Summary: In the dead of night, twisted thoughts become reality and intolerable fears give birth to perverted hope. Pity is not love, nor is regret, but sometimes it can be difficult to tell the difference…

This is a short story based on the premise that for whatever reason, Erik did not release Christine and she has now been living with him underground for several weeks/months.

Warning: This story contains themes that some persons may find very disturbing (which will only make you curious now, so probably best I said nothing).

© 2010 Gotta-rite
With credit to Gaston Leroux for what's his.

COLD ASHES

Raoul had left her. He was not coming back.

The bedroom was dark. Only the barest shadows were visible, the only light source being the dim lamp Erik always kept burning outside her room which showed as a mere crack under the door. Erik's wasted skeletal frame rested in the bed beside her. He was lying on his back, his breathing shallow and steady. He seemed to be asleep.

Christine looked at the dim outline of his face. He was truly hideous, she could not pretend otherwise. She had allowed him the use of her body for weeks now and had steeled her mind against him at almost every encounter. Somehow she had hoped that he would grow tired of her disinterested capitulation and let her be. But he was like a man who kept drinking from a pond of bitter water, not because he enjoyed it but because there was nothing else and it kept him alive. In the beginning he had at least appeared hopeful that some day his one dismal water source would be miraculously healed and become a bubbling healthful fountain of life. But with the passing of each black sunless day, his persistent hopefulness had steadily declined, dulled by the slow withering of his young bride's heart. Even so, he never stopped coming to her.

Raoul had forsaken her. He was free and he did not care to reclaim his one-time love. It was understandable in a way; she had agreed to become Erik's wife. How could she expect Raoul to want her still? He must guess that she had lain with the monster. She was Erik's. It was over. He would pursue a courtship with some lady of gentility, the sort of lady he should have set his sights on from the start. She would remain forever with this blighted remnant of humanity, the wife of a living corpse.

Christine's heart beat her for her cruelty. She regarded Erik's pitiable face as he slept on, so peaceful and so blissfully unaware of her malignant thoughts. At least Erik loved her, at least he wanted her. He had not been content to let her walk away with 'the boy' as he still called Raoul. No, he had fought to keep her. He would not – would never – let her go. Raoul on the other hand was evidently content to surrender her to another, satisfying his conscience no doubt with the thought that his former fiancée had always professed no hatred for his rival.

And it was true. In spite of everything she could not hate her impassioned jailor. He was far from being a handsome man but he was full of feeling, he was capable of such tenderness and he needed so much to be loved. The first night he had come to her bed, more than a week after she had consented to become his wife, he had implored her like a child only to be allowed to kneel by her bedside and hold just the tips of her fingers in his cold bony hands. He had fallen asleep propped up against the bed with his head resting on the silken damask bedspread. She had waited until she heard his subtle snoring before extracting her fingers from his grasp and even then she could not bring herself to stroke his unconscious face.

As she thought about it some more, playing over the last few weeks in her mind, Christine realized that he had never in fact asked her to admit him into her bed at all though he had always approached it, hesitantly, hopefully, like a dog sitting by its master's table waiting for a few scraps to be thrown to it. She had thought it strange and discomforting at first that he should knock and enter her room like that, for he had always spoken of their impending marriage as a real and legally binding arrangement. Naturally she had expected that he would be seeing to the particulars and that he would hold off from the desire for any intimate contact until after the wedding. It was a circumstance she had hoped would allow some time for Raoul to rescue her before the worst happened. But as the days had worn on, Christine had noticed that Erik spoke no more of an elaborate wedding ceremony with Latin chorales within the grand marble pillars of the Madeleine. It seemed almost that having won his prize, he no longer knew what to do with it. He was following her about constantly and waiting upon her fondly until she was almost driven to distraction. And eventually one evening, worn out from his never-ending solicitous presence and hardly knowing what she did, she had actually drawn back the covers of her bed and allowed him to slink in beside her, much as a mother might give refuge to a child who had just woken from a nightmare and run to her for comfort.

To be sure, she had at first ordered him in an irritated tone to go away. But the intensely pained and troubled reaction with which her words had been met had immediately softened her heart and before he had left her room she had relented and taken more pity upon him than perhaps he had dared hope for.

He had lain close to her side for many nights after that but without attempting a single touch. It seemed to please him simply to look at her. The dim shadowy light would show him lying on his side, watching her, feeding upon her close proximity like a starving man. That was until the night she had laid her head against his chest.

It was on that irredeemable night that Christine had thoughtlessly handed Erik the key to the fortress, never imagining the consequences. A long quivering sigh had broken from his lips as her face touched his crisp cotton shirt. She had smelled his breath; it was cool and slightly nasally. She had then felt a light touch upon her back through her nightgown which was Erik's spindly hand traveling up between her shoulder blades and down again to her waist in a tender gesture.

He had seemed content with so little. She had thought there could be no danger. And he had been so good to her all that day, so considerate in spite of her tantrums and her accusations. He had promised to let Raoul take her away just as soon as he would come for her. He had said that he could not bear to see her so miserable, that he did not want his precious angel to spend the rest of her life locked up in a living grave with a man who was less than a man and could not make her happy. He had said all those things and by his looks she could tell that he had meant it. Raoul would certainly come for her soon. The least she could do for her erstwhile tutor and confidant, so she thought, would be to give him a kiss.

Silently, she had raised her lips to his chin. She had planted one chaste offering there and his whole body had shuddered beneath her. He had spoken her name, like a whispered prayer and his ribs had pressed against the softness of her covered breast as his breathing became heavy and fast. It had only been one kiss; yet it had been enough.

Suddenly he had risen up and turned her firmly but gently onto her back. His hands had gripped her shoulders, pinning her down upon the mattress and before she had had the presence of mind to utter a sound, his mouth had been upon hers, moist, warm and needful. He had poured all his energy into that kiss, grinding, slurping, fondling with his tongue, emptying decades of suppressed longing and desire into her youthful lips, and his right hand had left her shoulder and moved tenderly over her face.

Though it had been with horror that she had first begun to feel his power unleashed upon her, at the same time, her inexperienced body, naïve and curious, had seized upon his touch. After all, he was not simply Erik the Monster. He was her Angel, her mentor, the Voice who had sung to her with unearthly sublimity and charmed her. He was the friend who had listened to her girlish fears as she spoke to his invisible presence in her dressing-room day after day, the one who had comforted her and encouraged her, who had made beautiful music come alive and inspire her. But above all, he was Erik, the passionate broken man who loved her and needed her as no other earthly person could or ever would. And with a mass of conflicting sensations rushing in her ears and paralyzing her thoughts, she had grasped his caressing fingers that played with the wisps of hair at her temples and guided them slowly down her neck to the shallow place between her breasts as she quivered with fear and excitement.

It had been impossible for him not to let his trembling hand glide sensitively over one delicate mound, impossible for him not to press it and squeeze it longingly through the thin fabric of her nightgown, pinching the hardened nipple between his long tapered fingers. Christine had not forgotten Raoul. Her childhood friend would certainly be coming back for her soon. He had to be. But when he did, Erik would be all alone again, only worse than before because now he knew what it was to have companionship. The loss of it might be more than he could bear. And with that thought in mind she had pitied him; pitied his loneliness and his desperate hunger for human contact and, very stupidly, she had unbuttoned the opening of her gown letting Erik's inquisitive hand slip inside to touch her supple feminine flesh, skin against skin.

He had never asked to be allowed to do this; she had invited him. And in a thousand other unspoken ways she had gone on to invite him to gradually uncover her most intimate parts and explore the most sacred regions of her soul with his amorous awestruck body. It had not happened all at once and certainly not smoothly but nothing could have stopped her from seeing the process through to its end, not even the burning pain that surprised her as much as it terrified. After weeks of sickening anxiety, she had needed the blissful illusion of Love.

Only afterwards, immediately following Erik's deep guttural moan and the shuddering collapse of his body had the truth suddenly come crashing upon her in a cold devastating blow. With bitterness she realized that she was no longer pure, no longer untainted. She had dreamed of giving herself whole and intact to her dear loving Raoul on their wedding night but now she was no longer a maiden. Her stomach crawled with the rancid gall of self-loathing. Nothing would remove the blemish of Erik's hands upon her, the defilement of his kisses, or the sickening sense of having been used and violated. It had not been fair to think of Erik's fervent caresses in that way but Christine had not been able to prevent it, not even later when he had lain with his tortuous features buried considerately in her hair where she could not see them, nestled up close to her in a fond embrace. He had whispered her name reverently again and again as his fingers twisted little tendrils of her hair round the knuckles like tender young shoots.

He had loved her. Christine believed he still did even now. But she had never managed to love him back.

On the evening following that inexorable night he had entered her room and climbed into her bed with the grinning anticipation of a child entering a sweets shop with a pocketful of coins. It had seemed impossible to deny him his pleasure without confessing her humiliating mistake of the previous evening, especially as he had gone out that day and come home with bundles of presents of all kinds wrapped in gorgeous packages with expensive ribbons, and so she had let him touch her again although it was without any enjoyment on her part.

Her misery had then found new depths to which to sink. Feeling little better than a harlot, her days were spent chiefly in lolling upon the sofa in her room, utterly depressed. Night after night, as often as Erik would come to her, Christine had gone on offering up her body to his eager appetites whilst barricading her mind against his presence, making mistake upon mistake, never knowing the way out of this Hell she had created for them both. She had hoped that her obvious lack of pleasure would be enough to end his visitations. But it had not succeeded. The only difference was that now in the darkness afterwards, Erik no longer murmured her name.

Tonight he had actually cried.

Now, being unable to see clearly the tiny hands on her watch which rested by the bedside, Christine could only guess at the time. She presumed that she had been asleep for several hours. Erik still slumbered. Perhaps it was the early hours of the morning. But it was always dark in this place. It might easily be mid-afternoon. Her mouth was dry. If Erik had been awake he would have climbed out of bed and fetched a glass of water for her. He was kind like that.

A snuffling snore broke the silence of their gloomy darkened room. It was Erik, having difficulty with his sinuses again. It did not wake him. He simply shook his head a little from side to side and went on sleeping. He never complained about his health.

Christine felt a compassionate smile tug at her lips ever so slightly and a regretful frown creased her brow. Erik was so fragile in his way and she was treating him falsely. Raoul was never coming back. Raoul did not really care for her at all. But this man, who hungered for whatever little scrap of tenderness she was willing to spare him, this man was not only being shunned and rejected, but systematically tortured and abused by her cold disinterested endurance of his desperate affection.

Christine felt her heart begin to break on his account. He deserved better. He only asked for a little kindness. It was only fear that made him go crazy from time to time; he did not really want to hurt anyone. And what else did she have in life? They were both so alone. Just as Raoul had spurned her, she was spurning Erik. She was strong; she could endure Raoul's selfishness. But Erik? She was killing him, slowly and surely.

And it suddenly occurred to her that more than anything else, she did not want her Angel to die.

Christine sidled closer to Erik's insensible form and draped an arm across his naked chest. She spread her fingers and ran her hand slowly over the protruding ribs and collar bone. He was so painfully thin and until now she had never thought of it as anything but repulsive. It was in fact, she decided, melancholy and pitiable.

He stirred. A throaty grunt heralded his return to consciousness and he took a minute to assess his whereabouts. The first thing he noticed was Christine huddled up close to him with her arm wrapped round him, massaging his chest with the flat of her palm.

"What is it?" he demanded in a voice too loud.

"Nothing," she whispered. "Go back to sleep." But her continued rubbing, instead of soothing him into a restful slumber once more, kept him wide awake. Christine could tell by his anxious breathing that her poor dear 'husband' was not falling asleep.

Withdrawing her arm and propping herself up on one elbow, she leaned over him, reaching a hand up to his hideous visage. Placing her palm softly upon his withered cheek, Christine moved closer and kissed him carefully on the lips.

The faintest trace of a gasp escaped his mouth at once and his feverish eyes peered keenly through the darkness into Christine's earnest face hovering only inches above his own.

"What are you doing?" he rasped in a throaty whisper.

Christine could tell that her close, scrutinizing gaze was making him nervous. After she had burned his mask, he had been forced to bear her solemn eyes upon his wretched features but he had never yet grown accustomed to it. Even during the intimacies of the past few weeks, he had tried to shield his deathly face from her sight. Christine felt a sharp pang of regret.

"I want to say that I'm sorry," said Christine, stroking the side of his head just above the temple where his hair was thinnest. She gave a little half-smile that Erik could barely see in the shadowy room. "I've treated you very badly. I want to be a proper wife to you now."

Her lips reached out for his again and touched the dry, wasted flesh in a discreet gesture.

"Are you not a proper wife?" he asked meekly as she drew back her face from him once more. There was a slight quaver in his beautiful manly voice.

Christine traced a meandering line down the sunken contours of his temple and cheek with one finger. Erik began to breathe deeper. Her lips were pressed firmly together, and had Erik been able to interpret correctly the expression in her eyes, he would have understood that it was one of sadness.

"I haven't been honest with you," said Christine quietly, letting her eyes stray to the line of his jaw where her finger continued its long, tenuous journey towards his chin. "I've let you touch me when I shouldn't have, and I haven't objected, though I never really wanted it." He made a faint noise of distress but Christine placed her fingertips reassuringly upon his lips. "All that has changed now." She turned her hand over and stroked his hollowed cheek with the back of her fingers. "I realize now that I've been unkind to you, that I've been hurting you, and I'm sorry. I want to make you happy." She leaned in even closer to him and said in a half-whisper, "I love you."

Did she love him? Christine was not sure. She could not have explained why she said it. But she knew that she wanted to love him, for his sake and for her own. There was no other future for her apart from Erik. Even if time or distance should separate them, he had become an intrinsic part of her in some mystical way she could not begin to understand. Before he had entered her body that first time, she had never dreamed that such a simple physical act could bind two people together on an emotional and even spiritual level. She was not certain that she loved him, but she belonged to him. It was Erik alone who had broken into the guarded citadel, taken his meal and left the banqueting hall adorned with his flags and colors. Up till now it had been less than a welcoming home for him, all things having been made ready for the advent of Raoul de Chagny, not plain undignified 'Erik' of no country, nowhere.

Yet it was for Erik that the gates had been consistently held open.

It was high time therefore, Christine decided, to sweep out the ashes, light a new fire in the hearth and air the rooms, set bowls of scented rose petals in the entry hall and turn down the bedclothes – for Erik.

He blinked several times.

"Did you say something, Christine?" he asked in a hushed, almost frightened tone.

Christine pecked him on the cheek before answering.

"I said I love you."

It almost seemed that he had been turned to stone. He did not speak or move whilst Christine commenced decorating his face with a slow series of delicate little kisses. As she moved towards his eyes he closed them and she touched the eyelids with her lips. All of this, she acknowledged to herself, would have best been done on the very first occasion of their intimacy. The necessity of feeling every contour of his flesh with her sensitive lips made Erik's face altogether less terrifying, less repugnant. In coming to know it, she found herself coming to accept it.

Erik gave a short blissful moan.

"Oh, what is this dream?" he softly murmured.

"It is no dream, my love," she purred between kisses. Then she stopped and looked into his face closely until he opened his eyes and gazed back at her.

He dared not even blink.

"Make love to me, my darling," Christine whispered in low, yielding tones as a shiver ran down her limbs. "Make love to your wife."