The Waking
Christine's breath caught in her throat. She was not ready, not ready for this, for him! Her heart racing, she turned to face him, already picturing his eyes, green and accusing.
Finding his face, she breathed a sigh of relief. He was still asleep. Even in sleep, his voice still managed to arouse her senses without the permission of her mind. With one word, she had begun to respond just as surely as if his hands were grazing her skin. That voice, she thought.
Coming closer to the bed, she gazed down at his face, her eyes settling on his mouth. His voice travelled through his mouth, deep and inviting with a hint of danger, through his sensuous lips and moistened tongue. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to his mouth and traced his lips carefully. Thoughts of their kiss, their only kiss, invaded her. She touched her fingers to her lips.
When she had kissed him, he had been hesitant, disbelief making his whole body limp. Slowly she had begun to respond, pressing his mouth against hers harder than before. She had pulled away to look into his eyes, seeing heartbreak and knowing it was reflected in her own. She wanted then, more than anything, to love him with all her heart, wanted to be with him. She'd kissed him again, the pressure of his mouth on her own making her lips tingle and her body shudder. He had touched his tongue to hers briefly, testing her reaction. She responded slowly and felt her body react. The intensity was foreign to her. She drew back, and saw the tears. Sorrow etched his features as the shame in what he had forced her to do fell upon him. Stunned, Christine could do no more than watch, their kiss still searing her lips.
He had told her to go. Raoul, she thought blankly. Seeing him, she ran to him, ran to the safety of his arms. He would hold her, hide her from what she was feeling. She had freed him, throwing her arms around him desperately. Erik's voice, sad and defeated, reached her and she became afresh with tears. She needed to get away.
Christine knew now that she had been weak. Her flight was the action of a child, wanting nothing more than to escape. Now that she was older, she was no longer afraid of the dark.
Wrapped in Raoul's arms, she was choked with emotion. The realization that she was leaving Erik with nothing more than the stain of her tears on his face and words of despair hit her hard. She grew cold in Raoul's arms, the earlier comfort of his touch seeping away. Raoul pulled away, looking at her in confusion. She had backed away, pleading with him to understand. He had grasped her hand, and she held onto until it slipped away. Blindly, she had rushed back to him, hardly knowing what she would do when she got there.
There he had been, broken and helpless. Just as she had been a child to run from him, he had regressed as well. The pain of what she had done to him had been overwhelming. I had run to Raoul, he had run to the music box, she thought. His voice, soft and cracked, fell gently around him. She felt a fresh wave of sadness vex her. Then he had turned, and they had looked at each other as if across a playground. Two people, ripped of their souls, staring into each others eyes from a place neither had seen in years.
"Christine, I love you."
The hope in his face had been terrible. Unable to meet his eyes any longer, she had looked down into her hands. Carefully she had wedged the ring from her finger and took his hand in her own. She had placed it gingerly in his palm and closed his hand around it. With one movement, she had given him back her chains. Tears spilled down his face. He understood. She no longer belonged to him.
She had backed away, gripped by a fierce need to stay. Each step took her farther away from beauty, music, passion, need. She was almost strangled by these feelings, intrinsically knowing that she was making a mistake.
As Raoul had taken her away on the gondola, she looked back at him. Looking back, Christine thought, I should have never looked back. As he lay in her bed now, she understood that to look back was admit regret. I look back at him everyday of my life. Every quiet moment, every evening on the veranda was filled with thoughts of him. She missed him terribly, was wounded with the guilt of her betrayal, and felt for him so deeply she could not name it.
She sank into the sofa, pulling her knees up around her. As he slept, she watched him. She adored him.
Morning dawned too soon. Christine had given into sleep after hours of watching over Erik. The rays filtered through the curtained windows, casting a hazy glow about the room. The silence was only disturbed by the buzz of busy insects of the cackle of a birds in the trees. So it was without ears to hear his movements that Erik awakened.
He opened his eyes briefly, the dull throbbing in his head immediately making him groan and the light stung his eyes. He brought a hand to his head, but felt a feathery bulk instead. Instantly, he was struck with confusion. There was not wood and straw underneath him and he was not hit with the fetid stink of rotting wood. He forced his eyes open and saw a pink wall. Panicked, he took in the quilts over his body, the mahogany footboard and rich, winding posts of an opulent bed. On the wall in front of him was a picture of a field. To his right was a great armoire which sat on a lush, creamy carpet he imagined would sink softly under his feet. A closet stood next to the armoire.
Bracing his hands behind him, he tried to sit up but was stilled by a soft sigh to his right. He turned and nearly gasped. There, in the soft arms of a tawny linen couch, was Christine. She was sleeping, her body in delicate repose. Lines of worry etched her forehead and her lips were parted in a small pout. She had evidently drawn a great black cloak around her before sleeping and it was now tangled around her. His mouth opened slightly as he drank in her body. She looked just the same, soft curves and creamy flesh. She was dressed in a dusty rose gown, casual and unadorned with frills or lace. It was simple and classy. Her hair was wild around her, her curls pulled loose from their pins.
Right away, Erik knew he had finally lost his mind.
Perhaps I am in hell, he thought. Trapped in a room with her for all of eternity, knowing she would only give him scorn and pity. With a great effort, he swung his legs onto the floor, immediately regretting the action. Blood rushed to his skull and pounded with the force of stormy waves upon the surf. He clutched a hand to his face, feeling the rough, scarred flesh underneath. If this was hell, she would have to look at his horrid face forever.
Ignoring the pulsing pain and the dizziness, Erik got to his feet with a great heave. He swayed slightly, but righted himself, the room swimming before his eyes. He ignored it all. He had to know she was real.
A few unsteady steps and he was looming upon her. He reached out, watching as his hand shook. Was it because of his injuries or something more? Very slowly, he inched his hand closer to her peaceful face. Before he could touch her skin, her eyes snapped open.
Erik wrenched his hand back as if burned. Her eyes filled with shock and she gave a tiny gasp. "Erik," she said quietly, reaching out a hand to him.
He stumbled backwards, falling against the bed. He had to get away, get away from this nightmare.
He tried to drag himself away from her. His legs became tangled in the sheets, and he stopped, staring at her. As he looked into her face, the events of the night before rushed back. He became sick to his stomach.
The gypsy had come for perverse pleasure, to take Erik's unwilling body once again. Erik had tried to kill him, but he had escaped. Then he had succumbed to darkness. Christine, he thought, panicked, oh, God, had she seen? Did she know? Dread crept into his spine as he remembered her face. It had been just a moment, just a milky flash, but he had seen her. He thought he had imagined her, her face hovering above him, her hand caressing his face. She had murmured to him as he had slipped into unconsciousness.
Christine watched as his face turned from fear, to confusion, to horror, then to realization. She stood quietly as her eyes flooded with tears.
It was silent. He refused to look at her, instead inclining his head to the right stoically. Stung, Christine recoiled as surely as if he had slapped her.
Fatigue advanced on Erik, and he fell back against the pillow, breathing hard. Thoughts swirled around him like an undertow, drawing him further and further within himself. He could not look at her when she had seen him like that.
"Erik, please," Christine pleaded, not sure what she was asking for. Her voice came out as a sliver; she hardly recognized herself. She didn't deserve anything but his hate. His silence buffeted her fiercely and she could not help a few tears from sliding out her eyes. She sniffled softly.
His anger at what she had seen receded and was replaced by despair at the sound of her tears. No matter how much he hated her in this moment, it still broke his heart when she cried. Damn her! He settled back against the pillow as pain in his head nearly blinding him. He turned his face from her and closed his eyes. His throbbing skull and weak body had resigned him to stay where he was. He could not move; he had no choice but to stay.
He was in hell.
Sleep took him quickly, and Christine was alone once again. His refusal to speak said more than words ever could. She had seen his eyes had grown dull at the realization that Christine knew what had happened to him. She was choked with despair and anger that he had been subjected to that horror – again.
Though she had no expectations up until then how Erik would behave when he realized what she had seen, she felt somewhat hurt at his reaction. A part of her had hoped he would be glad to see her, that he would take her in his arms and whisper, "Thank you." Foolishness, she chastised herself. You are still a child at heart, aren't you Christine? Or perhaps a silly romantic.
Romantic – that thought had come unbidden. How could she think of Erik romantically when she was married! When she had left him to marry Raoul, she had made a choice, a choice that would affect her for the rest of her life. She was not so stupid to shoulder her naiveté with all the blame. Yes, she had been young, but she was not without some modicum of maturity. She knew she was hurting him by turning away and escaping into the arms of another man, but she had too selfish and blinded by her affections for Raoul.
In Raoul's arms, she knew she had safety and love. She knew she could hide. To marry Raoul had been logical. And she loved him. What Erik had brought out in her was unnamed. Still, curiosity racked her. The fire on her skin when he had touched her was a not so distant memory. On nights when Raoul was out of town, she thought of Erik and brought herself to release. Afterward, she cried in shame, silently begging for forgiveness. She refused to admit that she wanted more than the physical element they had never explored
More than ever she wished that things could have ended differently. Now it seemed that they were to begin again.
With a sigh, Christine left the room and tottered downstairs. She was immediately thankful at the relative smallness of the house; as a result, Brigitte was the only in-house servant. Once a week, the gardener visited and the horses were tended to by Marc, the stable boy. Christine felt stifled and embarrassed when there were many servants around. Four years of living in the de Chagny estate had not rid her of that.
She found Brigitte in the bright, tastefully decorated kitchen. She was preparing at stew, idly humming a tune Christine did not recognize. Brigitte turned around at the sound of Christine's footsteps. Christine smiled at her tiredly, but Brigitte saw that it did not reach her eyes. Setting down the ladle she was using to stir the soup, she wiped her hands on her apron and turned to the woman before her.
"Brigitte – " Christine started, but stopped, unsure of how to begin. Shaking her head slightly, she decided to barrel ahead. "Brigitte, do you recall the story of the phantom of the opera?"
A few hours later, over two cups of steaming Spanish coffee, Christine told Brigitte all she could recall. From the story of the Angel of Music to Don Juan Triumphant, the chandelier crash and their fated farewell, Christine relayed what she had never told anyone, not even Raoul. When she had finished, she felt as if her shoulders were lighter and the clouds over her heart had parted slightly.
Brigitte had heard gossip about Christine and the opera ghost among the servants at the Paris de Chagny estate, but had dismissed it as just that: gossip. She was well aware of the fire at the Opera Populaire and that Christine had worked there as a singer and dancer, but she had dared not ask Christine if the rumours were true. As time passed, she had forgotten about them completely as she and Christine had grown close.
Brigitte had listened in rapt attention as Christine had told her of the Phantom – Erik, rather – and it had all seemed so romantic to her. She was fascinated that the man lying in the room above their heads was the same man who had wreaked horror on the Opera Populaire, all for the love of a woman.
Looking at Christine now, she saw regret in her eyes, woeful with some heavy burden. Though she ached to ask more questions about Erik, she knew now wasn't the time.
"Christine, you really should get some sleep," Brigitte said.
Smiling through her fatigue, Christine replied "Brigitte, darling, I am older than you and yet you still take on the mother role."
"Mother!" Brigitte's mouth fell open in disdain. "I'm your friend, Christine, not your mother. And thank God for that!"
Christine laughed, and realized that she hadn't done so in what felt like a very long time. "Brigitte, I will go to sleep but I must ask you to do something for me," she said, becoming more serious.
After she gave Brigitte her instructions and the maid had departed, Christine laid down wearily on the couch. Sleep claimed her almost immediately. She dreamt of the opera house on fire.
Christine awoke a few hours later to a darkening sky. She was covered in a soft quilt. Brigitte, she realized, a soft smile spreading across her face. Stretching, she got up and walked to the kitchen. Brigitte was washing dishes at the sink and gave her a wan smile at her entry. Three neat parcels rested on the kitchen counter. Christine walked to the stove and stirred the stew, taking a little taste. Perfect.
Although Christine had cooked for herself before marrying Raoul, he would not allow her to cook as a Vicomtess. As a concession, she had insisted that Brigitte be the only servant at the summer house. Raoul had fought against her, but had relented in the face of her stubbornness which, he told her, knew no bounds. He had settled to have Jacques Noire, a guard and friend of the de Chagnys, patrol the house nightly to keep her safe in his absence.
"Erik was awake when I came home," Brigitte's voice broke through the muddiness of Christine's thoughts.
Trying her best to act nonchalant, Christine replied, "Oh?"
Rolling her eyes, Brigitte exclaimed, "Yes, and I brought him dinner. He refused to speak. Just mumbled a bit, something about getting clean, so I started boiling water for his bath. Do you think you could help me haul that big old tub from your room into his?" Brigitte face was so innocent that Christine nearly laughed. He wanted a bath, did he? She could not help blushing at the thought of Erik's tall, masculine form, wet and shiny.
Banishing these thoughts from her mind, she nodded her assent and assisted in carrying the tub into Erik's room.
When they entered his room, he was no longer asleep but facing the window. She watched the hard lines of his back stiffen at their footsteps and was immediately hurt. They set down the tub and Brigitte withdrew quietly, returning quickly with towels and the three parcels. As she left, she widened her eyes dramatically. A storm's a' brewing, she thought with a smirk, closing the door quietly behind her.
Alone, the water in the tub swishing softly, Christine stood awkwardly with her arms at her sides. "Erik," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. She coughed slightly, and tried again. "Erik, you asked for a bath?" She loathed the sound of her voice, meek and childish, not at all like the woman she was supposed to be. "I have had Brigitte run to the market and purchase clothes for you. They are fashioned the way you like," she added hopefully.
When he didn't react, she padded softly over to the bed and sat down on the edge, facing him. Folding her hands in her lap, she looked at them, focusing on the beauty mark on her left forefinger. She twisted her ring as she spoke. "I have not sung since that night."
She did not know why she had said it, but now the words came pouring out in a rush like a bursting dam. "I mean, I do not sing anymore. I do not know, I just – it does not seem right any more. Not without you," she added softly.
Shaking her head, she rose to get up but was stopped by Erik's hand on her wrist. She looked into his face, a veritable yin yang of beauty and darkness. But it was his eyes that drew her, magnetic pools of impossible green flecked with azure and gold. He looked like stone.
"So," he whispered gruffly, "you deny me still?"
Christine's mouth fell open slightly, from his words or his touch, she wasn't sure. She just stared at him dumbly.
Erik smirked, noting her reaction. Before the girl had come with his dinner, he had lay awake, toiling in his thoughts. He had thought of her, hating her for knowing what he'd been subjected to in his heartbreak over her. Still, he fell in and out of consciousness without warning and he knew he was trapped here for a while. In his waking hours, he had mulled over Christine and decided. Christine would feel what it was to burn.
His eyes did not leave hers as he released her, almost tossing her hand from his own. He rose from the bed on stronger legs than before and watched her. She had no fear of his face, this he could see. But still her felt naked around her without a mask to hide under. He felt that without his mask he lacked a little of the power he had over her.
Finally, Christine found the words to speak, and sputtered weakly, "I-I don't understand."
"Music," he sighed, his tone bored and far off. "Your voice, all that I gave to you. You deny me." At this his voice grew low, feral and he walked toward her. To Christine, he looked as though he was stalking his prey.
"I do not mean it that way," she said quietly, meeting his gaze. "I guess I just felt lost. I would never intentionally deny you." At this she winced, for she realized she had made a fatal error. Erik loomed over her now, his eyebrows knit. She opened her eyes and he grabbed her shoulders suddenly, pulling her to her feet.
"Foolish girl," he laughed bitterly. "You have not changed."
Christine felt anger surge within her. Placing her hands on his chest, she pushed him backward. "Do not put your hands on me again."
Erik raised his eyebrows, a slow smiling spreading across his face. So, he thought, perhaps she had acquired gumption in these past years. The sight of this woman, small and shaking with rage caused him to laugh once more. "What shall you do about it, Vicomtess de Changy?" he spat. "Where is your precious Viscomte – surely he would not leave you all alone." Carelessly, he pulled his shirt tails from his pants and off his body.
Christine turned away sharply, but it was too late. The image of his torso, taut and sinewy and browned from the sun, lingered.
"He is away on business," she replied, forcing her voice to keep steady. The soft kiss of fabric hit her ears as Erik shed his pants. "He will be back soon," she lied. In fact, Christine had no idea when Raoul would be back. His latest letter said he would be delayed for at least another two weeks to a month, but it was not the first to speak of an extended engagement.
Christine heard the gentle slap of water swishing around the tub. "I will be most thrilled to see him again," Erik said, dark threat lacing his voice.
Whirling around, Christine faced his arrogant face, his hands resting behind his head and a smirk beguiling his features. "Whatever quarrel you have with Raoul, be assured that the brunt of it lies with me. I can stand your taunts, your threats, your truths for I deserve nothing less. Raoul is no part of you and I."
The silence echoed around them. Christine quivered with the emotion of her outburst. Erik watched her, the smug grin never wavering. He placed his hands on either side of the tub and rose slowly. Christine's eyes widened; she backed up and stumbled against the bed. In a flash, he was on her, her hands binding her wrists above her head as he slammed her forcibly against the wall. Christine groaned with the pain of his touch, but could not help but feel aroused at his nearness. His wet body pressed intimately against her soaked through her clothes and moistened her exposed skin. Her lips parted slightly as she registered his hard cock against her thigh.
"That, my dear," he growled, "is for certain."
Brutally, he crushed his lips to hers and all reason left her.