A/N: Thanks so much for the positive reviews, and for the many, many people who have added this story to their Favorites/Alerts without leaving a review; that said, don't think me greedy, but I would like to graciously ask if those of you who did so could drop me a line, even if it's short, as this story is still in its infancy and I really would like to hear in detail what people think of it--adding to Faves is all well and good, and it lets me know in a nebulous sort of way that you enjoy the story, but it doesn't quite take the place of some solid feedback. There's just something incredibly rewarding about reading a review; simply adding to Faves lets me know that you're obviously intrigued by it, or you wouldn't have added it, but it's also a lot more impersonal and doesn't really let me connect with my readers as much. I like hearing your individual voices; it's one of the great experiences about being a writer on this site. You certainly don't have to give me any sort of feedback if you don't want to, but I simply wanted to let you know my reasons for hoping you will.
The walk seemed to take years. They spoke little.
Her hand rested a little uncomfortably in his arm. He was warm, a pleasant respite from the cold air around her, and she drew a little closer to him.
He had a fine build, she noticed (for what was certainly not the first time, but perhaps the first time she had truly allowed herself the luxury of dwelling on it). He had long, oddly slender hands, but his arms were powerful, his shoulders broad, if a little stooped. He had the chest of one who is accustomed to singing long notes; it was round and deep. She wondered if he had ever performed in his youth.
His face—what could be seen of it—was not, perhaps, a particularly handsome one, not classically handsome, at any rate, but there was a kind of pathos and smoldering beauty in his lidded eyes, his languid mouth, twisted and swollen out of shape as it was. There were lines of age and weariness upon his face, most shallow, but a few quite deep, as she had noticed many times before. She remembered that he had mentioned being thirty years of age fifteen years ago, which would put him at forty-five years of age at present. He was more than old enough to be her father.
Had this been the right course? She had been so oddly certain of it, when she began, so determined to be courageous and to see it through. They were wed, as per his promise, and she could do little to alter her course now. She still could leave, at any time, she supposed, run to some distant place, where he could never find her, but what would be the purpose of that? Such an act might well kill him, and she could never bear that, even if it meant her freedom.
Her hand tightened on his arm, and he glanced at her. "Is any thing the matter?"
"No," she said rotely. "Nothing is the matter."
He ceased walking. "When you say 'nothing,'" he said, "I have—perhaps prematurely—arrived at the conclusion to-day that it is not so simple as that. If I am correct—if aught is, in truth, troubling you, I would have you tell me." He took her chin in his hand, forced her to look at him.
Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. "I am overwhelmed, beyond the pale of reason," she said. "I feel as though I have been swallowed up in some great chasm. I had thought that since R—he was not, after all, the answer, then it must be you. But now I am uncertain. Should I have sought you out at all? Should I, perhaps, have plotted my own course, independent of my past experiences and acquaintance? Was it right, after all? An—Erik—"
She had almost called him Angel, out of old, long habit. She was really weeping now, the tears rolling down her face. He took her in his arms, and she pressed against him gladly.
"You are mine," he murmured. "You have been mine since I first laid eyes upon you, since you first heard the strains of my voice. I had desired others before—thought myself infatuated, even enamored, before—but never so keenly or painfully as this. Christine, Christine, you are mine, and you have always been meant to be mine. Never doubt it! We will be happy—so happy! Will we not, beloved? Married life will suit me—it will. You'll see. Your influence will make me a better man. It already has."
"Perhaps," she whispered. "But I don't—I still don't know for certain if…" His mouth was very close. Her lips brushed against his, impulsively, and he shivered, his eyes flickering. "I'm your husband now," he murmured. "Husbands take care of their wives, do they not? They watch over them, provide for them, their every need. You have nothing to fear from your husband." His mouth nudged against hers, their lips pressing together. Her hand slid over his chest, and he sighed, deep in his throat.
"I am still terribly afraid," she muttered, pulling back a little, "frightened of what the future will bring—dreadfully afraid of what will become of us."
"It is not far now, to Etienne's house," he said, and abruptly continued walking. It seemed that he was deliberately avoiding an answer to the last fear she had voiced—could it be that he was at least as disquieted as she, but was expertly hiding it?
They arrived just as it was getting dark. It was a moderately-sized house, made of stone, which was no surprise, considering the owner's profession.
Erik knocked vigorously. After a moment, the door swung open.
"My God!" said the man who answered, whom Christine knew at once to be Erik's brother. He had the same slightly hooked nose, the same hooded eyes (though they were both the same rather nondescript shade of brown, unlike Erik's). Beyond these, however, the similarities appeared to end.
Etienne was far more muscular than Erik, and his hands were large and broad, rather than slender. His cheeks were round, while Erik's were gaunt and slightly sunken. There was a ruddy tint to his face and hands, a sharp contrast to Erik's unsettlingly ghoulish pallor. His voice was slightly deeper than his older brother's, but it was far less rich in tone and timbre—it lacked smooth, sliding sensuality and was instead bordering on a kind of raspy roughness. His hair was sandy, with a few premature streaks of grey; Christine guessed, although she had no proof, that Erik's, conversely, had once been quite dark, owing to his wig.
"Bon soir, Etienne," said Erik. His voice was genial, but wary, and very tired.
"You sent me no word that you were coming," said Etienne. "If I'd known—"
"Circumstances dictated a swift flight from Paris," said Erik. "My life has taken a few strange turns lately, for the worse—and for the better."
Etienne suddenly appeared for the first time to notice Christine, who was holding tightly to Erik's arm and feeling very awkward. He regarded her for a moment—and the ring on her finger—with an expression altogether inscrutable.
"Bon soir, monsieur," she said faintly. "It seems I am your…your sister now." Strange, to think of it in such a way, but that was the way of these things, was it not?
"You have been married?" Etienne asked incredulously, looking at Erik. "I must confess—think me no churl, Erik, but—I never thought to see you married. Especially—"
"Are you going to invite us in?" Erik asked brusquely.
"Ah, yes, yes, of course," said Etienne quickly. "You must excuse me—you shocked me by appearing so suddenly on my doorstep, after all." He motioned them inside.
"Sit, please. How, ah…how long have you been married, then?" he asked uncomfortably.
"Not more than an hour," Erik said, taking a seat. "Even less, I should think, although I have not been keeping an exact count of minutes."
Etienne looked a little taken aback. "You were married here in town, then, just now?" he asked.
"Oui," said Erik, his voice a little curt. "We traveled from Paris. The house, which you have obliged me by looking after…"
"Of course," said Etienne. "Erik, why did you not write to me and tell me of all this?"
"There wasn't time. As I said…"
"Yes, about that…what precisely, if I might be so bold as to ask, precipitated this 'swift flight?'" inquired Etienne. "You aren't in trouble with the law, are you?"
Christine could feel her face go a little pale. She looked away so that it wouldn't be noticed.
"Something to do with her?" asked Etienne. Christine suddenly felt quite annoyed at being treated as though she were not in the room, or as if she were deaf.
"Yes," she said curtly, looking back. "Something to do with 'her.'"
She was gratified to see him look a little ashamed. "Forgive my rudeness, mademoiselle…I mean, madame," he amended quickly. "You must understand, however, that my half-brother has given me considerable cause for alarm on his account before, and I was hoping that this particular incident would not prove to be the case. But I'm afraid I have taken leave of my manners. I have not even inquired as to your name."
"Christine Daaé," she said, not thinking. "I…I mean…that is…née Daaé. Erik never told me your family's surname, which must now be mine." Such an idea seemed even stranger than all the others.
"It's Benoit," said Etienne. "Why did you not tell her, Erik?"
"She never asked," Erik replied coolly.
"Daaé is…a very beautiful, unusual name," Etienne said, apparently used to his half-brother's terse behavior. "Where does it come from?"
"Sweden," said Christine. "Although even there, it is unusual. I'm not certain how my family came by it." She was puzzled by Etienne's strange manner. She could have sworn that she had seen a flash of recognition on his face at hearing her name. Was it possible Erik had mentioned her in his letters, after all? If so, she felt a little embarrassed. What might he have said, or revealed?
"You plan to stay in Culot, then?" he asked.
"Oui," said Erik. "For a time."
"May I speak to you privately, for a moment, Erik?" Etienne asked abruptly. Erik glanced at him sharply. "Anything you might say to me," he said coolly, "you ought to be able to say to my wife."
It gave Christine a little jolt to hear herself referred to as such. She bit her lip, and looked at her fingers.
"Erik—oblige me, if you would," Etienne said tightly. "Excuse us, madame."
"You—you may call me Christine, if you wish," she said with a little consternation. "I am, after all, your sister-in-law."
"Very well," said Etienne. "Erik—if you would—?"
Erik got up stiffly from his chair, followed Etienne into the kitchen and closed the door. Christine had no wish to be a busybody, but she could, nevertheless, catch snatches of the conversation through the door, and at length her curiosity could stand no more. She crept closer and listened.
"What have you done?"
"Nothing that need concern you."
"I recognized her name. You wrote it over and over in your last letter, saying it was like beautiful poetry. What circumstances caused you to flee Paris? Did you cause some kind of scandal with the girl?"
"In a manner of speaking, but not the kind I think you suggest. It was far worse than any thing you might dream up, but you needn't know anything about it at present. Let the matter drop. What business is it of yours, at any rate?"
"If you are in trouble with the law, you cannot stay here. Think what consequences you might bring upon us all! What if they suspect me to be in league with you?"
"Don't be ridiculous. No-one will think to look here, in Culot! Insofar as she and I keep to ourselves, what suspicions could possibly come upon us, or you? No-one besides my wife even knows of your connection with me."
She thought he got a kind of gratification out of saying wife. There was an odd tone in his voice whenever he happened to mention it.
"But they might discover it. And then, what?"
"The property is mine. I have every right to live in it. You risk nothing by living half a mile from my dwelling, I assure you. I am not so foolish as to risk drawing attention to myself, or ignoring any imminent danger. At the first sign of trouble, we will immediately pack our things and leave. You might even serve as a valuable source of information on that point."
Etienne's voice rose a little. "Is that what I am? A tool, to be used for gathering information? Is that why you have come?"
"We came because I happen to own property here, because it is a secure, temporary solution. I cannot buy another property elsewhere as of yet, and I cannot leave the country. Where else could I be expected to live? In that hole underneath Paris? No longer! I grew sick of it. I was like a rat in a trap!"
"I told you to come, to get away from that fiasco, after your last letter. You never wrote back. I assumed it was a refusal. Now you come to my door, having had some kind of scandal in Paris, and intend to hide out in Culot until they've forgotten about you. Had you listened to your younger brother in the first place, such scandal would likely never have occurred. No-one would have to be fearful of hearing the law pound on their door in the middle of the night—namely, me!"
There was a pause, and Erik's voice began to sound vaguely malevolent. "Had I left Paris at that time, I should have lost her for ever. Would you have liked to see me miserable, Etienne? Is this what rankles you so completely, that I have found a measure of happiness, that I am, by some strange twist of fate, wed to the woman I worship? Do you suddenly envy your disfigured half-brother, Etienne, after pitying him all these years?"
"Don't be preposterous, Erik. What was your purpose in coming here, at any rate? Why did you not go straightway to your house?"
"I thought perhaps that it might be appropriate to enlighten you on my arrival. But tell the truth, Etienne. Now that you have outgrown your childish brotherly attachments, you are ashamed of me. You are afraid that someone might surmise our connection, not because you are afraid of repercussions from the law, but merely because you do not wish to be associated with me! My appearance unnerves you more than ever—and you fear it might unnerve others in the town and cause them to shun you as well. Is that not so?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
Erik's voice was something like a hiss. "As long as I was an isolated freak, you had no fears. But now that I am married to a beautiful woman, you fear I might attract a significant amount of attention. You fear people might ask questions. 'How did he come by that beauty?' people will ask. 'What is his reason for being in Culot?' And, naturally, people might surmise our relation, based on our scant facial similarities."
"The attention might attract the law. That is all. You are a relentless blood-hound of reason, Erik. You have a mind like a steel trap. Why could you not have put it to better use? You might have flourished in Paris, had you tried."
"Don't patronize me. I could never have flourished in that place as I would have wished. That city does not accept freaks into their high-flown society—it does not let them perform onstage, or be seen in good public."
"I am sorry. I forgot, for a moment—and you are my brother, and I ought not think of you with disdain. But surely you can understand my alarm at seeing you on my doorstep, claiming to have been forced to make a speedy departure from Paris, with a veritable little Swedish goddess clinging to your arm."
There was a long silence. Christine drew back a little from the door, her face hot.
"She must drive you quite wild with love," Etienne's voice said sardonically.
There was another long pause.
"In a word."
"How did you come to convince her to marry you?"
"Your tone is hardly flattering, but I concede the point. How can I tell? She came back to me, after I had indeed thought her lost for ever—she sought me out, and we reconciled our less than rosy history. We fled from Paris. We married. Now we plan to live together in that house for as long as we might be secure in it."
"Have you given any thought to her being a police plant? That perhaps she is leading them to you?"
"Don't be absurd, Etienne. If that were the case, I should have been arrested in Paris immediately. Besides, she would not…" He trailed off, and Christine realized with a pang that he was no doubt remembering how she had nearly been the instrument of his demise on the stage, part of an elaborate plot that was meant to lead to his capture. But surely he could not suspect her of such a dreadful thing now! As he said, it was absurd. She would not have come all this way with him if she meant to give him up to the police. She had had a hundred opportunities to have him apprehended. She could have told any number of people who he was. Surely he must see how ridiculous it was to believe otherwise!
"Be wary, Erik. I do not wish to mar your happiness, if indeed it is genuine, but surely you see how absurd, indeed, it is that such a charming creature should have attached herself to you in the first place. What reason would she have for doing so? Or perhaps you forced her into it?"
"Do you intend to continue insulting me, Etienne?"
"Erik—I am merely attempting to speak the truth."
"The possibility, it seems, has not occurred to you that someone might learn to look beyond my grotesque appearance."
"I never meant to offend, merely to point out—"
"Thinking the worst of someone is not like you, Etienne."
"I am merely thinking of your welfare. And hers, if the shoe is on the other foot."
Erik's voice was cold. "You are jealous of me. Admit it."
"I am most certainly not. Break off this marriage, Erik, for the good of you both. You have not consummated it yet, I assume."
Christine flushed scarlet. Her fingers dug into the wood of the door-frame.
Erik's voice was now deathly cold. "That is decidedly none of your business."
"Very well, I concede that, admittedly, but—"
"Do you merely wish to have her for yourself, this 'veritable little Swedish goddess?' Is that why you persist in this outrageous behavior?"
"No, of course not—"
"I nearly killed for her, Etienne. Do not suppose I treat this matter lightly."
"Killed for her? What ever do you mean?"
"Her lover. I nearly killed him so I could have her."
"What!"
"Don't look so shocked. After coming to my senses, I let them go, and was ready to kill myself or starve to death when she sought me out, and gave me fresh purpose."
"Consider it, then, Erik. Why would she have come back? It makes no sense. She must have some hidden motive for having done so."
Christine could hardly bear listening to more of this. She thought she would go mad, but she didn't dare open the door or speak.
"I've had enough, Etienne. I am going now." She heard the scrape of a chair, the swish of a hat. She drew back. Erik's voice was pinched. "You've begun to turn into our father."
"For all his faults, he was a good man."
"He was a superstitious door-mat," Erik retorted violently, and swung the door open. Etienne wordlessly handed him a small ring of keys, and Erik snatched them from his hand. Christine sat nonchalantly in her chair, but her fingers gripped the armrests rather nervously.
"Are you ready to leave?" Erik asked curtly. She nodded.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Etienne," she said coolly, attempting to be polite. She was determined not to show that she had been listening.
"If hospitality it could be called," muttered Erik, and pulled her gently to her feet after grabbing her valise.
"Au revoir, mada…Christine," said Etienne uncomfortably.
Erik snarled a little and walked swiftly out the door with her, slamming it shut behind them.
"The little beast," he said between clenched teeth, when they had got clear of the house. "I will not lower myself to ask for the use of his cart. You and I can walk quite well the remaining half a mile to our abode."
"But it's becoming quite dark," she said. "Are there any highwaymen about, in Culot?"
"It's a sleepy town," he said. "I have never encountered any."
"Did you quarrel?" she asked, trying to be nonchalant.
"Did you not hear raised voices?"
"I did, but I was not sure—you seemed to hold him in some regard, when you spoke of him before, and I was unwilling, at first, to think—" The lie brought color up into her cheeks, but fortunately this went unnoticed.
"He's changed, has Etienne," said Erik brusquely. "He did not used to be such an insufferable prig. I had expected him to be happy for me, but instead was met with nothing but suspicion and disdain."
Christine could think of nothing to say to this without giving away her eavesdropping. Too, another matter was pressing on her mind. Time between herself and her wedding-night was rapidly disappearing.
When they at last reached the house, Christine was shivering. Erik quickly unlocked the door with one of the keys on the small ring and they entered the house. "I'll get a fire going," he said. "In the meantime—" He opened a small closet and rifled around for a moment before taking out a blanket. "Wrap yourself in this," he said. Christine gladly obeyed him.
"Erik," she said uncertainly, "why did you not live for years in some place like this, instead of under the Opera?"
"It is difficult to explain," he said. "They were still building it, you know, ten years ago—the Opera. I helped them to finish it. The place was close to my heart. And the music…ah, the music. I don't know why, specifically, I chose to stay. Something of the hustle and bustle of the city appealed to me, despite my craving for peace and quiet—which was met nicely underground. I thought I could perhaps have two sides of one coin, if I abided beneath the ground in the Opera. I could come up into the city when ever the mood suited me. It was a perfect arrangement for quite some time."
"Will you tell me now, how you came to be there?" she asked, shivering still beneath the blanket. Erik guided her to the parlor and knelt before the fire with a box of matches. Christine curled into one of the high-backed, upholstered chairs. She wondered, suddenly, how It would happen. Would he ask her? Demand it, perhaps? Would he simply lead her upstairs? Would he remain downstairs while she retired, and then unexpectedly join her?
Her cheeks flushed.
"That story," he said, "is best kept for another time."
"That's what you said earlier," she replied.
"Are you determined to know it?" he asked, a little irritably. He struck several matches and finally lit the fire.
"No," she said. "Merely…merely curious." She found herself staring at his broad back, at his long legs bent beneath him. She shivered, but not from cold.
A memory came back to her, of the first time she had removed his mask.
She remembered, with a fresh surge of the old horror and pity. Crawling around on the floor on his hands and knees, seemingly exhausted and heart-broken after going into that dreadful rage, during which she had thought he might kill her. His words as he knelt in a despondent heap on the floor had been as an agonized, desolate prayer. His hands had been held out—
Stranger than you dreamt it—
Can you even dare to look, or bear to think of me?
"Once you're warm," he said, staring into the flames, "light a lamp and go upstairs." She felt a little shock at being brought back to the present.
"There is a room," he said, "at the very end of the hall that I think would suit you. You'll want to unpack your things." He grabbed a poker from the fireplace and gave the logs a few brief, rapid jabs. A little spiral of sparks went up. She thought she saw his tongue flick nervously across his lips.
This loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven…
Secretly—secretly—but, Christine—
She sat in silence for a moment. She swallowed, and slid slowly from the chair, leaving the blanket behind, and walking past him.
Fear can turn to love.
She felt unbearably warm.
You'll learn to see—to find the man—
His eyes were on her—she could feel them, burning into her back as she began to leave the room. She stopped, suddenly, her hand on the smooth wood of the entryway. "Erik," she said in a small voice.
"Yes?" His voice was hoarse.
The man—behind the monster.
She didn't dare look at him. Her fingers tightened on the entryway. "I…when…" She wanted to ask When will you come? so that she could be at least moderately prepared, but the words stuck in her throat, and she felt dizzy and hot.
This repulsive carcass—who seems a beast—but secretly—
Dreams of beauty—secretly—secretly—
Oh, Christine.
She rushed from the room without saying anything further, grabbing her valise and going quickly up the stairs. This was not the scenario she would have chosen, had she been at liberty to choose one of those she had imagined.
It was very dark, barring the flickering fire-light from the parlor. She had forgotten to bring a lamp.
I cannot possibly go back and ask him for one, she thought. I cannot.
Resolved to find her way in the dark, she held out her hand and felt along the wall once she reached the top of the stairs. Her imagination, however, began to run away with her, and she imagined someone lying in wait for her, a robber, perhaps, lurking in the impenetrable dark—a bogey, or a monster—
She could bear it no longer. She put down her valise and grabbed for the banister, making her way down the stairs again.
"I…I need a match," she croaked, when she reached the parlor. "For the lamp…"
He stood up, and she twitched back a little. He held the box out to her, and she reached out, slipping it from his grasp with quivering hands, feeling the rather shocking heat of his usually cold palm as her fingers brushed against it. She nearly dropped the matches, but managed to contain herself.
"Thank you," she said faintly. Her mouth felt dry.
He said nothing.
"Where is a lamp?" she whispered. He pointed wordlessly to a side-table behind her. She swiftly grabbed the lamp and lit it with her back to him, and then turned around.
He had not moved. He was still staring at her. His mask glittered in the light of the fire.
She felt as though she were under the spell of a cobra, rooted to the spot as long as she looked at his eyes. I could die in those eyes, she thought, fall into their chasms, one dark-brown, the other startlingly light-blue. I could spiral. I could float.
The lamp nearly slid from her grasp. She tightened her hold on it.
Still they stood, looking at each other.
"Th-thank you," she said awkwardly, and quickly went past him, out of the parlor and up the stairs. She took hold of her valise, which lay on the floor near the railing, and made her way down the upstairs hall to the bedroom Erik had described.
A little chill passed over her as she took hold of the doorknob. Her fingers trembled as she entered, putting the lamp down on a night-table near the door.
There was a large armoire in the corner, beautifully carved, with a matching vanity table and mirror. The bed was large as well, with a canopy. She ran her hand over the smooth counterpane, enjoying the cool, silken feel of the blanket beneath her fingers. Feeling as though she were in a strange dream, she opened her valise and withdrew a modest nightgown. She had never worn anything scandalous in her private life. Her only allowance for that sort of thing had been on the stage, when it was all play-acting, and no-one seemed to care if a woman went about in trousers or scanty clothing.
She felt almost embarrassed now, after having put on the night-gown, looking at herself in the mirror and realizing how prudish and childlike she appeared in it. Rather than feel safe, she felt a little silly.
Virgin sacrifice, her mind whispered, and she shuddered.
Suddenly feeling a surge of boldness, she reached into her valise and drew out a lacy chemise, something she had only ever worn beneath her clothing as an undergarment. It was long, but it was sleeveless.
Do I dare? she thought. Besides, it was so cold…
The boldness inexplicably triumphed. With a quick glance at the door, she unbuttoned the nightgown and slipped into the chemise instead, quickly diving under the covers and curling into a ball for warmth.
Minutes passed, minutes upon minutes, and still the lamp flickered on the night-table, her only companion. There was no sound on the stairs. She began to wonder, feeling a little chagrined, if he was coming at all. A sort of half-relief settled in her bones, mixed with a strange twinge of something else. She dared to admit to herself that it was very like a touch of rejection.
Suddenly, she began to feel angry. She needn't have changed out of the nightgown into this silly chemise at all. If she was to sleep alone, she might as well do it warmly.
Just as she slipped out of bed and was reaching for the nightgown, she heard the stairs creak. She froze, feeling strangled and panicked. My God. What do I do? What shall I—
She closed her valise and quickly weighed her options, painfully aware that the footsteps were coming closer. Pretend to be asleep? Stand in the middle of the room, waiting for him?
She chose the former—cold and panic overtook any other struggling emotion. She dove back under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. The door was slightly ajar. She saw a little flicker of light through the crack. The footsteps paused.
After a long moment, the light beyond the door went out, with a little whoof of air. Feeling paralyzed, Christine stared as the door was pushed open very slowly, ponderously slowly. She saw his silhouette in the doorway and closed her eyes.
She tried to breathe evenly, but her breath was slightly ragged. She shivered beneath the blanket, both from the residual cold of the outside air and from the icy fear which was clenched around her breast, like an iron band.
Finally, she could bear it no longer. She opened her eyes.
"Where did you get—" she began, without thinking, and then snapped her mouth shut, feeling self-conscious. He was wearing a dressing-gown over a nightshirt and sleeping trousers. A pair of slippers were on his feet. She realized he must have had a supply of clothing here.
His fingers drummed absently—or nervously—on the side of his leg. "Do you…like your room?" he asked softly. "Is it pleasing to you?"
"Yes," she whispered. "It pleases me very much."
"I am glad to hear it," he said, and in the dim light of the lamp, she could see him swallow.
"Do you mind," he asked, his voice seeming to shake a little, "if I put out the light?"
She shook her head dumbly. When he blew out the light, and the room went completely dark, she felt the iron, icy band seize her again, more powerfully than ever. Her hands were shaking under the counterpane, trembling uncontrollably. She curled them around the sheets to steady them, as she listened to the shuffling steps come around to the other side of the bed.
There was a very long pause. There was a little scraping sound—he must have put his mask on the sill—and then, a soft, sliding sound. She could only assume he was removing the dressing-gown and slippers, and perhaps other garments as well.
Her mind felt numb. She thought that if she moved, or spoke, if she did anything but stare into the darkness beyond her, she would go mad.
There was a creak, a shift of weight, and she shut her eyes tightly, unable to stop herself from shaking. She felt his hands touch her hair, and it was all she could do not to bolt out of the bed.
After a moment, however, as his hands continued their smooth, quivering path along her scalp and tresses, she began to feel herself dizzily relax. His fingers slid rather firmly across her forehead and temple, tracing the line of her ear. He moved closer, and she barely held back a gasp at how warm his body was, even though it was not yet touching hers.
"What is that you are humming?" he suddenly asked sharply.
She had not realized it. She sat up, feeling embarrassed. It was the tune he had sung the words to, the words which clung stubbornly in her mind.
You'll learn to see, to find the man—
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't—I didn't mean—I was remembering something."
Fear can turn to love.
You'll learn to see—
"Will you sing for me?" she whispered. "Something soft and beautiful?"
"Why?"he asked quietly. His hands slid along her hair again, fingering the springy curls. His breath was on her neck.
"I like to hear you sing," she whispered. "It makes me feel calm."
His hand brushed against her shoulder, and he seemed to realize for the first time what she was wearing. "Christine," he said, his voice coming huskily from the back of his throat, sounding uncertain and barely contained.
"It's all right," she said weakly. "You don't have to sing—if you don't wish to—"
He didn't answer. His fingers slid slowly and warmly down her arm. "In a performance of Orfeo, when you played a Bacchian nymph, your shoulders were bare," he said, his voice a caress that was not quite a whisper. "It was the first time I saw them, glimmering like pink pearls." She felt him pull the lacy cloth which covered her shoulder aside, leaving the tender skin exposed. His hot breath made her quiver, and when his lips met the space between her shoulder and neck, she thought she would die.
"Christine," he whispered. "Christine—" His voice was nearly a groan.
She was shivering uncontrollably from the cold of the air and the heat of his hands. She wriggled a little, and he hissed between his teeth. His mouth nuzzled her ear, his lips wet and seeking.
He pressed against her, his hand sliding up her other shoulder and pulling that lace down as well.
"Erik—wait—" she gasped, jerking away. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and quickly turned around, nearly tangling herself in the coverlet and her long chemise. She felt for him with her hands, unable to see in the darkness. "It isn't—it isn't what you think," she whispered. "I'm afraid."
"Afraid?" he breathed.
"I…I don't know how to explain myself. Perhaps the idea of surrendering entirely…" There was a flush up the back of her neck. There was a struggle in her breast, and finally the words flowed from her like water.
"I do love you," she whispered. "More than I have allowed. I think, perhaps, that is what frightens me. I am terrified to love you—terrified, beyond words, of what will become of me if I do."
"The mind is still attempting to conquer the soul," he said throatily, his long fingers tracing the bones in her face. "Give yourself to me, and perhaps it will at last be silenced."
She shivered.
"You really—you really love me?" he asked. His voice was tentative, wary. There was a tremulous hope lingering in it, however, something reflected in the gentle exploration of his hands.
"Yes," she whispered, and added, in her mind, Yes—God help me.
"More than a little, you mean?" he asked.
"Ye—yes…"
"Why?" he inquired incredulously. His hands had not ceased touching her face.
"Because…" She didn't dare say it. Her breath seemed stolen.
"Because?"
At length she at last allowed the words to fall from her lips in a whisper. "Because—I am certain, desperately certain, that your soul was not always twisted or hidden beneath a shadow. Beneath it lurks something desperately powerful, something hauntingly beautiful, something which—which pulled me to you irresistibly, in spite of everything. The first time I kissed you, the very first time, it was not only out of pity, or to induce you to change your mind about that dreadful ultimatum. It was because I wanted to. I felt you, somehow, felt with a surpassingly overwhelming keenness all the years of pain and anguish, and I wanted, more than anything, to erase them—if only for a moment."
She gingerly felt for his face in the dark, laid her hand on his malformed flesh. He shuddered.
"Are you ready, then?" he whispered. "Do you trust me?"
"I…" Christine's breathing was labored, her voice a quiver of air. "Ye—yes. I think so…"
His hands grabbed her chemise, near her thighs, and began to pull it upwards. She shivered, feeling vaguely outside herself again.
The bunched hem of his night-shirt brushed against her legs. She sank backwards, her head falling on the pillow, and felt him awkwardly touch her breasts. His breath was coming in pants.
Something hot brushed against her thigh, something incredibly unfamiliar and alien. It was long and firm, almost spongy at the tip. She forced herself not to panic as it sought out the opening between her legs and, after a fumbling moment, began to press itself almost violently against the thin barrier of flesh which kept it from proceeding any further. There was, for a brief moment, a dreadful ripping feeling, as though she were being torn in two, and then a hot rush of pain.
"God," he gasped, and Christine whimpered. She shut her eyes tightly against the horribly weird, scraping feeling of this rod of flesh sitting in her insides, this burning, moist intruder. His mouth closed on hers clumsily for a moment, then withdrew, and his hips began to shove and rock the thing inside of her back and forth, a strange, maddening rhythm. Little moans escaped his throat. She thought he would crush her with his weight. She could hardly breathe.
It seemed it might never end, his hot breath on her face, the solid weight of him pressing her into the mattress, this embarrassing, painful invasion of her body. Was this all it was? Was this all it would ever be?
"Ahh—" he groaned, and his body gave a great twitch, and then another.
He didn't move for a long moment, merely quivered on top of her, and then, after an eternity, he slid away from her and rolled over on his back. She took a deep, thankful breath, although it was laced with a dreadful disappointment—she had been expecting something more than this, more than the frenzied, painful act in the dark.
Suddenly she gasped. She fumbled for the box of matches, and the lamp, and looked at her thighs when the light flickered to life.
There was no blood, as she had thought in a panic—or at least, no more than a little. What she had felt on her thighs was merely some strange, clear-whitish substance, slippery and jelly-like, which clung to her fingers when she touched it.
She didn't dare look at Erik.
"Don't turn around," he said, merely cementing her resolve not to look at him. "What is it? What is the matter?" She felt his fingers land lightly on her back, but then his hand quickly slipped away, as though he were embarrassed to touch her now that It was over.
"I thought I was bleeding," she said numbly. "But it isn't blood. It's something else." She suddenly realized what it was—memories came back, of girls at the Opera giggling and whispering about "seed," and she thought she would die of humiliation.
There was a tense silence behind her for a moment.
"When men—experience great pleasure—" he said awkwardly.
"It's all right," she said quickly. "You needn't explain."
She felt exposed, sitting there in her crumpled chemise with her back to him, his slick byproduct all over her thighs, bits of it glimmering like translucent silver amidst the dark, secret thatch of hair.
After a long moment, she blew out the light, and lay back in the darkness. She shivered, and drew the covers around her more closely.
"Do you mean to stay?" she asked, realizing only after the words had left her lips how rude she sounded.
There was a pregnant pause.
"Would you prefer me to go?"
She could hear the rawness in his voice, like an exposed wound.
"No," she said quickly, even though her mind screamed Go away, for God's sake!
The old Christine would surely have said something to that effect. The new Christine, however, merely lay silently in the inky darkness of the room, trying not to think about the horrid, fiery throbbing between her legs.
"Did it hurt you?" he asked suddenly, hoarsely. "I didn't mean—"
She said nothing, preferring to be silent.
"I—forgive me," he said. "Christine—" She felt his fingers whisper against a few stray strands of her hair, but though they lingered for a moment, quivering, he quickly withdrew them yet again.
"It's all right," she replied rather numbly. It wasn't, not really, but she hardly knew what to think or say.
Neither of them spoke after that.
After a long time—what seemed like an hour—she heard his breathing gradually become even and steady. She felt a swift rush of anger. He was sleeping comfortably, while she lay in a crumpled, throbbing heap. She had an awful impulse to strike him for a moment, but she hardly would have dared even if the desire to do so had lingered.
Her anger was soon replaced by an overwhelming exhaustion from the events of the day. Her eyes tightly closed, she finally slipped into the strange, in-between place where blank dreams overtook her completely.
A/N: While I love the musical, I'm not generally a huge fan of including certain lyrics from the musical in fanfiction, since (depending on which song is used) it tends to sometimes break the realism and seem incredibly inconsistent. (Within an actual musical, characters are singing their words all the time, with very little non-musical speech, if any at all; in prose, conversely, when characters always consistently speak their words and then suddenly start thinking about a time when they rather unrealistically sang a bunch of words out of bloody nowhere, it just doesn't always make much contextual sense; that said, it's all right to occasionally insert some non-rhyming lyrics and suggest that they were spoken, which is what I'd normally do, as with the lyrics from Wandering Child in Chapter 2.) The particular memory of Christine's in this chapter, however, along with the accompanying circumstances of their wedding-night, seemed to be served quite well by including those particular lyrics from Stranger Than You Dreamt It and intimating that they were indeed sung rather than spoken—mainly because, while it's rather difficult and distractingly amusing to imagine a lot of ordinary people randomly bursting into song all the time in real life, it isn't quite as hard to imagine an isolated incident or two of Erik himself—owing to his musical prowess—singing an on-the-spot song aloud. A lot of musical geniuses are rather brilliant at improv, after all.