Chapter 5

It was the low, yet sharp sound of knuckles wrapping on wood that woke her. Starting, Christine instinctively tightened her hold on his neck and felt his lips against her forehead, soothing her.

"It is alright," he said reassuringly.

As if on cue, the door swung open and the tiniest, most wizened looking old man blinked up at them through one eye suspiciously. He looked like an aged, gnarled tree stump, his skin rough looking, like bark. Thick white hair covered his head, and he had an equally white beard that was braided in a long plait. Christine was immediately reminded of a tomte, a gnome from the stories of her childhood. Tomtes were said to leave gifts, and every year her Papa had left her a trail of sweets along her bedroom floor, saying that the little creatures had visited in the night while she had been sleeping.

The little man eyed her with undisguised wariness. When he spoke, his voice was deeper than she would have ever imagined—rich and melodic with a foreign accent that seemed vaguely familiar, but that she couldn't quite place. It made her take an instant liking to him, despite his surly scowl.

"I've told you," he said admonishingly, "pay me your rent in francs, you brute. What do you call this?" he demanded, gazing up at them both in obvious exasperation. He stood no more than four feet tall but he met Erik's gaze challengingly, making it abundantly clear that if he didn't get a satisfactory explanation, he might bend them both over one knee. His authoritative, grumpy countenance made Christine rethink her tomte theory.

"Sheis not payment. She is my...guest," Erik stated defensively, gripping Christine in his arms a little more tightly. An awkward silence followed before Christine decided that proper introductions were dictated even in a strange situation such as this.

"How do you do?" she said with all the proper grace and politeness Mme. Giry had ingrained in her from her earliest days in the corps de ballet. Of course it was rather difficult to do a proper curtsey while enfolded protectively within Erik's arms.

The old man studied them carefully through narrowed eyes. "Well, you and your guest," he emphasized the word as though he didn't quite believe it, "better come in, before the rain. There's a storm brewing."

Waddling away from the doorway muttering, the old man disappeared into the little stone cottage and Erik followed, stepping over the threshold.

It was small, and in the warm glow afforded by a few stuttering oil lamps she noted it was impeccably tidy. A square room greeted them with a well-worn Persian carpet on the wooden floor, a table with two chairs, a brick fireplace with two armchairs facing it, and a rickety wooden table placed between them. Christine recognized both the Persian rug and one of the armchairs as Erik's—she remembered them clearly from his home beneath the opera house. She wondered how they survived the fire, hoping fervently that perhaps his organ, piano and violin had survived as well, however unlikely.

A tiny kitchen lay to the right of the front door, brass pots and pans hanging from hooks and gleaming in the soft light of the single candle the little man was clutching. He was now making his cumbersome way toward a darkened doorway that led off the room; Christine wondered if more rooms lay beyond its veil. She saw the old man limp heavily, and with each footfall something heavy sounding clunked and echoed in the quiet room. One of his legs was made of wood. It looked very painful. Christine felt a rush of sympathy.

"I'm going back to bed," he declared over one shoulder, "I am too old to be playing chaperone, and too tired at the moment to truly enjoy saying I told you so. Goodnight Erik, and guest."

And with that, he disappeared beyond the dark doorway.

Christine gazed up at Erik questioningly, about to inquire who the grumpy man was, what he meant by I told you so, and where exactly they were when all thought ground to a halt, never making it to her tongue.

"You're wet," he said, his voice barely audible and his eyes boring into her with an intensity that made her shiver. They were so close, all it would take was a tilt of her head and she would be able to taste his words rather than simply hear them.

"And cold," he stated before she had a chance to reply. His voice, though only barely above a whisper seemed to echo in the empty room. "I'm afraid my cloak did not suffice."

Suddenly, he was setting her down on the ground and striding away from her. He reached one of the arm chairs where a quilted blanket lay, pulled it into his hands and strode back to her, depositing it around her trembling frame. His hands lingered at her shoulders as he adjusted it, making sure no bare skin was exposed to the cool air. For a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped to her mouth.

"Erik—" she began, but then he was releasing her and striding into the kitchen, pulling down implements and lighting the stove.

"Tea," he was murmuring absently, not looking at her. "Hot tea. We must get you warm. Yes. I will prepare a cup of tea, then light the fire." He sounded as though he were speaking to himself, but suddenly his sharp blue eyes were on her, pinning her to the ground.

"Please," he said, and she couldn't help but feel a great tenderness at his formally polite tone. Cherished memories of her first visits to his underground home swirled before her. He had been immaculate, then. Always clean-shaven, suit and cravat impeccable. At times, his neatness was most intimidating.

Gazing at him now, his natural hair cropped shortly, face shadowed with stubble, cheeks pale and hollowed. Gaunt. And above all else, no mask. Christine was pleased he had not worn one, replacing it with the scarf instead—yet for some reason she could not name, its absence seemed somehow ominous. She still noted the way he carefully tried to keep the mottled side of his face turned away from her at all times, the way he avoided direct light, even the soft muted glow of the lamps. The angry redness of his deformity was stark in contrast to his overly pale, ashen skin. His misshapen, nearly collapsed cheek bone and nose still looked like poorly melted candle wax. Christine felt her curiosity at who the cranky little man with the wooden leg was increase; other than herself and Mme. Giry, she had never known Erik to show his face to another living soul.

Living soul. The accusations against him still rang in her ears. Madman. Extortionist.

Murderer.

"Have a seat while I prepare your drink," he said gently, as though sensing her dark musings. "Anywhere you like."

"Thank you," she said, and meant it. Taking a seat in the nearest armchair, she felt her feet and body sigh gratefully as the cushions sank comfortably under her weight. Hands clasped in her lap, more to prevent them trembling than the need to appear refined, she watched him move about the kitchen noiselessly, his movements practiced and deft. It reminded her forcefully of how much she had missed the grace of him, whether he had a violin in his hands, or a piano beneath his fingertips. An ink pen held between his teeth as he composed, pausing to catch it now and then to scribble on endless pages.

A hand on her thigh, her skirt bunched within his fist, gliding it higher. Would he still tremble she wondered, if he were to touch her that way again?

Pushing down that particular query with flushed cheeks, she asked "How long have you lived here?" trying to sound conversational.

"Since you moved into the estate," he replied bluntly, busying himself with a copper kettle. Christine tried to quash the jolt of hurt that rose within her at his flippancy. All that time, all those months and he was here. Alive. Did he truly think it had not affected her, thinking he was dead? Burned in the fire that nearly destroyed them both? Forcing herself to remain controlled, she glanced about the room, calming herself by taking in every tiny detail.

There was only one aged photograph tucked against the mantel, of a child with a sweet, if not sad smile.

"Your friend," she asked, thinking of the little old man and his wooden leg. "You have known him long?"

He didn't respond for a moment, then carefully he replied "Yes. I had not seen him in years, and it was coincidence that he happened to live nearby. Convenient for me, if not for him. That was his daughter."

Christine's gaze flew back to him, and saw he had paused in his preparations and was staring at her.

"She is very pretty."

His expression was inscrutable. "Yes, she was."

"Was?" she asked, sadly. The girl had sweet, gentle eyes.

"Yes."

"I am sorry," she said softly, catching the sorrow he was unable to hide as she watched his profile. He let out a short breath, the barest hint of a grim smile touching his lips. "I know you are. You would be."

She felt her cheeks begin to burn anew; the adoration was raw and unguarded in his voice.

"You are always kind," he said softly, almost to himself.

Christine dropped her gaze to her folded hands, embarrassed but filled with nameless tender emotions. "You are kind, too."

Erik's expression darkened. "No. I am not kind."

"You are," she insisted gently. "You forget—we have been friends for nearly ten years now. I do not think it too forward for me to say that I know you."

She knew that friends was not the right word to use when they were something so much more undefinable. The lines that had constantly been drawn between them were endlessly changing; always being redrawn. Both of them pushed the other, yet when it was more important than ever he believe her faith in his goodness, she could tell he was drawing inward, closing himself off.

"You obviously do not agree with the newspapers account of my character then," he said wryly, but she could hear the self-deprecation in his tone. The self-loathing.

"I trust that the man I knew," she replied, "and believe he will explain his actions when he is ready to. I thought you dead. We do not have to answer to anyone tonight. Even ourselves."

He nodded once, but said nothing. She could see emotions play across his face; fear, guilt, despair and suffering. Hope. She thought of his mask, at how much he had been able to hide from her until she had grown bold enough to return his unwavering stares. His eyes, like his distorted face, were intensely expressive. Penetrating. Those eyes had changed her life.

"Here," he had made his way to her side, holding out a steaming cup set upon a small saucer. In his other hand, he had a plate of what looked like biscuits.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the cup. Their fingers brushed together, and she forced a smile that was far more serene than she felt. He watched her intently until she took a sip.

"Is it sweet enough? We have no cream. I...I could fetch you more sugar, if it is not to your liking."

"No, thank you. It is perfect."

"Good," he said and the relief in his voice was nearly tangible. "Good," he repeated more forcefully, before setting the plate of biscuits down on the rickety wooden table beside her chair.

"If you will excuse me a moment," he said rather formally, with a slight nod.

"Not at all," she answered with equal politeness, grateful for the warmth radiating from the teacup to soothe her chilled fingers.

He seemed to debate for a moment more, before turning to disappear into the kitchen. Re-emerging seconds later holding a box of matches, he knelt down by the charred old fireplace and began to coax a spark from the dry logs in the grate. It didn't take him long, and still kneeling on the floor as the flames began to soothe her cold face, he turned to look at her.

"Can I fetch you another blanket—?"

"Oh no, thank you I'm quite warm now."

Silence lapsed between them. Then, with the greatest effort she could ever remember him exhibiting he said awkwardly, "The storm will be welcome after so many weeks of parched heat; I hear it is most disagreeable for the vineyards."

Tea. Blankets. The weather. Had they ever, in all their times together been so properly civilized? Unable to contain it, Christine let out a soft laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"I'm sorry," she managed, his expression of utterly endearing bemusement only causing her to laugh harder. She hiccupped, placing a hand against her chest and trying to regain her composure. "It's just...I thought I'd never see you again. I thought I was going mad, and now here we are in a lovely little cottage in the country, talking of tea and the weather."

"Would it help if I admitted I baked the biscuits myself?"

That did it. Christine let out a loud snort, shoulders shaking with mirth. Quickly, she slapped a hand to her mouth realizing she might wake their grumpy chaperone who was snoring softly somewhere in the back rooms. She regarded Erik over her hand as though begging him to have mercy, to bring some sense of sanity back to their upside down world.

She should have known better.

A slow smile began to spread across Erik's face. Without his mask to hinder it, she noted that when he smiled—truly smiled—his mouth became lopsided. She cherished this secret, hoping with all her heart she would continue to discover more.

"They're delicious," she managed, imagining Erik in an apron and chef's hat, exuberantly whisking whilst humming the scandalous Habanera from Carmen. "Perhaps you missed your true calling as a chef manifique," she added, unable to contain her giggles. When had she last laughed like a child? The sensation was intoxicating, and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment and a happiness she thought never to feel again.

Erik let out a half-chuckle, which made her all the more amused to see the way he tried so valiantly to keep his own amusement hidden. "You may be right. Do you recall when overnight the company began to rave about Chef Léon's beef bourguignon?"

Christine muffled her laughter with her blanket. "No! Everyone thought it was a miracle! That was you? You never told me! How did you manage to get past Léon? The man was an utter maniac with a wooden spoon."

Erik said nothing, but arched an eyebrow at her suggestively, his mouth still shaped in a small, lop-sided grin. He was teasing her.

The tension broke between them in an instant, and the magnitude of their escape and its impact seemed nothing more glorious than the intoxication of adrenaline, and being near each other once again. As thunder rumbled outside the little cottage, they both tried in vain to control their laughter, like two little children sneaking about after bedtime.

Perhaps they were both mad.

Yet it had been so long since they had been close this way together. Natural, unburdened. In this place it seemed so much more natural and easy. No Opera with its responsibilities, managers and hundreds of patrons literally hanging over their heads. No expectations. No Phantom. It was quiet, removed, and as more thunder rumbled softly somewhere in the distance, it felt like a quiet prelude. Like the yawning vibration of a pipe organ's refrain; something that seeped inside your very bones and made you feel alive.

Erik's face in relaxed laughter however slight was a sight to behold. His eyes lit from within, and like everything else about him it held a musical timbre that was deep and vibrant. It was beautiful.

Sliding from her chair impulsively, Christine bundled her blanket around herself and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Slowly, he matched her movements, until they were seated together before the fire, like two best friends telling stories before bedtime.

Mastering themselves, they continued to catch each other's eye almost shyly. Taking a long, blissful sip of her tea, Christine sighed as the hot drink warmed her insides and drove away the chill. When she caught Erik's eye again he was watching her, all traces of shyness gone. Studying her as though every movement she made were of vital importance.

Taking one more sip, she held out the cup to him invitingly.

She saw him hesitate, then slowly reach out and take the cup from her. Goosebumps shot up her arm as his eyes focused on her mouth. Suddenly she was keenly aware of all the places on her body she had ever felt, or hoped to feel his touch. Tingling with awareness and watching as he took a careful sip from her cup, Christine knew she couldn't maintain a respectable distance from him for much longer. There was something scandalously intimate about sharing a drink this way, and though her sleep deprived, muddled mind had accepted that he was truly here with her, now she needed to feel this truth as well.

"Raoul and I are not lovers," she stated without preamble, her cheeks aflame but her gaze steadfast.

A choke; a snort, and then he was coughing, and blanket forgotten she rose from her position on the floor to thump his back helpfully. His face was beet red, whether from her bold declaration or lack of air she couldn't tell. Eyes streaming, he gasped for a moment and tried to collect himself.

"That is...welcome news," he said, his voice a strained rasp. She couldn't help the shiver that passed through her in appreciation of the timbre of his deep voice. She made to touch his cheek with her hand but he caught her wrist, halting her movement. Hurt confusion flickered across her face until he began to pull her closer.

Christine allowed him to draw her forward until she was kneeling in front of him, knees touching his crossed legs.

With all the gentle deftness of a musician used to coaxing heavenly chords from his instrument, his hand left her wrist to skim delicately up her arm. He traced the line of her shoulder, coming to rest at the base of her neck, his fingertips pressing lightly on the pulse that beat there. His eyes slid shut and for a moment they sat in silence, Christine watching his discordant face in the flickering light of the fire, while he felt her pulse beat a steady but rapid staccato against his fingers.

Erik's expression smoothed into serious lines, brow furrowed in concentration. Tilting his head slightly toward her, he seemed to be listening closely to her pulse, her breath—the energy crackling just beneath her skin at his touch—and it was a symphony he was learning, memorizing, rediscovering with each passing moment.

His hand slid from her pulse and began to stroke the column of her throat, his fingers light and gentle, like the innate pressure one might use on a violin string.

"Every moment," he finally said, eyes still closed, "every moment—from my very first, I think—I have loved you."

In the wake of his words, she found breath elusive. "As I love you," she whispered, and her heart stung to see the look of unreserved pain that flashed across his features. His jaw clenched as his large hand slid around her throat encompassing it completely, his touch firm but not restrictive.

Cradling her voice, the instrument he had helped shape, nurture and encourage.

"How?" he asked, sounding both miserable and filled with disbelief. It broke her heart to hear. "How can you love me?"

"Because I am yours," she said simply, softly. He said nothing for a moment, then his eyes opened and they were the colour of a dark, storm-filled sky.

"Could you—I need—" he began, and she recognized the emotional strain and what it tended to do to him. Rendered him speechless, or incoherent. Touch, loving words. They still had the power to bring him to his knees. She knew what he wanted.

Slowly, as one would approach a wounded animal she lifted her hand again and pressed her palm against the mottled, contorted side of his face.

A visible shudder racked his body, his expression pained but he remained perfectly still as his eyes slid shut. She could feel his muscles tensing, the hand on her throat reflexively tightening just a fraction. Then it slipped downward, to rest against the rise and fall of her chest as though needing to feel her heartbeat at its source. She could tell he wished to turn his face away from her touch, years of overwhelming instinct screaming to hide his deformity—yet his body also begged for it. She explored his face gently, almost clinically. Feeling the uneven skin for bumps or sores; getting him at least partially used to her acceptance of his twisted features again. A shaky sigh escaped him, his body deflating slightly as though he had been prepared for a mortal blow. Her fingertips brushed across his temple, then swept downward to what should have been the bridge of his nose, but instead was a mound of collapsed flesh.

She had often wondered how Erik could have such lung capacity, such power in his voice when it was so difficult for him to breathe properly at times. One of the many miracles he was. To Christine, it just proved that his tenacity, talent and God-given gift was more powerful, was so much more than his body could ever contain. The pads of her fingers found the skin just beside his buckled nose to be slightly sticky, and she realized just as he sucked in an almost silent breath of pain that he had the remnants of a deep gash running along the side of his nose.

"Where did you get this?" she asked gently, concerned. She made to pull her hand away, afraid that she had hurt him when he leaned forward into her caress, obviously unwilling to forgo her touch.

"It is nothing," he murmured hoarsely, his eyes opening to regard her. There was shame there. "Just another scar."

Christine felt her heart constrict at his resignation, at the deep sadness in his gaze. It pulled her, drew her in and suddenly she had dropped her hand from his face and was shifting her still damp nightdress off her left shoulder. It slid down, until his hand brushed against the very top swell of her breasts. Offering. Tempting. Once creamy skin now ran in a jagged line from shoulder to the top of her breast, a patchwork of scarred burns, mementos of the fire. She gasped slightly at the sensation of his calloused fingers on the sensitive flesh.

His gaze dropped instantly to her chest, gaze narrowed as he delicately pulled back her nightdress to reveal a latticework of more scars, deep purple and slightly raised. He looked at them incredulously, his fingers ghosting over them as though he couldn't believe his eyes. Then his features twisted with compassion, and when his gaze rose to meet hers she had never seen him look so undone. His eyes were a bright blue, and wet. He said nothing, for his expression said it all.

"Sometimes there are things worth suffering for," she said, repeating his earlier words. He blinked rapidly, then bowed his head. His shoulders shook once, twice. His hand came up to hide his face, but she had already seen the wetness glisten on his cheeks. The suppressed breaths that hitched in his throat.

"I—I am—sorry, so sorry," he managed.

Without thought, she began to sing to him. Softly. A folk song her Papa had sung to her as a child. Soothing. Her voice was his remedy.

His gaze softened, and his breathing calmed. A small unconscious smile shaped his lips. It was heartrending to behold, for it seemed to burn bright then flicker out, as though he were not used to sustaining such contented feelings for long moments at a time.

The damaged side of his face was curiously immobile, the skin too malformed and taut looking to accommodate any discernible countenance, yet she could see he was entranced. When her voice cracked on a rising note, she stopped and bowed her head with a rueful sigh.

"I am out of practice. My teacher would be appalled."

Erik said nothing, his fingers tilting her chin upward, eyes suddenly fierce. Burning. Her cheeks flushed, his gaze somehow more intimate than her bared skin and his caresses. They were close. She could feel heat radiating from his skin.

He tilted his head toward her ever so slightly, cautiously, and then his mouth was touching hers. Softly, barely a brush of breath and warmed skin.

It was the spark that ignited them both.

Within seconds, his hands were cradling her head and she had risen to her knees, arms winding about his neck, fingers buried in his hair. It was bruising, claiming and desperate. She pushed against his body, wanting to be closer, practically climbing into his lap while he drew her to him like a man starved for centuries.

Heat scorched its way through her body, the sensation and taste of him too much and yet not nearly enough. Parting her lips against his she sought more of his taste, seeking something deeper. A growl, husky as it rumbled on the tail end of a groan sent shivers through her body as he picked her straight up and drew her toward him. Her legs instinctively winding around either side of his waist, her weight settling fully into his lap.

Erik swore an oath hoarsely into her mouth. Christine murmured something into his, their lips parting briefly, the sensation of replete contact so blissful it hurt.

Softness against hardness.

She reveled in it, allowing her body to sink utterly against his, her thin nightdress unable to hide the heat of her flushed skin. His hands slid down her neck to tangle in her hair. Drawing her head back, his mouth descended on hers with a thirst that was insatiable.

Christine matched his fervent assault, placing her hands on either side of his face, completely lost and burning with a need she still could not fully comprehend. She needed to tell him. She had said they need not ask any questions tonight, to simply rejoice in the miracle of each other's company once again. But she needed him to understand how much she wanted this. Wanted him.

"I came back," she confessed, pulling back just enough to speak into his parted lips. "The night of Don Juan. The fire. After you told me to leave you. I was hurt, and frightened. You frightened me."

Their lips still connected between her words, between breaths. She felt him lay soft kisses against the corner of her mouth, her bottom lip. At her words, the bruising fever of moments before slowly tempered to a tenderness that made her feel as though she were about to fall apart in his arms, limbs too full and heavy with pleasure and candor as she continued, taking the chance she had thought she would never have.

"I came back to find you. I wanted to tell you..."

She felt his fingers against her temple, gently stroking the soft curls away from her temple, as though he still couldn't quite believe she was real and not a dream.

"Tell me...?" he murmured, brushing his lips against hers dazedly.

"That I would bind myself to you, forever. That I wanted you for my husband."

Of all the many times she had imagined speaking this truth to him, all the days she had carried the words around inside her like a wound, raw and aching; nothing could have prepared her for his reaction to their sincerity.

For a breathless moment, he was completely still.

Then without warning he stood so abruptly she had to scoot backwards to avoid being knocked over. Turning from her he began to pace about the room, a wild energy pouring from his every muscle. Thunder began to clap in earnest outside the cottage now, punctuating his disturbed movements as he clenched and unclenched his fists, pacing the floor like a caged animal ready to strike.

Christine opened her mouth to say something, but instinct cautioned her to keep silent. Reaching the wall furthest from her, he stopped pacing and braced both hands against it, as though it supported his control. She saw his back heaving with the effort, and prepared herself for the painful sound of his fist connecting with solid stone.

But it never came.

"Wildflowers," he managed through clenched teeth. Eyes filled with tears, Christine watched him struggle to maintain his temper. She said nothing, unsure of his meaning but waited patiently for him to continue.

"I gave you wildflowers," he continued, his usually smooth dark timbre now rasping as he fought for control. "For your room. I...had spent weeks growing them from seedlings. I had spent weeks more preparing what I wanted to say to you, how I would ask you."

"Ask me...?" she queried softly, although realization was settling in.

Blowing out a shaky sigh, he turned from the wall and leaned back against it. He didn't meet her eyes for a moment but she saw his jaw tensing, as though trying to eject the words from his throat.

"To marry me," he confessed roughly. Then he let out a short humorless laugh, which carried a hollow note that made her heart ache.

"Weeks," he murmured. "So many, they became years. Years of planning every gift, every moment. Every touch." His face crumpled, but he squeezed his eyes shut resolutely, turning the look of anguish into a grimace of restraint. "I thought I was truly saving you that night by sending you away."

Suddenly he swore savagely, breathing ragged as he shook with anger and grief. "Your scars are my fault. Mine," he growled, his temper flaring. It burnt out just as quickly and he bowed his head, shoulders sagging with dry, silent sobs he was desperately trying to contain.

"Forgive me."

It was a request. A prayer.

In a matter of seconds she was on her feet, across the room and in his arms. As soon as she touched him he was reaching for her, desperate and inelegant.

Christine wrapped herself around him, hands buried in his hair, lips pressed against whatever she could reach. She could feel them going under, but it was welcome. Tonight, they would reach inside and draw out every emotion that had been denied, and drown in them all.

Tonight, they would find release.

To be continued very soon. Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome.