Christine
She awoke to sunlight. In the clear, warm dawn Christine sat up and wondered whether last night had merely been a beautiful dream. However, there on the pillow beside her was a single red rose, a white ribbon tied lovingly to its stem. She smiled and lifted the rose to her face; it was heaver than she expected. Examining the ribbon, she found that it was securing a tiny, exquisitely carved stone angel. Erik, she thought peacefully, losing herself in the rose's scent and thoughts of her beloved.
Pleasant reverie can only last so long, however, and soon Christine abandoned her bed and, after putting the rose in a vase and setting both it and the angel on her vanity, began to prepare herself for the day ahead.
Half an hour later, after she had dressed and she sat at the vanity brushing her hair, a soft knock interrupted her. Smiling to herself, she called out, "Come in."
"You ought to be more cautious," Erik murmured from the doorway. His whole attention seemed to be focused on her brush as it moved through her long, dark curls. "I could have been someone wishing to harm you."
You are a murderer, a liar, a thief, and a tyrant, Christine answered in her own mind, but I do not believe that you would ever willingly harm me. "But you weren't," she replied in the most reasonable tone she could. Looking at him, she noticed that his hands were twitching as he continued to stare at her. Christine smiled. "Come here." He hesitated, and she laughed. "Come here," she repeated, and when he slowly moved to stand beside her, she handed him the brush.
"I don't—" Erik protested.
"Please?" Purposely Christine made her voice into that of a winsome child; she turned and looked up at him, pouting.
He scowled down at her for a moment. "That is neither nice nor becoming," Erik retorted, though without any real bite to his voice, as he took the brush and slowly began to run it through her curls.
"Mmm." Christine closed her eyes and tilted her head back, grateful for the modest neck of her day dress. Erik began to hum, a soft, persistent sound that echoed soothingly through the room and out the open door.
"What is that?"
The brushing had ceased; Christine opened her eyes to find Erik gazing down at her curiously. His fingers motioned towards the chain about her neck, plain and sturdy gold shining against her pale skin before disappearing into the folds of her dress. It was the same necklace she had been wearing last night; indeed, the same necklace she had been wearing for almost a year . . .
When she didn't answer, he smoothly unfastened the necklace and pulled it to him. Hanging there on the end of the chain, rather than any pendant he might have expected, was a simple ring of gold. Christine was careful not to look at his face as he turned the wedding band over in his slender hands; she waited with her eyes cast down until he spoke quietly. "You were wearing this last night."
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Since. . ." she broke off. Since the moment she had first realized she loved him and had left him alone in the darkness.
Erik took her hand and pulled her lightly to her feet. When she finally met his gaze, there was a kind of wonder in his eyes—and a kind of pain. "We should talk," he murmured. Nodding, Christine pulled away from him and sat on her bed, waiting for him to join her. Erik just stood in front of her, giving her a long, even look with a hint of amusement behind it. Glancing away, she blushed for the second time in as many days and stood, making her way toward the couch in the suite's common room.
"I wish you would stop doing that," Christine told him quietly as they sat down, resolutely keeping her gaze fixed on the opposite wall and all too aware of the high color still in her cheeks.
"Beloved," Erik answered tenderly, then the amusement came back into his tone, "I will cease making you blush the moment you leave off tempting me." Christine gave him a timid smile and slipped the golden wedding band onto her finger. She jumped a little when Erik's hand covered hers and stopped her. Slowly, a look of disbelief in her eyes, she raised her head to meet his gaze. "Christine . . ." He sighed. "I remain unconvinced that marriage to me is best for you."
She knew shock and hurt were plain in her eyes. Forcing herself to gather her breath, she finally murmured a flat, unconvincing, "How dare you."
"Excuse me?"
Hurt gave way to anger. She looked up at him and demanded, "How dare you! How dare you ask me to leave you again?"
"Because staying with me just might kill you."
Christine stared at him. He was serious. "I thought," she whispered, her voice shaking, "that we covered that last night?"
"You interrupted, as I recall." His mouth twitched. This time, Erik caught her hand before it connected with his cheek. "None of that, my dear." Sighing, he released her wrist. "Listen to me, will you?"
"No," she replied sharply. "You asked me to marry you a year ago; I'm accepting. Consider that the period of our engagement. How long does it take to find a priest?"
"Christine, please. Listen to me. Don't think for a moment that I don't love you; that I don't want to marry you. I do—more than you can believe. When I asked you to marry me last year. . ." he trailed off into a sigh. "What can I say, beloved? I was half-mad with jealousy. I wanted you to know that there was another option . . . I wanted you, without any consequences. I could not stand to see you with him, to think that he might take you away from me in any way. All I could see was that I loved you and that if you married me, I could keep you with me forever."
"And now?" Now, she thought, now that I finally know I want to be with you forever, will you still turn me away?
Ever so gently, he brushed his fingers along her cheek. "Now I still want to be with you, my angel, but I have come back to my senses—you belong in Heaven and I am a creature of Hell. And I will not let you burn with me."
How she hated it when he spoke of himself that way. Her voice low and hard, Christine began to speak. "You asked me how long I had been wearing this." Here she lifted the ring, now cool and heavy in the palm of her hand. She determinedly ignored the warning in his eyes that said he did not want to hear what she was about to say. "It was about a month, maybe a month and a half, after we left Paris. I was singing the role of Margarita again that night, and I found myself more heartsick than usual—of course, I had been hurting ever since the night I left you in the basement of the Opera House. In the middle of a solo, I realized that it was not my Angel that I was missing, but Erik. Not the celestial voice with its connections to my father, but the dark and haunted man who loved me more than I dared believe.
"It hurt, Erik. It hurt so much. That was the first time I allowed myself to know—to really know—that I loved you; and with that knowledge came the deeper understanding, the realization that I loved you and had left you. My heart felt like it was breaking all over again, but I was performing; I did not have the option of running off in tears. So I did the only thing I could do: I put everything I felt, every bit of joy and hurt that you had ever put into my heart and I sang it.
"There were a lot of firsts that night. That was when they began to call me Angela Gloriosa. It was the first time an opera manager sought us out and requested for me to perform for his stage, rather than me going to opera houses and auditioning. It was when I began to wear your ring—I had intended to throw it away, but found I never quite could. That was also the first night Raoul tried to kiss me since we left Paris; I think he was giving me space, letting me heal, and he took my renewed ability to perform as a sign that I was ready. When I refused him, I think he understood—maybe even more than I did. All I knew was that I loved you, and whether or not I ever saw you again, I must never appear to belong to anyone else.
"And now you want me to leave you? Again?" Here, finally, she looked at him, and her eyes were two pieces of burning charcoal. "What is the common phrase? Oh, yes. Over my dead body, Erik."