(a/n) Hey guys! My reviewers I adore you! You keep me going, some of you have literally been egging me on in the last week, lol, but it helps so keep it up.
This chapter has exhausted me, fluff and what not. Speaking of, this has become mature, I was unsure about taking the plunge and I tried looking up rules but couldn't find any. So I upped the rating, and hope that will do.
If I disappear you will know its because they kicked me off, but I can still be found at Aria. The address for my fic at Aria is in my profile as always. Actually now this chapter is different at Aria. I was afraid it was too explicit here, I guess I'm just too used to reading fics at Aria which is full of this kind of content. Anyway, the end of the chapter is still mature and its beginning is marked by a warning. Christine: warning.
Well go to it::drops chapter in reader's laps and flees:(a/n)
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Christine
Once at the door Erik disengaged his arm from mine, bending gracefully to retrieve something from the ground. When he rose, he handed it to me, and I saw it was a box of candles.
"Did you bring these with you?" I asked
"Yes, if we plan to see anything in detail, we will need far more light than just two candles can provide," he replied, his eyes glinting, and I knew he was making a veiled reference to my secret.
"Of course," I answered casually, refusing to be drawn.
Erik held my gaze for just a moment before turning to look at the door; its cleverly concealed catch had protected him in the past, now the rusty lock might keep us out.
I held the box as Erik's hands deftly examined the door's mechanism.
The door had not escaped the mob's violence and my attempts to fix it had been clumsy at best. As a result the catch had been difficult even nine years ago. Now I feared it would be downright impossible, but I knew that Erik's nimble fingers could accomplish wonders.
Sure enough, in a few minutes the lock sprung with a satisfying click, and the door's protesting hinges condescended to slowly swing open.
As I gazed into the gaping darkness the door revealed, more than ever I felt as if I was staring into the past, as if all I had to do was step through that doorway and time would fall away.
I closed my eyes, and in depths of my mind I could hear the strains of the organ, the haunting words of Don Juan Triumphant.
The voice of my memory called me to the present with a mundane request for the box of candles, and my eyes snapped open, my face instantly flushing.
Thankfully the cover of darkness hid me from Erik's discerning gaze as he looked questioningly at me from inside the door. How easily he had entered that portal!
I saw that he was holding a candelabra in one hand, cobwebs gruesomely stretched out between the arms. I gave a little shudder at the sight, reminded that the house no doubt contained many of the little creatures that I loathed. How I hated spiders!
"Christine, will you set the candles into the candelabra?" Erik requested patiently.
Eying the cobwebs nervously, I bravely assented, took a deep breath, and stepped into the house with Erik. Unsurprisingly nothing changed. There, I told myself, nothing to merit all this fuss.
I fitted out the candelabra appropriately, and Erik lit all the candles, the added light immediately revealing the shining threads of even more cobwebs.
I mentally decided that I needed to find another candelabra, not only for more light, but because I refused to be dependant on Erik for my light. I did, after all, still have a mission to complete. I set the box of candles down onto the same hall table Erik must have retrieved the candelabra from, when I did find another candelabra retrieving the candles would be an excellent excuse to leave Erik.
Then I looked up, and saw that Erik was offering me his hand, the other holding the candelabra high, his mask glinting in the candlelight, and his black cloak flowing smoothly down from his broad shoulders. In a flash I was sixteen again, a mesmerized girl ready to trust her Angel of Music.
With a little sigh I placed my hand within his, only now he did not lead, but we walked side by side, fingers clasped as we traveled through the shadows of our past.
We walked silently through the rooms, each caught up in our own reflections. Our footsteps echoed through the dining room, and kitchen, through the parlor, and into the library.
Only there did we stop, our minds resting in the room that held so many memories—so many tender recollections, and so much pain. My eyes floated over the fireplace, the books, and the settee in succession. I remembered Erik reading to me, his voice soothing and hypnotizing, lulling me into a timeless state where only his voice had existed. Almost at the same time we turned to look at each other, and my mouth opened of its own accord, "I remember . . . you reading to me Erik, how much I loved the sound of your voice!"
"I remember . . ," he answered, his brow lowering, "I knew my voice to be my only attraction."
"Oh, not your only attraction Erik!" I exclaimed, sounding unnaturally loud in the silence, and I lowered it, trailing off into a silence, "only one of your attractions . . ."
His hand tightened over mine, his gaze glowing warm upon my face, but his eyes also held some bitter reflections, and I knew he was thinking that surely if I had felt that way, our romance would not have been doomed.
There was still so much left unsaid between us, still so much left to explain, but I found that after nine years of hiding my emotions, of sealing my deepest thoughts into the cellar of my soul, revealing those very same things did not come easily.
We both lapsed into silence again, and as I surveyed the room my eyes rested upon the little pile of unused envelopes coated with dust on the desk. My heart gave a little start at the sight, and although I knew they were not my letters the alarm suddenly made finding those letters of the utmost import.
I looked about for an answer, and seeing another candelabra on a table near the side of the room, I said softly, calmly, "Oh, another candelabra Erik, I should light that one too."
"If you wish," he replied, and I could detect no suspicion in his voice. "We left the candles in the hall, I will have to go back. Here, I will just take one of these lighted candles."
"No, it's alright," I said, trying to sound nonchalant, "I can go."
He made no protest, merely handing me the candle, and I wondered if I was being too blatant. Erik had an uncanny ability of detecting a plot on the barest of hints. Oh well, I could but try.
I returned to the hall quickly, intent on my purpose now. I replaced all the old candles, and then, my heart pounding, made my way to Erik's old bedroom. The door was not closed and I entered slowly. Once inside, I pushed the door it until only a crack was left open—I was wary of actually shutting it and enclosing myself in the darkness of the room. I then turned and looked before me.
There was the coffin, closed, just as I had left it, lying in all its grotesque glory beneath the black canopy.
Timidly I approached the coffin and knelt before it, setting the candelabra down on the floor. Taking a deep breath, I placed my fingertips beneath the lid, pulling up, but there were no results. I put more strength into it, straining hard to pull it up. Suddenly it gave and slid off a little, revealing the barely illuminated outlines of envelopes within.
I glanced apprehensively over my shoulder. What was I going to do now? I had only focused on getting to the letters before he did! The possibility that he would look into the coffin if he came here alone had been a risk I could not take, but perhaps I could find a place to put them where he would not look and then I could return at a more opportune moment.
I had no time, however, to find such a hiding place, I saw a glimmer of light shine through the door and I knew Erik was coming.
Swiftly I ran round to the other side and pushed the lid back onto the coffin, managing to stand up just before the door swung open.
I tried to look as if I was just taking in my surroundings, as if I had no special purpose in being here, but I knew my secretive method of coming here was bound to look suspicious.
"Ah, there you my dear," Erik said in a chiding tone, "It was not very considerate of you to come here without telling me, I could have been worried."
"I'm sorry," I said, "I just wanted to see it, to think about the past you know."
"I see," he replied, his voice bland, he looked around for a moment, then said, "I think, I think I should look into the coffin, how morbid that thing is, but then it suited my mood when I lived down here. I was as good as dead."
"I don't know Erik, perhaps it would be better if you didn't, I mean there is no need to reflect on such things."
"Isn't that what you were just doing? Don't worry my dear, I shall be fine."
With that he moved toward the coffin, and in a desperate attempt to prevent him from opening it I practically threw myself on top of it—my legs straddling its form, my skirt riding up my thighs.
"No Erik!" I shouted, "You shouldn't!"
Briefly I wondered if he had known what he was doing all along, and as he answered me, his voice amused, I had my answer.
"So your secret lies in the coffin does it? Are you hiding a body my dear? You should know that I would be the last person to be shocked by such a thing. I am hardly a stranger to death."
I glared at him a moment, and then answered defiantly, "Yes, I didn't want to tell you before, but I killed a man and hid his body down here in the coffin. We really shouldn't open it now, after all, the smell if bound to be atrocious, and I for one have no desire to view a rotted body."
"Oh I think I should look, my fascination for death is insatiable you know, and you can always avert your eyes," he said softly, his voice still light, but with a note of steel underlying all the amusement.
Still I did not move, frozen in place, as I could think of nothing else to do to prevent this moment.
"If you won't move my dear, I shall just have to help you up," Erik said, advancing on me.
His large hands swiftly wrapped around my waist and in one powerful movement he had lifted my struggling form up and off the coffin.
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Erik
As I set Christine down on the floor, she glared at me, and I longed to kiss away her frown. My hands lingered on the contours of her waist, but this was not the time for such thoughts.
I would not be distracted from my purpose now.
I turned toward the coffin, and Christine made no move to stop me. No doubt she knew I would win any battle of strength, although I would never hurt her.
I stopped just before it and turned to her, "Why don't you just tell me what is in here Christine?"
She bit her lip, and her posture seemed relax just a bit, as if the fight was draining from her, "It hardly matters now, you shall see for yourself soon enough," she replied with a little sigh.
I put my fingers beneath the lid of the coffin, ready to remove it, and felt a brief shiver of apprehension. I really could not imagine what she felt she had to hide from me.
The lid slid off with a mournful grating sound, revealing . . . envelopes? I picked up a candelabra and held it over the coffin just to make sure. I had not been mistaken, those truly were envelopes nestled in the lining of the coffin.
Had Christine written all these? I turned my head, "Letters Christine?"
She nodded her head ever so slightly, and seemed about to speak, but hesitated.
In that minute thoughts crowded my head. What could be in those letters that would make Christine so desperate to keep them from me? Suddenly I felt sick at imagined possibilities. Suppose she had hated me after what that man had done to her and written to tell me so! Or perhaps she had regretted leaving the Vicomte and these were all letters declaring her love for him.
Thankfully Christine spoke, "Erik, look at who those letters are addressed to."
I reached in and picked up several, dust flying up into the light from the candelabra. The paper felt brittle to my fingers, and the ink on the envelopes was faded, but that faded ink all said the same thing: Erik.
"I wrote all of those letters to you Erik, I . . . had no one to talk to when I was living down here, so instead I put all my feelings, all my experiences down on paper. There is nothing in there that you do not already know, I swear. At one time I imagined you might find them some day, but I never imagined you would find me first."
"But Christine, I don't understand why you don't want me to read them?"
"Oh Erik, I just didn't want to dredge up the past. It was one thing to tell you what happened, but I didn't want to revisit that time in all its painful detail. I didn't want you to see it either. I just feel like it would be pointless and foolish, harmful even, to revive such horrible memories. I want to put all of that behind me, it should remain sealed up in that coffin like the dead thing it is."
"Christine it's not dead! Can't you see that it still haunts me? Besides, now I need to read this letters, to know what they contain, can't you tell that unless I do so I will never cease to wonder just what you wrote? Christine trust me, if all is as you say, only good can come of this."
Both of us were silent for just a second, and I could sense Christine's indecision, I repeated myself softly, pleading with her, "Trust me."
Finally she replied, her voice uncertain at first but then gaining in confidence, "All right . . . but I would have your trust in return. I . . . I want you take off your mask Erik, if am to bare my soul to you, the least you can do is trust me in the same manner. Erik I want to see your face while you read these letters."
Take off my mask! My heart beat quickened as I looked at her. Christine had not seen my face uncovered since . . . since that dreadful day, the night we had parted for nine years. She thought she didn't care, but nine years is a long time, she could not possibly remember the full impact of my distorted visage, memory fades in time. I did not want to reveal it to her and once again see the horror and disgust in her face.
I wanted to refuse, but at the same time I knew that this was a test of our relationship. I would have to reveal my face to her at some time if we were to ever truly trust each other. I was asking Christine to let me see her pain in all its raw detail, and showing her my face in all its raw detail was, I supposed, a fair exchange.
Besides, at least I was not baring my face to the harsh light of day, but rather the more gentle and forgiving candlelight.
Still watching me, Christine whispered, "Trust me," her pleading words echoing my own.
Slowly I replied, the words rusty in my mouth, "I agree, I will take off my mask."
I could hear the swift intake of her breath, and her eyes rested upon my face expectantly.
I closed my eyes, unable to watch her face as my fingers tentatively grasped the side of the mask, before pulling it off in one swift movement. I heard nothing in response but Christine's regular breath, and just as I was working up the courage to open my eyes I felt warm breath upon my malformed cheek, and then soft lips. After that I could not open my eyes—so exquisite was the sensation I felt upon that moment. An intense combination of longing, disbelief, and happiness twisted almost painfully in the core of my being and I felt a tear seep out of one eyelid.
Christine's lips finished their exploration of my skin, and moving to my lips, clung there for just a moment in a tender kiss.
Then she knelt back, and I opened my eyes to stare straight into her own, my tears mirrored in her eyes. I reached forward and gently wiped a tear off her cheek with my thumb. Neither of us spoke, but no words were needed.
I steadied myself, focusing on the task at hand, the reading of the letters. I turned and pulled them all out of the coffin, and they scattered in a tumbled mass on the floor. With a frown I realized I would not know where to start and raised my questioning face up to Christine.
"Here," she said leaning over to look at them, "I think after a while I started dating the envelopes themselves, only the first few should be undated."
As she rifled through the pile, still I wondered at her response to my face, glorying in her tender kisses, but almost more in the way she now she acted—as if it did not even exist, as if the right side of my face was just as perfectly formed as the left.
She isolated a few letters and began to open them, looking at the dates, until she came to one that she pulled out. She began reading and I could hear her breathing quicken, then abruptly she thrust the letter at me.
"Here, this is the first, I think it might actually be better if you read them first, then I won't be tempted to stop you."
I accepted the letter and settled down to read, adjusting the candelabras to cast their full light upon the words.
My Dearest Erik,
I hardly know how to start. Erik, I made a terrible mistake, I should never have left you. My only excuse is my confusion. My angel, you shocked and frightened me. After the death of Buquet I hardly knew what to believe. This was not the gentle, kind angel whom I had known before. I never loved Raoul as I love you, only as a sweet friend, but he seemed so safe and I allowed him to comfort me with childish promises of summertime and never-ending truth. I regretted it afterwards, but by then I didn't know how to approach you. I felt trapped in a downward spiral of both our making. Only there at the end did I see my chance, there it no longer mattered what I had believed before. When I kissed you I knew I loved you, and that I could never be happy with Raoul. Even as I write this I can barely stop myself from scribbling those words all over the paper. I love you! I love you! I love you!
Reading these words I felt a cacophony of emotions that melded into such an intensely bittersweet mixture that I could almost taste it in my mouth. Oh the words were sweet, a balm to wounds that I had carried for so very long, but mostly I was bitter, very bitter at what we had been denied, and I knew this is what Christine had not wanted me to feel.
I could feel her gaze upon me and she murmured, "I was so very young . . . so very young."
I knew it, and I knew that had handled her very badly, but then, I had been young too—young in the ways of love.
I resumed reading, composing myself, for surely the worst was yet to come.
I returned to you my angel, the very next day, but you were gone. Still you are not here, but I am waiting. I wait for you . . .
She wrote on telling me about her activities, and even those mundane details wrenched my soul for I knew what it was like to throw myself feverishly into activity in order to forget, to block out reality.
When I was done with one letter, Christine handed me the next, and I saw that it was dated more than two weeks after the first.
Erik,
Something horrible has happened. At first I swore I would never tell anyone, that I would die and take my secret to the grave with me, but life is unmerciful and continues on. I find I need to tell someone about this, and even though writing a letter is a poor substitute, it is perhaps all I am brave enough to attempt.
A man has forced himself upon me. There I have written it. I can hardly believe that terrible event can be captured in one small sentence. It was terrible and surreal all at the same time. At the time much of it seemed a nightmare, and even now I wish that it would prove to be so, but I cannot deceive myself—it definitely happened. When I think about it I feel lost, I feel robbed, something that I was supposed to keep sacred for my husband has been taken away from me, and what decent man would want me now? I just want to stay buried down here in your house forever. All the outside world holds for me now is a life of pain and the looming threat of a life on the streets. Shall I become a whore?
At this point on the paper the word whore was blurred by tear marks and felt my own eyes grow wet, silently weeping with the Christine of the past.
Yet in the end it may be a choice between that or death, and every day death becomes a more welcome thought. It has not come that yet, however, and thanks to your money I allow myself the smallest ration of hope. Most days I do not even think on my future, I prefer to put it out of my mind. I allow myself to think back to that time when you first brought me to your house, when you read to me, talked to me, and played for me. I admit, I was naïve at the time, I did not understand many of your feelings, but I still remember it as one of the happiest times of my life . . . .
I read on, though letter after letter, some happier than others, some filled with black despair.
. . . today I thought I heard your voice calling to me Erik, I thought I heard it coming from the water, I must have some sanity left to me yet because I did not follow that siren call into the depths of the lake. But I called to you, over and over again. I knew when you did not answer that it was just my deluded imagination . . .
Towards the end the letters grew calmer, but it was an eerie calm, as if Christine lived in a numb daze, and if I had not known that she was sitting here beside me sane and alive I would have been frightened for her.
. . . the potatoes are growing moldy, but I find that I have grown accustomed to their taste. Now I might find that fresh potatoes taste rather strange. How funny that I should be reflecting on the taste of potatoes, but I would much rather think about potatoes than other things . . .
. . . I have been reading your books Erik, I read today about traveling to Egypt, about the pyramids and the great desert. Did you see all those things Erik? I know you have been to the East, how I loved the stories you told me of those rosy hours in Persia. Perhaps one day I shall do go there . . .
Then the letter I had been waiting for came: the last one.
Darling Erik,
I have made a discovery. I have suspected now for some time, but I did not wish to think of it so I did not even write about my suspicions in my letters to you. I believe I am pregnant. How ironic that I, who am barely strong enough to survive on my own, should now be responsible for another life. I have been thinking about this for some time now, it has been days since I first decided that my pregnancy was certain and at first I despaired. I was selfish, but I always have been. I have always depended on someone else, I see that now. Only when I started to actually think about the little life within me did I regain my strength.
To know that a small being is growing within you is a wondrous thought, and I am determined that I shall not fail this child. I cannot hate it, at first I wanted to, I wanted to despise its very existence because of what it means, and because of its father. But I cannot. Instead I find a fierce protectiveness growing within me, and I begin to think that I would do anything for this child. It is so strange. Strength rises up within me that I never even knew I possessed. I have been living in a daze, but this child has jolted me awake. Not only must I survive for this child, but I must live, I can no longer merely exist from day to day as if there is no future. I have to think, to plan, to act, and because of this I have decided to look for Madame Giry. She is the only person that I can think to go to. So tomorrow I shall set out to look for her. If I do not find her I suppose that I shall return here, but if I do find her, this may be my last letter to you.
Erik, I almost feel as if by leaving your house I am leaving you forever. As if you were not already gone. I shall leave these letters in the coffin, and perhaps one day you shall find them. If you do I want you to know that loved you, that I accepted you. I accept all of you, your face, your body, your soul. I love you even now. I do not think I will ever stop loving you. I know that you must hate me now since you cannot know how I love you. You cannot know that I came back to you. Yet still I hope that sometimes you think of me, think of me fondly.
Forever yours,
Christine
Tears were flowing freely down my cheeks now and I looked up to see that Christine was crying silently as well. Our eyes locked and the letter fluttered to the ground.
Simultaneously our fingers stretched out to one another, and I grasped her hands tightly, pulling her into my lap in one fluid moment. I needed to feel her warm form against me, to know that the past was really the past, that Christine was with me here and now, that she was actually real.
I gazed down at her for just a second, fascinated by the desire evident in her bright eyes, and in those molten orbs I did not see my deformed face, but instead for a moment I thought I could see perfection.
I felt deep emotion swell within me, wonder, happiness, and an all-consuming desire.
Fiercely I lowered my head and claimed her lips.
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Christine: warning
Erik's lips descended to mine, masterful, powerful and demanding, and I very willingly yielded my lips to him.
We had kissed before, but this was unlike all the other times, now more than ever Erik wad completely in control, and I gloried in it. Too long I had practiced my skilled charms on men, forever in control of the situation, but now I wanted Erik to be master of the situation. I merely wanted to follow.
Erik's lips gentled, his kisses becoming long and lingering, and he drew every one like a thirsty man taking long draughts of sweet water.
"Christine," he whispered, before kissing the tender spot just before my ear, his warm touch making my skin tingle, "Christine, my darling Christine."
My heart swelled to hear his endearments, just as my body reacted to the feel of his mouth as he moved down the arch my throat, his hands warm on my shoulders.
Before I knew it his hands were at my back, unfastening my gown and as it fell to my waist, cold air rushed to meet the bare skin that was revealed. Only briefly did I wonder where he had become so adept before I became aware of Erik's molten gaze upon my body.
As he gazed down at me, I fought the urge to blush. Never had I cared what a man thought of me so much as I cared for Erik's opinion. "So beautiful," he breathed softly, before lowering his head to pick up the trail he left off, pressing warm kisses along my throat, my collar bone, and down to the very top of gently rising flesh.
My hands rested on his shoulders, taut in anticipation as I waited for his mouth to reach its inevitable goal.
I could feel his warm breath upon my breasts, and he began to tease me relentlessly, his mouth nipping and sucking until the heat in my belly coiled unmercifully, and my hands began to move, and finding all the layers that separated me from Erik, I groaned, "God, I want you Erik."
As perceptive as ever, he quickly understood my meaning and with a regretful look, he allowed me to rise, and followed me, swiftly unfastening his cloak and laying it on the ground.
His fingers were upon his cravat, and he looked like he was about to start undressing, but he paused as his eyes fastened upon me in my dimly lit state of undress.
"Christine, I would see all of you," he half requested, half demanded in a gravely voice.
At his request I felt strange flutters of nervousness in my stomach.
I had undressed for gentlemen many times before, but this was different, this was Erik. Unaccustomed shyness colored my cheeks, but I finished undoing my gown and stepped out the skirt. Then I proceeded to pull down my petticoats, my stockings and finally my bloomers.
I forced myself to stand proudly before him, even though my thoughts reminded me that I was not as perfect as I had been at sixteen.
"God you are exquisite," Erik practically growled, and I could see the passion flare even brighter in his golden eyes. He moved forward and kissed me again, his lips hot and urgent, his hands roaming all over my body.
Erik's breathing was coming quick and fast, and he pulled away from me ever so slightly to shrug off his coat, his hands moving to his cravat, but I stopped him, craving the privilege of undressing him.
"Here, let me."
My fingers pulled at his cravat, gently unknotting and removing it, kissing the bare skin it revealed. Then I turned my attention to his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it, pressing a kiss to his muscled chest after each succeeding button slipped out of its hole. I could feel him tremble beneath my mouth, and I felt a heady rush of power, I loved that I had this effect on Erik and the knowledge that he could easily turn the tables on me.
As my fingers reached the last button his shirt slid off, revealing his broad chest. I reveled in the strength and power of it, and I longed to explore its expanse, but my gaze was drawn downward to his erection straining within the confines of his pants and knew that I would have to save that for a another time.
My fingers reached for his pants, and I heard him draw in a quick breath. The buttons were released from their moorings and as Erik's pants fell to the floor releasing him.
I saw the flames of passion blazing in his eyes just before his head descended for mine, delivering a mind numbing kiss. His hands lowered to my bottom, grasped its curved roundness and pressing me against him.
Then Erik lifted me up, and simultaneously wrapped my legs around him, our mouths and tongues still moving together in a frenzy we fell together upon the cloak in a tangle of limbs.
Erik entered me suddenly, swift and true, and I moaned my pleasure. Soon our bodies found a rhythm and we rode upon the waves of our passion until we both erupted in mutual bliss.
Erik collapsed upon me, and I was happy to feel the weight of him laying upon me—in no hurry for him to leave me. But he knew he was heavy, and soon he drew out of me, rolling both of us over so that his form engulfed me in warmth.
And there we lay, our passion finally sated as it should have been in this very house so many years ago.
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(a/n)Ach, well there is my attempt at some lovin'. I hope you guys liked it::whisper: review . . . (a/n)
