Author's Note: Thank you all for the reviews and favorites and all of that! It's much appreciated and I'd love if they continued, and I hope you enjoy!
Trigger Warning: Brief sexual content toward the end of the chapter
She awoke in the dead of night, warmth spreading through her exhausted body as she fought for coherence. The park was silent save for the gentle swishing of leaves in the wind and Christine's eyes and skin burned from the cold. In her exhaustion, she had the mind to thank herself for removing the uncomfortable ring from her boot and replacing it upon her finger in case a stranger had happened upon her, they could see she was a lady. Her back ached from the uncomfortable metal bench she'd slept on, and she blinked around the empty area for a few moments before her eyes rested on the other side of the bench, where a man sat. A white mask covered half of his face and she couldn't keep her eyes from staring at it, a severe contrast compared to the rest of his black dress clothes, it only took a moment for her to look down and realize the black cape she was swathed in must've belonged to him.
"Who are you?" Christine's voice cracked from lack of use, she found her throat tight from her exhausted sobbing.
"A meager spirit experiencing time and space; are you warm?" His voice was deep yet soft and comforting. Pulling the cloak tighter to her crumpled body, Christine tiredly nodded, earning her a smile from the mysterious being.
"Spirit? Are you an angel?" He dipped his head in positive acknowledgement before he answered,
"I am many things." The pair sat in silence for a moment. He, taking in her beauty with hungry eyes and a curiosity to know why such a lovely creature was abandoned out on her own; she, taking in his pallor he seemed desperately to be hiding under layers of black clothing. The thought that the cloak he had wrapped around her sleeping form was as big and thick as the blankets at the de Chagny household evoked tears in her eyes, and she was crawling toward him with a heaving chest.
"Child, why do you cry?" Frozen beneath her shaking body, the man found his hands moving on their own accord, tangling in her warped curls and doing his best to soothe her by rubbing her back. It was awkward, hugging this strange woman who shivered in his embrace, her little gasps of air tickling his neck and her icy fingers clutching at his chest.
"Angel, you've come too late. I've fallen too far and am damned!" Her hiccups were almost as pathetic as her weak voice, or the feeling of her shaking so violently from the cold. Cheeks white, tears dripping from her jawline, eyes bloodshot and weary, Christine looked like a small child lost and alone in the world; and in a way, she was exactly that. A surge of possessiveness soared through the man in that moment, he tightened his arms as he cradled her to him, she was his responsibility from here on out.
"You could never be damned." It was a forced whisper through clenched teeth, anger coursing through his veins as she continued to helplessly sob in his arms. The cruel world which had scorned him had chosen this innocent child as another victim; she was too thin, too cold, and too poor. What could she have done to deserve such treatment? Her face held no scars, she was but a tiny waif of a girl, her pathetic weeping showed no signs of evilness or maliciousness except that which was thrust upon her. The young woman was as helpless as a small kitten alone on the streets; hatred swelled in his chest at the idea of who could be capable of hurting such a pitiful creature.
"Angel, do you know me? Do you know my sins?" Her tearful eyes looked upon him with such worship he felt embarrassment flush through him, he was no angel, but there was no telling her that now. Resituating her so that they sat thigh-to-thigh on the bench, giant cloak still tight around her quivering form, his white hand caught her small palm within his own. Wind whistled through her tumbling hair as her tears slowed to a stop, her beauty was evident even in such poor conditions.
"No, I know nothing. I found you here and I believe I was sent to protect you, what is your name, child?"
"Christine Daae. Am I dead? Are you going to bring me to heaven?" Little hands came up to clasp each side of his face and he fought to keep himself from jerking out of reach, instead he took the little palms between his much larger ones and indulged in a soft kiss to each. Upon one hand he found a diamond ring and cautiously brought that hand to her attention, staring between the shining rock and her gleaming eyes. A stifled sob caught in her throat as her other shaking hand pulled the ring from her finger and set it upon the bench where she had slept not so long ago. She was free, the words echoed through her head again and again at the sight of the lonesome ring on the empty seat.
"You are not dead, Christine. Wherever you have been, whatever you have fought, that is behind you now. Your future will be nothing but full of love and music if you come with me." Drunk off naivety and exhaustion, Christine found herself back within this warm man's arms. Sheathed within the deep darkness of night and cloaked in his scent of mint, she felt her eyes drifting shut as they moved through the night. Every once and a while his voice would pull her back to reality as he praised her bravery or innocence, but she said nothing, allowing him to carry her wherever it was he wanted to take her. An angel sent to her too late but was a blessing none the less, and she would not question him.
Her chocolate curls smelt of roses, even with dirt coating them. Her green eyes held hope and love, even when her soul had been trampled upon. She awoke and immediately found the form of her angel sitting by her bedside, an exhausted hand extended toward him and he brought it to his lips quickly. Her surroundings were simple; she was upon a little white bed in a little brown room. His cloak hung on the back of the closed door; she had no idea of where the room itself was. With a heavy head she accepted a glass of water before he prompted her for her story, she told him everything.
The tiny cabin that belonged to her father before they travelled and played his music, the sheet music in her boot that itched her ankle, of Madame Rouge, of Raoul, of the love she would always feel for him, of sinning so horribly that she knew her soul was as black as coal. Eyes closed, he listened as she painted her stories with such grand detail that tears fell from his eyes, and when she was finished he placed another gentle kiss to the top of her knuckles.
"Sleep, Christine, tomorrow begins a new world for you." Terrified of this beautiful creature leaving her, she'd held tight to his arm, pleased when he smiled down at her before he promised the words she'd always longed to hear, "I will never leave you." The mask was less daunting when the man wearing it held a smile.
"Name! Angel, you must have a name that I can call you." Nobody had asked him of his name before, nobody had cared. As if he needed proof that she was a peculiar young woman, yet she provided it in every breath.
"Erik, my name is Erik."
"Erik…Thank you, Erik." It tumbled softly from her pink lips causing goose pimples to spread across his skin; he was hooked.
Erik took joy in watching her, especially in her first few weeks at the opera house. Helping her into a bunk, the first night there, Christine's shaking little hands had clasped behind his neck in a desperate plea for him not to leave her. The room was dark, dank, hardly suitable for a young woman as beautiful as she to be living in, but it was the best he could do for now. Stage hands and a few loose ballerinas from the corps roomed there, Christine was admitted into the corps de ballet upon Erik's insistence as a very wealthy patron and was granted admission to the bunks free of charge, along with regular pay. Pale little legs stuck out from the wrinkled skirt she still wore and in the top bunk when she threw her arms around his neck he felt himself crumble in her arms. Christine Daae had every power over him, his life was hers to do with as she pleased, and his heart was at her mercy.
Without seeing him, she knew he was always there, watching from his secret spots he promised to one day show her; and he was. Reclining in his favorite seat in Box Five, watching down on her from the rafters, hiding in the shadows of corridors, Erik never left her alone. Noises that could only be made by her haunted his every moment. Tasks as simple as making tea were disrupted by thoughts of tulle rustling along her perfect legs, the tittering of her pointe shoes across the wooden stage, the small gasp he had grown familiar to hearing when she noticed his presence. Those green eyes growing even larger, a spark of excitement burned into gratitude before she allowed herself to smile and glance away, not wanting to reveal his presence to her company. And she was thankful, thankful that his brown eyes were a constant source of encouragement, that when he visited her in her bunk and placed a solitary kiss to her forehead he was rooting for her success, that the small talks they shared upon the rooftop were one's of his pride in her progress. Christine was thankful for his friendship and his ability to make her feel safe when she was still nothing more than a young lady being pushed into a great, new world she'd never explored before.
Again, Christine found herself in wonderment at time's ability to fly. How easily lives are altered in time's deciding hands. This home was less luxurious than the de Chagny household, but it was one she grew accustomed to much faster and with much more enjoyment. There was no manual labor asked of her, she was no slave or garden girl, no one here knew of her to be anything different than the other ballerinas. Hours went into learning the craft, she was thankful that she had always learned quickly and that music was something she'd been raised on. Rhythm was no issue, grace and elegance, on the other hand, were. Friends were made easily enough, Meg Giry had taken a liking to her simply because she was the new girl and therefore, "the most exciting, of course!" Meg was blonde and small, smaller and younger than the other girls in the corps anyways, and it was rumored she was only in because her mother was the choreographer. Rumors were not something Christine wished to listen to, but even her Erik grinned at the gossip, refusing to deny or accept his knowledge on the subject. But, Christine had whispered to Meg one night at the end of rehearsals, Christine herself was only here because of her angel.
Meg was not the only friend she made, of course, there was Jammes and Fayette and a few others. Jammes and Fayette were best friends, complete opposites in absolutely everything, they were attached at the hip. Fayette was the Prima Ballerina three shows running, with Jammes as her understudy, the two had studied together, "practically from the womb," they even bragged in unison. Christine had taken the greatest liking to the pair because they would spend hours after rehearsals with her, correcting her form and angles, whispering words of encouragement as they taught her everything from vocabulary to stretch-techniques. It was as if they'd taken her under their wings, even going out of their way to defend her in rehearsals against some of the older girls' rude comments about amateurs and ignorance.
Her days were filled to the brim with new knowledge, not only from ballet, but from the life change of living with middle class people. She'd only ever lived with her father, other whores, and other servants. These were men and women who went home at the end of the day to families counting on their income, or who stayed in the bunks just as she did and were earning their money in hopes of one day moving up in the world. It was something she'd never really thought about before: ambition. Everyone she'd grown accustomed to being around had either accepted their positions in the lower class or were handed an upper class position on a silver platter. Not that that was Raoul's fault, of course, but things had been so easy for him, at least up until she'd come into his life.
Thoughts of Raoul were pushed aside during the day, at first it took determination to stop longing for his blue eyes to be upon her as she pirouetted across the stage, to stop hoping he would meet her in the cafeteria during her dinner break to dip his bread in her stew with his cheeky smile, to stop aching for the feeling of his lips upon her skin after rehearsals in celebration of her progress. But as days turned into weeks, it became easier to forget everything outside of the opera and its rehearsals. Neither Madame Rouge or Madame de Chagny were half as terrifying as Madame Giry, this woman could thrust her not only out of home and livelihood, but out of friendships, out of passion on the stage. Raoul was hardly a thought when there was so much to learn, so many costumes to be fitted for, so many counts to memorize, so many transitions to remember.
When nighttime came, however, he was there. Raoul was always there at night, when the sound of rats scurrying under the bunks was only hidden under the sounds of stagehands snoring loudly. In some diluted part of her brain, she was able to conjure him, his beautiful face hovering over her, his overpowering scent of cinnamon defeating the stench of sweat and liquor from the damp room. A longing ran so deep in her core to have known his kind hands upon her bare skin, just something to erase the memories of old men thrusting into her with their uncaring eyes staring down at her and grubby fingernails marking her flushed skin. Raoul would have been a kind lover, Christine was sure, caring and compassionate, eager to find her places of pleasure and share his own with her with that shy smile he usually held after their more passionate kisses.
Sometimes, when she was sure the men within the bunks were completely asleep, on nights when the stress of the days seemed to weigh much more than she could hold, Christine sought release. A hand beneath the sheets, then pulling up her nightgown, and then untying her pantaloons, until finally, finally, finally she found her own warm skin. Erik did not know that this was something she did often, and so when he had crept into the bunks and found her in the midst of pleasure, his back pressed up against the wall in shock, he desperately wished he could tear his eyes from the sight, but he could not. No, his eyes were sewn to her figure, to her jutted jaw, flushed cheeks, crinkled eyes, fabric rustling, arm moving restlessly in and out of sight. The smell of her was strong in the room and he wondered how all of the men were able to snore through such an act of beauty. She was not innocent, no, she had told him herself of a past stained with hurt and lust forced upon her in hope of money and livelihood. That did not stop the hot lust that shot through him, half swollen, leaning into the dank corner; he did not dare relieve the pressure booming through him as he watched her finish with a hand clasped over her mouth to stifle her harsh breathing.
Unmoving, unthinking, Erik remained pressed against the wall as he listened to the sounds of her little hands readjusting herself upon the small bunk. This girl, this woman, so trusting and naïve, was the bravest creature he'd yet met. No, this woman was by far the most amazing creature he'd come into contact with in all his years. Christine relaxed completely then, turning to face the wall and allowing herself to be carried into dreamland. She was everything he should hate in the world: young, naïve, beautiful, outspoken, trusting, and a ballet rat to top. Erik knew, however, as he stalked closer to her calm form, that he could never hurt an angel fallen from the heavens. On that park bench with her limbs tucked up close to her chin and the promise of snow curling in her chocolate tresses, he'd thought that the Lord had sent him to bury her frozen body; he'd whispered lies of being sent to protect her. Erik now knew, as he watched flames of passion fall from her cheeks, she had been sent to protect him, to protect his soul, to steal all that he knew of the world.