A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) Here's more...
XXVI
They walked in silence back to the cottage, Erik continually aware of Christine's anxious glances toward him.
He felt inept with how to reassure her when the future looked so bleak. What did he know about living in this century, save for the little he'd managed these last weeks?
In their world, he had made plans for them, putting aside a goodly portion of his monthly salary. In this world he had only the coins she had earned that hung from his pouch. Though he seemed to recall squirreling away a bag of treasures at the campsite, what must be a figment of Le Masque's memory.
The last he remembered of their world, Christine approached to give him her ring. In his deplorable state of misery, he had assumed she could no longer bear to keep the token, thinking it tainted by the Phantom's ruse to possess her, and that surely the Vicomte with his flagrant wealth could purchase ten more rings to replace the one lost.
He had come into this world with her ring and wearing his clothes from the Don Juan. The man, Eustace, found him lying on the ground at the bottom of the ravine, near the Vicomte's chateau. But he felt there was more he should know … Damn! Why could he not recall every aspect? As the Phantom, he had possessed a steel trap for a memory, never forgetting a word or action, as if the images were inscribed to the minutia of detail and stored inside his brain for easy retrieval. But now he could barely recall events of previous weeks.
"Erik?" Christine touched his forearm.
His hand clutched reflexively around the ring he held through his tunic, and he cast a sidelong glance her way.
Since she appeared into this life, the dark spells increased. Had his great love for her been the catalyst to bring him back, the same love he cursed that fatal night as being his poison? When the mob attacked, he never fought back, willing and ready to die. Without Christine, he saw no reason to persist in a life that brought him nothing but pain. Only she had ever seen him as more than a monster, respecting him as her teacher for nearly one decade, and giving the days and months purpose. Even so, it had not been enough to win her love…
"Erik?"
He attempted a smile. "No need for concern, my dear."
There were so many unanswered questions, most of which he was hesitant to ask. She now swore her love for him, words he'd waited a lifetime to hear – but was she in earnest? Perhaps she spoke only from dread that he would send her back through the stones, a place that clearly terrified her. She had married him – married Le Masque – as a trade, a pact of his creation to ensure her safety. Even in the guise of another man, he had used manipulation to sway her to indulge in his desires…
That ended now.
The Opera Ghost made mistakes of his choosing, one of the most deplorable to taint a pure angel with his eternal deception. In this second chance at life he'd been given, he would not deceive her again.
As they approached the cottage he noted the little scrunch of her nose and the squint of her eyes. An image flashed through his mind – of looking through a peephole at a child with long curls as she knelt in the chapel and complained to her Angel about a new and difficult dance movement, while making that same adorable expression of disgust. Last night's downpour had been a catalyst, old memories beginning to trickle back into his mind, as the Phantom.
As Le Masque however, the memories seemed to evaporate.
"I must find us better sustenance than berries. I will go and gather what is needful to make a trap."
She looked into the cottage's dark interior then back at him.
"May I help?"
"You wish to help make a trap?"
She grinned. "It might be intriguing to see how it's done."
"A matter of collecting slender branches and tying them together. Nothing as intricate as the Opera Ghost's machinations."
The words slipped out with the sudden memory of the traps he created, but to his astonishment she did not seem appalled. Indeed, her smile grew.
"Meg said only a genius could create the traps in the cellars and I agree."
Perplexity chased away surprise. "I find it somewhat startling to hear approval in your tone."
"Oh - I don't approve of the violence that resulted, and prefer not to think about that. But after being captured and chased and living in hiding since I've come to this era, I can better understand why you made them." She reached for and held his hand. "I was smiling because you sound more like you, and I'm grateful. Do you remember everything yet?"
"I recall…shadows of memories in being with you, as Le Masque, but only today has my mind acknowledged it as the Phantom. In that too, there are gaps throughout the years."
"Oh."
She looked disappointed, her eyes downcast, and he lifted her chin with a curled finger.
"Shall we collect wood for that trap?"
She nodded, a slight smile reappearing.
They scoured the forest floor, never straying far from the cottage or one another, and gathered what small branches they could find, last night's storm an aid in dislodging them. Christine hummed as they hunted, her lyrical voice more beautiful than all the birdsong in the trees. From the moment he heard her sing, he was lost to her, as the Phantom, as Le Masque. He remembered that much, and how her voice always brought happiness to his soul.
.
xXx
.
Once Erik cut the branches to uniform size, he showed Christine how to weave and tie them together, while he formed a box with a door. By the time they finished, morning had faded into late afternoon. He took a cloth, along with some berries and the finished trap.
"I will return soon," he announced at the door.
She looked up, both hopeful and anxious.
"May I come too?"
"Not this time, Christine." Before she could argue, he lifted her hand to his lips, bending slightly to kiss her fingers. "I will return, do not fear. The spells never occur on the day following the last."
The heat of his breath brushed her skin, and Christine was left without words, a ripple of warmth wafting through her blood. Once she found a suitable response he was already gone.
Frowning, she refrained from going after him. She sensed a new…uncertainty about him with regard to her. Surely he could not still be thinking of sending her back through the stones alone. No, she felt that bridge was crossed, but some strange tension had manifested, never apparent before. Not since they reunited in this era.
He said he remembered shadows of their recent time together.
Shadows.
Meaning…what? That he truly remembered nothing at all?
She must stop this. Of course he was confused and brooding. He had just learned he was another man living in another century, for pity's sake!
Needing a diversion from worrisome thoughts, Christine slid the tome closer and opened the leather cover. The pages were thick, fragile, and browned with age. The ink had not faded enough to be illegible, though it failed to matter.
She sighed as she thumbed through page after page of a foreign language. Some contained roughly drawn pictures of animals, fruits, and plants scattered among the pages, perhaps as a guide for what to find, if these were recipes for spells to cast, or potions or some such wizardry, though many of the pages were filled with text alone.
After time-dissolving minutes of poring over the book, she turned yet another page. Her eyes widened in stunned surprise at the elliptical array of symbols sketched from top to bottom. She recognized those symbols, some engraved on the altar at the stones, but the remainder was familiar as well. She studied them more closely to be certain – just as she had studied them for long minutes at the chateau three weeks ago.
With little to do there, she had spent many empty hours haunting its multitude of public chambers. In one sitting room with lacy, feminine decor, a tapestry hung – embroidered with mythical forest images – and these precise symbols, in the same oval pattern.
She must tell Erik of her find.
A great deal of time had elapsed, surely more than was needed to place a trap.
She cast a sidelong glance to the box they'd brought and grabbed up the new flask, almost relieved to shake it and find the contents nearly empty, a viable excuse for her task. She wished she had pen and paper to leave a note, but it was her hope that the walk to the stream would find him there.
As she took the now familiar path, she felt a prickling dread of history repeating itself, having walked this trail in the hope of seeking out Erik that morning. Then as now, she felt concern, though she was also doubtful he would experience another black spell so soon. There were other dangers out there, and if the Vicomte's men found him (the wretched chateau was only around the bend of the forest after all), his life could be at risk.
Relief swept through Christine to glimpse Erik through the trees, his back to her as he knelt near the edge of the stream. The reason for this was made clear when he brought his hands up to his face, splashing it with water. She darted a look to the grass near him, and the mask that lay there. A shudder of surprise to realize he was without it riddled with expectation to see him more fully had her pause then move quickly forward.
He heard the rustle of her step and shot to his feet, his arm flying to the side and snatching up the hateful mask.
"Erik – wait."
He had straightened to his feet, but did not bring the mask to his face. She inhaled a fortifying breath and moved forward. His shoulders tensed, but otherwise he remained still.
"You don't need to wear that with me," she said, coming up near his good side, nervous if she should step to the other he would push her away completely, as he had that long ago morning in his lair.
He let out a scornful laugh that bruised her heart.
"The first time you sought to see the true image of the beast it was borne of curiosity and engendered terror. The second, your motive was one of betrayal and engendered the loss of all we held dear. What will your damnable persistence create a third time?"
Inwardly she staggered with the weight of his justifiable account, but would not cower meekly as she'd done before.
"I told you, your face holds no horror for me any longer, if it ever truly did. I reacted from shock – but mostly at your horrid outpouring of anger. I have told you, both as Le Masque and as you are now that I am terribly sorry for all of it." Hesitantly she brought her hand to his shoulder, encouraged when he did not flinch away. "The night of the Don Juan, I wanted you to run and find safety – there were gendarmes with guns – but yes, I did agree to take part in Raoul's wretched plan and betrayed you. I forgave your deceit toward me; can you not do the same?"
He expelled a weary sigh. "It is not a question of forgiveness, Christine."
She recalled his earlier question.
"This time, my motive is pure. I seek only your comfort, and mine." Her voice came soft. "I cannot bear to see you suffer with wearing that mask, day and night. I know it must chafe. I saw what it did to your face in the village, the blood upon the bandage…"
"Christine."
At the utterance of her name, both a warning and a plea, she relented.
"It's alright. I understand if you're not ready. But I will never stop hoping, never stop trying to renew your faith in me."
Christine turned sadly away, thinking it wise to give him time alone to think over what she'd said. She had only gone a short distance when she heard a frantic rustle in the bushes and looked to the right, catching sight of the cage-like trap – and the furry creature that had found itself locked inside.
"Erik," she softly called and turned, surprised to see him a few steps behind, the mask tied back in place. He looked at the trap with a self-satisfied smile. Christine warily approached it, as did Erik, though the animal was caged…trapped and helpless. A medium-sized rabbit with liquid brown eyes, it shivered in fear.
"A tasty supper it will make." Erik slipped his dagger from its sheath. "I did not expect to meet with success this quickly."
Her eyes going wide, Christine returned her focus to the little forest creature. It backed into the trap as if aware of its fate.
"Erik – no – stop!" The words flew from her lips once he touched the cage door, his blade clutched and ready in the other hand.
He looked at her in perplexed question.
He would be angry; they spent the morning and most of the afternoon fashioning the cage...
"I cannot do this."
"You will not have to lift a finger."
"No, I mean – even if you kill it, I could never eat that poor creature."
His eyes fell shut in exasperation. "Christine." Again he impaled her with his steely gaze. "I seem to recall that you enjoyed the rabbit stew made at the camp."
"Yes, but this is different. I never actually met the dinner, never saw it alive and cowering in a cage."
He rolled his eyes heavenward. "We cannot live on berries alone. We need meat. With perils known and unknown lurking around every corner, it is important to keep up our strength."
He made a good point, but there must be another way.
"The fish! I saw some in the stream."
He was quiet a moment. "If I should agree, once any are caught, will you then have a change of heart and insist I throw them back?" The timbre of his voice was at the same time amused, frustrated, and reconciled.
Fish did not have big brown eyes that pled for freedom. "I promise, any fish caught we will cook, and I will do the cooking. At least I'll try."
Erik let out a muffled snort. "Very well." He knelt in front of the cage. "Madame Giry once found it in her heart to release a caged and frightened beast. How can I refuse to do likewise?"
Christine frowned, recalling the story Raoul told her that he'd heard from Madame. Of all the memories Erik lost, she wished that one had remained forgotten.
He lifted the cage off the animal. The rabbit did not budge, trembling with terror.
Erik retraced his steps to her side. "Come. The little beast will scamper away to its freedom once we leave."
"Thank you, Erik."
He somberly nodded, and they took the path back the short distance to the stream.
Unfastening his cloak, he whirled it around him to the grass, then rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. Sitting down, he pulled off his boots.
"Can I help?" Christine asked, wishing to atone for her lapse into mercy for the terrified rabbit.
He straightened to stand. "Now you wish to catch fish." He spoke not in question but with a curious sense of disbelief.
"Why not? I have two hands. Will you also fashion a pole?"
"There is another way. I warn you, though, it can be quite tricky."
"How did you learn? As Le Masque? Or is it a part of your past?"
His expression grew somber. "I have no true memory, am only assured of the skill."
Christine removed her slippers then tied and tucked her skirts up above her knees. The narrower cut of the kirtle and undergown as opposed to her 19th century clothing made the task a bit difficult, but she was determined and managed to keep both in place.
Erik had waded out midstream, legs spread with knees bent, his hands hovering open and slightly cupped above the surface of the water. He darted, swift as a snake, his hands submerged, and brought them up empty. Twice more he dove, twice more he failed. His every action was of masculine grace – a fluid ripple against the sparkling water. On the fourth try, his hands came up, a fish wriggling in his tight grasp. Immediately he threw his catch far up the grassy bank where it flopped, as if gasping for breath.
Christine hurriedly diverted her attention from the captured fish before compassion again overtook her. She reminded herself how tasty the meat was, especially in the bouillabaisse soup she'd eaten at the chateau, and waded into the stream a short distance from Erik.
The water came almost to her knees, the silt squishing up through her toes, the pebbles smooth and hard against her feet, though the stream bed itself seemed to shift. She gained balance and adopted his stance, watching again how he moved and attempting the same. After long minutes of this, she felt ready to explode with frustration when each time she spotted a flash of silver and dove with her hands, she barely made contact.
She would gladly fry the slippery little devils over the flames and smile the entire time they roasted.
"Focus your attention to the area in front of the fish and grab there," Erik instructed. "They are lightning-swift. Even when caught, they can slide from your grasp."
At the next shimmer of silver, she did as instructed and dove ahead of the scaly creature – promptly losing all balance and landing on all fours with a loud splash.
"Oh!" she grunted, blinking water from her eyes.
"Are you alright?" Erik asked with a smirk he made no effort to conceal. He threw another fish toward the bank.
"Just dandy," she growled with an exaggerated shake of her arms, flinging droplets everywhere.
"Good. I wouldn't wish your foray for fish to result in a regrettable accident." He waved toward the ground, where four of the silver-scaled creatures lay. "We have enough for dinner, and it will soon be growing dark."
How had he caught so many of the slimy little fiends when her fingers barely made contact?
The injustice of it – and her a sopping mess – only irked Christine further. He covered the distance between them, holding out his hand, and she couldn't resist a bit of mischief.
She grabbed his wrist with both hands and pulled hard, knocking him off balance and sprawling atop her in the water. Each of them supported themselves from fully submerging with their hands planted in the stream bed. She laughed nervously then lost it on a little inhalation at the growing awareness of the full length of their bodies pressed close. His eyes glimmered with vexation and something else – something that reminded her of nearly drowning naked in a lake while he clasped her hard in his embrace.
"I'm sorry?"
His lips quirked at the corners. "You sound uncertain."
"It was only in fun," she said a little breathlessly when his gaze dropped to her mouth. Certain he would finally kiss her, she lifted her face to his.
"Fun…" He pulled back. "I cannot recall engaging in sport with another individual. Of course, I cannot recall most of my boyhood at all."
She nodded softly at his wry rejoinder, a bit stunned by his abrupt distance.
"I suppose that was rather childish of me."
"I expect I will survive your lapse into girlhood." His words were dryly amused, and she relaxed to realize he wasn't as upset as she'd thought.
He struggled to stand, rivulets of water pouring down his tall, lean frame. Again he held out his hand to assist her.
Sheepish, she regarded him. "You trust me?"
"I shall make the attempt."
Christine fervently hoped his words went deeper than their present situation.
.
xXx
.
"I'm relieved that you received my note. However, I should warn that you will find him…changed."
"Changed?"
The Persian studied Madame Giry with curiosity at her agitation as she fiddled with the brooch at her throat.
"I've had experience with our mutual friend," he assured.
"Yes, but this is different."
"WOMAN! I hear you out there. I demand your presence at once!"
"He sounds unchanged to me," Monsieur Kahn remarked dryly.
"No, something is amiss. He has no recollection of the Don Juan, the theater – even Christine Daaé, whom he taught for years."
He regarded her with stunned amazement. "Not even Christine?"
She shook her head as they walked toward the master bedchamber. "He doesn't remember me either."
"I'm no physician, Madame, but you said he's been in an unconscious state for weeks. Perhaps his forgetfulness is a result of that and his mind will soon clear."
"Let us hope so. Since he woke yesterday, tending to him has been like dealing with a stranger, unless this is simply another pretense. I value your opinion."
They walked through the entryway. The man in the statuesque bed lay propped up on pillows and glared at them from beneath the bandage wrapped around his skull.
"I have brought your friend," Madame said cheerily.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" Erik directed his words to the newcomer.
"Surely you recognize Eustace Kahn."
"Woman, you are either blind or a fool. That is not Eustace, nor is his name Kahn."
"You are not Eustace Kahn?" Madame turned in surprise to the Persian.
"Alas, Madame, I am not. My name is Nadir. Though I do claim Kahn as my surname."
"Who then is Eustace?" she whispered. "Did he ever mention anyone by that name?"
"Not that I recall. I knew little of his life at the opera, save for what he considered important enough to share."
"What the devil are you two whispering about?"
The Persian moved toward the bed. "Do you not recognize me?"
The cold eyes made a quick appraisal. "With that manner of garish clothing you must be one of the traveling artisans of the plays performed on the streets. A clown, perchance."
He certainly sounded like Erik.
"Are you the one responsible for detaining me in this cold hovel?" the Phantom demanded.
"I have been calling it that for years, wondering at your preference," Madame Giry mumbled. "Do you not know where you are, monsieur?" she said a little more loudly.
To their shock, the Phantom snatched up a bowl from the nearby table, grimacing as he did, and threw it. The pottery shattered at her feet.
"If you ask me that again, by the gods, I swear you'll regret it. You abducted me, and I demand to know why! Do you work for the devil that calls himself Vicomte?"
This time the missile of a goblet half filled with wine found its target against Nadir's suit front. The Phantom clutched his ribs in pain.
"You are not abducted," Nadir growled in disgust. "This is your home."
"This is not my home – my home is the trees, the forest – not this musty cave. I demand that you bring me my clothes at once!"
"You must stay in bed and recover."
The Phantom grabbed the music box with the monkey, wincing the entire time, while Madame Giry hastened to a lever and pulled. A black veil descended fully around the bed just as he hurled the box – the curtain impeding the full trajectory of its path. The music box crashed near the foot.
"Erik – please, don't overexcite yourself," Madame begged, watching as the Persian left the bedchamber.
The coward.
"Get these damned veils away from me." The Phantom struck out with one arm, inhaling sharply at the anguish this caused, but managed to grab a handful of the filmy material and tugged hard with no result, except to cause himself further pain.
"I am not this Erik you insist on calling me." He groaned. "I am Le Masque – and where the hell is mine?!"
Madame sighed at his strange declaration. "I found you without your mask after the mob left."
"Mob?"
"Those men who attacked you. Do you not remember that either?"
"Aye, I remember." His eyes narrowed crossly. "Two of my band, who will rue the day they were born once I find them."
"Two of your band?"
"Do I stutter, woman? They ambushed me and left me for dead beside the lake."
Madame sighed. "I think you must have injured your head worse than I thought. You should be seen by a doctor."
His temper darkened. "No such fool will touch me, and I'll not stay here another moment!"
He moved as if to leave the bed, moaning and grabbing his ribs as he shifted to his side.
She stepped forward, thinking somehow to prevent him. He grabbed up the pitcher, ready to hurl it her way and keep her at bay. His eyes going wide, he dropped the container and slumped to the pillow. She stepped closer in wary confusion, noting he was completely insensible.
Had he fainted due to the excessive pain?
The Persian walked into view, holding a narrow wooden pipe that resembled a flute.
With a cheerful grin, he held it up for her observation. "A memento Erik picked up in his travels." He walked toward the slumbering Phantom and pulled a nearly invisible dart from his neck. "Most fortunate that he demonstrated to me how this works during one of my visits here. However, I recommend we tie him up quickly."
Madame gaped at him. "Tie him up? You cannot be serious."
"It wouldn't do should he break the stitching I worked so diligently to accomplish. He can be quite stubborn, but I don't need to tell you that." The Persian brought forth coils of rope, handing her two. "These should do. We must work with haste, as I have no idea when the sedative will wear off."
.
xXx
.
Once Erik built a fire outside the cottage, he scaled and cut the fish, spearing chunks on an arrow he found, which Christine then held over the fire. Conversation was scarce, and often Christine looked toward her dour husband, who whittled a stick to a sharp point across from where she sat. Once finished, he pierced more fish upon it and also held that over the flames. Their clothes had gone from sodden to mildly damp. Sitting close to the fire helped to alleviate the chill, though he had also covered her with his cloak for extra warmth.
During their meal, blackened on the outside but at least cooked through and rather appealing after nearly two days of nothing but berries, she recalled her chief reason for seeking him out and broke the silence.
"I looked through that book and studied its pictures, though I couldn't understand the text."
"That comes as no surprise. It is written in an ancient language, no longer used."
Her eyes widened. "You can read it? How is that possible?"
"From memories retained of this other masked beast whose identity I assumed, I – or rather he learned by teaching himself when the old hag was absent. Yet I was unable to read all of it. His memories in my mind have not ceased to dwindle."
"Oh." She had hoped, now that he was back to himself, both mindsets of the two identities would only grow stronger. "There was a sketch of symbols I've seen before, in the same pattern as they were drawn on the page."
This had his full attention.
"Where?"
"In the chateau, when I stayed with Raoul and his family, in the nineteenth century."
In the glow of the fire, his jaw visibly hardened, and she regretted her careless reply.
"Erik, I shouldn't have said –"
"Where in the chateau?"
His words came clipped, cutting off her apology, and she sighed.
"On a tapestry that hangs in one of the chambers. It depicted mythical forest creatures. Those symbols were embroidered in an oval, from top to bottom. I stared at it for quite some time. I'm certain they were the same."
He set his fish aside on the plate once used to collect coins and now shared for a meal.
"Show me."
She blinked as he swiftly stood and walked toward the cottage, then pushed herself to her feet, popping one last morsel into her mouth. She joined him at the table.
"That's it," she pointed to the page of the tome she'd left open. "Only the tapestry had pictures of woodland creatures – faeries, I think. It seemed so odd, so out of place in that sitting room. That's what drew me to it."
He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes on the sketch. "There is a legend associated with the de Chagnys."
"About the faerie captured by the current viscount's grandfather? You told me," she added at his curious nod.
He let out a dismal sigh. "I cannot remember."
She frowned, wondering if he'd also forgotten their delightful evening spent beneath the twinkling fairy lights, when he'd told her the myth.
"Tobias spoke of the legend as well."
He nodded and pointed. "This symbol stands for the Fae. It is next to one that depicts time, and these that loop around were the ones inscribed at the Megaliths of Carnac. Air. Fire. Water, and so forth."
Her eyes widened in surprise. "The witch and the Fae both use the standing stones for their rituals?"
A week ago – a day ago – Christine never would have asked such a question, to believe such fantastic creatures even existed. After their mythical passage into this century, she now believed anything was possible.
"It is not inconceivable, though they were enemies to one another and would visit the stones on different feast days." He shook his head, as if he also could not believe they were holding this conversation. "The witch with whom this absent Le Masque lived was the hag who gave de Chagny a magical pendant to charm and capture one of the Fae, in return for recompense she would later ask of him. When she learned his wife was pregnant, the witch demanded their child in payment, to raise and serve her. Twins were born, one fair, one flawed, and his wife died in childbirth. He hid his perfect son away in the chateau, fearing the witch would demand that boy, giving the babe to a trusted servant to care for him and call her own, until he was weaned. De Chagny took the deformed babe to the stones as the witch's payment."
"How can you know these things?" Christine asked in shock.
"The account of what she did is written in another book, and I still retain a small portion of Le Masque's memories of his captivity with her. He thought his parents abandoned him to the Fae, in the hope of receiving a perfect child, with no knowledge that he was in fact payment to the witch. She knew all along of de Chagny's deceit but did not care which child was payment – only wanted a lackey to serve her. But she did not refrain from taunting the lad with his father's abhorrence of him – that he would sacrifice his firstborn to become a slave and raise his second son as his only son, to receive a noble life and the full inheritance."
Christine felt tears sting the back of her eyes at Le Masque's plight. She wondered if Erik had suffered a similar fate with his parents, to become victim of a Romany tribe and live in a cage. Now, however, did not seem the appropriate time to ask. Nor did he realize that she knew of his time with the gypsies.
"What do the other symbols mean?"
He concentrated on them with a frown. "I cannot recall, if indeed I knew before."
"At least we now know our presence in this time must have something to do with the Fae, though I'm not sure what good the knowing will do."
He gave a weary nod. "I should look over the remainder of the book. You go on to bed. I will take care of dousing the fire."
She cast a disparaging glance toward the narrow bunk, not relishing the idea of again sleeping on its thin mattress of moldering grass, much less sleeping there alone.
"I was hoping we might sleep outside, beneath the stars."
He looked at her oddly. "You can barely see them through the trees."
"But the air is fresher. And the fire and furs will warm us."
He nodded distantly and glanced back at the book, as if it was a lure.
She inhaled a vexed breath, and took hold of his hand. "I should like it if you would lie next to me. After last night's spell, I doubt you've had any true rest at all."
He narrowed his eyes in deliberation but nodded in agreement.
His expression was a blank as he grabbed the furs and turned down the lantern, and she followed him to the campfire. He threw the rolled pelts to the ground, which she spread out as he gathered more wood.
He returned, glancing at the fur she had spread over the grass, the other one used as a blanket turned back in invitation, with his cloak atop that. With the manner in which he stared so hard at the bed she'd made, she wondered if he'd thought each of them would sleep wrapped in individual coverings.
Had he forgotten all they'd become to one another in this era? Were those memories lost to him too? Perhaps that explained this odd new distance, and she silently cursed the Fae, if indeed it was the Fae, who had done this to them.
Hell's bells and buckets of blood - she would not give up after having found him again!
A bit awkwardly but with grim resolve Christine sank to the bottom fur and pulled back the top one, looking up at him with expectation.
He seemed ill at ease but sat down and shed his boots. Stiffly, he reclined upon his back. She could stretch out her arm and still not touch him.
She frowned. "Erik, have I done something to upset you? You're not still cross with me about the rabbit?"
He snorted a mild chuckle. "I never was upset, nor was I surprised."
"Oh. That's good then." She sat up on one arm and watched the firelight dance over his masked face. "I don't like it when you're angry with me."
He sighed. "I'm not angry, Christine. You've done nothing wrong."
"Well then..."
She gathered every ounce of brazen courage fashioned within every intimate moment they had thus far shared…And shifting close, she gathered her skirts up and straddled him.
His eyes opened wide in shock, but otherwise he remained motionless. She comforted herself that he did not push her away, then recalled his earlier admission.
"It's alright if you don't remember us," she whispered, cupping his jaw with both hands. She drew tentatively closer, her lips ghosting over his – their first such contact since before he'd come to himself that morning. Her heart gave a little leap at the sensation, though he had yet to return her kiss.
Her next words came a trifle shaky. "With time, you might remember, and if not, we could start anew..."
The sudden feel of his large hands scorching midway up her bare thighs made her inhale sharply. She pulled back to look into his eyes. They burned like molten silver, as hot as the fire nearby.
"I assure you, Christine, in this, I remember everything…"
xXx