Disclaimer : Do I have to keep doing this? Sheesh! Well..Uh..Firmin's new wife might be the only character that I can say I made myself. I'm trying to give Christine a voice, Susan Kay gave such depth to Erik-I just wish someone would do the same for Christine. She deserves a better background. : ( I will now attempt to go half arse at it. Any flames, are helpful, and any positive reviews and comments I will treasure.
Christine could not sleep, not accustomed to the forced silence or the prolonged exposure to the dark.
"Oh I can't take this!" She whimpered. "I must have something to pass the time or I'll go mad!" She kneaded her temples and sighed.
"Then tell me a story." Erik whispered, "Do you remember when you first spoke to the angel of music and told him everything?"
Christine laughed at the fading memory he had produced by just a sentence, a young woman wanting to be blessed in the angel of music-telling her angel everything (well, almost everything) out of sheer wonder. What a feeling it had been, such an exhilaration, to know that she was in the presence of an angel, something that did not happen to people, unless people from the bible. "How could I forget?"
"Would it be so hard to tell me a story now? Surely, it would be interesting to hear a story again. You owe me after all the Persian tales I told you."
Christine smiled at those nights when he told her all of those great legends, it was so much like her father's tales when she was a little girl-that she even put her head on his lap while he told them, letting his fingers run through her hair with adoration. She missed that soothing touch, the way he could put her at ease so quickly. She sighed out of pure joy at the memory. "What would you like to hear Erik?"
"A story of your childhood."
He had said it so quickly as if he had planned to ask about it sometime before and Christine panicked. If he asked about Raoul, she would surely burst into tears, not knowing what exactly to say. If she asked about her father, well-the loss of him was too dear and she surely could not go into detail about that right away. "But Erik, I surely have told you about my father-"
"I want to hear of your mother. It is most important you see, that you tell me. I have to know, Christine, why you have never spoke of her, like it was a dark secret." Erik sounded pained, remembering his mother. Surely she had not been treated the same way as he-for she had such a beautiful remembrance of her father-and he had assumed that her mother was someone Christine had never known-a horrible childbirth or some such.
"Oh! It was never a dark secret-her memory is so faded now, you see she died when I was just five or six years old, Erik. She did treat me well, but she was a firm and strict person, quite a bit different from my father who spoiled me.. Would you like to hear about how she met my father? Don`t worry, it`s a odd little story and you will love it." She smiled, hoping that helped cheer him up somewhat.
"Tell me everything Christine, for we have plenty of time-they are gathering up the courage to confront us, I can bet on it. " He said with a calming tone, even though the fear of such a battle was eating him alive. He had to keep Christine distracted, for her heart was a worrying one, and she would have a fit at the thought of it.
She shuddered at the thought of her friends killing her lover, the picture too violent for her to imagine, even in her most morbid thoughts. So she began her story. "My father was a man who could take on any trade he wanted. He was a carpenter, he repaired clocks and violins-but music was his first passion. His parents were long deceased, and he had inherited their home-so naturally village gossips wondered why he did not want a wife and did not court any of the women in the village. My father was an odd sort, he was always inventing this and that-he spent his time at home always concocting something. He would take his odd inventions to the fairs around where he lived and sell them, or play his violin for fun there. Often another musician would join him and a crowd would gather."
"My father was a nervous man, but there was nothing about him that would suggest he was undesirable. Even though he was about 30 years old at the time, he still had the features of a much younger man. I was told that he was quite handsome-he had unruly dark blonde hair and blue eyes. This recollection is one of the few things I remember that my mother told me. Well, the group of musicians at this fair had attracted quite a crowd, even though it was growing dark."
"It was then that someone requested from the band a familiar folk song, and my father began to play the tune, it had a sweet melody, one that had been composed in a time of famine. Then, from the group of people came my mother's voice, clean and pure-the crowd gasped..for the village she had came from had never heard her speak. She was a tiny, shy little woman, who had taken care of her mother until she had passed some months before. Considered a spinster, she never associated socially, least of all, a circle of friends that would be connected to my father." She smiled and took a huge breath, waiting for Erik to ask something, as he would, being the scientist and lover of history that he was.
"And, what was her name? And what about you?" Erik asked.
Christine shuddered at the thought of the one time she had asked Erik what his mother's name was. It was unbelievable how someone could hold in such love so tainted with hatred. Christine knew that Erik loved his mother more than he had ever loved anyone in his life-that he could never express it, for her to toss him aside. More than any other cruel thing that had been done to him, his mother's negligence and refusal to even care for the child properly made him bitter inside. For if his mother had shown one drop of pity, love for him would have been so much easier to accept.
Christine knew the story had to continue, but she didn't want to sadden him. Yet she knew this was inevitable that it would sadden her as well. She had never told anyone ever, that as a child she thought she had killed her mother.
"My mother's name was Elisabet. She had long curling dark hair and round blue eyes, and she was very petite and doll-like, despite her sternness. But that night she had a look of a young woman, and she joined the band of minstrels and began to sing the ballad with them. The people that had gathered to watch cried, my father said, because they were unused to such a pure sound. They had misjudged her and called her awful things because she did not socialize with others, even some of the younger girls of the village had called her a witch because she kept to herself and kept odd hours. "
"Well, of course my father was besotted from the moment he heard her sing, and asked if he could call on her when he had the chance to. My mother accepted on the spot, charmed by him and his kindness. They had a short engagement, for one he already had a home, and a way to make a living. There was nothing stopping them from marriage. A year or so, I was born, on All Hallows Eve. Now this did not help the gossip about my mother in the least, but she bore it. I stuck to my mother and my father who spoiled me. Children used to tease me when I would play with them."
"But some of the women in the village were good to my mother and they would bring their children to play with me. However, children are quick to pick up grownup's talk, more so than you would imagine for someone so young. Often children have imaginary friends, and of course I had mine. I would imagine my dolls were my friends.but young playmates used to tease me and say they were undead spirits. Little children love a story like that, to spook younger girls and boys. They say those who are born on All Hallows Eve never fully leave the spirit world behind and bring spirits with them. Of course, my mother dismissed it as pure fancy and wouldn't stand for it. Often some of the women never came back and freely gossiped behind her back that I was a trouble child."
"But my father loved me from the moment I was placed in his arms. He told me not to listen, for if I indeed was anything that dealt with spirits, I was an Angel, and that the angel of music would bless me, because he would know my heart. Of course there is more to that story. But I'm sure you've heard it."
Christine sighed and leaned into Erik, taking his arm and putting it around me. "Hold me, I can't bear it. I can't bear saying another word."
Erik put his arms shakily around her and laid his head on her shoulder and kissed her hair. "Why? What are you holding in?"
Christine could barely breathe. "I can't say it! I won't!"
"Dear little Christine.who in this world would I tell your secret! There was a time when, you would tell everything to your angel of music. If not for one minute, could you trust me to bear your confidence?"
"Very well Erik. I shall tell you what I've never told a soul. I was a good child, and it's a blessing that I didn't become a spoiled brat. My father would bring me special things, books, toys, music, anything my heart would desire. My mother would teach me to be grateful, to not take his generosity for granted. I knew I had a few more things than most of the children in the village, and it was a miracle that I was so humble and didn`t flaunt it. Well.one day of course my father brought home a canary and placed inside of a cage in the parlor. It was a beautiful bird with a green head and a yellow body. My father would pick me up and hold me while I fed him. Around this time my mother told me she was going to give me a brother or sister. My mother's health was waning, she often had to stay in bed for long periods of time, so I would sit there for hours staring at the bird while my father was away. If the bird was generous to sing it's tune, I would sing along, quite happily passing away the afternoons while my mother rested. One day.while she was resting, the bird ran out of food. I just knew it was hungry, and I couldn't wake my mother to get me the seed she had put up high on a shelf. So I planned to get it for myself and I got a chair from the dinner table and stood on it and put the seed in the cage. I also went outside and got some grasses that I thought the bird might like to eat, he was so hungry. He sung so beautifully and I fell asleep thinking he was singing to me because he was happy to have a full stomach at last."
"When I awoke I had my mother's face in front of me, screaming at the mess I had made, not only that I had made a mess, but that I had...killed the bird by overfeeding him. My father came home to her yelling at me over it. Of course I was only a child, I didn't know that feeding the bird certain types of grass would kill him. I couldn't even look into my mothers eyes. She was right, had I but waited to awaken, but it was a terrible lesson to learn and my young heart would not accept that the bird had died and it was my fault."
"My father yelled at her to stop scolding me like that, that I was a sensitive child and easily hurt. My Papa never fought with anyone, but to this day I can remember their shouting. It was that my mother wanted to do right by me and that she was so ill at the time. They say that women with child.why they act different and are quick to anger sometimes. She wasn't supposed to have another baby, I was a difficult birth, one that lasted days. It almost killed her. But she hungered for another child, she feared that I would be come spoilt and that it would be the best for me to have some siblings. And my father could not deny her innermost wish. Folly or not. Anyway, I hated their yelling so much, I threw a temper tantrum. They were surprised by my anger, it stopped them arguing immediately. `I hope you and the baby die just for spites sake'-I said, stomping as children do. My father made me swear I didn't mean it and sent me to bed."
"My mother tried very much to love me those last few days, petting me and fussing over me, but I was bitter inside. I was a child with a grudge. I was upset over the bird dying, and I wouldn't even pay attention to my father. "
"Of course the day came when my mother had my brother. I couldn't be sent anywhere so I was sent to my room, hearing her scream with the difficulty of labor..it was horrible. My father took me in his arms and held me, trying to cover my ears, but I could hear it all the same. Then the midwife who helped the doctor joyfully yelled at us to come and see, I had a little brother. I was never so happy to hear it and my Papa put me down and we ran both anxious to see what awaited us. I anticipated a chubby baby with dark curls and beautiful eyes, just like my dolls. When I finally was able to catch up, the doctor was outside the room and my father.my father was holding on to her so tightly. He was crying, at the time I thought it was tears of joy, but it wasn't. I stood at the foot of the bed and watched this curious bundle near her feet. The baby however..my brother. Oh Erik. Erik, he was dead. The doctor just shook his head as he tried his best to revive him, to breathe life into him, but the baby simply refused. By the time I came upon him he was wrapped inside a blanket, cold and still, but so beautiful. I was too young to understand that he was dead, I was only six, but something in me comprehended that he was peaceful. He had wispy black hair, just like mine and tiny hands and feet. I never thought in my life someone could be so tiny. I began to cry when I picked him up, no one told me not to. I tried to sing to him, to bring him back, to warm him, but alas, it was for nothing. My young heart did not know. "
"My father tried to tell me, but his heart broke seeing me smiling at the baby and me sitting in the chair, trying my best to will him to live. My mother was barely breathing.she died later on in the night of heart trouble. The birth had just been too hard on her, and the shock of seeing her dead child, I cannot begin to think of what a tragedy. For days after the funeral I couldn't sleep without my father there with me to hold me. I'd have nightmares that I wished them both dead and scream into the night. I'd have dreams of my brother opening his eyes and screaming that I had killed him, only for my father to wake me and realize that it was I was screeching. "
"I began to stay outside as much as possible, and I never spoke. The trauma was too much for me, too much for my mind-the only thing I would do is sing to myself in my mother's garden. I'd lay in the flowers and wish that I were in the ground, peaceful, silent-and still. My father came out of his grief and took me away from there. We sold everything in our little house and began to travel towards France. My Papa knew that he had a talent with violins and so he made them to pay our way towards Paris, music being my only solace. We did so many good things, saw so many beautiful things. But my father is another story, of course, and that part of my childhood without my mother was becoming happier each town we passed."
"So Erik, I have told you what I knew about my mother, a story. It has passed quite the space of time. However I told it to you, I'll never know, but you needed to hear it."
He nodded in the darkness as she reached for his hand and caressed it. He melted at the touch. "So sad my young love, your heart is so heavy."
She smiled, her tears glistening be hind her eyes. Sighing, she put his hand to her lips and kissed it softly. "No.for the first time my heart is whole and full, and it is full of love for you. I shall never be sad again. I have music, and I have you. With love and music.I truly will be what I was meant to. " She reached over and took her hand and put it underneath her chin, dragging his face until it was in front of hers. Then she kissed his poor misshapen lips until they yielded to hers, molded and fit her own. The heavenly joining of two souls, she thought when she deepened her kiss.
Later, when it was over, she rested her hand on his face, and grinned. "For the first time in my life, I can admit that I am happy. No matter what happens, I love you."
"And for the second time tonight, I can believe you." Erik said, putting his hands around her waist and drawing her close. "For the first time in my life, your story has made me whole."
Christine cried tears of joy at that..knowing that her promise to Erik was kept. She had made him whole. And that meant everything.
IT"S NOT FINISHED LOL Ok.review if you want, HERE IT IS KIKI!!! *HUGS* I've just been so down in the dumps lately : ( I know what it is, I just don't want to burden ya'll, hope everyone has had a decent winter (Mine SUCKED!) Review if you feel the need to, I promise not to give up on this story-no matter where it goes.
Christine could not sleep, not accustomed to the forced silence or the prolonged exposure to the dark.
"Oh I can't take this!" She whimpered. "I must have something to pass the time or I'll go mad!" She kneaded her temples and sighed.
"Then tell me a story." Erik whispered, "Do you remember when you first spoke to the angel of music and told him everything?"
Christine laughed at the fading memory he had produced by just a sentence, a young woman wanting to be blessed in the angel of music-telling her angel everything (well, almost everything) out of sheer wonder. What a feeling it had been, such an exhilaration, to know that she was in the presence of an angel, something that did not happen to people, unless people from the bible. "How could I forget?"
"Would it be so hard to tell me a story now? Surely, it would be interesting to hear a story again. You owe me after all the Persian tales I told you."
Christine smiled at those nights when he told her all of those great legends, it was so much like her father's tales when she was a little girl-that she even put her head on his lap while he told them, letting his fingers run through her hair with adoration. She missed that soothing touch, the way he could put her at ease so quickly. She sighed out of pure joy at the memory. "What would you like to hear Erik?"
"A story of your childhood."
He had said it so quickly as if he had planned to ask about it sometime before and Christine panicked. If he asked about Raoul, she would surely burst into tears, not knowing what exactly to say. If she asked about her father, well-the loss of him was too dear and she surely could not go into detail about that right away. "But Erik, I surely have told you about my father-"
"I want to hear of your mother. It is most important you see, that you tell me. I have to know, Christine, why you have never spoke of her, like it was a dark secret." Erik sounded pained, remembering his mother. Surely she had not been treated the same way as he-for she had such a beautiful remembrance of her father-and he had assumed that her mother was someone Christine had never known-a horrible childbirth or some such.
"Oh! It was never a dark secret-her memory is so faded now, you see she died when I was just five or six years old, Erik. She did treat me well, but she was a firm and strict person, quite a bit different from my father who spoiled me.. Would you like to hear about how she met my father? Don`t worry, it`s a odd little story and you will love it." She smiled, hoping that helped cheer him up somewhat.
"Tell me everything Christine, for we have plenty of time-they are gathering up the courage to confront us, I can bet on it. " He said with a calming tone, even though the fear of such a battle was eating him alive. He had to keep Christine distracted, for her heart was a worrying one, and she would have a fit at the thought of it.
She shuddered at the thought of her friends killing her lover, the picture too violent for her to imagine, even in her most morbid thoughts. So she began her story. "My father was a man who could take on any trade he wanted. He was a carpenter, he repaired clocks and violins-but music was his first passion. His parents were long deceased, and he had inherited their home-so naturally village gossips wondered why he did not want a wife and did not court any of the women in the village. My father was an odd sort, he was always inventing this and that-he spent his time at home always concocting something. He would take his odd inventions to the fairs around where he lived and sell them, or play his violin for fun there. Often another musician would join him and a crowd would gather."
"My father was a nervous man, but there was nothing about him that would suggest he was undesirable. Even though he was about 30 years old at the time, he still had the features of a much younger man. I was told that he was quite handsome-he had unruly dark blonde hair and blue eyes. This recollection is one of the few things I remember that my mother told me. Well, the group of musicians at this fair had attracted quite a crowd, even though it was growing dark."
"It was then that someone requested from the band a familiar folk song, and my father began to play the tune, it had a sweet melody, one that had been composed in a time of famine. Then, from the group of people came my mother's voice, clean and pure-the crowd gasped..for the village she had came from had never heard her speak. She was a tiny, shy little woman, who had taken care of her mother until she had passed some months before. Considered a spinster, she never associated socially, least of all, a circle of friends that would be connected to my father." She smiled and took a huge breath, waiting for Erik to ask something, as he would, being the scientist and lover of history that he was.
"And, what was her name? And what about you?" Erik asked.
Christine shuddered at the thought of the one time she had asked Erik what his mother's name was. It was unbelievable how someone could hold in such love so tainted with hatred. Christine knew that Erik loved his mother more than he had ever loved anyone in his life-that he could never express it, for her to toss him aside. More than any other cruel thing that had been done to him, his mother's negligence and refusal to even care for the child properly made him bitter inside. For if his mother had shown one drop of pity, love for him would have been so much easier to accept.
Christine knew the story had to continue, but she didn't want to sadden him. Yet she knew this was inevitable that it would sadden her as well. She had never told anyone ever, that as a child she thought she had killed her mother.
"My mother's name was Elisabet. She had long curling dark hair and round blue eyes, and she was very petite and doll-like, despite her sternness. But that night she had a look of a young woman, and she joined the band of minstrels and began to sing the ballad with them. The people that had gathered to watch cried, my father said, because they were unused to such a pure sound. They had misjudged her and called her awful things because she did not socialize with others, even some of the younger girls of the village had called her a witch because she kept to herself and kept odd hours. "
"Well, of course my father was besotted from the moment he heard her sing, and asked if he could call on her when he had the chance to. My mother accepted on the spot, charmed by him and his kindness. They had a short engagement, for one he already had a home, and a way to make a living. There was nothing stopping them from marriage. A year or so, I was born, on All Hallows Eve. Now this did not help the gossip about my mother in the least, but she bore it. I stuck to my mother and my father who spoiled me. Children used to tease me when I would play with them."
"But some of the women in the village were good to my mother and they would bring their children to play with me. However, children are quick to pick up grownup's talk, more so than you would imagine for someone so young. Often children have imaginary friends, and of course I had mine. I would imagine my dolls were my friends.but young playmates used to tease me and say they were undead spirits. Little children love a story like that, to spook younger girls and boys. They say those who are born on All Hallows Eve never fully leave the spirit world behind and bring spirits with them. Of course, my mother dismissed it as pure fancy and wouldn't stand for it. Often some of the women never came back and freely gossiped behind her back that I was a trouble child."
"But my father loved me from the moment I was placed in his arms. He told me not to listen, for if I indeed was anything that dealt with spirits, I was an Angel, and that the angel of music would bless me, because he would know my heart. Of course there is more to that story. But I'm sure you've heard it."
Christine sighed and leaned into Erik, taking his arm and putting it around me. "Hold me, I can't bear it. I can't bear saying another word."
Erik put his arms shakily around her and laid his head on her shoulder and kissed her hair. "Why? What are you holding in?"
Christine could barely breathe. "I can't say it! I won't!"
"Dear little Christine.who in this world would I tell your secret! There was a time when, you would tell everything to your angel of music. If not for one minute, could you trust me to bear your confidence?"
"Very well Erik. I shall tell you what I've never told a soul. I was a good child, and it's a blessing that I didn't become a spoiled brat. My father would bring me special things, books, toys, music, anything my heart would desire. My mother would teach me to be grateful, to not take his generosity for granted. I knew I had a few more things than most of the children in the village, and it was a miracle that I was so humble and didn`t flaunt it. Well.one day of course my father brought home a canary and placed inside of a cage in the parlor. It was a beautiful bird with a green head and a yellow body. My father would pick me up and hold me while I fed him. Around this time my mother told me she was going to give me a brother or sister. My mother's health was waning, she often had to stay in bed for long periods of time, so I would sit there for hours staring at the bird while my father was away. If the bird was generous to sing it's tune, I would sing along, quite happily passing away the afternoons while my mother rested. One day.while she was resting, the bird ran out of food. I just knew it was hungry, and I couldn't wake my mother to get me the seed she had put up high on a shelf. So I planned to get it for myself and I got a chair from the dinner table and stood on it and put the seed in the cage. I also went outside and got some grasses that I thought the bird might like to eat, he was so hungry. He sung so beautifully and I fell asleep thinking he was singing to me because he was happy to have a full stomach at last."
"When I awoke I had my mother's face in front of me, screaming at the mess I had made, not only that I had made a mess, but that I had...killed the bird by overfeeding him. My father came home to her yelling at me over it. Of course I was only a child, I didn't know that feeding the bird certain types of grass would kill him. I couldn't even look into my mothers eyes. She was right, had I but waited to awaken, but it was a terrible lesson to learn and my young heart would not accept that the bird had died and it was my fault."
"My father yelled at her to stop scolding me like that, that I was a sensitive child and easily hurt. My Papa never fought with anyone, but to this day I can remember their shouting. It was that my mother wanted to do right by me and that she was so ill at the time. They say that women with child.why they act different and are quick to anger sometimes. She wasn't supposed to have another baby, I was a difficult birth, one that lasted days. It almost killed her. But she hungered for another child, she feared that I would be come spoilt and that it would be the best for me to have some siblings. And my father could not deny her innermost wish. Folly or not. Anyway, I hated their yelling so much, I threw a temper tantrum. They were surprised by my anger, it stopped them arguing immediately. `I hope you and the baby die just for spites sake'-I said, stomping as children do. My father made me swear I didn't mean it and sent me to bed."
"My mother tried very much to love me those last few days, petting me and fussing over me, but I was bitter inside. I was a child with a grudge. I was upset over the bird dying, and I wouldn't even pay attention to my father. "
"Of course the day came when my mother had my brother. I couldn't be sent anywhere so I was sent to my room, hearing her scream with the difficulty of labor..it was horrible. My father took me in his arms and held me, trying to cover my ears, but I could hear it all the same. Then the midwife who helped the doctor joyfully yelled at us to come and see, I had a little brother. I was never so happy to hear it and my Papa put me down and we ran both anxious to see what awaited us. I anticipated a chubby baby with dark curls and beautiful eyes, just like my dolls. When I finally was able to catch up, the doctor was outside the room and my father.my father was holding on to her so tightly. He was crying, at the time I thought it was tears of joy, but it wasn't. I stood at the foot of the bed and watched this curious bundle near her feet. The baby however..my brother. Oh Erik. Erik, he was dead. The doctor just shook his head as he tried his best to revive him, to breathe life into him, but the baby simply refused. By the time I came upon him he was wrapped inside a blanket, cold and still, but so beautiful. I was too young to understand that he was dead, I was only six, but something in me comprehended that he was peaceful. He had wispy black hair, just like mine and tiny hands and feet. I never thought in my life someone could be so tiny. I began to cry when I picked him up, no one told me not to. I tried to sing to him, to bring him back, to warm him, but alas, it was for nothing. My young heart did not know. "
"My father tried to tell me, but his heart broke seeing me smiling at the baby and me sitting in the chair, trying my best to will him to live. My mother was barely breathing.she died later on in the night of heart trouble. The birth had just been too hard on her, and the shock of seeing her dead child, I cannot begin to think of what a tragedy. For days after the funeral I couldn't sleep without my father there with me to hold me. I'd have nightmares that I wished them both dead and scream into the night. I'd have dreams of my brother opening his eyes and screaming that I had killed him, only for my father to wake me and realize that it was I was screeching. "
"I began to stay outside as much as possible, and I never spoke. The trauma was too much for me, too much for my mind-the only thing I would do is sing to myself in my mother's garden. I'd lay in the flowers and wish that I were in the ground, peaceful, silent-and still. My father came out of his grief and took me away from there. We sold everything in our little house and began to travel towards France. My Papa knew that he had a talent with violins and so he made them to pay our way towards Paris, music being my only solace. We did so many good things, saw so many beautiful things. But my father is another story, of course, and that part of my childhood without my mother was becoming happier each town we passed."
"So Erik, I have told you what I knew about my mother, a story. It has passed quite the space of time. However I told it to you, I'll never know, but you needed to hear it."
He nodded in the darkness as she reached for his hand and caressed it. He melted at the touch. "So sad my young love, your heart is so heavy."
She smiled, her tears glistening be hind her eyes. Sighing, she put his hand to her lips and kissed it softly. "No.for the first time my heart is whole and full, and it is full of love for you. I shall never be sad again. I have music, and I have you. With love and music.I truly will be what I was meant to. " She reached over and took her hand and put it underneath her chin, dragging his face until it was in front of hers. Then she kissed his poor misshapen lips until they yielded to hers, molded and fit her own. The heavenly joining of two souls, she thought when she deepened her kiss.
Later, when it was over, she rested her hand on his face, and grinned. "For the first time in my life, I can admit that I am happy. No matter what happens, I love you."
"And for the second time tonight, I can believe you." Erik said, putting his hands around her waist and drawing her close. "For the first time in my life, your story has made me whole."
Christine cried tears of joy at that..knowing that her promise to Erik was kept. She had made him whole. And that meant everything.
IT"S NOT FINISHED LOL Ok.review if you want, HERE IT IS KIKI!!! *HUGS* I've just been so down in the dumps lately : ( I know what it is, I just don't want to burden ya'll, hope everyone has had a decent winter (Mine SUCKED!) Review if you feel the need to, I promise not to give up on this story-no matter where it goes.