A/N-This short story is based on the premise that Christine marries Erik.
Christmas, 1881
2018, Riene
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It was cold, so cold.
She rose wearily and dressed in the warmest garments she could find. He spared no expense for her apparel, at least, providing whatever she requested with no questions. She fastened the long woolen stockings, flannel undergarments, a quilted petticoat, her warmest dress, a shawl for her shoulders, donned the sealskin boots with the fur lining. She was grateful for the layers which kept the chill out, and also kept his cold hands from her bare skin.
Christine shivered, dreading the moment she must emerge from her sanctuary and enter his domain. She brushed smooth her hair and splashed cold water on her swollen eyes, reddened from crying herself to sleep.
They'd fought bitterly the night before, and not for the first time. She'd wanted only…
She stood before him, hands clasped. "Erik? I have a small request of you." Her voice shook and he looked up from his book, a heavy tome in a language she could not decipher. The black silk mask rippled faintly at the movement and he folded his hands, those long, thin hands, and focused on her. Her husband. Erik.
Nature had meant well by him, she'd realized long ago. Those broad shoulders, the muscular chest, the wiry strength in his long limbs. His elegant posture and gracile hands, graceful on the keyboard or handling his instruments, deftly touching a chess piece or holding a book. Hands that rarely touched her.
But she knew now what the impeccable dress hid, the cadaverous body, the horrid face, the scent of earth and stone. The gloved graceful hands that had murdered so many men. She shuddered.
"Erik?" She faltered, then ploughed on. "I would like, very much, to attend church tonight."
He watched her with those yellow eyes. Yellow, like a hawk or falcon. He was a raven, clad in black, and she, a small shabby brown sparrow beside him.
Why had he chosen her?
"No."
His tone was dismissive. She clasped her hands, hating that she was begging, near tears.
"Please, Erik. If I have counted the days correctly, it is Christmas Eve. I wish to go to the Evening Mass, at the Lutheran Church near..."
"No."
"Please, Erik, I have not been above in so long!"
He rose to his full height, towering over her, those eerie golden eyes flashing fire. "No! I know what you wish to do! You seek to flee from your Erik, to hide and beg sanctuary from some priest! I am no fool, and you will not leave here!"
She sank, weeping, to the floor, and finally looked up into his cold face. "I want only to attend the services. It is Christmas Eve."
He turned away, shoulders stiff. "Christmas. What is Christmas. A time of false smiles and artificial joviality. Of excess for some while others starve. You've no idea of Christmas. You," he hissed, "no doubt had everything you ever wished."
She rose on shaking legs and lifted her chin. "I did not. We were poor, as a child. My mother's medicines took all we had, even to our house. My father begged mercy from her family, who cast her out at her marriage. They refused. She died. We wandered for years until Papa Valerius took us in, and then my poor Papa died, and so did they. I do know what poverty and deprivation are, Erik. I have lived it." She spun on her heel and left, her last sight of him brooding on his dark throne by the fire.
She'd fallen asleep later, exhausted from tears, having said her prayers. She would keep Christmas in her heart, as she and her father had done so many years, and fell asleep dreaming.
There had been a doll one Christmas, the year it had truly become plain to her what want meant. They had been staying in a city in Belgium. Her papa had had some success that summer, playing at weddings and festivals, but winter had taken nearly all of their small savings. Food was meager at best, and many nights had been spent in a barn amongst the beasts, grateful for the warmth of straw and steam from sweating animals.
The city boasted a store, and that day had found them passing. She'd rushed to the window, blue eyes round in her pinched face, staring open-mouthed at the toys. Balls and hoops, a cart and horse, painted soldiers in a line, small plush animals, and a doll. A most wonderful doll.
It had a china body and blue eyes, like hers, and soft golden curls, like hers. She could almost feel them beneath her chapped fingers. A doll, with a most wonderful wardrobe. Real lace on her pantaloons! Embroidery on her nightdress! A coat with real fur trim! A half dozen dresses for play, for school, for church! A tiny chair and table, a cunning tea set, and a dear little doll of her very own!
But her papa had not even asked the price, had merely gathered his small child into his arms and held her close, brushing her face with his whiskers, to hide his tears.
Strange how she could remember that doll so clearly, so many years later.
Bravely raising her chin, Christine stepped into the hallway.
It was the warmth that first struck her. The fireplace was roaring, logs piled high. They never had logs, only coal with its choking smoke. Coal was so much easier for him to carry, and yet there were logs. Apple wood, from the smell.
On the table, a dark red rose was turned to greet her, while a heavy silver tray covered what lay at her place. Hesitantly she lifted it and found beneath a cup of steaming chocolate, next to an orange—an orange!—and two freshly-baked pastries. A pat of golden butter lay nearby. The homely scents of warm cinnamon and cardamom filled the air and her mouth watered.
In the corner a small tree stood, in the German tradition, strewn with silver ornaments and golden baubles. Beneath it lay packages. Wonderingly she knelt. Gloves, butter-soft and a lovely blue. A fur-trimmed hood and capelet. A book of poetry and another of myths. Her favorite tea. A folio of music. Expensive chocolates. A tiny watch on a delicate chain for her jacket.
And standing there in the shadows, her husband, watching her with a look of uncertainty on his face, a flicker of...something...in those golden eyes.
"I don't understand."
"I too have known hardship," he said harshly. "But I promised that you would not bear it under my care. Eat, and get your wraps. We will be able to make the late service if you do not tarry."
"Will you attend with me?"
"No. But I will wait in the carriage." And trust you, the words lay between them.
She would never know how he had stood outside her doorway the previous night, listening to her tears. He had taken so much from this girl. She would never see the resolution, the desperate haste, the extravagant expense.
Christine rose and walked steadily toward him, then covered his bony hands with her own. "Thank you," she whispered.
The warmth spread through his cold flesh. It was the first time she had willingly touched him. Erik fell to his knees. "I am sorry, Christine. For everything."
He flinched as she reached out, her fingers brushing the stiff wig, but she did not disturb the mask. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. "I forgive you," she said.
If he could bend, so might she. He was her husband, for better or worse, and the past was gone. Perhaps they could begin again. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead.
"Merry Christmas, Erik."
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Thank you for reading, and please review. :)
~R