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 everlovin' Papi.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Chat for being such a fantastic beta! I loff you, dear! Thank you also to Musique et Amour (Masque du Nuit) for his help with my violin research, as well as music suggestions. Check out his profile – he's a fantastic author ;)
Thank you to all of the Frat!Packers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. Another tough chapter to write, but you motivated me once again!
The Angel of Death
A blinding white streak ripped across the sky just above the peaks of the city wall, shredding the bleak horizon into pieces. The answering peal of thunder was deafening; the sound of crackling electricity just above their heads caused their skin to tingle.
Startled, Christine flung herself against the nearest ivy-clad wall in the courtyard and glanced up at the sky. The drenched silk upon her head had long ago been discarded, and was now balled up in her fists, wrung by nervous fingers.
"Perhaps we should return to the convent now, before this drizzle turns into a downpour," she murmured anxiously, biting her lower lip as another flash tore through the gray clouds. "It will be dark by the time we return, as it is."
"Perhaps," Erik whispered, smiling at her edgy nerves.
Good God, had he really just smiled? He could not remember ever genuinely doing so. Usually, the pull of his mangled flesh when he did only reminded him that live corpses should not smile—the effect was too hideous. Yet he did not feel as though he were dead, or wretched, or afflicted in any way that could possibly matter to the angel at his side. He was alive! And she was his living bride—laughing, glowing, free from the burdens that had plagued her for so long.
She was beautiful. She was his.
No, Erik did not want to leave just yet. Not when he felt as though everything in the world, at that moment, was as perfect as it could possibly be. Not when he had at last found peace.
For a good hour, they had leisurely walked the empty streets of Jerusalem, breathing in the rain-soaked air and gliding through the surreal dream that had descended upon them. Neither was in a hurry to face the grounding realities awaiting them at the Notre Dame de Sion— explanations of their whirlwind marriage and Erik's very presence in the city, as well as the drama that would likely ensue. He knew all to well that Christine's sudden marital status would be welcome news to only one person on the fourth floor of the convent. Instead, they had fled the threatening repercussions by aimlessly wandering all the way to the western wall of the old city.
And then there was the question that both were desperate to know the answer to, but afraid to ask—where would they sleep?
A gust of cool wind swept through the small Jaffa Gate courtyard, ruffling the ivy and whipping several stray curls across his wife's face.
My wife…
A smile playing upon his lips, he reached down and tucked the curl behind her ear. The anxiety eased from her features and she smiled back, her eyes filled with promises of things to come. He leaned forward and hesitantly touched his lips to hers, tasting the rain that had misted her face during their walk. Or was it remnants of tears that had been shed for him at the church? It did not matter, for both had washed away so much of the pain that had plagued him all of his life.
Dripping ivy shuddered about his head, and for a moment he believed that he was in a sprite's garden—the very creature warm and soft under his hands. He forgot what he was, who he had been…even why he wore a mask. Somewhere above them, thunder grumbled like an angry god at the tarnishing of his sylph, and he punished them by pelting heavy drops of rain.
Then she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss, her tongue barely skimming along his bottom lip. Reality flooded through his body, and he awoke from the magic he had been weaving about them; this time, however, truth was so much sweeter than illusion.
My wife…I am holding my wife, and she is kissing me…
Another clap of thunder…the heavens opened and rained down their fury upon the lovers, chiding them for not heeding the storm's threat. Christine started at the clamor, accidentally biting down upon her angel's lip. She pulled away in horror and began to apologize profusely.
"Oh, I didn't mean to…I am sorry," she murmured, pressing a finger to his swollen mouth.
It was enough to drive him beyond insanity. Erik wet his lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood, then smirked at her skittishness. Hauling her body tightly to his, he lightly brushed his mouth along her jaw and rejoiced in how his angel seemed to mold herself to him.
"I would have enjoyed it even more, Christine, if you had meant to."
The sprite cast him a scandalous look, then grinned wickedly and pressed her lips to his with such unrestrained passion, it left him in no doubt of where he would be sleeping that night: next to her. She wrapped her arms about him, returning each of his overtures with more enthusiasm then he had ever hoped for.
"I ask again, Erik," she whispered breathlessly into his ear, "would you like to return to the convent?"
A low, throaty growl was the only answer he gave. Wrapping his long fingers around her wrist, he pulled her away from the wall and strode swiftly through the courtyard, back to the Christian Quarter Road. They flew along the wet cobblestones, past the old churches and mosques, age-worn walls and sand-colored steeples. Not a soul could be found on the streets; the evening thunderstorms had driven the shopkeepers to their homes early, leaving the market a lifeless thing, save for the two people moving under the green wooden canopies. Every now and then, the man and woman would duck into an alley and kiss each other senselessly, their desire heightened by the liberating rain that washed their faces and drenched their clothing.
They passed the Holy Sepulchre. The great Crusader church frowned upon the lovers' antics, its imposing tower rising to meet the gray clouds; a red-cross flag wildly whipped about the sky like a warning signal to all who dared to brave the storm. Erik and Christine made their way past the church and back to the Via Dolorosa, their breath catching in their throats as the smaller dome of the Notre Dame de Sion came into view. Over their heads, the gale seemed to be gathering its strength for one final show of fury. Lightning streaked the sky, forcing them to cling to the walls as they moved up the narrow street.
Swinging open the heavy doors of the convent, the couple swept into the stone foyer and shut out the gusts of rain. Laughing joyously, Christine took Erik's hand and led him through the dark passages, up the winding staircases and to the fourth floor, their sodden thobs trailing water as they went. The heavy shutters of the open breezeways rattled noisily as the violent wind demanded entry. They had been pulled tight to keep out the downpour, so only the dim light leaking from under the parlor door illuminated the hall. The pair strode past the door and towards the bedrooms, only to freeze in place as yellow light suddenly flooded the breezeway.
"Oh my!" Sister Marie's hand flew to her mouth at the sight of the two nearly drowned people standing in the hallway.
Erik muttered a curse and quickly flipped the hood of his cloak over his face, shielding his mask from the light.
"Madame Garnier, whatever happened?" The nun glanced at the shrouded man, her eyes slitting with distrust. "Your family has been worried sick since the storm began."
Christine gaped at the woman in confusion, her head yanked from the clouds and firmly planted on earth once more. "We—that is, I—wandered too far and became lost. And then it started to rain, and I ran into this man. Rather, I ran into him here, at the convent." She sighed, seeing the disbelief in the woman's face. "He is family," she finished weakly.
Erik shook his head in mute wonder at the incoherent babble that had sprung forth from his angel's mouth. How could a woman who had just managed to trick him into marrying her fail so miserably at telling a simple falsehood?
"M. Khan will explain, Sister. If you will excuse us, we are thoroughly drenched." He nodded to the confused nun and waited until she was out of sight. Grabbing his wife's elbow, he pulled her down the hallway and into her room to save the last of her dignity.
"Brava, my dear," he smirked, watching gleefully as she turned a lovely crimson. "We must send you to the Assembleé nationale when we return to Paris. Your oratory skills are nearly as stellar as your persuasive ones." His eyes followed her about the dimly-lit room as she busied herself by digging through her bureau and pulling out fresh, dry clothing.
"If we return to Paris," she said agitatedly, ignoring his raised eyebrows as she absently waved a pair of white cotton drawers about. "What would you have had me say, Erik? I very well couldn't tell her the truth—she believes that I was widowed only two months ago!"
Erik tried to ignore the unintentional sting her words had caused. He would not let his anger get the better of him tonight.
"Actually, Christine, I am certain that Sister Marie no longer believes you to be entrenched in black despair over your beloved husband's death. I would say that she now thinks quite the opposite." He smiled at her indignant huff. "We were both indiscreet, but never mind—Nadir will come up with some clever explanation, I am sure." Erik strode over to the frazzled woman and caught her hand in his. He raised her ring finger to his lips and kissed it, his gold eyes alight with fire.
"I would rather not worry about it until tomorrow."
"Neither would I," she said softly.
The words hung awkwardly in the air, the momentum of their reckless sprint through the streets dissipated by their abrupt clash with reality. With a deep breath, Erik tentatively reached out to her and grabbed the silk sash tied about her waist, pulling her towards him. His eyes never left hers as his fingers fumbled with the wet knot, struggling to dig his fingers into the tie; it would not loosen.
"Merde," he muttered under his breath, ready to draw the dagger from under his cloak and slice through the obstinate fabric.
Christine batted his hands away. "Here, let me." She deftly worked the knot loose and slid the soaked piece of material from her waist, tossing it into the metal tub. Grasping his hands, she brought them to her shoulders and helped him slide the jillayeh from her body. It unceremoniously plopped to the floor in a heap, little rivulets of rainwater streaming from its folds.
Merde! Erik's eyes swept up and down Christine's thob-clad body. The thin, wet cotton clung to her fiercely; it plastered to her curves, leaving nothing at all to the imagination. He sucked in his breath, unable to tear his gaze away from the rise and fall of her chest, the water running from her tangled hair and down her face and neck...
At length, the woman uncomfortably crossed her arms over her breasts, a blush creeping into her cheeks. She lowered her eyes to the floor in embarrassment.
"Please quit gaping, Erik, and say something—do something."
The masked man shamefully broke his concentrated stare and stepped closer, placing his hands on her waist. "I am sorry to have caused you discomfort, angel. As I informed you earlier, however, I am merely a man. I know that this may be difficult to believe," he teased, his breath warm and enticing upon her ear, "but I would be more than willing to offer you ample proof."
Christine laughed softly against his neck and brushed her fingertips along his shoulder blades. "My, we are confident. Whatever is a lady to do when faced with such a proposition?" Her voice grew low. "However, there is something that I would rather see first, my angel." She reached for his mask.
Erik abruptly leapt away in horrified shock. Clutching his mask to his face, his hand came around Christine's prying fingers with a vice-like grip.
"What the devil are you doing?" he cried.
The woman's face went white. "I-I am sorry, Erik," she stammered. "I didn't want there to be any barriers…I should have asked."
"Yes, you should have. You little fool! Never, ever remove my mask without my permission! Haven't you learned that yet?"
Her lips quivered. "I thought it might be different now," she whispered, hugging her arms tightly about her waist.
Erik took several deep breaths, forcing his heated temper to cool; he could not be angry with her, not tonight. At length, he spoke.
"Christine, please leave me just this one refuge. You may have everything else, I swear." His guilty gold eyes pleaded with her for understanding.
She studied his masked face with a sadness that made him distinctly uneasy. At last, she nodded her consent. "Very well."
They stared at one another, not quite sure how to rekindle the snuffed flames. No, something does not feel right, he judged. This is too forced, somehow. He carefully lowered his mouth to her jaw-line, aware that Christine also felt the aloofness. Perhaps it was the mutual understanding that their relationship was about to irreversibly change. Or it could have simply been the knowledge that her entire household was just down the hallway. Whatever imp was conjuring such misgivings, however, was swiftly ruining his well thought-out fantasies.
Damn, damn, damn! He wanted to touch her, throw her onto the bed as he had done in his mind countless times. He wanted to—
The doorknob to Jean-Paul's room rattled, and all thoughts of rekindling anything were gone.
"Maman!" the toddler cried, swinging the door open with a relentless energy. Erik could see the maid smoothing down the boy's bed in the other room, her back turned to them. His face grew grim.
Christine yelped and dove for the discarded jillayeh, quickly clutching it to her front. She struggled to shake out the scrunched-up material to cover her indecency as much as possible.
The boy hurled himself at his mother's legs with euphoric relief, clinging to her ankles as if she had been gone for years.
"Little man," she laughed nervously, "you shall knock Maman over!" She tried to shrug out of the child's grasping hands to no avail.
"Oh Madame de Chagny, is that you?" Papi called from the other room. "Thank heavens! I was just about to send Papa out to search for—"
The maid halted in the doorway, an ashen ring forming about her tight lips. She swayed a bit and grasped the doorframe to keep from sinking to the floor.
"Papi, I can explain—"
"What is he doing here?" she murmured hostilely, ignoring the woman's words. And then her eyes fell upon her mistress' hands as they anxiously wrung the jillayeh, the bit of gold upon her ring finger shining in the low light from the oil lamp.
"My God," she whispered hoarsely, shaking her head in disbelief. "How could you do this?"
"Papi—"
The maid covered her distraught eyes, struggling to take in what she had just learned.
"You married him?"
She began to pace about the room, her voice rapidly rising to hysterical proportions as she thought aloud. "Didn't you give a moment's thought to the consequences? You have endangered all of us—not only here, but the household in Paris, as well! Now you are no longer the Comtesse de Chagny—vultures will sweep in and steal Jean-Paul's fortune, I can assure you. Your greedy in-laws, Paris' aristocracy…all for a cruel man that the Comte despised."
She whirled around to face her mistress. "Raoul is probably turning in his grave—"
"Erik," Christine murmured darkly, "please take my son out of the room. I need to speak with my friend alone."
She glanced at her husband, pleading for assistance. He was staring back at the maid with hard, glittering eyes, as if he would rather wring her neck than reason with her.
"Do not speak of Raoul de Chagny, Mademoiselle. Not tonight," he murmured threateningly. Oh, he knew that what she said was true—they had endangered the young Comte's claim. Chagny would have been furious. But to hear it spoken aloud by the meddling maid set his blood boiling.
"Erik—"
His fiery eyes darted to Christine. At length, he nodded and scooped the small child up under his arm, carrying him through the door.
A mighty scream of protest rose up from the boy's lungs. He flailed his arms and legs about, frantically kicking at the masked man, fighting and hollering as if the devil himself had deigned to steal him away.
"NO NO NO NO NO…"
On and on the child cried as Erik strode down the dark hallway, the piercing screams drowning out the deafening thunder.
"NO NO NO…"
The man swung the parlor door open, startling its occupants out of their peaceful discourse. The avocat, caretaker, nun, and daroga all leapt to their feet in shock at the sight of the fuming masked man, their eyes sweeping over his drenched clothing and shrieking toddler under his arm.
"Th-that is the man I saw in the hallway—who I was talking about!" Sister Marie cried, pointing her trembling finger at Erik.
M. David looked faint. "How…you are supposed to be in Paris…Where is Christine?"
Norry, of course, sat back and chuckled heartily as if a good joke had just been played on all of them.
Only the Persian studied his friend with a thoughtful eye, taking in his sodden appearance and the glint of gold upon the hand clutching the raging two-year-old. He shook his head at the sheer improbability of the entire situation.
"Maammmaaan!" the boy wailed, angrily squirming against the masked man's sturdy grip.
Erik unceremoniously dumped the red-faced Jean-Paul in the daroga's lap. "Keep him with you tonight, Nadir," he brusquely commanded, in no mood for arguments. "I will explain everything tomorrow." And with those parting words, he escaped from the room as suddenly as he had entered, soundly closing the door upon the bewildered residents.
He swept down the shuttered breezeway, his rain-heavy abaya snapping about his ankles. The door to Christine's bedroom was closed; he could hear low, angry voices from within, their words incomprehensible. With a worn sigh, he leaned against the stone wall and waited for the two women to finish their quarreling.
"He was your husband, but I have mourned him more deeply than you ever did! I still cry for him, while his wife has already married another! How quickly you have forgotten—"
"—How dare you presume to know my heart! One cannot mourn forever, Papi—it makes them brittle, resentful. Perhaps you should examine your own heart!" Christine cried, her voice growing shrill.
"My heart? My heart was always his, unlike yours, Comtesse. But I was a maid—I would never have presumed that I was worthy of him. Then he married you—You! A dancer who was no higher in status than I was. And you never loved him as I did…"
Erik had heard enough. He did not want to listen to the rest of the maid's declaration, or Christine's retort. The three sleepless nights were catching up with him, and he desired nothing more than to peel off his wet clothing and crash onto his pallet, preferably with his wife. He sighed again and turned to go, only to run headlong in the Persian.
"Pardon me, Nadir. I did not hear you."
The daroga chuckled. "That is understandable, given the amount of noise in this normally peaceful hallway." He nodded towards the closed bedroom. "This is not exactly the night you were hoping for, is it, my friend?"
Erik smirked at the Persian. "Ever vigilant, always observant, Nadir. No, it is certainly not how I would have liked certain events to play out. However, I feel that I've already asked more than a lifetime's worth of forbearance from her; after all, she did marry me. A little more will not kill me," he muttered dryly, his words edged with bitterness.
"Try not to be sour, Erik—especially on your wedding night. It really does nothing to improve your likeability." Nadir shook his head as the heated voices rose up again. "I am sure that Christine did not want for this to happen, either. You must understand that this anger and resentment has been building between them for a long time—perhaps even before the Comte's death. And with the close quarters we have kept here at the convent…it simply took a startling event, such as her remarriage, to 'put fire to the keg', so to speak."
"You poisoned us? My God, Papi, how could you?"
Erik grimaced. Apparently the maid had not told Christine of her involvement in Henri David's plot, as she had promised to do weeks ago in London. The fight would not be over any time soon. Erik put a weary hand on the daroga's shoulder, and turned to leave.
"I am going below to change out of this excuse for proper clothing. If Madame ever emerges from her battle, please inform her that her husband will be along shortly."
"She is battling for you, Erik."
The man halted. "I know, Nadir. I am not completely deaf." He smirked wryly. "I apologize for not inviting you to our nuptials."
"I would have been duly amused, I am sure," the Persian grinned.
"Quite."
OOOOO
Erik ran his hands through his damp hair, smoothing it back into place. Shrugging into his white cotton thob, he picked up his discarded abaya and laid it over a pillar, relieved to be in clean, dry clothing once again. He picked up his satchel with the few necessities he had packed and made his way around the cistern chamber to extinguish the candles.
"Leave those, please," said a quiet voice from the doorway. He whirled around to find Christine standing before him, clutching a lantern and violin case, her eyes red-rimmed and sad. She had also shed her sodden jillayeh in exchange for soft, white nightclothes and green dressing gown. Her wet curls were pulled back into a loose braid that had left a damp spot upon her shoulder. She wandered into the chamber as if moving through a thick fog, her eyes glazed and full of uncertainty.
Erik quickly strode over to the woman, taking the lantern from her hand. "I was going to come back to you, angel. You needn't have followed me down here."
She nodded. "I know. Nadir told me. I had to get away from the convent; it has become unbearably stifling."
"Then let this be your sanctuary," he said softly, leading her into the room. The tension in Christine's features eased a bit, and she whispered her thanks. The man glanced about the bare chamber, wishing he had taken the time to find some sort of furnishings for the underground lair. He did not even have a chair or stool to offer her. Rubbing his fingers on the back of his neck, he anxiously studied the far-away girl.
"I trust that you and Mlle. Nitot have resolved your differences?"
Her face began to crumble, and he cursed himself for saying the wrong thing.
"No. I eventually ordered her out of my room, then went to search for you. M. Khan gave me your message, but I decided I didn't want to wait for you." She smiled weakly, her cheerless eyes asking for his forgiveness. It was then that she remembered the violin in her arms. She hugged it briefly, then held it out to the masked man.
"I want you to have this—as a gift. A wedding gift. I thought that perhaps you would like something to play…" She gazed about the room, her eyes locking on a violin case in the corner, next to his compositions. "But I see that you already have a violin," she stumbled on, red creeping up her neck. "Of course you do; you wouldn't let your music go, even without a piano or organ. It was foolish—"
"That?" He waved his hand towards the other violin, dismissing it. "It is nothing of consequence. Thank you, my angel." He carefully took the piece from her hands and studied it, noting the fine wooden body as he smoothed his fingers over the strings. The instrument had a slightly worn look to the finish as if it had been played relentlessly, years on end. He wondered where Christine could have found it…
Then he realized where the violin had come from, and the knowledge touched his heart. "Christine," he murmured, "I cannot take your father's violin." He held it out for her to reclaim.
She smiled softly and pushed it back to him. "When someone gives you a present, Erik, you should graciously take it. Anyway, I want you to have it. It is not as fine as the concert violin he was buried with; this is the one he would play at home when it was just the two of us, and I could not bear to part with it when he died. I had the strings and pegs replaced in Paris not that long ago, because I didn't want it to fall into disrepair." She shrugged lightly. "What use is it to anyone, however, if it is not played?"
Erik stared at the instrument in his hands. He understood the true purpose of her gift, despite her nonchalant tone. She knew his insecurities regarding Raoul and a cherished childhood he had not been a part of—she had seen proof of it just moments ago. The gift of the violin was, in a sense, her way of relinquishing her past for their present, their music.
His eyes swept over her, suddenly taking note of her slumping shoulders and world-worn expression. Her argument with her maid had taken its toll on her spirit, stolen the joy of the evening. He soundly cursed Mlle. Nitot's poisonous tongue; he would have to deal with her tomorrow.
"Would you play for me, Erik? I miss hearing your music." She slipped off her leather sandals and settled onto the thin straw pallet, neatly tucking her ankles under her thob and smoothing her dressing gown over her legs. Her eyes met his wearily, expectantly.
He nodded and turned away from her to tune the violin, breathing in the faint scent of lavender as she pulled the ribbon from her hair and tousled her still damp curls. His insides twisted. He quickly rosined and tightened the bow hair in an effort to focus his train of thought on his music, and away from the subtle curves under her lightweight robes.
Testing his arm's angle to the violin, he tucked it under his chin and ran the bow across the strings to hear its voice. It had a beautiful sound—rich and full. Nodding in approval, Erik played several scales, letting the instrument sing. Music called him to her side once more; he straightened his back and allowed the violin to claim him.
Song after song flowed forth from his spirit. First came the familiar melodies that never ceased to move him…Beethoven's Concerto in D…Mozart's Confutatis. The notes were achingly sweet; mournful, then spirited. Tearful pleas and thanksgivings; all woven together, an offering to Music itself.
On and on he played, eyes closed, pouring everything he had into the music's nuances. Saint-Saën's Rondo Capriccioso…the gypsy-like melody leapt and trilled as his fiery fingers slid over the strings, the bow bouncing up and down in a wild dance. His bow strokes grew fanatical and harsh…the violin sang and soared…his heart clenched tightly until he thought it would surely burst.
The last note hung in the charged air. A sigh caught his ear, echoing the bliss of his own spirit. Erik's eyes flew open; Christine still sat upon the pallet, palms pressed against her chest, her lips parted slightly. Her face was beautiful—glowing with some ethereal light that surely rivaled heaven itself.
"Never has my father's violin sung so. You bring it to life again, Erik." She smiled at him, her eyes clouded with the effects of the music.
Suddenly, he had no desire to play the creations of other men. He wanted his own music, his own angel's voice to fill his ears with his songs, to drown him in its rich purity. The masked man sprinted over to the piles of music and rifled through them, pulling out one of the sheets. He tossed it into her startled lap and knelt behind her.
"Erik, what—"
"I play and you sing, just as we have countless times," he whispered, his face just inches from hers. "It is in Arabic, so some of the words should be familiar by now. I wrote this after I saw you on the roof one afternoon, peering out over the city—the adhan was echoing from the mosques, and you were listening to it. You were lovely." He cleared his throat. "I will give you two measures…"
The man hunched over the violin, once more tucking it under his chin.
She nodded and straightened her spine, allowing the air to spin up and out from her throat. Her tone had not improved since the last time she had sung, of course. Erik, however, did not care. Tonight, he was not listening to her voice with the ear of a teacher. He listened as a lover. His angel sang his music as he knew she would—with passion and grace. The golden tones swept over his body and through his soul.
"Habebe…Ya albe…Ya Nour A'ainy…"
He played along with her, but as her voice became more familiar with the melody, he set the instrument aside. His hands skimmed around her waist and up along her rib cage, feeling every breath of air as she sang. Her voice faltered; he hurriedly picked up the words and joined her, their voices tangling in a beautiful, exotic duet.
"Ya roughy…"
Erik's voice rose with hers…the dark, rich tenor weaving its powerful web over her mind. Their music made him bold, driving him to take liberties with her that he would not normally dare to do. He toyed with the ribbons of her nightgown and pulled them loose, freeing her soft skin to his touch. His fingers slid beneath the delicate cotton; she gasped, her voice catching in her throat. Yet he sang on, his tone enticing and low.
"Habebe…Ya albe…Ya Nour A'ainy… Ya roughy…"
"Why have you stopped singing, Christine?" he asked quietly.
The woman's head fell back against his shoulder. "Erik, your music, everything…you make me feel alive." Her voice broke. "I have not felt alive in a long time." She trembled lightly. "What does it mean—the Arabic?"
The masked man smiled traced a thin finger along her throat. "Habebe, Ya albe, Ya Nour A'ainy, Ya roughy? The singer is a woman, speaking to the man she loves."
Erik stood up, pulling his wife with him. He gathered the light material of her nightgown in his hands. Pausing for a moment, his eyes locked upon hers, seeking her approval. She nodded. He slid the white cotton from her small frame and drew her to him.
"It means Beloved…my heart…light of my eyes…my soul."
Christine flung her arms around his neck, overcome.
Her body was perfect… soft, warm, and beautifully flawed in ways that made her all the more real to his touch. Every single inch of her was at once familiar and foreign. His angel was a song that he had listened to countless times, memorizing each slide and slur until he could hear the music over and over in his mind. And yet he had never played. How long had he ached to spread his fingers over her bare skin, drawing forth songs from her body as he did from his ivory keys? For years, he had yearned to discover the scores of music that lay hidden behind her voice.
He was a musician greedy to learn her. He wanted to make her cry and laugh. He wanted to make love to her, and gaze upon her face as her eyes grew dark with hunger for him—him alone. No Vicomte, no hideous face—only Erik.
And yes, her eyes did deepen to a smoldering blue as his hands reverently skimmed over her curves and creases…her hips, breasts, shoulders, into her curls. He lifted the dark masses away from her neck and buried his face there, feeling the rapid pulse of her heart upon his lips.
He had seen her best—oh, how he seen her from his hideaway in box five, radiant upon the stage, her song magnificent as it rose above the opera house's lavish gilding. He had triumphed as the bright-plumed ladies of the audience pressed fluttery hands to their bosoms and elegant men blinked back threatening tears, so moved were they by her loveliness. He saw Christine, languid and content in a London nursery, clutching her sleeping son in her arms, gently blowing wispy curls from his face. She had rested her cheek upon the boy's head and softly sighed, the sound rivaling that of her arias…
He laced his fingers through hers, falling to his knees as his angel pulled him down with her onto their makeshift bed. Her hands skimmed up his legs and torso, lifting the cotton thob from his body. Tossing it aside, she pressed her mouth to his naked flesh and tenderly kissed each of the criss-crossed marks upon his skin, trying to heal wounds that had long ago scarred. He shuddered violently.
…And he had also seen her worst—cowering in a corner with a white mask in her hand, her arms flung protectively over her head as if she thought her teacher would strike out fiercely for her impertinence or tears or whatever carelessness that compelled her to hide. She would leave him with the coldness of her fragile withdrawal…her deception and weakness driving him mad.
This was his Christine—that perfect music that had been forever out of reach, his obsession to possess her nearly killing him.
Her song was all around him…encompassing his heart, shooting every nerve in his body to dizzying heights. The sound of her shallow breathing …the light rustle of the straw pallet as she shifted beneath him…white, balletic limbs wrapping around him, brushing against his skin. Every single timbre was woven into the intricate score they were composing; the excruciating pounding of their hearts lent their notes an exotic tempo, making them mere slaves to the blood resonating in their veins.
Her fingers suddenly curled around his mask. Panicked, Erik swiftly turned his face away. She caught it and brought his eyes back to hers.
"Christine—"
"Erik, please," she gasped, her voice thin with despair. "I want to see my husband's face—I want to see your face!"
He groaned in anguish, her urgent plea ripping him in two. How could he refuse her, when she clung to him with such pure, innocent trust? She concealed nothing—everything she had, she was giving to him. Why should he not do the same? With a wretched sob, he grabbed her hand and placed it on the thin white mask, guiding her fingers around the edge and helping her to slip it off. She carefully laid it aside and turned back to him, her eyes growing wide as she observed the mass of gnarled flesh that somewhat resembled a face.
Erik was glad for the near darkness of the chamber, the one mask left to him. He felt his heart fall to the pit of his stomach as her clear eyes glazed over with some unreadable expression—fear or shock—he did not know which. He began to pull away from her, but she held him fast in her arms. Christine closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them again, the look had vanished. A piercing, all-consuming love filled the blue depths—so powerful, it shook him to his very core.
Exposed and vulnerable, he could only hold his breath as she tenderly pressed her hand to his ravaged features, caressing the crags and twists that stretched across the entire right side of his face. And then her mouth fervently traced the paths her fingers had laid upon his sensitive skin, banishing the sorrow from his stricken soul with her gentle touch.
The quiet waters that you seek…
She had looked upon his face—his grisly, ghastly face that drove men to madness. Somehow, his angel had found him, alone and damned, and had lifted him from the very bowels of Hades. This creature with a kind spirit and glorious song—he would gladly die the exquisite death she offered—purge his bitterness and hatred within the fire of her absolution.
"My husband…"
Erik buried his face in the warmth of her embrace as her words echoed upon his ear, his heart shattering all over again for want of her…his living soul's home shore. She cried out as they became one; he pressed his lips to her forehead, murmuring his own motif into her ear.
"My soul…Christine…"
He watched her face contort beautifully…her eyelids squeezed shut, then flew open again as he moved within her. Her mouth widened in a mute cry; he enveloped it with his own and breathed life into her, even as death wrapped shadowy tendrils around their forms and called them to dance. The crescendo of their music slowly drove them upward, higher and higher as chord after merciless chord crashed upon their souls with waves of fury.
"Do not leave me alone, Erik—"
"Never," he vowed, his voice harsh and ragged.
"I shall die!" she sobbed, tears of release streaming from her blue eyes and down the sides of her face.
He clasped her hand, letting their rapturous elegy carry him to the very edge of oblivion.
"Then I shall die with you."
OOOOO
Somewhere in the distance, Erik heard the quiet lapping of water. My lake…Lake Averne…the dark waters of my home, my prison. I shall die on its shores, alone and resigned, with only my beautiful dreams to bid me farewell.
Such dreams, such dreams…
He was cold…so cold. And stiff, like a corpse. Perhaps he was already dead; yet he could feel the air on his face, so he was not in his coffin. Complete and utter darkness enveloped him…he struggled under the pressure upon his chest. His hands reached down to push away the weight, and came upon a mass of soft curls and icy skin.
Christine quietly moaned in protest of the sudden jostling.
The dream…not a dream. Not Lake Averne…the cistern. And this is my wife, her face resting upon my body.
His head fell back against the hard pallet in quiet ecstasy. How often does one wake from a reality to find it was only a dream, and that the dream is, in fact, reality?
Christine groaned again and shifted against the hard ground, her limbs undoubtedly as sore as his. His arms came around her shoulders, trying to infuse her with the small bit of warmth he could offer. The air about them truly was frigid—more so than past nights. The early spring storms had once more ushered in the chill of February and replenished the cistern with fresh, cold rainwater.
"NO!"
All of sudden, she loosed a shriek and leapt away from his embrace, wildly pushing back from his body. Erik heard her scramble up from the pallet, then fall to the ground as her foot tangled in one of the blankets. He reached out for her in the darkness and seized her shoulders, holding her tightly to keep her from stumbling blindly about the chamber.
"Christine, it was a dream—whatever it was, it wasn't real!" He felt her tense as awareness sank into her mind. And then she fell against him, burying her face in his chest to muffle her sobs. It was no surprise that she had had a nightmare; the previous day had taken an emotional toll on both of them. For all he knew, his vicious rage could have haunted her sleep.
He brushed the hair from her damp face. "Will you tell me?"
She paused for a moment then shook her head, not quite trusting her voice.
Deciding not to push her confidence, Erik held her for a long time in silence.
At length he spoke, his voice smooth and beautiful. "There is an old legend about a woman who was on her deathbed. She was not ready to leave; she had a good husband whom she loved very much, and many children. All encouraged her to say the shema prayer: a prayer to release her soul from pain so death could take her. But she refused to utter the words, because she did not want to die. Then the Angel of Death himself came to her and asked her to whisper her deathbed prayer so he could claim her spirit. Again, she refused. 'Why should I do so? I am afraid to go with you, and leave behind all that I know.' So the Angel of Death let her live. She became strong again and eventually left her deathbed to be with her family, going about her daily life. She was always mindful never to say the shema prayer, lest the Angel should return to claim her soul."
Erik felt the tension begin to leave his wife's muscles and she melted against him, drawn into his story.
"The Angel of Death, however, is a wily and tricky fellow. Years later, the woman's child was on his deathbed. She sat next to him in grief, trying her best to ease his pain. 'Mother,' the boy whispered, 'will you say the prayer with me?' Tears streaming down her cheeks, she nodded and guided her son through the shema prayer. When they were finished, the Angel of Death leapt up from beneath the bed and snatched both of their souls."
Christine sat up and peered at him, trying in vain to read his face in the dark. "Erik…"
"Christine, have I somehow forced you into this marriage? I cannot help but think that you married me out of necessity for Jean-Paul, or because you felt it your duty to rescue me in some way. If I have, we can correct it tomorrow. Father Jakob need never know about tonight—he could annul it, saying that you were coerced—"
She put her fingers to his lips to silence the stream of insecurities. "You seem to have forgotten, angel, that I tricked you into marrying me. Therefore, I should be the one to ask if you were coerced." Smiling, she rested her head over his heart and listened to the steady beating, drawing comfort from his presence. After a moment, she began to speak again, her words soft and low.
"I dreamt that I was underground, in a coffin. The walls and lid of the casket were made of glass, so I could see everything about my grave: the dirt surrounding me, bugs and animals burrowing through the ground…" She released a deep, shuddery breath. "Next to my coffin was another, also made of glass. It was Raoul's. He was in the same fine clothing we had buried him in, his blonde hair smoothed back and his hands resting against his chest. His face was pale and dead, but peaceful—as if he were only sleeping."
Her arms tightened about her husband's waist. "As I watched him, however, his eyelids opened and he turned his face to me. His eyes! Oh Erik, his eyes were only black, empty holes, staring at me with a frightful nothingness. Then he smiled at me and spoke, but his mouth did not open. 'Death is but an illusion'; that is what he whispered. I wish I knew what it meant, but..."
Erik held her tightly, wishing with all his might he could answer her questions and drive her fear away. He silently cursed Raoul de Chagny for worming his way into her mind, on a night when her dreams should have been of her new husband. At long last, he felt her relax once more, so he released her and went in search of his mask and robe. Slipping the porcelain over his ghastly features, he tossed Christine's dressing gown to her and lit the lantern. The chamber flooded with yellow light.
"Where are you going?" she asked timidly.
Erik touched a finger to her drawn, anxious face. "It is too cold for you down here—I am taking you home."
The worried glint in her eyes softened. "I am home, my angel." She grasped his palm and tenderly kissed it, her lips surprisingly warm upon his skin. "Stay with me upstairs?"
"Do you want me to?"
She nodded. "I am sure that the others already know by now. Besides, there would be nothing improper in it; you are, after all, my husband." The creature cast him a mischievous grin. "We must be sure to lock the door to my son's room this time, however. I would rather not have an encore of yesterday's performance."
Erik's eyebrows quirked up in amusement, relieved that her fear seemed to have dissipated. "Neither would I—very wise, my angel." He gathered up his scattered music and the violin case, then moved about the room to ensure all was in order. Slinging his satchel over his shoulder, he grabbed her hand and led her from the dank cistern chamber.
"Come with me, oh, my living bride," he exclaimed with mock reverence, a smile teasing his lips. "Your marriage bed grows cold without you."
A/N: I'll be posting a map of old city Jerusalem to my website. See my profile for the address.
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