A Piece of Her Soul
Christine had just reached the black carved boat, when she heard the tinkle of the music box. The scarred, unmasked man sat in the grotto, his head in his hands. The shouts of the crowd drew nearer.
Run away, she thought to him fiercely. Save yourself. But he didn't move.
Raoul sat vacantly in the boat, his dazed eyes barely focusing on her.
"I'll be right back," she said.
He looked up, blank and frightened.
"No…" he moaned.
"I'll come back. I promise."
She fought against her skirts as she dragged back up the stairs. This is insane. What if he grabs me? But he looks so forlorn, so helpless. If he stays here, the mob will kill him.
Her lips tingled. I can still taste his kiss on my mouth. It's not possible to hate him anymore. Not after that.
She stayed out of arm's reach, yet wanted to be in arm's reach. When his ravaged face turned to her like a sunflower, full of hope, her heart sank. He wants them to kill him. He'll only move if I stay with him. If he doesn't move, he'll die.
An old story of Papa's came to her unbidden. The great northern wizards used to hide their souls in something special, to keep them safe. It had to be an object preciously gotten: a runestone selected after long and careful searching, or a cat's body boiled down and each bone picked over to find just the right one. What did she have that was precious? On her finger was the answer. The ring.
His mouth moved in little quivers, words beating against his lips for release.
She resolved to do it.
It will diminish your life, an inside voice said. There are risks. Earlier death, perhaps. Loss of joy. Erosion of pleasure.
He's going to die if he doesn't move, she argued back.
She focused her will. Go, piece of my heart, into this ring. Go, part of my soul. Go with him. Keep him safe. Keep him alive.
Her finger flashed blue fire. The words pressing on his lips found release.
"Christine, I love you," he whispered.
Into his big rough hand she put the ring with its cluster of diamonds, and closed his fingers tenderly around it. Into your hands I commend my spirit, she thought. She gave a little half-laugh, half-sob, as she left him.
Tears blinded her as she stumbled down the steps. Go now, she willed him silently. Run.
Raoul's ash-white face rested on his blood-covered left arm. She thudded into the boat, and as if a spell had been lifted, he punted hard away from the shore.
Up on the stone wall, receding in the distance, the unmasked man surged with life. He leapt to his feet and roared at them, "It's over!"
Don't look back, the voice inside her said. You'll only make it worse for yourself.
I don't care, she thought. She looked anyway, and kept looking until the boat rounded the corner.
In the distance she heard the smash of glass. Raoul rowed on, eyes averted. She absently toyed with a few of her curly locks. When she held a handful before her face, she gasped in sorrow and horror, for they had turned iron gray.
(the end)