Breaking the Curse
Chapter 3: The Resolution
He remembered her. She could tell; the spark of recognition flared in his eyes and showed in the tone of his voice. "Christine," he said again. He swallowed painfully. "It's true."
"Yes." Her voice was flat.
"It's all true," he repeated in wonder, never taking his eyes off her.
"It's all true," she confirmed. She backed up a step. "Are—are you going to kill me now?"
He shook his head, more in confusion than negation. "Considering our history, I should be asking you that."
"What… what is this, then? Are we reincarnations? Time travellers? What are we?"
"Destined for each other," Erik replied softly. He shook his head once, firmly, and bent to put away his violin again. "We're reincarnations, I suspect, as I can remember every minute of my life to date—and it's only been twenty-four years. But…" He looked down at his own hands in distaste. "I can remember all the murders, too."
"So what happened? Why is it different this time?" Christine pressed.
"I don't know. The deal was that Old Scratchwould own my soul for as long as my music lasted, so maybe you broke the cycleor something. This is my real face, though; I've never worn a mask, nor needed one, in this life at least. I've certainly never killed anyone, although I did carefully plan out the murder of my first violin teacher when I was eight."
Taut with nervous tension, Christine was forced to smile. "I had a vocal coach like that, too."
"You sing beautifully."
"Thank you; you play very well."
"That's what he said."
"Who?"
"Him. Old Scratch, when he burned off my face. He told me that if I gave him my soul, I'd always be remembered for my music. As long as my music survived, he would own me."
"I'll bet that's it," Christine said thoughtfully.
"That's what?"
"I destroyed your music last time, Erik. I ripped up the printouts, drowned the floppy disk, and killed you in your own house. Then I went home and burned up your manuscript that I had used to practice with. I don't think there are even any copies still kicking around. Your music didn't survive, so maybe he doesn't own you anymore."
"Huh."
"Yeah."
"That'd be nice. I used to like to go to church when I was a kid. Be kind of pointless to do that, if the devil already owned my soul."
"True."
"One thing I don't understand, though. How could you have killed me and destroyed my music just a few days ago? Were there two Erik Destlers, who both composed the same melodies? How could that have happened?"
Christine shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe my destroying your music rewrote history or something. I somehow doubt whether there could have been two of you at the same time. Oh, and plus you said you hadn't written any words for yours yet."
"Hmm. Kinda deep, huh? Confusing."
"Yeah." There was a long pause, and then Christine asked, "So what do we do now?
"I don't know. Wait, yes I do." He grinned at her, green eyes sparkling in the light from the streetlamps. "Since in this incarnation I don't appear to be psychopathic, majorly deformed, or a serial killer, this might be a good time to ask you if you're seeing anyone."
"Uh, no," Christine blurted out in shock. "Not right now."
"Then how about this idea: How about if you and I start over, pretend we don't have this terrifying and sanguineous past together, and you let me take you out to dinner tomorrow evening?"
Christine shrugged, revisited by her earlier thought of why put off the inevitable? "Okay. That sounds like a good idea."
Erik smiled and offered her his arm as they left the gazebo and started back toward the busy streets. "Good. And if we notice any signs of history repeating itself, we can take steps to prevent it."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for instance, if my face starts rotting off, or if I start killing everyone who doesn't like your singing—even though they'd deserve it—or if I start experimenting a little too much with my cooking recipes…"
He grinned, and Christine felt a bit of a laugh bubble up and out of her before she could stop it. "If you serve me up Carlotta's-head-soup, I'm gonna get miffed with you."
"No Carlotta's-head-soup," he said, crossing his heart. "I swear it. As I was saying, though, if you see me doing something weird, that gives you déjà-vu, you have my full permission to knock me off me again. Maybe I'll have learned better by the next time around."
"I'm hoping that we'll find out your curse is broken, and that we'll be allowed to finish out this round, actually."
He nodded. "That'd be nice. We've never been allowed to finish the story before."
Christine scoffed. "Yeah, but somehow, 'and the beautiful young ingénue gave in and ended up spending her days with the maggot-faced spawn of the devil, and they both lived hellishly ever after' just doesn't seem as romantic as it could."
He chuckled. "I was right; you do have a descriptive way with words. But I have a better ending for the story."
"What's that?"
"How about 'and the beautiful, talented singer and the man with the haunted past were finally able to break their cycle of torment; they found love together, and finished out their days living as normal people do.' Is that better?"
"It is. But you forgot the part about the two of them making music together that the world would never forget."
"No, I didn't," Erik said soberly. "I think I've learned my lesson about wanting my music to be immortal." He stopped suddenly, and took Christine's hand, bending over it to touch his lips to her knuckles. "I remember telling you that only love and music are forever. I chose music last time, and it damned me for centuries. Given the option, I choose love this time, and the music can go to hell."
Drawn by his inexplicable appeal, just as she always had been before, Christine reached up and touched the (real!) skin of his face. "Then I choose love as well."
Erik's green eyes darkened with emotion. "Christine! Do you mean it?" His grip tightened on hers in his intensity, and his black ring cut into her fingers a little.
"Erik, your ring," Christine protested… and then stopped, staring.
Erik caught her gaze and looked down at his hand.
His black ring was melting, shrivelling up until it was little more than a silver threadaround his finger. Then it it broke of its own accord and what was left of it fell into the glass.
"That was it, Christine," Erik told her quietly. "That was the symbol of Old Nick owning my soul. It's gone. I'm free."
Christine looked up at him with a smile, and tucked her arm through his again. On an impulse, she reached up and kissed his cheek. "Then we really can start over now."
Erik set down his violin case and turned toward Christine, taking both her hands in his. He lowered his lips to hers, a brief caress of their mouths. "Hello," he said, simply. "My name is Erik Destler."
"Hi, Erik," Christine replied. "I'm Christine." And she slipped her arms up around his neck, and felt his arms come around her in return, and she knew. This was where she belonged. After so many violent, tumultuous lifetimes, they had finally come home to each other to start afresh.
Bet no one thought it was possible to make Robert Englund's Erik fluffy! But hey, in that piano-playing scene, he already was; I just took that characterization and ran with it.
Edited since its initial posting to clarify one or two things.
Comments are always welcome. Thanks for reading.