Despite Margareite's consideration of learning to forgive Christine, her heart still rang with the hate of Buquet, and its residue laid a thin film of unease between herself and Christine. Erik had noted the coldness, but said nothing, glad that at least the two females were not arguing. Within two or so days of Margareite's out burst, she had recovered completely from her small fever, Christine now close to perfect health but for a moment of weakness now and again. The last thought saddened Erik terribly as he gazed at Christine reading a book from his small librabry in the candle light upon the bed, some feet away from the cold Margareite, who had come to ignore the older woman with but a smidgen of respect for Erik by not throwing insults. Pushing thoughts of Margareite from his head, he focused again on Christine, her lovely skin glowing in the candle light, her lashes lowered as she read the book. She sighed, her attempts to calm her breathing shamefully failing her. Erik's mouth twitched as he recalled which of the books she had picked out. When she wasn't looking, he had snuck at peak at the cover and smiled to himself. In his earlier days, he had read anything that he could get his hands on, very often books that the ballet girls had been reading and left unattended. This had resulted in quite a few romance novels ending up on his shelf. And if he remembered corrected, she had chosen a particularly erotic novel that he himself had put down half way through, unable to continue reading a novel that left so little to the imagination.
His eyes darkened to a deeper, cornea blue as his mind inevitably replaced the characters with himself and Christine. He shook his head violently, refusing to let himself to entertain such fantasies. Christine was not his to fantasize about, and that beside the point, she did not deserve the lust of a deformed creature.
Turning away from the thoughts that began to torture him, he strode across the lair and retrieved a wine glass from a small cabinet and poured himself a glass of the heavy red wine. He had done nothing the past day but sit and observe Margareite to ensure that she would do nothing foolish concerning Christine and now found himself board beyond belief, Christine utterly engrossed in the steamy book she had her nose buried in. Sighing with his boredom, Erik decided to have some fun. What else was there to do?
Carrying the glass with him, he strode up the stairs and stopped before Christine. Both girls looked up, Margareite unruffled by his presence, continued to draw upon the paper he had supplied her, while Christine looked up red-faced.
"What is it you read, Christine?" he asked casually, savoring the way her cheeks flamed.
"Oh, just a little nothing," she answered hesitantly. "You know a bit of history." Erik cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled.
"Really?" he asked with an unbelieving tone. "Your lovely cheeks belie you, Christine. By the way, she does end up having his child." Despite his efforts to hide it, a wide grin insisted upon displaying itself across his face and Christine huffed before him.
"Well thank you, but I can read the story on my own," she pouted. She paused then asked, "What does he do with the child?" Erik cocked his head.
"I wouldn't know. I put the book down half way through," he answered. "That point beside, I thought you could read the story well enough on your own." Smiling wickedly, an unholy gleam twinkling in his eyes, he walked back down the stairs.
Margareite watched out of the corner of her sight. She scowled as she wrote another angry note upon the sheet of paper. Likely whoever was having a baby in the novel was facing the reprocussions of a man that had forced her into his bed, she thought bitterly, scratching down another note. This tune, when over looked, was going to be slightly discorordinant and harsh, but not unpleasant to the ear.
After a while of studying the music that Erik had written down, and the way he played it over the ivory keyboard that befitted his organ, she had gathered enough musical knowledge o write simple, short pieces that she played only when both Erik and Christine slept, forcing her play the notes softly, barley whispering the keys beneath her finger tips, or when Christine would wander the labyrinth out of boredom, and Erik had gone out for supplies at the same time Christine had gone on her little adventures, leaving margariete with the freedom t play her music for a time.
Finishing the piece with a loud, ending blast of notes, she took the paper and hid it away in a crevice of the wall that bit deeply into the stone, hiding it from the casual. Her emotions ran through this music. And as apt to music as Erik was, she was sure he could decipher something from such works and was not about to allow it if she could hide the music well enough away. For surely, if he could decipher feelings, then he could pry into her mind deeper then she could allow herself to hide information away. What would happen if he found out? If he knew? If he revealed it to anyone….she shuddered violently, and glared when Christine turned to look at her. If he revealed it….they would surely punish her. It would only be a matter of time before they could lay their bruising hands upon her once again.
Margareite laid her hands upon the milk white keys of Erik's organ, hardly pressing them down. A small whistle of air escaped the pipes, and despite it quiet sound, the total silence of the cave around her as Erik and Christine slept, Erik in the chair once again, Christine in the bed, startled her, causing her to look over at Erik to be sure he did not stir. He didn't. She sighed and turned back to the music. This was her latest piece, and perhaps the most complicated, although compared to Erik's composing, it was as simple as a child's mind. Except hers. Her mind was anything but simple.
Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to fall into the depths of the music, although forcefully keeping herself aware of how hard she touched the keyboard, so as not to let too loud a sound emit form the large instrument. Her fingers were slightly clumsy over the keys, and the right sound did not always play the way she wanted it, but she found herself lost within the strong sounds of the organ as she played her tune, hardly looking at the sheet of paper. Slowly, she found herself coming to the end of the piece, but she knew there was more to it then she had written. Without skipping a beat, she ran into a new part of the music unwritten, unplanned. Her short fingers barley reached the keys, but she cared not for that matter. Some how, they always found themselves to the right note. Her eyes closed as she brought forth music for the organ. It was angry, hurt, agonized…. And then suddenly calm, quiet, almost peaceful, then rearing up again into a crescendo that she was forced to play as quietly as possible when all she wanted was to blast the sound and allow the note to harrow through her body and flood her ears and heart. But she could not. Sighing, she stopped again, her hands resting upon her lap.
Erik's heart raced as he listened, eyes closed, to Margareite as she played quietly, felling her emotions slide though her fingers, out the pipes, and lance into his heart. There was so much here, in this music, so much emotion. This was not the simple composing of a child. This was the composing as a woman in spirit, of a lifetime of emotions that was being recorded through music for history.
The notes flew to his ears, acting out an unseen event that would calm for a time and then flare up again, tearing and hating and hurting. It was the silent plea and confession of a girl raped more then once. It was pain, crying out through anger at the world that had ripped away her innocence and her young life. And yet… there was something more… something hidden… a detail he did not understand when the music lowered in notes but not in sound, a foreboding feeling wrapping around him and his heart beat heavily as whatever the fearsome thing was drew closer. It was silent for a split second, and Erik nearly sighed with relief, believing it to be over… and then it bit down upon him, the worst of the tearing and ripping that he had witnessed through the notes yet… now the notes became short and stuttering.. Almost… choking. His eyes snapped open with realization of what was happening now. Choking. The scar around her neck. Whatever had been wrapped around her neck was being pulled tighter, and the notes became more desperate. She had put up a fight, revealed in desperate, uncoordinated notes that did not sound like music... and in a way they weren't. They were memories without sight but for her mind. The music rose again hatefully, and then one long note was held out high and piercing. The man had impaled her. It was plain as the girl that sat before him, his eyes now open, and he could see it in the girl's movements. Her body jerked with remembered pain as she played, her hands the only smooth movement. He heard the slightest whisper of clothing in the entrance of the stairs, and glanced at Christine, gesturing her to be silent and not to move. She nodded once, appalled by the way the music was pouring out of the girl, her sobs now ringing out with the crying notes that she created though the keys. Erik watched helplessly as he watched once sparkling tear fall from her young cheek onto the worn keyboard. The pain retched out of her, the keys on the keyboard being played in a noncoherant order, representing her feelings as the pain jumbled her thoughts, one hand playing the pain of her lower body while the other continued playing choking notes…. God she had been choking the entire time….strung up by her neck. Finally, the notes died down into fuzzy, half played notes, and then they stopped all together. Erik assumed his throat tight, that she had fainted at this point.
He gazed over at Christine whose eyes streamed with tears. She understood the music as well. Maybe not quite as well as Erik could, but well enough to see the again and hear the agony that tore through those notes.
Margaretie cursed inwardly to herself as she finished, picking up Erik's labored breathing. He was awake, at least, if not Christine as well. She should have known better then to play longer then what she had written. How could she have been so stupid? Perhaps, if she bit enough at him, maybe, just maybe, he would not pry.
"You understand, Erik?" Margaerite's asked, voice cracking. 'You understand the different moments? You understand the hate. The pain." The last two were statement rather then questions. She heard Erik swallowed painfully.
"Yes," he croaked.
"Good. Now stop pestering me for answers," she finished her voice recomposed and strong now. Ripping the sheet of music off the organ stand, she jumped off the organ, noticing Christine watch as she did so. Prying bitch, she thought harshly. What right does she have to listen? She walked to the lake and tore the paper in a cool, calm manner, and then tossed it into the water.
"This is what is left of my heart Erik," she said, her voice poisonous. "Retrieve it if you will, but you will never reforge where tears that have been made." She stood next to the banks of the lake, unmoving after these words, willing herself not to cry again. She had already cried enough for them. She was not a cursed freak show to watch ad see how many times she could cry.
Silently, Erik padded up behind her, simply standing there for a moment, unsure of how she would react to his touch. Deciding it better to touch then to let her stand, cold and alone in her darkness, Erik knelt next to her, now only a head taller then her, and wrapped her loosely in his arms from behind. She flinched sharply, and he loosened his grip more still, making sure that she knew she could escape his grasp if she wished. When she did not move, he took heart and hummed in her ear a song he made up on the moment's emotional breeze without thought or rhyme.
It was a song of calm, of healing, or forgiving, of learning, and of loving. Its tune was warm and smooth, liquid as the water that lay before them. He allowed himself to loose his thoughts within the tune, healing himself as much as Margareite, at first sprinkling it upon her, then raining his love, and then flooding it over them like a waterfall of gentle waters, strong, but comforting.
Christine stood at the stairs still, marveling at the connection hat woe itself around Erik and Margareite, the magic of Erik's voice no longer rupturing her with danger, but with love and care. The girl stood motionless, tearless, but she could se the girl's eyes close gently in relaxation.
Erik's voice sent a chill down Margaeite, and she closed her eyes as she melt into the love that Erik surrounded her with. His voice at this moment was unlike he had ever heard before, the magic of whatever divine power lay hidden within his heart. His warm tears fell onto the cord connecting her neck with her shoulder, seeping into her with the love and caring that he hummed of now. The vibrations of his voice rumbled gently through her back ad into her heart, sending tremors of love through. Everything about the man that knelt behind her now and hummed in her ear was loving. So very, very loving. If ever there was a single man upon this earth she could trust and love, she knew it was Erik.
Unable to hold back the tears no longer of agony, but of relief, she allowed herself to sob, her body weakening and falling into Erik's own. Without a break in his humming, Erik caught her and lifted her into his arms as she wrapped her own around his neck and cried into is shoulder. Brushing past Christine without a glance, Erik lay upon the bed, his movements slow ad caring, not wanting to scare the child. But she did not react but to roll over and bury her head into his expansive chest and continue to cry. Tears rolling down his own cheeks, Erik held her gently, lovingly. He, too, had finally found some one to love as unconditionally as he loved her.