Christine found herself in a blissful state of continuous dreaming. She was aware that she was dreaming, yet somehow could not manage to fully wake up and open her eyes. Something told her though that at this time, being asleep was preferable to facing reality, and so she did not mind staying in the realm of dreams a little longer.
Some of her dreams were happy, like the one in which she was back home in Sweden, with her papa telling her stories about the fairies in the woods, and her mama singing to her before she went to bed. Or the one in which she and her papa were at the beach in Perros-Guirec, one of the first villages they had stayed in once they had arrived in France, running after the red scarf her mama had knit for her as the wind almost swept it into the sea, both of them laughing and carefree.
But interwoven with these happy childhood memories was one particular dream that kept returning. This one was different from the others. In this one, she was not a little girl, but the young woman she was today. She was running through a dark, seemingly unending hallway, and without looking behind her she knew that she was being chased by a hideous beast. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she was gasping for breath, terrified of the creature that was pursuing her. She kept running as fast as she could, but she knew she could not outrun him much longer.
Suddenly she tripped over her own feet and fell. As she lay there on the cold hard ground, she could hear the beast getting closer behind her, could hear the scratching of his claws on the stone floor, and she was so frightened that she could not even find the strength to try to scramble back up. It was over. Surely the inevitable blow would come soon now.
It did not come, however. Instead, she heard music. Someone was singing. It was a very sorrowful tune, sung by the most glorious voice she had ever heard, and with a start she realized that it must come from the beast. When she turned to look at him, she saw such terrible sadness in his eyes. He did not look as if he meant her any harm at all. In fact, the longer she looked at his face, the less gruesome and fearsome it became. His features did not change, but somehow they just did not seem so frightening anymore.
After what felt like a long time, the dreams began to fade into black. Christine was still not truly awake, but she was becoming more aware of her body. She felt so terribly hot, as if she were burning from within, and she was incredibly thirsty.
Sometimes she felt a small stream of cool water trickling down her throat, although she could not say where the water came from. She tried to drink as much of it as she could whenever she had the chance, but her lips and throat did not seem to cooperate and she found it hard to swallow.
From time to time, a heavenly cool touch brushed her forehead and temples, and she leaned into it gratefully, chasing it, as it temporarily abated the awful heat of her own skin. It felt as if an angel was caressing her, alleviating all her pain and discomfort. She even thought she heard the angel whisper her name once, but she could not be entirely sure of that. Unfortunately, the angel's touches never lasted more than a few seconds, and before long her skin was aflame again.
She did not know how long this all continued, only that at the exact moment she thought she would not be able to bear it any longer, her body began to cool down and she finally succumbed to a deep, peaceful sleep.
When she woke up again, everything was quiet. She almost went back to sleep, wishing to enjoy the perfect silence and the weightlessness of her body a little longer, but she somehow felt another presence in the room, urging her to open her eyes. Slowly, she blinked herself awake.
He must have been watching her for quite some time, for as soon as her eyes were open, he stumbled out of his chair. He hovered a few paces from the bed, as if he wanted to come and sit down next to her, but was unsure if she would allow it. She tried to think of a reason why he would be so hesitant to come closer, but her memories of the past few days were rather hazy. She vaguely remembered some kind of argument. Before she could recall what it had been about, Erik spoke.
"Christine? You're awake! Oh thank God, Christine!"
His eyes examined her face and body, as if he were checking for injuries, desperately trying to convince himself that she was truly okay.
"How are you feeling? Are you alright?"
She was unable to answer him straight away. Her lips stuck together and her mouth was terribly dry. Sensing her discomfort, Erik reached for a cup of water standing on the bedside table and handed it to her, helping her to sit up so she could drink more easily, although she noticed he did his best to touch her as little as possible. She sipped the water slowly, savouring the coolness sliding down her throat.
"Thank you," she said softly as Erik put the cup back on the table. "I'm feeling quite well. A little tired still, but otherwise fine." It was not entirely a lie. She did still feel tired. She also had a headache, her throat hurt when she swallowed, and her skin ached, but she would rather not tell Erik that. All those things would surely pass, and she did not wish to add to Erik's visible anxiety about her health unnecessarily.
"How long have I been unconscious?"
"Almost two days now," he replied.
In the silence that followed, Christine studied him closely. His clothes were rumpled, his hair unkempt, and he looked like he had not slept at all during the past two days.
"Have you been sitting with me the entire time?"
A guilty look appeared on his face, as if he had been caught doing something he should not have. He did not look her in the eye as he answered.
"Yes. I'm sorry, I can imagine my presence here is not wanted, but I only wished to make sure that you would be alright. I will leave now."
"Wait," she called out as he turned to go. She did not fully understand why he thought she would not want him here, although she had a feeling – where it came from, she did not know – that he was right, that she should be glad he was leaving. Yet how could she send him away like that? She did not know exactly how ill she had been, but apparently her condition had been bad enough for him not to want to leave her side for two full days. Surely she should be grateful to him for looking after her.
Erik stopped, standing still with his back turned towards her, waiting for her to speak.
"Stay," she said. "Please."
Only then did he look at her, still waiting, seemingly expecting her to change her mind. When it became clear that she would not, he finally spoke.
"Are you sure you are okay?" he asked. "You're not in any pain? Are you still thirsty? Or hungry? I can have Madame Giry bring you something to eat – "
"Erik, I am fine. Truly."
He fell silent then and looked away from her, fixing his gaze on the carpet beneath his feet as his hands flexed into fists by his side.
"Do you remember what happened?" he asked quietly.
At first, as she tried to recall what she had been doing before she fell ill, everything was one big blur, a tangle of images, and she could not tell which were half-remembered dreams and which were real memories. Some of those images seemed more familiar to her than others, and when she focused on those, she began to remember specific moments. Walking the stairs to the west wing. Staring at the portraits of Erik's family. Erik telling her about his brother, tearing off his mask, grabbing her wrist…
And then she remembered running, down the stairs and into the garden, with no light and no protection from the cold and the rain. She had wandered around the garden for a long time, unable to find her way out. Within minutes her clothes were soaked through and sticking to her skin, weighing heavily upon her tired body. There was no use in staying out there. Maybe she could go back inside and appeal to Madame Giry for help, but it was so dark and she could not see anything. She was completely lost, with no idea of which direction she had come from or where she was going.
She must have tripped, perhaps over the root of a tree, or maybe her legs had grown too weak to carry her any longer. All she knew was that she had fallen down onto the cold, wet earth, and could not find the strength to stand up again. She did not remember much after that, except that at some point she had been lifted into a pair of strong arms and carried inside. It must have been Erik. Only he knew she had run, and the rest of the household would have still been asleep.
Christine remained silent, but the look on her face must have told Erik that she did indeed remember.
"Christine, I am so terribly sorry," Erik whispered, his eyes filled with such pain and sorrow. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted to hurt you."
"I know you did not. It's fine."
Even as Christine protested, Erik's eyes strayed from her face to her hand where it was resting on the mattress, staring pointedly at the purple bruises on her wrist.
"It is most certainly not fine. This is exactly what I wanted to protect you from."
He straightened his back, and his next words were spoken in a more distant, formal tone.
"I promised you that no harm would come to you during your stay here, and yet it did. Therefore, per our contract, you are now free to leave as soon as you feel well enough to do so."
"And what if I do not wish to leave?" Christine asked with a defiant gaze.
Erik looked at her incredulously.
"What possible reason could you have to want to stay? You are not safe with me! Need I remind you of why you tried to run in the first place? I would think you had seen enough proof of what a monster I am by now."
"I will not deny that you frightened me that night," Christine admitted, "enough that I felt running was my only option, but I meant what I said, Erik. I honestly do not believe you are a monster. What happened by the lake that day was a tragic accident. There was nothing you could have done. Even if you had not been in shock, if you had tried to save your brother, you most likely would have fallen through the ice yourself and then two lives would have been lost that day."
"Maybe that would have been for the best," Erik muttered.
"Don't say that," Christine whispered fiercely. "Please, it pains me when you talk about yourself that way."
He shook his head. "I will never understand how you can be so understanding. Maybe you are just too trusting and naïve for your own good."
Christine looked down for a moment, away from his piercing gaze. It had nothing to do with being naïve, she thought. Only with genuine care for the man standing in front of her.
"Won't you sit with me?" she asked, patting the available space next to her on the mattress. "It will be easier to talk that way."
She knew that his proximity should make her feel uncomfortable after everything that had transpired in the west wing. She remembered looking at him that night and thinking him a complete stranger, but now that she saw him standing here beside her, she knew that was not entirely true. The secrets which had been revealed to her did not change how she felt about him. She did not think of him as a murderer, nor was she repulsed by his face now that she knew what the mask was hiding. It was his violent, almost maddened reaction that had scared her more than anything.
Yet looking back on it all now, she understood that it was his own fear that had driven him to react that way. Fear of what she would think of him once she knew the truth about his past. Fear that just like the villagers, like his own father, she would turn away in disgust. He had lashed out at her, scared her and driven her away, because surely being feared was better than being despised.
Erik hesitated, studying her face with a mixture of disbelief and hope in his eyes, but when she did not look away and did not change her mind, he complied, although he sat rigidly, clearly ill at ease.
"Christine, the way I behaved towards you that night was inexcusable. I cannot express how sorry I am."
"You were not the only one at fault for what happened, Erik."
He looked as if he was about to protest, but she did not give him the chance.
"It's true. I went to the west wing after you had expressly forbidden me to do so, looking for information which you clearly did not wish to share with me. I should not have done that, and you had every right to be angry with me."
"Maybe so," Erik conceded, "but that is no excuse. I still should not have hurt you."
"No, you shouldn't have. But I think I understand why you reacted the way that you did." She reached out and gently grabbed his hand, hoping the simple touch would reassure him.
Erik's posture stiffened and he sat perfectly still, barely breathing, his eyes fixed on Christine's hand. After a long moment, he exhaled deeply and gently traced the bruises on her wrist with his free hand, his fingers barely making contact with her skin for fear of causing her further pain.
"I forgive you," Christine said, meaning it with all her heart.
Erik shook his head, his breath hitching in his throat as he spoke. "I do not deserve your forgiveness."
"Well, whether that is true or not," Christine murmured, lifting his hand to her lips, "I give it to you anyway." She placed a soft kiss on his hand before bringing it back down to the mattress without letting go of it. She pretended not to see as he wiped away a single tear from the visible side of his face with his other hand. They did not say anything more, but simply sat like that, quietly, their hands clasped together, until Christine dozed off to sleep again.