This chapter is monstrous, but I just couldn't break it apart. I hope you see why.

Oh, and we definitely earn our M-rating here...

Chapter 11: return

Erik returned to the Salpêtrière hospice, his pace slow. The hem of his cloak was damp, and his shoes were caked with mud from the kilometers he had traveled. He had taken off his ruined white gloves, but his knees were still wet. How ridiculous he must look if anyone human could be perceptive enough to notice him through his glamour.

Darius stood outside, tending to the two horses hitched to their stagecoach. He did not look at Erik as he approached. "Christine has asked to stay until ten o'clock. I thought this was acceptable."

"It is," Erik said. He was suddenly bone-weary now that he had arrived back. He climbed into the carriage, huffing in annoyance when Darius prevented him from closing the cabin door. "I wish to be alone."

Darius ignored this, climbing inside behind him and shutting the door. They were completely in darkness with the curtains drawn… not that they needed light to see.

"You could have put us all in danger tonight," Darius said, dark eyes hard. "Perhaps you already did."

Erik leaned his head back against the wood, stared up at nothing. His wig itched. He wanted to strip it all off. He had never felt so raw both inside and out.

"Monsieur Daaé refused my offer," he said at last.

"But you did offer. Which means not only did you offer what we agreed was forbidden – you told a human the truth about us."

Erik sat in silence. He could have argued this last point. Darius had told Lucas the truth about them, after all. But they were a bonded pair, and if Darius trusted his bonded human with their secrets, then Lucas was part of their inner circle without question. Everything Darius had said was truth. Erik had put them all in danger.

"I am consumed by her," he whispered.

Darius sighed. It was a very human move, and as his body was heated by Lucas's blood, his fake breath was warm. "I knew this would happen."

"So did I," Erik replied dryly. "If Daroga were here, he would berate me even more so than you.

"Yes, he would. And he would do it more effectively than me. I always feared one of his lectures, but now I would give almost anything to hear his voice again even if it was in a tone of annoyance."

"When is it not in a tone of annoyance?"

Darius laughed quietly at that. They both lapsed back into silence, the sounds of the city at night churning from the streets beyond the Salpêtrière.

"I miss him," Darius admitted. "I miss him so much that I want to claw myself apart to make the ache go away. Lucas has lessened the feeling somewhat, but the hole is still there."

"He is your master, after all."

The union between sire and creation was a strong one, superseded only by that of a bonded pair. The sharing of blood to create another vampyre was not easily ignored, especially when the human was willing as Darius had been. As an orphaned boy in Persia, Darius had been placed in the home of a high-ranked vampyre as a blood-slave. Unlike so many others, he had been fortunate that this high-ranked vampyre had been Nadir Khan, the leader of a group of guardsmen charged with finding and keeping entertainment for the Mistress.

When the Mistress's mind had begun to unravel, when they had been unable to continue to ignore her evil atrocities, the Daroga had turned Darius. It had mostly been to protect the young man, but it had also been an act born out of fondness.

"If circumstances were different," Darius said quietly, "would you have your own creations?"

"No," Erik said without hesitation. "Not again."

He did not have to explain to Darius why. He himself had been witness to Erik's first and only two creations… and their ultimate failure.

"Offering to change Monsieur Daaé was a mistake," he continued, "and one I shall not make again. I do not believe he will tell Christine about what we are as long as we continue to keep her in our care."

They both had their senses pricked. Darius climbed out of the carriage, and Erik could hear him greeting his wife as she approached. Soon, Darius was helping Christine climb inside. Her face was damp with tears, her nose red from rubbing with a handkerchief. She looked more beautiful than ever, her hair swept up in a low chignon with one golden coil across one shoulder, but her weariness was more than evident.

Before he could stop himself, he took up her gloved hands in his own. Her eyes looked down at their entwined hands, but he knew she could see little in the dark. As the coach began to lurch forward, streetlamps cast long streams of yellow light across her pale face from the open curtain.

"I will be all right," she said at length. "I must be, for Papa's sake."

"For your own sake," he said, caressing her knuckles through her thin glove. "While I know your focus is upon your father, you must tend to yourself as well."

She gave a soft sigh, her lovely voice rough with tears. "I would have preferred to stay by his bedside all night, but Papa told me I needed to go home and rest. He would not hear of me coming back until tomorrow."

"Good man."

"Yes, he is." She hesitated, then asked, "May I stay with you a while yet? I could not bear to be alone right now."

"Whatever you wish."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Erik still sweeping his thumb over her knuckles. He could only imagine what thoughts plagued her mind; the death of a parent was never something he had dreaded.

They arrived back at the estate, and he supported her elbow as they walked inside. Darius put away her outerwear, and she seemed so pale in her pink-colored gown.

"Do you need anything else, madame?" Darius asked. "You did not eat your dinner, and the restaurateur left it on the dining table for you. I could reheat it?"

Christine made a face. "I couldn't possibly. I am so sorry for wasting the food."

"Nonsense," Erik said. "We pay the chef regardless. Come, my dear. You need to rest."

She nodded, bid Darius goodnight, and headed upstairs with Erik. She was quiet as they made their way down the long hallway to her own chambers. Although her eyes flickered over to him, she said nothing as he entered the bedroom and locked the door behind the both of them. The room was cast in deep shadow. Christine stayed by the door as he went around the room to light a few lamps. He kept the light low and calm; his wife needed a respite, and he would do everything he could to calm her troubled mind.

"Perhaps a warm bath," he said as he stirred the dead hearth to life with a fresh fire.

She nodded, still standing by the door. He gave her a long look. She swayed slightly upon her feet, her arms hugging her middle. Her eyes blinked slowly, and her face was expressionless. She was the embodiment of exhaustion. If he left now, he wondered how long she would simply stand there lost in thought before she realized time had passed.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed eleven o'clock. A late hour for a human and especially for one whose coming days would be plagued with even more sleepless nights. Erik knew for certain that her father would not last the week. It was an unfortunate reality that he could not prepare her for.

But he could at least be present.

Christine rocked on her feet unsteadily. Distantly, she could hear water begin to rush from a pipe. She could feel sources of warmth on her face, and in the dim light, she could see a fire blazing in the hearth and a lamp turned low at the bedside. She felt numb inside and out. Her last moments with Papa tonight echoed in her head.

"You must rest, daughter-mine. It will not be long yet."

"No, Papa!" she had cried. She had buried her face in his chest, the cold floor seeping through the layers of her skirts to harden her knees where she knelt beside his bed. His frail hand had stroked her hair, and she had wanted so badly to freeze this moment in time. "Let me stay!"

"No." His voice had turned hard. "You need to focus upon living, Christine, and in the living, you need to move on. I can't go easily unless I know you will do this for me."

In the end, she had agreed. She had sobbed and pressed her words of love to his forehead and hands. When her throat closed up, she had merely laid her head against his shoulder and listened to his unsteady breathing, listened to the labor of his lungs that had plagued him constantly for years. Her father had suffered so much, and soon he would finally be free. This truth she knew deep in her heart. He was getting a release that he had come to terms with long before she had even known the end was approaching.

I feel so alone, she thought, staring into this place that was her bedroom.

Movement caught her notice. Her eyes shifted over to see her husband bending to test the water in the bathtub. He dipped long bare fingers into the clear water, his skin even paler while shifting through the rising steam. He was a black shape in the darkness of the room, all hard angles and long limbs. His white mask caught the flickering light from the fireplace, his golden eyes focused upon drawing the bath. For her.

No, not alone.

She compelled her feet to move. He had arranged a privacy screen to one side of the bath, but she stepped next to him instead. Without speaking, she began to unbutton the front of her bodice.

He froze, fingertips of one hand still refracting beneath the water. "Christine?"

She heard the question within her name. "Help me? Please?"

She needed no help, and she was certain he knew this. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet, his height towering over her, always noticeable even though she should be used to the large bulkiness of him by now. There were few buttons on this low-slung bodice. Once she freed the last one, she turned around, letting the two halves fall open, and she waited.

He was a statue at her back. Then, she felt him slide the silky fabric from her shoulders and pull it back without touching her skin. It fell easily down her arms, and he dropped it somewhere to the side. When he made no move to further undress her, she set to pulling at the ties of her outer skirt, loosening the band around her waist. She let the heavy fabric fall from the small bustle, and she felt her face blossom with warmth for the first time. She had not worn such contraptions often…

The tie gave way, and the bustle joined the bodice upon the floor. She stood amid a puddle of silky pink fabric. Erik had not moved in a while, and she could not hear any sound from him, not even his breathing. Christine took her own steadying breath, swept the rope of her hair across one shoulder, and presented the back of her corset.

"Would you loosen the laces, please?" she asked.

His fingers lifted to the curve of her back and tugged deftly. Her corset loosened, gave way, splitting into two around her figure. She was able to then undo the hook and eye closures upon the front until the corset could be removed completely.

"Christine."

She turned slightly so she could manage a glance over her mostly bare shoulder. The look in his golden eyes made warmth flame even hotter within her. His white mask glowed, and he was a figure both fire and coal, wrapped in black clothing, a stark contrast against her figure clad in white linen.

Despite herself, she folded her arms across her chest, fingers at her bare neck.

"I need…" she began.

What? What did she need from him? She could not put the longing to words. Her father had not said what had been the topic of conversation between him and Erik, but Christine knew whatever it was, her father had been thankful. Erik had not hesitated to help her in any way he could, to be there for her when she needed him… and she was not ready for this night to end.

Her hesitation was enough, however, for Erik to swing away. She did not understand why he suddenly seemed angry with her, his movements stiff as he walked around the partition he had placed alongside the bath. The fireplace cast his shadow across the screen.

"Bathe," he said, voice hard. "I will still be here."

"A-All right," she replied. Without him standing over her, she could breath easier. She quickly shed the rest of her clothing.

Erik had been right – she did need a bath. The warm water seeped into her aching limbs and eased the tension in her shoulders. She unpinned her hair and leaned back, letting it pile atop her head to keep it mostly dry. Beyond the screen, she heard Erik stoke the fire. Then he strode near the bed and perused the book she kept on the nightstand. Despite her state of undress and his proximity, she felt oddly relaxed, almost languid. Right now, there was nothing she could do about her father, nothing she could do but rest and return tomorrow.

Right now, her husband awaited her beyond the partition. She wanted to stay in this present moment and push aside all her other worries…

She soaked for a while, plied her body with rose-scented soap. Then, she pulled the drain, announcing to the quiet room, "I am getting out."

"Do so," came Erik's strained voice from near the bed.

Christine grabbed the nearby towel and stood in the tub, drying herself as best she could before stepping out to dry her feet. Her nightgowns were in the dresser, and she would have to emerge from behind the screen to retrieve one.

The towel was large enough to wrap from her arms to her knees, so she folded it tightly around her body. Erik twisted around at the sight of her emerging from behind the screen. He set down the book, eyes widening ever so slightly behind his mask.

"Was your bath… satisfactory?"

"Yes."

She fisted the towel closed, hovered in indecision. She felt rooted to the spot by his rapt attention. She swallowed hard and crossed to the dresser, fishing out a pressed nightdress of fine white cotton with little ruffles at the sleeves and collar. It should be an easy thing to put on, but not necessarily when she stood naked in front of a man looking at her as though he had never seen her before.

"Would you help me?" she asked, doing her best to keep her expression open and calm. She walked over to him before he could respond and held out the nightdress. This close, she could see his lips press together. His hands at his sides opened, closed, then opened again and grasped the nightdress, taking it from her.

Obediently, she stood still as he gathered up the material and carefully slid her head through the main opening. Her hands exchanged positions upon the towel as she first put one hand through a sleeve and then the other until she let go of the towel and let it puddle at her feet. Erik still held onto the bulk of the fabric, and Christine felt her mouth go dry, suddenly very much aware of his proximity, of her state of undress, of how little this thin fabric covered her form.

Erik let the nightdress fall, and the cotton skimmed down to floor. "Your buttons, madame."

His fingers ghosted up both her shoulders, skimmed along her exposed clavicle until he could lift her hair free from where it was trapped underneath the open collar of her gown. Like always, his touch was like ice against hers, but now she expected the shock of cold along her skin that meant Erik was touching her. Erik, her husband.

One of his hands still held her abundant hair aloft, the golden strands spilling through his fingers. His other fanned long fingers around her neck, and the barest of pressures encouraged her to tilt her head to the side, further exposing the long column of her throat. He moved in, stooped, pressed cool, firm lips to her pulse-point, and she latched onto his upper arms lest she fall.

"S-Stay with me?"

His lips moved along her skin. "I would have to leave just before dawn."

The sun. Yes. The calling of attention to his inability to expose himself to daylight reminded her of this truth: her husband was not at all like other men.

"I understand," she whispered.

"Go lie upon the bed," he said against her neck. Then he released her and set to draining the bath and straightening her discarded clothes upon the floor.

Christine watched him a moment, focused upon steadying her own breathing, and moved to the bed as he had requested. As she climbed upon the mattress, she realized her nightdress was still unfastened throat to just above her bellybutton. She clutched the two halves together, hovered indecisively on whether or not to do up the buttons.

A huge part of her wanted to see what he would do if she left them open…

She laid down, first on her side, then upon her back so she could continue to observe Erik. He finished with his tasks and came to stand beside the bed, golden eyes narrowed. She was well aware of her bare feet, of her messy damp hair, of how this gown clung to her slight curves, of her lack of underclothes. Her cheeks burned, but she did not relent in her own unguarded assessment of him. She would not be the only one shying away, and now she had the upper hand of awaiting his next move.

She watched as his pale hands came to his coat and pulled it open so he could shrug out of the heavy black garment. He laid it across a chair and sat upon the edge of the bed, his back to her, the shape of his spine stiffly straight and showing through the black silk of his waistcoat. He untied first one shoe and then the other, slid off both, and neatly set them next to the bed. It was a domestic moment from a man she had never seen act in such a way. He had never willingly removed anything before her.

He laid down next to her, the bed dipping from his weight. "The hour is late, my dear. You should sleep."

She gave a soft sigh and stared up at the ceiling. "I am bone-weary, and yet I feel as though I shall never sleep again."

"Your mind will not allow you to rest."

"No." She turned her head to glance at him. His eyes slid over to meet hers.

"I could offer up a distraction," he said.

That was all the invitation she needed. Christine rolled onto her side at the same time he did as well, and their mouths collided. Erik's fingers delved into her curls, lightly tugging against her scalp, holding her to him while he slanted his lips to kiss her deeper. His lips heated against hers, and she relished in the firmness of them, how he pressed against her with almost bruising, all-consuming force. When she felt the swipe of his tongue against her bottom lip, she groaned into his mouth. She flushed with heat, wanting more.

She tugged on his arm, squirmed against him. He responded by shifting atop her, his long legs threading through hers, her gown rucked up around her thighs. She welcomed his weight, his bulk making her feel small but protected, his hands tugging on the damp ends of her hair or thumbs swiping her cheekbones to cup her face and edge their kiss even deeper.

She brought her arms to wrap around his broad shoulders, careful to stay away from his mask and commit nothing that might tear him away from her. When a shudder ripped up his form, she moved her hands quickly away, raising her arms to rest above her head, the backs of her hands against her pillow.

Erik broke away from her mouth to stare down at her. Then he lowered down and pressed his cool lips to her neck. "Little wife," he mouthed against her flushed skin. "Shall I touch you further?"

Christine swallowed, nodded, and she felt those lips curl every so slightly upward against the arch of her throat. Erik kissed his way down to her collarbone, mapping the ridges he found there and stirring more warmth between her thighs. His lips continued downward, finding the split in her gown, pressing dry kisses between her breasts, to the valley between her ribs, and back up again.

"My wife," he murmured here again, against her neck, "my Christine."

She felt the press of something sharp, two mirroring pin pricks not quite breaking the skin. Teeth, sharp teeth, edging along the tendon just below her ear.

Fangs.

She remembered the sight of him at the Palais Garnier, the way he had bared his teeth in anger, no, not at her, but the direction of his concentration could have turned to her, could have… Her mind spun, fear rising fast and flooding her system, sending her heartbeat thudding fiercely within her chest.

Erik jerked away from her at once, and she gasped a deep breath as though starved for oxygen. One of her hands fled to her neck expecting to find the dampness of blood, but she felt nothing except her own wildly flittering pulse. She could not look at him, too afraid of the expression she might find. She rolled away upon the bed, folded her arms across her chest, drew her knees upward.

Behind her, Erik was stone still. Then he said barely audibly, "Do you wish me to leave?"

She wanted to say yes; it was her first reaction, the first word that leapt into her throat. But if she pushed him away now, she knew something would break between them. A void would crack open, and the fear of never being able to cross it again overrode her fear of him.

"S-Stay."

He shifted upon the bed, stole closer to her again. Her eyes were wide, staring into the dim, flickering firelight of her room. Ever so slowly, he pressed the long line of his body to the back of hers. One of his arms snaked under the pillow beneath her head and came around her chest to pin her to him. His other arm joined, and for a while, he simply cocooned her body with the hard, lengthy shape of his.

"I frightened you," he said, his lips close to her ear.

"Yes," she whispered. She let one of her thumbs stroke the side of his wrist, trying to relax into this new embrace. "Sometimes I wonder, Erik… I wonder what you – "

"They are different, yes," he said, smoothly cutting her off.

What you are, what you are echoed unspoken in her head.

He shifted his freer hand to tug lightly upon the collar of her nightdress, edging the white fabric down her shoulder so he could press his closed lips to the smooth skin there.

"I will not touch them to you again."

His hand drew the edge of her gown further downward, and she felt the night air upon her right breast. "I will touch you with my fingers, yes? Tell me yes, dear wife."

"Y-Yes. Yes."

His hand cupped her breast, his palm rough against her sensitive flesh. He seemed to test the weight of her, become fascinated by the softness, by the give and take of her womanly shape. Her legs released some of their tension and relaxed more fully against him, the new angle giving him more freedom to roam. His fingers found the peak of her breast and gave an explorative pinch, the coldness of him causing her to stiffen under his administration.

"Ah, sweet one," he said in her ear. "The way you respond to my touch."

The arm under her shifted, other hand joining. Her gown was wrenched further open, exposing her to the perusal of both of his hands. Heat saturated between her legs, and she felt herself grow damp there. She did not know what to do with her own hands, so she pressed them to her face, biting the meaty flesh of her palm to stifle rising cries.

"No," he growled. The arm under her moved again, and the fingers of that hand threaded around her small wrists, forcing her hands from her face. "You have nothing to hide from me, nothing I will not take from you. If you invite me to your bed, I will lay claim everything you have to give."

His words should have shaken her, but instead she shuddered as he continued to pluck at her nipples with his other hand. A whimper emitted from her throat, and his grip on her wrists softened, shifted until his fingers were entwined with hers.

"Let me hear you, pretty wife. What other noises can I coax?"

"Erik, I…" She trembled. "I ache s-so terribly."

He went still. "I am causing you pain?"

"No, no, not… exactly? I feel so warm, so... I do not know how to d-describe it. I feel as though I am burning."

His firm lips mouthed the shell of her ear. "Show me."

She gulped in a lungful of air and moved to take up his free hand in one of hers, pressing her palm to the back of his hand, tendons prominent under her fevered touch. Gathering her courage, she slid their joined hands down between her ribs, down the slight curve of her belly, to the place where she throbbed. Even through the fabric of her gown she could feel the iciness of his touch.

"Ah, needy wife, this is where you ache." She could hear the constriction in his own throat. Even though she was the one twisting in arousal, he was not so unaffected. Her hand fled back to his wrist held across her chest, grasping onto his arm as though grounding herself.

His hand fisted her gown and tugged it upward. Air hit her belly, her upper thighs, her most intimate parts, and she clenched her eyes shut, trying to focus on the pleasurable sensations he was still coaxing from her breasts. He had done this once before, on their wedding night, touched her here, and while it had not been so unpleasant, her memories were clouded with how the night had ended.

He took away these thoughts by pressing his palm against her center, the cold a shock to her enflamed flesh. She gasped, her hips canting to meet him against her will, her body feeling no longer under her own control. His palm exuded a delicious pressure where she needed it most, and his fingers began to spread out across her tender skin, pressing against her inner thighs, the inside swell of her buttocks, the ridges to either side of her mound.

His hand shifted, and a single digit slid between her wet folds. She was surprised by the slickness he found there, her body already responding to him, dampening the way and easing the friction. The ache responded to him as well, centering where he touched and pressed, her hips tilting of their own accord.

His arm surrounded her chest, held her tightly to him while his finger continued its exploration. She found herself opening her thighs to give him easier access, her face heating at her audacity but not caring enough to stop the improper action. A chuckle rumbled in her ear, low and tinged with its own sort of desire, and cool lips clamped onto her earlobe, sending a shiver racing downward to between her legs. She imagined he might bite her again, but the press of teeth never came as he had promised they would not; she was startled to find her own pang of disappointment.

His finger slid inside of her, and she gasped at the sudden intrusion. It felt better than before, a sort of relief at finally being filled. Her hips gyrated against his hand.

"More, please. More," she gasped. His arm tightened around her.

"Sweet one, another finger?"

She could only nod. His middle finger slicked itself with her arousal, then joined the other, a tighter fit. It felt good, not at all how it had been the first time he had touched her. One of her hands flew to the press of his hip against the back of hers, latching onto the hardness of his upper thigh, seeking something to steady herself. He chuffed in her ear, but he did not bat away her hand. This position opened her further to him, and his other fingers again began to pluck at her breasts. The two different sensations caused a new flood of warmth and intense want.

Erik's fingers pumped within her, drawing out and sliding within her slick before plunging inside again. He began to repeat this motion, and her hips tilted to meet him, her hand fisting into the black linen upon his hip. His palm dragged across a spot between her thighs that made her unleash a moan, the sound so foreign that she clamped down upon it.

"No!" he ground out, repeating the drag of palm on sensitive flesh once again. "Let me hear that lovely voice of yours, wife." His other hand slayed across her breasts, his thumb finding her lips and smoothing them open. Her teeth nipped at the cold pad of his thumb, and then she gave his skin a tentative flick of her tongue. He reacted with his own groan in her ear. "She-devil. Give it all to me, sweet thing."

The pace between her thighs increased, and she became overwhelmed by sensation as he played her body like a fine instrument. She moaned around his thumb, unable to cease the motion of her hips. Her thighs began to quiver. His fingers danced.

She came apart around his hand, her body pulsing in ways it had never done so before, a heady rush that filled all her senses. She felt a steady throb against his broad palm, a burst of release within her, and she sobbed his name.

As she descended, he held her to him. Once her pulsing ceased, he eased his fingers free of her and held her tightly to him with his other arm. A heady scent filled the air – the scent of her. Her face burned, but he relished in the marvel of her upon his fingers. He drew them to his own mouth, and she heard the soft suck as he cleaned his digits. She could not help it; she clung to his arm and shook, overwhelmed.

He dried his fingers upon a section of the bedsheet and then wrapped both arms around her shivering body, holding her molded against the expansive firmness of him.

"Christine?"

Gradually, she relaxed into his embrace. He offered no warmth, but she had come to expect this from him. She was heated enough from what had just happened and from the roaring fire close by, so the coolness of his body was welcome. Exhaustion suddenly seeped into her limbs.

She turned her head enough to stroke the line of his jaw and kiss him softly. "Thank you… for that."

"My pleasure. You are tired, my dear. Now you must rest."

At that, she yawned, and with that stretch, her whole body sank into the bed limply. Erik did up the buttons on her gown and pulled several layers of blankets over her, tucking her in. She snuggled down into the bedding.

"Stay?" she managed to murmur, eyelids heavy.

"Until you are asleep," he agreed. "When the sun sets tomorrow, I will come and find you."

She nodded. She felt him settle at her back again, his arm pulling her against him. Comforted by the weight of him behind her, she was quickly pulled into sleep.

Erik held the black umbrella, the soft pitter of rainfall a continuous white noise around him. Perhaps it was advantageous that it would rain today, creating enough of a dampener over the sun that he could venture out earlier than usual.

To his left, Darius stood with Lucas by his side, both sharing their own umbrella, both dressed in somber black, their faces matching shades of sorrow. A few other humans were also in attendance: Dr. Martin, some of the nurses from the Salpêtrière hospice, neighbors from their old apartment. Madame Giry and her daughter stood across the way, keeping their distance, Meg dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Charles Daaé had passed on after three more days of slowing breath and weakening limbs. After the second day, he never woke again, and while Christine had to murmur her goodbyes in silence, perhaps it had been best that he simply slipped away from her as easily as falling asleep.

The world continued spinning on its axis, and he was ever the fixed point on the wheel, never turning along with the rest. It was the cycle of life that continued without him: birth and life and death. Sometimes, like today, he took part in the mourning, but even in attendance of this funeral, he stood as an outsider looking in, a creature peering into the window through which all others could truly see.

"Oh, Papa."

Erik looked down at the woman next to him, her small hand clutching the inside of his elbow, her other tight-fisted on the handle of a violin case. Dressed all in black, she seemed washed out. Her golden hair lay pinned under a lacy black hat, and tears flowed freely down her pallid cheeks. She had only slept this past week because he had remained by her side each night until she had done so, his skeleton hands stroking her hair until her breathing evened in sleep. She did not know how long he watched over her afterward.

The Lutheran pastor finished his speech. Erik adjusted the umbrella to cover Christine as she bent and took up a handful of damp earth.

"Goodbye, Papa," she whispered, staring at the coffin in the pit. She released the handful, scattering the dirt across. "I will love you always. Tell Mama hello for me, will you?"

The visitants began to disperse. Christine remained crouched by the gravesite, crying quietly, shielded with the umbrella that Erik held.

Darius moved closer. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked lowly.

"Make sure she has something warm to eat when we return," Erik instructed.

Darius nodded. He bent and placed a hand upon Christine's shoulder, giving her a quick embrace when she responded. Then he and his bondmate were gone; even with the rain, spending too long outdoors at this hour was taxing on the young.

The Girys had crossed the distance between them. Erik clenched his jaw, but he moved back to give them time with his grieving wife. He watched as they helped Christine stand, supporting her on both sides by the elbow as she clutched the violin case to her chest. The three women spoke for a while, Meg Giry sometimes patting at Christine's eyes to dry them.

Madame Giry moved over to Erik, sharing his umbrella like she belonged there, craning her head back to glare at him shrewdly. "You knew this would happen," she said low enough that Christine could not hear, "and now it has. I trust that you will do right by her."

He cut his eyes down to her. "Suggest again that I would hurt her and see how I respond."

"You are not the only one who cares for her," she snapped back. "But never mind your possessiveness, Erik. We will be gone from Paris in a mere two weeks, and then you can be rid of us forever. We are staying only long enough to see Christine through the roughest times of her mourning."

He looked back at his wife with her head close to Meg Giry, the two of them quietly conversing. Having said what she wanted, Madame Giry left his side and tapped her daughter on the shoulder, signaling that it was time to leave. Meg glanced at Erik, her eyes wide with fright. He ignored her. His focus was now upon his wife.

"Come, Christine," he said, extending his elbow once again. "It is time to see you home."

Christine nodded and took his elbow. "Thank you for being here with me," she said, lovely voice strained with grief.

"I have nowhere else I would rather be than by your side."

She squeezed his elbow, laid her cheek upon his arm for a moment. "Let's go home," she said at last.

Later that night, she sat by the fireplace in her bedroom. With her permission, he drew out her father's violin and spun music upon it. He played sonatas he had heard Charles Daaé play in the city square before the man had grown too sick to continue. He played arrangements of his own songs that he knew Christine enjoyed. He spun out melodies overlapping into more melodies, his fingers creating an auditory testament to her father.

He stopped only after her head slumped to the side of the wingback chair, and her chest rose and fell with sleep that he had feared would be difficult to attain. Still he played, now a Swedish lullaby, drawing her deeper beneath consciousness.

He let the last note drift into silence, carefully cleaned the violin and placed it within its case. Then he picked up his beloved and laid her to rest in bed. With his knuckles he brushed aside the hair from her tear-dampened face. He settled into the chair to watch over her yet again.

Christine walked the paths of the garden, her black boots crunching lightly along the packed stone. She carried a pail looped over one arm, the bucket outfitted with her shears, thicker gloves, and other supplies. She smoothed the apron she wore so she did not dirty her mourning garb.

Since Papa had passed away, she had taken to wandering the expansive grounds of the estate, relishing in the fresh air and tending to the plants. Erik had given her leave to do with the gardens as she wished, so she trimmed them here and there, pruned off any dead branches, cleaned the walkways. During rainy days, she read gardening books that Erik brought for her, learning the correct ways to prune and plant.

She was… doing fine. With Erik's new attentiveness, her nights were filled with listening to his music or reading from books together. He had not touched her intimately since that night nearly two weeks ago, but his quiet presence had been far more what she had needed from him now.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders to ward off the chill of encroaching dusk. She was not quite ready to go inside yet, but it was almost too dark for her to see properly. When she stayed out too late, Erik came to find her. Usually she would be simply sitting upon one of the stone benches, gazing up at the brightening stars.

This place had become her sanctuary, so she was not prepared for a man to suddenly appear at the end of the row of hedges. He made his way toward her at an unhurried pace, and she straightened from where she had bent to pick up an errant leaf. He wore a tan traveling coat that fell just below his knees with darker brown trousers and crisp dark shoes that skittered upon the stone walkway.

Christine glanced at the gate. It was still closed and bolted, and she had no idea how the man had gotten into this garden short of scaling the high stone fence. He drew up closer, his gait casual, placing a walking cane next to him with each step.

"Good evening," he said, stopping before her.

"Good evening, monsieur."

He had emerald green eyes that gazed at her with easy warmth. He touched the brim of his hat politely. His dark hair was salted with gray as was his full beard that spread neatly from a strong nose and jaw.

"I am looking for the Voclain residence."

"You have found it," she replied.

He looked her over. "You are rather well-dressed for a gardener, even one that is willing to work so late in the day."

She flushed at that. She supposed she did look a mess with tendrils of hair escaping her hasty chignon and her apron stained with dirt. "One must do what is needed if one wants roses by spring," she said, trying to smile.

"My pardon," he said, touching his hat again. "I did not mean to offend. I was not expecting to find someone such as yourself here."

"Such as myself? What do you mean, monsieur?"

He scratched the end of his nose in a rather endearing gesture. "I have been traveling alone for quite some time. My manners elude me!" He extended his hand. "Monsieur Nadir Khan, at your service."

She cleaned her gloves on her apron, then took his offered hand. His grasp was strong but careful in how much pressure it exuded.

She introduced herself. "Madame Christine Voclain. I am the mistress here if you have need of something. I can also fetch my husband."

"Madame… Voclain?"

His eyes lost their warmth, pupils widening until they swallowed almost the entire iris. He dropped her hand and snatched up his cane, his grip tightening with so much force that his leather gloves squeaked in protest. His sudden change in demeanor did not seem directed toward her, his focus swinging upward to the house behind them.

A hiss rose up from his throat. "Erik!"

One moment he was there. And in the next, he was gone.

The Daroga arrives! I hope you are as thrilled as I am. :) I have been waiting forever to finally get to write him in. Now the fun truly begins.