Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for the mysterious Jewish man…he's all mine!
Side Notes:
Thank you to Barefoot and Chat for being such fantastic betas! I loff you, dears!
Also, a huge, huge thank you to Kyrie74 (Paula74) for the incredible research she did for me. I am posting her research in its entirety to my website.
This chapter was surprisingly easy to write – perhaps because I've had it plotted for awhile :) The only thing that bugs me a bit was that it was hard to ease into after the last chapter. Maybe reading the end of Ch. 24 and then picking up with Ch. 25 makes it a bit smoother. Of course, it could just be my neurotic writer tendencies talking!
Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)
Corruption Comes Honestly
It had not been a good afternoon for Erik.
To say that he was bone-weary was an understatement. Three nights spent in frenzied composing, without sleep or nourishment, had driven him to near exhaustion. There had been no time to rest during the day, however. He had finally encountered a rather weak man in the Jewish quarter that was not averse to accepting a purse-full of liras and a promise of mercy, in exchange for information on the elusive Sergei Dagaev. The man had sent Erik to a tiny bookshop, which the People's Will turncoat was supposedly keeping. In the end, though, the lead had proven fruitless, and he had been forced to return to the convent in the middle of a pounding rain.
And Christine had been ignoring their game, which also irked him to no end.
The cold damp settled into his bones, making him feel his age. Cross and wet, he had wanted nothing more than to collapse on his hard pallet and sleep. As he had returned to his Roman paths and observed the scuffed footprints on the dusty floors, however, he knew that sleep would not be his that night. With the practiced skill of a hunter, he had noiselessly crept to his cistern chamber, brandishing his Persian dagger, only to find his beloved angel waiting for him in the dim underground recesses…
"What does it feel like…to kill?" Her words came quietly, whispered as innocently as if she had asked why flowers grew.
"Christine, do not ask me such questions," Erik said dangerously. "I won't inquire as to how or where you found that rope in your lap, but I recommend you take it from my sight at once."
She peered up at him steadily, her clear eyes deepened by the blue of the mendil—just as he knew they would when he had bought it. Her delicate forehead was smattered with gold that jingled gracefully when she tilted her head, creating music with each movement. Bracelets at her wrists, loose dark curls about her face…all gave her an exotic beauty that reminded him of the tragic Cleopatra, caressing a deadly asp…the rope in her lap…her chosen poison…
The queen awaited his answer. She was striking. He could not breathe.
"What does it feel like, you ask?" the masked man whispered, fear gripping his heart and weakening his knees. "It feels as though you are high above the earth on a mighty tower, the god of all you see. Just as swiftly as you rose, the tower crumbles and you plummet to hell. You feel your soul being ripped apart, and you are dead." He wet his pale lips and watched her eyes widen with something akin to alarm. "Death, Christine—that is all the lasso will bring you. Death has eaten so much of me; I would have no soul left if not for you and my music. I won't let it touch you as it has me."
For a moment, the woman studied the ground, her gaze following the fissures between the stones. Then she slowly rose, advancing towards him with the stealth of the fatal queen. As she moved closer, the fear in her eyes seemed to fade. He was faintly aware of stepping back and away from the pull of her eyes, until his back touched the wall and she had him cornered. When she reached him, she looked at him not in dread, but—God help him—hunger. His protégé clutched the length of rope in her hands and leaned forward, hoarsely whispering in his ear.
"Death? You think that death has not yet touched me, Erik? Open your eyes! Look at my neck. It is too late to keep me from its shadowy fingers…it has taken my parents, my husband…it tried to take me, but I was not afraid of it." She shook her head resolutely. "I wasn't afraid because you were there with Death, all around me. And that lasso—it was a friend to me as I was dying." She grabbed the soft wool of his abaya. "A friend that can be wielded to protect my son!"
Erik turned his face away in horror; he could not watch his own mad lust for blood reflected in his angel's eyes. "Christine, why this? Why not a knife, or a pistol? If you want something to protect Jean-Paul with, I can teach you to use those. But not the lasso!"
Her eyes met his defiantly, daring him to reject her. Even now, she would not listen to his warnings.
The man shook his head in exasperation. "Always a Eurydice, Christine—forever demanding to understand things better left unexplained. When will you learn?"
The woman stomped her foot in anger. "And you shall always be Orpheus—plowing forward with no explanation of your reasoning. I am not a child that needs to be controlled, Erik!" She breathed deeply, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Thank you for trying to keep me from the dark and evil things in your mind. However, I don't need blind protection anymore, my angel. I need instruction—I want to know why murder grips you so." Christine placed her forehead on his chest, her body lightly brushing against his. She lifted her chin and gazed up at him, her eyes dark and bloodthirsty. "Please…teach me. It must be the lasso."
The thrill of the kill…he could see the craving course through her…he had felt it many times before. Erik clasped his hands behind his back as the familiar lust for power invaded his veins, reducing him to a mere addict who trembled at the sight of morphine. The man did not know which he wanted more…her, or the lasso…
Both whispered his name, tempting him to throw away his cares and give in to their siren song.
His angel placed her palms over his heart; the rope slipped from her hands and slithered down between them, landing in a heap at their feet. Slowly, deliberately, her fingertips traced along his ribcage, her touch feathery and light …over his stomach…lower…
"Christine…" he breathed raggedly, letting his head fall over top of her curls.
For a moment, he was lost in her...her fragrant hair…the feel of her limbs pressed against his…her hands smoothing over him, then clutching mercilessly at his hips. The burn for the kill paled to the torrents of yearning that swept through him. Through a thick haze, his eyes focused on a point of light flickering somewhere beyond his angel's brown head…the flame danced and played as a gust of dank air blew through the doorway, threatening to snuff out its feeble existence…
Merde, how can I ever be strong again?
With a last cry of effort, he wrapped his thin fingers around her wrists and wrenched them away. Deftly swinging out from under her, he spun the woman around and pushed her against the stone wall, ignoring her whimper of pained surprise. He grasped her shoulders to pin her in place and stared angrily into her face. "Never, ever do that again!" he growled, his gold eyes just inches from hers. "For God's sake Christine, I am only a man! A man with a deadly temper, and the last thing you want to do is provoke me. Do you have any idea of the fire you are playing with?"
"Yes," she whispered, her expression briefly contorting with fear. As he watched, however, her eyes once more hardened, and she slowly slid under his arms and down the wall. Stooping to the ground, she retrieved the abandoned punjab lasso and hung it over his shoulders as if it were a garland of May flowers. With a renewed force, she grasped the ends of the rope and drew him to her. "I know exactly what I am doing, Erik," she murmured, her words low and throaty. "I am seducing you with my new lasso. I am manipulating you."
The man stared at the woman in utter disbelief, her poisonous words hanging in the air. "What do you want of me, Christine?" he whispered, desperately clinging to the last frayed threads of self-control.
"What do I want of you, my angel? I should think it obvious."
She was mocking him. Flinging back his very words from that long ago morning in the London town home. The same day he had intended to ask her to be his wife…the day she had discovered the bloody lasso and had turned him away for his crimes. So this was what she wanted from him—no ring, no promises. Not even the music he had composed for her. She simply wanted a useless game in which they eventually fell to the floor and had done with it.
The sting of rejection shouldn't have surprised him. After all, he was a murderer—hadn't he told her that he was the last person she should want for her son? Then why was blinding red rage once more eating away at his insides? Some intangible facet hovered beyond him, just out of reach…her smoky blue eyes…perilous voice…
All of a sudden, it came to him; the answer cut him like a knife, sending his anger spiraling up into madness. Christine had taken complete control of him—wielded his lust for blood and twisted it for her own purposes. She is toying with me—oh, I can understand it all, now. This is part of our game…she thinks to take away what little control I have left and make me a weak shadow of myself! Putting me back in my cage…laughing at me in my weakness…
All that you desire is within reach… Her words taunted him.
"Always within reach, but never mine, angel..." he murmured darkly. Never truly mine.
Fire flared within Erik's breast, the rage in his soul welling up as Christine's vile rope burned his back. He pressed his shaky hands to either side of her skull, agitatedly rubbing his thumbs against her temples. No…this is not my angel…it couldn't be! This devil…this queen with the burning eyes…she is the one that has yanked the ground from under my feet…stirred the beast within me. Christine would never know to do such cruel things…
Panic flickered across the woman's face, and for a minute Erik saw his own angel, frightened and cowering under his menacing hands. Then she closed her eyes and tensed under his touch, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. It would be so easy to crush her…
Oh God, he could not hurt her…he did not want to hurt her…
"That day I asked you what you wanted of me," she cried, her words rushed and panicked as her teacher's veneer of sanity crumbled. " 'Isn't it obvious?' you retorted. Well, it isn't obvious, Erik! Tell me what you wanted of me that day," she sobbed, wincing as his fingers slid away from her skull and dug painfully into her soft shoulders. "Was it my body, warm and open underneath you, moving with yours upon that wretched piano? If that was what you desired, then why didn't you just take me? I was afraid, but you could have had me—you had to have known I was weak! You could have dismissed Papi, or taken me with you to your room—" She shook her head, tears of fright coursing down her cheeks as her angel's face distorted with a feverish rage. "But you didn't do it, Erik! Tell me what you really wanted, please!"
Erik roared and shoved her against the wall. "What do I want?" he bellowed, the anguish in his voice mirroring that of his heart. "How dare you ask me such a thing? All I have ever wanted was you, Christine—All of you, not just pieces!" He pressed a hand to her throat, feeling her shudder under his touch... "I want this!"
…and against her forehead. "This…"
Then over her heart. "And this!"
His lips curled bitterly. "Your pathetic gesture tonight was insulting," he spat. "I don't want a whore—I could easily pay for one. I want a wife! Someone who will belong to me completely..."
And then a dark smile slowly spread across the masked man's face as his mind began to churn with far-reaching possibilities. He could win this game, yet! She had unwittingly presented him with the masterstroke he needed. Oh, the clever girl thought she could conquer him by offering herself, believing that he would sweep up the bait in a heartbeat. When she came to him, however, she had not counted on his refusing her. He lowered his face to hers, his eyes cold and brittle, gleaming with madness.
"You think that all I want is a lover—a rough tumble now and then, no promises made? Of course you would!" he cried, his voice cracking with emotion. "I am a monster, Christine—not fit for such things as marriage, children, and happiness." His cold fingers wrapped around hers and he yanked the speechless girl away from the wall, spinning her to the floor. "Well, I am done with our game—I have out-maneuvered you, Madame! You thought to bring me to my knees, merely with these feeble overtures? Is that the best you can do?" he barked, leaning over the mute girl triumphantly. "I refuse to eat crumbs from your hand!" Rifling through his satchel, he tossed articles onto his pallet until he found a small leather pouch. Opening the drawstring, he dumped the contents into his palm and turned back to the Comtesse, leering with unhinged wildness.
"That day in the London townhome, I swore to myself that I would never make such a grave mistake as to ask you to take this ring," he snarled, holding the plain gold band between his fingers for the woman to see. "Well, I am not asking you to wear it, even now." He grasped her hand and pried her fist open. With all the gentleness of a monster, he shoved the plain gold piece of jewelry onto her ring finger, scraping her knuckle. "I am forcing you to. And this time, there is no Raoul de Chagny to come to your rescue!"
Erik roughly dragged her through the door and back across the cistern, wrenching her arm every time she stumbled upon the stones. He did not slow his driven gate as he carelessly pulled the Comtesse up the stairs, though the path was slick with layers of muck.
"W-where are you taking me?" Christine sputtered, her voice trembling with terror. Only mocking, wicked laughter met her question; the fierce man pressed on as if he had not heard her.
"Where else would I be taking you, my dear, but to a church?" he answered at length, his words dripping with sarcasm. "Did you think that I would simply take you to my bed without making you swear before your God to cleave only to me? Let us give the happy occasion its due solemnity!" He laughed again, and shook his head. "It may take a bit of hunting to find a priest willing to wed a nameless, faceless monster to a frightened little girl, but I believe that with enough persuasion—" he pulled the lasso from his shoulders and held it above his head "—we can find someone willing to do the job. Perhaps you shall have your first lesson in killing tonight, my dear!"
Up…up towards the light he climbed, like a demented Orpheus who had wrenched an unwilling Eurydice out of Elysian bliss to carry her back to the bleak world. Damn it, he was sick of playing their games. He was ready for it to be done with so he could claim his prize. This was it. No more waiting—no more painful concessions to her needs, no more putting her safety above his desires.
They emerged from the darkness onto the Via Dolorosa, the light blinding their sensitive eyes.
If Orpheus had turned to gaze upon Eurydice, even for a moment, he would have witnessed her face beaming in victory.
The man gathered his black coat more tightly about his slight frame as the rain pelted his face. Streams of water ran down his wide-brimmed hat and into his beard and temple locks, soaking the front of his shirt. The afternoon was growing dim; another two hours, and daylight would be completely extinguished. He couldn't wait much longer in his current position at the corner of the orphanage, watching for the masked man to reemerge. The man thought about going into the ruins after him; if the Narodnaya Volya had sent the stranger, however, he knew he would not come out alive.
It was more than likely that the masked man had already left the underground city at some other location. And if the stranger had done so, he mightn't ever discover why he had been asking for Sergei Dagaev in the bookstore earlier that day...
Just as he was contemplating turning for home and back to his wife and children, the door at the side of the convent swung open. The very same masked man barreled through, dragging a young woman behind him. He could see her say something to the man; it did not make him happy, for he roughly jerked the girl to his side. This didn't bode well for the lady. Worried for her safety, he left his corner and took up pursuit from a distance.
As the hidden man peered more closely at the woman, he was struck with the familiarity of her features. Picking up his pace, he moved a bit closer until he could hear her voice. Just as he had thought—she was French. He searched his memory, struggling to put a name to her face.
And then he remembered—Raoul de Chagny's wife. Rather, Raoul de Chagny's widow. She would not recognize him, but he knew her well enough. If she was in danger, then that would mean he also would be, before long. And if she had found her way to Jerusalem, how long before the Fraternité caught up with her?
Soon, he would venture.
The man wanted to turn around at once and retreat to his home and family. This masked person could only mean trouble for him. His conscience, however, was a force to be reckoned with; he could not simply abandon the Comtesse to her fate. Silently cursing himself for having ventured out into a storm in the first place, he followed them through the Franciscan monastery.
"Erik," Christine whimpered pathetically, "you are hurting my wrist. And this is not the way to the Sepulchre."
The man sneered in contempt of the drivel that had plagued him since they left the convent. Her attempts to reason only drove him more resolutely through the rain, towards the Church of the Flagellation.
"Christine, do you honestly believe we could marry at the Sepulchre, in the middle of those crowds of people?"
"Angel, perhaps it would be best to wait to marry until we return to Paris," she cajoled, her voice edged with panic. "Then our friends and family could be there…"
The little fool, he simpered. "Christine, you really can be annoyingly dense at times. Have you forgotten that I have no friends or family? Or were you just referring to your disgusting circle of Parisian aristocrats?"
"N-no," she stuttered, pushing a wet curl under her soaked mendil. "But I have none of my records…no baptismal certificate—"
"Mon Dieu, Christine, I don't even have a last name! Your records would do you no good."
"Yes, I suppose that is true…"
The masked man reveled in his utter control over the wide-eyed girl. At last, he felt his life coming into a comfortable balance again. He could never have happiness, but at least he would have the stability of familiar grounds. His arm wrapped around his companion's waist in a warning embrace, lest she should decide to become brave and flee for the convent.
"Erik, whatever you do, please do not harm Father Jakob. If he refuses to give us the marriage rite, I will say my own vows to you. We don't need the church's blessing—"
"That won't do, Madame de Chagny," he retorted in vexation. "I said that I don't want a mistress. And I know very well you would not take such vows seriously." Swinging open the heavy wooden doors, Erik strode into the tiny church with his bleating sacrificial lamb firmly in tow.
"After you." He gestured down the aisle, towards the startled priest.
Twenty years melted away as his gaze swept through the dark room, taking in the flickering candles, brass censers, and worn pews. It even smelled as it had twenty years ago…the sickly-sweet fragrance of incense…
And a priest, kneeling before a battered altar, saying his evening prayers.
How fitting, Erik gravely mused, that I should take a wife in the very spot I took a life. Only a monster would do such a thing.
Father Jakob Haar turned and rose from the altar, his face pale with fear at the sight of the masked assassin. He absently smoothed the wrinkles from evening mass vestments as he reluctantly moved to greet them.
"Sir, M-Madame Garnier," he stuttered, his gaze immediately drawn to the noose dangling from the man's hands.
"Ah, so you two are acquainted!" Erik exclaimed, wrapping a possessive arm tightly around Christine's shoulders. "Well, this should make things a little easier. Madame Garnier and I wish to be married. And to save you the trouble of asking, we have no birth certificates, baptismal records, family, or witnesses. In fact, I have no last name. I am certain, however, that we shall be able to overcome these obstacles to everyone's satisfaction." He brandished the lasso and hugged the woman more closely to him, baring his teeth in a devilish grin.
The priest put a hand to his neck and swayed a bit. Beads of perspiration popped up on the terrified man's forehead and for a moment, it seemed as though he would faint.
"Father Jakob," Christine called to the man, forcing him to focus on her voice. "Father Jakob, this is the man I spoke to you about. Do you recall our discussion?" She gave the priest a significant look.
The holy man stared back at her, his face slowly registering her meaning. His furrowed brow softened as he studied the young woman's pleading eyes, seeing in them a desperate urgency for his help.
"And you are here of your own volition, my child? I will refuse his request, if you are not."
Erik pressed a warning hand into the small of the woman's back. "Answer the man, my angel," he hissed.
"Yes, Father," she chirped obediently. "I wish to marry this man."
The priest nodded warily and edged towards the courtyard door. "Very well, then. I shall simply step out to fetch a certificate of marriage from the Friary—"
"We shall come with you," Erik said abruptly, crossing the room to Father Jakob's side, his angel firmly in tow.
The priest's eyes swept over the agitated man, his gaze once more resting upon the pale fingers twisting the deadly rope. He nodded and led them through the courtyard, holding his arm up to shield his eyes from the pelting rain. They strode through the sparse monastery, down a stone hallway to a dimly lit office that bespoke the friar's vows of poverty. Shelves of tattered, worn books and a plain crucifix upon the wall were the only ornamentation in the study. Papers were scattered about the wobbly desk, telling of a fast-paced life often ruled by chaos.
Erik carefully laid the punjab lasso on the corner of the desk within arm's reach.
Father Jakob glanced at the rope, discreetly cleared his throat, then rifled through a battered file box and pulled out a certificate printed on a thick piece of paper. Seating himself at the desk, he dipped his pen and began to shakily scrawl the necessary information.
"Very well, Madame Garnier, we shall start with you. Please give me your full name, date and place of birth, your age—"
Christine bit her lip, her face flushing red. "Father, I have a confession to make. My name is not 'Garnier'…it is 'de Chagny'."
Erik groaned. "For God's sake, Christine," he cried, ignoring the priest's wince. "Why did you tell him that?"
"Because I don't want a false name on my marriage certificate, Erik!" She stomped her foot indignantly, the scared little girl momentarily vanishing.
The man smirked at her outburst. "Well, you shall have one anyway, once we marry. Or did you want to become nameless, as I am?"
Father Jakob peered at the man thoughtfully, seeing him in a new light. "You have no family name, my son?"
"No, I do not," he snipped, daring the priest to pity him.
The holy man paused for reflection, then took up his ink pen again.
"You cannot marry this woman without a last name," he replied succinctly. "We shall simply have to remedy this." The priest wrote something onto the certificate, then handed it to the leery man.
Erik read over the scrawls and sneered. "What a witty name, Father: Renard. Are you comparing me to a thieving, cunning fox?"
The puzzled priest took the certificate again and studied his handwriting. With a cluck of his tongue, he went over the "i" with his pen several times, changing the name. "I apologize, Monsieur; my spelling is not the best at times. Yes, Renard is a fox in your language. In my mother tongue, however, Reinard means 'honest, pure, and incorruptible.' I think this would be a fitting last name for your bride, wouldn't you agree?"
Erik nodded, stunned by the priest's calm reply.
"Perhaps you shall endeavor towards your name as well, Monsieur. Of course, you may use your version, if you like. It matters not to me, which you choose. Now, since you have no birth certificate, kindly estimate your age and date of birth for me."
"Forty-four, I think," he stuttered. "I am not sure, really. You may put whatever you like for the date…"
The father filled out the rest of the information. "There! A work of fiction, if ever there was one. However, once you return to France and register this document, it will become fact." He stared long and hard at the masked man, stressing the implication of his words. "This piece of paper is the beginning of an identity for you, my son. Establish yourself. Have a family. Become legitimate. And please, do not sully this name with sin; this is God's gift to you, and must be treated as such." The man rose from the desk and motioned for his guests to follow him back to the church.
Scooping up the lasso, Erik trailed wordlessly, his mind reeling with what the priest had just given him. A name. I have an identity…a life. I could begin an ordinary existence in some reclusive town where no one knows who I am and knows nothing about me, except that my name is Reinard. And Reinard means honest, pure, and incorruptible…
The man glanced over at his grim young companion, noticing for the first time that she was following him without duress. He could not be sure if she did so out of resignation to her fate, or because she knew that if she ran, she would be caught. Nevertheless, her peaceful acceptance of the situation made him uneasy.
Yes, he thought bitterly, someday she may not think twice about being married to a monster.
"You there," Father Jakob cried, gesturing to a Jewish man in the courtyard. "Would you kindly serve as a witness to this marriage? This rite must have some semblance of legitimacy."
The startled man looked about for an escape route. At last seeing that he was caught, he shrugged his consent and followed the couple into the sanctuary, sliding into the back pew.
The priest descended on an Arab child playing in the rain puddles in the side street. "And you, boy! Y'allah! How old are you?" he questioned in fluent Arabic.
"Nine," the boy replied, holding up his fingers in case the father had not understood.
The frazzled priest sighed and took the child's hand. "I need your assistance for a moment, my son. If your father has any questions when you return home, he may speak to me."
The boy nodded curiously and followed the priest into the chapel, careful to wipe away as much of the mud from his feet as possible.
And so the unconventional marriage commenced, the small group as unlikely a wedding party as had ever existed: a fuming masked groom, a weak-willed bride, a coerced priest, and a bewildered Jew and Arab as witnesses.
The couple knelt at the altar, each eyeing the other cagily. Father Jakob took a deep breath and uttered a quick prayer, asking for forgiveness for performing such a sacrilegious ceremony.
"Before I begin the rite of marriage, I must ask if either of you wishes to make a confession and go before God with a clear conscience." The priest stared pointedly at the masked man.
Erik held his gaze in defiance, absently weaving the lasso in between his fingers. "I have nothing to confess, Father."
A startled gasp came from the woman at his side. Erik released the rope and took up her hand, feeling it tremble in his. Her tiny fingers at once went cold with some new fear.
"Did I say something to trouble you, my dear?" he whispered dryly, his breath warm upon her ear.
Christine glared at her teacher; he had obviously thwarted some plan of hers. She shook her head like a petulant child and straightened her spine, rejecting the priest's offer.
"I made my confession this morning, Father, and will probably have to make one tomorrow, I am sure."
Erik smirked at her words. My Christine…such a devout little angel when she wants to be. And then he remembered his new name: honest…pure…incorruptible. Damn it, wasn't her innocent piety one of the things that made him love her so? Why else had he been so angry earlier when she had suggested that they become lovers?
Because it was not my angel speaking to me—it was not my Christine, but some domineering temptress she had been trying to be, for God knows what purpose. Yet she was still at his side; the obedient little singer that had captivated him, which he had longed for in place of the unpredictable woman that unnerved him so. Passive, heart-breakingly meek Christine. How calmly she accepted the words being spoken over their heads. Her marriage to a murderer…
Why does she not speak up and stop this travesty? Erik wondered anxiously.
"Amórem vestrum coniugálem Christus abúnde benedícit et ad mútuam perpetuámque fidelitátem et ad cétera Matrimónii offícia assuménda eos peculiári ditat et róborat Sacraménto…"
Fear paralyzed his body as the Latin droned on and on. The altar loomed before him, a testament to all that was evil in his life.
And all that was good…
Christine's hand still shook in his. He remembered his own hand trembling when he had removed his lasso from Father Cyril's broken neck. Right here was where it had happened…the priest had turned at the sound of footsteps, falling to the ground as he saw the demon stalking towards him with a readied noose in his rope. The fool had hid behind the altar in desperation, mumbling incoherently about sparing the life of a holy man. The only mercy Erik had shown him was to end his life quickly, with as little suffering as possible.
"The shah sends his greetings," the assassin had quipped, before whipping the lasso around the dead man's throat with a flick of his wrist, and yanking it tight. A sickening snap had echoed throughout the dark church…
"Erik, vis accípere Christine in uxórem tuam et promíttis te illi fidem servatúrum, inter próspera et advérsa, in ægra et in sana valetúdine, ut eam díligas et honóres ómnibus diébus vitæ tuæ?"
He could hear that dreadful cracking sound even now…see Father Cyril's blank, staring eyes...his disjointed neck rolling about as his body was dumped upon the altar...
"Erik, Father Jakob is waiting for your answer…"
Crack…
"My son, I asked if you will love and honor this woman," said a far-away voice. All you need to say is 'volo'…"
Oh God, what was he doing here? How could he possibly force his angel—the one person he had ever dared to love—to become his wife upon his own killing field? Erik leapt to his feet and glanced down at his bride, his eyes wide with disbelief. Christine jumped in shock, searching his face for an explanation. He slowly backed away from her pleading blue eyes, the bile rising in his throat.
"Erik, what—"
He shook his head, fighting the temptation to flee the room. "I can't marry you here, Christine. It—it would be wrong."
A collective sigh of relief sounded about the chapel. Father Jakob patted the perspiration from his forehead, whispering a quick prayer of thanks.
"But why?" she murmured in confusion.
"A priest was murdered here, twenty years ago," he stumbled on wildly. "It was me—I killed him." He turned to the holy man. "I killed Father Cyril—that is my confession. Do what you like—condemn me, hand me over to the Turks. The only reason I speak now is because I can no longer stand to see Christine suffer because of my past. It would be wrong to marry her here, like this." His anguished golden eyes sought hers as tears began to slide down his cheeks.
The priest slowly stepped down from the altar. His words were low and steady as he weighed them carefully in his mind. "Father Cyril committed a great many wrongs, as do we all. In a way, I cannot help but think he may have brought his fate upon himself."
He cautiously approached the skittish man.
"The last time you were in our city, many whispered that you were the devil himself, even before Father Cyril's murder. I rather believe that these kind of rumors are nothing new to you. Do people often say such things?" The priest gazed at the man's haunted face.
"Yes," he replied quietly. "It is nothing unusual."
The father paused in thought. "It is unfortunate that you were the one to murder him, my son. However, I cannot see how it would benefit anyone to turn you over to the Turks; I believe that a greater good could be realized by keeping silent." He sighed haggardly, shaking his head. "No, you have suffered enough for this crime. As for your other crimes, do what you can to make amends. Live a better life than you have in the past, and never forget to help those less fortunate than you."
Silence filled the dark chapel as the priest's words hung in the air. Only the soft pattering of rain broke the tense stillness, reminding the small gathering that there was life outside the walls of the church.
Erik took a shuddery breath and closed his eyes, willing the dreadful scene away. "Christine, I am sorry for keeping my past from you…for forcing you to come here—"
"Erik, I knew about Father Cyril," she quietly interjected. "I have known for a while now."
The man blinked at her in bewilderment. "Then why didn't you say so? Why come here with me, then, if you knew what horrible things I have done in this very room?"
"I was not aware that I had a choice in the matter," she smiled, absently toying with one of the bracelets on her wrist. Then her face became grave.
"My Erik, I cannot give you forgiveness when it must come from somewhere else. You have to find your own peace of mind, outside of your love for me. Perhaps today was a start. Now, shall we continue with the ceremony?"
Erik stared at her in utter amazement, not quite sure of what to do next. He watched as she once more knelt at the altar, beckoning him to her side. He fell to his knees next to her, his eyes pleading with hers. "Angel, you do not have to go through with this," he murmured. "I will teach you how to use the punjab, if that is what you want. If you wish to wait until Paris to marry, we shall do so…that is, if you want to. If you desire to be free again…"
Christine touched a finger to his lips and reached under her thob for the delicate chain. She carefully slipped it over her head and around her hair, then placed it in the man's hand.
He stared at the plain gold ring in his hand, afraid to ask what she intended by it.
"I have had this for a while, as well. It is your wedding band, Erik. See, it matches the one you have given me." She held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger, causing the gold to glisten in the candlelight.
All of a sudden, the true impact of her gift hit him with a force so strong, he knew his heart would shatter to pieces. She knew! She knew all along that I would refuse her advances tonight; that I would want a wife instead. In fact, she had planned upon it, and had been so confident in the outcome that she had purchased a wedding ring…
"Christine," he whispered incredulously, "why did you not just say this was what you wanted, as well?"
She laughed lightly. "I have before; you just wouldn't listen to me. And you would have refused to listen this time, as well, choosing what you saw as the safer route." The woman soundly poked him in the chest. "It had to be your idea to marry, Erik—you wanted to win our game, remember? Claim your prize? Well, now you have it."
The corners of Erik's mouth quirked into a smile as he recalled his lament that hopeless night in London… Orpheus was not meant to guide Eurydice along the paths of Hades, back to world of the living. Eurydice must be the one to lead the way through the darkness, out of the remains of my shattered life…and she just does not have the strength to do so…
Christine apparently had reserves of strength he had not given her credit for.
"You have deceived me again, my angel," he murmured, his voice tinged with delight. "To think I actually believed you would throw yourself at me in such a shameless manner. And with a punjab lasso, of all things—quite a dangerous parry, my dear." He lowered his mouth to her ear, his words for her alone. "However, I find that I cannot be angry with such an enticing temptress."
He gently wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and pressed his forehead to hers.
"How can you know me so well, better than I know myself?" he whispered.
"Because I share your soul."
Erik shook his head, awed by the angel across from him. "I have nothing at all to give you, Christine—I am a poor excuse for a husband."
The woman lightly pressed her lips to his, reassuring him of his worth to her.
"Make me a promise, then… I do not want to be owned by you, Erik. I want to be loved. Promise to love me."
Erik nodded, choked with emotion. "I love my wife."
Erik pulled the woman into his arms, pressing his face to her neck. She belonged there with him, this missing piece of his soul. "Christine," he cried, "there are so many things I must tell you, before we do this. About Piangi, and Philippe—"
"Shhhhh..." She stroked his hair, comforting her angel as she would a child. "There is nothing you could tell me that can't wait until another day. I know what you have been, and I know what you are. I have already made my decision." Christine gently pulled away from his embrace and cupped his tear-streaked face, her eyes gleaming with joy. At length, she turned back to the forgotten priest. "Father Jakob, could you please continue with the rite?"
The holy man gestured to the ground before the altar and once again opened his liturgy. The couple knelt before the father once more.
"Dóminus benígne confírmet et benedictiónem suam in vobis implére dignétur. Quod Deus coniúngit, homo non séparet."
"Amen," Christine whispered, squeezing her angel's fingers.
This time it was Erik's hands that quaked; hers were steady and sure as they listened to the solemn Latin binding them to each other. They placed their rings in the hand of the priest and he blessed them, signing the cross over the small gold bands.
"Benedícat Dóminus hos ánulos, quos alter álteri traditúri estis in signum amóris et fidelitiátis…"
Erik moved as if in a trance…not quite a dream, but not fully awake, either. He did not remember slipping the gold ring over his angel's finger, nor her returning his. As the Latin droned on, he simply responded when Christine did, unsure of what he was swearing to. In his mind, he had given his vows already—he had promised to love her, and that was enough.
"Et vos omnes, qui hic simul adéstis, benedícat omnípotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. Amen…"
When the last phrase faded into the recesses of the small chapel, he swayed in a stupor for several moments, unaware that the rites had been completed. Christine tugged at his arm, laughing delightedly at his state of unconsciousness.
"Come, let us make it official, my angel."
The priest set the marriage certificate before them, and they each signed their name to it; Christine first, then himself. He held the pen between his fingers for a long while after he had signed, staring at the unfamiliar name…
Erik Reinard
Honest…incorruptible, he silently repeated, struggling to make sense of what had just happened to him.
The poor witnesses—who had been wide-eyed observers from the back pew until now—hastily signed the paper and retreated as quickly as possible, anxious to be away from the crazy masked man and his new wife. Father Jakob capped the inkwell and put the certificate into the man's shaking hands.
Erik glanced over it as the impatient woman scooped up her lasso, tucked it under her jillayeh, and led him to the door. He stared at the words as if they were written in some newly discovered language, his fingers tracing the lines of print. They came to rest upon Christine's signature next to his.
Christine Reinard
"Oh God…" he whispered hoarsely, pressing a hand to his chest. His knees began to give way and he collapsed against the wall next to the door, struggling to breathe.
Christine's arms flew about his waist and she fought to hold him upright, but their difference in size made it a losing battle. Her frightened eyes sought his unfocused gold as she shook his shoulders soundly, forcing him to look at her.
"Erik, what is wrong? Tell me what is wrong!"
He closed his eyes and swallowed against his painfully constricted throat, focusing on his breathing. Gradually, his gasps for air began to slow and the fire in his lungs receded, allowing in oxygen once more. He opened his eyes and stared at the worried face before him, a weak smile playing upon his lips.
"I apologize for alarming you, Madame Reinard," he smirked between wheezes. "I am afraid I just realized that I am a married man."
A/N:
The Latin text comes from the pre-Vatican II Catholic marriage rite that would have been used in the 1880s. Paula74 generously typed the rite in its entirety for me, along with English translations. If you would like to read it, I am posting it to my website. See my profile for the address.
Thank you for reading! I love looking at your reviews, and take into account all feedback—both good and bad.