Author's Note: I am proud to report that I got this chapter out much sooner than I had imagined. I have even begun pre-writing for the chapter to follow this! I really got a push to get this all progressing faster thanks to the support I've received after the last chapter. Thank you ALL so very much for the reviews, follows and favoriting of this story. I cannot tell you how much it drives me to continue and how inspiring it is for me. Please leave ANY feedback so that I can better this story, as well as any other stories to come for the future.
I will be making a trip to Texas within the next week. While there, I plan to use my evenings while camping in a horse stall to write. While I admittedly will say that most of the attention will be directed toward an original story I am trying to rework, I do believe that if I get as much love from le fantome et l'ange, it may take over again as my priority. :) Thank you all, so much, for what you do. It drives us all and keeps us going and keeps these stories alive.
Le Fantôme et L'ange
Chapter Ten
The Song
Morning light was breaking through the clouds as Christine woke the next morning. Dew settled inside of the shelter that was offered to Christine the previous night, nestling against her cheek. She woke to the trickle of a single droplet of moisture rolling down her cheek, perspiring from the warmth her body offered. With a stretch of her arms, Christine sat upright, feeling a heavy blanket fall off of her shoulders. Christine looked behind herself to find a thoroughly crafted cloak made from animal pellets laying on the ground. She gathered it in her hands and examined the cloak, feeling the fine hides. Though it felt somewhat musky and damp, the inside provided great warmth as Christine rested through the night.
Holding it up to the air, Christine saw it was very large, remembering that it had covered the specter which greeted her from head to foot. It easily covered her entire body and more.
Everything about the former night was so clear as Christine held the cloak in her hands. The arrival, the conversation, the sadness, the cold…
There was no doubt in her mind that she had not dreamt it. The proof was there in her hands. Yet, as she looked around the space surrounding her, she could not see the fantôme anywhere.
Christine stood and moved within the small space, searching for any sign of the specter. There was no chill in the air, unique to that cold touch from her memory of last time, and there was no mask made of twigs and bark staring delightedly through the dark upon her. In fact, there was no darkness at all.
Christine knew he would not return until evening, where the daylight would be masked behind the moon.
It came to the point that Christine knew she could make the decision to make her way back home at any time. The way would be clear in the light and it would add to less trouble with the less-friendly spirits within the woods. But as she climbed out of the hollowed tree and looked around the forest, she felt such peace around her.
She held the quilted cloak up and examined it again, running her fingers along the inside and inspecting it to be sure that the fantôme was not somehow inside. There was no thrilling chill contained within, so she hung it up on the low hanging branch that protruded off of her sheltering tree. Christine wanted to allow the fantôme the chance to return to her when the night fell again.
Instead of making the journey home, Christine traveled further south, searching the river which was quiet and slow in this section of her realm. It pooled into a small pond, surrounded by rocks and tree roots. She took her shoes off and dipped her toes in the water, letting them wiggle away the fatigue from the night before. Minnows darted amongst the ripples, tagging each other and dodging the rings expanding across the water's surface.
Christine removed her feet, setting herself on one of the roots emerging from the ground, and stuck her fingers inside the pool to test the water. Her hands spilled under the surface and filled her palms with water. Pulling the water up to her face, she let it drizzle over her features, washing the fatigue away. Christine repeated the process, feeling quite refreshed as she took in the sounds of the forest around her.
After some time, Christine took to wandering the area, using some of her own tricks learned from home to feed and hydrate herself. She had many sightings of creatures stirring in the trees and spotted the tracks of a wolf pack just north of the river's bend. Closer to dusk, Christine began to slowly make her way back to the hollowed tree. Her hope was to encounter the fantôme one last time while he returned for his cloak.
Twilight settled upon the land just as Christine found her hollow. Everything appeared just has she had left it, except for one difference: the tree's branch was bare! Christine gasped at the sight, stunned that the fantôme had reclaimed his property during daylight. Christine looked about the space, searching for any clue, but the fantôme was nowhere to be found. He did not appear until a little later that evening, when the sun had fully set.
"Good evening," the fantôme said, fully cloaked and masked for the evening.
Christine turned, startled at the pureness of his voice, and offered a polite bow of her head.
"Good evening."
The fantôme cocked his head, amused by her gesture.
"Where I come from," Christine said, "we bow our heads upon a salutation. It is how we show our respect."
The fantôme did not waiver, yet Christine could tell he was put off by the idea of being respected by living person. The idea seemed ridiculous for a spirit denied of happiness like himself. And perhaps it was ludicrous for Christine to show such respect to what many assumed to be an unholy being.
"I do respect you," Christine said, "because you saved my life."
"I did not want to loose the song," the fantôme said.
Christine tried to conceal a blush by turning her cheek into her shoulder. She allowed the silence to fall over them to try and wash the comment away.
"You found your cloak," Christine observed out loud. "How did you retrieve it in the daylight?"
"A fantôme is still existent in the light hours," he said. "I simply cannot be seen."
"Then you knew I left it there for you this morning?"
"Yes. And then I followed you into the wood."
"Followed me?" Christine questioned.
"Yes. I wished to be sure that you were not harmed."
"Thank you," Christine said after a moment of hesitation.
Christine bowed her head down, relieved to have made her decision to remain in the woods.
The fantôme gestured to sit near his hovering form on one of the roots from her sheltering tree. He remained standing, staring down to Christine and absorbing every fiber of her existence. They continued this way for sometime, wrapped within their own thoughts, when Christine turned to look at the fantôme straight to wear his face would be beneath his mask.
"What is it like to die?"
"I have no recollection of my death," he said.
"Forgive me, I mean what does it feel like to be dead?" Christine asked.
The fantôme did not answer for some time. He looked far away, distantly collecting thoughts before answering, "lonely."
Christine stood and slowly held her hand out to the fantôme, offering him a small piece of warmth. The spirit stared at her hand, weighing the gift as if it could greatly damage him, despite his already being dead. He allowed his transparent fingers to graze hers, sending a quivering sting down her arm, yet she did not allow herself to flinch. She allowed him to wrap his fingers around hers, gripping onto her palm with all the strength he could manage.
Christine looked deep past the mask.
"I am very sorry," she said.
Christine's grasp fell through the F fantôme's, just as it had in her moment of hesitation the night prior. She knew that his touch must be accepted, yet she had accepted and even initiated it. But as the fantôme shied away, she knew that it was he who had grown timid.
Christine dropped her arm to her side and tried to redirect the conversation.
"May I ask; have you ever spoke to anybody before?"
"Not once," the fantôme said, looking away from Christine.
"Not another spirit?"
"Never."
"Nor a human?"
"Certainly not."
"But if I can speak to you," Christine asked, "why can no other living human?"
"Perhaps they do not see as you do," the fantôme said, looking back into her eyes.
Christine wrinkled her nose with doubt.
"I mean to say that you have an understanding mind and a kind soul," the fantôme said. "Other living humans walk past without realizing a spirit is even there."
"Are they really so blind?" Christine asked.
"All humans can be," the fantôme replied.
"Have I…—"
"Early on, yes," he replied. "But it is only natural."
This saddened Christine greatly. She thought of the many spirits wandering Perros, searching for one person to notice them. How many had she missed in her time in the village? How many even back at her home in Knivsta?
"Has not one other person ever noticed you?" Christine asked.
"There was one…" the fantôme's voice raised with a hint of hope.
His hovering form seemed to rise the slightest bit and the yellow eyes behind the mask nearly twinkled.
"The memory is one of the few I am able to recall, but she was alone outside of a cottage when I approached to her side. I was watching her as she sat in a chair on the porch, and I felt compelled to reach out to her. My soul was hungry for something more than sight. She stood abruptly and began walking toward the door to re-enter her home, but stopped mid-stride as if she could sense my presence. I placed my hand on her shoulder, but it fell straight through her body. She started to cry and dashed back into her dwelling."
"Was she frightened?" Christine asked sadly.
"I shall never know," the fantôme said. "I believe that living humans would be able to see the spirits around them, if they would only fear us less."
"Perhaps they can learn," Christine said.
"I hope they could."
Christine noticed a shift in the air. She wrapped her arms around her knees and pulled her body in close to retain heat. Her companion seemed to have noticed, for he disappeared inside of the hollowed tree, returning with Christine's cloak.
"It is torn, but should be of some use," the fantôme said. "I only wish I could allow you use of my own now."
He shrugged his shoulders, referring to the heavy fur cloak he wore. Christine nodded slowly, feeling some comfort as she closed her black cloak around her arms.
Though she believed that if it were possible, the fantôme would surely have surrendered his cloak to her, Christine was fixated on the purpose it must present. It covered his form from head to foot, save for the transparency of his feet. She wondered if perhaps he may be fully invisible to the living human's eye, yet if that were the case, she found no purpose in his wearing a mask. What was it all hiding?
Christine's glaring eyes must have given her away, for the fantôme raised the cloaked arm into the air, covering the mask behind a fox fur.
"I do not wish to frighten you away," he said in a saddened tone. "This is why the cloak and the mask are necessary."
Christine nodded her head, satisfied with his response to her unasked question. Having never seen a fantôme, or an underjordiske, or anything of the sort before, it must have been for the better.
Rather than dwell on one curiosity, Christine turned her attention to another. One that could possible answer more questions about her quest.
"Do you know of the korrigans?"
"I do," the fantôme replied with some hesitation.
"Is it often that they are seen by the living?" Christine asked.
"Korrigans are interesting," the fantôme said. "They are not as devious as ghouls, yet they are more deceptive than any other spirit."
"Deceptive how?"
"They are known to be the souls of humans lost to drowning. They will do anything to gain another soul to their collection of bones beneath the water's surface."
"Does this make them easier to see?" Christine asked.
"No more than I," the fantôme replied.
Christine furrowed her brow.
"Such an interest in death you have," the fantôme said.
"Oh," Christine cried. "No, I am sorry to give such an impression. I simply have grown curious to the stories of Perros."
"Then why have you come out to the woods?"
"The truth is," Christine sighed, "I wanted to get answers about myself, but I've seemed to only gain more questions."
"Have you?"
"I saw a korrigan, from a great distance," Christine admitted. "As time has passed, I found great interest from other villagers in the ability to see spirits. I wanted to see what was so dangerous about these woods, but I now see that there is nothing to fear."
"And then why do you stay in the woods?" the fantôme asked.
Christine looked up, straight to the fantôme's eyes. She didn't see the artisan mask, the lost soul of the fantôme or the dangers of the woods. She saw the life she was forgetting. She saw her father at the cottage, worried sick about where she was, Raoul and his supportive friendship throughout her hardship, his brother's council of interest in her abilities. There was plenty of reason for her hasty return, but something about the forest was begging her to stay.
"By the way," the fantôme said, drawing Christine's mind back into the woods. "There is plenty to fear in these woods. You have been fortunate to have found a friend."
Christine smiled to the fantôme, comforted by his soft tone.
"I must return home," she said sadly.
"I know," the fantôme replied.
Christine stood and let the black cloak slide off of her shoulders. A tear slipped past her lashes, running down her cheek as she turned to address the fantôme. She could not understand why she felt so torn about her decision to leave the woods, but she also felt great sadness to be leaving the fantôme alone.
The arm of the cloak worn by the fantôme reached out, concealing the hand beneath it. Christine closed her eyes as it came toward her, letting a single, chilled finger brush a tear that fell away. She felt a cold impression against her skin, but Christine resisted movement. The compassion and mystery of the fantôme compelled her so that she could not help but remain where she stood.
"Will you do me the honor," the fantôme asked, "of singing the song one last time?"
Christine smiled with a soft sigh.
"Which song would you like me to sing?" Christine asked.
"Anything would make me very happy."
Without thought, Christine did not sing anything at all. Instead, she hummed a tune which was known to nobody. It was her own creation of sorts, coming from the core of her heart and the wit of her mind.
The song started out soft, like the lullabies Christine's mother used to sing to put her to sleep. Christine could never remember the words of these songs, so perhaps that was why their memory came so quickly to her mind. Each note she sang brought the fantôme's form closer to hers.
As he stared on, waiting for more to go on, Christine began adding more depth to her song. Her notes ranged in their composition, silencing the natural world around them as her story was relayed. The higher notes symbolically featured the generous life Christine lived, filled with laughter and love. Her throat even frolicked to these notes, giddy as it allowed each note to skip from her lips.
The fantôme reached his cloaked arm out to Christine again, allowing what appeared to be a long, boney finger of ashen grey out to caress Christine's cheek. Her voice quivered and her heart wavered, nearly unaccepting to her fantôme. Yet just as his chilled hand touched her skin, she closed her eyes and continued her tune, delving into the deeper range of her melody's tale.
This part detailed her arrival to Perros and all the mysteries connected to it. It sang of disappointment, longing, fear, skepticism and even a lingering hope. Her voice crept to a depth she did not recognize herself being able to sustain as the fantôme's touch grazed down her cheek. Christine shuddered, yet continued humming her tune, closing her eyes tighter to absorb every moment. Her lips parted between a breath, sighing deeply as she leaned into the frozen touch.
The fantôme's second hand joined the other, sliding down Christine cheek, gliding down to her neck. Her hair was on full guard, standing tall to ward off the frigid touch that was almost unbearable. But not unbearable enough.
This extreme change in temperature caught Christine's breath, or was it his touch itself that stilled her? Her eyes closed shut, her hands shook, her eyes fluttered. All of the typical signs of a chilled exterior, yet her heart seemed up to the challenge she presented to it.
As the dominant hand continued holding Christine in his desired place, his other hand worked down her back then back up to her shoulders, drawing lines with his fingers which Christine could not even see. Though her body longed to reach out and be closer to her fantôme, Christine's heart would urged her to contain herself. She could not welcome such a tragic fate as her assailant's so willingly.
"Sing…" the fantôme breathed, closing in toward her ear.
Christine hardly realized she had stopped breathing all together. She gasped, turning her head away from the welling thoughts tainting her mind. She shook her head and looked to the F fantôme, begging for guidance. The fantôme leaned in close, letting the cold rest on Christine's side for a moment before letting his hand brush the hair away from her ear.
"Sing for me…"
The fantôme abided to her silence, beginning a tragic-sounding tune to coax Christine further to join him in song. It soared with its high range, lulling Christine to accompany him by singing the way she felt now. She felt weak, yet a surge of power filling through her stomach. Was it nerves or an euphoric empowerment which made her so daring to turn into the cloaked figure and rest against what she believed to be his chest?
A thrill rushed down her spine, nearly sending Christine tumbling backwards through the fantôme's partially formed figure. She told herself to stand the cold; that she wanted this despite the chill. And then she reached up behind her and graced her hand over the rough surface of the fantôme's mask. He continued singing, whispering into her ear the melody of his journey, which was inspired by prospect and yearning. Whatever past lingered in his memory was simple yet mournful.
Music filled Christine ears, like the days when Papa taught her the musical alphabet and rhythm. She was back in Knivsta, in her happy childhood, surrounded by love and reinforcement, eager to live and to learn. Christine had learned much about the spirits of Perros, but now it was time to learn about herself.
Reassured by the arm that now slowly wrapped across the front of her chest, Christine let her melody intertwine with the fantôme's, blending their restrained compositions into a languished opera. The fantôme was the dominate voice in their work, while Christine began to wilt like the morning glory. Darkness had fallen upon the land and Christine as the flower was closing her pedals for the night. The fantôme felt her fatigue and continued singing, rocking her complying figure until she was nearly asleep. Her part in their melodrama was over, and the fantôme had taken over.
Lifting her into his arms, the only strength he could offer to a living human was reserved for carrying Christine to her shelter. Though she had not drifted to sleep completely, she allowed him to continue his piece of the song, securing his journey in the most optimistic of ways. He laid her down and sat beside her, running his fingers lightly through her hair. Just before drifting into her own forest of dreams, Christine felt the heavy weight of his cloak dropping over body and one final note to his melody.
- Phantom's angel
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