Chapter 23 – His Truth, Her Choice
Erik stared at her, stationary and trying in vain to stop the painful memories from surfacing.
How long you ask? How long?
Mama, it's looking at me. Why is it looking at me? It scares me.
"You could not possibly wish to know," he uttered hoarsely, in half a mind to send the impertinent girl to her room, rather than to confess his deeds like a sinner in a confession, reaching in vain for salvation.
Darkness cloaking his eyes, the smell of waste and unwashed flesh, the one hole that swung above him, airy dust motes sticking to the inside of his wet black hole.
But there is no redemption for Erik! Not in this mortal coil, that kept his sorry soul alive another day, another minute, a mere fraction on Time's watch. Oh, but to think that he could absolve himself in the mere look of her eyes offered him a fruit that cried of temptation and irrevocable sin.
"You must be tired still from the journey here, I suggest that you go and rest. We shall make an outing tomorrow,"
"No," Christine answered, a bite in her words, demanding. His darling had gained the courage of a lion in a matter of moments. Tick, tick, tick. Part of him wished to indulge her, but she continued, "I asked a question and I know I'm right! You hide so much from me. I'm beginning to think there's more to your mask than –" the girl stopped, looking down at her pretty flower-patterned feet, "I just want to know you. For someone who's supposed to be spending the rest of their life with you, I am owed at least something,"
And my own horror story of torture and shameless pursuit of innocent souls is what you require? Christine, my dearest, you are truly unknowing of the monster you reside with.
"I am unwilling to harm your delicate sensitivities, dear,"
Yes, for a girl who trembled at the faintest bump in the night, such a harrowing story was not for her ears. Never. Never.
There was the spark he was expecting, igniting in her eyes like a match. But it didn't fill him with eagerness, no, he was angry, so very angry.
And beneath that, his stone heart trembled.
"Go, Christine," he growled, voice reverberating around the room as nails would scrape down metal. Agony, months, years, all too much. Piercing skin, holes would fill with blood, bubbling, bubbling, pouring down the puckers. Searing heat, searing screams. His screams.
"Let me GO! Godamnit,"
"Erik, Erik, stop!"
Pressure was building up as the gratification of slicing that knife, sawing through skin as easily as skinning a plant. Flesh was serrated, another scar to add to the dozens, the burn of blood streaming down the cut, edges of skin coming apart – oh like petals of a flower. A flower of death.
And the man before him was wailing, thrashing in his chair, as the next cut was across his throat.
"Please!"
Erik was jolted as pressure of a body surrounded him – panic, so much panic – stranger. But it wasn't the pressure of being body slammed to the floor, the barrel of a gun against his chest or the weight of a vase being thrown, no.
It was her.
Angel. My Angel.
"Please stop it Erik, please," she whispered and he was aware of how tightly her little fingers clung onto him, "Please, stop crying,"
I haven't cried in decades.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know," his angel was repeating herself, placating, whimpering.
What did Erik do?
Erik saw Christine kneeling before him and the warmth he felt were from her from her hands. On his bare ones. Flesh against flesh.
My mask!
But his mask was in place. It had only shifted slightly, some edges were pressing in uncomfortable areas. But his mask was there.
His Christine had kept her innocence. Relief had never stung so deeply.
Erik cleared his throat and Christine glanced up, tears gathering in her eyes. His dove should never have cause to cry. Especially not because of the monster. Monster. Monster. Monster.
"I didn't mean to cause one of those episodes – I'm sorry," guilt weighed his Christine like crone with weathered features. Gently, he pried those pretty hands from him, as much as he wished to cradle them into oblivion came.
Episodes. That is what she calls them. That is what I had guessed.
He began to speak, needing to clear his throat before he did so, "You have little to apologise for, Christine. Do not kneel," Christine gazed up at him and he managed to coax her to sit on the sofa next to him, a respectable distance away. He did not relish the space between them.
But it was necessary.
Soon, soon it would not be, but for now, until things were ready…Erik would remain Christine's friend.
Erik sighed, folding arms and staring at the case that loomed before him.
"Know this Christine and listen well," Erik said softly, "The world does not like me,"
He leant over and gripped the handle of the case, passing it to Christine and gazing into her earthy eyes, "And I do not like the world,"
Christine sat there hugging her cushion as the case stared at her from the end of the bed.
It's just the date of my birthday. Six digits. But I don't want to open it now.
He'd passed it over so…easily. What if it was nothing? Legitimate business, deals, insurance. Or something like a hit list?
Would he really let her see it if it was? Well, it wasn't like she'd be able to say anything even if it was a list of names soon to be assassinated. He had her under lock and key.
"I'm such a wimp," Christine muttered, grabbing the case and shoving it under her bed. She'd look at it later.
Sighing, Christine got up and stared out of the window.
I just need today to be over. Tomorrow will be a clean plate and we'll be visiting somewhere in Paris.
Yay…
"Are you quite sure that is what has occurred? You do realise the last imbecile that disappointed me received a severe – ah – rank adjustment, yes?"
That he currently lies in the bottom of a deep dark hole no one knows about. Such a shame – his ambitions to cut a side of my industry and wire it to his own bank account – terribly sloppy. I thought he'd have a bit more tact. And to add to the wound, he lied about Khan's apparent tracking attempts to cover his own lack of attention. Disgraceful.
This is why I detest having others manage my work. Even if they're the best ones on the market.
"Y-y-es sir,"
Ah, how I love fresh meat. I wonder how long until greed calls this one? I give it roughly seven months before he starts cutting corners.
Still. This will be over soon. Then Christine will be the only priority in my life.
Erik glanced at his oak door as he heard a timid knock. Suddenly, he was relieved that he'd made the wise decision of speaking in his employee's native tongue. Christine could never overhear one of these conversations. She'd misunderstand what he was trying to do for her. For them. They'd be back to their distrustful silences and he'd witness her trembling once more if he stepped too close.
No! I cannot lose that. I cannot lose her. I can't lose the only dear creature that I can hold close to my heart. The only being of whom does not flinch when I touch them.
I cannot lose the very breath that keeps this monster alive.
"Good," Erik said pleasantly, before hanging up, aware of the keen ears that listened to him on the other side. Sliding the phone into his breast pocket, Erik tried to ignore the painful thumping of his heart as he called to her.
"Come in, Christine,"
His little dove entered his room cautiously, eyes flittering over the furnishings of his bedroom, fingers twining together. Anxious.
This makes her…Uncomfortable? How intriguing. Does she expect that I languish in a dungeon by choice? Does she think that I would abstain of the luxuries that bedazzle her own sanctum?
"Did you enjoy peering at my briefcase's contents, my dear? Have you come to return it?"
There was an absence of guilt upon her face, yet she still looked down at the floor as if she were.
Erik waited patiently, cataloguing the way Christine shifted her weight from each foot, a slight ritual he'd noticed before she would gather up her courage to speak.
"I didn't open it," she admitted, starting the habit Erik had tried so hard to drill out of her.
"Christine, you will do yourself no good if you continue to harm yourself. Desist,"
The gnawing of the lip stopped immediately; a small flush of embarrassment that looked far too beguiling upon her stained her cheeks.
If I could draw you now, no one would think you were not some deity.
He stepped forward, the pull to her subconscious and he had an urge to raise her head with a touch, like lifting a flower head towards the sun.
But his fingers were locked tightly in a grasp behind his back. Erik had restraint. Erik was good. Even if he had bruised fingers later that would make it difficult to play, Erik remained a gentleman.
"My dear," he softened his tone, imbuing it with the warmth he felt within whenever his little nightingale was near, "Do not feel guilty of the conscience you have,"
That you are good in places that I have never seen in any other.
Oh, there it was. The little igniting of something within that desired him, his praise and consideration, how long had he waited for that? The barest tilt of her head, the slightest change of her pose, a beacon of hope that made him breathless.
My Christine, my love, let me adore you. I would beg, I would beg again and again if it would only make a difference.
But of course, it will not. You are yourself.
And you believe your heart belongs to that boy!
"Can we go outside please?"
"Can we go outside please?"
"No! Don't touch the drapes, I don't want your grubby paws on them,"
"But why –" glass shattering, pain ripping through his head.
"Don't disobey me! I am your mother, you will listen to me when I am talking to you!"
As her words clanged through his head Erik winced, hissing through his teeth.
Christine took a step back and Erik was horrified to see the fear written plainly in her eyes.
She thinks her request has displeased me!
No! Don't fear me. Please. Don't fear your Erik.
"Of course we may go out, my dear," he replied calmly, forcing back the sudden desire to hurl onto the carpet, "I was merely feeling a bit under the weather, momentarily,"
At once the fear melted from her eyes, growing soft and – and compassionate – as Christine took a step towards him, "I'm sorry, are you ok? We don't have to go out, we can stay here,"
Erik stopped breathing when her fingers touched his arm, "If you're feeling unsteady you should go and lie down," she continued, looking at him with those trusting eyes, "I can go and ask the butler to get something for you, if you need it,"
She really is going to give me a heart attack if she remains so unpredictable.
Erik shook his head slowly, not wishing to appear threatening, not when she was touching him like any other, like a human, and his heart was hammering a mile a minute – and good God, had it ever beat faster?
"No, no, Christine, we shall go out for an evening walk. Consider it my apology for not taking you anywhere this afternoon,"
We have wasted a day at my behest, it is my duty to ensure you remain healthy. Even if I am struggling not to entertain the idea of faking illness and let you become my nursemaid for the evening.
Oh, you are so naturally gifted at caring for others, you truly are a good girl. How much is it learnt behaviour and how much of it is your soul, Christine? Will I ever know?
Her smile had the power to combust stars and move galaxies. Erik prided himself being the cause of it as Christine tried not to skip back to her room, wanting to change into something a bit classier for their evening walk; France's city centre was as chic as its residents. Though Erik had admired the way her knitted cardigan's arms hadn't been chewed on yet, he was awaiting to hear the gasp that came from her room.
It was moments later that Christine came running out, wearing the delightful item he'd purchased for her.
A navy-blue fabric coat with a shiny row of buttons on one side fitted Christine beautifully, as shapely and resplendent as ever. Erik rocked back on his heels.
"Is it to your liking, Christine?"
"It's lovely, but isn't it meant to be warm out there?" Christine peered over to the darkening sky.
Erik shook his head, "There is a slight breeze that you should be wary of, I would not like to see you cold,"
What sort of guardian would let his love wonder shivering like a waif?
You did. You did. It was her fault! She left me, ran from me.
But she's here now. She is grateful, even if she cannot say it. That is enough. She is enough.
"Oh," Christine nodded, understanding.
"I have but one more thing for you this evening,"
"I don't need anymore gifts," she tried to interrupt, panic written plainly upon her features.
"Christine, please allow me to give you one last thing,"
She froze; it was the 'please' that struck her, he knew.
I don't say please to anyone apart from you Christine and there is only one part that minds. It knows you have my heart and soul, without knowing I have yours in return.
Christine sighed, "All right then,"
With a flourish he produced a parcel, squidgy and square. Christine took it, curiosity clear in the way her fingers opened it, peeling off the taped end. Her eyes widened as she took out a beret hat, matching the hue of her coat.
"It's so soft," she murmured, a sad smile gracing her lips, almost a grimace.
"I know you wished for one," he replied, taking the hat from her fingers and placing it gently upon her head, titling it 'just so'.
"Meg would kill for something like this," Christine said in the same lowered tone and Erik realised he knew why there was pain in her eyes.
He leant forward, lowering so he could reach her field of vision, "My dear, would you think that your friend would want you to squander your gifts? Would she rather you become depressed at her absence, or enjoy what you are able to delight in?"
"She'd rather I be at home," Christine replied listlessly, eyes becoming glazed in sadness.
No. No. Christine, stay with me. I cannot watch you turn to glass before my eyes again, fracture at the slightest song.
"Come Christine, shall we savour the pleasures of Paris?" his palm was there, asking her to take it.
Take him.
Christine glanced up and he saw the tears that she was pushing behind her. Hope spurred within his heart as she stepped forward and allowed her fingers to be enfolded by his, watching like that of a child he had once seen wandering to view his architecture.
"I will take you to a place you have never been before, Christine. With Erik beside you, there is no need to fear,"
I will be your lifeboat, I will be your Angel, I will be your guardian, Christine. But one day, you will see Erik as your home.
Christine shivered as the air met her face without the warmth of the hotel to bat it away. Erik held her hand in a grip that was tight enough for her to tell that she would not be 'accidentally' slipping away, but that if she fancied a particular direction to walk in, he would be amiable to follow.
This newfound sense of freedom was like the cool trickle of water after a twenty-mile hike through the woods, a whisper of air on a heated day. So little, a mere fleeting relief from the onslaught that she faced. However, she was facing in the direction of the wind and soon, if she stuck to the path, she would reach the top and be surrounded by cold refreshing air.
Christine knew that it would be a very long hike.
They wandered past the hotel, Christine watching as couples passed and more specifically, a group of girls. All speaking the fluid language, the troupe giggled as they stepped onwards. Christine hadn't realised she had stopped to watch them pass longingly until Erik tugged her onwards.
His hat – her hat – was warm and stylish. Part of her wondered if he'd chosen that colour because he'd known it been Raoul's favourite. As if he wanted to taint it. Christine vowed that she wouldn't let him.
Still, you can't say this isn't one of the nicest coats you've ever owned.
The voice in her head was snide. Well, I don't own it. He does.
He gave it to you. Papa said that once you're given a gift, its technically yours.
Erik had put his 'other face' on and Christine realised how in the dark street, less people were making eye contact, let alone staring. How were they going to go out in daylight?
They passed a café named 'Bar des theatres' and Christine blinked in surprise, "Are we near a theatre?"
Erik gave a nod, "Indeed, a mere street away resides Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. It is not one I have influence over," he paused, "Come along, we are also near a couple of other tourist sights that we can visit this evening,"
Christine allowed Erik to guide her down the lane, gasping as she saw the tip of the Eiffel tower came into view, amber lights glowing against the backdrop against the sky.
"Magnificent, is it not?" Erik breathed, as if he was seeing it for the first time himself, "We will have a better view if we walk to the Seine, of which separates us and the landmark,"
"The Seine is nearby too?"
Erik turned to her, "I did say you would like our hotel location," he murmured, guiding her once more as he hid the pleased gleam in his eyes.
The view of the Eiffel tower was even more beautiful upon the serene setting of the river, the top half of it was clearer now and Christine leant against the railing, sighing.
France had its own atmosphere. Unique, thriving, alive, sparkling. Yes. Sparkling. The City of Light summarised in one word.
"So, how often have you stayed in France?" she asked her guardian, who gazed over the water. Her shadowy sentinel.
Erik gave an indifferent shrug, "I have spent five years here, in Paris,"
"And what about other places in France?" Christine questioned, hearing the 'swish-swish' of the water below, the odd honk of a barge on the river.
"Other places do not exist to me in France," Erik replied darkly, flicking a spec of lint from his coat.
He doesn't want to talk about it. Why? If he lived in Paris for five years, then could it have been his place of birth, or a relocation? A move to the big city of France. He does speak French so fluently. Especially with Clarice. Is this where he met her?
"Whereabouts did you live in Paris, is your old home nearby?"
Erik found this amusing, "Indeed it is nearby. And before you ask, we are not going to visit such a dour place, it is dreadfully boring,"
"Boring?" she questioned, shaking her head, "Can't be anymore boring than a fully-furnished basement or a sprawling summer mansion, in England of all places. I bet it's not even in the city,"
He chuckled softly, "I will not show it to you. It is true that it may be seen as unconventional, but nonetheless, it would be difficult to get to now, either way,"
"Ah well," she shrugged, sensing her defeat, "We'll just have to see other things instead. I wouldn't mind seeing the Louvre Museum or the Tuileries gardens, oh and the Musée d'Orsay. I saw on the brochure that it has lots of impressionist works there. It might be good to see some of the best," Christine rested her head on her hands, elbows on the railing of the balustrade, the slight breeze tugging at her curls even with the hat sitting on top of her head.
Only a week and then we're gone. I'm saving Disney world for Raoul.
We'll get to see it one day, right?
We will, I promise you Raoul.
Erik leant against the white balustrade, only a few centimetres apart. No one would think that it was just two strangers leaning together as they gazed at the river. Was that the plan? Let her believe she was safe for a few moments and then entrap her further? Get mistaken – god help her – for his wife?
But the temptation to just sigh and rest her head against his arm was so tempting, even while she knew it should be another man she would be doing this to.
God, she was just so lonely. In a place where she'd already seen love shared in goodbye kisses, in the smell of shared pastries for breakfast, the music that followed them out of the restaurants, hazy and delirious. It had awakened something cold and desperate inside her. She wanted that! That – that – sparkle everyone else just seemed to have.
I want to be loved. I want to have love and I want it so badly. My heart aches. Aches. And it hurts. I don't want to be this cold dead thing anymore. I want love!
I just want love.
Closing her eyes, Christine felt like she was free falling, jumping from a cliff she'd never regain her sanity from. The months and months of lost, wasted wondering, all the years and phony tears.
No one ever taught her to fly.
I just want love.
Christine's head rested on his shoulder, not accidental, not pity, not compassion, not desire.
Not love.
I just want.
You.
Deny him something, you deny yourself all.
Was that what she had feared? The moments she had fought him, tooth and claw for everything she had worked for: her English major, her job, her friends – Meg, Mama V, Joe, Mary-Anne –, her boyfriend, she had denied herself comfort. There was no one but him. Her father beyond help and counsel, her mother a faded smile on a summer's day. No siblings. No music. That was what it had been. But it was hard to keep track of the losses. He was trying to replace her fallen idols with beauty, wealth, music. More, even. Countries. Travels. Experiences. Privileges. Sanctuary. Peace. Love. His version of it.
Like he was repainting the doll house, taking out the old beloved chairs and placing within sumptuous thrones and labelling it 'love'. But what if she had loved the rickety chairs because they had seen her through hard times, because she loved them? She loved how that she was free to sit upon any one she liked, rather than the solitary throne, stuck down with super glue next to one that was far larger and occupied by a man that…Could barely qualify as one. He'd repainted the views on the outside, replacing them with meadows and beautiful city lights, telling her that instead of the ones overlooking such a dour and grey world, she was deserving of far better.
What if she wasn't? What if she preferred the others? What if the meadows that appeared outside looked emptier than the campus she had resided on? What if she didn't like how large his throne had become?
What if she didn't like being his queen, in a world she was once able to govern?
But give yourself something, you begin to fall.
The red dress hung neatly within the wardrobe. The teddy bear that had sat upon her beside table. The books she had pilfered from his library. The case that hid under her bed.
The moment of falling onto his arm, sinking into the need for kinship that had grown so unbearable and for once, not wanting to feel guilt that hounded her through dreams of Raoul. Given up. Given in.
You don't laugh when you know you're dead.
Christine wished she could erase that utterly beautiful sigh that leaked through the air, that replayed on her ears as she threw off her clothes. How she couldn't mistreat that navy blue coat, the only rough touch was when the wardrobe door slammed. That Erik had not only stayed calm even while she could hear the rapidity of his breathing, but how painfully his eyes had shone when he gazed upon her, more reverent and worshipping than any human could hope to achieve. Even Raoul.
There was something so dreadfully alluring as he had looked into her eyes, so easy to follow, falling down that cavern and being so awed by the bliss that you don't mind where you land. Heart-dropping when his hand cradles your cheek, just liked you'd dreamed, dreamed him – the angel – Erik of doing when he sang you a lullaby. That just like in the stories, it was too easy for your eye lashes to flutter, in the most perfect place, in the perfect moment, that all feelings intensify. That your soul screams 'At last!' this is what it feels like to give in. And it feels perfect.
Of course, it fractured when a man's too loud voice disrupted the moment, reminding them of their dropped guards, as you become aware of the breeze being that bit too cold and how odd it actually was to have your head resting in a murderer's hands.
Space was gained within moments, casual, normal. Just an ordinary couple going for a walk, in the evening, along the river Seine. Nothing odd about that. How you follow his lead that headed back to the hotel, but not before his soft adoring eyes reach you and gently taking your hand once more.
It was then I irrevocably changed everything.
The next morning – the second morning already – she woke up and completed her morning routine without much difference. Of course, Christine was greeted by the sight of Erik at the other end of the breakfast table, reading a newspaper.
There was a moment of silence before he looked up, "Good morning Christine, did you sleep well?"
Even his voice was normal; soft, well-spoken, effortlessly silver-tongued belaying nothing that had occurred yesterday. Erik was impenetrable.
Christine realised that the fact annoyed her. He had seemed so open last night. Had Christine caught him at a strange time? Had he enjoyed the fact the scenario had been 'romantic', was that why he let his guard down? Would she ever get the chance again to talk to him like that?
In reply Christine nodded once, already reaching for the waffles drizzled in golden syrup and cinnamon sugar.
Whipped cream. There was no whipped cream. Raoul would always - forget about it! It's never going to happen! He's never going to happen.
"How you stand that cavity filled breakfast item is beyond my comprehension," Erik murmured as he gazed at her cutting a bite neatly with her cutlery, "It belongs on a desert menu,"
Christine shrugged, savouring her mouthful before answering, "Modern problems requires modern solutions," Raoul prefers toast too. I bet you'd never thought that you could have one similarity with him.
Erik scoffed, "I hardly think that you can appropriate statement for this occasion," the black mask shifted – it was not the 'face' but the black full-faced mask. He would most likely change it before they went out.
She wondered how Erik cleaned them. Perhaps that was why he was constantly switching between the two – well three now. But if she counted the golden-lined mask back in America, it would have been four. That didn't mean though that the ones he did wear weren't the only 'copies' he had.
"Quotes can be applied to any situation," she argued, knowing she had appropriated a few from her numerous of study texts and often thought them to herself.
"I beg to differ," Erik concluded firmly and Christine bit her lip. That man really didn't like opinions that battled his own, asserting his in a way that tried to rule out competition.
"You do realise that there will always be people who have different opinions to you," she started, knife cutting up another glazed chunk.
"Yes, but others are wrong,"
Christine wrinkled her nose, "That's not very tolerant," she tried not to laugh, "How have you survived being so bull-headed?"
Erik twitched, "I am not bull-headed. I am correct, there is a difference," he sighed, folding up the newspaper and setting it beside his clean plate, "I have survived by ensuring others' opinions do not manage me,"
"Seems like a dangerous way to live," another bite gone.
"No more than never giving your own for fear of upsetting others," he replied pointedly.
"Hey – just because I didn't participate in class as much as those who were talkative – doesn't mean I don't express my opinions,"
"Who decided where you would go when arranging an excursion with Meg?"
A small shrug, "So what, Meg likes being in control. It's what best friends do,"
"When that toad spread the vicious rumours about you, what exactly did you do to discourage their behaviour?"
"I'm a pacifist. I don't like conflict," she grimaced, "They'd already made up their minds about me. You said yourself that theatre folk are tight nit. How could you expect me to counter them when Carla had been there for at least three years and had most of them in her pockets? It would have been suicide," she retorted empathically. Why was she explaining herself to him? Apart from having a motive to conduct revenge against Carla, Erik had said nothing about Christine sticking up for herself. Only that 'Erik would take care of it'.
Erik huffed, "You saw every reason to argue with me,"
Christine tried not to flinch, "That was different,"
"Oh? How come?" his amber eyes gleamed, intrigued.
"Because instead of spreading rumours about me, your actions upset me. Carla never threatened my friends or confined me to a place underground without my say in it," she poked at the last bit of waffle on her plate.
"My actions were never driven out of spite, yet that woman's were and it was mine you object to?"
Christine tried not to grow exasperated, hearing the genuine confusion of Erik's tone.
It's like talking to a child! Why didn't he ever get taught right from wrong?
She took a sip of her orange juice, contemplating her next words, "It's not just about intention, it's about the product of it. Carla made things miserable, but you made things…Frankly, a living hell,"
Erik sucked in a breath, fists curling and Christine winced. Oops. Damn my loose mouth.
"Ok maybe that was a little unfair," she admitted, remembering their more recent occasions before she had been abducted and the catastrophe at the theatre. Their frost had warmed, Christine finally accepting part of her life had belonged to him and had genuinely enjoyed his music. If at first her voice had been critiqued too harshly, either Erik had softened, or her voice had improved well with his tutorship that she hadn't needed as much direction. Christine believed it had really been a combination of both. "But at first, you can't deny that you did overwhelm me. You took all the support I had and flushed it down the drain, holding it against me like some reward to be earned,"
"Perhaps I had been hasty in the execution," Erik said softly, looking down at his unused cutlery, "Although, had you been less stubborn, some of that could have been avoided,"
Christine closed her eyes for a moment. He wouldn't let it go, would he? Would Erik ever see what he did was wrong? If he never understood, then how would he understand what he was doing currently was just as bad?
"Don't you think that 'no' is an acceptable want of a person?" she asked him in a gentler tone, "Say I didn't want ice cream, then you'd respect my decision and not go and buy some for me anyway. It's the same thing. Consent is important in any sort of relationship, whether it's to go to see the movies or something else," she shrugged,
"You cannot say no to love," he replied, eyes meeting hers in a way that begged her to understand.
"Tomato, tomato," Christine set down her cutlery, "Love is still a motive, it doesn't change what you do or that suddenly consent doesn't matter. In fact, it matters more,"
Erik stiffened, "We should be readying to leave should we wish to arrive on time," he stood abruptly and Christine rose, stifling a sigh.
Well, I still have more chances to make him understand.
"Where are we going?" she asked, padding over to the door connecting her set of rooms.
"You shall see," Erik replied mysteriously, a smile in his voice.
Christine shook her head in mock-exasperation, "I can't get ready if I don't know what I'm going to need,"
Erik looked at her contemplatively, "Take what you deem necessary for a day trip. Don't forget to pack your cellular device,"
Of course, lest I be separated from you! Her mind mocked. Come on. He's probably just worried, right? Being lost in a big city would worry anyone.
Christine nodded, heading into her room and grabbing a small but stylish rucksack and filling it with a few things she would require. The only thing missing was the small compact she would usually take with her – with Erik's sensitivity to mirrors she was unlikely to be within reach of one unless she bought one herself. Otherwise, her phone, lip-balm, hand-gel, packet of tissues, pad of paper, writing and sketching utensils, a spare ribbon (for lack of hairbands), and a little purse of travel money Erik had given her last night in case of emergencies were all stowed safely into the bag. Normally, she would take a bottle of water with her for day-trips, but it would unlikely be used with Erik there and she had no access to one anyway.
When she came back out, she waited for Erik by the doors leading out of their rooms after seeing no sight of him. It still came as a surprise when Erik entered the living room wearing his 'face' and even more when part of her still marvelled the effectiveness of it. He really did look normal when you didn't focus on it too much. As he came closer, Christine could see the faint sheen to his face and again the odd pucker to his lips, as well as the unnervingly blue eyes. But it was something, at least. His hair had remained the same; it looked as neatly combed as ever.
"Shall we depart, my dear?" he asked and Christine ducked her head in a nod, embarrassed she had been caught staring again.
Erik led her through the maze of finely furnished corridors until they stepped down to the lobby and their butler stepped up to them, brown gaze focusing on her momentarily before deferring to her guardian.
His French met her ears, "Your taxi awaits, Monsieur,"
Erik inclined his head, stepping past him to the entrance as Christine murmured a quick 'Merci' to their butler. Something in her heart lifted as he smiled back at her.
Their taxi brought them through Paris, winding through lanes of clean balcony-leaden blocks of apartments, several sets of traffic lights, to a beautifully shaped glass prism. People swarmed about it like flies and Christine could see children, buggies, elderly couples and student-aged groups with a uniformed guide. More people.
"The Louvre!" she exclaimed, looking at Erik with brimming excitement.
Erik didn't hide his pleasure, "Indeed, my dear. I warn you now, it will be…" he hesitated, "Busy. Institutions like this will be crowded, so I will ask you to hold onto me as we make our way through,"
When she heard his voice then, it almost sounded caring. She blinked. Caring? Christine had been expecting the requirement, it was nothing she wasn't used to. Still…Caring…When did that happen?
Stop stalling. There's no reason to be nervous.
"I understand," she unclipped her seatbelt and slipped outside onto the pavement, thanking that she had chosen a nice floaty top against jeans and a little cream cardigan that screamed chic-casual.
Oh wow. It was nice to be out.
No responsibilities, no homework, no deadlines and revision. No theatre drama, or facing Carla's minions in the morning, or rehearsing with that feeling of dread tucked inside her stomach. No getting up at the crack of dawn or avoiding contact with her friends. It felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest.
I'm free!
I'm freaking free!
Her grin faded to a neutral expression when Erik stepped away from the driver's door after paying their fare. He stood out like a shadow in the sun, a tall, dark clothed figure amidst a dozen pastel butterflies.
She was struck by a sudden urge to paint, to be able to catalogue the image away to remember and digest later. His lean figure of day and night, the centrepiece in amidst the crowd. Erik, a creature of night stretching against the dawn, the sun casting its subject in glistening light. Suddenly, the image broke because he was before her, yellow eyes almost luminescent. It was easy to forget the sudden inspiration as Erik's calm riveting voice filled the air, detailing on how the museum was both an architectural wonder and beloved part of the city as he led her towards the museum, her hand tucked in his black glove.
Statues, ornate and golden archways, paintings galore, were spread during her visit to the Louvre. It was awe-inspiring. Breath-taking. With her pad of paper, Christine sketched the most important parts.
Erik was content to keep an eye on her from a distance, once he realised she had no desire to leave and simply take in the splendour of the museum. His shadow lurked in corners, unobtrusive to others who also observed, however she was always aware of his ever-present gaze that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle. There was no escape, but Christine found his presence tolerable when they made their rounds; he did not bore her as a tour-guide would, spewing facts with lacklustre energy. No, Erik seemed to know what parts would interest her, then silencing when he observed her becoming more absorbed in the art rather than his anecdotes.
He seemed almost perfect, in those moments.
Raoul would be bored to death. He'd start to fidget, wander around with uncomprehending eyes and not ask why, or how. Of course, he'd stick it out for me, but really, he'd be looking forward to lunch and the prospect of grabbing ice cream afterwards…And getting something stupidly expensive for me from the gift shop that I'd probably never use.
Christine sighed, hating the idea that Erik might actually be a better companion for such a trip. It seemed wrong to compare the two. To enjoy Erik's attention of the art, his appreciation as an artist in a way that Raoul had never been. Raoul would have preferred visiting a sports museum rather than something like the Louvre any day.
Her father would have loved a place like this. Gustave would have preferred the atmosphere; the bubbling sense of awe and incomprehension, the relaxed tide-like flow of people…Papa would had adored being able to play in the gardens as tourists cracked open a ginger beer.
Papa…What would you think of Erik? If you had stumbled upon him in the street, without knowing everything else, would you have found Erik to be as mysterious as I do?
It wasn't hard to imagine her Papa disliking Erik after all he had done. But somewhere within, there was doubt. Papa would have cried to hear someone as talented as Erik to not be able to share his gift with others. Maybe he would see something in Erik that Christine didn't. Maybe he'd say there was something in Erik worth trying to save.
I think there is.
The revelation hit her as she gazed up at the painting before her, so large and ornate. Despite its age, the colours were still shining. It had still made an impact on history. It just had to be given a chance.
The rest of the day seemed to go by in a blur. Erik tried to peer at her drawings in her notebook to no avail and they had lunch in a secluded spot – that seemed too empty not to have been previously arranged – which consisted of French delicacies and a healthy steak and fries for her. Erik said that they should save the gardens for another day and Christine was content to do so. She preferred to be fresh eyed when viewing something inspiring, since she had already spent the day doodling future references, she was happy to put her notebook away and rest her tired fingers.
They finished their tour around the Louvre in the late afternoon, which had taken longer due to the fact they had stopped for a few minutes in each room, due to her desire to sketch something down, before making a stop to the gift shop.
To her surprise, she was allowed to roam in the shop unsupervised (the was only one exit which served as a joint entrance), as Erik had taken one look at the stuffy interior and baulked. Though Erik had told her he would wait outside, Christine knew that if she spent too long looking, Erik would grow irritated. So, she browsed the isles with a step of haste. Occasionally she stopped, picking up random paraphernalia that she would have once baulked at the price. Erik's little pouch of money he'd given her equated to fifty euros.
It still surprised her at how he handed her money without a care in the world.
Really, what Christine truly enjoyed was the interactions going on around her. It wasn't that she'd never noticed people communicating before, but she had a new appreciation for it. A mother stalking down one isle and a child trailing behind her didn't realise that instead of talking on her phone, she should be cherishing her daughter. Or that the worried-looking partner should just pick something rather than weigh each item for its price for his girlfriend standing beside several racks of stationary. A pair of young sisters squealed at the toys that hung enticingly around a shelf and a teenager was just leaning over to smell some sort of soap. Chaos of humanity at its finest.
It was oddly dizzying.
Making a decision, Christine brought her items to the cashier. 'Michael' – as stated on his nametag - stood up straighter as she approached. When she dropped her items on the counter there was a distinct friendliness and he flashed her a smile as she walked away, thanking her for coming to the 'Louvre giftshop'.
Was he flirting with me?
As she exited, Christine saw the dark figure of Erik a few meters away, staring at the entrance with deadly interest.
He's worried I would try to leave, isn't he?
I haven't though. He's made the repercussions clear.
She shivered as Erik's stare focused on her, ice pricking in the pit of her stomach and she meekly went up to him.
"Are you ready to go?" he asked, tone cold.
She nodded and felt her hand be reclaimed. With a little tug, Erik started to lead them back to the taxi-drop off.
Let him calm down. If I speak up now, he might blow a fuse.
Erik's snappy behaviour eased as they reached the hotel and Christine could feel that with each time he looked at her, the rapid anger within him settled further. It was as if she was his port when he was lost at sea. The comparison left her with a vague sense of sympathy. Erik depended on her with a frequency that no other human being had. If she were to die suddenly, what would he do? Would he continue on with his life, making business grow or terrorise others, or would he simply wither away, mourning her death for the rest of his life?
Christine had subconsciously realised that her father had never been the same after her mother's passing. A part of his spirit that had been firmly planted in the hands of Anja had been stolen in the grasp of death and a simple grey curved stone. Each month, he would make the trip to the winding hilltop and the rickety old church that had once been a beloved haven. Christine couldn't remember what exactly the church looked like on the inside, only the higgledy-piggledy rows of weathered graves that, to her, was a maze.
Belongings that had been stuffed in the spare spaces of her dorm stared back at her, as she carefully brought them down in the elevator and to the waiting truck outside. The silver key weighed down her pocket like a tombstone, one that wasn't for her dorm apartment. Oh no, this wasn't for just any apartment. It was to be her new luxuriously secluded home. A new life, a new occupation, a new set of people. Christine couldn't have been more terrified.
Erik had deemed it time for her to participate in becoming part of the cast in the upstate Theatre, demolishing her hopes of ever becoming independent again. Her very rent was paid for by Erik, her food was on his dime, so was the TV and the electricity. All but for the chance to achieve her dreams she had as a child. Hadn't she only months ago imagined her life as a maid, with the chorus singing around her as she bemoaned her terrible woes?
Why did the reality seem so much more dismal?
Because you don't deserve it. Because you resigned yourself to working a thankless, penniless job. Because you've never had a choice at all.
The apartment was grey in sterile comfort. The sofa was no longer oozing stuffing, the cups were no longer chipped, the warmth that it held within was gone. She had exchanged one prison with another, only that this time it actually felt like one. No comfort was located across the hallway. Meg was bunking with her mother now.
Meg hadn't spoken to her for days.
Not only had Christine lied to Meg about her consistent absences, of whom had been growing steadily worried about her, had then thrown out that they had been accepted by the University's promotional programme for talented thespians to work in the local theatre, only to then say that they couldn't live together. The 'University' had sent them on a sort of apprenticeship, but Christine knew the reality was much more permanent than Meg realised. Still, it meant that because they were no longer actual students at the University, they had to find their own place.
Meg had been devastated that Christine refused to go apartment looking with her. More so that Meg wouldn't be able to afford an apartment on her own, so would have to go back to her mother.
Not that Meg didn't love her mother with an extreme passion, who had encouraged her to aspire to be a dancer herself, but she had a love of independence that she would be limited with Mary-Anne around. Meg had always been a free spirit and had relished the opportunity to manage herself without her mother's keen eye. Mary-Anne had always been protective of her daughter had much difficulty in letting her attend college without a consistent check-up schedule.
But Christine had realised that with all the secrecy and sudden changes Meg was, in truth, more hurt than angry from her actions. It only made the guilt worse. What was the point of having friends when they could only be used against you? When you only hurt them because they could sense something amiss and had to turn their love away?
Raoul had been first. Meg had been second. Just like that, the small community around her had vanished like some cruel magic trick.
Raoul. Raoul still tried to call her – even though it went straight to voicemail – often asking her to just call back so they could chat for a while. Nothing she had to commit to. The factor that Erik had installed the landline and would monitor calls of hers was just another reason not to reply.
Christine's nights were haunted by the guilt of the day, tossing and turning until the dawn pierced her eyes with grinning mockery. Sometimes, on the nights she was able to fall asleep, she swore that she heard violin music within the folds of her dreams. It quickly became the thing she looked forward to when she bought the sleeping drugs from the store, if only to slip into oblivion and hear her father's playing serenade her, the tales of the Angel of Music and faeries, goblins, riddles answering her cries for help.
For a while, it was the only voice that recognised her pain.
They arrived back at the hotel just in time for afternoon tea. Without needing to plead to attend, Erik arranged for them to take it privately on the rooftop rather than the lounge area where other couples mingled.
Their view was exquisite, rooftops spread before them, dazzling in the afternoon rays. The sight of the Seine they had walked by last night was in full glimmering view, not to mention the strong, lean sight of the Eiffel tower that Christine could finally see in its shimmering glory. Erik was amused at her gawping, as if he had seen the sight a dozen times before and couldn't understand her wonder.
"You can understand that having influence can enhance life, no?" he said, delicately spreading butter over a scone he wouldn't eat.
As if you'd let me forget.
She sighed contentedly, coming back over to the table under the erected canopy and sitting down, "It certainly has its perks," she replied, selecting a delicious looking cake that rested on the tiered stand. Never in a million years could she had afforded this trip, the hotel, the lavish food, the numerous places to visit on the itinerary…
I like feeling worry-free. I like feeling unburdened about money. I like not having to think about my next meal ticket.
To never have financial security had taken its toll on her Papa and the same burden had passed to her as she grew up in a world that only looked out for themselves. Unlike Raoul who had never known the late nights hunting up suitable jobs, or Meg who always had funds to spare for a new set of shoes, Christine had fallen behind on a rusted pair of wings.
Christine took a sip of the freshly made lemonade, sitting back in her chair and enjoying the sun warming her face.
"You need not worry anymore," Erik said quietly, "Everything you desire can come to fruition. This could be your life Christine, every day waking up to pursue what you wish. The whole world is your oyster,"
It sounded so enticing. Letting go of everything, allowing her fingers slip beneath the waves into his realm underneath, descending lower and lower until she landed on her throne. Trusting him with her happiness, enjoy his hospitality, his companionship in following her across the continents, travelling and travelling until the wanderlust had abated. And when it did, know she'd have a harbour to come back to.
But all that came with a price.
Christine looked over to the view, a sad smile gracing her lips, "Yes, but what would I do? What would I contribute to the world?"
"Sing," Erik replied simply, glancing at the view appraisingly, "There are endless possibilities within that thanks to modern technology. Perhaps submit your works to a gallery or compile your poetry in a book, if you desire," his yellow eyes rested on her, gleaming with pride, "You're a very talented woman, Christine Daae. Nothing will be able to hinder you achieving your dreams,"
Christine looked away to the grating in the ground, folding her arms across her chest, "What if I wanted to be a mother?"
What if I want a husband that isn't you?
"You truly want a screaming infant?" queried Erik, regarding her with puzzlement.
Christine bit her lip, "Well no. Not right now…But I always thought that eventually I'd be a mum,"
"Is that a hope of your own, or a hope of another's?" Erik's tone prickled with static. But it wasn't because he was angry. It was something else.
She shrugged, turning away slightly, "I always imagined it to be like that. I've been told I'd be a good mother,"
Most scenarios she'd imagined concerning the future had two golden haired children running around the garden, baking cookies, taking her kids to playgroup, watching them bang on their instruments, them falling asleep in their beds while she sang them a lullaby.
Erik let out a breath, "You have much time on your hands, Christine. It will only be a few months until your twentieth birthday. There are plenty of things can occur before you will want to consider bearing any sort of brethren,"
Brethren? Screaming infant? Erik…Didn't like children. She was surprised at how much that saddened her.
"How old are you?" she turned to him, trying to evaluate him once more and failing to come up with a concrete answer.
Those golden eyes fluttered shut, wincing, "Must you know?"
It's rude. You're being rude. No. I deserve to know. Erik invaded my privacy in so many more ways. Knowing his age doesn't harm him.
"I don't ask for much,"
Erik gave a low chuckle, removing his clenched fists from the table and out of sight, "Does it delight you to know that I have no records of my birth?"
No records? He doesn't know how old he is?
"None? None at all?" her mouth hung open in shock.
"I do believe 'no' is a negative response," he drawled, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry," the words were filled with remorse, "That's awful,"
How could anyone not have records of their birth?
"My age does not bother me," Erik murmured, fingers tracing the metal filigrees of the table "It hasn't for a long time,"
"But still," Christine insisted, wanting to reach out and clutch his hand, "I don't understand why –"
"You needn't worry about my upbringing," he interrupted, looking away.
Christine felt a wave of stinging rejection, "But I want to know you,"
"Ah, but you do, Christine. Erik was a different person back then, you would not like to know him,"
"Maybe Christine does,"
He laughed, the face that mimicked reality scrunching with wrinkles. It looked painful, a second skin moving across your face with its own volition.
Why does he wear that mask so comfortably? So normally.
"Oh, my dear, dear child, you do amuse Erik," he sighed softly.
Christine smiled grimly, allowing the conversation dissolve into contemplative silence, admiring the view. After the sun had dipped further in the sky and the wind had picked up with a its evening bite, Christine allowed Erik to declare that their afternoon tea was over. He also added that once inside, she could sing for him. He 'couldn't let her voice become rusty, now could he?'.
As she walked behind, Christine stared at the back of his wig.
The mask needed to come off. And soon.
Hello! I've come back so soon! Only fourteen days and you've got another chapter? What is this sorcery?
Honestly, I seem to have had a bit more time than I expected, since I've completed most of my schoolwork and therefore spent today working on this chapter for you all! I really enjoyed seeing them interact in a different environment and the amount of fluff in this chapter should satisfy most readers! Not to mention that it is an extra-long chapter at that! I have just been very lucky with my muse this month!
Thank you to my reviewers Qtkittee and Laurenvbellado! You guys are amazing! To the rest of my friendly shadows, please let me know if you've enjoyed this episode, it's so helpful to know what you think!
I loved learning about the Louvre museum and did you know that the Mona Lisa resides there? I didn't! There are few more shops in real life that are at the Louvre, but Christine only went in one. Erik would get a bit techy otherwise, wouldn't he? :P
Much has happened, but there is still more to come!
Merci,
Enigma