Disclaimer: I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.
Author Note: So the mystery remains as to why Christine Daae is in the gypsy camp! What happened to the thugs? Is her apparent memory loss true? DUN DUN DUUUN! Sorry about the kind-of-cliffy last time, it's just so tempting to end dramatically ;)
Huge thank you to those lovely reviewers; TMara, ListenToTheRainS2, Kumon5, Filhound and MarilynKC. Reviews are always appreciated, as I love to know what your thoughts are.
And now, onto the next chapter, with Erik and his perhaps morally incorrect resolve...
Four- Familiar Strangers
Christine Daae awoke as she always did; screaming. As soon as her lids shot open and the terrible, frightened reaction exploded from her mouth, making her dry throat cry out in pain, she scrambled up and looked frantically around her, her heart pumping furiously inside her chest and her limbs trembling as if the ground beneath her was shaking too. Her eyes flitted over everything, piecing normality back together, trying to come to terms with where she was. At last, when she was reassured that she was just in the tent, the same stinking, horrible tent, she allowed the tears to come- great gasping sobs that made her sound three years old.
Sweat dripping from her face and still shivering with fright, she hugged her knees to her chest and pressed her tear stained face against them, rocking herself to and fro in the deluded hope that she might calm herself down. Her curls, damp with sweat and clinging to her flushed face, soaked up her salty tears and she hid behind them, as if the curtain of hair could protect her from yet another day of terror, confusion and utter hopelessness.
"It was just a dream- a foolish dream. It cannot hurt you." She told herself aloud in a shaky voice, just to fill the echoing silence. "Just a dream..."
And, as always, in the tortuous fashion she had come to know and understand with a resignation that sickened her, the frightening images that made up her nightmares slowly faded away and allowed her to stop trembling pathetically as her heavy breathing became calm and her tears stopped flowing. She took a deep breath, that became a sigh, and pushed the mass of damp curls back from her face so that she might stretch her neck and look up at the poorly stitched canvas that had housed her for the last year, hating it and everything it stood for. She shivered again, slightly, the nightmare still leaving cold chills running down her spine for a reason she could not hope to know.
It wasn't as if it were any different to usual- it was always the same dream that reduced her to this quaking, terrified state so she ought to be used to it by now. But could one ever become used to and comfortable with sheer terror and utter horror combined? In the dream, she was in the dark, alone and terribly scared as she cowered and tried to hide as best she could from a voice; a voice that screamed and bellowed and cursed at her, telling her she was damned to spend eternity like this, never allowed to leave the darkness and return to the light.
The content of the dream was bad enough, making her feel shaky and paranoid, but what truly terrified her was the thought of how her subconscious had managed to conjure up such a dreadfully realistic dream- the voice was so distorted by tears and anger, the darkness so choking, the chill of fear icy and biting on the back of her neck as she cowered and begged with real tears running down her cheeks. Could it be possible that she had in fact endured something so sinister and horrible in her life? She had no way of knowing, her last true memory being the death of her beloved father, remembering how he had smiled weakly at her as she sat by his bedside, sobbing and begging him to stay with her. Seven years old she had been when that shattering event occurred...she was clearly far from seven years old now, but Christine did not know her age or anything else about herself- for after that memory, that memory from a ruined childhood, she recalled nothing. It was as if her past had been engulfed by a huge, choking mass of fog; she kept telling herself that she would resurface, recall the truth, know who she was, but the haze was not clearing even after a whole year of horror. Every time she felt as if she might be close to something, as if reaching out and just brushing the desired with her fingertips, it was snatched away and buried deep within the black hole that was her mind- forbidden, untouchable, locked away from her consciousness. It was starting to turn her insane.
Unable to bear sitting in that tent for a moment longer, Christine got up and crept outside of the tent, escaping the stuffy heat and what should have been the snores of the other women like herself- only most of them now slept in the tents and caravans of the men, their vacant beds in the tent they were meant to share a constant reminder to Christine that she was luckier than some; her body was still her own, even if her mind was not. The tent sat on the boundaries of the camp, so as soon as she escaped into fresh air she could duck straight into the damp, leafy foliage of woodland, savouring the cool breeze and feeling her heart skip with relief as she found the small stream she had noticed last night. The cool water felt like heaven on her sticky flushed skin as she splashed it against her face, a cool kiss from nature, reminding her that some things, such as simple pleasures, were unchanged.
She rarely was allowed to be alone; always watched by leering men and raucous visitors, never allowed one moments rest from the wandering hands and harsh demands. She was constantly subjected to the daily chores of the camp, made to stoop over damaged clothes and tents like all the other non-gypsy women, sewing and patching the coarse material until her fingers bled and her back ached. Sometimes she would be required to cook, or wash the disgusting clothes, gagging with repulsion at the stains and smells she found lingering on the garments of the clan that were so rarely washed. She had tried to run away, abandon this life she had no control over, but she had been found collapsed with exhaustion not even a mile from the camp. The gypsies were ruthlessly meticulous- there were always a few on guard against thieves and a few more would spend the duration of the stay in the nearby towns, scouting for potential earning opportunities but also to seize any escapees who were in the camp by force, not through choice.
It could have been worse for her though- Christine was very aware that some of the girls were passed around the gypsy men like human toys, used like objects. It went further than just the wandering hands she had to endure daily; many of the women, younger than her as well as older, had several children clinging to their skirts and Christine could not imagine how broken they must feel, being reduced to the status of a prostitute and then having no help when they were left with the result. Some were gypsy women, and some seemed to enjoy being desired- but the others broke Christine's heart to look upon their faces and see the life gone from their eyes,
She was given better treatment than some, purely because her singing had become a huge attraction for the clan. But just because she was not used as a glorified prostitute, or made to eat the scraps, did not mean that life was pleasant- she wanted to be free of this barbaric camp, to taste what the world had to offer and try, as desperately as she could, to find out why she could not remember her past. Knowing her name and the first seven years of her life was not enough-what of the rest? It was a right that had been taken from her, and Christine intended to take it back- how, though, was another matter entirely.
Once washed in the cool water of the stream and dressed in one of the shapeless, brightly coloured dresses she had been told to wear in the day, Christine attacked her hair with the barely useful comb she had begged from the gypsies months ago, and once that arm aching ordeal was over she pushed it back and sat with her feet in the trickling water, not caring as the icy cold turned them purple and numb. Right there, amongst the beauty and quiet joy of nature, with the birds chattering above her and the gorgeous smell of wet leaves and fresh air around her, it did not matter that she was part of a gypsy clan or that she did not know her past- she was merely another girl in the world who wanted to savour the snatch of peace granted to her.
However, that peace was soon harshly stolen from her by the sound of footsteps- a twig snapping underfoot, the rustle of leaves- and her eyes shot open and she stood up as quickly as she could, seizing a large stick from the ground and holding it firmly in her grasp. The clan had given her one thing- knowledge of how to stand up for herself. Even though she was told to be submissive and obliging during performances, Christine was defensive and brave in all other circumstances. She would be all too happy to use her stick weapon to send this intruder sprawling, given the chance, and she glanced around her, adrenaline pumping through her veins with only the slightest edge of fear.
"Who is that?" she demanded in as menacing a voice she could manage, her eyes still darting around her. She nearly screamed when a man suddenly appeared from behind a tree, her stomach lurching first with the anger that he had been hiding behind there- and goodness knows for how long- and also with rage as she realised just who the man was. It was that odd one from last night, the one who had stared at her as if he were in pain to look at her- he was tall and dressed only in black , looking dishevelled and slightly less intimidating than last night. But still, she recalled how his staring last night had made her feel horridly uncomfortable, and it was this awkward shiver down her spine that made her words venomous and explosive. "You! What on EARTH are you doing?!"
Erik, still cursing himself for tripping and crashing into a tree as he stormed through the dense woodland in a dark sulk, was stunned into speechlessness and had to fight to keep the disbelief from flying onto his face- Christine was loitering in the woods? His shock soon became that same hopelessness as before; she looked feral and wild, as if him venturing closer would cause her to unleash all her anger and that sizeable stick onto him. What had happened to his shy soprano?
He was unprepared for this meeting, expecting to have found her in a tent and not in the woodland, but now he considered it...was it not better this way, to make it seem utterly random? Ignoring the twinge of his conscience, he decided he ought to start with Pali's suggestion now; there was no reason not to, after all.
"I am walking in the woods, Mademoiselle." He replied in a careful voice. "I'm sorry if I alarmed you, I tripped on a tree root..."
Christine gave a scornful laugh, still gripping the stick so tightly that her knuckles were white.
"Just walking?" she asked in a cold voice, her face pinched with disgust. Erik found, though, that her eyes were the only part of her that was not seething with fury- in those eyes he had found such solace and beauty in was now fear, fear that came from him. He tried not to show his reaction to this, balling his fists so tightly that his nails cut into the soft flesh of his palm. "I saw you last night, in the tent, gawping and staring at me. And now you've come to stare some more, have you? You're all the same, so animalistic- it's disgusting!"
Erik did the only thing he could do convincingly- he laughed, softly.
"I'm sorry for misleading you, but you have reached the wrong conclusion." He said in a calm voice, his heart beginning to race as his mind seemed to at last accept it- this was Christine, his Christine, and he was talking to her again, hearing her voice after so long without... "I'm not actually a visitor to the clan, well, not from the local towns anyway. I am Erik; I am a musician and I plan to tour with the clan for a short while, to earn some money. Last night, I hope you will forgive me for my staring, but it was only because of your voice- it was beautiful."
As she heard the name Erik, Christine felt something sharply twist inside her. She wanted to curl in on herself, nurse this pain that had jarred her, but the realisation of how stupid she had been to accuse this man with such venom was dawning on her, and she dropped the stick as her face flushed bright red, burning with embarrassment.
"I...I'm sorry." She replied in a soft voice, all bravery crumbling as she hugged herself, unable to meet his kind eyes. She felt as if this man was owed some explanation for her outburst, and yet she wanted nothing more than to return to her tent and cower with the shame of it. "It's just that...that...I thought that you were like those men last night, you saw them, they only want to- I'm sure you can guess. I was stupid enough to assume you were the same. Thank you for saying that about my voice."
"It is well deserved." He replied softly, fighting to control the unspeakable rage that had bubbled up inside him and was now threatening to explode out in a manner that could rival a volcanic eruption. What men had stared and groped and touched her like that, made her see all men as leering perverts? If he ever met one of these blights on humanity, it would be very bad for the vermin...very bad indeed...
Christine, the painful conversation out of the way and her rude outburst perhaps made up for, sat back down on the leafy ground and stared again at the stream before her, watching as the plucky water made it's battling journey over rocks and mounds of greenery that stuck out of the banks, obstructing it's surging path. When she turned her head, to see which bird it was above her singing sweetly, she at once felt her jaw clench and her previous anger return. That Erik person was still there, watching her again with those uncomfortably sad eyes.
"Don't you have a violin to tune?" she demanded acidly as she scrambled up, his presence only reminding her of how stupid she had been. She was struggling to understand why it bothered her so much- she didn't even know this man, and he was bound to be the same as all the others, gentlemanly manners and sweet compliments aside. "Because it's rude to stare at people!"
Her words were like a sting to Erik- he jumped, unaware that he had been staring as his musings took him to dark fantasies in which he could murder every foul bastard who had touched and leered at his Christine. He was desperate not to make her angry again, so desperate that he fumbled for a reply and blurted it without any thought.
"I'm sorry, Christine."
She gasped and rounded on him with blazing fury, charging towards him as her bare delicate feet traversed the rocks and brambles with not even a wince, and Erik realised as he cringed at her bare feet against that rough surface that he had just done the very thing to ruin everything- using her name when she was supposed to be a total stranger?! What made it worse was that now the hateful anger on her face was openly mixed with fear and confusion- Erik could have kicked himself for being such an oaf.
"How do you know my name?!" she demanded in a shaking voice, her usually warm brown eyes glaring into his. Even in anger, they had the power to make his knees tremble.
"I-I...I asked Pali your name, when I heard you singing, last night..." he managed to think on the spot, grasping the idea and choking the words out frantically, stuttering in his haste. "You know Pali?"
"Yes, I do know Pali." She replied irritably, her voice and her face telling him that she was in no way convinced, but had no choice but to accept this explanation. She could hardly accuse him of lying, when she knew nothing about him. Erik looked at her properly then, taking in her appearance and registering the details in his mind- her brown curls were longer than he had ever seen them, still exploding in every direction and seeming to beg him to slip his hands amongst those gorgeous waves of beautiful perfection. She was skinny and frail, in a way that made her seem a touch too unhealthy for his worrying mind to be at ease, but despite the dirt and the grime she did seem unhurt and, dare he admit it, better in the sense that she could now stand up for herself. The longer he looked at her and took in all the parts of her that were unchanged, the more he wanted to hug her, to kiss her, to fall at her feet and sob out his misery and guilt and delight to be able to see her again...but she did not know him, let alone that she had loved him. "What kind of musician are you?"
"Pardon?" Erik had to ask, dizzy from his thoughts and unsure as to her words, having been too lost in his fantasies again to have paid any real attention.
"I said; what kind of a musician are you?" she repeated with a touch more venom, which made Erik grin slightly- this only made her scowl deepen, so he hastily wiped the smirk from his face.
"I play for my own love of music- I have learnt how to play most instruments, and I sing too, upon occasion...classical music, operatic arias, my own compositions...it doesn't matter, for I love music in whichever form it takes." Erik threw in any details he could, hoping to trigger some memory of hers, to make her cry out in realisation that it was he, her tutor, her Angel...
"You sound very talented. My father was too a musician, though not as talented as was required to earn any real money from the art. He loved it though, poured his soul into every piece..." she paused for a second, looking at him hopefully. "My father was-"
"-Gustave Daae." Erik finished, seeing her eyes narrow momentarily and then flood with tears of happiness, which she fiercely wiped away, not understanding them and yet knowing that to be able to have a normal conversation with someone about matters she understood meant the world. "Yes, I supposed that you might be his relation- Pali told me your name, you see, and the coincidence of your talent and your name seemed too great. I knew of your father's work- he had great ability, which you have clearly inherited."
Christine laughed- but to Erik's joy, this time it was sincere and warm. He had obviously done well to compliment her father as for the first time in a year he saw her smile. It was just a small upturn of the lips, but it was enough to fill him with euphoric delight- until he realised, with a sudden pang of guilt, that he was manipulating his knowledge of her to extract these reactions. Did the lies make everything false? Erik wished he had thought of this guilt earlier, for there was no going back now, and the smile on her pretty face made him want to hurtle blindly into this web of lies and manipulation, regardless of consequence.
"Oh, no, you cannot say that and mean it. My father had such passion for his music, he was far greater than I can ever hope to be." She corrected him warmly, though the sadness seeped into her tone again as she lingered on the memory of her father, how he had been so weak and pale, barely able to sit up in that shabby bedroom, telling her she must be a brave girl and continue with her music- "His death still feels raw, as if he died yesterday and- and it hurts so much."
Erik felt horrified as she began to cry, not knowing what he should or could do. He felt awkward, standing there and watching as she shuddered with the tears, passing her a handkerchief and feeling his heart stutter as she wiped her streaming eyes and her lip trembled. He did not know if to put an arm around her would be too familiar, too odd for her- he wanted to hold her and tell her it would be alright, but the position he had assumed did not allow him to be so close. Pali's descriptions and his own assumptions had come to the unstable conclusion that Christine remembered no further than the death of her father, a traumatic and lasting event, the point at which her life had broken down and the troubles had started- after all, it was her desperate craving for a father like figure that had led to her utter dependency and naive belief that he, calling out to her through a wall and an mirror, could actually be an angel.
It was clear to him now that she had no recollection of Paris, of him, of anything else save her father and that would mean that the memory of his death was one of her only memories; what a tortuous situation to be in. It would make everything so much worse for her...
Erik remembered then that he had the picture of Gustave Daae with him, which might give her some comfort, but in reality there was no way to give her such a thing and not seem strange. After all, the man was not an international interest- how could he explain owning such a thing? No, the picture would be saved for another time.
"I personally believe that with your voice, you could easily become world famous." He told her with a hopeful smile, trying to distract her from her sadness and struggling to decide how he could do this and seem natural. She managed a small smile back, her tears already drying up on her cheeks as she gave a sigh and stared up at the leafy canopy above them, where sunlight occasionally made it through to the ground below. Erik decided he ought to chance asking her to sing with him- this was his best guess as to how he might bring her memories back to her, hoping to remind her of a past she thought she no longer knew, and given all his other mistakes such a simple request could hardly ruin everything. "But I would so love to hear your voice again- not in the grim spectacle of this garish place, but here perhaps. Would you like to sing an accompaniment to my violin?"
Christine looked up sharply at his words, searching for some hidden request amongst the seemingly innocent suggestion. This man...he was odd, nicer than she had expected any stranger to ever be, and whilst it was a comfort to speak with someone who did not scare her, she did not feel entirely comfortable around him. It was strange, a sensation she could hardly explain, and yet she knew it was that fact he was a stranger- a stranger who, for some mad reason, she felt as if she knew. Her mind told her harshly to be careful, to not be won over by mysterious men and their comforting words, and she held out the handkerchief for him to take back with a small thank you.
As he shook his head, gesturing that she should keep it, she realised what seemed so odd about his face- he was wearing a mask. A flesh coloured mask. Perhaps it was confusion, or the odd stirrings in her stomach as she wondered why this person felt so familiar, but she could not catch the words before she blurted them like a fool.
"Are you wearing a mask, Monsieur?" she said the words with no tact, a fact she realised as his hands flew to his face, his eyes filled with shame and embarrassment. She, too, felt mortified by her stupidity and a blush tainted her cheeks again, this time burning with guilt too.
"Yes. Yes, I am wearing a mask." He replied softly, wondering briefly for how long she had been staring at it and working out why he looked like such an abnormal human. "My face...it...I..."
"I'm sorry." She whispered, and Erik wanted to tell her that it was not a problem, that he was not offended, but she had already turned away and started to move towards the camp again. She was like water, constantly slipping through his fingers, no matter how hard he tried to reach her and hold onto her. Would it always be like this? As if he were touching her through the mirror- so close and yet so far away, so untouchable? "And I...I cannot sing with you- I am needed around the camp. Thank you for the handkerchief- good day."
With that she hurried off, deftly picking her way through the undergrowth as if she could not escape this mortifying situation fast enough, and Erik again felt his heart squeeze as he sensed that he was losing her again.
"Christine, wait!" he called out in agonised desperation. How he wished he had caught the words before they slipped out...he could barely breathe as she turned, her eyes wide with surprise yet not the anger he had expected. Perhaps he sounded so wretched that she could not bring herself to become angry with him.
"Yes?" she asked in a gentle voice.
Erik had to lower his gaze, for fear of staring again- as she spoke gently; her eyes were warm and beautiful, just as he remembered them from those days in Paris, the days he had not known to appreciate.
"Nothing." He muttered, angry that he was being such a fool. "I might well see you again- perhaps we will meet in circumstances such as these again."
She looked quizzically at him, one eyebrow raised as if he were mad, before turning back around and leaving as she had originally intended. This time she really did go, disappearing from his sight and back to the camp, and as soon as she was gone he fell to his knees with the sob that had been battling to escape his lips since he had stumbled upon her. In a way, it hurt even more that he could see her and talk to her so normally, even though she was utterly different- changed by the brutal life she had been subjected to with these gypsies. It was too normal, too real...
Erik sat down numbly in the place that Christine had been sat when he interrupted her and scared her, staring at the stream just as she had, wondering what she had been thinking as she saw him come out into her line of sight. She had seemed quite content and comforted by his conversation by the end of their talk, and yet there was still a barrier, a force preventing him from reaching her.
But she had fallen in love with him once. Nothing could change that.
Erik stood up and straightened his jacket, the meeting with Christine having made one thing perfectly clear to him- whether she recalled her past or not, she was still Christine, and was still the woman who had captured his heart and pierced his world of darkness and solitude with love and light. He did not care how long it would take, or what he would have to do. Christine Daae would love him again, memory or no memory.
And once he had her, Erik knew he would never let himself be so brainless as to lose her again.