand of insanity washed over him in that instant and he impulsively urged her to stand on the platform and look out to where the audience would be sitting.
"Sing, Christine," he commanded, praying she did not detect the trace of pleading in his voice.
She blushed furiously and stammered a bit, searching her thoughts for a song but, once she began to sing, her eyes never left his. He instantly recognized the tune that she had sung to her unworthy father during his early days under Erik's care. Her voice lacked the same tenderness - though he had sought it for months, now, to no avail - but he noticed a certain sense of freedom in her tone that had never before presented itself during their long lessons in his study.
She infuses her soul into her voice. The poetic sentimentality of the that thought felt out of place in his head. It disgusted him. Yet… the proof lay before him, unmistakable.
In her presence, his brain defied logic. With an indolent shrug, he wiped his mind clean of conscious thought and allowed the music - her flushed face, her earnest eyes - to envelop him. The world around him faded black with only Christine remaining.
Only that could explain why he never noticed that their audience had grown.
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Raoul sauntered aimlessly down the busy street. He had completed his report to his superiors regarding the nasty business of murder in their seaside port. Yet he still had a great deal of time to pass before his presence was required… anywhere. He understood why so many of his peers busied themselves with parties and hunts, or why the politically-inclined staged reckless protests against whatever establishment was offending their fickle sensibilities; the boredom of wealth was stifling.
Philippe took a world tour, when he finished school, he brooded. Perhaps I should have taken up his offer to do the same. But, no! I had to do it my own way… I had to go off on a grand adventure! Some adventure this has turned out to be. His visions of military glory had been thwarted by bureaucrats in every direction.
Worse, his brother did not seem sympathetic at all to his plight! "Better this, than being shot at or shipwrecked", he'd said as his spinster sisters nodded smugly in the background.
In a fit of pique, Philippe had sent him on a mission to the site that was destined to become the new Paris Opera house. He felt the Chagny family might benefit from the publicity of taking on a new patronage. They had been generous benefactors of the Salle Le Peletier and he rather liked the idea that the Chagnys might be hailed amongst the first supporters of the new Opera. The opportunity likely wouldn't be available for another few years but still, he'd argued, there was no harm in checking in on one's potential investment!
Personally, Raoul reckoned that Philippe merely wanted him out of his hair, and he had absolutely no interest in visiting a work site. But, ever the obedient younger brother, Raoul took off on the comte's pointless errand. He idly wandered the construction site, looking this way and that, shrugging at the workers who seemed to be waving him away from dangerous areas. Surely someone would get fed up eventually and either kick him out or offer to give him a proper tour. Either way, he could go home and tell his brother that he'd done his job.
He could tell that the auditorium had made some progress - at least on the outside - and he was curious to see if they had begun work on the stage, yet. According to the papers, it was destined to be quite a grand sight, with the ability to accommodate several hundred performers at one time. Raoul had his doubts, but it was worth a look, all the same.
He was standing in the entryway, trying to make heads or tails of the various support beams in an attempt to visualize what the final result should look like, when he was distracted by the most glorious rendition of a very familiar tune.
That song… it had been on his mind since he'd heard Gustave Daae playing it in the streets, some time ago. He'd very much desired to hear his daughter join him, like she did so many years before. Their duets had been so simple and so lovely, unparalleled - in his juvenile opinion - by the prima donnas of the great theaters he'd been dragged to, as a lad. Though, perhaps I was simply partial to the singer, he thought nostalgically. It was quite likely; he'd had about as much love for the performing arts as any adolescent boy, back then.
He smiled as he remembered his young playmate - the small girl with big eyes and an even bigger voice. His boyish heart had been quite taken with her, but her head was so filled with songs and stories that he doubted she'd ever noticed.
I wonder what became of her, he thought. It surprised him that Gustave was without her, for she always seemed tethered to his side. He hoped he'd left her in the care of someone responsible - the streets were dangerous for a child, left to her own devices - but Gustave had always struck him as a flighty sort, more so when he was absorbed in his art. Perhaps he remarried? He could have laughed at that thought; Christine had heard so many fairytales that she'd be hard-pressed to accept any stepmother as anything but a villain.
Lost in thought, Raoul followed the sound. He hummed along the first few notes before abruptly ceasing, feeling blasphemous. Whomever was singing had a lovely voice - so familiar yet altogether foreign. Perhaps she was acquainted with the Daae family? Surely it was no coincidence; Swedish folk tunes were not commonly known by street performers in Paris.
It was only when he'd reached the unfinished opera stage that he realized his great folly. Familiar, curly hair framing a heart-shaped face greeted his curious eyes and that clear voice reconstructed itself in his brain as an older facsimile of one he had heard before.
Raoul stood, transfixed. What foolish notion had frozen his little friend in time? He might have chuckled at his own misconception if not for the fact that he was struck dumb by the sight before him. He looked again to the stage where there stood, not a little girl, but an angelic vision.
"Christine…" he whispered, when his voice returned to him. For it could be no other.
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A/N - Thanks to those of you who have reviewed :)