A/N: It's Saturday here so I'm posting the chapter because I feel like it. I've also had a middling drop of rosé so forgive any aul typo you may find. Please review, and know that the next couple of chapters will also come on Friday nights/technical Saturdays depending on your geographical location, mostly because the forthcoming Saturdays will be hellaciously busy.
And thank you to AnotherSilentObserver, who gave me the 100th review on this story! I'm a little shocked I reached that milestone after only 5 chapters, but it's great!
She's going through with it. She's actually, genuinely, going through with it. She's going to marry a man she's only known a day. Not even a day! Half a day! Or a little more. A man she's only exchanged a handful of letters with. And he seems nice enough, nicer even than she might have thought, polite, a little shy. He saw to all of this for her, designing her room and she never would have expected that. But what if he's secretly a brute? What if he'll beat her or force himself on her? Some husbands do that. Some men, not even husbands. She's heard the cautionary tales, seen the scars, and all she knows about—about marital relations she's learned from Sorelli. She has no real experience. Not of a man.
She could barely eat at breakfast, still slow from sleep, and half-frozen with the mounting worries in her head that have all swirled back in now that she is here and she has met Erik and the world hasn't ended and nobody has died.
Every minute it feels as if everything is about to come crashing down. As if some unknown misstep will send her back to New Orleans, will cause Erik to drop dead in front of her.
Is it better if he dies before or after the wedding? Better to be a widow or merely another bereaved fiancée?
She's got to stop thinking he's going to die. It will drive her insane!
Not as if she isn't halfway there already with worry.
Her daze is why it is only when she returns to her room (and it is still such a strange thought, her room. Is all of this privacy a good thing or a bad thing? Should she run, now, while she still has time, before she binds herself to him?) that she realises her curtains are closed, and she woke up under the blankets on her bed even though she distinctly remembers falling asleep on top of them, and planning to close the curtains as soon as the light died from the sky.
Someone came in last night, when she was asleep. Someone closed her curtains so the sunrise would not wake her, and tucked her into bed and—and—and set that pitcher of water on the bedside table! Someone—
Erik.
It must have been Erik.
And like that, the desire to run drains from her. A man so polite, so concerned about her comfort, would hardly throw her out, could hardly turn out to be a brute.
She nods resolutely to herself, and goes to her suitcase, heaves it onto the bed and opens it. The blue dress is lying there on top, as neatly folded as when she put it in and she lifts it out carefully, shakes it loose. There will be creases, now, after the journey.
Maybe they have an iron she can borrow.
He forgets, frequently, how terrible his face looks. It's easy to forget, really, because so often he just refuses to look. He perfected the art of shaving the good half of his face without looking at the mirror long ago. But he looks, now, in honour of the day. Examines the canyon-like fissured cracks that stretch from nose to ear, that twist his mouth into a grotesque leer.
Time has not improved the reflection any. He looks like the survivor of a terrible plague.
Christine is a nice girl, at least, she seems to be. He doesn't think she carries any unseemly expectations. If she did she surely would have balked at having her own room! But she barely spoke at breakfast. What if that's a sign? What if she has decided to run, now, this close to when they are to be married? She might knock on his door and ask to be walked back to the stage station. And who would he be to refuse? He would be breaking the very laws he is charged to uphold if he forced her to stay!
But what if she doesn't run? What if she goes through with it and they marry and then when night comes she forces the point about relations? Cold sweat beads on his forehead, wholly unrelated to the throbbing of the stitches in his arm. How could he say no to her without making her more suspicious? She already must be wondering what exactly his face looks like under the mask. She'll gawk at him, as if he's a curiosity, as if he belongs in some show of freaks. His face is only the beginning of the deformity, after all. If she sees that he's skeletal underneath, the way his ribs poke through, the scarring and fissures that stretch to match his face… She'll never believe it was a scattergun accident, not if she sees what he really looks like. Aman said he looked like Death warmed up in his black suit, the same suit he's wearing now, but he looks like Death himself given life without his mask, without his clothes. If she saw him like that, there is no way she would not be repulsed. She would turn and run, signed marriage certificate bedamned, and then it would be all over town that the Marshal's wife didn't make it through the first night. The stares. The whispers about his performance or lack of it. They'd never take him seriously. He's be ridiculed, held up as an example of What Goes Wrong. They'd say, I always suspected there must be something. He'd have to run too. It would be the only way.
A knock on the door, the creak of the handle turning. He grabs his white mask, fumbles it into place and turns to face his caller, heart hammering, ready for Christine, ready to tell her yes of course…
But it is Aman. Aman, all dressed up, lips pursed as he casts a critical eye over Erik.
Then he smiles.
"No need to look so frightened." His voice is soft as he closes the door behind him. "She's finished ironing her dress. She's not going to run now."
Erik sighs, a wave of weakness passing through him as he sinks into his chair. Concern flickers at the edge of Aman's mouth and he crosses the room, kneels before him and takes his hands, the good and the bad, and squeezes them. "I didn't realise how worried I was," he croaks, but Aman just squeezes his hands tighter and lets them go, fingers gentle brushing his neck as they adjust his collar.
"It's perfectly normal. Sure about the white one?"
It's his wedding day. He needs the mask that makes his features more tolerable. "Yes."
Aman nods. "You have a ring for her?"
Erik pats his breast pocket and feels the small circlet in there. "Yes."
"Good. Trev will be here soon with the buggy. Did you tell him to get flowers?"
"Roses. From the widow Valerius' garden. She said she was happy to give them." He feels steadier already, and he is grateful, so endlessly grateful, to have Aman here to check everything. What would he ever do without him? It all might fall apart.
"Badge?" Aman picks the silver star from the desk made to match the one pinned to his own vest, holds it up so the sun creeping through the drapes makes it shine, and Erik hesitates. Does he want to be marked as a marshal on his wedding day? Is it not supposed to be a more sacred occasion than that? Might it upset Christine for him to wear his office when they are marrying? He should leave it off. Should pretend for just one day that he is an ordinary man.
But he is not an ordinary man. And he can never pass for one, not when he is wearing a mask, and certainly not without it. What does a badge matter on top of that?
Besides, he feels safer with it on him. He nods, and Aman pins it to his chest, nodding approvingly before picking up the black sling. He doesn't particularly want to wear it, in truth, but it will take the pressure off his wounded arm and help it to heal faster. He nods, and Aman helps him into it.
And then it is just his hat left, hanging on the back of the door. Aman takes his good hand and pulls him to his feet, then takes his hat and settles it on. He takes a step back, and cocks his head to admire the effect.
"Very dashing."
Erik straightens himself, head high, and turns to the mirror, and for the very briefest of seconds feels as if he is not himself, as if he is somebody else, watching the scene from the distance. He is oddly disjointed from his own body, hands feelings as if they are floating in the air, as if he has suddenly become wholly intangible. He reaches out to grab Aman, and feels warm skin beneath his fingers. Aman's hand clasps his, a steadying squeeze, then the world tilts and he can breathe again, can feel the air whistling through his nose.
Trev is there then, nodding at them both, and holding out a single deep red rose. "For your buttonhole," he says, smiling slightly. "It's traditional for the groom to match the bride."
She just has her hair pinned up and the lightest rouge applied to her lips and cheeks when there comes a knock to the door. Now that she has resolved herself to stay, to face whatever this new situation may bring her way, she feels oddly calm, as if it is right before a performance, that heartbeat before her cue comes and she takes her place. She is a performer, after all. Wife is simply another role, and if she treats it as such it should be more than all right.
She settles on the delicate hat with the veil that Sorelli slipped in her case with a handwritten note (every bride needs one!) and collecting her little bag, she stands from her chair at the mirror, smooths her dress. She is elegant even if she does say so herself, pretty, even, and with her head held high she goes to the door and opens it.
She was expecting Erik, but instead she finds Aman. He beams at her and takes her hand, kisses it lightly before he lets it drop, his eyes dancing. "You look enchanting, Christine," and it would be so easy for the words to sound perfunctory but he makes them genuine and she feels light as air as she smiles back at him.
"Thank you."
"Erik is waiting in the buggy with Beth. She's a," he makes a vague gesture with his hand that could mean anything from "a whore" to "a widow" and a thousand things in between, "she's involved with one of the other deputies, Max. You'll like her. She's from Georgia. Another one of the boys, Trev, is going to drive us."
He guides her through the house and outside where the sun is strong and dazzling though it's not yet noon. A tall dark-haired man that she vaguely recognises from her arrival at the station helps her up into the buggy, and he smiles at her as she settles beside a red-haired woman, who's probably the same age as her. Beth, she assumes, smiles at her and he must be Trev. Erik is sitting opposite her, and he tips his hat with his free hand, his injured arm back in the sling, even as he rearranges himself so their knees don't touch. Then Aman settles beside Erik, and gives a nod over her shoulder, presumably to Trev who must have taken his seat behind her. Next thing they start to move, and she turns to see that they are pulled by two horses, a grey and a black.
The girl beside her, Beth, gives her a bouquet of roses, draws her attention back from the horses, and Christine smiles at her in thanks, and smiles at Erik because he must have suggested them. And is it her imagination, or does Erik colour slightly?
Or maybe the rose through his buttonhole, and she startles when she realises it matches her bouquet, and the sunlight combined just makes his visible cheek look a bit more red.
She averts her gaze, back down to the roses in her hands. The petals are soft as velvet beneath her touch, a deep red, and the thorns have been cut from the stems so they do not prick her fingers. If it were not for her hat and veil, she might take one and twist it into her hair, but for now she settles for caressing them.
The journey to the courthouse is not as long as she expected it might be, and before she knows it the buggy is stopping. Aman hops down first, and helps Erik out, which elicits a mutter from her fiancé (such a peculiar thought, that this man is her fiancé) that he is "not an invalid, thank you very much." It is her turn next, and she reaches the ground gracefully. Erik inclines his head just slightly towards the horses.
"The dark one is Darius, Aman's stallion, but the grey is mine, the Khanum. She can be a bit of a handful, or I might let you have her." At his words, Christine looks again at the horses, and sees that the grey mare bears herself with what almost might be called pride, if a horse can know pride. Can horses feel pride? Maybe they can. How is she to know? She has never been around many horses.
The man she assumes to be Trev comes up to her, breaking her thoughts and extending his hand. "We haven't been introduced yet." His accent is light but perfectly clipped, and try as she may she cannot place it. "Roderick Q Trevelyan, but everyone calls me Trev." The badge pinned to his chest matches the ones she's seen Erik and Aman wearing, and she smiles as she takes his hand. He bows his hand and kisses her knuckles.
"Christine Daaé. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"You sound like a delightful woman, Miss Daaé."
Then it is the woman's turn, and they shake hands. "Bethany Harris. You can call me Beth." Her smile is a little nervous. "I hope we can be friends."
Christine hopes she can set the girl at ease. "I'd like that."
And Beth's smile becomes a beam.
"The others are waiting inside." Aman nods to the door, and it is their cue to file in, she and Erik side-by-side. Not for the first time she is reminded of how he towers over her, and it makes her feel quite small.
There is a small crowd waiting in the Judge's office, and Erik is the one who makes the introductions. "Judge Reginald Brown," he gestures to the man sitting behind the desk, grey-haired and thin-faced, a pair of spectacles sitting on the end of his nose. "Philippe De Chagny, and his brother Raoul." The brothers are equally blond and moustachioed, though Philippe's hair is flaked with grey and he is sitting, his arm, too, in a sling, a pale green one that matches his shirt, and a cane sitting beside him. Raoul she recognises as the Deputy who helped her out of the stage, his badge shining on his chest, and both De Chagnys have matching smiles for her. "Maxwell Halloran, who is supposed to be minding my office in my absence." Erik's voice draws her attention away from the brothers, and she sees now that Maxwell, who must be the Max that Aman mentioned, is the other Deputy who rode out to meet the stage with Raoul.
"Pullman knows where to find me. I couldn't possibly miss this." Max Halloran's grin is cheeky, and Erik sighs.
"So long as you get back to the office straight after."
"Of course, sir."
Of all of the men in the room, only the Judge and Philippe De Chagny are not wearing badges, and it strikes Christine with a little thrill that the four Deputies are all under Erik, that her husband-to-be is the one with the authority. This tall, quiet man, and yet he is the one they all look to, the one they all follow. Her head spins.
She'd better not faint, not now.
The Judge calling them to attention breaks the spell, lets her get her breath, and the ceremony is oddly anticlimactic. An exchanging of vows, repetition of words. I, Christine Freyja Daaé, take thee Erik Gerard Berry Lamonte, to be my lawfully wedded husband…I, Erik Gerard Berry Lamonte, take thee, Christine Freyja Daaé, to be my lawfully wedded wife…
They sign their names, and the Judge proclaims them man and wife. Erik's lips are cool pressed to her forehead, the edge of his mask soft, and between one heartbeat and the next she goes from Miss Christine Daaé to Mrs Christine Lamonte, no fanfare, no confetti (though Aman and Trev sprinkle rice over them), the earth doesn't open up to swallow them whole. A few words, a signature, a perfectly chaste kiss.
And so they are married.