A/N

Thank you, Tiffany! Without you, this would have been impossible to write. Everyone give her one huge round of applause, for helping me make such an excellent Christine!

Don't worry, folks--she'll be here for several more chapters, if all goes well, making my writing actually have a little flavor, for a time.

The Madman's Desperate Love—Part Two

Trembling limbs barely supported his weight as he crouched, hidden, in the shadows and the cold. A small window was above and to the right of him; the light from within filtered through its thick panes, weakly attempting to chase the night and its demons away—but one demon prevailed, the demon who was once so fondly referred to as an angel. This demon's limbs were numb from waiting for hours in the cold northern night. Old advice traced its way through his mind, to wiggle toes and stomp feet; it seemed like nothing more than a cruel joke now, for how could one wiggle something that one had no cognizance of possessing?

On his rushed departure from Africa, he had not considered the weather in Europe—had not considered much at all, actually—and had, as a result, brought only what he would have worn on the estate. Upon arriving in a late-autumnal Europe, his folly had been realized, but too late, and thus had he begun to freeze. He had frozen throughout the entire autumn and winter, been granted brief respite in the spring and summer, and now been launched back into the cold once more. Africa had spoiled him, with her hot weather, and the manor-house had as well, for its temperature was always well-maintained and kept comfortable. He could not recall feeling even slightly chilled, other than upon stepping from cooling bathwater or some other such minor nuisance.

Ironically, the only warming clothing he had kept had been gloves, and those he had discarded of quickly, for the purpose of allowing hands to go numb with cold, for they had pained him enough that it was judged more convenient to not know of their existence. He certainly did not wish for feeling to return to his hands, for he knew it would only give him the ability to feel their pain once more, but in order to complete his plans for this night, he would need them—and thus did he begin to blow on them, and rub them carefully together.

He had never allowed them to properly heal from their confrontation with the mirror. Unlike the scars coating the rest of his body, which had now become mere ghosts, his hands were still as gnarled and marred as if the incident had occurred only weeks ago—when, in truth, it had been only a little under two years. The first few crucial healing months had been spent mercilessly composing—which, of course, had granted the hands no rest whatsoever—and the remainder of his time since the mirror had been equally hard on the appendages, for he had been traveling Europe searching desperately for Christine.

And now, all his efforts, all his pains, all his patience, had been rewarded.

When his hands had been sufficiently heated, he withdrew the only item he had thought to bring with him upon his departure from Africa, when he had fled nearly a year ago: his violin. Deft fingers tuned the instrument, though it was with no small amount of pain. Quietly, he plucked the strings, to assure himself they were in tune—and, upon discerning that they were, he raised the instrument into position. The bow was set to rest upon the strings—and, as it was, he gritted his teeth at the fiery pain that the movement inspired in his hands. With nothing more than a clenched jaw to reveal his discomfort, he stood, to place himself and the instrument directly next to the little window, so that she who dwelled within would surely hear.

With no further ado, he began the Resurrection of Lazarus.

A quiet groan of appreciation accompanied the slow descent into the chair by the fire. Christine felt as if her every bone ached; not a muscle, not a ligament, not a thread of her being escaped the pain, though the thick cushions of the antique mahogany rocking chair—a sort of wedding gift granted to she and Raoul, years back—offered some relief. Thick candles, placed in strategic spots, were the only things to light the room other than the dying fire next to her chair. She wriggled her toes against the soft crimson, gold-fringed rug that lay beneath her feet, relishing in the sensation.

The sound of tumbling wood clashed against her weary senses, and she turned her head—only to be rewarded by a sharp rebellion of neck muscles. A soft cry escaped her lips, drawing the attention of the wood-tumbler in question: a blue-eyed, curly-blonde-haired cherub seated upon the nearby floor.

"Mama? Are you alright?" he asked, in response to that murmur of pain; she nodded her head carefully, and one chocolate curl bounced against her cheek. It had somehow escaped the black ribbon that had tamed the rest of her hair; with a slight frown, she raised a hand to tuck it behind one dainty ear.

The child—Benedict, her oldest—did not quite look convinced; but, with the attention span of a seven year old, it did not take long for him to return his attention to the amusements at hand.

He looked quite a lot like his father, and even to look upon him pained Christine. She missed Raoul, so very much; her strong, golden-haired husband had taken his leave of them for the time being, to visit his sister, as he so often did. Christine had taken to allowing, with very little pleading, for Benedict and his younger brother, Levi, to sleep in her bed while their father was gone; without the warmth, without the fair curls to shimmer in the moonlight streaming in through her bedroom window, she felt too terribly alone with the night—and even now, even after all those years, if she were left alone, she felt as if she were actually not at all alone: she felt as if he was there.

So lost in her sorrowful musings about her husband's absence, she failed to recognize the violin's hiss until Benedict had called it to her attention. "Mama," he uttered, "what is that sound?" Her days at the Opéra Populaire, though long over, had nonetheless supplied her with the ability to discern the difference between instruments; that it was a violin was not at all in doubt. She stood, though it pained her to do so, and Benedict rushed to her side to grab hold of her skirt with a grip of iron. The violin's song continued unerringly. The melody...

"Benedict, my darling..." She took hold of his hand, and gently drew him towards her chair. Fear was forced from her mind, from her eyes, as she spoke to him, for her own concern would do nothing to comfort him. "Mama wishes for you to sit for a moment."

Her little angel immediately climbed within the chair and seated himself, though the slightest pout was beginning to form on his chubby face; he knew as well as any adult when he was being snubbed.

Legs aching with every step, she lifted a candle and migrated to the window that seemed to allow the violin admittance to their little haven of peace. The flame, however, only further impaired view of the outside; with a huff, the candle was set aside, and her hands and face pressed to the glass—though she was uncertain of whether she truly wished to see what specter had chosen to grace their home with his refrain. That debate ended quickly, however—only darkness and milky moonlight, reflecting off the early snows, was granted to her vision.

And then, the music began to dissipate. It did not quiet, so much as move away from the window. "Mais non! Mon pere!" Her hands pressed flat against the glass in urgency, before using that vantage-point to shove her away and towards the door. Rushed steps carried her nearly into the snow, before Benedict occurred to her; she spun, mouth ajar, as she groped for the correct words.

"Benedict... Mama must take leave for a brief moment; stay within the walls of the house. If Levi should awake, please attend to him." Again, motion urged her towards the exterior, and again she paused, to fling back within the confines: "I love you, Benedict."

Outside, the night was frigid. The curls of the glacial air whipped about her exposed limbs and made its descent in coils about her legs, easily slipping beneath the confines of her fragile skirts. Bare feet carried her down the stone steps and into the snow; the ice beneath her feet went almost unnoticed, so urgent was she to discover that tune. Its melody was hauntingly familiar, tugging at her heart and mind with an urgency she found herself incapable of resisting. She eased her way through the yard with delicate steps, entering finally the bare expanse of side-yard which the violin's purr still inhabited.

The notes twined their way into her ears, into her mind, and lodged themselves there where she found them to be inescapable—as was the memory! Her mind screamed, and her mouth mimicked the action, "Papa!"

Pain and aching wrapped their fingers around her limbs, as nature's inclement torturing took its toll. Her blood felt as if it had crystallized... but then, invisible notes caressed her pains, covering them with affectionate kisses before rocking them into silent slumber—or perhaps her body had finally succumbed to the dangerous numbness that lured so many to their deaths. Soothing, enrapturing, frightening—her pulse frenzied with a hushed beat and a wash of unexpected, cherished warmth.

A blanched hand, so cold that it felt inhuman, was pressed to her heaving chest. The music was haunting and arousing, as was the voice which nipped the tails of the last fading hiss of string upon string. The furious glacial wind snatched away those last notes and tossed them about before finishing them off, much like a piece of brittle driftwood bobbing about the hungry waves of murky water, before being wholly consumed.

Her mind went numb as thoroughly as had those bare limbs, and she came to an abrupt halt, as if the cold had snared her to the snow-feathered ground. That reaction—paralyzing fear, mixed with undeniable yearning—could have been provoked by only one being, and that she was well aware of. As if the thought had summoned him, he stepped from the shadow and into the feeble light cast from the window—and what a sight!

The violin and its bow hung, dejected, from fingers that appeared barely able to keep hold of them. His hair, once so finely cared for, was splayed in every direction, mutilated by the fingers of the north wind. Even in the dark could she see the haggardness of his form; that jawline, once so powerful, seemed no longer to be near as prominent. She supposed that could be contributed largely to the thick stubble of hair now crowning the left cheek and jaw. And he seemed tired, unbelievably tired; he was not nearly the suffocating, dangerous presence she recalled from Paris, and instinct told her that he would be even more of a mess than he had been in London.

Her eyes met his unnatural gaze, as his voice again reached out to her, vibrating her very soul with its yearning intensity. "Christine...?" She doubted that he questioned her identity, imagined that he was, rather, questioning her intent.

His eyes bored into her own, and then... and then the raging of memories began, memories that had not plagued her in London. The stagnant air of the depths of the Opéra Populaire easily replaced the crisp, frigid northern wind. Her soles perched not upon snow, but stony ground, and inky shadows curled around her with no light at all to speak of. She half-expected to hear the trickle of lapping waves upon the hidden shoreline.

Anger simmered in the frozen confines of her body—the abduction! The lies! They seemed horribly recent—as did the danger he once embodied, and still did. But as hurriedly as her feminine rage annoyed her thoughts, as a stubborn, curious child would tug upon the lapels of her skirts, so did she completely dismiss them as memories. They scampered past, showing what was left: a broken, beaten man, here for reasons that not even the Lord in Heaven could have possibly known—and not only that, but a near-frozen man as well.

No—she would not, could not allow the cold to devour her angel in the same way that despair and longing had. She stepped forward, though fear made a vain attempt at rooting her further. "Erik..." Eyes dropped to the icy ground as fear swept through her; even that simple name induced utter terror. She swallowed and forced her gaze upwards once more, and a statue-like hand motioned to the door behind her. "Shall we?"

She had not realized how stiffly he was holding himself until relief bid him relax. Shoulders sagged, and the violin's bow tumbled from his fingers. With a look of despair, he bent to lift it again, though his fingers struggled with the act. Once the item had been retrieved, he retreated into shadow, only to reappear moments later with only a violin-case in his hands. She wondered at the clumsiness of his hands, for even in impossible cold, the Phantom of the Opera had always seemed to have such total control over his movements...

She led him to the door, and was pleased to see that he waited patiently for her to enter first. She had taken only a few steps into the warmth and light, before realizing the fatal flaw in this action; Benedict's innocent eyes widened to a dangerous degree, as the tall, half-masked figure entered behind his mother. Her little angel—and it was only at that moment that she realized the irony behind her nickname for him—launched himself from the chair, and came flying into her arms.

"Mama!" he cried. "Who—?"

"Benedict," she said sternly, "I think perhaps it is time you went to bed."

He obviously considered pouting, and obviously thought better of it upon glimpsing her expression. With a solemn nod, he turned and exited; she listened for the sound of feet thumping upon the staircase, before turning to look at Erik.

He looked distraught. His eyes were glued to where last the child had been seen, and she watched as the color—shocking, that there was color to begin with!—drained from his cheeks. His eyes drifted from the doorway to her, though they did not fasten upon her face; instead, they fastened without hesitation upon her left hand. Shame rushed through her as she realized what he must have been looking at, and her right hand covered her left, in a vain attempt to vanish the ring from her third finger. She cleared her throat gently, before dropping her gaze to the floor of her home once more.

The shift in his attitude vibrated through the air, calling her to glance up at him once more. He had drawn himself up to his full height, and his expression shifted into that of old; the stern, confident expression that could so easily force her into submission. "Christine." His voice rang out through the room, and her knees trembled; its tone was of total disapproval. "Do you not know better, than to do such a thing to your voice?"

She ducked her head in apology, right hand tightening so powerfully on her left that the stone of Raoul's ring cut into her fingers. It was only a moment's time before the shift in the air was felt once more, and his presence lost its suffocating property; instead, he was once more the wisp—the, dare she risk the pun, ghost—of his former self.

The sound of the violin case dropping from his hand to crash against the floor caused her to jump; it was less than a heartbeat afterwards that capable arms closed around her, and tucked her against the darkness and the chill of his body. "Oh, my Christine!" was breathed against her hair, in between broken sobs. She was, of course, more than familiar with his possessive nature, but a voicing of such, under the circumstances, had not been expected. However horrified at his sudden thrusting of closeness, she complied with his wish to hold her, and even discovered that her own petite hands ached to return the endearment.

The exquisite cologne that was Erik's scent wafted towards her unsteady physique, and a sigh could not be restrained; his aroma was just as she had recalled from London: dark, musky, with a hint of spice.. though, this time the smell of the world beyond her walls was embedded into his worn and tattered attire. None of the death-scent of the opera days remained.

As though the physical contact had created a pathway for his anguish to curl its wicked fingers around her, she discovered that she could feel his pain as fully as she could feel his breath against her temple. Her blood burned into the walls of her veins, and she suddenly, severely, wished to hear him sing. Rather than request this of him, however, she allowed the words to dissolve into mental debris and brushed them aside with the broom of her motherly-like ways.

A hand rose, and rested lightly on the back of his neck, as the other came to hover beneath his shoulder-blades. "Erik..." She found her lips more than willing, this time, to utter that phrase, and as a result it came out less as a title, and more as a lovely caress...

She felt the dampness of tears against her cheeks, against her hair, and her hold on him tightened, and she felt his own hold over her become that much more certain of itself. He lingered in that embrace for another moment, before his body went rigid, and he made a hasty retreat. His body was torn from her arms, and he moved back to stand beside the violin-case. She politely cast her eyes aside as he scrubbed at the moisture beneath his left eye, and felt guilty upon feeling relieved that he did not remove his mask to attend to the right cheek.

"Forgive me," he said shakily, as hands rose to smooth back his hair; she tried her best to appear ignorant of the tremble in his voice. "That was not.. proper of me—" Though certainly Christine knew not a day when Erik had been proper. "I do not know what..."

His words were forever lost, as again his eyes fell upon her left hand. His lips settled into a grim line, and only silence yawned.

An ache was beginning to nestle its way into her chest, to bubble just beneath her heart and restrict her breathing. The candlelight made his dishevelment so much more painfully obvious; the thick, dark smudge beneath his eye; the wrinkles on his cheek that, she swore, had not been present in London; the gauntness to his cheeks and frame that she had not seen in London, but had always been characteristic of his days in the opéra-house; the intensity of the silvering hairs at his temples, and the occasional few sparkles of their siblings scattered throughout his raven locks.

Her Angel, her true Angel, needed comfort, and she intended to give him whatever she could.

Her mind groped for something to offer, before settling on the easiest thing: food. It was something that could be granted with little to no trouble, and yet could still make an earth-shaking difference in his current state. That he needed food was without doubt; that he was hungry, that he would eat, however...

Well, she supposed there was only one way to find out. "Perhaps.. you would care for a meal?" The words were spoken delicately; even now, she feared that any tiny phrase, however innocent, could be misspoken and construed as some devastating insult, which could have resulted in tragedies that she cared not to contemplate.

As she watched him thinking through her question, she began to understand just how ravaged he had truly become. Her expression melted, changing from one of gentle sympathy to one of utmost pity—and another emotion lingered there, just beneath the surface, lingering in dark corners that she refused to acknowledge. She formed her face into a pout, furrowing her brows to camouflage that forbidden lust that threatened to overwhelm her, if she did so much as acknowledge its presence.

And then came the question that shook her resolve, that turned her from firm denial to withering tears: "Where is your hus—" He choked on the word, and took a long moment to collect himself, before trying again. "..husband?"

Her mouth gaped open, as sobs threatened to spill from her throat—and, instead, only pained silence ensued. Tears welled in her eyes, burning them, burning her porcelain cheeks, shaming her. There she stood before him, sobbing and trembling uncontrollably, the same child that she had been in the past. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face into the crook of his neck, and wrapping her arms tightly around that self-same appendage. She wanted to reply, wanted to say something—anything—to distract from her breakdown, but could find no words, except one, that she barely managed to emit.

"Erik..!"

He did not return the endearment at first. He went rigid in her arms, like a wooden board, and stood with deathly stillness. She could feel that suspicious anger easily enough; suddenly, he frightened her. She very nearly recoiled from the adamantine specimen that she had so foolishly thought to embrace—but then, an iron-like band of an arm encircled her, and his form relaxed, melded with her own. She was easily convinced to remain in place, and shut her eyes against the cold skin of his throat.

"Shh, Christine," he whispered against her hair. "Do not weep..." One hand settled itself in her curls, while the other tucked around her waist. His lips pressed a gentle kiss to her hairline, before his cheek was allowed to rest against the top of her head. Quiet notes of a gentle hum reached her ears, and she tightened against him so that not a sliver of air was left between them. That voice twined around her senses, wooing her into the same blind trust that it always did—trust, and something more, the same something from before.

It occurred to her what a horrid scenario would play itself out, if Raoul had come home at that moment—she did not even wish to think of the destruction that would result in a frenzied clash between the two men.

"Mama?"

The fan of arousal that had guiltily breathed life into her, for that singular moment, suddenly vanished from her mind. She grew as stiff as Erik had been moments ago, and struggled to force herself to pry herself free of his grasp—despite how vulnerable and frightened he left her feeling, she could not help but to want to linger there in that strong grasp. She turned slowly, feet as heavy as if imps had poured cement around her ankles. Her heart felt equally weighted, and dropped into the pit of her stomach as her eyes found Benedict, standing on the stairs, peering at them with quiet fury.

Erik stood looking at the boy for a moment, before folding his arms across his chest and pacing across the room, to peer around at the knick-knacks on her tables, and the paintings on her walls. She watched him warily for a moment, before turning to face her son.

"Yes, my darling?"

"Levi has woken up."

Levi should certainly have made his own shaky descent down the stairs, now; "Well," she asked slowly, "where is he?"

Benedict crossed his arms, and rolled his eyes with exasperation. "He refuses to get out of bed. He thinks there's a beast hiding beneath it." Those eyes, previously so childishly rolled, were now narrowed in jealous contempt, in Erik's direction.

Christine followed that gaze, allowing her eyes to linger on the dark form of the man thawing himself by her fire, before clearing her throat and addressing him. "Please, excuse me for a moment." Her eyes flicked back to Benedict, before again returning to Erik. "I shan't be long; please, feel free to seat yourself, or fetch some food from the kitchen." With that said, she clutched her skirts between her fingers and made her ascent of the stairs.

She found Levi huddled into his mass of silken pillows. His comforter was drawn close about his small body, though as soon as she opened the door, it flew back, and he cried out in a panic-stricken note, "Mama!"

"Oh, my precious, do not fret..." she cooed, as she hastened towards the frightened child and swept him up into her ivory-skinned arms. One hand smoothed untamed auburn spirals, as she continued that gentle purr: "Mama is here, shhh..."

"Monster with big teeth is hiding under my bed!" Sniffling noisily, he embraced his mother, whose arms were whining in a dismal, complaining chorus of throbbing. Fatigue encompassed her mind, slowing it to less than full-speed.

"Levi—" Tendrils of cold seeped between mother and son, as she withdrew from him, to harvest complete attention from the rattled toddler. Naïve, accepting eyes searched her face, shocking blue boring into deep chocolate. A curl was abandoned, straying to rest upon her shoulder; no sooner had he seen it, than he took it with a tiny hand and toyed with it. "Do you trust your mama?"

A flushed face nodded in response.

"I promise you, darling.. there is no monster beneath your bed." She regarded him for a moment with warmth, before planting a tender kiss upon the warm flesh of his forehead. "Sleep." And he did.

Fingers sought her temple and massaged it as she carefully trekked to the top of the stairs. She paused there, listening to the voices floating upwards.

"And what is your name?" –That, a deep, angelic voice, that even in simple speech could woo her into quiet dreaming.

Her son's tenor followed: "My name, sir—" The pronoun was laden with obvious intended insult. "—is Benedict de Chagny."

She heard a few heavy footfalls, as Erik moved across the living room floor. A long silence ensued, before she heard the sounds of the violin-case being lifted and set upon the table. It opened—more silence—and then shut again.

"And who, might I ask, are you, sir?"

Christine pressed a palm to her chest, as if in hope of containing her aching heart. Her little son sounded far too much like his father. It made her ache for Raoul, but also made her fear for the child. Erik had never felt kindly towards the Vicomte; why should he feel kindly towards his mirror image?

"I, your lordship—" She was almost relieved, to find that Erik was still himself enough to fight back against the previous insult. "—am..." He hesitated. She strained forwards, nearly toppling down the stairs, as she fought to hear his next words. It was a long moment of tense silence, before his voice drifted up the stairs once more: "I am the Angel of Music."

Christine launched herself down the stairs, making as composed an entrance as she could, while still making it before Benedict had time to react to those words. Erik seemed relieved at her return, though Benedict was still the same little ball of fury that he had been when she left.

"I apologize," she said graciously. "My youngest had a nightmare."

Erik's eyes were fastened onto the violin case; Benedict's were darting between mother and stranger.

"Mama, this man thinks he is an angel!" he cried out after a moment.

Before she could answer, Erik's face snapped up to hers, and with a fierce determination, he said, "You should have had daughters."

A hand rose to press its back against her forehead. How did one reply to such a thing? Anger rose in her, dread nipping at its heels. She dropped her hand to her side, and put on a pained smile. "Perhaps you are hungry, Er—" The eyes of her blonde cherub flamed, as if she had committed a sin against him, against his father, merely by abandoning the use of the man of utter disarray's proper title. Thus did she complete her query: "Monsieur?"

Erik stared at her, eyebrow slowly drawing towards the edge of his mask. Finally, with a flicker of a glance at her son, he merely shook his head. "No, Madame. I am.. quite satisfied. I thank you, however, for such a kind offer."

A frown turned her lips down. She was quite positive that Erik needed to eat—he was far below the healthy weight he had carried in London, back to the old opera-house weight. Lower lip was pinned between upper and lower rows of pearly teeth, as she considered his form once more. He needed a bath, a clean set of clothes, and a shave. Raoul could supply him with two out of three; Erik was too tall, too broad-shouldered, and too, too thin, for Raoul's clothing. A flicker of remembrance followed that train of thought, and she glanced over to Benedict. "To bed, my darling."

As the protest charged from his throat in a crusade of hope—hope that he would be able to further survey the cryptic existence of a man who seemed to have been fathered by the shadows of the night, and mothered by the north wind—Christine severed the rebellion, momentarily, with a word: "Benedict."

"But, mother!" The term "mama" was discarded as the boy's agitation grew.

"Benedict, please. To bed." A palm pressed to her forehead; the flesh was heated. Utterly exhausted, her legs trembling with weakness, as if awaiting the opportune moment to crumble and collapse. Christine stood between the proximity of both stubborn males, and her fingers found a nearby object—the table. She fought to stand steadily.

She again felt that anger rising in him like a thundercloud, even before he had cleared his throat so mightily—it never occurred to her to rebuke him for doing just the thing he had chided her for.

One threatening step was taken towards the pair, and with a steadily-growing scowl, Erik looked down on the boy-child. "The hour grows late," he said sternly. "Time for little boys to be in bed, as your mother has so wisely pointed out." His eyes glinted, while he said "little boys"—it was his retribution for the earlier "sir" that he apparently felt was still unpaid-for.

Bristling with contempt, the child returned the scowl. "You're not my father!" Like a brick wall he stood upon his small legs, will and brutal defiance contaminating his blood and clouding his mind. He stepped towards his distraught mother.

"Darling.. please!" Christine foresaw the horror that further retorts from Benedict could evoke, and it was, in all of its entirety, the last thing she desired. Never being one to command others, she only knew how to supplicate humbly. "Please.. Benedict.." Frustration paraded itself about as a film of tears over her widened eyes—unshed, awaiting further coaxing.

A deathly stillness settled over Erik. She risked a glance up at him, and found all the familiar emotions dancing in his eyes: pain, anger, betrayal. And, most frightening of all, cold amusement. "No," he answered after a moment, "I am not your father. I would never presume to act as such." His eyes met Christine's, and she felt as if she would faint. "If I were your father," he continued, with more volume, "you impertinent youth, I'd have grabbed you by your hair and dragged you up the stairs, for so rudely ignoring your mother's requests." He took a breath, and she felt his temper smooth over a bit. "Your own mother is begging you, and still you ignore her wishes? Perhaps it should occur to you that your mother may have a better idea than you, of how to keep things in this house peaceful."

It was a clumsily-veiled threat, and certainly not the way one should speak to a young child—but then, Christine imagined that Erik was no longer speaking to a boy. He was speaking to Raoul incarnate. She could nearly see the murderous hatred in his eyes, just beneath that façade of calm.

Christine rushed to Benedict's side, fingers gripping the sensitive area above his elbow, and she crouched, to bring her face close to his own. Corralling his attention by their closeness, she whispered, her voice forceful, yet as gentle as she could make it. "Benedict.. Go to bed."

With a glistening of neat blonde hair and a last detesting glance tossed toward the towering man that he so despised, Benedict nodded curtly before turning on his heel and taking leave of his beloved mother. Her relief at his departure was expressed in a great sigh, as her palm rose to meet her forehead once more. Locating the nearest chair, she collapsed in it and rubbed her delicate face with just as delicate hands. Her mass of copper ringlets smoothed idly as she emitted another weak sigh. "Erik..." Raising her face, her line of vision collided with his own, dark brows raised in concern and disapproval.

"Erik," she repeated, shaking her head. The coils she had disciplined were resurrected, defiantly returning to their former spots. Her eyes locked with his momentarily, and she bit down on her lip. She was wholly at a loss for words.

He watched her for a moment, before moving to kneel beside the chair. Such large, rushed steps in her direction—it was all she could do not to cry out, or worse, recoil from his touch. Ice-cold hands swept her own into their grasp, and he bowed his head reverently over her hands as if they were holy artifacts. In a voice that sounded sufficiently remorseful, he uttered his apologies:

"Forgive me, Christine. I did not mean to be so... I could not bear to see you... I could not help myself." His tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he raised his head to look at her in shameless hope.

For just a moment, she considered denying him the forgiveness that she had always granted him in the past. It seemed that nearly every crime was forgiven, supplied with enough begging on his part. Her lips parted in dull stun, as he uttered those words. Threads of her heart were toyed with by his pleadings, the gentle coaxing of his heavenly voice, the entreaties swinging upon the strings like children at a playground; oh, how she hated caring for him! And how she adored it... Tilting her head to the side, curls cascading, her large eyes studied his face thoughtfully. Empathy crinkled her thin brows, and her lips formed a rouge pout. "I forgive you, Erik..."

She watched as he considered her hands, before releasing them as if they had burned him, and tucking his hands against his stomach. He cradled them there, looking all the part of a wounded animal, as he rocked back on his heels and then slowly stood. "You look exhausted," he said simply. "Perhaps you should retire, for the evening."

Christine was fully in accordance with that suggestion, and stood up, nodding to express her agreement. "Follow me, if you will," she murmured, before leading him to a hallway that branched in the opposite direction of the ingress that led to the kitchen. Standing in the frame of the dark hallway, she paused to gesture to him with a beckoning finger. "I hope you'll find the room comfortable," she said loudly, to allow him to hear her.

She could see him, moving about in the living room, fetching his violin. He stared at the case handle for a moment, before shaking his head a bit and scooping it up into his arms. Her eyes dropped to his hands, but she could tell nothing, while he was in motion. She made a slight note to herself, to get a closer look at them in the near future. Clutching the case to his chest like a child carries its favorite stuffed toy, he caught up with her, looking at her somewhat expectantly. "I am sure," he told her as they walked, "that it will be far more than satisfactory."

Distancing herself from the warm, illuminated living room, she approached a door lurking in the far end of the passage. The knob was cool beneath her sensitive fingertips, and squealed as it was turned. The tips of her other hand were placed upon the expanse of glazed wood comprising the door, and she pressed—it opened easily enough. The air was cool and it embraced her face in icy coils of a forgotten greeting; with a quick step to the side, she cleared the entryway, so that he could peer or step within the chamber.

The corners of her delicate mouth curved upward as she shifted her gaze from the shadows of the guestroom to his face. "If you should need anything, notify me." She nodded. "I should rest now—I'm feeling rather ill." He responded with nothing more than a nod. Brushing easily past him—for though the hallway was small, her frame was lithe—she halted in her hushed footsteps.

Upon turning, her eyes scrounged the inky black for his own; when they fastened, she added, "Goodnight, Erik." Lingering eyes grazed his features for a moment longer. He still frightened her, though she somehow felt rooted to the ground by the blackened vines of a wicked desire. A hand rose to press against the side of her face, and she shook her head at her own mad thoughts. Then, with a rustle of fabric, she faced her original direction and headed to her bedroom, where she could instead sate her exhausted desire for slumber.