A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) I'm happy to see there's still some interest…here's more…
Chapter XVII
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Christine could barely draw breath, her heart racing with dread as she hastened to don her cloak.
She did not fear so much for herself – no one in this bizarre epoch of time knew her – but Le Masque had made powerful enemies in this century, just as the Phantom of the Opera had with the Vicomte of their century, and Erik was paying the price for both infamies. Guilty of the latter, but certainly not the former.
Her eyes swept toward the table as she turned to go, and with a sinking feeling she noticed that Erik had left his sword behind. He had not worn it during their splendid day together that had so mercilessly been ripped from them. How would he defend himself without it?! Though she feverishly hoped it would not come to that…
Terrified to know what was happening but desperate to see, her eyes drew like a magnet toward the open window. She let out a soft anxious cry to see that the soldiers had nearly reached the perimeter of the grounds, scarcely half a block away.
Scrambling to gather the knapsack she'd knotted, the rolled pelts, and the belt that held his scabbard and sword, she awkwardly ran for the door, managing after two frantic attempts and a shuffling of her burdens to wrench it open.
Thankfully the sunlit corridor was empty and she fled down the narrow path as fast as she was able, to the door of the chapel. This hour of day it stood closed, and with another frenzied juggling of their possessions, she pushed the heavy wood blockade ajar and slipped into the dark interior.
Up ahead, a servant boy busily polished one of the front benches. Christine swung around a pillar, pressing her back to the stone and closing her eyes while attempting to slow her rapid breathing.
Fearful she would be spotted and that Erik had already been apprehended or worse, she found herself beseeching the Almighty, His Son, and those saints she could recall from her girlhood catechism for intervention. Her lips moved in a rapid whisper.
"Heavenly Father, please…St. Cecillia, St. Christopher, St. Michael, St. Francis…" She shook her head when she could remember no others. "Mary, Jesus, and Joseph, help us!"
A massive chandelier of candles hung near, angling light against half her face. A shadow blotted out the dim orange sheen beyond her closed eyelids at the same time she heard a stiff rustle of cloth. She opened her eyes, ready to scream in panic – stunned when a hand clapped over her mouth and the tall shadow separated itself from darkness, drawing closer.
Eyes of silver-blue gleamed behind a mask of ebony, and she nearly dropped their possessions, her relief was so great. With his finger pressed to his lips for silence, and at her nod, Erik removed his hand from her mouth. Without a word he took his weapon and the pelts from her arms, leaving her with the lighter knapsack, then with his head motioned that she was to follow.
In silence, they quickly made their way down a side aisle, and Christine could see that the servant had dropped to his hands and knees, his back to them, now absorbed in cleaning the bottom of a center pew. Her heart continued to slam against her ribs, even once they cleared the young man's notice and entered a corridor. They would not be safe until they escaped this place and Christine failed to see how that could be accomplished. Even now, she could hear the unmistakable sound of horses and men gathering outside.
They approached an area to which Christine had never been, with torches along one wall. At once she noticed an iron gate barred the chamber at the far end. From his cloak, Erik produced the key ring she had spied in the cleric's office and slipped one of the iron keys inside the lock. It did not budge, nor did the second, and Christine worried that none would fit. The third key slid into the keyhole and turned with a hollow metal clunk. Erik pushed against the gate. It gave an elongated creak, and Christine winced with alarm at the strident noise, fearful everyone in the building could hear and pinpoint their location.
Grabbing a nearby torch, Erik stepped inside, Christine behind him. He handed her the torch, then hurriedly closed the gate, moving his hand through the bars to fit the key in the lock and secure them inside.
She hurried with him to the rear of the long narrow chamber, which held shelves that bore items of gold, copper, bronze and silver – candelabras and bowls of all sizes, small metal boxes inlaid with precious jewels, candle snuffers that extinguished flame, and a number of unfamiliar items that she presumed must belong to this century alone. Wooden casks along with intricate chests stood lined along the walls of ash-gray rock, and she realized at once this was where they stored their treasury and any items of worth.
"Erik…?" she whispered, completely mystified.
He anchored the torch in a holder and tossed the keys into a basket, then dropped the pelts to strap on his sword. Surely in the midst of their escape he did not plan thievery! He had vowed to her that he would not steal from this hallowed place.
Contrary to her wishes, he grabbed a second basket, busily helping himself to the goods from a shelf. He dumped candles, a flask of some sort, linen strips of cloth, and other items into the straw container.
"Grab the lantern," he nodded to a hook on the wall, where a wooden one with clouded panes of thick glass hung.
"You mean to steal all this?" she asked in disbelief.
"We have more need of it than they," he snapped, his words harsh. He turned his head to see the tight disapproval on her face, and withdrew his drawstring purse, spilling a few coins into his palm and tossing them to the shelf. "There. That more than covers what I've taken."
Christine nodded in mild relief and grabbed the lantern. She still did not comprehend why he'd chosen this place instead of a door to exit the cathedral – surely more than one must exist inside the mammoth building – but this wasn't the time to ask. The strain which he was under was evident in his every tense word and movement, the strain they both operated under – and her mind's eye tormented her with frightful images of what a medieval prison – a dungeon – would hold...
If they did not kill them on the spot.
She shook her head, trying to oust all morbid imaginings. Her husband was a genius. In this life and the other, a master of escape. He would not lead them into the depths of a cage to be trapped.
He faced a wall of stone, his eyes traveling every inch of it and over the large cupboard that stood there.
"The map displayed the northern wall…" he mused quietly, looking at the dark rock and then again at the cupboard. Erik paced from one edge to the other in absorbed study, then put both hands to the side and pushed. When nothing happened, he swore and straightened, his eyes intent on the simple cupboard. He narrowed them, suddenly alert as if in revelation, and ran his hand along the panels at the sides and the back. The sound of a soft click barely stirred the air. This time when he pushed, the cupboard moved, as if hinged to the wall.
Christine gaped in astonishment when a hole emerged, big enough for a man to walk through. Erik nodded in approval, clearly expecting it, then grabbed the basket, pelts and torch.
The multitude of footsteps came closer, and Christine sucked in a fearful breath.
"Can you manage the rest?" he asked, and she nodded, reclaiming the knapsack and holding it nervously against her breasts.
He pushed the torch through the hole to survey the area before hunching down and stepping through, Christine on his heels. Her eyes widened to see they stood in a narrow cavern, the area chill and damp with the musty-sweet odor of mildew and earthen rock - strongly reminiscent of the passageways that ran beneath the Opera House.
With nowhere to set the torch, he thrust it toward her.
"Hold this."
She accepted their sole source of light as he turned back to the entrance of the cavern. Finding and depressing the secret catch, he released the cupboard to swing toward them and again cover the hole – and none too soon as the sound of swift running footsteps and shouts drew near.
"Will they follow?" Christine worried aloud as he reclaimed the torch.
"First they will need to find their way through the gate, absent of a key. Once that is accomplished they must locate the secret entrance into this cavern. Without a map, it will be impossible for them to decipher the knowledge of the hidden entry – a map now in my possession," he smirked. "We are safe."
"But where are we?"
"Caverns that run below ground," and so saying, he swept his torch to the right of where they stood.
She gasped in amazement to see the firelight illuminate natural steps of the same rock, leading downward.
"Shall we venture forth?" Without waiting for her reply he descended.
Christine hesitated, glancing nervously at the closed cupboard, from behind which men's angry and distant voices distinctly rose, and hurried after him.
Dark brown rock, slick and rough in texture, rose up on either side and above, the top of Erik's head barely clearing the cavern ceiling, though at times he found it necessary to stoop over. He led the way down the corridor, so narrow they were forced to walk single file, and Christine was hit with a strong wave of nostalgia. How like the night he appeared in the mirror and took her through the reflective pane of glass and to his lair! Alike, yet so different…
With his arms full, he did not lead her by the hand, and his tall, broad-shouldered frame blocked out the flickering torchlight so that she walked in shadowed darkness. She shifted their belongings clumsily to one arm, clasping the unlit lantern in that hand, so as to grasp his cloak at the shoulder. Her changed position caused her to lose her grip on the knapsack, and she released her hold of him with a muffled cry, grabbing at the cloth bundle before it could fall.
He stopped and turned to look, noting her awkward hold of the knapsack, then lowered the basket he held, nodding that she should put the cloth bundle on top.
Feeling incredibly foolish and unable to meet his eyes, she did.
"I never liked the darkness exceedingly well," she explained in defense, though it would have been more truthful to say 'at all.'" And in such confined space, with no room to run if need be, it was doubly terrifying.
"Do you wish me to light the lantern you carry? I thought to use it only if necessary, if the torch's flame should be extinguished. However…"
"No, that's alright," she hurried to say, not wanting him to think her a silly, fearful child.
As long as she remained close to his reassuring warmth and presence, she could manage the encroaching dread of being swallowed up by the thick darkness and the unknown terrors of what it held. She had done so once before in similar darkened corridors, under equally frightening circumstances, when he had dragged her by the wrist at a run, in his panicked escape of the gendarmes on the night of the Don Juan.
Christine released a breath of frustration. How was she ever to forget their past if she was constantly reminded of what they once lived?
xXx
The Phantom resumed their journey deep into the bowels of the earth. Idly he wondered how many had walked this dank path and sensed the number to be few. He had heard tales of persecution from the kings, and curiously pondered if the entrance to these unknown caves had been added for that purpose, as a place to hide, perhaps even built into the original foundation in the twelfth century. These caves could have been used to conceal the treasure if under attack from enemy soldiers, since the secret entrance was in the chamber where valuables were kept. Whatever the reason for its existence, he was grateful he'd thought to investigate the premises during Christine's recovery and had found the map. The idea of secret chambers beyond hidden entrances appealed, a master stroke of genius, and would be an endeavor he would surely undergo if ever he should give into the desire to design such a building.
He felt Christine clutch his cloak a second time, sensing her disquiet. His brow furrowed in deep concentration of their gloomy surroundings.
The air was close here, stale, and he followed the solitary, musty path that twisted a great deal more than he recalled the crude map showing. Silence stretched between them, a faraway drip of water hitting stone the only sound to reach his ears. The well of blackness continued ahead, and he wondered how far they must go to find the promise of safety.
As they walked, leaving the present perils behind, the tension eased but his mind became fixed upon two troubling curiosities his intellect could not explain, much less comprehend. So much of his past lay locked within the borders of his consciousness, the permanence of those absent memories a likelihood he had come to accept. Yet to suddenly find himself capable of an unknown ability was jarring to say the least, and he wondered what other astounding secrets would reveal themselves in the upcoming days.
He recalled the manner in which he had thrown his voice beneath the window – where the devil had he learned such a bizarre skill and how had he known he could do it?! But he had not known, the feat coming unexpected and as natural as the exhalation of breath.
Odder still, Christine displayed no surprise or curiosity to know how or why his voice suddenly came to her as if they stood inches apart. Another incident he fully intended to question.
Twice now, she had spoken of him in a manner that did not fit what they experienced together in the two weeks he'd known her. He felt hesitant to ask the meaning of her words and learn what he feared, but it was a conversation he fully intended to introduce when he could see her every expression.
He recalled how he found her in the cathedral, her eyes squeezed shut and lips moving in breathless prayer to the saints she had quietly beseeched - the holy family, the patron saints of music and protection, the archangel, and the patron saint of animals. As his face was monstrous, and he was called a beast, the Phantom wryly thought the last call for intervention suitable – not that those in the heavens would lend him aid – when an image flashed with vivid clarity into his mind: A small child kneeling in prayer near a window of stained glass, little hands clasped and tucked beneath her chin, her curly hair wild and dark eyes tearful as she soulfully prayed to every one of those entities for her Angel to come…
The Phantom staggered, slamming his hand with the torch to the wall for balance.
"Erik!" Christine's fingers lost her hold on the back of his cloak and quickly found his arm. "Are you alright? Did you trip?"
"No," he gritted low through his teeth, shaking his head slightly in an attempt to bring stability to his thoughts. "It is nothing." The vision had been swift but true, blotting out the sight of the cavern before him for scant seconds, much like the black spells that had crowded into his mind, but without the physical anguish they caused. A hallucination of the oddest sort, one that brought a trace of sorrow to his heart. Who was that child?
"You're sure?" Her tone was doubtful.
"It is nothing!"
The Phantom cursed his sharp tongue when Christine abruptly withdrew her hand, but he tendered no apology. The answering silence came welcome, yet mocked him with guilt.
Keeping a swift pace, they soon approached a bend where the path widened, with only the sound of their footsteps and her quickened breaths that had altered into winded gasps. Mindful of her fragility after the fiend's attack against her, he abruptly stopped and let the pelts fall to his feet, also setting the basket down.
"We will rest here."
She barely nodded and lowered herself to sit against the wall, avoiding eye contact and staring at the unlit lantern she held between both hands. He released a hiss of air through clenched teeth and briefly closed his eyes in irritation with his prior surliness.
"Christine…"
She peered up at him, her expression uncertain.
"I am not accustomed to social niceties, given what I am, and am unfamiliar with how to speak and not injure a woman's sensibilities…" He hesitated, sensing he was going about this badly. "I should not have snapped at you. I should have paid you more heed. I should have allowed you to rest earlier than this." He winced to see how exhausted she truly was.
Her eyes widened in shock. "You're apologizing?"
He grew slightly peeved that she should think it such an anomaly. Did she regard him as an unfeeling barbarian? Had he not proven to her, time and again, that he would do anything for her happiness and comfort?
"Is that so surprising?"
The hint of a smile touched her lips, and he sensed she withheld a thought.
"You did nothing wrong, Erik. It is only…" She pulled at her lower lip with her teeth. "Do you think they'll stop searching now that we've gotten away? Surely, the Vicomte cannot desire a bride who wants nothing to do with him?"
His tension eased to acknowledge he was not the true culprit of her despair.
"I wish it was so, but he will never stop searching."
"But can he not simply find another wife? It's not as though we've ever met."
He looked at her in bemused puzzlement. She truly did not comprehend how the contract of marriage between arranging families went. That it was a subject of honor and could have bad repercussions should either of the parties involved rescind their agreement. Strange…but no stranger than her inability to grasp other rules of the land. Her impossible words of coming from another century teased the fringes of his mind, but he pushed their foolishness away.
The chief reason for the Vicomte's hostility lay within the lineage of the blood that ran through the Phantom's veins. Would that he could drain every loathsome drop, though to be absent of life held no appeal, and he frowned at another equally irksome thought. Now that Christine was his spouse, he must tell her. Eustace knew, though few others did, but she deserved to understand the extent of the dangers they faced…and why.
He held out his hand to help her up. "Do you feel able to continue?" He had given her only a few minutes, perhaps not enough time, but the urgency to act and find them shelter and warmth prodded him. Even with the cloak she wore, he could see her shiver from the oppressively chill air.
Christine nodded and accepted his aid. He again took the brunt of their burdens, leaving her to carry the wooden lantern, relieved when she walked beside him, now that there was room to do so, and again clutched his arm.
They came to a fork in the path and the Phantom looked both ways, entering the left tunnel without much deliberation. Once, long ago, he had stayed in such a cold, dark tomb of a place, and he hoped it was the same hideaway to which he now led them. It was impossible to know with all the twists and turns they'd taken. The crude map did little good, save to find the cave's entrance in the treasure room. And yet…somehow he felt he knew this dreary maze of rock and had crossed its stone path countless times before. That he did not even need a source of navigation to guide him there.
How was that even possible?
After much walking, with one brief stop to rest for Christine's sake, at last he heard the sound he'd been seeking. The quiet murmur of water assured him the underground lake wasn't far, and their exit into daylight and the forest a short distance from that. If his memory could be trusted.
Christine's hand tightened on his arm as they moved through an entryway into a familiar chamber as large as the cathedral. Once he considered this cave unfit for Christine; now they had no choice but to stay.
x
The torchlight served to adequately illumine only a small area, picking up orange glimmers in the black water nearby. The remainder of the area was dim and hazy without sufficient light, but across the lake what appeared to be a dark, massive hole led into another underground chamber.
Christine gasped, her eyes wide in stunned shock as she looked all around them.
"You…you brought me here?"
Her words came small, barely above a whisper, and rife with disbelief.
"I apologize, ma damoiselle." He scowled at such an inadequate offering of shelter. "First I provide you with a meager tent shared, later a brothel, followed by a barren room at a pious institution. And now this…"
Her expression softened though her astonishment remained.
"No - it's fine. I understand, given the circumstances. It's only…" She hesitated, framing her words. "How did you know of this place? Have you – have you been here before?"
At the awestruck but nervous bent to her words, he narrowed his eyes.
"Have you?"
She blinked several times then gave an anxious laugh.
"How could I?"
He studied her a moment, aware she did not deny it, but chose not to persist. Setting down their things, he moved to anchor the torch firmly into a gap in the stone wall. He looked around the large room and at the lake that sloshed against the rock shore and flowed from the mouth of the chamber.
"As a lad, I came here once, to hide…"
He drew his brows together in confusion. How could he remember that and so little else about his childhood? And yet, the picture of what he now observed did not blend together to make sense with what he remembered:
Candles standing all around and lighting up the entire area with a golden blaze, in a weak attempt to emulate sunlight…rich tapestries and golden statues scattered throughout the chamber...tables, chairs…even an organ set on the higher cliff of rock to his right, with another chamber beyond that – containing a massive bed with black hangings.
He clutched his head, gripping his hair as the flash of the image sliced through his mind, creating a pain so intense it brought him dropping to his knees.
"Erik!"
Christine ran toward him and fell to his side, her arms embracing him. "What is it? Are you hurt? Did something happen?!"
"This place…"
His words came hollow, barely understood, and she held him more tightly.
"This place," he said again. "It's all wrong."
He heard her sharp intake of breath near his ear. "Never mind. You shouldn't think about anything that upsets you. Try and rest."
"I have been here before," he quietly insisted, to himself, to her, he wasn't sure. "But not as I thought. There was a girl…or perhaps…a woman?"
The silhouette of both appeared as hazy black images on the mirror of his recollection.
"You shouldn't dwell on what gives you pain," she softly advised again, stroking the back of his head, careful not to disturb the lacing of the mask and earn his rage or mistrust.
She was startled with how swiftly he pulled away, the look in his narrowed eyes one of puzzled suspicion.
"You often speak to me of attempting to recall memories long absent from my mind, asking what I remember of my life. Now, when I speak of them, you want me to forget. What has changed?"
"I…" She cast her eyes down then past him, toward the lake and the shadowed mouth of the chamber. "I simply don't wish you to relapse. Last night, I was so frightened, to find you in such a wretched state in that dark garden."
His eyes searched hers with confusion. "You speak as though you care."
"Is that so unbelievable?" she asked in surprise.
"You have known me the sum of a fortnight. In that time I have held you as captive, using guards to restrain you, have taken you into dangerous situations –"
"No - stop." She shook her head fiercely and laid her hand against his cheek. "You saved my life."
"I did what I must."
"You saved me."
Her fingertips traced his cheek beneath the mask, and he lifted his hand to cover hers.
"Christine, twice you have spoken of what makes no sense, once to me, once to Tobias – I must know what it all means."
"I don't understand."
She averted her eyes and tried to slip her hand away, but he held fast.
"You told Tobias, when he attempted to stop you on the night of the attack, that you would not fail me again. Strange words, when you had not once done anything to disappoint or betray…"
Mayhap it was a trick in the muted golden glow of the firelight, but the color seemed to seep from her cheeks.
"I – you thought Paris was a trap. We argued. You thought me a spy…" She looked away then back again. "Tobias misheard. I was anxious for your safety and knew you were in danger. Yes, I told him I would not fail you – but if I did say 'again' I meant it for those reasons."
"Earlier you cried out that you cannot lose me again." He stressed the word she so carelessly explained away, his eyes boring into her soul. "As if you had lost me before. Why would you speak thus, when you had not?"
Christine struggled to breathe, this time managing to pull her hand from beneath his and bury it with the other inside her cloak. She grasped her fingers tightly so he wouldn't notice how she trembled.
"Why do you ask me these questions?"
"I seek to know the truth."
She shook her head in frustration. "But I almost did lose you! The night of the attack, when the Vicomte's men ambushed you. And last night in the garden – I feared they had found you, when I didn't know where you were. And the nightmare I had of being burned at the stake, when I couldn't reach you…"
"So then, you care. But I have yet to understand why."
"Of course I care what happens to you! You're my husband."
She looked at him with incredulity that he should ponder the cause, his expression one of earnest puzzlement, and she wondered if he truly never had anyone care about him. She ached to tell him her deepest feelings, but knew he wouldn't believe her. Doubtless she would only make matters worse.
"With two of those incidents you mentioned we were not wed," he persisted. "Nor had I yet offered marriage."
"Does it matter?" she asked in quiet frustration. "Is it not enough that I care if you suffer? That I care whether you live or die?"
He abruptly pushed away from the ground and stood to his feet, moving a few steps away before he stopped and stared high at the shadowed wall. "I am not convinced that I have arrived to the full disclosure of the truth."
She waited, anxious about his somber change of mood and dismayed that he would not surrender to her perfectly reasonable explanations.
"What I think…" he went on and turned again to face her, "Is that, at times, you perceive me to be someone I'm not. You told me that when you call me by the name you have chosen, you see me alone. But I am not persuaded that is the case. Tell me that when you said you couldn't lose me that you spoke only to me and did not think of your Angel of Music." He said the last with a sardonic sneer, his eyes glowing hard like steel and demanding truth.
Christine desperately sought in her mind with how to answer him. She would always see him as her Angel, despite what dark mistakes he once made, and could not lie and tell him otherwise. He had been her friend, her protector. He had provided guidance and taught her, until one spectacular evening when he revealed his majestic form, and she knew him as a man, the Phantom of the Opera.
Staring at his cloaked figure now, much like the night he'd brought her to his home, reawakened that awe-inspired moment, and she could only stare.
Here, inside this cavern, the sensation of living in the past overwhelmed. As if time never interfered to seize them from the century to which they were born. And though there were no candles, no tapestries, no organ – none of those objects that belonged to the Phantom – this shelter to which he had taken her was undoubtedly the sixteenth century version of his lair.
"Your silence proves my claim." His words were grave.
"I see you," she countered weakly.
By the hard glint in his eyes, this time he wasn't satisfied with her reply.
"I have decided…" His words came soft and low, but demanding. "No longer will you call me by his name."
She let out a quiet breath and wearily rubbed her forehead.
"What shall I call you then?"
"You may call me by the name you first gave me – Phantom. Or husband, if you prefer."
The name of Phantom felt so ordinary and distant after the intimacy they shared, and though "husband" gave her a little tingle all over her skin to hear him say it, to speak the title as a form of regular address would feel odd. There was one other term she once called him, one she had not shared in recounting their history together, and she hoped it would not spur another anguished memory. Addressing him as Phantom never did, so she felt reasonably certain the familiar term would be safe to use too.
"May I call you Maestro?"
He approached her, his expression confused.
"What exactly is a maestro?"
"You have never heard the title?" she said in surprise, wondering just how much of the language that she considered commonplace was even known in this century. "Well, let me think. It's an Italian word and means master and genius" - of music, but she didn't say the rest, afraid he would correctly link that to the Erik of her past too.
"Master and genius…" The corners of his lips twitched into a facsimile of a half-smile. "Is that how you see me?"
"You are very intelligent."
"And am I your master?"
His voice was dark golden honey, soothing and seductive. She blinked at the unexpected change in its tone, which matched his lightning-swift moods.
"I…you're my husband," she fumbled, shaken. "So in that sense, I suppose you are."
Her answer seemed to displease him, as evidenced by the rigid set of his jaw, though for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.
"What shall we do now?" she whispered after a time, hoping to break the stony silence that had again formed between them.
"We wait until nightfall and leave the cavern then."
"Back through the cathedral?" She repressed a groan at the thought of retracing their numerous steps through the seemingly never-ending crevices of cold rock.
"We have no need to return to Notre Dame."
She looked at the water. "But I see no gondola."
He shook his head in bemusement. "No…what…?"
Good heavens – did those not exist either?
"Um, canoe?"
Again he looked puzzled.
"No boat."
"Why should we need a boat?"
"To get across the lake, of course, to the outdoors…"
She shut her mouth swiftly at the intense look that glowed in his eyes.
"How would you know of such an exit?"
Fool, Christine! She bit the side of her tongue she had forgotten to curb. How indeed. She knew because she and Raoul escaped by that method on the night the mob found their way into these caverns, directly after the Phantom ordered her to go.
She recalled clutching desperately to Raoul for balance as she stood in the black gondola and stared back at this man, now standing before her in shock, while tears streamed down her face at the horrific knowledge that she might never see him again.
"It's a lake – surely it must exit outside the cave, like the sea that washes into caves does?" Her explanation sounded as fragile as she felt, but thankfully he nodded, accepting her weak logic.
"I know of no such path, but there is another I took as a boy."
"That's right – you mentioned coming here before…" She hesitated, afraid to say too much. Did his memory involve the illusion of coming here as the lad, Le Masque? Or a reminiscence suffered, as a young Phantom? "Who were you hiding from?" she added carefully.
"The same enemy that has dogged my steps since my fifteenth winter…" He looked down at her. "You tremble."
She was shivering, and not entirely from the cold. He unrolled one of the pelts and draped it around her shoulders, and she snuggled into its comfort.
"You mean the Vicomte of this century?" At his stilted nod, she continued. "Why should he trouble you all this time? Did you know him when you were young?"
Yet surely a childhood misunderstanding would not cause a lifetime of enmity…
He looked at her a long moment, as if debating whether to continue their discussion.
"I vowed I would speak only truth to you, and would wish for the same courtesy. You are my wife now and should know the man you wed. Trust is important, but cannot thrive without truth."
She nodded to encourage him, though by the tensing of his jaw and the continual flexing of his fingers, closing and opening his fist at his side, she sensed it was difficult for him to share.
"While it is true that the Vicomte searches for you, he has long sought to capture me. I told you that one winter's night I was left as a babe to die, on the Megaliths of Carnac. The witch who made me her slave told me of my denied birthright, forever taunting me with that truth. There was a price for the favor asked of her by my grandfather, years before he took a wife, a price never paid, so she took me as revenge against the family. My parents wished only to blot out my existence – but she saved me, to be a thorn in their side with the knowledge that I survived. In our fifteenth year, when my brother learned of the sordid tale through the marquis, he sought to rectify the act at which my parents failed - to kill me."
Stunned, Christine could barely conceive all he told her, even as some inkling of intuition hinted at what he had yet to say.
"Your brother…" she said weakly.
He gave a stiff nod. "There were two babes born to the Comtesse that night." His words came dark. "One grotesquely scarred by fate's cruel hand, followed by the second, born whole and unblemished. Aghast at their wretched lot, the parents sacrificed their firstborn at the stones, raising the second as their only begotten son, entitled to the sole inheritance of station and lands."
"Dear God," she whispered. "You are the true Vicomte de Chagny..."
He did not deny it, and she felt a little faint with the knowledge. An illusion, yes. But he believed it, and so apparently did they.
Answers to a wealth of unasked questions came unspoken – and she recalled his raids with his men of the de Chagny estate. He did not steal from the lord of the land, only took what rightfully should be his, and she remembered Tobias's odd words to that effect. She also recalled Eustace and the lad's habit of calling him "milord," which she'd thought only a respectful salutation as their leader, but now could see was much more than that.
"Do all your men know your true identity?"
He looked at her askance. "Eustace learned of my unfortunate birth when he saved me from riding headlong into one of the Vicomte's traps, to flush me out of the forest. In time, after I joined the band, Tobias and his brother, Bertram, also learned of my enemy and why. The others do not know; nor do I wish them to. I claim no ownership to that wretched family of the noblesse, nor have I any wish for the title. Nonetheless, the fool Vicomte wishes to see me dead. While I breathe, he knows that his ill-gotten gains could be seized in a battle waged, and he could end up with nothing but the cutting edge of my sword."
"Is that your plan then? To overthrow and murder him – all to seize the castle? Is that what the gunpowder was for?" She recalled no such weapons as pistols or rifles yet existed, from what she had witnessed, and remembered the name by which she overheard his men call the flammable substance. "The black powder…"
"I am so entitled. It should be mine." Narrowing his eyes at her curiously, he ignored her horrified question, his tone taking on a hard edge. "Do you find me unworthy of the delegation?"
She shook her head. "No – of course not. But I don't wish to see anyone die."
"He has abused his designation and treated ill all those who work beneath him. His tenants, the peasants of the village, none have been spared his heavy hand and unfair dealings." He paced a few steps then turned back. "During the war waged over a decade ago, he sided against Brittany, though no proof was disclosed. Aye, I might be tempted to seize what is mine – but I have no interest in those peasants who suffer under his tyrannical thumb. Nor have I plans to free them."
"I wasn't condemning you," she said with a soft sigh. In that manner he was the same, since the Phantom held no regard for those who lived and worked at the Opera House either, with the exception of Madame Giry. Small wonder, with how the cast and crew had often mocked and opposed him, with Raoul fanning the flames of their prejudice upon his arrival to Paris.
"With all you have told me, he doesn't sound like a very nice person," she said, hoping to soothe his rising ire.
At the frank understatement, he gave her a tolerant glance.
"He is a fiend of the most contemptible nature, ma damoiselle. I am considered a monster, but you would not wish to find yourself in the company of Frederick de Chagny. Have you heard of a chimera?" At the negative shake of her head, he went on. "A mythical fire-breathing beast, it has the head and body of a lion, with a goat's head rising from its back, and its tail is the head of a serpent. Fierce in its directives, obstinate in its attack, and bearing a deadly bite, always taking its victim unfairly and by surprise, the chimera is a harbinger of disaster - and the insignia on the Vicomte's coat of arms. Had you entered his campsite instead of mine, he would have seized your virtue like a prize of war, ignoring all tears shed and cries for mercy."
She frowned at the thought of being touched by such a vile man, and reached for Erik's hand.
"I'm glad that it's your men who found me. I have never once thought you a monster."
His smile was tepid at best, but he did not let go of her hand.
"You may well come to rue that night we met and the day we married," he said softly. "He will not end this vendetta, not until he's confident that I am absent from this earth. Even after he comes to forget you, if such a day should occur, you could still be in danger. Mayhap, I was remiss to act with such haste and take you as mine, thinking to protect you…"
"I don't regret it, not for a moment," she was quick to say. "But what of your father? I know little about the peerage, but if he's the Vicomte, then there must be a Comte somewhere? Is he also set to capture you?"
"My father is dead," he said without emotion. "As is my mother. My uncle is the Comte - he lives outside of Paris but has no sons. The title was passed to the next in line – the Vicomte."
"I'm sorry you were treated so badly." Her voice came soft with remorse.
Once more he looked at her strangely. "I ask again, why do you care?"
"Can it not be enough that I do?"
Silently she beseeched him not to delve further and ferret out her deep feelings for the man he once was, her dearest Angel, afraid if she spoke, she would say something wrong and he would get the mistaken impression that she loved another. He may have lost his memories, but his mind was like a steel trap in recalling those two occasions she had thoughtlessly cried out in panic, fearing for his welfare.
He stood above where she sat and looked at her a long moment.
"Stay here and rest. I will return anon."
She reached out to grip the edge of his cloak. "Where are you going?" She could not disguise the fear in her voice and tried not to panic, anxious that he might leave and trouble would again follow without her knowledge.
"It's alright," he said more gently, clasping her hand in reassurance before removing her tightened fingers from its folds. "I wish to look for the way out and for wood to build a fire to warm you. It has been years since I came here, from the forest, and I want to be assured of the exit before taking you further once night falls. I will light the lantern to dispel the darkness. Rest while I'm gone. We must journey for hours to reach the part of the forest where Hades waits."
He lit the lantern, setting it beside her
"You will come back," she whispered, "you promise?"
He studied her uplifted face, noting the tears of worry shimmer in her eyes.
"I will always return for you, Christine."
She saw the earnest gleam in his silvery-blue eyes and was reminded of that same look, when he possessively stared at her from the staircase at the Bal Masque, then weeks later, onstage, during the final act of the Don Juan – and more recently when he found her anxiously praying for his safety in the chapel.
She nodded in trust, and he lifted and turned her hand to kiss the inside of her fingers before he pivoted away from her, bearing the torch, and melted into the shadows.
Christine drew closer to the lantern's steady flame, her eyes following him until she could see him no more.
xXx
A/N: Couldn't resist revisiting the brother angle for this story, since it fit well into this type of plot. ;-) Thank you again for the reviews! :)