A/N - Sorry for the 'long' wait. Speaking of long waits, I've found that when fics aren't updated for a month, or months on end, I lose interest very quickly. I mean, what's the point of even writing then? The holidays were understandably busy, so here is a longer chapter for your reading pleasure.
Chapter 15
He had told her to leave. But it was not because she was cold. It was not because he had grown tired to her. He had sent her back to her room because of the overwhelming desire that had coursed through his veins. A desire so potent, so foreign to him, that he was afraid that for once in his life, he would not be able to rein in this particular need. Many had died at his hands in the Persian courts. The blood still stained his hands, even though others could not see, and he could see its mark every day. He had always been in control of every aspect of his life. Erik had lived throughout the world and had accumulated more knowledge then most people. He had never felt the desire for a woman like he did now. He had thought himself triumphant having not felt the tight grip of love and lust. He had been immune, or so he thought. But now, more then ever, he felt the illusions of his power start to crumble from their foundations.
When she had stood there in the moonlight, the blue sheen of light draped across her soft skin, looking up at him with those uncertain, large eyes, he felt he could no longer tame the beast within. If she had stood there a moment longer, he could not imagine what would have happened. Oh God, he cried inwardly, why must I now be cursed with this? I have lived for so long without ever needing it. Needing anyone. Needing her! I cannot bear it! He sunk his anguished head down upon his arms, which lay motionless upon the keys of his piano. Hands tensed with primitive hunger.
If she could see what thoughts raced through his mind every time she passed by him, she would not give her pleasantries so easily. Surely, she would coil back in shock and accuse him of being the monster that so many others had named him. But even now, her memory tortured his waking thoughts. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. He could see her even now, stretched out amongst the sheets of her bed, her breast rising and falling with each breath. The twist of her limbs in the sheets. Those parted, soft lips murmuring in fevered dream. Her hands, so slender and delicate, gripping the sheets as she moved about restlessly.
If only she knew the thoughts he had. Perhaps she would not desire his company so easily.
He had told her to go, because he knew he could no longer restrain the emotions that bubbled so close to the surface. As he had gripped her shoulder, feeling the naked skin beneath his fingers, his first instinct was to rip the fabric from her shoulder. But he used everything he had to restrain the violent action. The innocence in her eyes, the fear, was what helped restrain him. He refused to become the monster that so many had come to know. He refused to bend her will with his voice or use his potions devised during his position as court magician. There, he realized, was a lamb standing before the threshold to the lion's den. She was more dear to him then anyone had ever been before. He would not use her like the shah used the young girls of his harem. He would not dissolve the shaky trust that had been so carefully created.
But, oh, her lips. If I could have had one kiss of her soft lips, would it have quelled this torrent of emotion? Would it have satiated this desire? He felts his fist clench upon the keys and with a loud curse, brought his hand down upon the keys with a loud reverberation of notes. He still lay there, hunched over the keyboard, his breaths coming quickly and dangerously. The demon refused to be silenced.
He rifled through the sheets of music that lay scattered about the room. There it is, he smiled darkly. His new opera. The one that had driven his mind for the last couple of years. It had been his only sanity. In this, he could drown himself in the dark notes and purge any murderous thoughts that coursed through his mind.
And so he lifted his graceful hands above the keys, poised like some great magician ready to recite the spell that would bring all things to an end. His fingers connected loudly with the keys and proceeded through the long piece that had finally been written. It was to be the soaring climax to the whole opera. Darker and more primitive in its sound then anything before it. But there was a complexity to it, a genius that pulled the listener in like a moth to the flame.
She heard every note. Every note of his song drifted through the door. Sleep would not come to her. She lay in her bed, her head bent towards the door as she listened to the strange song that surged from beyond her room. Never had she heard a song like that before. It was so powerful. A steady rhythm seemed to follow the notes, and it pulsed, nearly matching the throbbing of her heart. The song built up, layer upon layer, and she felt her fingers gripping the sheets. I will lose myself in it, she thought. One could not escape the music. There was so much anger in it, so much frustration, and yet, more passion filled it then anything else.
Her breaths had begun to quicken, her heard raced, and she could not endure it much longer. Christine slipped out of bed and stumbled to her door, the hem of her nightgown skimming the carpets. She paused beside the door, resting her body upon the frame, and felt her hand reach up against it, pulling tightly into a fist. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry out in some nameless emotion. The song, so powerful, almost seemed to entrance her physically. She could almost feel hands, his hands, upon her skin.
The song continued to ebb and flow. It wormed its way into her mind and refused to loosen its grip. She felt herself sinking down against the door. Her knees were drawn up to her face and she cried out into the folds of her nightgown. Please, stop it! Please, do you not see how you're torturing me? I cannot endure tbis! I am at your mercy. Please!
And then she heard the music grow quieter. Her heart slowed its relentless march. Her skin, once cold from the chilled air, was now hot and she could feel perspiration on her forehead. Breaths that threatened to drive her into a fit now began to shallow.
Now the music took on an entirely different quality. Gone were the dark throes of passion. Now a quiet melody permeated the air, and Christine strained to hear its gentle notes. The song before had been so alien, so alarming. . .so frightening. But now, she felt at peace as she heard him play this new melody. It comforted her and made her feel safe. She brushed away the moisture on her cheeks and pressed her ear against the door again. Now, the song began to sadden. Its gentle notes grew sorrowful before becoming so mute, that they disappeared altogether.
Quiet filled the air. Nothing could be heard now. The only sound was that of her breaths, slow and steady.
Why did he play that way? She had never heard him play such a piece of music before. The last strains of the song had been so saddening, so anguished, that she felt the feeling fill her own heart. She lay there for nearly an hour, her body quaking with emotion. She could not bear returning to her bed. For with all of the sadness of the song, she felt a tremendous loneliness fill her heart.
She longed to hear the gentle assurances that he was capable of giving. She longed, most of all, to feel his strong arms around her, keeping her safe and driving away the demons of the night.
Christine staggered out the door to find a darkened hallway. All of the candles had been extinguished in the music room. She hesitated as she reached the winding staircase. But her legs carried her up without further thought. She found the door to his room shut. Christine fell against the wall beside it and felt her body sinking to the floor. For once, I truly wish he were here to hold me. I cannot bear his absence!
She fell into a fevered sleep, her slender body sprawled beside his door and her hair trailing over her shoulders.
It was early morning, just before the sun was about to rise, when she suddenly felt gentle hands pulling her body up from the floor. Christine awoke, glancing up as Erik loomed over her. A frown was on his face as he lifted her body into his arms.
"Why were you sleeping on the floor?" he asked quietly.
"I could not sleep," she replied groggily. "Your music. . .I heard it."
Erik looked down upon her, almost sadly, and brushed back a lock of hair that clung to her clammy skin.
"I could not bear it," she wept, burying her face unabashedly against his chest.
He could feel her body tremble in his arms. But as he gathered her closer to him, she calmed. Her hand reached up to grip his shirt at the shoulder as though she was fearful he would put her down.
"But why were you at my door?" asked, his voice so low and soft in her ear that she felt her defenses begin to drop.
She quaked again in his arms before she raised her head and looked up at him with that lovely porcelain face.
"I needed you," she almost whispered. "I do not know why, but I needed you. I felt like I would die if you did not hold me."
"Christine," he said her name so gently.
"Why are you doing this?" she sobbed. "Why do you haunt my every dream?"
"I love you," he said suddenly.
She looked up at him with her tear-stained face and trembled at the way his eyes had suddenly locked onto hers. Did he really say that? What do I do now? Oh father, what do I do now? Christine pressed her face against his chest again. She looked so small in his arms.
"I will take you back to your room," he said softly.
"No," she suddenly blurted, and then more softly continued, "please, don't leave."
Erik carried her to the music room, knowing of no other place that he could calm her. He lowered her onto a small couch and proceeded to sit down at the piano. She watched him with wide, lucid eyes, as he stretched his fingers out over the keyboard.
"What did you play last night?" she asked, sitting up on the couch and regarding him with a cautious glance.
He looked at her now, examining her features in the light that now began to shine through the windows as morning broke. Dark circles were smudged below her eyes. Her skin was pale. Indeed she had slept very little.
"A new opera I have been working on," he replied.
"When you played it," she began, struggling to find the words, "I felt consumed."
His gaze had darkened and became the predatory gaze he had displayed on rare occasions. She sat up, wrapping the blanket around her dressing gown tightly to avoid the impenetrable gaze that had fallen upon her.
"So you should," he muttered under his breath.
"Why did you play it?" she asked, her haunted expression still held by his gaze.
He ignored her question and began to play. Not the piece he had forced out from his soul the night before, but a piece more subtle in its frustration.
"Will you not answer me?" she asked, trying to raise her voice above the music. But he was completely engrossed in it. His body swayed ever so slightly to the music.
But above the music, above the alluring notes, Christine heard the sound of a knock upon the door. She fled from her chair, rushed to her room to grab a robe, and hurried to the front door. She opened it only enough to peer out at the figure standing there.
"Raoul?" she asked, her voice a mixture of joy and surprise.
Immediately, the song had ceased and a strange quiet filled the house.
"Mademoiselle," he bowed briefly, before returning his gaze to the young disheveled woman who peered out the door. "Did I come at a bad time?"
"N-no," she stuttered, suddenly remembering her appearance. She tried to brush back the unruly curls and knew it was futile.
"I came to see if you would like to accompany me out for the day. I was hoping you would join me for tea at my estate," he said.
Her eyes lit up for a moment. But she pondered the offer carefully. Should I dare leave him behind? Will he grow angry? But she was tired of his silence. She was tired of her loneliness. What would it hurt to spend the afternoon out with someone mildly entertaining?
"I would love to," she replied, "but if you could spare me a moment, I will prepare myself."
"Of course," he smiled.
She opened the door and admitted him, guiding him towards the parlor to wait. Christine rushed off to her room and busied herself getting ready.
Just as she closed the door and was about to open the wardrobe and select a gown, a hand closed around her wrist.
"What do you think you're doing?" she heard Erik's voice boom.
She turned to find him looming over her, his green eyes flashing more fearsome then she had seen before. How dare he! How dare he enter my room uninvited! She drew away from him, slapping away the hand that clung to her wrist.
"I'm going out for the day," she responded, opening her wardrobe and pulling out a lovely green gown. She spread it out on her bed before he grabbed her again.
"And you think you can just take off whenever the feeling compels you?" he asked, turning her around and pressing her painfully against the wall.
Christine glanced up at him with her large brown eyes, now showing a defiance that he had never seen before.
"I'm tired of being lonely. I'm tired of being locked in this house with you to torment me. I'm tired of your games. I'm tired!" she cried out.
Erik's breathing was harsh. But he drew his hand up alongside of her face. A pained expression filled his face as he watched her shut her eyes tightly, as though he meant to harm her. She bit her lip, waiting for the reprisal. But it never came. Instead, she felt his gentle touch along her face. His hand caressed the soft skin of her face and did not hesitate to stroke her lips. Erik felt her tremble beneath him. Her body was still awkwardly pressed back against the wall. He moved back slightly, allowing her to straighten up, but continued to stroke her.
Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. She felt his breath upon her skin as he drew closer. It burned her cheek. A soft, whimper of a cry escaped her throat as his other hand was drawn up to cup her face. She could feel how close he was now, even without opening her eyes. So close, she could almost feel his skin touching hers. And then, without hesitation, she felt his lips brush softly against hers. She could not move. Her mind screamed out, but she felt her heart begin to throb relentlessly. He continued to brush his strikingly soft lips upon hers. A shudder wracked her body. Her eyes flew open and she regarded the man she had come to know as her teacher and her guardian. His eyes were open and he had pulled back to regard her.
"Please," she cried softly, raising her fingers to drift across her lips, "don't ever do that again."
He looked hurt for a brief moment.
"Are you still afraid of me, Christine?" he asked gently.
"If you touch me like that again, I will die," she responded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Erik drifted back into the darkness of the room, fleeing through the mirror that lay against her wall. Only when she knew she was alone, Christine quickly changed into the gown behind the dressing screen. She could not hide the tremor that ran through her every time she drew her hand across her lips.
Was I too cruel to him? Were my words too hurtful? It is only because I fear him, but not in the way that he thinks. I do not fear his face, nor do I fear his anger as I once did. I fear the way he looks at me, for none other has looked at me like that before. I fear that I might drown in his gaze. That he will utterly consume my soul if I give in. I am on a precipice, my feet lingering on the edge, and I fear to jump. I'm afraid of what's to come. Is this love? Do I love this man? He does not realize what power he holds over me. Or perhaps he does. He has seen so much of the world and I am but a child. What does he want of me? I don't know anymore. I cannot endure this much longer. I need to get out of here. I need time to think.
"I'm ready," she said simply, watching as the young man rose from his chair and looked upon her for a moment.
"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "I have a sleigh waiting outside to take us back."
She smiled faintly, linking arms with him as he offered, and strode out the door dressed in her winter clothing.
As she glanced back quickly before the door shut, she could see him leaning against the wall of the now vacant parlor. A scowl was upon his face and it was enough to stoke the fear within her. Indeed, he is angry.
They spent the afternoon riding through the snow to the De Chagny estate. It was a two hour ride to the north, beyond the expanse of trees. But when the trees finally parted and they had ridden for quite some time beyond, Christine was pleasantly surprised to find a vast estate with extensive land and well-manicured trees and shrubbery. It must be beautiful in the spring, she thought. She no longer felt the claustrophobic feeling of the forest. There was civilization here, and undoubtedly, they were fairly close to the city. Paris could not be too far away.
They took tea together in his parlor and sat in a lingering silence before the young Vicomte attempted to raise the spirits of his guest.
"Has your benefactor returned since my visit?" he asked.
Christine returned her attention to him, having found it had wandered for quite some time. She smiled pleasantly and nodded. "Yes, he has."
"What is his name? I should like to meet him," Raoul continued.
Christine looked up at him nervously, fidgeting with the cup of tea in her hands. "His name is Erik. That is all I know."
Raoul looked at her with a confused expression. "You do not know his family name? His title?"
"No," she shook her head, "I don't."
Raoul stroked a finger across his chin for a moment. "You know, I do recall there being a certain reclusive noble who took up residence in a great manor nearer Paris. But I don't recall hearing if he had moved."
Christine listened to his musings with guarded skepticism.
"Conte Bellamont," Raoul added. "Yes, that was his name."
"You said he lived a reclusive life?"
"Yes," Raoul began, sitting back in his chair, "He was new to this part of the country and moved here only five years ago. But he did not attend any of the balls or other events. In fact, no one I have spoken to has ever seen the man before. But I can assure you, he does exist. I have heard that he sits upon a vast wealth of money. But what does the poor fellow do with it, if he does not entertain or move about in society?"
Christine took a slow sip of her tea as she reflected upon the young Vicomte's words. Could Erik really be this Conte Bellamont?
"Tell me, what is your benefactor like?"
Christine put down her cup and thought carefully. "He is. . .strange. I mean to say that he is unlike any other man I have encountered before. I would not assume him to be a noble, even though he lives with a certain degree of wealth. Of course, I have never met many nobles, only when I was small and my father performed for a few during our travels."
"Ah yes, Gustave Daae. I looked into your family history, if you will excuse me, after our last meeting. He was an exceptional violinist."
"He was," she said softly, her gaze saddening as she gazed out of the parlor windows and upon the expansive grounds of the De Chagny estate.
"You miss him very much, don't you," he said.
"Yes," she replied faintly.
Christine glanced back at him suddenly. "Raoul, I know this may seem an odd request, but is it far to the manor you spoke of? Could you take me there?"
"You wish to find out if your benefactor is Count Bellamont?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair.
"Yes," she replied.
He sat back again, stroking the bottom of his chin with his finger. "It is not far. Merely an hour or two by carriage."
She looked eagerly at him, awaiting his answer.
"Alright," he finally said, pleased to see the smile on her lovely face. "But please rest for a night or two in the guest room. I have family business to attend to in the time being. Enjoy the peace of my family's house."
Christine looked at him with uncertainty. She had told him that she would only be out for the day. But she was tired of being afraid. She wanted only peace. So she gratefully accepted the invitation.
They left for the manor two days later. A couple of hours into the trip, they reached the edge of the large estate of the reclusive Count Bellamont. The ride through the countryside had been relatively quick. The land was beautiful with lovely sloping hills and valleys thick with trees. The estate itself, as they approached it with hesitation, was expansive. A heavy iron gate barred the estate from the well-traveled road before it. The servant jumped down from the sleigh to open the impressive gates before resuming his post and guiding the sleigh down the tree-lined lane. The snow still clung to the branches of the trees.
Christine gasped when she saw the great manor ahead. It loomed beyond the line of trees like some grand relic of greater times. The lane before it curved in a circle before the doors of the house.
When the sleigh drew to a halt before the doors, Raoul helped Christine down and stood by, admiring the property. She drew away from the sleigh, gazing up at the house in a quiet awe as she pulled back her hood. With a strange determination, she mounted the steps and drew her hand upon the large wooden doors, before knocking bravely upon them.
Judging by the quiet that seemed to settle over the area, Christine did not expect to hear a reply. But the doors finally opened before her and a servant peered out with a suspicious glance.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I am sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if Count Bellamont is at home?" she asked graciously.
"I am sorry, Mademoiselle, but he is not," the older man replied, casting a quick glance behind her at Raoul.
"Do you expect him back soon?" she continued.
"No," he replied curtly.
"I was wondering if. . ."
"Who is there?" a voice asked in the background.
"A visitor, sir," he replied.
"Christine Daae," she added.
"A Mademoiselle Christine Daae," the servant added, casting his voice over his shoulder.
Suddenly, another face appeared in the doorway. But the man was quite different from what she had expected. He appeared foreign, Christine was quite sure of that. He was darker in complexion then any of the native French and his voice was thick with a strange accent, although his spoken French was to be commended. The man's jade eyes were the most surprising. They fell upon her for a moment, as though lost in unspoken questions. The man was dressed in a dark grey suit and appeared to be holding an opened book in his left hand.
"I am sorry, Mademoiselle," he said to her, waving the servant away, "what is it you were inquiring about?"
"Are you Count Bellamont?" Christine asked, hesitation quite evident in her voice.
The man chuckled for a moment, the laugh becoming a deep, pleasant sound. "Of course not. I am only. . .a friend. My name is Nadir Khan."
"I am terribly sorry to bother you, Monsieur Khan, but I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions. I think I may know the Count as well."
"Please," he finally said, sweeping a gracious hand past the door, "come in. There is a chill in the air and I do not wish to make such a lovely young woman sick. Will your young gentlemen come as well?"
Raoul had finally approached the pair and smiled. "Vicomte Raoul De Chagny," he introduced himself, bowing briefly before the foreign man.
They entered the large foyer of the house and glanced around in awe at its vast cathedral ceilings and luxuriously furnished rooms. Nadir led them down the hall and into a sizeable parlor where he indicated for them to be seated.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur Khan, but I was wondering if I may speak with you in private," she asked softly. The man looked curiously at her for a moment before nodding.
"Raoul, forgive me, but I must speak with him alone," she added, looking back at her companion.
"Of course," he smiled, gazing about the room and examining its contents.
Nadir led her from the room and down the hall to another room, this one smaller then the last, but meant as a study, she surmised.
He pulled out a chair for her and she smiled before sitting down. Nadir took a seat before her and gazed at her inquisitively.
"Now, my dear, what is it you wish to know?" he asked, his jade eyes fixed keenly upon her.
"Forgive me for the strange request. I think. . .I may already know your friend, Count Bellamont, but I do not know for certain."
"Oh?"
"I have resided at an estate in the forest to the south for several months. My. . .benefactor. . .has not given me his full name. You see, I was orphaned and had no other place to go," she explained, not wanting to reveal too many details. "The man I know found me and took me in. I only know his first name."
Nadir, now utterly compelled by the story, listened in silence.
"Erik," she uttered, watching his face for a response.
"Hmm," he said, sitting back in his chair. He seemed lost in thought for a while before finally casting his strange eyes upon her again.
"You say he took you in. Living alone with a man for that length of time is certainly questionable in this country. Are you alright?"
"Yes," she blushed. "He has taught me to sing and has provided for me when I had no one else."
"Christine," he said in a tone nearing warning, "I must advise you to be careful."
"Why?"
"The man you speak of is indeed my. . .friend," he replied. "I have known him for many years since he once came to my homeland. But. . .he is a dangerous man."
"I don't understand," she said, her hands fidgeting in her lap.
"The man you have come to know once worked in the royals courts of my country. He was once a royal assassin. He was responsible for the deaths of many men."
There was a long silence before Christine finally regained her composure. "How many?" she asked, her voice so faint it could hardly be heard.
"I do not know," he replied, looking at her with concern in his eyes. He watched as she drew a hand up to her forehead as though trying to relieve a mild headache. "I do not wish to alarm you, my dear. I do not believe he would harm a young lady such as yourself. He has shown compassion before and swore never to harm a woman. But I must warn you about his anger. He can become quite passionate at times. It is when he is enraged when I would keep my distance."
"I am sorry, Monsieur," she stopped him, thoroughly disturbed, "but you said you were his friend and now you warn me about him in this way?"
"He spared my life and did more service to my family then you can imagine. I am indebted to him. But I do know that he can be dangerous. I will not lie."
Christine nodded as he recounted his story.
"Are you sure he has not harmed you?" Nadir asked with a suspicious glance.
"No," she said softly, "I have seen his anger on rare occasions. But he is. . .restrained. He has been very generous to me even though I have nothing to repay his kindness and his instruction."
"My dear," he suddenly asked, as though stumbling upon a revelation, "do you love this man?"
She looked back at him with a glance akin to that of a frightened child. "I do not know," she whispered.
"You have not seen his face?"
"I have," she said suddenly. Nadir watched her quietly. Amazing, he thought, she claims to have seen the horror of his face and yet she hesitates over my first question.
"How did it happen?" she asked.
"He was born that way," Nadir replied, matter-of-factly. "His mother cast him away as a child and he ran away from home. Then he spent years wandering the world until I met him in Persia. He has never grown accustomed to companionship. Never wanted to live amongst anyone else. I do not blame him. . .the stories he has told," Nadir's voice drifted and he shook his head.
Christine felt a strange, unconscious trust of this man. She had never confided in anyone before except Sister Catherine.
"I am afraid of him," she began softly, watching as Nadir's parental gaze drifted to hers again. "Every time he looks at me, I fear him. But I have never felt more protected, more nurtured by anyone else, save my late father."
"Again, I ask you my dear," Nadir said, leaning forward to take her trembling hand in his. "Do you love him?"
"Yes," she said, fighting back the emotions harshly.
A strange expression filled the Persian's face – a mixture of relief and amazement.
"And what of the young gentleman who accompanied you here?"
"He is nice and has treated me with only kindness and courtesy. I have not known him for long, though. He is handsome. . ."
"Do you feel anything for this young Vicomte?"
"Perhaps a friendship. But I feel safe when I am with him. I already can tell his temperament, and it reassures me. There is no conflict in him. . .only peace," Christine reflected.
After an hour spent in deep conversation, Christine finally emerged from the office with Nadir walking pensively behind her. Raoul rose as she entered the parlor.
"I trust you found the answers you were looking for," he said, smiling candidly.
"Yes, Raoul," she said, "I wish to thank you for going out of your way to bring me here."
He bowed humbly. "It was my honor."
They made their way to the door. Raoul stepped outside after a brief exchange of farewells with the mysterious houseguest. Christine paused in the doorway to pull up her hood and slip on her gloves. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Nadir. He gazed at her with a strange communion of thoughts and nodded.
"Until we meet again, Mademoiselle," he bowed humbly.
The pair made their way back to Raoul's estate in silence. The sleigh glided across the snow and Raoul finally grew tired of the quiet that plagued their return.
"Christine," he said softly, "I know we know very little of each other. But I feel that we have always known each other. I fear for your safety. I do not understand the arrangement that this Count Bellamont has made for you. But. . .I would like to invite you to stay at my estate if you wish it. My brother is very accommodating and you could stay purely as any respected guest would."
Christine glanced over at him and smiled. "Your offer is most kind," she replied, "but I need to return."
"You do not owe this man anything, Christine," he seemed to warn her.
"I know," she lied. But I do owe him, she thought silently.
"If you are ever in need of my help, do not hesitate to call on me," he said gently.
They continued the ride silence. The sleigh diverted to the south and found the road that led from a small town and into the forest. Perhaps it was there that he bought his supplies, she mused. Before she knew it, they had arrived before the quiet manor. Never before had it seemed so claustrophobic, hidden amongst the trees like some ancient ruin. She shuddered as the sleigh pulled to a halt.
Warm hands clasped hers and she turned to regard Raoul. He smiled at her reassuringly. "Christine," I do not wish to cause you any further distress. "But before you go, I only wish to offer you something. Perhaps a life that is free of uncertainty and sadness, as I see it in your eyes all of the time. Christine, this may be abrupt and too soon, but I would gratefully take your hand in marriage if you would allow it. You would not have to look back on this place again."
She had never expected to hear such a declaration, especially from a man of his ranking. But she was stunned, and a familiar fear rose up within her.
"I'm sorry, Raoul," she said softly, "I appreciate your offer, but I cannot give you an answer yet."
"I understand," he said, glancing at her softly, "think on it. I do not wish to rush you."
He bent over and placed a gentle kiss upon her lips, a move that she had not expected. She smiled shyly as he pulled away and regarded her for a moment with affection. Finally, he slid off from the sleigh and helped her down into the snow. She hurried to the door with a quick goodbye and watched as the sleigh drifted off down the road before she laid her trembling hands upon the door.
Oh God, she cried inwardly, I am so confused! What path should I choose? My future is so clouded now.
She opened the door quickly and hurried inside. Christine removed the heavy cloak from her shoulders and slipped the gloves from her hands. As she was unlacing her boots, she felt a shadow move across the floor. Her eyes widened for a moment, and she dared not straighten up for what horror met her late arrival.
But she had to. She had to face him. It was inevitable. Christine rose up after having removed the snow caked boots and her gaze drifted upwards to find Erik standing before her. She could see it in his eyes. The rage. The horrible rage that she seemed to cause too often.
"You are late," he said gravely, his voice dangerously low.
She trembled where she stood. What can I say that will not increase his anger? What can I say?
"Forgive me," she murmured, her gaze falling to the floor. "I was invited to stay with the De Chagny family for a couple of days. I did not wish to worry you."
He noticed how she trembled, how her slender body shook was such unimaginable fear before him.
"Now you betray me," he continued, seemingly ignoring her explanation, "for I see that the boy has made you an offer."
The anger, for the time being, was carefully harnessed behind his cold exterior. But it bubbled with such ferocity, that it threatened to explode at any moment.
"He did," she replied truthfully. "He offered to take care of me and let me live a life of peace, free of fear or reprisal."
"And did you accept his offer, Christine?" Erik asked, his voice seething.
She quaked, her gaze still upon the floor like a guilty servant. "I will think on his offer."
That was the breaking point. Thoroughly enraged, Erik pulled away from her, pulling an oil-lamp from a table and smashing it against the wall. Christine winced at the action, drawing away from him in fear. But he began to advance on her and she suddenly found herself against a wall, trapped, and unable to escape.
"Please," she wept. "Don't hurt me!"
He continued to advance, but his steps grew slower before he stopped mere inches from her.
A hand to her throat and she felt it encircle the delicate skin. Trembling and unable to contain her fear any longer, Christine's gaze finally drew up to his face and she drowned herself in his intense eyes.
"Monsieur Nadir Khan advised me to be careful. He said you are a dangerous man. You have killed many people. Are you going to kill me too?"
Suddenly, his composure slipped away in that brief moment. His hand lay frozen upon her neck.
She continued her argument, stifling her fear behind her wavering eyes. "Do you know why I went to see him? Do you know why I ran from this house? Do you know why I am afraid? I am afraid of you because. . .I-I love you. This love requires more of me then what Raoul offers. His is a safe affection. He only wants to keep me safe and protect me. But I fear the love I have for you. Every time you look at me, I feel as though I am drowning in it. That I will lose myself in it. It tortures me!"
Erik's hand had fallen away from her throat and dropped, defeated, by his side. He watched her in silence as she shook with such emotion that her body threatened to crumple to the floor before him.
She staggered away from him and down the hall, her footfalls echoing loudly in the halls. He stood there in shock, not able to move or even think.
She did not know how long she had slept, but the flurry of emotion and arguments from the day before were still fresh in her mind. Christine turned over in bed and her gaze fell upon the small nightstand beside the bed. A single red rose had been placed upon it and tied with a soft black ribbon. He had come into her room again during the night.
Christine suddenly had the urge to take comfort in his arms, as though their argument had not existed, but only with a stranger. She slid out of bed and wrapped her robe about the thin nightgown. She heard no noise in the house, only the still silence that had become so familiar.
Each room she passed was empty. Nothing was there to indicate his presence. She even noted the absence of his cloak near the front door. Finally, out of desperation, she moved up the stairs at the end of the hallway and ascended to his room on the second floor. She found the door and opened it with hesitation. But the chambers beyond were silent. Not even the steady breath of someone sleeping could be heard. She trembled slightly as she moved through the darkened anteroom and into his large bedchamber. He was not here either.
Dear God, have I driven him off with my confessions? Oh papa, I think I love this man as I have told him so, but he frightens me so. And yet, all I want right now is to feel his arms about me. It is wrong what he has done in his past, but I find myself conveniently ignoring all of that. I do not know the man who killed. I only know of the man who has taken care of me.
She found his large canopied, bed, hung with heavy drapes at the posts. There was no where else to go. No where else to take solace. Only here could she be pulled back into a somewhat comfortable sleep. Christine slipped beneath the covers and laid her head on the pillow. She could smell his scent in the sheets. The same familiar musk that intoxicated her senses now soothed her more then anything. This was not the embrace she had looked for, but it would do. Fear of him, fear of the future was now gone. There was only this temporary safety that she could fall into.
Lotte Rose 37 - Thank you for the very enthusiastic review. It certainly helps to encourage my writing.