The Attrition

A/N: I am sorry for the delay, but I had two essays due this week and an exam Thursday so I didn't have time for "Talk of Summertime." Boo I hope you all will forgive me for the wait and enjoy this new chapter. I expect another one will be upped tomorrow.

Thank you all for your continued support and to Agent Sculder who is the bestest beta who ever beta'd.

Erik lay beside Christine in a turmoil of his own making. This had been what he wanted: to take her, make her give herself to him to atone for her denial of him four years ago. He wanted to hurt her, wanted to make her betray her husband. It was a laconic irony that tasted bittersweet.

In the hub of the maze, he had looked at her as a free man and felt his resolve shatter. The intensity of that moment had been more than Erik could bear. He felt it best to simply play the pauper and pretend he fit in a world he never had before. Her tears, however, had almost undone him.

Sometimes he loved to be the cause of her tears, pleasured in the hurt he felt being reflected in her eyes. Perhaps if he had not been trapped in that gypsy camp for the previous four years his feelings for her, hate or love, would have waned. But he would never know now; all he had was now.

That she had lost a baby to the man she had betrayed Erik with did not fill him with the delight he would have expected. He had squeezed her palm, communicating the compassion he had for her. Goddamn compassion, Erik thought. Her lips at his palm had scratched away at the gate he had erected between them, fiddling with the lock until it popped open. Her shadow had fallen in. Unwanted, unwanted.

And then her words: "I saw that man, what he did to you." Up until that point, he had been able to ignore the reality of his rape. When he had been in that cage and been the victim of that man's sick deception he had been able to withdraw into himself. It was not happening. If he acknowledged it, it was simply a by-product of his sins. Erik deserved punishment; he had been told this all his life and nothing had dissuaded him of this knowledge. But to know that Christine, the only living being who had ever been able to elicit this foreign emotion of love from him, had witnessed his shame was almost unbearable.

What he had known of sex up until that point had been shame and punishment. He had never touched a woman, never felt her from the inside. When he had discovered Christine as a woman and not a child, he had felt his arousal pressing against his pants in a most uncomfortable way. More times than he cared to admit, he had stroked himself to completion standing before the two-way mirror in her dressing room, watching as she bathed, undressed, brushed her hair or simply sang. Always after he felt ashamed and had sought the solace of creating his music to quell the disturbance of his thoughts.

Then he had experienced sexual abuse by a man so vile Erik's stomach turned just thinking of his hot, fetid breath on his neck as he plunged himself into Erik over and over. He had long ago convinced himself he deserved it but Christine's admission had made him feel, something he had forced himself to disassociate with during his imprisonment. He had wanted to disappear, wanted to fall into an endless sleep of blessed dreamlessness. Tears stung his eyes and he balled his fists. God, he wanted to kill this man.

Christine had, though. The shock of what she'd done had shaken him. It had all been too much and he had forgotten his plans of seducing her completely. She had offered her hands to him and he had taken her, all the viciousness and pain and anger that he felt he expelled into her willing body. To forget, to forget, what blessed longing. What a gift. He wished he could forget her, forget the gypsy, forget everything he had endured. Sliding inside her hot depths, he had been struck by the overwhelming flood of feeling, physical and emotional, that being one with her had created. It was with wonder at first that he thrust into her.

But to see her trapped the way he had been trapped had taken him aback. He had not meant to bestow to her the curse he'd been given but it had overtaken him. Blinded with lust and something akin to fury, he had drove his cock into her, her hands cuffed and her face in the pillows. He had looked at her, her back strained and her ass propped up below him and something in him had snapped. He was monstrous and for a moment he had felt even he could not be this cruel to her. Not to her.

Why had she accepted him, her arms slung loosely around his shoulders, tracing circles lovingly along his back? Her legs around his waist had been gentle, guiding him to her entrance and her eyes – she had understood. He had fucked her slowly then, their earlier pace of frantic desperation obsolete. He had not found love in her eyes, nor did he feel it. She had looked at him with something akin to wonder and caring. Yes, there had been caring. Strangely, he had felt peace there inside her. There was nothing seductive about their union; it was simply an absolution.

She had asked him to forgive her at his urging. He believed her. Her words, words that he had drawn out of her, filled him with hot synergy and he came, shuddering and filled and empty at the same time. He had felt her walls flutter around his cock delicately; it was wonderfully excruciating bliss. Momentary bliss, for right away, he became stolid. That she had yielded to him and begged his forgiveness had made her weak and so it made him strong.

A loud banging on the front made Christine jump. Calm down, she reasoned. It must be Jacques.

Much to Christine's surprise, Erik got up and began dressing hastily. Before she could speak, he held up a hand.

"Ah," he said coldly, "That would be the police."

Christine looked at him, puzzled, the creamy sheets curled around her small frame. She looked so fragile, despite her mussed hair and flushed skin. Despite the smell of sex in the air that still lingered.

"Christine!" Brigitte's voice came from downstairs. She was panicked.

"What is – Brigitte!" Christine called out, gathering the sheets around her and attempting to scramble to her feet. Erik's hand stayed her.

Erik had not allowed her to remove his mask during their union, and it was fitting that he wore it now. Even as his plans were unwinding, he did not feel the joy he had anticipated.

Christine batted blindly at his hand. "What is happening? The police are here? For what? How do you know?" Her voice rose as her fear grew. He would not answer her, why wouldn't he answer her? "Oh God, Erik, what have you done?"

He tucked his shirt in roughly, refusing to acknowledge the desperation in her tone. Throwing his jacket on, he reached into his pocket and withdrew an opened envelope. Before she opened it she knew.

"Is he – ?"

"Tomorrow. As much as I would like to stay and play Hephaestus to your Aphrodite, I'm afraid I have more pressing matters at hand. As do you."

Christine was laughing uncontrollably, tears spilling down her cheeks. She looked like a wild caricature of herself. "You," she sputtered through fits of hiccups and giggles, "Y-You planned this?"

"Christine!" Brigitte's voice echoed from far away. Christine got to her feet, still chuckling madly, and ran to the bay window. There was Brigitte being hauled away by two men in uniform. As Brigitte's silhouette became smaller and smaller, Christine sobered. She turned to Erik then and he stood there, frown lines deepening the soft wrinkles in his face. Suddenly, he looked old.

"But we …" Her voice trailed off and she stalked toward him, rage pulling her to him like a pendulum. Holding her sheets to her body with one hand, she clutched the other to his cravat and tugged harshly. "You touched my face. In the maze – you touched my face." Her face crumpled and she was a child once more. Erik turned his face from her, tears stinging his eyes.

It was too late; it was done.

Straightening, he took her clenched hand in his own and firmly extricated her grasp. She brought her hand to her face, tears immediately staining her palm. "Oh, god, I did this." She was not talking to Erik now and her incoherent mumblings unsettled him. She flung herself at him again, the sheets forgotten and beat his chest with her fists, not caring that she was nude in from of him.

"Tell me what you did! Tell me what you did, tell me what you did," she shouted over and over again, bereft and shaken. Erik gripped her shoulders and he stared at her staidly. His face did not betray his emotions. He held her shaking shoulders, her head lolling slightly as she pled. "Tell me, tell me," she whispered.

He sat her on the bed, his lips remaining stiff and his eyes cloudy as he crouched in front of her. She looked at him and saw that he was trying. Without a word, he took her discarded sheets and wrapped her shivering frame with the creamy shroud. She stared at him now, her doe eyes as sorrowful as they were angry. He coughed, trying to bring the reserve back into his voice. God, if he stuttered, if his voice broke –

"Brigitte is under arrest, Christine. I had the stable boy deliver a letter to the police stating that she had stolen. It was signed in your name and bore the de Chagny stamp."

Erik flung Christine's discarded clothes at her. "Here, you should put these on," he said disdainfully.

Christine's head fell limply into her hands and she swayed slightly. Gulping in air needlessly, she did not look at him as she said "And what do you plan to do with me."

She was cold to him now and her rejection startled him. He snarled, curling his lip in hateful reproach. Would she not at least give him her fear? Would she at least give him emotion? This stoniness could not give Erik the control he needed to take her, to run away with her. He got up abruptly, pacing back and forth in the room.

"Do you not care?"

She shook her head, still refusing to meet his eye. "You will do what you like and no one will stop you." She sounded dead to him, so was the dull pallor of her voice. "You are merely a child, Erik."

Stunned, he raged on. "And what of Raoul? And you? Do you not care what happens to either of you? Am I not just your plaything, a creature of pity that harbours your guilt?" He stood before her, his fists curled and his voice reverberating. "Say you hate me."

His words shocked them both. No, he had not planned this. But suddenly the need to have her overwhelmed him and he did not care that he was vulnerable to her. He could abide her tears and her scorn, her joy even. She could not dare to stand before him and not feel something for him.

She would not reply.

He looked down, growing frustrated. He eyed her belly. Softly, he murmured, "My bastard could be growing inside you right now. Say it now."

Her eyes filled with tears once again and her lip quivered, but still she would not speak.

"I have forced you to betray your husband. Brigitte will spend the night in jail. Who knows what will happen to her pretty little bottom." He leered at her. "The nights get awfully lonesome in jail. A man is bound to need some comfort."

Christine stared ahead, far away.

"Why won't you give me what I ask!" He roared, stumbling toward her, grasping her shoulders and pushing her onto the bed. Tears rolled down her eyes, but she would not look at him. His weight on top of hers was crushing; she could hardly breathe. "I am disgusting," he spat. His face was wet now, and little trails of spittle ran down his lips. He was wracked with pain. "I am pitiful, I am guilty, a murderous vile thing," he shouted at her and wet her face with his tears and droplets of saliva that sprang from his furious lips. Shaking her hard, he barked, "I deserve your hate. Tell me I am hateful."

Still, she would not give him her eyes. Disgusted with himself, he rolled off of her, cursing his innate evil. This had not been the plan, this had not been the plan.

Christine shook her head sadly. Her face had not been dry in days. She dressed in silence and then faced him. "When will you learn that you cannot hold my salvation over my head to earn my love."

It was not a question, but a dull statement.

"You are not a monster, Erik," she stated, her lips still quavering, as she buttoned the front of her dress. Her hands stilled and she looked at him once more. His hair was dishevelled and he was breathing hard. "I do not know why you want me to deem you as such. I only see a man."

She tried to touch him, but he wrenched her hand away. He could not believe that they were back here again. Desperately, he grasped her to his body, feeling her wooden frame melt slightly in his arms. He let himself cry into her neck a little, let himself feel comfort a little.

This man makes me come undone, Christine mused sadly. Why do I feel such softness in his arms …

With a start, she realized that she cared for him deeply.

Why does she do this to me, Erik thought, his mind a maelstrom of emotion. He had wanted to hurt her and yet he was in her arms, loving her. God, he loved her! To hurt her was to hurt himself. He rocked her gently, his tears caught in her brown hair, glistening.

He pulled away, did not look at her and left. Christine slumped to the floor but she did not cry. She wanted to tell him to come back but there was not anything left in her.

…………………………………

Erik raced off into the night, unmercifully digging his heels into his mount's sides. He had stolen one of the horses from the de Chagny barn, not caring for anything else but what he'd just done. He had fooled himself into thinking he did not love her still.

He had planned it precisely. After seeing Raoul's letter, he knew he had to move fast. He would take Christine in the night and Brigitte would be imprisoned. Poor Raoul would come home to an empty house with no idea what had happened. Even if he should find Brigitte and she did tell, he and Christine would be long gone.

He had contemplated killing the girl, but oddly, he did not have a taste for it anymore. Ever since the gypsy, he had found very little in life that warranted death by his hand.

It was no matter now. He found he did not have a taste for much, not even deception. He could not trust himself around Christine. Everything he tried to hide became visible whenever he was around her, including his need for her.

He had made up his mind. He would never see Christine de Chagny again.