His Living Bride
Christine sighed as she slowly walked down the stairs in the small flat on the Rue de Rivoli. Nadir had invited her to take tea with him that afternoon, and she had accepted gratefully. The strain of the past few weeks had taken their toll on her, and she was desperate for a friendly face, if a somewhat unfamiliar one. It had taken her three weeks to finally make up her mind about what the right decision had been that night below the Opera House. After weeks of weeping spells and agonizing indecision, a definite course of action had formed in her mind and she had latched onto it with a death grip.
She had ultimately come to the conclusion that she had made the right decision the first time around, when she had chosen to become Erik' bride. It had not been her choice for Erik to let her leave with Raoul, breaking his own heart simply because he had thought she would be happier with the young, handsome Vicomte. It was this decision which had led her here, to the house of the Persian, the one person whom she knew could lead her back to Erik.
She realized halfway down the stairs that she was ravenously hungry, and her mouth watered at the thought of teacakes and biscuits. She stopped in the hallway at the sound of voices. So, Nadir has a visitor. She had begun to believe that the Persian had absolutely no social life at all, the way he had spent the last few days furiously typing away on some manuscript.
She had composed herself, pasted a sociable smile on her face, and was prepared to present herself when she froze, and the smile dropped from her face like so much baggage. She recognized that voice. Despite its raspiness and distortion its angelic beauty was unmistakable. It was the voice of her Angel, Erik. She had only heard his voice distorted once, the last time she had seen him, three weeks ago, when he had bargained for her love with the life of her fiance and Nadir, when it had been twisted with rage and anger, yelling at her, screaming at her for not loving him, his sharp wit cutting her like a knife with his cruelly snide comments as she had watched Raoul begin to die. Now however, she could barely make out his words for the grief which flooded his words. Words about her. Despair over her.
The heart-wrenching words floated to her through the doorway.
"I am dying, Daroga. Of love! I am dying of love for her!"
Christine listened for over an hour as Erik recounted what had transpired after the Persian had left them that night. It was both heart-warming and agonizing to hear it described from Erik's point of view. What had held emotion for her, by far the strongest she'd ever felt, had held it a hundredfold for Erik.
"As to where they are, I do not know. I think, perhaps, they ran away to England, and were married quietly." Erik finished.
Christine stepped forward just a little, Erik had his back to her, but it was sufficient to catch the Persian's eye. From the tears coursing down her cheeks, it was obvious to him that she had been listening.
The Persian cleared his throat, not quite interrupting Erik. "I think, my friend, that there is someone here who would very much like to speak with you."
Erik turned, following the Daroga's gaze toward the doorway, and Christine stepped out into the threshold. Blue eyes met gold as the eyes behind the mask locked with Christine's.
Nadir muttered, "I will leave you two alone." And quietly slipped from the room.
Both were frozen. Neither knew what to do. Neither could find the right words, for there were none.
"Christine!" Breathed Erik, as she began toward him, floating, as if in a trance, her tear-filled eyes never leaving his. No sound could be heard as they both stared at each other, awed by the intensity of the moment. She took one of his large bony hands in her tiny warm ones and knelt before him, close to eye level. Slowly, so painfully slowly, he reached out a tremulous finger toward her golden hair, taking a stray lock of it between his fingers and smoothing it back into place.
"A dream." He whispered bewilderedly, "You cannot be real."
Christine swallowed over the lump in her throat, not trusting her voice, and nodded. She could see the fresh glisten of tears behind the mask and knew she was making the right decision. Everything she had heard just then was true, was Erik, and she recalled his words from that night three weeks earlier.
If you were to marry me, you would be the happiest of women. There is nothing I cannot give you! I've even made a mask that makes me look like everyone else; People would not ever turn around in the street. You would be the happiest of women, and I would be the happiest of men!
"Three weeks ago, Erik, there was something I forgot to tell you, something I forgot to do."
His eyes were questioning, almost pleading with her to spare him further pain.
"I needed to... to tell you... It was not my wish to leave. I meant it when I said....when I said I wanted to become your living bride."
She saw his eyes close beneath the mask, and he took a shaky breath. When he opened them again, she saw in them all the qualities she loved about him reflected in their depths, his love, his warmth, his intensity, his awed gratitude.
"And, Erik,"
Slowly, carefully, she placed her lips upon his. The kiss was gentle, soft, the most tender and intimate thing either had ever experienced. When they pulled apart, neither was quite willing to do so. They gazed at each other in wonder for a moment, before Christine fell against him in an embrace. Very awkwardly, unaccustomed as he was to doing so, he gently let his thin arms embrace her, and returned the ferocity of her grasp. His arms fit around her seamlessly, as if they had always been meant to rest around her body. She sobbed with abandon into the warm, if bony, crook of his shoulder, and he buried is face in her angelic curls letting his own tears flow forth from beneath his mask, as his skeleton's bones gently stroked her hair.
After an eternity of their communal joy and grief it was Erik who broke his hold on her. His finger delicately brushed away a few of the tears on her cheeks as they looked into each other's eyes once more. No words were needed as Christine rose and looked at him. His frame and shoulders were painfully thin, more so than usual. His forehead was as white as wax and she had felt the sharp bones of his back and shoulders beneath her arms. Erik flinched inwardly at her scrutiny and looked away, ashamed for some reason he could not quite name.
Suddenly he was aware of a small hand swimming in his vision, and looked up to see that Christine was extending her hand to him. He looked from her had to her face, glowing with a silent entreaty to trust her, then back again. Then, with all the uncertainty of a small child, he took it. Her love gave him strength, and with her child's force combined with his small reserves, he managed to gain his feet.
Christine called for Darius to hail them a cab, and the following opening and closing sounds of the front door indicated that he had gone to do so. His six feet and two inches towered over her slight five feet three, and he looked down at her incredulously. She linked her arm in his and, even though it looked as if the gentleman was giving assistance to the lady, truly the gentleman could never have made it across the room without the lady's aid. Each bidding the Daroga a soft farewell, they slowly made their way down the stairs to the street and into the waiting cab. The last thing the Persian heard before shutting his door on the miraculous sight was the sound of a woman's voice saying, "To the Opera, sil vous plait."