Before We're One
POTO belongs to its creators.
Forever is not a word…rather a place where two lovers go when true love takes them there.
Unknown
Christine hated Aminta with a violent passion. More specifically, she hated what the character represented to the man who wrote it. The pure maiden goddess adored and coveted for years by the tortured Don Juan, who in turn only spurned him to run away with Argento. Christine hated Aminta! She hated her selfishness, her casual spite, her singular blindness where Don Juan was concerned. Holy Virgin, who did that sound like? Reading the script for the first time, she had barely made it to her dressing room before she collapsed in a sobbing heap.
Christine loathed herself for hurting Erik. The taste for fame was purged from her body every sodding night she had to perform this self-flagellation and endure the general dislike from everyone in the Opera. The only thing that would alleviate her suffering would be for Erik himself to sing the words with her. His voice stirred and soothed her, and in her mind, if he sang Don Juan with her, it was a final gesture of forgiveness.
Tonight, she sang for Erik alone. A flush of warmth surged through her. Tonight, they would be married.
Tonight.
The promise of it tingled in her skin, the roots of her hair, settling between her thighs. Anticipation, fear and longing twisted and writhed like incense within her. A clueless virgin, how would she begin to please him? She remembered vividly the way he wielded such devastating sensuality. He at least knew what he was doing. Christine tried—she really tried—to crush the shoot of jealousy in her heart for that nameless, faceless woman who had the honor of knowing Erik's ardor.
It didn't work.
In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she was riddled with insecurities and fears.
Christine gave a mental shrug. Frantic enthusiasm had to count for something. She was a quick learner. And a more pleasant tutelage she could not imagine.
Oddly, the prospect of physical intimacy with Raoul had never truly entered her mind during the tenure of their brief engagement. His kisses were chaste and gentlemanly, each casual caress filling her with a sense of safety and comfort, not passion. Her interlude with Erik during the masquerade and before that in his home . . . Christine gripped the edge of the vanity in her dressing room. Those moments were a revelation. She knew now why men and women were so mad for each other. Pleasure and unity like that became a craving—a need. Christine now recognized the ache in her belly for what it was: pining for her mate. She wished she could see him, talk to him. Why had she insisted on this tradition? What about their courtship and engagement had ever been traditional?
A firm rap at the door. Probably one of the errand boys telling her to shoo before La Carlotta heard that Christine was in her dressing room. Nevermind that the Italian cow had frequently said that this particular dressing room was too small and too drafty. They both knew Carlotta wanted it because Christine wanted it. She sighed and opened the door. Madame and Meg stood there, wearing twin mischievous grins. Christine smiled back uncertainly.
"What are you doing here? I'm due to go on in-"
"There's time, my dear. If we hurry," Madame said, eyes alight. It took a moment for the words to sink in. Time. Time enough to marry Erik. To sing on the Populaire's stage as the brittle-hearted Aminta with the sweetest secret in the world . . . Meg seized my hands in hers.
"Come on! It's time to get ready for your wedding!" And, because they were both young women, they allowed themselves to squeal and twirl with excitement.
xxxx
Christine's heart was pounding so hard it felt as if it would burst from her chest at any moment, impatient to find its master. Meg's eyes were moist as she looked over Christine's shoulder into the mirror.
"Oh Christine, you look lovely. Erik isn't going to know what hit him when he sees you!" She squeezed Christine's shoulders in a cozy, familiar gesture. Sweet Meg. She was the best friend Christine could ever hope for. Christine reached up and gave Meg's wrist an appreciative squeeze.
Meg was right. The reflection that stared back at her bore little resemblance to the thin, wild-haired woman-child she usually saw. No, this woman was positively glowing and . . . she was pretty. The dress was perfect, courtesy of a couple hours' alteration in the hands of the ladies Giry. The gauzy sleeves swooped off the shoulder, the bodice creating pleasing patterns of flowers in lace, the skirts full and swaying. Her hair was gathered into a loose bun, a few loose tendrils framing her face and tickling her neck. Christine's bitten nails—no help for that at the eleventh hour—plucked at the crisp folds of her skirt.
"You think so?" she said anxiously.
"He'd be an idiot not to want to ravish you on the spot!" Meg said with a flirtatious wink.
"Mind your tongue, Megara Giry!" her mother scolded, plucking fussily at Christine's hem. Christine giggled, oddly reassured by Meg's crass words. The crest and trough of hers and Erik's more intimate interactions had riddled her with doubts. He did want her, he was marrying her, wasn't he? . . . Why did she feel so uncertain? Madame breathed a kiss on the air over Christine's cheek, hazel eyes shimmering.
"Here, my dear. I have something for you." She produced an exquisite necklace on a delicate silver chain, the charm a rose wrought of silver with a curving stem of tiny diamonds.
"My Pierre gave me this on our wedding day. I would like both my daughters to wear it on theirs." Love sang from Christine's heart. She turned and flung her arms around Madame and Meg, capturing her only family close to her overflowing heart.
"I love you both so much!" she choked. They were all sniffling by the time she pulled back.
"Don't cry!" Meg said wetly, "You'll ruin your cosmetics!" Christine uttered a breathless bark of laughter as Madame clasped the necklace. Cool at first, it quickly warmed against her skin, resting just above the dip of her cleavage. Christine touched the tiny talisman gently. She had her mother's ring on her little finger, the Giry heirloom around her neck. The only thing she lacked was a vestige of her beloved father.
"Will you escort me down the aisle, Madame? You were Papa's friend. He would have liked that." Christine watched in dismay as Madame's face crumpled and she began to sob in earnest. Meg stroked her mother's arm soothingly until she mustered her control.
"I'd be honored, my dear," she said at last, cupping Christine's chin fondly. Meg glanced at the clock and muttered a foul word, earning a censorious glare from her mother.
"We've got to go! The pére will be arriving any minute!" Linked between the two Girys, Christine made her way down to the chapel where she had first met her Angel.
XXX
The Opera Populaire's chapel was most ill-suited for pacing. Scarcely three by seven paces from wall to wall. So Erik channeled his nervousness by plucking at his finest clothing, adjusting the white cravat as if it were trying to strangle him. Nadir had also bedecked himself for the occasion in a traditional Persian tunic and turban. He looked calm, contained and irritatingly amused at Erik's antics. The pére was annoyingly serene in his simple robes as well, but thankfully refrained from offering any consoling comments to the fidgeting groom, or any mention of the white mask covering half of his face. His bride would hardly look upon him with favor if he was throttling perhaps the only sympathetic pére in Paris. Erik stilled his hands by force of will and breathed deeply to calm himself. The heady scent of the rose garlands strewn everywhere made Erik's head swim.
Where was she?
If he didn't see her soon, he'd surely jump out of his skin!
Mercifully, the door opened to admit the beaming, dancing Meg Giry, her eyes alight. The girl looked very lovely in her cream-colored gown, though the maid of honor's staid step was marred by her skipping eagerness. Erik quickly dismissed the younger Giry and hungrily sought his bride. The sight of her on Minette's arm struck him hard and square in the heart, knocking breath and thought right out of him. The day's dying light seeped through the panes of stained glass and washed her in its colors, augmented by the soft glow of candlelight. Minette looked stunning as well in a cream gown to match her daughter's. It was the first time Erik had seen her out of a widow's black in over a decade. The effect made her look years younger, and lovely, if Nadir's slack-jawed expression was any judge. But my God, surely there was nothing more beautiful in all of creation than Christine!
Every feature, every curve and plane of her body he knew from years of reverent worship, but it was the radiant happiness seeping from every pore, shining luminous in her eyes that mesmerized and enamored him. This glorious creature was consenting to be his—to let him adore and cherish her forever. Touched by the miracle of it, tears filled Erik's eyes. Angry that anything dare obscure this splendid vision of his beloved, Erik mastered himself with some effort.
Christine. Heart, mind and soul sang the name with wild joy. A thrill raced through him as her lips parted in a singularly beatific smile. The part of his soul that was tied to her heard her answer: Erik.
The pére greeted Christine and Minette warmly, but it wasn't until Christine's small, warm hand slid into his that Erik emerged from the spell of beauty. He gripped her fingers tightly; afraid he would completely disgrace himself by doing something ridiculous. Like fall at her feet and kiss her hem. Like climb to the summit of Apollo's lyre and shout his joy to all of Paris.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the presence of these witnesses . . ." the priest's reedy voice began, with ceremony befitting a man of the cloth. God. After all these years of cursing and snubbing Him, it was the ultimate irony that Erik would enter His presence now.
Anything for her, he thought, we are in agreement on that at least, hmm?
The words ran together in a cadence of holy precision. Erik scarcely heard them. He was lost in his bride's shimmering brown eyes, the graceful sweep of her eyelashes, the charming virgin's blush staining her cheeks. So inconceivably beautiful. Then at the pére's prompting, Erik spoke his vow: "I will." Those simple words touched her, he could see tears gather in her eyes, watched the elegant column of her throat shiver as she swallowed.
Oh my love, he thought, squeezing her hands.
The priest turned to Christine and intoned the same list of promises of love, health, prosperity and fidelity that Erik had sworn. Her voice clear and strong like the sweetest song, Christine said, "I will." Erik's heart felt fit to burst.
For the first time since she entered the room, Erik was obliged to tear his eyes away from Christine's, only long enough to take the wedding band from Nadir, who was sniffling into a handkerchief like a dolt. Erik slid the band on her finger, saying the words as the priest instructed.
"With this ring, I thee wed." The soft, glowing look in her eyes warmed into something living and molten, sweet as honey as she gripped his hand and spoke the same words. Desire wakened and unfurled lazily, like the sun wakening the earth with dawn's kiss. Would the damned man hurry up so he could kiss his bride? The pére's rheumy blue eyes—not without their own film of tears—looked at the radiant bride and the lucky fool she'd chosen and took their joined hands in his.
"By the power vested in me by the Lord God, I pronounce you husband and wife. What God has joined together as one, let no man tear asunder."
One sentence that changed the world. One sentence that irrevocably altered his life for the better.
Wife. His. Forever.
The kiss was as powerful as a thunderclap and as soft as a sunrise. Infinite it its promise. Utterly sacred.
Christine. His. Forever.
When they broke away, the small assemblage broke into applause and well-wishing. Dazed, Erik offered his hand to accept the pére's congratulations, nodding dimly at Nadir's teasing words. Minette led the priest out in a circuitous path out of the Opera to avoid opera patrons, managers and gendarmes. It was best that the doddering old pére didn't know that he had just wed one of his flock to a wanted man. All of this Erik noticed with a strange apathy. The only thing real was the memory of Christine's lips, her hand in his, this soft look. It would be pure murder to have to relinquish her hand and the ghost of her kiss so she could rejoin the upper world.
The thought must have occurred to her as well, for in the next instant, his arms were full of his new wife and her hot, eager kisses. Ravenous, Erik plunged deep into the wet warmth of her mouth, plucking at her hair until it fell like a living veil over his hands. He loved her passionate little sounds, a soft, purring hum accompanying her tightening clinch around his neck. God, this was wonderful, to be draped in her, cloaked in her . . . He drank deeply of her taste, storing up the pleasure of her touch for the long lonely hours ahead. So sweet . . . oh Christine . . .
At the discreet cough, Erik suddenly remembered they had an audience. A soft sound of protest left her lips as he peeled back, only enough to look into her eyes. They clung, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath and warmth. God, this was torture! Damn the boy and his gendarmes circling the building! Had it been anything less than a damned battalion, he would have cursed them all and taken his wife home.
"Christine, I'm sorry. We must go. Any longer and there will be questions," Meg pointed out, tugging at her arm. Christine uttered a distressed little moan, giving him four or five more open-mouthed kisses. He would never tire of this! The thought that he could keep kissing her, and do more than kiss her—tonight—sent a surge of blind animal lust through him. An instinct that howled at the thought of relinquishing a mate so newly won. The cold light of logic won out, by some miracle.
"Love—you—have—to go," he said between kisses. The ripe bounty of her body pressed against him wasn't helping. Mine!
"No!" she said fiercely, fingers woven into the hair at his nape. Erik reached behind him and gently disengaged her grip.
"You must. Go. I'll see you after." Where was this equanimity coming from? Heart and body were in a writhing mess. A snarl of frustration emerged from Christine's throat. She actually stamped her foot.
"Raoul de Chagny!" she spat the name like a curse, "I should march right up to Box Five and give him a piece of my mind!" Erik laughed, kissing her hands because he simply couldn't bear not to be kissing her skin.
"I am in complete agreement, my wife. But for the time being, we must perform our roles." There it was again, that soft glowing look! Her delicate hand cupped his cheek.
"Say it again," she murmured. A knot of emotion clogged his throat. He dropped a kiss on her forehead.
"Wife," he whispered in his most silken voice.
"Husband," she said back like the most precious endearment. Erik exhaled a breath, scarcely believing he could be this happy. With an incredible force of will, he turned to the little Giry and laid his bride's hand in hers.
"Go Hermes, and guard my Persephone well." The words were meant to be light and teasing, but emerged choked and desperate. What this woman did to him! Meg blinked at him, all the laughing joy gone from her eyes. She looked like her mother, solemn and competent as ever. She even gave a little curtsey. Cheeky little girl.
"I will return her safely, Lord Hades."
"Earlier than six months, if you please," he rasped. Fatuous fool, he chastised himself. Two hours without her won't bloody kill you! Christine heard the grief in his voice and her face crumpled. They shared one last fierce embrace.
"I love you," she whispered in his ear, then was gone. Erik turned and faced the wall, fighting tears. The door closed behind the two women and Erik sank down to a crouch.
"Forgive me, Daroga. I feel like a fool . . . blubbering like this." Nadir rested a hand on his shoulder.
"We are all fools in love, my friend."
Together he and Nadir left the chapel and stepped into Erik's world secret passages and trap doors. When they emerged again, it was in the cramped attic above the theater. He'd be damned if Raoul de Chagny would keep him from watching his wife perform! It was a full house tonight, as it had been every night since the premiere. Erik was of too jaded an opinion to take it as a compliment to his work. Rather, it was the typical Parisian appetite for scandal and the tang of far-off danger.
The fop and his wanton of a brother were in attendance, guarded by a trio of gendarmes, the managers even more heavily protected. Were there any men near the stage? Erik exhaled a frustrated breath through his nostrils. He would have to content himself with watching that fool Piangi murder his lyrics and paw his wife.
Or did he?
The germ of an idea sprang to life in his fertile mind.
"Daroga," he said, "I have an idea."
XXX
Here's my hat, my cloak and sword, conquest is assured!
If I do not forget myself and laugh! Piangi chortled on the stage, cackling darkly as he stepped behind the screen of red and black silk.
Christine stepped on stage, panning her eyes over the crowds of people, noting the gendarmes with rifles posted at every exit. Anger clutched her as she peered up at Box Five. Raoul was there, with the elderly chief of police standing behind him. Why wouldn't he stop this mad pursuit of her? Her presence on this cursed stage was a token parading, telling the world she was of sound mind and whole body, that all was business as usual. But it wasn't. Her wedding rings jangled on her bracelet, a small defiance.
She knelt on the stage, plucking the thorns from the roses with perhaps a trifle more force than was necessary. She wanted her husband, not this stage and its hollow promise of glory. What was taking Piangi so long?
A smoky, ethereal, unimaginably angelic voice floating across the stage.
Her hands froze on the roses. A ragged gasp left her lips, echoed by the thousands of the audience. Erik! The tight knot of anger dissolved under a rush of cold, churning fear. A hideous vision of rifles trained at her husband tore her equanimity to shreds. What was he doing here?
Christine longed to turn and face him, but she forced herself to continue acting in this mad role. Her breathing quickened, her hands shook around the roses. Erik was joining her as Don Juan himself! The audience noticed the change from a balding, fat, aging lead tenor to Erik's lithe, sensual form, judging from the low murmur of conversation. A glance at Raoul said he recognized his rival.
You have come here
In pursuit of your deepest urge
In pursuit of that wish
Which till now
Has been silent. Silent.
Erik held his index finger to his lips as if telling Christine to keep his presence a secret. It was as mischievous and it was thrilling. Christine shivered at the timbre of his voice and at last, looked up at him with her emotions plain in her eyes. Oh, what his voice did to her! She felt it deep within every cell of her body. Beneath the fear, an insistent pulsating lust rippled through her.
He looked like a veritable bandit in his costume: the rakish, dark figure of her dreams. He was devastatingly attractive and knew it by the proud tilt of his chin, the calculating saunter. This was not the tender man who had pledged himself to her in the chapel, no, this was a seducer, each glance and gesture a promise of the delights in store. Don Juan indeed.
Oh Erik . . . she thought, her heart quivering a little. Mischief and delight sparked beneath the mask, a devilish smile tugging at his smooth mouth. Christine's breath was stolen from her body. His step was fluid and graceful as he circled toward her.
On he serenaded, his voice wrapping around her soul like the gossamer threads of a spider's silk. It was made all the more strange and exciting that he meant to seduce her in front of an audience—including her erstwhile fiancé. He beckoned her with an artful flutter of his cape and she nearly rose to go to him.
In your mind
You've already succumbed to me
Dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me . . .
Christine was helpless against this melodic onslaught.
Now you are here with me, Erik continued, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
No second thoughts
You've decided.
Decided.
Again, he beckoned with a flick of his sable cape. Christine obeyed, rising to her feet, mouth agape. Her soul was seeping from her into him. And what a sweet draining it was! If he asked anything of her now, she would obey. His elegant musician's hand lifted and fell in an entrancing motion. Christine stared doe-eyed and slack-jawed at Erik as he subtly danced close to her. She could have reached out and touched the fine fabric of the sleeve of his costume . . .
The languor of his song was abruptly shattered when he seized her from behind and sang almost gutturally, his voice thick and rough with passion. The same elegant hand seized her throat in mock violence though Christine could feel the power in those hands, his mouth moving in her thick, curly hair.
What raging fire shall flood the soul?
What rich desire unlocks its door?
The harsh grip softened as he released her, sliding his hands down her arm and pressing her captured hand to his mouth, near the jangling weight of her bracelet. Her sweet secret. He saw, he knew, and the look in his eye made her want . . . made her want . . .
She looked up at Box Five and saw Raoul's hard, empty eyes. Oh God, what would he do now, so hurt and humiliated? She quickly dropped her gaze, almost ashamed. Christine looked out over the audience, noticing the gendarmes again in despair. Let me go, she bade Raoul silently. I belong with him.
In both symbol and truth, Christine showed her back to Raoul and sang on to Erik. She smiled at the completely dumbstruck expression on his masked visage. Her sleeves slipped down her shoulders and left them bare and vulnerable. Erik was nearly panting and Christine grinned.
Past the point of no return
No going back now
Our passion play
Has now at last begun
She stepped toward the twin staircases. Erik followed her lead, eyes hot and hungry on her form. Look, worship, yearn as I yearn, she thought almost savagely. Erik was in her thrall, following her voice like a man suddenly struck blind and dumb. Christine paused on the stairs and Erik stopped opposite of her, still and focused on her. She leaned to him, aching to be closer. She could see the tempo of his breathing had increased and saw the anticipation flash in his eyes. Smiling now, she continued their matching ascent.
When will the blood begin to race?
The sleeping bud burst into bloom?
When will the flames at last
Consume us?
They reached the bridge; passion stoked high, the words pouring like a torrent from her. Erik flicked off his cape in a careless gesture, an enticing prelude to disrobing. God, how she wanted this!
They began a measured pace toward each other, drawing out the sweet pain of separation. They forgot the audience, forgot Raoul and the gendarmes. Only each other existed. Erik's rich baritone crashed with Christine's pure soprano and soared together in an exquisite melody.
Finally, they were within arm's reach. Erik large hands grabbed her waist and she touched the warm cloth of his ruffled white shirt covering his stomach. A jolt of heat surged up her arms, engulfed her body. He was so close. She could feel the heave of his breath, the throb of his heart. His mouth hovered near her forehead, singing with rough purity and painful beauty.
The bridge is crossed,
So stand and watch it burn
He whirled her around and held her to him. His strong hands over hers, together they skimmed over her body. Shivering pleasure surged through her nerves. His smoky voice embraced her as surely as his arms. The scent of him filled her nose. Like a sigh, they finished the duet with a contented air.
We've passed the point of no return
Christine didn't know or care how long they stayed like that. She would have basked in his arms forever.
XXX
Erik took a deep breath of Christine's scent. The thundering crescendo of Point of No Return had gentled into this languid, pulsing silence. There had been no thought but her and music in the past few minutes. Now, like rising from a warm bed to the frigid day, Erik was reminded unpleasantly of where they were and the danger. The boy was not only snubbed but humiliated now. It wasn't safe for them in Paris tonight. He had get Christine out—away. If he could only stop . . . touching her. He slid gentle fingers down her face and cupped her head. In quiet, explicit trust, Christine leaned to him. The song began soft and caressing, like a lullaby.
Say you'll share with me
One love, one lifetime
He touched her face, cupped her chin, and stroked her neck, gorging himself on the pleasure of touching her. Deft fingers moved aside the delightful, bouncy curls from her ear. He thought he saw a slight smile touch her mouth as he sang. Like a child, she lifted her hand and captured his, clinging to him in blind trust. His voice quavered with emotion. He didn't deserve such faith. Not when he led her into danger.
Lead me, save me
From my solitude
Say you want me with you
Here beside you
Erik felt her stiffen, as if waking up. His voice gained strength as she moved, trying to face him. She turned, her liquid brown eyes luminous, utterly gorgeous. He cupped her small hand in both of his and sang from his heart, startled and pleased when her voice rose and tangled with his.
Anywhere you go
Let me go too
That's all I ask of you!
The silence in the theater was deafening. He would use their paralysis to his advantage.
"Hold on to me," he hissed. Without question, Christine wrapped her arms around him. With one last glance at Box Five, Erik kicked the lever and the darkness swallowed them both.
XXX
Raoul lunged for the railing of the box, eyes fastened to the two falling figures, hearing the screams of horror from the crowd. He whirled around, shouting at the gendarmes to go, to hurry, to catch that thrice damned man and string him up by feet and bare his hideous face for the whole world to see! The gendarmes scurried away from Raoul's wild-eyed emotion. Murderous rage filled him as tears filled his eyes.
Christine, Christine, wept the broken voice in his heart, Why? Why? Why? He strode toward the door, wanting the feel of a sword in his hand, to see the monster's red blood stain the steel . . .
"Raoul, no." Philippe's cool, serious voice reached him from some distance. Raoul moved without thinking, and struck his brother across the face with his good hand. Philippe fell back, blood seeping from a cut in his lip. Raoul swayed over his brother's prone body.
"No? No? Don't you dare tell me no!" he shouted. He dashed the tears from his eyes, shamed by his sniffling. Father wouldn't have had that. Philippe dabbed his mouth, a familiar wry smile twisting his lips. So odd, with all the chaos seething around them.
"No, Raoul," Philippe said again, "call them off. Don't risk more people's lives for this."
'This' encompassed the love of his bloody life, Raoul thought, as well as any hope of a future.
"Why not? I want him dead! I'll kill him!" The words sounded childish and reactionary, but Raoul didn't care. The Comte de Chagny rose to his full height, grey eyes glittering with compassion.
"You can't kill him, Raoul. He's our brother."
xxxxxx
A/N: Another cliffie, I know. My apologies.
Soooo? What do you think?
R&R