I promised myself that I would have a chapter up before the term started, and here it is! Yes, I begin attending college on Monday, and I'm not sure when I'll have the time to start on the next chapter, so I've made this one nice and long. :D
As a result, though the whole thing is a series of flashbacks, I've elected to spare you all from the absurdly large chunk of italics. Make sure to pay attention to the dates, though.
Thanks to: Appa, Lisa, E/MOTP, Ron's Sexy Girly1100, Hero Sis, MJ, trueurbanite, PrincessSYS (this one's for you! Hope you like it), Hot4Gerry, and a welcome to Faith-Catherine. And the readers! -happy dance-
disclaimer: I own nothing.
chapter 9
31 May, 1872
"Meg," he said, gently shaking her awake. "Meg, you need to get up."
"Hmm?" she said, sitting up, bleary-eyed. "What's wrong?"
He bit back a smile; he must be going soft. "Nothing's wrong. We do, however, have a few things to do before our ship leaves in three hours."
She ran a hand through her hair distractedly, studying him with narrowed eyes. "Erik, what on earth do you have on your face?"
His fingers flew up automatically to examine what might have caught Meg's attention, but he could only feel the rough surface of the makeshift mask he had bartered off of someone in the marketplace earlier; not the best, but it would do… "A mask."
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "You'll attract more attention with…that…than you would if you didn't bother with it. Really, Erik, it's hideous."
Angered, he tore it away, glaring at her. "And you're trying to tell me that this is supposed to be better?"
Her gaze softened as she looked at him. "Yes, actually."
He turned away, fixing it on his face again.
She mock-sighed as she put her good chemise over her head, pulling it on. "Ah, well, if you insist on wearing it…I guess I'm not getting married to you, after all."
There existed a moment of tense silence in which Erik turned to look at her; before Meg knew what was happening, Erik was beside her again, gripping her upper arm tightly.
"The only reason I agreed to this is because you expressed an interest in it. If you do not wish to go through with it, very well. But I warn you, another opportunity will not arise again."
"If that's so," she said, knowing she was treading thin ice but pressing on anyway. "If that's so, then why did you react like that?" She looked pointedly at her arm, which he quickly released. Changing tacks, she slowly reached out and gently pulled the offending mask away from his face. "You don't have to lie to me, you know," she said softly. "You want this as much as I do."
"Oh, really?" he said quietly. Dangerously. "And why would that be, Meg?"
"I—um…" she fidgeted a little under his hawk's gaze. "Well…you know…"
"No, Meg, I must confess that I don't know. Unless you are referring—and I can't possibly imagine why you would be doing so—to our illicit little affair of the past three months?"
She remained silent.
"Well, if that were the only case, I personally see no need to change circumstances to account for public opinion, do you?"
"And if there were a child?" she asked quietly, meeting his gaze and holding it.
If his complexion were the least bit normal, he would have paled visibly. "What…what are you trying to say?"
She was tempted to lie, but decided against it, knowing there would be graver consequences in the future if she did. "Nothing. I'm just being realistic, that's all. I'm sorry if it upset you." She sat back down on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest, staring at the floor.
She seemed so small and helpless, curled in on herself like that, and as Erik looked at her he felt his temper cool. Why had he even been angry? He couldn't remember, couldn't focus on anything but how tiny and fragile she appeared; no more than a child, really, though he didn't prefer to take that perspective often—especially considering some of the things he and she had gotten up to late at night. Only a child, playing at being a grown-up…
"Meg," he said, approaching her; she looked up at him—somewhat wearily, he thought. "Meg, some of those things I said were terrible…I was angry, please forgive me." He sat beside her, and she uncurled, resting her head against his shoulder.
She sighed. "Should I?"
He tensed up. "Your choice."
There was a long silence before: "I forgive you, Erik. Besides, I brought that upon myself; I shouldn't have goaded you on. You…you can wear the mask if it makes you more comfortable."
He looked at the article in question where it lay upon the rough wooden floor. "I'll leave it here, I think."
"You didn't actually pay for that thing, did you?" she asked, wrinkling her nose again.
"Not all that much, but, yes, I did." He paused, looking at her in surprise. "Meg, you're not condoning stealing, are you?"
She smiled. "Not usually, no. There are, however, certain things not worth paying for…that thing, for instance. Besides, stealing is risky…one could get caught."
Erik chuckled. "One simply has to learn how not to get caught, then. Especially in Egypt…they use capital punishment there, you know." He mimed a hand getting sawed off.
"Ew, Erik, stop that, that's disgusting," she said, standing up and moving away from him.
"Ah, finally! Something I've done that repulses you…you're not mad after all."
She glared at him before turning her attention to rummaging in her trunk for her dress.
"Don't forget to dress for the occasion," he quipped in mock seriousness. "Something… funereal ought to do the trick."
He ducked lazily, avoiding the slipper that Meg lobbed in the general area where his head had been. "Fine, I'll leave you alone… You have terrible aim, by the way."
-----
6 August, 1872
Christine stared into the mirror, hardly daring to believe that what she saw was reality. The girl in white stared back at her, meeting her gaze measure for measure as her maidservant Michelle fitted the small jeweled tiara in her dark curls, draping the veil over her face; the gauzy material was so thin and light that she appeared to be surrounded by a cloud of mist.
The girl in the mirror lifted the corners of her mouth into an appreciative smile; Raoul had outdone himself with the dress. Ignoring all protests that the dress was far too much, that she would be content with something much simpler, he had not merely bought the thing for her, he had even hired a seamstress for the express purpose of further modifying it to suit Christine's taste.
She proceeded to examine herself, the girl in the mirror smiling coyly, modeling the confection of rustling silks and endless lengths of delicate lace, tastefully adorned with what Christine strongly suspected were authentic diamonds.
Perfection.
The word rang in her ears as though it had been spoken, but nothing passed between Christine and the other woman as she flitted about her mistress in last-minute attentions. For all intents and purposes, the girl staring back at her from the mirror was the image and embodiment of pure, unsullied perfection: the innocent and naïve little bride about to be claimed by her husband.
But Christine saw something entirely different—not in looking at the mirror, no, that yielded nothing; but in examining herself.
She was not innocent. She was not pure. And, above all, she was not naïve. Not anymore, anyway.
Christine was a woman, and had been for a while now. Her mind focused on practicality, not burdened with childish aspirations or dreams. Her heart had been molded, transformed into what it was now: no longer a feeble and impressionable thing, but something of hardened substance, enslaved to no one but herself.
Not that she didn't love anyone, not that she didn't care anymore, or was no longer gentle, no. She loved a great deal of people, showered abundant affection on anyone close to her. But she kept the smallest, most secret, most vulnerable part of her locked away, allowing none to come close, not again. She was wary to trust, examining her surrounds with a touch of cynicism that had never existed in her before.
The Child had been done away with, allowing the Woman to take her place.
Society, after all, was a cruel Mistress. And nothing mirrored the cruelty of real life better than the Arts.
-----
Erik placed the fashionable little hat with the veil on her blonde head, stepping back with a wry grin to admire her.
She turned to look at herself in the mirror. "It looks like I'm a widow in mourning."
"Well, aren't you? Your husband is a corpse, after all."
Meg ignored his comment and looked down at herself. Her improvised wedding dress was well-made and rather beautiful, but…dark. She would have preferred something lighter.
"I wouldn't have been able to find a hat to match," he said after she voiced her opinion.
"Must I wear the veil? I feel silly."
"But any respectable bride wears a veil!" proclaimed Erik, with a touch of what Meg believed to be his usual sarcasm. "Are you really going to deny me the pleasure of lifting it away from your face so I can kiss you?"
"Oh, there's a lot more I can deny you," Meg muttered darkly. "Besides, I'm not exactly respectable. No thanks to you."
Erik remained silent.
Taking the hat from her head and approaching him, she said, "I'm only teasing."
"What? Yes, of course." He waved her apology away. "I was merely going over everything in my head."
"Oh." She paused. "Well, did you get the papers?"
He grinned at her, producing them with a flourish from some inner pocket of his jacket. "Feast your eyes…quite an impressive bit of work, I must say. I wasn't aware that forgery was such a lucrative business, or I would have joined its ranks years ago."
"How much did these cost?" asked Meg, examining the crisp documents with interest.
"…Enough," replied Erik evasively. "No sense in troubling you with numbers…"
"'Mr. Erik Richard, Citizen of the United States of America,'" she read aloud choppily. "That's not your real surname, is it?"
"Perhaps. And perhaps not."
"How enlightening. Am I 'Madame Richard', then?"
"'Mrs.' would be the correct term, but yes. At least, not until later today."
"Mrs. Marguerite Richard." She smiled. "I quite like the sound of that. Though the Americans will probably butcher the pronunciation."
Erik laughed. "Oh, there's no doubt about that, Meg. Americans tend to butcher everything."
-----
Michelle had excused herself, leaving Christine alone with the mirror and her thoughts. She sighed, as did the mirror-twin in front of her, but, she felt, for a much different reason.
Already she had identified the discrepancies between herself and the girl in the mirror; in fact, the more she thought about it, the more it seemed to her that, except for appearance, the girl staring back at her was a completely different person: merely an outward persona, what everyone wanted—and expected—to see. A frail little thing, meek, submissive, charming…the perfect little wife.
Inside though…her emotions were a mess. Who else could say that they'd already been in a wedding gown, nearly-claimed by a man completely different than the one she was about to marry? Who else could confess that they had been enslaved for years to a heavenly demon, one who could see right through her, who knew more about her than she herself did?
Even her marriage-bed was impure…not with the other man, no, never. But a little voice proceeded to remind her that she had indeed been driven to Raoul because of the other man, because he wouldn't leave her alone, because he wouldn't stop tormenting her, even in her dreams.
The clock on the mantel sounded the hour; two in the afternoon. She'd best be getting to the chapel.
With a sigh, Christine gathered up her silken skirts, leaving Little Lotte to stare back from the glass into an empty room.
-----
She trembled once she stepped on board, but the deck remained firm beneath her, quieting her past anxieties concerning sea travel, at least for the moment. Sighing with relief, she pressed on, Erik trailing her quietly, replacing their forged papers securely into a pocket of his jacket.
Their cabin was located largely without trouble; she had taken a wrong turn once, and there were a few frightened glances directed at the pair of them from other passengers, but that was to be expected. She wasn't quite sure why he had let her lead in the first place; she found it strangely unnerving not being beside or behind him, so halfway through their journey on the ship she tentatively reached out behind her for his hand. Not expecting him to actually acquiesce, she startled slightly when her fingers brushed something cold and dry.
She spun around to look at him, since he had withdrawn his hand. "Erik?" she said, hoping she wasn't, as she had feared, imagining things.
"I apologize; for a moment, I had thought that you wanted…"
He faltered when she gently took his hand, continuing on down the deserted corridor. "I did," she replied quietly. "I just wasn't expecting you to know, much less agree to it."
So she had held tightly to him, not caring if they looked ludicrous, trailing behind each other, holding hands; looks mattered nothing to her now, in this time of such tremendous change.
For Meg was a married woman—had been for nearly an hour—and about to embark on the journey of a lifetime, under not only a new identity, but also a false one. Combined, it was enough to make anyone exceedingly nervous.
Erik, however, seemed to show none of the disquieting anxiety his bride was now experiencing. In fact, he showed practically no emotion at all as Meg led him through the orderly labyrinth of corridors and closed cabin doors, content to sail behind her quietly, holding tight to one of her petite hands; nothing but an elaborate masquerade of a life, coming to its total and complete culmination after this last leg of ocean.
She relinquished her hold on him only after they were securely in their cabin, the door boltedbehind them. It was small, as ship's quarters are often wont to be, dwarfed even more so by Erik's sheer height; while he didn't have to duck to move about freely, it came very close to such circumstances.
"Well," he said, slowly glancing about the cabin before meeting her eyes again. "I suppose we'll make the best of it, all things considered." He glared helplessly at the ceiling above him for a moment, as if by staring at it like that he could persuade it to move upward.
"Yes," she agreed, thinking it rather comical. But there was a strange fluttering in the pit of her stomach that intensified the more she looked at him, and she couldn't break away; he held her spellbound with his eyes, his small movements, his voice, held her captive as though he were a fierce and clever predator about to go in for the kill…
She shook her head, taking a deep breath to steady herself. Picking up her bag which had been deposited in the room before they had arrived and casting a glance at the bunks, she said, "I—I'll take top, shall I?" Had things always been so awkward with him? She didn't think so, but her mind was in no state now to remember details.
"Meg."
The voice was soft, but enough to stop her in her tracks and shake her to her core. "Yes?" she breathed.
He approached her. "I…I…" His hands shook as he gestured feebly towards the bottom bunk. "I'll take top. You can have the bottom," he said tersely.
She smiled gratefully at him. "Thank you," she said, and he nodded before turning away towards the tap.
She put her duffle bag on the floor by her feet as she sat down wearily on her bunk, watching him from across the small space as he rinsed his face at the tap, studying his reflection in the tiny mirror in front of him, the one she knew he would avoid looking at.
"We shouldn't be here for long…two days, at the most," he said, patting his face dry with one of the thin towels hanging by the sink. "You're not feeling seasick, are you?"
"No, I'm fine," she replied, surprised, pleased, and suspicious of his concern all at once.
"Excellent." He approached her again, almost timidly indicating the space next to her. "May I?" he asked.
She moved aside slightly to accommodate him, and they were promptly sitting side by side.
"Meg, I…"
She looked at him curiously, hoping to draw whatever was troubling him out; he usually spoke his mind freely, so this sudden apprehension on his part had her worried. Then she remembered that he tended to be shy like this when it came to the more intimate aspects of their relationship, and she blushed at the thought. It wasn't even evening yet, surely…?
He drew a breath, which seemed to steady him. "Meg, I was hoping, since we hadn't the chance in the clerk's office, if we…" He left his sentence hanging, seemingly embarrassed that he would be making such a request of her.
She smiled at him, nodding. "Of course, Erik; you don't have to ask for permission, you know." She slid closer, closing the gap between them, and tilted her face upwards slightly, hoping to encourage him.
He kissed her tentatively, at first barely brushing his lips against hers before pulling back, looking at her.
She grinned, reaching up and removing the decorative comb that kept her hair swept up, shaking her head, the wavy golden tresses framing her face, cascading down her shoulders. "That's it?" she asked, not quite knowing what inspired her to do so.
His expression was one of shock as she turned away to set the comb on the floor by her feet, but when she came back up he was ready for her, setting upon her lips with a sweet and terrible vengeance.
He kissed her again and again, fiercely, at times breaking only to breathe. He touched her, touched her face, her hair, laying a hand possessively over her own, seeking out his ring, the plain gold band that now adorned the fourth finger of her left hand, as if in confirmation that she was really and truly there with him.
"Erik's bride," he sighed. "Erik's living bride…"
"How are you doing that?" she asked; he'd just barely lifted his lips from hers, but she couldn't feel them moving as he spoke.
He chuckled, and still his mouth didn't move. "Erik has many talents…perhaps Erik will teach you."
"Later, though," she replied, kissing him.
Gone was the timidity of earlier; he subtly contested with her for dominance, and she let him, content to succumb. Somehow she sensed, she knew that Erik needed the control, but her pride and quiet domineering attitude were satisfied in knowing that he would really only go as far as she allowed. Behind the guise of their lovemaking and the actions leading up to it lay hidden a delicate and complex balance of control and trust, an elaborate dance of assertion of power and willing submission.
She let herself fall back slowly; he moved with her, kissing her cheeks, her neck, and everything in between, pulling away after only a few moments.
"Don't stop," she breathed, reaching out for him; her head rested fully against the mattress now, though her lower half was still angled from when she'd been sitting up straight.
"Oh, very well," he smirked, pulling her back up to meet him. "Am I really all that desirable, then?" he whispered against her forehead.
She moaned softly as he put his hands on her full breasts, leaning into his touch. "You have no idea."
-----
Christine said nothing as she pulled on her favorite white lace night dress, keeping her eyes on the darkened silhouette of the man who lay in her bed, waiting for her. Never before had he ever ventured into her room for this sort of thing—she had always come to him—and she found it unsettling, even going so far as to resent such a breach of privacy.
"This shall be your room, my dear. Do you like it? Oh, no need to fear Erik, for he shall never come inside; this room is yours, Christine, Erik gives it to you to do with as you please…"
She shook her head free of his voice, getting into bed with her husband. She turned to look at him, gently laying her hand on his cheek. "I love you, Raoul," she stated.
"Christine…" He kissed her again and again, and she trembled, not in anticipation, but in fear. She had to get out of this room, her last physical sanctuary, his last spiritual stronghold. No matter how much she longed to, she couldn't bear to kill the last clinging shred of her Angel, which is what surely would happen if they continued; likewise, how could she be with her husband properly if she kept feeling someone else's hands on her waist, someone else's voice in her ear, someone else's touch on her breast…
"Raoul," she said, pressing a hand against his bare chest, putting distance between them. "Raoul, I can't. Please, stop."
He complied, looking at her, hurt and confused. "Christine, I don't understand. I thought you wanted—"
"I do," she said, lightly kissing his cheek in order to illustrate her point. "But not here. I don't know how to explain; somewhere else, anywhere else. Just not here."
He sighed. "Fine."
"Thank you," she breathed, moving away from him, redeeming her nightdress from the mess of tangles it had become. Raoul had put his shirt back on, buttoning it haphazardly as he opened the door and led the way down the hall, Christine following, closing the door behind her silently.
-----
"Erik?" she whispered. "Erik, are you awake?" She touched his shoulder, the skin cool beneath her searching fingertips.
"Yes, Meg. What is it that you want?" he replied.
"Are you nervous? Tell me truthfully. Aren't you the least bit afraid that we'll be caught? What if we're sent back? What if—"
He touched the tips of his fingers to her lips, quieting her. "Shh, Meg. Everything will be fine." He paused, pulling her a little closer to him. "Trust me."
"I do." She sighed, maneuvering a little room to stretch from the limited space with him in the bunk. "I tend to worry, though."
"I've noticed. What is it that you said about us not making it to Le Havre? And again to England? And again to—"
"Yes, I know, I know. But you have to admit that brush with the customs officials in Halifax was just a little unnerving, wouldn't you agree?"
"I was more worried about Portsmouth. Canadians tend to be much more lenient about their borders than their English cousins."
"But England is surrounded by water! Surely—"
"I never once said it made sense," he replied. "Getting into New York will be tricky as well…"
"You said the papers would take care of it," Meg whispered, her reasons for worrying suddenly confirmed, in her eyes.
"They will help, yes. We'll still need to be very careful, however. I'm not quite sure what their quotas are as far as immigration is concerned, but I know that they will not take lightly to the fact that they are unwittingly sheltering a criminal."
A shiver ran up her spine. "You make it sound so intriguing…"
"Do I? I tend to do that from time to time." He reached out and stroked her cheek. "Provided, of course, that I have an audience."
She smiled suggestively at him. "Of course. …Is there more to the show?"
His forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows shot up. "I wasn't planning on it… Am I right in assuming that you meant this evening?"
"Yes," she said truthfully. When he appeared reluctant, she added, "Oh, Erik, please? If we start now, we might even be done before it's time for supper."
He smirked. "Well, it's finally nice to know where your priorities lie, my dear."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, Meg. Though, now that you mention it, I am rather hungry…"