A/N: After Erik and Christine's misadventures in Mass, and her own backstory out of the way, I think it's time we grant Erik some closure regarding his mother, don't you think? Well, that is precisely what we do in this 100% brand new instalment of AMoS (holy fuck, I'll never stop saying it but, it's been two year t)! We also explore Erik's past — some playful fluff here — and the way his midlife crisis affects his relationship with Christine — a heap of angst there.

Also, a note (you're used to these at this point); despite this story being mainly Leroux-based, I did borrow off some Kay canon in placing Erik's hometown in Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville, as well as in his mother being alive during the events of the novel, so that's that.

Yay for hedgehogs.

Please R & R :)

Chapter 3: Eight Ways from Sunday

"The Fôret de Roumare*, is it? I'd never been here before, it's beautiful." A woman clad in green chirps as she looks around, skipping over a bundle of tarragon that is growing out of the forest ground. The flora seems to meld with her dress as sunlight, bright and pure, bleeds into the last remnants of the night's shades still clinging to the trees. "I don't think I'd ever visited Rouen, at all, actually."

A man dressed in black— no, he's wearing brown today, and though she's tempted to question this rare deviation from his usual ensemble of black fabric, she holds back; whatever his cause for straying from his rigid favour for the negative colour may be, it's a blessing. A man, dressed in a brown tailcoat and beige trousers that are most unlike him mutters absently as he strolls next to her, his hands entwined behind his back while he observes his emerald surroundings, the soft breeze penetrating the crevices where the fit of the mask against his skin isn't as snug. "It's not Paris, admittedly. And Quevillon* is equally unimpressive, save for the woods; I'm surprised that inn is still standing."

"Oh, don't be such a cranky old man!" She throws her arms up in mock despair, and her chuckle seems to wrap around the word "old" a little too tightly. "I'm telling you, this trip was just the thing we needed. I dread that we have to be back in Paris by nighttime. Let us not forget ourselves; Sunday is a day of rest, after all."

"Sunday is a day of assembly, sweetheart."

She twists her head to the side, an amused grin occupying her lips. "You know your Bible, monsieur."

"I was baptised Catholic, was I not?" He shrugs, pulling back a branch that would have otherwise collided with his towering height. "And while we're at it, how come you did not care for assembling with the rest of the flock today, mon coeur? "

"Well, you took the trouble to accompany me to Perros, some rest was in order." She hums as she walks beside him; upon hearing the shuffle of his browbone pushing against his artificial forehead, tongue clicking in amusement, she rolls her eyes. "And I might give Père Timothée some time to forget about you— if he ever does! I don't think I'm ready for his interrogation, which I will have to sit through, when I go back. Besides, God won't smite me if I miss Mass for once!"

Erik chuckles. "Oh, rest assured, you have reserved your place in Hell, my dove! Turning your back on your faith to fool around with your heathen of a lover! Your God must be utterly disappointed in you!"

He hears her laugh. When she turns around, he sees her, too; her sapphire eyes are laughing along with her lips, sparkling under her gaze.

"My God feeds on love, and in loving you, I'm worshipping him."

He is surprised he does not trip over. He only smiles tightly, eyes fixed to the verdant ground, and his haggard cheeks rise against his mask— his regular mask; stark white porcelain, no copper, no sophisticated shading, no invisible strings, no need for realism or caution; he knows no one walks these woods, especially at dawn, and the sun has only just risen.

He can almost feel her smile as they enter the clearing. She orbits herself once, twice, looking around, mouth hanging open. He knows it is an imposing sight, his reaction to it was much the same when he had first chanced upon this space; a symphony of green and yellow hues, the noble sun showering everything in gold, somewhere out of sight.

"This place, it's—" Christine picks up her skirts, running farther along the green, before kneeling and stretching her body over the moist surface as she grabs handfuls of grassy spikes and brings them to her nose, smelling the earth.

"Beware of the bugs." He walks by her, amused.

She ignores him, instead rolling on her back, giggling as the grass tickles her neck. A few seconds of deep breathing and basking in the sun go by, before she bothers to reply. "I never cared for the bugs, Erik. Erik?"

She tilts her head back, searching for his form, but he is nowhere to be seen. Slowly rising to her feet, her palms brushing the dirt off her lap and knees, she catches a glimpse of a loafer disappearing under the foliage of what she knows to be an elm tree.

She sprints to the base of the tree, tittering as her gaze is met with the beige of his trouser hems, now cuffed and straining against his lean frame as his knee bends to accommodate his climbing. She tugs at his sock, partially visible above the backstay of his loafer. "What are you doing?"

He turns to face her, a smile pulling at his mouth. Taking a step back against one of the swelled ridges of the trunk, he extends his hand. She gladly takes it, and allows him to pull her along. He ascends higher, and she follows meekly, her skirts tightly clutched in the single grip of her left hand, lest they catch and tear on one of the sharp branches.

He settles on a thick extension of bark that seems sturdy enough, and she hesitantly lowers herself on a bough hovering just below. "It seems like the child in both of us decided to tumble free," he snickers as he sprawls his long legs on another limb, knocking off a few thin offshoots in the process. She watches as they fall to the ground soundlessly.

His position seems hardly comfortable, his limbs contorting at odd angles to fit against the ones of the tree, but this is the most relaxed she has ever seen him. She catches him looking heavenwards as he sighs. "I used to come here a lot when I was a boy. I'd missed walking these grounds. It's a miracle that an old man such as myself can still climb these same trees."

"You're not o—" Her mouth is open, but she deems the words that she intended to speak too trivial to be uttered, as sudden realisation settles in. "You were born here." She breathes. "This is your hometown."

"No, not quite. My hometown is over there." He pulls back a mass of leafage, pointing to a small cluster of houses in the distance, barely visible amongst the trees; yellowing walls, tiled roofs in red and black, a church with a crooked spire. "Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville. It's a mere thirty minute walk from here. Make that a quarter of an hour, provided you run. I ran, most of the time."

"Why?" She hears herself ask.

"Time was no friend — he never is — and I needed to get away from those ruins, even for a few hours, even when it was dark outside. You can't imagine how relieved I was when I found this clearing, Christine. I would sneak out, almost every night, and I would come here, climb the trees, lay on the grass, and think. Dream, occasionally— yes, I dared to dream, back then. It was inevitable that I would drift off, sometimes." He smiles to himself, his fingers knocking against the trunk behind him. "Once I fell asleep on this very tree."

He slowly rises from his unconventional seating, his form hanging steadily against the tree's body. "An absolute joy to sleep on, let me tell you! And oh, when I returned — at noon, Christine! I slept past noon! — you should have seen the look on h—" Before she can register his presence being replaced with absence and a swish of wind, she observes as he inches closer to the edge of the bough and leaps to the ground.

She shoots up and almost loses her balance, her eyes seeking him amongst the branches and leaves, roving over the grass, as panic bubbles in her stomach. "Erik!"

"Right here!" She hears his voice coming from beneath her. She looks down and he is there, some three meters below. Uninjured. Whole. Smiling.

A lock from his wig hangs disheveled over the mask. He looks positively silly. She never thought he was capable of such a sight.

"Are you out of your m—"

"I've done this a thousand times before, love. I land on my feet." He explains. "I encourage you to do it, as well, if you're not too afraid. The rush of adrenaline is worth every bit of uncertainty that may come until you reach the ground."

"The ground?" She shrinks against the tree trunk, the bark scraping her back.

"No, let me rephrase that; I'll catch you. I'm not that old, I'm confident that I can do it."

Christine leans into the rough expanse of bark behind her, parting the branches, looking down. "Are you sure?"

"Do you trust me?"

She drags herself nearer to the edge of the bough that she is sitting on. It bends slightly. Before it can be deformed further under her weight, she holds her breath and pushes her body off of it.

She feels gravity pull at her skin, tug at her hair momentarily, and before she knows it, she has landed on Erik's arms with a squeal.

Her eyes are still shut tight as she pulls at his lapels, willing herself to believe that she is not dead, that there is firm soil underfoot, that the clutch of his hands at her waist is the only impact she will ever have to feel. She blinks when his grip on her body loosens.

Her eyes open reluctantly. Erik is grinning down at her.

"Good God, that… that was—" her speech gives way a shrill guffaw; the sweet ringing of her voice pulls him along, and he giggles against her shoulder as he plucks a leaf from her braid.

After their chords are sated with the convulsions of their joined laughter, he finds that the silence that they opt for while gazing into each other's eyes is not laced with uncertainty. That is, until he lowers her to the ground, and she leans into him, toying with the fabric of his collar before whispering into his ear; "Did you come here last night, as well?"

"What?"

She stares at him, a knowing smile on her lips.

"Old habits die hard. When you snuck out last night, did you come here?"

A hand comes up to rest over hers as a sigh escapes him. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"You did not. An owl did." She grins. "I didn't know how long you'd been gone. I was alarmed, but then I saw you intended to return — you'd taken the room key with you— so I went back to sleep."

He starts to walk along the blades of green, turning his back to her. "I had to visit the cemetery."

He hears her breath hitch, followed by the rustle of grass under her boots and a palm hovering over his shoulder in understanding.

"Just to make sure." A hand reaches over his shoulder, his fingers entwining in hers, then sliding further down her hand to caress the veins on her wrist, before he pulls away, resuming his solitary trail. "Our conversation, the other day. It got me thinking. I—I had to go."

She scampers to his side once again, looking up at the stern features of the mask. "And was she there?"

He hesitates, clearing his throat. "Apparently, she was not, only a week ago. She is, now."

The sky booming. The rain pouring down, pulling along the hubris from his cursed lips on its way to meet the pavement.

A compulsive hand shoots up to her mouth, covering it. "Erik, I'm–'m so sorry." Her fingers reach out to him, coiling around his waist, and her head buries itself in the soft material of his shirt.

His palm settles on the back of her head wordlessly, flattening the stray hairs that spring out in all directions.

"You—your clothes, they're—"

"Inappropriate for a son in mourning, I know." He turns to walk away, and she tags along, her arm slithering around his biceps, lightly squeezing the sinewy skin under the fabric. He barely reacts. "I know, but I will not mourn her, Christine. She was the reason I chose this particular destination for our trip. These clothes were a conscious choice, as well."

She remains silent. His eyes sink to the ground and his pace slows down and he turns to her. "Please, pardon me for having exploited our trip thus, Christine. I just needed to know, I was—"

"Worried?" Her gaze flickers to his as a hand reaches up to caress his jawline, her feet pausing in their steady sauntering.

He looks away, the force of his breath curling audibly around the edges of the mask. "Curious."

Her eyes fall to their joined arms, and her right foot meekly pulls forward, in silent invitation. He mimics her, and they resume their slow-paced walking.

"Her grave is a ghastly sight, you know." He goes on as she looks over her shoulder, the clearing gradually fading out of view behind them. "Utterly stale, where aesthetics are concerned. No one bothered, naturally; I think I ought to involve myself in its reconstruction." She can't help wincing at his dispassionate tone. "Some Carrara marble might do her good, I believe. If anything, she always was a woman of refined taste. It's the least I can — or want— to do for her. I sang her requiem last night. My debt is due."

His left hand is fingering the lining of his coat when he feels her breath near his ear. "I know I scolded you for your indifference the other day… And it's not easy hearing you talk about her like she's a liability, but— you must know, you are not indebted to her, Erik."

"Oh, but I am." His neck cranes as his eyes meet hers, but he is quick to turn from her gaze, instead focusing on the clouds of solid green they walk past as they make their way back to the inn; yews, pines, junipers. "She was the vessel that allowed me to enter this world, for better or for worse. Now it is my turn to provide her with a vessel to depart it."

Letting her head drop on his shoulder, she smiles; a sad excuse of a smile. He strokes along her back, and she allows herself to be soothed by his voice as her feet drag along the ground. For a moment, she debates asking him to carry her the rest of the way, knowing he would most likely indulge her. "How fickle life is, Christine. And marble is so beautiful. When all is said and done, my angel, when that ring will no longer belong on your finger—"

Her eyes fly open.

"—well, were I not partial to an unmarked grave, I would surely settle for some mar—"

He bites his tongue as she shoves him against the base of a sycamore, her nails clawing at his coat. "Håll käften*. Håll käften. Håll—"

"Christi—" Her wild stare cracks and flares up at the sound of his voice.

"Shut your mouth! You are alive, Erik!" The shriek that leaves her lips tears through the stillness of the woods; a bird flutters from one tree to another, nearby, and a few others soon follow. "You are alive, get used to it, you are alive and you will remain alive— Look!" She desperately clutches at his chest, the fabric of his shirt creasing between her fingers, just above the expanse of skin that covers the crevice hosting his heart, now beating violently under her hand.

He would have found her grip to be would be mildly painful, had it not been her; her pressing him violently into the tree trunk, her familiar eyes piercing his core, her determined voice and small fingers fighting to convince him that—

"You're alive, you goddamned idiot!" Her fist strikes the bark behind him, and he sees her flinch as she pulls her knuckles to her lips.

A shaky breath thrashes inside his lungs at the sight of blood slowly rising around the tiny splinters of wood embedded in her skin, and he takes her hand in his, guiding it upwards to rest against his lips. "I'm going nowhere, you foolish girl."

She wrenches her hand from his grasp and starts walking away, cringing as she picks off the splinters in the process. "I can't stand you."

He takes off running behind her, smoothing the back of his coat before his hand reaches for her. She smacks it away.

"Sweetheart, I—"

"You! What about you?" She chuckles bitterly as she faces him. "Why should I bother with you when you barely exist sometimes, Erik? When your gaze wanders off and I know you're not there— you're not here, Erik!"

"Christine."

It's slightly unnerving how his timbre can still command her to fall silent after all this time. She feels compelled to listen as her words retreat inside her throat. "I share in your sorrow, Christine. Alas, there are certain things that I am very much unable to control. You will be a young widow, my darling, and that is something that you must come to terms with." He folds his fingers in his lap, shaking his head. "There is nothing I can do about that, Christine. I'm sorry."

The silence that settles around them only tugs at her tongue harder as her rage returns tenfold, seething behind her teeth.

"No! No, you are not! If you really dreaded this — dying — you wouldn't say the things you say! The horrid things you say, Erik!" She closes the distance between them as she nears him to nudge at his sternum. "This is all a joke to you, isn't it?" She snarls.

"Christine—"

"Enough with these constant allusions to your death! I've had enough! You even laugh about it Erik, I've heard you! You laugh about it and you expect me to laugh along, like it's nothing— it's what your unrelenting nihilism commands you to do, isn't it, laugh like an idiot—" She sees him suck on his lower lip, a ghost of a smile creeping at the edge of his mouth. "I don't care, Erik! I don't care if dying will be a relief to you because you have no idea— why are you smiling, for God's sa—"

Lips. Lips crashing, lips trembling, lips opening and pulling, lips fighting against each other, against time, against all odds. Her eyes blink closed while his fingers clasp the neckline of her chartreuse-coloured gown, pulling her flush against him, and she stumbles into him, her arms twisting around his neck, seeking purchase. She feels his breath in her mouth; a solemn reminder that he is with her, he is breathing, breathing into and inside her — alive — and relief ushers her weight to sag against him, almost knocking him off balance.

He laughs against her mouth. The sound is enough to rouse her. When she opens her eyes, she only manages to get a brief glimpse of his lips climbing higher to deliver a kiss to her forehead, a thumb still brushing lightly against her cheekbone.

"Pardon your ass of a husband." He coos, and his finger moves higher to trace the shell of her ear. "His old age gets the best of him sometimes, and his faltering mind spawns terrible thoughts that his vile tongue is so keen to voice—"

"Old age?" She delivers a playful punch to his side, the back of her other hand wiping a few unshed tears from her eyes. "Your age will not account for your idiocy, monsieur. You jumped off a goddamned tree ten minutes ago!"

His chuckle vibrates on her skin as his lips trace her temple. "I love it when you cuss." A crimson blush tints her cheeks and she snaps her neck to the side, in a gentle imitation of a slanted headbutt. Her forehead softly bumps into the sleek material of the mask, and she feels him rub his brow against her hair.

"The truth of the matter is," he begins amidst two shallow breaths, "I am getting older, Christine. Someday, I'll have to leave you. The inevitability of it is crushing me at the end of each day." He sighs, only continuing after an uneasy pause. "But, for the time being, I am alive, I am here, with a heart that pumps blood for your sake alone, sentient and breathing and hopelessly in love. And I'm yours, Christine Daaé. On days like these I am a little more than alive; I am happy, Christine."

"Do you really mean that?" She takes his face between her hands, her fingers digging under the edges of the mask ever so slightly.

"Yes, Christine. I am thoroughly and completely happy. Fully and rigorously and profoundly," — he doesn't stop when she rolls her eyes, the smile shimmering in them reflecting the one in his voice — "and positively and unreservedly and unconditionally ha— did you hear that?"

"What?" She parts from him, one hand still holding on to the lapel of his coat, before he looks around, a finger motioning her to follow him.

He steps over a cluster of moss-covered rocks as he guides her around a blackberry bush, and she stares in wonder as he kneels before it, his hand reaching inside it, feeling about for something unseen.

"Erik, what are—" She yelps when the bush apparently hisses at his probing fingers, and takes a step back, much to his amusement.

He titters over his shoulder as his knee pulls back, slowly rising to his full stature. "Tell me, Christine," he turns around, a huffing ball of spikes roughly the size of his palm cradled in his hands, "have you ever held a hedgehog?"

Fôret de Roumare: A gorgeous forest only forty minutes away (by foot) from Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville.

Quevillon: A small town adjacent to Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville, where our couple is staying for the night.

håll käften (tr. Swedish): shut your mouth