A/N: Readers of this story must remember that I am simply the instrument used by my muses to tell their tale. The fact that these muses have taken up residence in my subconscious mind is unimportant. All great fictional creations become part of their readers. If the reader also happens to be a writer, well, then, anything is possible...
Chapter 6: A Remembrance of Things Present
Erik felt her presence at his side before he opened his eyes, her faint fragrance delighting him with its sweetness. Turning his head on the pillow, he gazed at her sleeping figure, slumped in the chair next to his bed. His heart ached as he beheld her. She was so pure, so beautiful, and now, she was completely his. He knew it with a certainty that surprised him, until he remembered the strange experience he had undergone. Had it been a dream? He was not sure. If it had been, then the vividness of it was unlike any dream he had hitherto been visited with.
He was afforded a wonderful opportunity to observe her as she slept, unknowing. His eyes misted as he continued to stare at her. This woman who had betrayed him was in his blood, his very soul. He could no more stop loving her than he could stop writing the music that sang through him, music that was divinely inspired, although the fires of hell attended its birth.
He attempted to move his large body closer to the edge of the bed, placing his uninjured elbow on the mattress for leverage. Half-sitting up, he made a great effort, and succeeded at last in lifting his torso from the bed. His head began to pound as if a fiend with a mallet had taken up residence within it, and the room suddenly seemed to spin maddeningly around him. He absolutely refused to lie down again, however. He could feel his strength returning, as well as an overpowering need to speak with Christine, in light of their mutually shared experience in a world that knew no time, no pain, no unrequited love. So he remained sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily, fighting the dizziness and the pounding headache. At once, he was overtaken by a ravening hunger. Glancing over at Christine, he saw she was still deeply asleep. He did not wish to disturb her innocent slumber. Taking in a deep breath, he then attempted to rise from the bed.
Christine was abruptly awakened, in the middle of the sweetest dream, by an impossibly loud thud. Opening her eyes wide, panting with fright, she looked down at the floor, and met the sight of Erik sprawled out upon it. For a few seconds, she was too shocked to do anything, but then, she swiftly stood up and bent over him.
"Erik!" she screamed, feeling the greatest fear of her life: the possibility of his death.
He answered with a muffled groan, and she was momentarily reassured. She gently explored his wounded arm, and touched the pulse at his throat. His breathing, although a bit labored, was not dangerously so. Now she had a dilemma. How could she help him up, since he was so much larger and heavier than she? It was obvious that he could not get up by himself. With a despairing sigh, she realized that she would have to go for help. Perhaps one of the staff at the inn would be willing to assist her. Her other option was Raoul, but she doubted that he would consent to help her. For this she could not blame him.
Her darting thoughts were interrupted by his voice, which was laced with pain. "Christine...Help me up..."
"Erik," she replied in consternation, "you are much too heavy for me!"
She looked around the room desperately, as he continued to groan. Her eyes fastened on the chair she had slept in. Why had it not occurred to her sooner? Grabbing its arms, she exerted all her strength, but it would not budge. Then she moved around behind it, and began pushing it toward Erik. She was able to move it within his reach.
Erik hooked a leg around one of the chair legs, and dragged it around to his good arm. Then he painfully hoisted himself up, swearing as he did so. Christine blushed at the colorful expletives, but said nothing, knowing full well that he must be in terrible pain. She moved forward, grabbing his waist, pulling him up as hard as she could. He groaned again, through his teeth, and, with her help, lowered himself into the chair at last, letting out an explosive sigh as he did so. Settling himself in the chair, panting heavily with the effort, he closed his eyes, and longingly called her name.
"Erik," she answered immediately, grasping his good hand. She sank to her knees next to the chair, and, moving closer to him, caressed his left cheek, then feathered a kiss upon it. Erik's reaction was immediate. His hand tightened on hers, while he turned his head, eyes still closed, seeking her mouth. She moved her lips to his, and they fervently kissed, with all the ardor of lovers who have been long parted. She brought her hands up to hold his head, allowing him to deepen the kiss, to thrust his tongue into her mouth. He groaned in delicious torment, drinking her in like a man parched with thirst in the desert. Christine was quickly caught up in his rising passion, but her concern for him would not let her be swept away. He was still too weak, although there was a noticeable improvement, as compared to the day before. Still, it was much too soon for this. So she gently brought her arms back down, pulling away from his possessive mouth. His answering moan shot shivers through her. She was panting heavily, wanting him with all her might. It took all her inner strength not to give in to the demands of both their bodies. She did not move away from him, however, but sat back on her thighs, looking intently at him, her eyes moist.
Erik opened his eyes then, and met her shining gaze. His throat tightened with emotion, which he fought to control. His good hand moved as if on its own, wanting to grasp hers again. She slid her hand into his, and he squeezed it as he stared at her. An eloquent silence reigned between them for a few moments. Then, he spoke.
"Do you remember, Christine?" His voice was a caressing whisper.
She smiled, knowing at once what he was referring to. "My father gave us his blessing..." Tears slipped from her eyes, trailing down her cheeks.
"Then why, my love?" The abject pain in his voice accused her, knifing through her. "Why did you leave me?"
She lowered her head, her tears flowing more freely now. The suffering contained in his whispered questions struck her to the heart. She would have preferred for him to rage at her. That she knew she deserved, and would have taken the punishment meekly. But this...she was overcome with guilt and anguish. She had practically destroyed him, and yet, he had come after her. The pull she had on him was formidable. Hurt as he had been by her rejection, he had still pursued her. She could not comprehend such love. Or was it simply obsession? If such it was, then it was a truly magnificent one. No one had loved her thus. Raoul's love could not compare...
He withdrew her hand from his, and brought it under her chin. Gently he moved her head up, and she allowed him to. Their eyes met once more.
"You have torn out my heart," he said, quietly. "I thought I would surely die. Then I was filled with rage, and that prompted me to come looking for you. I have followed you all the way from Paris, waiting for the right moment to tear you away from that blasted Vicomte."
He paused, his breathing having suddenly grown difficult. Christine waited, saying nothing, understanding that he must unburden himself.
"Patiently I followed you both," he went on, closing his eyes, the anguish tearing at him. "I watched and waited from a distance. I saw how he put his arms around you. I saw all the solicitousness of a man in love. And yet, that love could not possibly compare to mine..."
He now opened his eyes, and she was thrust into his inner torment, for his pupils blazed at her. He ground his teeth in anger.
"I was forced to see another man put his hands on the woman who belongs to me! I determined to murder him, to take you from him, to make you love me!" His features contorted with fury.
She dared to bring her free hand up to caress his cheek. "Yet you did none of those things, Erik...Instead, you saved Raoul's life, and my own, as well..."
The touch of her hand was like a balm to his raw pain. His eyes suddenly filled with tears.
"Can you forgive me?" she continued, softly. "I have been dreaming steadily of you all the way from Paris...My sleeping mind always knew the truth about our love."
"Then I must once more ask you why, Christine. Why torture us both in this fashion?"
She lowered her head briefly, then brought it back up, meeting his gaze honestly. "It was fear...fear of you, of what a future with you would mean...Now I know that I cannot fight this, Erik. My heart will not allow me to do so any longer."
He sighed, realizing that he could no more punish her than he could bear to be away from her. "Then we must remedy this situation as soon as we are able. You spoke with the Vicomte yesterday, as I recall. What was the outcome of that conversation?"
"He knows that I do not love him as I do you, Erik. Our engagement is effectively terminated. I imagine he will leave us, if he has not done so already."
Erik was about to answer this, when a knock on the door surprised them both. They stilled, not daring to breathe, both thinking the same thought.
"Christine?" They heard the Vicomte's voice from the other side of the door. "May I come in?"
"Erik, please," she whispered, feeling the sudden tension in him as he grasped her hand with a vise-like grip. "You did save his life, after all."
"Much to my regret," he answered through his teeth.
She squeezed his hand reassuringly, and, raising her voice a little called out, "You may come in, Raoul."
The door opened, and the Vicomte hesitantly entered the room, to be met with the rabidly furious eyes of the former Phantom of the Opera.