A/N – And so here it is: the end.
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everyone who offered help, advice, beating with obvious-sticks, and beta-reading (you know who you are); and especially to my darling Steph for constant support, advice and pressure for updates!
For all E/C fans everywhere – lots of love to you all. :)
Not long after moving to Carthau, Christine had secured herself a place in the church choir, and although Erik remained yet overprotective of her health, several weeks after her indisposition, he finally judged her well enough to resume attendance at rehearsals.
It was a cold day in November that Erik finally spied her returning through the fields, her breath smoking in the crisp country air. Rehearsal must have run long, he guessed, and although he had been irritated by her absence – or perhaps, he grudgingly admitted, by the knot of concern that tightened his throat whenever she was late – he could not suppress the joyful thrill of love that rose in him as he watched her running like a child across the field.
He poured her tea from the pot he had been keeping warm and carried it into the sitting room for her.
"Erik, I have the most wonderful news!" She danced exuberantly into the room and planted a kiss on his cheek in greeting. He smiled indulgently and handed her her favourite china cup, patterned with botanically dubious blue and pink forget-me-nots.
"Sit down; drink your tea. You must be exhausted."
"Oh, I'm far too excited to sit!"
Erik laughed gently.
"Tell me your news then."
She reached out and clasped his hand, her eyes flashing with joy. He smiled and folded his hands around her own, looking into her eyes.
"Erik … we're going to have a baby."
The expression in Erik's eyes changed. He stood up abruptly and walked away from her.
"Christine, that isn't funny."
"Funny – no, Erik, it's wonderful!" She stood uncertainly, and reached out to touch his shoulder, confused and hurt by his attitude. "Aren't you pleased?"
He turned to look at her, and the expression in his eyes almost brought her to her knees.
"Christine, please tell me that this is an extremely tasteless joke."
"Erik –"
"Oh, dear God." He turned and sat down abruptly on the divan, covering his face with his hands.
Christine gazed at him, stricken. "What's the matter? I thought you would be pleased … as happy as I am …" Her voice caught on tears, and she turned her face quickly away, curving her arm around her stomach.
Erik saw the unconscious gesture, and felt sick. How could he have allowed this to happen?
"Happy?" He could not conceive of her failing to understand him so badly. "Christine, can't you see … what if …?" His voice faltered, and he passed a hand distractedly through his hair. "How can you not see?"
"Oh, Erik, it doesn't matter how our child looks –"
"Doesn't matter?" Christine was taken aback by the sudden depth of rage in his voice. "My God, Christine! How can you say such a heartless …" he rose from the divan, evidently struggling for words, "wicked thing? Of course it matters – do you believe that I would ever allow a child – any child, let alone one born of you – to live my life again?"
He sat down heavily on the divan, breathing raggedly, his head in his hands. Christine wanted desperately to go to him and put her arms around him, but such was the furious grief that surrounded him that she did not dare.
He looked up at her, and the expression in his eyes terrified her more than anything she could have imagined.
"I warn you now, Christine, if it looks like me I'll break its neck myself!"
"Erik!" Christine was weeping, her arms clutched around her stomach. "No –" She reached out desperately for him, but he threw her hands away and whirled away from her.
"Don't touch me!"
Christine cowered, terrified. Erik was standing at the mantelpiece, his head braced on his hands, his shoulders heaving. It took her a minute to realise that he was crying.
She took a step towards him and pressed her face against his back, her heart softening.
"Shh …" she murmured, stroking his back and shoulders. "It's all right …"
She heard him give one gulping sob and then he turned, pulling her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, clinging to her.
"Christine …" His arms tightened around her. "I can't …"
"My love …" She shook her head, smoothing her hands over his head, stroking his hair. She could feel his difficulty in breathing, and pulled at the straps of the mask, tugging it away so that he could breathe without its constraint. She felt him shudder and hide his face in her hair.
"Shh … my love, my love, it's all right. Shh."
She could feel him trembling beneath her hands. They sank to the floor, and stayed there for a long time, Christine gently stroking his hair and face, kissing his fingertips.
When at last Erik helped Christine to her feet, he held her to him for a moment and kissed her as though his heart were breaking.
Christine's confinement was the hardest thing she had ever had to endure. She experienced heavy nausea and intense pain that frequently confined her to her bed; and although Erik was solicitous in his customary adoration, she could not forget the sudden flash of horrified anguish in his eyes when he had first come across her on one of her less good days and realised that he might not only lose his child should it be born with his curse, but his wife as well.
He withdrew into himself, and no matter how Christine tried, she could not induce him to open up to her. Although he was courteous and attentive as ever, he shrank away from her touch, and ceased coming to her bed to talk with her late at night.
For eight months, Erik and Christine lived in daily terror: Erik terrified lest he should lose everything he had ever wanted so soon after he had so miraculously attained it, Christine dreading the day of delivery in case Erik should carry out his threat to dispose of the baby should it be born with his scars.
Christine did not recognise the depths of Erik's despair until the fine cool morning in early spring when she and Meg decided to take a walk to the neighbouring village out of sheer boredom: Christine was beginning to realise that there seemed very little to do in her small cottage without the fire of Erik's personality to distract her.
By the time they reached the village, Christine was beginning to feel the effects of the exercise, and Meg, nervously solicitous as ever, insisted that she should sit down. They ventured into the small village church – and Christine stopped abruptly.
A figure, clad all in black, holding a fedora in one hand, was engaged in conversation with the priest, moving one elegant hand in eloquent emphasis to his words.
Christine caught Meg by the arm and pulled her back behind a pillar, indicating that her little friend should hold her tongue.
"Christine –"
"Hush!"
Meg subsided into silence, and Christine watched breathlessly as Erik concluded his conversation with the priest and turned to take his leave: the priest reached out and touched his sleeve. Christine recognised, even from a distance, Erik's instinctive recoil, but the man did not seem discouraged: he pressed Erik's hand and spoke some words at which Erik nodded slowly. Christine recognised the words "Thank you" on his lips; he inclined his head in a graceful gesture of respect and walked away, replacing the fedora on his head.
Meg, alarmed by her friend's frozen posture, grasped Christine's suddenly cold hand, and spoke her name, but Christine ignored her and rushed forward to the priest, who had paused by a hanging basket to admire the early spring blooms beginning to show tentative colours in the sunlight.
"Father!"
The priest glanced up, and smiled. "Good morning, my child. What can I do for you?"
"You must forgive my asking, but … the gentleman who was just speaking to you … does he come here often?"
The priest smiled fondly and tucked a stray flower back among the others. "He is here every day now." Beside her, Christine felt Meg gasp, and she stepped hurriedly on her foot to prevent her from speaking. The priest continued, oblivious. "He comes here every morning to pray. His wife is not well … I believe he is very worried about her." The priest smiled sadly. "I pray every day that here he can find the guidance he needs in God."
Christine closed her eyes, feeling weak. How she loved him; the thought that he had been so frantic with worry that he had turned to God made her feel that suddenly she understood his distant attitude these past months.
She was aware of Meg thanking the priest and ushering her out into the sunshine, concerned by her sudden pallor. Once outside, Christine's little friend rounded on her.
"Christine, are you all right?"
Christine, blinking back unexpected tears that were born of an emotion utterly removed from sorrow, nodded and suddenly smiled. "Oh, Meg," she whispered.
Meg touched her hair gently. "Do you want to go home?"
Christine nodded.
The two girls reached the stile at the other end of the field that led to Christine's little cottage, and Meg was just opening the gate for her friend when they saw Erik emerge from the cottage, distress visible in his posture even from across the field. They hurried towards him; and as he caught sight of them, Christine recognised her own name on his lips.
"Christine." He was at her side in a moment, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her face into his shoulder. "Thank God. I thought …" She felt his arms tighten around her. "Don't ever do that again."
Christine turned her face to rest on his chest. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "We thought we would be back before you were."
Meg shuffled her feet in the background. "I … think I had better be going," she mumbled awkwardly. "Armand will be wondering where I am."
Christine blew her friend a kiss, and Meg smiled and scampered off. Even after all this time, there yet remained about her the lingering vestiges of her old discomfort around Erik. Christine looked back at Erik, and he released her, stepping away from her, evidently embarrassed by his display of emotion.
"I brought the wool you wanted," he told her flatly, making a gesture towards the cottage. "I'll go in and start the fire." He began to walk away from her.
"Erik …"
He turned back to her, alarm registering in his voice. "Are you all right?"
She nodded slowly. "Erik …" She reached out, and he took her hand cautiously, his eyes wary. "Erik, please talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."
She could sense him withdrawing, felt him release her fingers. "I'm afraid I don't follow you, my dear."
Christine looked up into his eyes. "Meg and I walked over to the next village this morning," she said softly, and saw alarm flash in his eyes. "We went into the church …"
He turned away from her abruptly. Her voice followed him.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He turned, very slowly, to look at her. "It is cold for you out here," he observed in a low voice. "I think it would be more judicious to continue this conversation inside."
Christine held out her arm, and he took it after a moment's hesitation and guided her inside.
Christine sat down in the armchair and drew her feet up under her, watching as Erik knelt to light the fire. He took an unusually long time, and she realised that he was trying to avoid the conversation.
She spoke. "Erik?"
He looked up slowly, and she was horrified to see the same hunted look in his eyes that he had worn after their first disastrous performance of Don Juan Triumphant. Was this truly what their marriage had become?
"Please," she gestured to the empty spot on the sofa beside her. "Come and sit here next to me."
He did so, reluctantly, and Christine reached out and took his hand.
"Would it help if I told you that I love you?" she asked, and she saw Erik's head go up sharply at her unexpected opening. "Because I do."
Erik closed his eyes, and for a moment Christine was sure that he was going to cry.
"I know that you do." His voice was flat and unyielding.
Christine waited. "I wish that you would tell me you love me too," she whispered, when it became apparent that he was not intending to continue. "Unless …" her heart nearly stopped at the possibility, "unless of course … you don't love me anymore …"
Erik was silent, and Christine closed her eyes in despair.
"Is that what this is all about, then?" she asked in a voice rough with tears. "After everything … you've just decided you don't love me anymore?" She stood up hastily, the tears falling fast now. She could hear her voice shrilling as she scrabbled desperately – and vainly – for composure. "I won't let you, do you hear me? You must love me … I won't let you go!"
Christine took a step fast away from him and stumbled on the rough edge of the carpet, falling to her knees. She heard him rise with alarm behind her, and began to sob in earnest, covering her face with her hands. And when she felt his arms around her, turning her to face him, she thought her heart might break.
She fought his restraining arms, beating ineffectively on his chest with little hands made weak by hysteria.
"Don't touch me …" she sobbed desperately, twisting away from his arms. "I hate you … I hate you!"
His arms enfolded her, tight and restraining, pulling her up close against him as he made small shushing noises into her hair.
"Shh …"
She collapsed into his arms, sobbing weakly. "I hate you … I hate you …"
"Shh …" She felt his fingers smoothing out the tangles in her dark hair. "I know. I know. Shh …"
She cried until she could cry no more, and then she lay, exhausted, in his arms. As she felt his breath stir her hair, and felt his fingers stroke tenderly along her shoulders, she knew that she could not live without him.
"Don't leave me," she whispered at last, her reservoir of words and tears both run dry.
She felt his laughter ruffle through her hair. "No, my love."
"Promise me."
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her wedding ring. "I thought I already had."
Christine lay limp and exhausted in his arms, turning her face towards his chest. They stayed there for a long time, and Christine found herself drifting off to sleep in his arms as she had so many times before.
It was not until he believed her asleep that Erik brushed her hair away from her ear and whispered, "I do love you, you know."
She shifted restlessly in his arms, and he sighed. He rose slowly, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a doll, and carried her into her room.
Christine awoke in her own bed the next morning, the sunlight spilling through the window to dapple her pillow.
Erik had cooked her breakfast, and she ate it more to please him than through hunger. He watched her eat, taking nothing himself other than a cup of strong black coffee, and once she had finished and he had wordlessly cleared the table, he took her hand with the chivalrously old-fashioned formality that never failed to wring her heart, and led her into the morning room.
Christine sat down in her armchair, drawing her legs up under herself, momentarily appreciating the sunlight that poured through the window to light the room and caught Erik's mask, transforming it – just for a moment – into dazzling white.
Erik himself remained standing, and she did not press him to sit, knowing how he employed movement to dispel agitation he could not express in words.
He spoke at last.
"I feel the time has come to ask your forgiveness. I … have not been the support to you in this time that I should; and I have come to fear that such strength as you need is not within my power to give."
Christine leaned forward to protest, but he shook his head.
"Please – let me finish." Having said this, however, words seemed to fail him, and he passed his hand through his hair several times as his agitation threatened to get the better of him.
At last, he turned back to her, all formality gone from his mien.
"I do not know how I can begin to explain it to you other than to say that … oh, Christine, I am so afraid."
Christine leaned forward and took his hand, pressing her lips to his palm, wordlessly offering her love even as she did not interrupt. He smiled bleakly at her.
"Perhaps I can only explain by dredging up the past. You must remember how long I loved you even before I dared approach you." Christine blushed, still embarrassed by reminders of his longstanding devotion, but he continued regardless. "It is – what? – eight years now? And never to have known your love … to have spent all my time pining after what could never be attained; that was one thing. But to have held your love; to have heard you sing first thing in the morning, to have been able to touch your hair on the pillow while you slept; to have known you loved me …" His voice faltered. "Tell me, Christine, how am I to bear that loss?"
Christine could not speak. Only now did she realise how cruel fate had been to him: to have tempted him with her love, with the promise of a life together, only to threaten to snatch it all away from him, leaving him in isolation made more unbearable than ever by his brief taste of sunshine.
"Oh, Erik …" She pressed his hand, and still he did not look up. "I take care of myself." She laughed. "Lord knows I hardly need to, you treat me as though I were the child myself! And the doctor says –"
"Christine."
Christine stopped speaking and looked into his eyes.
"Listen to me. The doctor is, for once, quite correct: if we follow the midwife's instructions, the physical danger to you is no greater than to any woman. But Christine …" He withdrew his hands from hers as though her touch caused him extreme pain. "You recall what I said I would do if the child wears my face."
She looked away, tears rising in her eyes, but he caught her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him. "Yes, you remember. And should it come to that – for I will do it, my dear, never doubt of that – you will never forgive me for it." He released her, bitterness seeping into his voice. "Although God knows it would be a kindness greater than any other Christian soul on this mortal plane would show such a child."
Christine could not look at him. Her arm curled protectively around her stomach, in which lay the child she already loved, and her body shook with sobs.
"And so you see." He was standing now, and his voice sounded distant, as though she had already lost him.
"God would not be so cruel," she whispered.
"My dear," his voice breathed over laughter like the rustling of dead autumn leaves, "I pray that it may be so."
Erik and Christine did not have much longer to endure the mounting tension: two weeks later, Erik, whose temper was growing increasingly short through the stress of unbearable and constant anxiety, was seated at his desk writing a viciously-worded letter to the agent who still operated in Paris on his behalf when a breathless messenger wearing the St Cyr livery rapped on the door and handed over a single sheet of thick, expensive writing paper bearing what Erik recognised as St Cyr's scrawling hand.
The note was only one line, but it was sufficient to chill his blood even as he snatched his cloak and hat and seized the messenger's horse before the boy had time to protest.
It has begun. We dare not move her; come at once.
St. Cyr.
St Cyr met him at the door. He held out his hand, but Erik was far too distracted to recognise the gesture, and strode into the hall, leaving the Marquis to follow him.
"Where is she?"
St Cyr did not appear to resent the slight; it was likely that he had suffered some measure of Erik's anxiety himself over the past few hours. He passed a hand through his hair, which was dishevelled enough to suggest he had repeated that nervous gesture more than once that afternoon, and replied:
"Upstairs; Meg is with her. It is all over –"
But Erik, already mounting the stairs two at a time, barely registered the latter part of the sentence.
He could hear Meg's soft voice as soon as he reached the landing, and pushed open the door to the darkened chamber with sudden apprehensive hesitation.
His eyes adjusted swiftly to the half-light, and he crossed the room in two strides to kneel at his wife's side. She turned her face into the strip of light patterning her pillow, and raised one hand weakly to gesture across the room. He turned to see a cradle and rose as if in a dream to walk towards it.
He barely even heard the midwife's words, "It's a girl" as he drew the blanket away from the astonishingly small bundle.
He gasped, and heard the soft exhalation of breath from his wife that told him that through her exhaustion she was laughing.
Tears rose unexpectedly to his eyes, and he reached out to touch skin smooth and pure as marble, barely trusting the feeble evidence of his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg usher the midwife from the room and follow her out, closing the door silently behind them. He stared at the tiny, fragile creature lying before him a moment longer before turning to Christine.
She was pale and the dark circles that lay like bruises beneath her eyes spoke of her exhaustion, but as he stepped forward and took the hand that she wearily extended to him, he had never loved her better. He pressed her fingers to his lips and reached out to touch her face. She smiled wanly.
Neither spoke: words were insufficient.
It was the gurgling of the baby that broke the silence; and as Erik blinked back unexpected tears, his eyes met Christine's, and he saw a single tear run down her cheek.
He touched her face, and they both smiled.
Six months later
Erik awoke in the still-heavy darkness of early morning to feel Christine stirring beside him.
"Mmm …" Sleepily, he rubbed his face in her hair. "Where are you going?"
She brushed a kiss against his temple. "Rose is crying."
Suddenly he was awake. "I'll go to her."
Christine sank gratefully back into the blankets, watching her husband pad silently out of the room, wrapping a robe around himself. A moment later, the crying ceased, and she could hear Erik's voice, soft and soothing, pass through the walls. She lay back and smiled. Erik adored their daughter. She suspected that, ever assailed by doubt and memories of his own unhappy childhood, his love for Rose was born partly of his desire to make reparation for wrongs of the past, a determination that no other child should ever suffer as he had.
She shouldn't have been surprised, really: he loved children, she had learned. It had not been until some months after their marriage – and even then only by a chance discovery of an unfiled document, for Erik remained yet unwilling to admit altruism – that she learned quite how much local charities for poor relief, and especially for the care of children, benefited from his generosity.
Although he remained uncomfortable around adults, and was easy only around their most immediate society – although he was learning, gradually, to relinquish his lingering resentment for St Cyr – Christine, observing him with children, realised that he was exceptionally good with them. They, of course, were captivated (much as Christine herself had been, she reflected wryly) by his ethereal voice and the lithe magic in his hands; but it was the genuine affection and easy, gentle tenderness with which Erik handled them that astonished her.
She had asked him once why he, who professed to so despise all humankind, so clearly adored children, with their noisy chatter and the padding of small feet and hands on floor and furniture. In response, he had laughed, and kissed her hair.
"When you know there are monsters under the bed, those in the real world suddenly do not seem so frightening."
His voice was light, but Christine understood, and tightened her grip on his hand – just for a moment – under the table.
In the nursery, Erik carefully laid his daughter back in the crib, stroking her thin, fluffy hair gently. She stirred slightly, but did not wake, and Erik smiled. He had never believed that he would be able to love anyone as he loved Christine; indeed, during their long separation, he had tried so hard to ensure that he would never love anyone again! He had so long denied just how dear Christine was to him; and now he frequently felt he might cry with joy at her presence.
And yet here, sleeping peacefully in her white crib, was the evidence that love came in more forms than he had ever dreamed of.
He rose silently, careful not to wake his daughter, and slipped back into his own room. Christine was curled up with the blanket drawn up close around her shoulders, her hair a fluffy, uncontrollable cloud that frequently escaped into his face while he was sleeping. He smiled unconsciously. He wouldn't change it, though; not a thing. Sometimes he felt he must be dreaming; but never, even in the deepest dreams that he had kept locked safely within the most secret chambers of his heart, had he ever imagined this. Never could he have constructed such transcendental happiness; never, if he was honest with himself, had he ever truly believed that life would one day be worth living.
Silently, he slipped into bed beside his wife, and carefully extracted from her hand the book that she had evidently been reading before falling asleep. He glanced at the title: Cyrano de Bergerac. He laughed, very softly, and blew out the candle flickering on her bedside table.
Erik settled down to sleep, turning his face towards the pillow and drawing the blanket up around his shoulders, careful not to disturb his wife.
"Erik?"
He smiled. "You little beast. I thought you were asleep."
"Mmm." She snuggled up against him, nuzzling her face against his chest, one arm stealing around his waist. Erik kissed her hair and carefully covered her with the blanket, closing his eyes.
"Erik?"
He opened his eyes reluctantly. "Sometimes I wonder whether you or Rose robs me of the more sleep."
She smiled sleepily, rubbing her face against his shoulder.
"Erik?" she repeated.
"Yes, my love?" Erik acquiesced, giving in to her persistence.
"I love you."
Erik kissed her forehead in reply.
They lay together in the dark, Erik stroking his wife's shoulders tenderly and smoothing his fingers through her hair until he felt her loosen against him and her breathing slow into sleep.
As dawn broke over the thatched roof of their cottage, pricks of sunlight piercing the cracks in the curtains, Erik stirred and stretched. Christine lay beside him, still asleep, her face hidden by her cloud of hair. He smiled and drew the blanket up over her shoulders to protect her from the cool morning air.
Erik rose silently, and went downstairs. He opened the curtains and stood still for a very long time, gazing into the glorious radiance of the morning sunshine flooding over the meadow behind the cottage. Marguerite wound herself around his legs, and he gathered her into his arms and stroked her behind the ears, listening to her rapturous purring mingling with the song of a lark somewhere in the meadow.
"Good morning."
He looked around, startled, and his face broke into a smile. Christine stood in the doorway, her hair tousled and loose over her shoulders. She was cradling Rose, wrapped in a soft white blanket, in her arms. He dropped Marguerite gently to the floor, and walked towards his wife.
"You're up early," he remarked, moving to kiss her in greeting.
She smiled. "Someone woke me up when they thoughtlessly left me all by myself!"
His face crinkled in contrition. "Oh, Christine, I'm sorry … I hadn't meant –"
She stopped his apologies with a kiss. "I'm teasing you." She touched the baby's face lightly. "Rose was crying. And it's such a beautiful day … far too nice to be asleep, really."
She had crossed the kitchen to stand by the window, gazing out into the glorious brightness of the first true morning of spring, clasping Rose close to her. Erik watched her for a moment, offering a silent prayer of wordless thanks for his unimaginable good fortune.
He stepped to her and slipped his arm around her waist, touching the baby in her arms tenderly on the forehead with his left hand. Christine lifted her head to look at him, and her face broke into a smile.
Erik felt Marguerite rub up against his legs, and heard her purr contentedly as she settled down to sleep, wound around his ankles. His arm tightened around his wife's waist, and as she reached up to kiss him, he heard the church bells begin to ring across the fields in the next village.
Rebirth; resurrection; forgiveness … it must have been a sign.
He bent to kiss his wife, and they both laughed as Rose gurgled in her arms. It was a good day for the christening of the newest member of their family.
:FIN:
