Gift Five
"The Vow"
(Part I)

She didn't lie, apparently. She really was getting pneumonia.

It happened all at once, in the course of a night – the night, in fact, after their last conversation. She went to bed on her own, for the first time in months, and subsequently found herself shivering under the sheets. Despite being as cold as he was, Erik still had somehow managed to be a source of body heat that she was now sorely missing. Without him, the bed was frigid and cold, and that combined with the near-constant anxious state her body had been running in for the past year left her over-exhausted and drained.

It was one of those nights, she could tell, as she flipped over and over, gradually feeling more toilworn and weary, that she was not going to be recovering from for a long time.

And so it was, to her terrible dismay; the morning after found Christine anguishing in a fit of malaise, fever, and fatigue, coughing herself into wakefulness.

Her rattling coughs were loud enough to wake a small village, and yet as she blinked open her bleary eyes she was surprised to find the house's only other occupant not standing over her ill form. That, even more so than the sudden sickness, troubled her greatly.

Where is he? Christine wondered, momentarily forgetting about her sore throat to push herself up and glance about the room. The door was closed and nothing was disturbed – there wasn't even a tray upon her bedside table! Erik had to have heard her fitful sleep… hadn't he cared? She would have thought he'd come running to her aid the second he heard her in distress…

Perhaps she had misjudged him? It was hard to believe that she had, after all these months. She needn't ever ask for a thing - Erik would place the world at her feet if he even thought she would desire it.

So, really, where was he?

So greatly did this bother Christine, that she ignored her burning cheeks and labored breaths to stand up and don her dressing gown, and make her way out of her room and to the hall. Perhaps Erik was out in another part of the house… in the kitchen, perchance, putting together one of his lavish feasts for her to nibble on?

Her suspicions turned out to be exactly correct, she found, as she crept closer to the kitchen and heard the tell-tale sounds of a knife clacking against the cutting board, a spoon scraping against the bottom of a pot… she tried to sniff the air to tell by the aroma what he was cooking, but her nose was so stuffed up that she just ended up making a rather unladylike snort.

Timidly, she entered the kitchen. Last night's argument was fresh in her mind and she was nervous about how he would act. Erik was always so unpredictable, even more so in these recent days. Oh, why did she ever get the thought in her head to try to give him a gift? Stupid girl! She should have known better! Erik never reacted well to anything…

Even in our bliss, Christine realized, standing in the doorway as she watched Erik move brusquely about the counters, apparently not noticing her yet, even in our happiest moments – he still finds fault with something.

And it was true. Erik loved nothing more than music and Christine's pearly voice – but even when she was singing for him, he'd stop her now and then to scold her for some minute flaw he'd found with her technique. Nevermind that she was a professional and had the capacity to interpret a work in her own way – nevermind the concept of artistic differences - if she didn't sing it to Erik's exact standards, it wasn't good enough!

At that moment, he finished arranging all the food on the plate, and at last looked in her direction. If he was surprised at all to find her there, the mask made it impossible to tell.

"Good morning," she said, offering a weak smile.

He said nothing in response, but pointed towards the dining room, with the clear instruction: take your seat.

She did as she was commanded, and he followed her with the plate in hand. Smoothing out the table cloth from where she had disturbed it, she found him hovering above her. The little mouth she could see was set in a stony frown.

"About last night…" she started.

"Eat," he said only, dropping the platter in front of her, silverware clattering against the porcelain, before immediately sweeping himself out of the room.

What…?

Tears pricked at her eyes as she regarded the food before her. Although expertly made, as always, it was a simple meal of corned beef hash and milk porridge… not French in the slightest, but not typical of his regular exciting and exotic meals either. Instead, she recognized it for what it was; food meant to be comforting, but not to be enjoyed.

So he had noticed she was sick. But then why the cold shoulder?

Even in our bliss… have we ever been in bliss?

In the late afternoon, after she had taken a nap and was feeling a little better, she rose to find Erik sitting in his favorite armchair in the parlor.

He stiffened slightly when she entered but never tore his gaze from his book. It was the old canary-bound one he'd been working on for the past few days; he seemed incredibly engrossed in it, leaning over it with his neck bent like one of his poor strangled victims. Previous prompting as to what it was about afforded her no answers; the last time she had asked, when he'd been in better humor, he had merely laughed to himself and told her it was nothing she'd be interested in. Subsequently, she'd picked up the book after he'd left the room and read the title – "The Life and Adventures of Miss Fanny Hill" – but flipping through the pages revealed nothing as it was all in English.

It must be something terribly fascinating and profound, Christine thought to herself at the time, seeing how intently focused Erik is on its text.

Now he was still reading it, still studiously absorbed in the faded print. She padded softly across the lush carpet, so as to not disturb him anymore than she already had, to the short and narrow chaise from so many nights ago. The fire was ablaze in the hearth, and Erik had been right, back then; it was quite pleasantly warm at this spot.

For a good few hours she contented herself to sit there quietly, pensively musing as she stared into the flames as they licked at the bricks of the hearth. All the sound in the world was Erik's quiet breaths, which came as sad little sighs, and also the occasional turn of a page of his book. Christine struggled to maintain her own breaths, nose thoroughly stuffed-up with her sickness, and forced herself to control her exhales so as not to be too loud…

But one can only sit in silence for so long before a question comes to them, begging to be asked. She sat on it, for half an hour, pondering its wording in the hearth flames, before finally mustering the strength to interrupt her companion's steady reading.

"Erik, why are we not yet married?"

The man in question glanced up only briefly from his book, and offered a curt, distracted remark before returning his rapt attention back to the text: "I wasn't aware you wished to be."

Christine frowned, looking back to the fire. Her finger made circles in the velvet lining of the chaise as she pondered his cold and strange response. Wasn't aware I wished to be? she mused. I truly would like to know how Erik's mind works one of these days…

"I gave you my word, though, didn't I?" Christine asked, daring to interrupt him again. "Back then…?"

He grunted, and flipped a page. "You were coerced."

"But I chose freely?"

"No, you did not."

"I wasn't aware…" that it mattered to you. At the time, he'd pressed her for an answer, and threatened to kill hundreds of people depending on her choice. Why would it matter to him if her choice was free, if he was the one who had issued the ultimatum?

And yet - she knew why. He was merely human, with feelings like any other man. He wanted her to choose him because she loved him, not because of anything else. But the problem here was that she did love him, and she had already chosen him, and yet he still refused to do anything about it.

So she asked him outright: "Why don't you ask me to choose now?"

"There is no point…" he sighed, furrowing his brow as he seemed to have lost his spot on the page.

"Are you afraid I will say no?"

He slammed his book shut. "Must you badger me with these incessant questions?" He gripped the book tightly in his hands, like an amulet of protection against her. "I will make myself clear only once. I am not afraid of your answer, Christine. It is just that any answer you give to me right now regarding this situation frankly does not matter."

"How can that be?" Christine sputtered. "The grasshopper – the scorpion -"

"Is that your idea of a romantic proposal?" Erik sneered at her. "Would you rather your handsome young Vicomte have bestowed you with those critters instead? Ah, he is so rich – even more so now as the Comte! - perhaps he would have fitted their eye sockets with little beady diamonds! You would like that, then, wouldn't you?"

"Erik, you aren't listening…"

"No, you aren't listening to me, Christine!" He leaned forward in his seat, pointing an accusing finger in her direction. "I asked: is that your idea of a romantic proposal?"

"N-no…"

"Do you find it charming that I had to lock your boy up in my torture chamber, just to have you seriously consider my proposal?"

"That's not -"

"And what if I had forgone the scorpion and grasshopper completely? Rather tawdry and gaudy ornaments, I must apologize for that. Perhaps, instead, if I had dropped to my knee that night and held high the most glorious ring in the world, fitted with the finest diamonds man has ever mined, just like any other man would have done – would that have been more to your liking? Mind you, Raoul – yes, I do know his name - Raoul would have still been locked in the torture chamber, because for some reason I don't know how to get a woman to say she loves me without twisting her arm behind her back!"

She opened her mouth to answer but found no voice with which to respond.

His disposition swiveled suddenly, growing morosely calm.

"No, I don't want an answer, Christine," Erik said tiredly. "I cannot trust any answer you give. Even now, you are locked down here with me against your own free will. No – no -" He held up a finger as she moved to protest. "You have no choice, Christine. I have removed that privilege from you. Not intentionally, you see, but all the same – you cannot make an honest choice as long as you remain down here with me."

"So…" Christine said, trying to understand. "So… even if I were to say I love you, you wouldn't accept it?"

"No, Christine. You cannot love me – not as we are."

"So it wouldn't mean anything, if I said I love you?"

Erik closed his eyes and took a long breath. "No… I daresay it would mean a lot, but probably not in the way you intended."

"What would it mean, then?"

His face twitched – as if to contort in rage at her never-ending slew of questions – but softened just as suddenly. He set the book aside and folded his hands in his lap, very delicately, as if a small flower were pressed between his palms and he didn't want to crush the petals. "It would be nothing more than a reminder of all the cruel and inhumane things I have done to you."

"But I do love you."

He flinched. "Please, Christine, try to understand. I just cannot accept that."

"You want to, though?"

"Yes, Christine. Desperately."

"What if you were to give me a key?" Christine asked seriously. "And then I could be free to come and go as I pleased, that way you would know I am not being coerced when I say -"

Erik held up his hand and let out a humorless laugh. "We have tried that already, if you recall. You might remember that you attempted to flee the moment the first opportunity arose. Forgive me if I have trouble trusting you with a key to this house ever again."

"But -"

"That will be all, Christine," Erik said, picking up his book and splitting it back open in a decisive way. "We will leave any thoughts of love and marriage to our own pathetic imaginations. Now, let me read my little book in peace…"

Oh, there just had to be a way to convince him that she loved him!

She knew it was a dangerous game. Every time she tried to do something nice for him, it ended as a spectacular failure. Not only that – oh, but she was so wicked for even thinking this –

The thing was, Erik had a point when he said that she couldn't say she loved him if she didn't have a choice otherwise. How could she know her feelings were real? She'd been locked – locked! – down here with him for nearly a full year, with barely any contact with anyone in the outside world. How could she not grow attached to the only other person left in her life, even if it was by his own diabolical orchestrations?

Thus! It wasn't enough to prove to Erik that she loved him; she had to prove it to herself as well. But how to do that…?