A/N: Thank you for the wonderful reviews! :) They are much appreciated…I researched site after site and could find next to nothing about the possibility of living arrangements as I have them, if they could or did exist, even temporarily. But with a classic story in mind and in this earlier century, I'm taking a bit of artistic license….and now…
Chapter XII
Long after the Phantom left, Christine stared in a daze at the blank wall of pale stone and the door it held. A minute might have passed or a small eternity. Did it matter? Could she even trust the concept of counting the hours? In this bizarre moment, this century to which she'd been abducted, surely time could torment with devastating tricks, forever deceiving…
She wished to fall into a dreamless slumber and forget everything – forget especially that which she yet struggled to accept.
She wished to escape this unfamiliar room and its confinement – but felt apprehensive of what more she might find beyond the door that held a world even more foreign than this room.
More than that, she wished Erik would return.
Dear God, where was he?
Was he alright?
Christine closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, she needed rest, but the idea of sleep was laughable. She stared at the ceiling and walls without seeing anything, forever tossing and turning, unable to find ease with her mind wretchedly alert. The sunbeam to which her gaze became transfixed made an ever widening path along the floor as late morning blazed into afternoon and faded into what must be early evening.
Twice since Erik left the chamber, Christine apprehensively approached the window, hoping the view had somehow altered to the picture it should be, hoping this was only a waking nightmare from which she might exit …but the poor old man with the long white beard still stood bent over in the pillory, rotten vegetables and curses hurled at his head.
Trapped, just as she was trapped.
This was no dream. Dreams did not last this long or have continuous treks. At some point, they meandered into diverse paths and became something else entirely. This had gone on for days, over a week, and felt altogether horrifyingly real. She felt as if she had approached a wide chasm with a bottomless pit and no way of going back or knowing how to proceed.
To seek Madame Giry at the Opera House no longer presented an option – Madame Giry did not exist. No one from her world existed, save for Erik. He was her lifeline, all she had to cling to, and she feared every moment he was out of her presence.
The impossible had occurred – nor could she explain how he had fallen through time with her when he possessed no recollection of the event, even presumed to be a different man. Of one thing she was certain, and her mysterious appearance in a century nearly four hundred years before her own did not persuade her otherwise: No two men could be that much alike, in face, in form, in voice, in manner. This was no doppelganger, even an ancestor – this was Erik, her dear Angel and Phantom – and she feared that he might suddenly be sucked away from her – simply vanish before her eyes – to be seized back into their time. It made a twisted kind of sense, since she could not conceive how and why they came to be here in the first place. The stones, yes, she was fairly certain of the method used. Only after visiting them did she notice any peculiarities …
But Erik had not been at the Megaliths of Carnac that night.
Christine clutched fistfuls of the blanket in troubled frustration. The longer she dwelled on the attempt to find answers that only begat questions more bizarre, the greater the probability she would go stark raving mad. Perhaps she was deranged. Perhaps the catastrophic events of the Don Juan and losing Erik, her friend and teacher for more than a decade, had sent her over the brink, and this was all the convoluted result of a warped imagination.
Meg often accused her of having her head in the clouds, one foot always straddling the line into fantasy, but even Christine doubted she could come up with something as fanciful as this!
She let out a humorless laugh that came out as a sob and snatched up the goblet, drinking the remainder of wine. She wished for another bottle. Or something stronger, like those foul spirits in Erik's flask. Anything to escape the thoughts whirling like a dervish inside her mind…
She had always despised the darkness and those obscure shapes in the shadows that came with it but never had been a true coward, though she wasn't always quick to show bravery. Her Papa had told her she possessed a gentle courage, a quiet grace that met confrontations when the need was imperative and the stakes high for those she loved. She had never been shy or meek as many in the theatre supposed. Singing at fairs and on the streets at a young age, all across France with her Papa playing the violin, rid her of much of her timidity. Living and working among bawdy performers at the Opera House eliminated the rest. Her trait of keeping silent so as to listen to all of what was said (and perceive all that was not) had aided her at the theatre, especially with her Angel of Music. She knew how to rely on silence to search deep within and equip herself with the daring needed for what must be done, even if her choices turned out to be abhorrent mistakes and she erred on the wrong side of caution. Like on the night of the Don Juan.
But in this strange moment of an even stranger time, all aspirations to bravery seemed to have vanished.
Erik had been absent all day - the lone sunbeam's course along the flagstones proved it - and she wondered if he had abandoned her. Not that she would blame him. If she were the recipient of such a wild tale, she might have run far and fast in the opposite direction.
"You did that more than once," she said beneath her breath in disgust. "And just look where it's gotten you."
The slow creak of the door had her snap her focus in that direction.
Erik stood on the threshold, and just like that, the unfamiliar weight of his rejection fell from her shoulders. But by the wary restraint in his eyes, he had something to say she wouldn't wish to hear. His somberness brought back her disquiet, accompanied by a sudden wave of bitterness – with his earlier desertion, with her situation, with this bizarre world, she wasn't sure, maybe all of it. She only wished he would look at her as he once did when they were five cellars beneath the earth. She needed her Angel now.
"Are you feeling improved?"
"I still find I'm in the wrong century. Though I assume that's not what you wanted to hear."
Hurriedly he slipped inside and shut the door. "You must never speak of such things when there's a risk of being overheard." He crossed the room, his long strides eating up the distance. "You must take heed with what you say and never mention anything that could raise questions."
"As to my sanity?" she said dismissively. At the Opera House she might have been shunned or mocked for her earlier declaration, as had been the case when the cast learned that the legendary Phantom was her teacher. "I don't care what others think. I ceased to care long ago."
He crouched low and grabbed her beneath the shoulders. "You must care – for your own safety. Do you understand, Christine? These are not idle words."
His eyes bored into hers, stunning in their intensity, and the bite went out of her. She was so relieved to see him, to know he had not evaporated into mist or truly abandoned her, and she wasn't quite sure why she was angry. Quietly she nodded.
"Good. Once we leave Paris, there will be less risk involved, though when we rejoin my men, you must guard your tongue then as well. No one can know what you told me today. You must never repeat such words to anyone, even if they seem like a friend."
A flicker of hope lit inside her. "You're taking me back with you?"
Clearly unnerved by her innocent question, he straightened and began to pace.
"The Vicomte will continue to search until he's found you, of that I have no doubt. He'll not give up until he claims what he believes is rightfully his."
"The Vicomte," Christine breathed in remembered shock. "I'd forgotten about him."
Funny, in all these hours she'd not thought of him once, except in the past tense of another era.
Erik halted his restless strides and looked at her strangely.
"So Raoul has fallen into this ancient pocket of time too," she whispered.
Erik's expression grew more perplexed.
"The Vicomte de Chagny - Raoul…is that..." She hesitated as a possibility occurred. "Is that not his name?"
"The Vicomte is Frederick de Chagny. I know of no Raoul."
Her eyes fell shut at the impact of yet another shock, but at a sudden thought, she faintly smiled.
"Then it won't matter. Don't you see? Raoul is the man who knows me, not this Frederick person. And since Raoul is the Vicomte from my century, he doesn't exist here," she explained when Erik continued to look at her as though she spoke in a foreign tongue. "This Vicomte of the sixteenth century won't be searching for me since he doesn't even know I exist."
"Why do you think he followed us to Paris? To find you."
"You must be mistaken. Why would he chase after a woman he's never met?"
"Why should that matter?" His tone was incredulous. "All the noblesse manage such affairs through spoken or written correspondence. He would have arranged the marriage with a member of your family. Someone who sent you to Brittany. Eustace did capture you on de Chagny's estate –"
"Yes, yes, I know. But as I told you, I have no family, no cousins – no one. I was orphaned at the age of six when my Papa died. I was visiting there, yes, but not him. I came to his land through the stones –"
"You must stop saying that."
"Why, if it's the truth?" she insisted. "Don't you believe me? Do you really think I'm making this up? But then, why should you believe a word I say when none of it makes a lick of sense..."
She answered her own question and shook her head in weary surrender. Biting her lip, she blinked away the tears, refusing to let more fall.
"I believe that you believe it," he said at last, his words gentle yet no less severe. "But that doesn't change the fact that the masses who reside outside these walls" – He jabbed a finger toward the window – "And perhaps those who dwell within, could mistake you for what you claim you're not, imprison you, torture you, and put you to death."
The blood drained from Christine's face as the gravity of her situation at last became clear.
"B-burn me, you mean." Her words trembled in a whisper. "At the stake…"
The grim look in his eyes gave her the answer she had no wish to acknowledge.
Dear God. His men already thought her a witch…
"Or they might chain you in a dungeon cell, proclaim you to be a madwoman, and leave you there to rot. Or worse…"
She dared not ask what could be worse than that.
"What of you?" The words burned in her heart and past her tongue. "Do you fear me? Or think me evil? Perhaps after having heard my story, you would prefer to turn me over to the authorities and be rid of me?"
She couldn't help but see the irony of asking the former Phantom of the Opera such questions.
"Is that what you think?" The hurt in his eyes echoed in the disbelief of his words. "That I have brought you to this sacrosanct monument, to this wretched place that I once never would have dared enter – all the while continually warning you of the multitude of dangers – only to trick and deceive you into a trap?"
He whirled away, his cloak violently fluttering about his legs as he paced from window to wall, window to wall, before coming to a sudden stop before her.
"I have done nothing but help you. Nothing. I swore to keep you safe. Do you think me so feeble-minded and weak as to break the vow I made because of what incredible fantasy you believe to be true?"
"I'm sorry," she whispered, his low, heated words making her feel worse. "I wasn't thinking."
"And that is exactly the problem, Christine Daaé. You speak without considering the consequences of reckless words that can ensnare you, even leading unto your destruction, and your actions are no better." He let out a weary sigh, his anger dissolved. "I say again – I shall do all within my power to protect you. I have thought long and hard, and am resolved there is only one manner to fully accomplish that…"
Desperate for his help, she waited to hear what he would say. His eyes glowed with determination.
"As your husband, I can keep you safe."
Christine blinked into the expectant silence.
"You wish to marry me?"
She felt as lightheaded as on the evening she fainted in his lair after seeing an effigy of herself in the wedding gown…and as stunned and uncertain as when he broke from the opera to propose to her on the Don Juan bridge. On both occasions, she had seen something now missing from his eyes. His pleading eyes that had beseeched her, filled with adoration and love…
Those silvery blue eyes, still just as beautiful, but glittering cold, like diamonds. Concerned for her plight, yes, resolute to fulfill the vow made, but otherwise indifferent.
"Why?" The word escaped before she could think twice.
He pulled his brows together in impatience. "Have I not made myself clear?"
"No – not this. Not me." She shook her head in frustration. "Why should you invite that kind of trouble? What would you get out of such an arrangement, save for more problems and seemingly endless danger?"
She expected him to get angry and fly into one of his rants. Instead, he regarded her with quiet deliberation and gave a curt nod. He strode to the window and looked out, clasping his wrist behind his back.
"A fair question and should you agree, I want you aware of what a life with me would entail. I am no stranger to peril. It is as familiar to me as drawing breath, and due to my heightened awareness I can protect you where others may fail. Yet bear in mind, I am a wanted criminal, a thief, considered a monster, and after hearing what I have to say, you may intensely agree I'm the worst kind of beast and wish nothing more to do with me. If that should be the case, I'll not force you to wed."
He turned his head to look at her, then turned fully and once more covered the distance between them. Startled, she watched, her eyes locked with his as she slowly lifted her head to follow until he stood so close she could raise her hand and touch him. Her breaths quickened.
"I want you, Christine Daaé." His words were silk wrapped in flame. "Given our history this week it should come as no surprise. I have desired you from the moment I first laid eyes on you. Should you agree, you will be mine, and nothing will change that. I want a wife, as other men, a wife who will take me into her body and welcome my touch." He motioned to his mask with an angry flourish. "One who will look past an eternity of this to become my living bride."
Tingles of fire raced through her blood at the shocking candor of his words, faintly echoing similar words spoken in another lifetime. Her skin heated from within. She could barely form a reply.
"Your masked face?"
He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, surprised by her soft response after what he so blatantly divulged.
"What is it you ask?"
"Will you allow me to see you unmasked?"
He scoffed. "You have no idea what nightmares you invite with such a question."
"Not a nightmare –"
"No." His answer tore into her whisper, direct and curt. He spun on his heel and retraced his steps to the door. "I will leave you to think over what I've said. Consider carefully, damoiselle. Be very sure. Once it is decided, there can be no turning back."
"And if I refuse?" she asked anxiously. "Will you leave me here alone, to fend for myself in what has become to me a strange and frightening city?"
He hesitated, then turned again to look at her. "You shall have my protection, no matter your choice. But I can better safeguard you if you are my wife. By law that would deem you my property, and no man can touch you without fear of incurring my wrath, certainly not force you into marriage, namely the Vicomte."
"I see."
He gave a brusque nod at her sudden distance. "You must be hungry. I shall see to our supper. Those fools who run this mausoleum have been warned never to enter this chamber."
Vaguely wondering why, Christine watched him go, feeling as if she'd been trapped into an eternal dream of stark reality, nightmare or fairy tale, she had yet to determine. Her head still pained her and she wished for the soft tranquility of a chapel in which to reflect, then remembered they were in a cathedral. What better place to find solitude. Surely she could find an alcove and closet herself away in the semi-dark, unseen, away from the glaring white walls and the intrusive sunlight that poured inside.
For the first time in her life, Christine craved the darkness.
xXx
The Phantom moved swift and silent through an outside corridor toward the area where he recalled the archdeacon's abode to be, from his earlier reconnaissance of their temporary habitat - this time in search of kitchens and a larder with food.
His senses were ever sharp and aware, but his mind strayed from his task.
He had not missed the horror in Christine's eyes, could not entirely blame her for her response, had never truly believed any woman would agree without coercion to chain her life to a monster. So why should she be the exception? And why the bloody hell did she seem determined to see him without his mask? Had she not seen enough that helpless night when the darkness came to capture his soul?
The curious had asked what lay hidden, of course, those few wretched women of brief acquaintance, insignificant creatures whose names he failed to recall. But Christine seemed to know what mangled deformity the leather casing hid, judging by the accuracy of her former words to him.
Her compliance to accept his dismal secret notwithstanding, he had no intention of making the same mistake twice by revealing the blight of his twisted face, with deliberate intent or accidental error.
Why should he seek for ways to earn her disgust and hatred, when what he wanted…
What he wanted…
The thought brought him up short as did the sight of two servants ahead. He refused to give the hopeless idea a place in his mind, as he slipped into a shadowed alcove to avoid being seen. Even without the resident cleric's warning that he and Christine must remain hidden (as if such a warning was needed), he had no desire to be sighted or confronted with a need to explain why a masked stranger wandered the grounds of Notre Dame.
Nor would he allow imprudent feelings to cloud his judgment, the vain wish for more, for what could never be. In all likelihood she would never give even a moment's consideration to the idea of their union, rejecting his offer outright in her mind. Somehow, he must find some other way to protect her from the Vicomte's clutches.
Perhaps if they were to put her in men's clothing and disguise her as one of his band. It would mean that all of those lovely ringlets would need to be chopped short, and he felt an almost physical pain to consider such sacrilege to her beauty. Yet even if she did undertake the sacrifice, there was no guarantee he would have the loyalty of his men to keep her identity hidden. Half of them did not trust her, suspicious of her arrival to the camp, certain she must be a witch. At least, outlaws themselves, they would not run the risk of becoming an informant toward her destruction and getting caught. Nor would they dare risk his wrath to rain down upon their heads.
Unless they were fools.
The slothful servants finally passed, in heated conversation about the blame for a missing bottle of wine. The thief of the vintage slipped from his hiding place and resumed his task to find food. He had not gone far when he heard a familiar bird call.
Stopping in his tracks, the Phantom scanned the vicinity and spotted a thatch of red hair through the overgrowth. Taking quick note of his surroundings, he hurried to the bushes that shielded his men.
"Milord, we would have come earlier, but more of those bloody soldiers came for entertainment, one of them the Vicomte's man. Perrette could hardly turn them away without arousing suspicion, and we needed to stay hidden."
The Phantom held up a hand for silence. "Never mind, Eustace. I have a mission for you both." He looked at the boy and saw the dark blue material he held over one arm. "What is that?"
"Milady's cloak." Tobias handed the item over. "She left it in the wagon. Is she…is she well?"
The Phantom did not miss the boy's concern as he took Christine's cloak from him. "She has awakened from her unnatural slumber but needs rest."
Eustace snorted. "Have you not taken the wench home? I thought that was the plan."
"Plans have changed." The Phantom's foreboding tone warned that he would not tolerate an ill word spoken about Christine. "There is a matter we must discuss. Last night's meeting did not go as expected, the foolish trap they set to their loss. I would have paid them in gold, but for their treachery we will take what is needed instead."
"Oh, aye." Eustace smiled grimly. "I'm going to enjoy this."
"Meet me here, tonight, in the third hour. We strike then."
xXx
Christine slipped outside the door of the borrowed chamber, the stones icy cold beneath the soles of her feet. Yet even that discomfort did not deter her from her quest. She crept along the corridor, grateful to find it empty. Colonnades on one side gave an obstructed view of the approaching night, with no windows or walls to block the soft breeze, only bushes. The opposite side led to various chambers, all with their doors closed. At the first open doorway she came to, she peeked in, stunned by the sight that met her eyes. As if in a trance, she moved slowly inside.
The grandeur of the ancient cathedral could surely rival a royal's castle, and indeed kings, queens, and emperors had been crowned here. It stood replete with grand statuary, precious metals, and glorious artwork portrayed in stained glass. A vaulted ceiling towered over the spacious cathedral, a multitude of arched niches on either side separated by tall colonnades and leading to shadowed areas that presented a mystery in the widely spaced wreaths of candlelight.
She continued down the long walkway between rows of benches. The most marvelous sight captured her attention, and in awe, she moved toward a circular window that reminded her of a layered flower and surely must be as big as the chamber she woke in. She came to a stop before the decorated panes and stared up in awe at the abundance of colors and designs, realizing each sculpted portion of stained glass depicted a picture, and what must be hundreds of them formed the brilliant kaleidoscope of a flower. In sunlight it must be breathtaking, with the illumination shining through colored glass. In the rings of candlelight that flanked each end it was stunning.
So caught up was she in the beauty, she forgot to seek out a nook to meditate, the rose window offering its own aura of peace. A stir of movement to her left reminded her she was an intruder here, and she turned with an apology poised on her lips.
From one of the arched alcoves of darkness, a figure stepped into the dim light, and her heart skipped a beat. His cloak swirled softly around his tall form.
"You brought me to Notre Dame?" she asked in disbelief.
The Phantom approached, ghost-like, his footfalls quiet, while her lowered voice seemed to resound throughout the cavernous chamber.
"You should not be here," he said in greeting.
"No one saw me." She defended her actions. "I needed a place to think. At the Opera House I would go to the chapel and light a candle for my father."
He considered her words, his manner grim. "If you need a moment, I'll not stop you. However, we should return before anyone enters and notices your presence."
She frowned. "Are you so fearful of what I might say? Trust me, I've had all day to accustom myself to what's happened, and know not to speak unwisely."
A reluctant smile flickered at his lips, and her eyes drew there.
"As pleased as I am to hear it, the need is twofold. The cleric who granted us sanctuary asked that you keep to the chamber you were given until our departure, so as not to cause undue trouble."
"But why?" She wasn't certain she could tolerate another hour alone confined to that room. "Am I really such a burden?"
He narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
"Are you truly so unaware of your beauty?"
His question stunned her. Her face went warm, and she felt unsure how to respond.
"The men who dwell on these grounds are not accustomed to having a lovely young maiden reside within these chambers. He mentioned carnal temptations that he did not wish to stir."
She looked away in embarrassment. "I don't need another moment. I'm ready to return now."
Christine sensed him smirk at his little victory, but in the dim glow of candles that failed to break through the stretch of shadow they walked through, she couldn't be sure.
They had gone only a short distance when he suddenly grabbed her arm and whisked her into the nearest patch of darkness. Breathless from more than the unexpected act, she stood with her back to his chest while he held one arm protectively beneath her breasts. He had held her like this twice before, in another lifetime, nor was she soon to forget the incident by the lake. Her heart raced at his nearness, the heat of his body singeing hers through the gown.
"It is not only you," he whispered, his lips barely brushing her ear, causing her to shiver. "I also have no wish to be seen."
At the sensation of being held against him, his breath warm against her ear, she barely felt connected to the earth. Surely the only support holding her to it was Erik. Her dazed attention caught notice of a servant in a brown tunic walk past the alcove in which they hid. Only when the man arrived to the front of the nave and lowered himself to hands and knees to scrub the floor with the cloth from the bucket he held did Erik speak.
"In the Archdeacon's absence, it appears the servants are extraordinarily busy with their cleaning duties," he whispered, his heated breath causing another rush of warmth to course through her veins.
They stood in the shadows, pressed close for some time, and Christine felt she could remain there indefinitely. Once the servant put his back to them, Erik released her and tugged her arm.
Wordlessly she followed him as he led her to the small chamber. Now that she was fully aware of their location, she stared at the narrow bed, curious. In surprise she saw her cloak lying on the blanket and grabbed it up as if it were an old friend.
"Tobias found it in the wagon."
"He was here?" She pulled the material around herself to dispel the evening chill. "I wish I would have known. I owe him an apology."
"You owe him nothing."
Christine watched Erik as he stood beside the low table and pulled a wheel of cheese and loaf of bread from a cloth.
"You must be ravenous. I apologize for not seeing to your needs all day." He tossed the cloth to the table.
She shrugged off his apology. "With all that's happened, I doubt I would have been able to eat a bite."
She looked around the stark chamber. "Whose room is this?"
He handed her a hunk of cheese and bread. "You must eat."
She took what he offered, no longer feeling queasy with shock, only shaky.
"I was told this is a spare room. The bed was put here as a provisional need. Used by those builders, who spent their days and nights here throughout the centuries, making their contributions toward the construction of the cathedral."
"I had seen it from afar, of course, but the inside is more magnificent than I dreamed."
"Yes, the craftsmanship is remarkable..."
At his wistful words, something in her heart fluttered.
"You could craft something just as beautiful, I'm sure of it."
In his lair, she had seen his detailed drawings of her likeness but also of elaborate buildings and knew he had a gift in all things artistic. She recalled the statuesque phoenix bed of gold – something so heavy and large could not have possibly been carried down to the fifth cellar – and felt sure his skills would extend to architecture.
He looked at her sharply. "Why would you say such a thing?"
She spoke to him as Erik, he was Erik, but he didn't know that.
She should tell him, he should know. He already thought her a victim of her own delusions and still vowed to protect her. No matter what more she said, Christine felt assured he would uphold his word. She truthfully had nothing to lose by telling him the rest…
"You have the hands of an artist," she said in weak explanation. "Your fingers are long and slender." She cleared her throat when he continued to look at her strangely and quickly led back to the subject of the cathedral. "The window I was staring at is so beautiful. It reminds me of a kaleidoscope."
"A…kaleidoscope?"
"You don't have them here…?" she said in sudden comprehension. "Well, how to explain it. They are quite the invention. A friend of Raoul's had one – a tube of metal, like a telescope, only smaller. At one end there are bits of glass in bright colors trapped inside – stained glass, I suppose. Raoul's friend said there are mirrors placed at angles. When you look through a hole at the opposite end and turn the tube, the glass tumbles about and reflects off the mirrors. Each turn of the hand brings with it a different shape, completely parallel. Much like the rose window," she finished lamely.
He never ceased staring at her with those intense, enigmatic eyes of blue gray, and she wished to God she knew what he was thinking.
"A telescope?" he said after a moment.
"Yes, they are very much alike…oh my." She blinked. "You don't have telescopes in this century either?" At the wary shake of his head, she went on to explain, taking small bites now and then, relieved when he did not scold or curb her attempt with more warnings never to speak of such things.
"It's a metal tube that expands – you pull it out to extend it – and it's used to see across a great distance. They used one in an opera once. Meg and I were only children, and weren't supposed to touch the props, but between rehearsals we took turns looking through the spyglass when no one was watching. They are called that too – I assume because you can spy without being seen. And what we saw! Clear across the auditorium, in one of the boxes, one of the dancers slapped a boy who was being fresh." She giggled, surprised she could again laugh. "The Opera House was as big as this cathedral, and we could see clear to the opposite end. As close as you and I are, that's how much detail we could see with the spyglass, as if they stood right before us. I understand they're used by captains on ships…you do have those?"
"Captains?" The Phantom's lips flickered in a half smile, her exuberant innocence in her shared experiences endearing, even if he did not understand half of what she said.
"Well, yes, but I meant ships."
He looked at her a moment then gave a slow nod.
"The sea does not agree with me," he admitted. "The waves…"
"You've sailed on a ship before?"
"Yes."
"Where did you go?"
"Persia."
The name escaped his lips without thought, and he pulled his brows together in confusion. Why had he said that? He knew of no such place. He had been on a ship once, as a lad, in the attempt to escape Brittany and find a better life, later discovered by the cook as a stowaway before the ship could sail. He had been beaten severely and thrown off board. He had never been to sea.
Not wanting to dwell on what only confused him, he looked at Christine, noting how she rubbed her temple with her fingertips.
"Does your head still hurt?"
"It's better since I've eaten."
She still looked too pale, and he noticed how sluggish her movements were.
"You should lie down and get some rest."
"Where will you be?" Her response came immediate, worried.
Thinking she wanted him far from her, he grimly walked to the door. "Fear not, damoiselle. I will find shelter elsewhere."
"No – wait! Please…"
He stopped and turned in curiosity.
"If you wouldn't mind staying until I fall asleep, I would be most grateful."
He saw the fear in her eyes and knew a moment's surprise that it wasn't about him.
"As you like."
He watched as she untucked her legs from beneath her and pulled the blanket back, removing her cloak and slipping into bed. It was then he fully noticed.
"Your shoes…"
"I'm sorry. I lost them last night."
"I'll bring you another pair."
She smiled then, and his heart gave a little tug to see it.
"Thank you." She lay on her side, pulling her cloak up over her along with the blanket, then closed her eyes. "Goodnight."
The Phantom continued to stare, long after her breaths grew slow and steady. In slumber her countenance was untroubled, and he resolved to do all he must to keep it that way.
xXx
Christine woke in the night to find the room in absolute darkness. For an instant she panicked, until she saw a crack of moonlight on the stones. She jumped from bed to throw open the shutters, allowing the dim glow to filter inside. A look around the room showed her it was empty.
She was alone.
Curious as to where Erik had gone, she walked back to bed, hugging herself, and sat down. She waited for his return, until her lids began to droop. Unable to stay alert, she lay back down, a mist soon enveloping her mind.
Suddenly she felt her arms grabbed and her eyes flew open.
Faces she knew and faces unfamiliar leered at her. Faces of Erik's men and the faces of strangers.
"Witch!" one man cried in accusation, and others took up the chant.
"No, please!" Christine begged.
Two men held her arms as they hauled her from bed and onto her feet. She resisted but to no avail.
"Witch! Witch! Witch!"
What began as a low murmur escalated into a dull roar.
"I'm not a witch, I swear I'm not! Please, you must believe me…"
Deaf to her cries for mercy, they dragged her down a path of darkness, with only torchlight to see. Faces loomed in her sight, scorning, leering, mocking. A burly man stepped from the mob and gripped the neck of her tunic in meaty fists, ripping it asunder to her navel and baring her breasts. A cry of harsh approval went up through the crowd. She whimpered in humiliation, trying to cover herself, but the punishing hands on her arms wouldn't let her. As they moved her along the muddy path that sucked at the soles of her feet, other hands clawed at her exposed skin, yanked her hair, grasped her breasts. She hurried her steps, no longer fighting to hold back, now only anxious to get away.
The crowd roared, mad with bloodlust, their faces livid with hate. Ahead in the path, a tall stake loomed upright from the ground. Upon seeing it, Christine struggled anew, until the many tormenting hands grabbed her body and hoisted her high into the air, so that she looked up into a weeping sky. A soft rain fell and she knew relief. Surely no flame could spark wet tinder!
They passed her along, up the path, the relentless hands grabbing and pushing her forward above their heads. Suddenly the hands were gone as she was thrown to the ground.
Painfully, she pushed herself up on her palms and looked out at the suddenly silent crowd. They all stared ahead, motionless. Hopeful they might finally listen and realize their error, she spoke.
"Please, let me go. I'm no witch. This has all been a dreadful mistake. It's not my fault. The stones, it was the stones…"
In the distance her eyes caught the form of a masked and cloaked figure running toward her.
"Erik - Help me!"
Her cry for help brought life back to the mob and they began to screech obscenities and accusations at her again. Someone stripped her of her torn chemise and she stood naked and shivering in humiliation. Another grabbed her arms and forced her back against the stake. Ropes wound around her middle, cutting into her flesh. The crackling sound of flame igniting wood brought her horrified eyes to her feet, where the glow of a fire had spread, licking hungrily against tinder. Eustace held the torch.
He smiled at her. "Burn, witch. Burn in hell!"
She screamed, the heat and pain unbearable as her skin began to singe.
"God, no – please, NO! I'm not a witch – I'M NOT!"
Erik ran forward through a break in the crowd. Yet through the smoke and her tears, she could see that no matter how hard he ran, his image grew fainter and smaller – until it disappeared as a wall of flame erupted before her eyes.
"HELP ME!"
"Christine!"
Strong hands encased her arms, the ropes gone, the air cool on her perspiring skin and no longer aflame.
Her eyes flew open a second time.
The Phantom held her in his grasp, shaking her awake, his eyes concerned.
"Christine…?"
Panting hard, she grabbed fistfuls of his tunic.
"You're here! Where were you? I couldn't reach you and then you were gone!"
"Christine, hush, it's alright."
"Don't let them take me – please! Don't let them -"
Suddenly she found herself in his arms, and she clung to him as tightly as he held her, the heat of his body against her thin gown a comfort. As the veils of fog lifted from her mind, she realized that she was in bed.
"You're alright," he whispered again, "I won't let them do anything to harm you."
"They'll take me from you," she insisted, her disjointed words echoes of the past bleeding into this new and present dread. "They've tried before..."
"No one will take you from me, Christine. No one."
Despite his assurances, she could not stop shaking, could not stop crying, the tears falling in silent rivulets down her cheeks as she gasped for breath. He rubbed his palms in slow circles against her back and rocked her slightly, his arms firm around her, but she only clung to his tunic harder, so tightly her fists hurt. She pressed her face against the wild racing of his heart and clung, sure that at any moment grasping, violent hands would tear her away from him, would tear into her -
And then, when she felt she might collapse into another blind panic, his voice came to her softly, gently, a whisper of silk to her senses, the effect almost tangible, rich and beautiful…
He was singing.
Stunned to realize it and to hear the aria she'd comforted him with on the night of his black spell, his aria that he'd written of the music of the night, she struggled to control her raspy breathing and listen more closely. He sang so low she had to strain to hear, but as the tension began to ease from her shoulders and she melted against his strength, his voice slightly gained in volume. A sensual lullaby. Seductive. Gentle. Cosseting. A lavish delicacy to her ears, a balm of comfort for her soul. He sang all the verses, then sang them again until she rested limply against his chest, her breathing even and slow.
Once his final notes caressed the air and the nocturnal stillness returned to the moonlit chamber, Christine closed her eyes, never moving from his arms.
"Yes," she whispered. "My answer is yes."
xXx