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Lee

Antinomy

Erik

She looked up at him, her troubled face gilded by moonlight. "What if I can't love anyone? What if-"

"Hush." He turned her face to the sea. "Look, Christine."

They stood upon silver sand, the beach extending to either side of them on into infinity. The stars were bright, clear in the midnight-blue velvet of the sky. The moon shone with a soft glow, gleaming upon gently rolling waves. The light of it refracted like the shards of a broken mirror scattered in the water, muting the foam frothing at their ankles to a white opalescence. Slivers of pure light glittered in the waves that sighed against the shore.

She looked, eyes following his to the edge of the ocean, where sky and sea met, a velvet melding, inseparable but for the bright pinpricks of stars, an endless host like fireflies. "What am I looking at, Erik?" Her voice melded with the drifting sound of the waves.

He touched the coppery hair, brightened under the lambent moonlight. Reflections of light from the waters flickered over her upturned face. "What do you want to be looking at, Christine?"

She leaned back against him, her body melding against his as she looked out over the sea. "Hope. What is hope made of, Erik? How would you recognize it?" She shivered in the slight breeze, the tang of the ocean stirring the auburn curls, the white samite wrapped around her. He held her closer to him, she reached up behind her, skimmed a hand along his jawline. Her fingers felt like the caress of the ocean, baptizing, cleansing. Her head half-turned so that she looked at him. The mahogany eyes were dark and endless, currents in them like the movements of the tides at their ankles.

He smiled slightly. "In the same way you would recognize an angel."

Her eyes searched his. "I thought you didn't believe in angels." Her slim fingers traveled up his cheek. 'I always thought that was sad. You didn't seem to have hope."

"Didn't I?" Her fingers seemed to leave a trail of glowing light, much like the arching band of stars above them. His eyes closed briefly under that touch.

"No. You didn't." Her voice was soft, a clear whisper that seemed to come from within his own mind. "Why is that, Erik?"

Her fingers trailed up his face. "Would you tell me why?"

"I-" The slim, tender fingers distracted him as they traced over his skin. He laid his hand over hers, struggling for clarity. The warm night pulled at him with soft murmurs, the ocean sighing some voiceless message.

His fingertips touched masked side of his face. But it was not masked. And he held her hand against it. Her flawless white skin against his ravaged flesh.

What!

He started back, her eyes flew up to his, confusion in the star-brightened depths, as his hand slipped from hers. "Erik?" She drifted toward him. "Is there something wrong?" She reached out to him, eyes anxious. "Erik?"

He halted. Her fingers interlaced with his, she looked up questioningly at him. "What's wrong?"

He woke sharply, his breathing renting the silence. He realized he had fallen asleep on the divan, the composition he had been working on scattered on the floor. Erik raised a tentative hand to his mask, reassuring himself that it was still there.

What the hell was that? The details of his dream came rushing back to him, a tumultuous assault, a barrage of images and words. Christine, the ocean at their feet, the stars above their heads. Talking in riddles, of hope and angels.

Touching like...

What's wrong with you, Erik? he asked himself fiercely. What was that? Some subconscious wish on his part that someone would see beyond what lay behind the mask? Fine, that was understandable. But why her? And why had her touch been so tender, almost... loving in his dream?

This is Christine. Christine. What are you thinking, Erik? That because she has compassion for you, that because she accepts you, she could feel anything more? Even if she did, she isn't even eighteen yet!

Yet. Less than a week separated her from her birthday.

She's Nadir's goddaughter.

Some part of him had ceased to care.

He buried his head in his hands. One hand touched living flesh, the other the cold planes of a mask. What's wrong with you? This is idiocy, Erik, and you're a fool to dwell on it. People like her aren't meant for things like you. What the hell are you thinking?

What would she think of you if she knew?

Her farseeing eyes looked into his out of the darkness, autumnal, questioning. What would you see in those endless eyes?

He was torn from his thoughts by a faint sound. As his rampant thoughts slowed, the strange currents of the night twined around him, sighing, mourning. Something called to him. Someone.

Christine.

She had indeed been crying, as he saw when he found himself standing over her. The same luminous sheen of the moonlit sea was on her skin, broken and brightened where tear tracks stood out on her skin. He wondered just what he was doing there when he saw her hand clench tightly upon the pillowcase, a muffled sound in the back of her throat. There was a bright glittering on her lashes.

A wave of melancholy swept him, touched with compassion. He knew it was dangerous now, to think this way, to allow himself to feel for her.

He found, as she stirred restlessly, her features reflecting the lost and wandering spirit within, that he didn't much care. He seated himself at the edge of her bed, stroked the tangled curls back from her troubled face. No matter what he felt for her, she needed her Angel. Would he deny her that, in the vain hopes of something else? Something utterly unattainable, completely beyond his reach or merit?

Erik let the strange depth and beauty of her Angel enter his voice. "Sleep, Christine. You're safe." His hand paused on the fiery tresses, a protectiveness that he half-remembered infusing him at the touch. It recalled the day he had turned her face to the heavens and told her to sing to them. It recalled the light of dawn on her, her song moving through them as it rose to Heaven. It recalled the warmth of her tears as he held her, the eyes so lost on his...

"Dream of hope, Christine."

What am I doing? he wondered, torn between the logic that told him to go and the compassion that compelled him to stay. What am I allowing myself to do? I shouldn't care for her like this, I shouldn't care for her like this.

Don't you remember what happened the last time you let yourself feel this way, Erik? inquired a voice from the back of his mind, as he rested a hand on the damp tendrils that curled like ruddy ivy.

He found, as she sighed and settled, the touch of a contented smile on her lips, that it didn't much matter.

Christine

A half-familiar voice broke the shadows consuming her. A voice that interrupted the requiem resounding through her, turning it from a song of death and mourning to a soothing heartbeat. Her half-conscious mind stirred, spirit drawn to the sound.

"Sleep, Christine." There was an elusive, ephemeral something that seraphic voice, evading her just before her half-dreaming mind could grasp it. "You're safe." She felt a pressure upon her hair, a tranquility flowing through her like sunlight through glass, warmth and brightness flooding her. Efflorescing like petals unfurling from their heart under the touch of the morning sun; her Angel's presence a calyx, shielding her.

"Dream of hope, Christine."

It was odd, she thought vaguely, as she felt herself sinking into peaceful oblivion, that there was something in her Angel's voice that had been almost familiar.

Almost...

Christine was asleep before she could complete the thought.

Raoul

He looked broodingly at the photos over the mantel. Dark eyes smiled at him, ruddy hair drifting across them. Her ivory skin was flushed with laughter. Christine's features seemed to waver in hers, as a reflection danced in wind-stirred water, disrupting the mirror of the soul.

If only it were so easy to make her smile. If only it were so easy to make her dark eyes light with elation. If only it were so easy to be with her.

I came so close- what happened?

There was no answer from the smiling photograph.

I need to talk to her. I need to figure out just what she's so afraid of. Why...

Why this...

Christine

The coolness of the morning was tinged with moisture, the promise of rain, as Christine jogged through the park. The sun had not yet fully dispersed the mist hovering in wispy, billowing seas.

Her heart settled into a familiar rhythm, as it did every morning, as she jogged, a dull, constant background to her thoughts.

Her Angel had been with her again last night. There had been something, a half-understood remembrance, as though there was a semblance between her Angel and something or someone else... someone she couldn't quite put a name to. It hovered in her mind, just out of reach. Whenever she tried to snatch at the thought, she found it slipping like water through her fingers and soaking into the ground, irrecoverable.

Why can't I remember? Why can't I understand? Her thoughts eluded her like smoke, evanescing on the air and leaving only a trace of scent behind to show that they had existed at all. A fleeting greyness that faded into intangibility, that parted before her seeking mind as though she tried to touch mist.

Angel... what is it that I can't remember?

She heard a voice hailing her; her feet slowed and stopped, she turned unwillingly. Her heart pounded against her lungs, but she could not run this time. He'd let her go yesterday, she didn't think he would give up so easily if she did it again today.

The owner of the voice was who she had expected, if not who she would have chosen. Raoul walked toward her, his manner that of assured calm. She didn't know how genuine it was.

"We need to talk, Chris." his eyes sought hers, held them steadily. "Why did you run off yesterday?"

The blunt question took her off guard. He continued, and she realized he didn't expect her to answer, not yet. "What are you so afraid of, Chris? Why is it that..." he trailed off.

"Raoul- I can't be with you. Not like that. It's just that simple." She was, for some odd reason, acutely aware of the stillness of the air, a breathless anticipation, like the waiting time between the flash of lightening and the roll of thunder.

The hazel eyes were uncomprehending. "Why? Tell me why that is, Chris. If it's really that simple, then explain it to me." His voice had taken on a different tone, slightly frayed around the edges, as though it were a fabric wearing thin. He smiled, and it was forced. "There's not someone else, is there?"

She shook her head. "It's not that-"

"Then what is it?" He raised his eyebrows, voice insistent. Two steps brought him close, uncomfortably close. She could feel the heat of his body, he gripped her shoulders and looked down at her with such an odd, almost demanding intensity, so unlike him, that she felt a nervous fear sliding down her like rain over a window. His fingers pressed uncomfortably. "What are you afraid of?" he asked again. His eyes searched hers and she looked away, slipping from the hands on her shoulders.

"Why do I have to be afraid of something if I don't want to be with you?" she asked defensively. This- interrogation- shook her. It was like wind shivering a leaf from the bough, pulling it this way and that until it broke from its tree. Christine could feel herself breaking away as the leaf did, a snapping sensation, then a spinning disorientation Why is he doing this? She hoped that this would be over soon, that she could excuse herself on some pretext or other. Why can't he let this rest?

It was obvious to her that she would have to face this issue in full eventually. But not now. She couldn't face the confusion in his eyes, the note of pleading in his voice at this moment.

He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I sprung it on you like that, Chris. I didn't mean to startle you. But don't you think you overreacted a little?"

She felt a flare of anger at the exasperation in that last remark, suppressed it. "Maybe I did overreact, Raoul, but did you stop to think that I might not be ready for that?"

"When will you be?" he asked suddenly, his candor shocking her.

She replied with like frankness. "I don't know if I'll ever be ready, Raoul. I don't..." she paused, trying to make what she was saying less harsh. She didn't want to hurt him, just make him understand. Why was that so difficult? "I don't know if that's what I want." If you're what I want.

You know very well, Christine. her conscience admonished her. She thrust that thought aside.

He sighed, put his hands in his pockets. When he looked at her again, his face was set. "If it's time you want, I'll wait."

"Don't."

Christine realized how cold that must have sounded, and softened her voice. "Don't wait for me, Raoul. I don't want you to deny yourself an opportunity to be happy." You won't find what you're looking for with me.

The hazel eyes were unwavering. "I'll wait."

She shook her head and turned to go. He stopped her before she had gone two steps. "When can I talk to you again?"

Are you really sure you'd be able to wait, Raoul? Christine wondered.

She looked back over her shoulder at him. "I don't know."

Christine walked on and this time he did not stop her.

Once inside the apartment, she closed her eyes and rested her head against the door. The draft from the air conditioning brushed her hair into her eyes.

What does he want?

She knew very well what he wanted. She just didn't understand it. Why her, why not someone else? What was it about her that had him so riveted? Christine didn't try to convince herself that she was particularly stunning, or that she was some kind of brightly colored social butterfly with some kind of magnetizing élan. The fact remained that she wasn't. To her mind, she was no different than half a dozen of the girls that might have thrown themselves in Raoul's path, except that they were interested and she was not. Surely there were other girls more compatible with him, girls that could certainly be more attractive or willing.

So why her?

She had a vague sense of someone in her vicinity before he spoke.

"You look cheerful. Is the morning air not as fresh as it's made out to be?" Erik leaned a shoulder against the door frame, seemingly at ease, a half-smile lighting the unmasked side of his face. But there was a sense of tension around him. Christine couldn't quite put her finger on it. A tenuous whisper upon the air, the barest sense of hesitation, reservation...

She sighed and settled for a shrug. "I saw Raoul."

His voice sharpened. "What?"

She felt a headache building, on top of a dull, efferent ache that seemed to center around a leaden weariness in her chest. "We talked. He- I don't know, Erik. He just can't let this go and I-" she broke off. I wish I knew what to do.

The blue eyes were unreadable, unfathomable as though she looked through a sunlit sky and hoped to see the stars beyond. "Would you like me to talk to him?"

She blinked at the offer. "No, I'm sure that's not necessary, it's just..." Christine knew that eventually, it would have to be her that convinced Raoul. Her and no one else. Yes, she ached for what he was offering, for the whole matter to be over with and forgotten, but that was the easy way out, that was the childish thing to do. It could only lead to hurting someone.

Christine didn't want to hurt anyone.

"If he won't leave you alone, Christine..." Erik's eyes were touched with the same concern in his voice, an effluent care.

She shook her head, a morose gloom settling over her. "It's not that. I don't think he'll bother me for a while. It's just that..." she paused. It's not fair that he thinks I can give him what he needs, or that he can give me what I need. It's not fair to him or to me.

Erik raised an eyebrow. "If you wish to lament the ineptitude of the male species, by all means, go ahead. I'll listen." His tone was light, there was a hint of a smile on his face. His eyes though, were entirely serious and she felt a rush of gratitude at the sense that he was trying to put her at ease, torn between laughing or crying. She smiled, and this time it didn't feel so forced.

"I have another idea."

"Heaven help us." he murmured. She mock-frowned at him, the greyness lifting, and he smiled faintly in return.

The frown faded as she looked up into his eyes, solemn. "Would you give me a music lesson?"

He inclined his head. "If you like." he said simply. A warmth like sunlight touched his eyes.

Like sunlight on the sea... A whisper traced its way up her spine, a warmth shrouding her.

Christine smiled her thanks. "I would." She hugged him briefly; he tensed and patted her back awkwardly. Christine sighed mentally and wondered just what had caused that unsurety, almost a distrust, that he seemed to have with physical touch. What is he afraid of? Who was that woman in the photograph? She put the thought aside and smiled up at him, trying to communicate a reassurance, a gratitude with her eyes. "Thank you."

It was only when they reached the music room that he relaxed again.

Erik

He fought off a rise of irritation and resisted the very tempting urge to throw something. The feel of her body against his, as it had been in the dream, the complete trust in her eyes, was not at all soothing to his nerves. The way she had looked up at him with dark eyes intent, almost as though she meant to reassure him of something. The emanation of sentiment that had risen in him in reply.

Damn it all to hell, Erik. You're just protective of her because she's lost her father, is grieving, and has to deal with that boy on top of it. That's all this is.

If he just ignored any other feelings, disregarded them, they would go away with time. He could control these feelings, rid himself of them; Erik had nothing if not his self-control.

He had almost convinced himself of this when he saw Christine sleeping on the couch, a book dangling from one hand, curled up catlike against the arm. She was so innocent, lying there so simply, completely unaware. The lamplight softened her face, infusing her skin with a subtle glow. She lay there so still, so fragile. For all her strength and compassion, there was a terrible vulnerability in her sometimes. The desire to heal, not to harm. A gentleness that had been her downfall with the boy. Erik felt his face soften as he looked at her. Christine.

A blind faith that nothing would harm her. A unsullied and utter trust. A slow burning, like rising embers, that he had no name for made its way through him. A glow like the setting sun cast across the sky, one horizon a fading light, the other a midnight blue nightfall strewn with brightness. Erik watched her for a moment, the calm rise and fall of her breathing, the tranquil features, before his earlier question came back to haunt him.

What would she think of you?

Thankfully, he didn't have to answer that question, because there was a knock at the door.

Christine showed no sign of waking.

Erik could venture a guess as to who it was and was tempted- very tempted- not to answer. But a second, firmer knock changed his mind. Christine might not be stirring at the moment, but if she woke and had to talk to him again, he had the feeling that she might not come out of it so calmly this time. Or at least he knew that the deadened apathy would not last. There was only so long Christine could stay numb to the situation, and Erik felt that she did not need another dramatic outburst like the one of yesterday.

She did not need to cry again.

He opened the door. "Mr. DeChangey." He glanced at the clock as though by a whim. It was well past nine. Erik let a polite surprise steal across the visible half of his face. "I didn't know you were coming."

The boy's face was set. "May I speak with Christine?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid that she's asleep." When the boy opened his mouth to reply, Erik added softly. "I think you've done enough for today, Mr. DeChagney. Let her rest."

They eyed each other for a moment, than the younger sighed. "Will you tell her I came by?"

Erik shrugged noncommittally. "Good night, Mr. DeChagney."

And he had to be satisfied with that.

Raoul

I need to talk to her. The draft from the air conditioning bit at him like the touch of a wind clean and sharp with snow.

"I think you've done enough for today, Mr. DeChagney." Erik's voice was velveted, icy. There was a hint of something, almost a veiled threat, behind it. So faint a warning that Raoul was not sure that he had not imagined it. "Let her rest." The strangely intense eyes were almost falcon-like on him. Hard and bright, an unnerving tint of blue. Raoul found them disturbing to hold, but forced himself to meet the enigmatic eyes. What has she told him? What had Christine trusted him with that she couldn't trust to Raoul himself? The white mask gleamed at him; he fought off the unease it presented.

"Will you tell her I came by?" Tell her I need to make amends?

He was answered with a shrug that promised nothing. "Good night, Mr. DeChagney."

Raoul frowned as the door closed. There was something in the man's tone, something hovering just out of reach of consciousness...

Just out of reach.

Christine

She stirred sleepily, the muscles of her neck complaining as she sat up. She winced, looked up at Erik, who stood just outside the door. "Did someone come by? I thought I heard voices."

He shook his head, concern tingeing the bright eyes. And something else. Something that sent a questioning through her like a ray of sunlight into a dark place. "No one. You must have been dreaming."

She sat back, massaged her aching temples. God, for a simple life. The whole business with Raoul, on top of her father's death, must have been affecting her more strongly than she thought.

But I'm sure I heard voices.

She shook her head. Christine, you must have been dreaming. She looked up to see that the sky colored eyes were still on her, strangely brilliant. A wordless question seemed to hang between them in the silence, a tremoring extension of the psyche.

You must have been dreaming.

Later that night, she stirred restlessly in her bed. Her thoughts were like leaves chasing each other in the wind, going nowhere. Her parent's faces, Raoul's questions, Erik's eyes on hers, all began to blend in a disturbing kaleidoscope in her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, they were there. Watching her. Inside her mind, where she could not cast them out.

She was about to forsake sleep and get up when a melody began to wind through the air. Christine went still to listen, half-propping herself up on her elbows.

She laughed softly, incredulously, felt a smile curve her lips as a warmth traced its way up her spine. It was the tune to 'Angel of Music'. It was for her, she knew, but how did he know the song? She closed her eyes, feeling the piano keys vibrate through her, brushing at the fiber of her being, rippling and caressing the fabric of her spirit. She felt a warm glow budding at her core, like the first touch of dawn over a garden, turning the opaque paleness of petals to flaming incandescence. The light burned more brightly still, the color and the warmth heightening until she felt alight. The aura within her chased the images back, drowned the discordant sounds in serene song. Christine lay back down, looking out at the soft, gentle moonlight and smiling. She traced the fabric of her pillow, basking in the soothing reverie of the music that caressed her. She wondered how he knew the song.

She found, as she lay there, that it didn't matter.

Thank you, Erik.