Thank you so much for sticking with me! More fluff to come, before some new adventures 3 Happy reading!

*-* Erik & Christine XIX - Christmas is here

Their first Christmas together. It used to be a favorite moment of the year for her. When her father was alive, they would spend time just the two of them, heading down to their house in Provence, made a fire in their big chimney, and she would sing as he played the violin, just the two of them, good food and the warmth of their love. It lasted a week, but these were some of the most cherished memories she had of them together.

She would watch the snow fall from their roof, covering the fields all around, see the small frozen river in her backyard. Hear how silent everything was, smell the freshness of the air.

Listen to the song of the wind in the leafless trees.

Her father would go and bring back a huge pine tree they would decorate together, and a tiny Angel figure on top of it. Surrounded in blankets, they would sing Christmas Carols and silly songs, and make an entire week worthy of food. The gifts they'd exchanged would never be much, be they were always thoughtful, and that had always sufficed.

Now, after he'd died, she'd stopped celebrating. What use was there? So she stayed in her flat, back in the big City, all miserable and crying, too numb to leave her bed, not noticing the day had passed when she dragged herself over on the 26th. The second year was better, but not by much. She drank a bit too much and stayed in bed, her eyes still half closed and red from the tears. She couldn't remember the third.

Now, her fourth year after he'd died, she wasn't alone anymore. For some reason, she hadn't even thought of discussing with him, as if by an unspoken agreement he would always be there with her.

She had time before the new rehearsals started, in January. Two full weeks she could devote to their Christmas holidays.

But would they stay here? Go back to her house? Or to his, where she'd spent most of the summer anyway?

She would have to discuss their plans.

So that Monday morning, after the last show, she was dozing in bed, her head over his chest, as he playing with her hair.

"Do you have any ideas what to do on Christmas day? For the holidays?"

"Have you any wishes for what you would like to do?"

"No… Perhaps… Go back down to Provence, and have our Christmas there. Would you like to come to my home?"

It struck her as she said those words he'd never been inside. He'd come to dry her tears on her roof, but had never entered. Just like here, he would barely fit in her tiny bed. But somehow, rekindling her childhood Christmas habits meant going back there.

His manor was grand and beautiful, but didn't quite fit her idea of what Christmas should look like. It was a time to be cozy and close and warm.

"Of course I would, if you'll have me."

"I used to spend it with my father. After he died… I…"

"I'm honored you wish to spend it with me."

She clutched him tighter, and he drove his fingers on long soothing circles on her back.

And that was it.

The following evening saw them both driving down to Provence, and it was a bit different from their last trip. She kept tugging at his hand, over the crutch. Christmas music on the radio, both singing along to the tunes. He didn't know them very well, but as usual, he was a fast learner, and by the end of the first hour, he knew them all so well she'd have sworn he'd sung them all his life.

Slowly, the landscapes changed, from the roads and flat fields to the rolling hills, and small mountains in the distance.

She was back home.

"You have to invite me in, you know."

"Is that rule true? You never told me that."

"It is only proper Human behavior, isn't it? I want to do this right."

She smiled, and took his hand as she unlocked her door.

"Welcome to my home."

She had tidied it a bit before leaving for Paris, bringing back her suitcase of clothes and other essentials. She'd always been one to pack light when she traveled. So of course, now, the house was a bit tidier than it'd been when she'd come back last summer.

So many things had happened since then.

She was definitely not the same person anymore. The core was the same, but she had grown.

She led him to the center of the living room, observing him as he took in her home, every piece of her childhood shown and bare to his gaze. It wasn't so different from her flat back in Paris, and yet somehow it was.

A hidden part of her, the place where she'd fallen in love with him.

He looked at the photographs on the mantel, the trinkets displayed here and there.

"It is a beautiful home."

"Thank you."

He saw the old violin her father had left there, one that had been in their family for generations. Her father had used a more modern version, for concerts and performances, in his professional life, but this one had remained her, for their holidays. When he used it, here, it was always a treat. And old fiddle, with a long history, made for long winter nights, and warm summer evenings outdoor.

"It was my father's. It's been in our family for generations. You can play it if you want."

"Do you play it?"

She had never told him, and it seemed strange that he'd never asked, knowing her father's love for the instrument, but somehow he'd always presumed she was a vocalist first and foremost.

"It's been a while, and I always had a fondness for my voice, and how easy I trained it, but… I guess I can."

"Will you?"

"I'm not sure…"

"As always, my dear. You know I won't judge you. But if you wish to try, you should. Move on past your fears."

Perhaps that was one of the things she liked best about him, how he always challenged her, made her think through anything. How he pushed her to be her best self, to move past her fears. He was never hard or judging, but her shadow, her way forward.

He had been her voice, her teacher, her best friend, her way past her grief. He had pushed her to open up, to see beyond what she thought she could do. Had opened the doors of her dreams.

Perhaps she could claim one more thing that had been left in the past and the shadow of her father's.

His violin.

Slowly, with gentle hands, he took it from his casket, and delicately held it over to her.

She could still refuse, she saw it in his eyes.

He would understand. He always did.

But she could hear the gentle sound of the strings blowing towards her, the ghost of his melody whispering to her, lighting her soul with wanting. With wishing.

Would you? Will you?

Haunting sounds.

With trembling fingers, she took it and raised it against her shoulder, setting her chin against the polished wood. The movement felt so natural, fitting so well against her tiny frame, she exhaled a great sigh.

She closed her eyes, brought her bow on the strings, and played a long, resonant note.

It was as if some other part of her had been unleashed, and set free. Her singing had been one way to express herself, to set her emotions on fire, to express what she could never tell, to become a thousand different things.

But this was different still.

This was a connection, profound with a material as old as he was. Older than her, than this house.

It was a duet. Taming the instrument, letting it trust her to become more than the sum of its parts. In the sound, she could feel her father playing, and her grandmother, and all the others in her family who had played that same melody for hundreds of years.

In that tune, a simple, old Swedish folk song she'd known in many different forms, there was the gentle way of life she'd always known and longed for. The sound of the sun over the meadows, the water in the river lazily running through the fields of wild flowers. The fjords and ice glaciers whispering their ancient and wild and untamable power.

It was nature itself, bound to her, binding her to the circle of life and death and all of her family members who had released the violin's music.

The movements were coming back to her, the sound haunting and vibrant.

She stopped, out of breath, to look at him.

He thought she was glowing. From the first note she took, from the first hint of melody, he thought he'd need to sit down.

She was again speaking to him, evoking the wildest things in his mind.

Her playing was good. Brilliant. She was transporting him to places he'd never been, felt the sun on his skin, and the caress of the wind. Smelled the brine of the northern shores where her ancestors had played with this very instrument.

In her melody was a story of love and family, of travel and roots long gone but still there, long abandoned but never lost.

She was here, but her spirit was elsewhere, and through music, he could follow her in her journeys, read her story as it was being unveiled to him, in things he'd never asked her yet.

It was all there, plain as day, for who could understand her language. And of course, he could understand her.

It was a feeling he'd never felt before, not even with his Angel. His old Christine had been an Angel, a wonderful, beautiful, kind and compassionate woman who had saved him, who first out of everyone else, had spoken his language.

But he had not understood her. He'd hurt her. Driven her away.

This Christine was there, now. She knew of his past, but had accepted it was past. He had never hurt her, was a part of her as much as she was a part of him. And through her music, now, he could feel how she was inviting him, again, to join her, to unite his voice, his violin, any instrument he played, to understand her.

To be there, with her.

To be her anchor and tell her story the same way she did.

He'd thought she was a great singer. He knew she loved stories.

But she was a master storyteller, as well, weaving her stories around him as a witch her spells.

And she was taking him with her, on her journey to the past.

Her past.

Now, as night went on and she kept on playing, her eyes unfocused, yet acutely aware of her surroundings and his presence, he could only stay still, watching in his mind's eyes her inner world enfold, as perfectly and brightly as if he'd read her soul.

She stopped.

He blinked, unable to breathe, to move, to release a single sigh.

It was like stepping away from a good dream, or a trance. Never quite sure where you were and what had happened.

Finally, as she looked at him with her love and longing in her eyes, he whispered:

"I understand you."

And it was all she needed to hear.

She set it down, gently, and threw herself in his arms. One other door broken down, one root regrown.

She was slowly but surely blossoming a little more each day.

Healing.

They went to sleep, in her small bed, and he was growling they'd need to acquire another.

"Oh, my dear. Aren't we cozy in here? Especially since you don't sleep."

"It is for your health and good sleep, my love."

"We will, later. Now let's just enjoy how near we are."

So far, the small bed had not proved too inconvenient.

The next day, they set out to prepare Christmas. He'd called his usual Seer to help him get groceries, and they'd prepared the tree and the decorations. They hadn't needed much, but she'd insisted on putting her old Christmas ornaments.

Old things from her father, and mother, and grandparents too.

He'd brought a tree, huge and heavy with the wildest green branches, and they'd put plenty of red and white and gold garlands.

And at the top, a small white and gold Angel with a harp.

Their private joke.

On the morning of the 24th, after the last minute preparations, they'd spent the day cooking, just for her, of course, but he'd loved it. Small but delightful meals.

Of course, they'd set up their gifts underneath the Christmas tree, with cards accompanying them.

Now, they could retreat to the living room, the scent of the turkey filling the air.

He was on her lap, for a change, as she caressed his soft hair, and listening to an old classical album. Music would never stop leaving them, living inside of them.

She sang along, and he'd closed his eyes, listening to her heart, his nostrils filled with the smell of her happiness. Today, it was cold snow, sleepy forests and pine trees. Earthy and fresh, with a hint of the rose he loved.

"Such a perfect day," she whispered.

"Best of all, with you. Best Christmas ever for me."

"The best in four years, for sure."

Her sadness would always be there, in some way, even though he'd tried his best to cheer her up.

But shaking away her grief would take many, many long years.

They went to eat, and he looked at her as she ate, and he'd had a glass of blood to accompany her, as she'd told him she wasn't freaked out by that.

In her mind, though, it was the first hint of something she'd been thinking about for a few months, as her relationship with him intensified and solidified. One day, if she wanted to go on with him, she would have to decide what to do with her own human life. To go on, and die, or ask him to change her, and become a vampire herself. That would have more implications than she was ready to discuss or think about. And of course, he would have to agree.

Being stuck with her for the rest of eternity, that wasn't something hastily chosen.

Every meal he created was delicious. Somehow, his perfect senses allowed him to mix the perfect balance of condiments and smells, the taste always a great treat for her senses.

By the end, she was stuffed, but the best way.

They ended up on the couch, offering gifts.

She'd given him a new instrument. An old sitar, found in an old Parisian music shop. To remind him of his travels.

"Dearest Erik,

I love you. To our first Christmas together, and I hope there will be plenty more. You're one of the best things to ever happen to me.

Much love.

Your Christine."

He'd taken this card into his hands with trembling fingers, his heart close to starting again. What joy he'd felt, again, to know she loved him, to see it written, to realize she truly loved him, and this was real, and not a dream.

His first Christmas.

Not even when he'd given his old Christine lessons had they celebrated together.

He'd given her the week off, and while she'd wished him a merry one, he hadn't been gifted anything.

What do you offer an Angel, after all? He couldn't hold it against her.

And the second one, well. He'd been leaving her to write his Don Juan, and she'd been playing married with her lover. Not the best time to celebrate either.

He'd taken his time to find her a gift.

With luck, it would only be the first of many.

But in any case, he'd only ever wanted the best for her.

"You are my heart, my life, my music. I wish you the merriest of Chrismas, my love.

Yours in all things, forever,

Your Erik."

She'd nearly cried, too, of happiness, but slowly taken off the wrappings around her gift.

It was a rather narrow box, and inside was a beautiful set of earrings and a necklace. They were just sparkly enough to tell her how precious they were, but light enough to be worn when she wanted it. The earring were small round sapphires, and the necklace silver, a sapphire music note inside a small circle of diamonds.

"For your eyes," he whispered as he attached it to her. "You look beautiful, as always."

"They really do match my eyes."

And they offset her hair, a great balance with her dress too.

He kissed her then, feeling her lipstick on his lips. It was unusual for her to wear some, and he was distracted by the taste.

"How do you find it?" she whispered in his ear. "I was told it's bright red as blood."

"It's delicious, but not as much as you."

"Mmm. You're teasing me now."

"Not as much as you."

She smiled, and took his hand to dance along to their music. He slowly, gently rocked her around the room, avoiding furniture as they glided on the tiled floor. And then she began singing, a song of love and loss, curled in his arms, her head on his shoulder.

He held her close, so close, so near his heart.

Every day with her had been a blessing, a joy he wasn't sure he deserved, but by now, he would never cease to hope for more time with her, for more joy to befall her, for more success on her career.

He loved her, more than anyone else before, and he wanted everything for her. Holding her in his arms always felt the most precious treasure on the entire Universe, and he felt the presence of the divine when she was with him, directing her eyes on his.

She sang, and her voice brought him to pieces, to his knees.

He would never, ever, get enough.

But this was a question for another day.