243A/N: Thank you for the reviews! : ) I hope you guys enjoy… (muwahahaha…)
And now….
Chapter XVIII
.
"Chri-stine …"
The odd sound of his own raspy voice brought Erik from a peculiar haze of slumber to force one of his eyelids to open, the other strangely weighted, blocked. His face ached dreadfully beneath what felt like cloth padding and not the protection of any mask he owned.
The world was bleary, the chamber darkened, and by the black velvet hangings that cascaded all around, save for the section he dimly remembered having taken for a shield to block the attic window's light, he realized he must be in his bed, at the manor.
By the light of the one candle that burned from afar, a shadowy figure drew closer to the wide gap between hangings. He narrowed his good eye, trying to discern identity, and noted by the modest curves of the bell-like skirt the shape was a woman's.
"Christine…?" His hopeful query came hoarse, his throat feeling as if it had been scorched.
"No, Maestro," a familiar voice corrected softly, coming to a stop at his bedside. "It is me. Madame Giry."
He turned his head away on the pillow in disappointment. Unable to form a legible string of words, his mouth bone dry, he managed two syllables. "Water…"
He heard the clink of a pitcher against a glass, the slosh of liquid poured into it, then her hand with the promise of his request came into view.
He struggled in vain to shift himself higher, such extreme exhaustion a strange bedfellow that seemed intent on lingering.
"Allow me."
Without the strength that had somehow escaped him, Erik was given little choice and permitted her hand beneath his neck, the other raising the rim of the glass to his lips as if he were a child - a small sacrifice if it meant that his fiery throat could know cool refreshment.
"Tell me," he said, his voice sounding only marginally better. "How did I come to be here?"
"You don't remember?" she asked in surprise.
"If I did, I would not ask." The sardonic words took great effort, grating against his throat like sandpaper and not worth conjuring them up again. He waved his hand in a sluggish gesture to demand that she explain.
"I found you in the stables, near the fire…"
Fire ...?
"Christine - where is Christine?"
"She was not with you, Maestro."
Not with him? Where the devil had she gone?! Had he not been giving her lessons…? No, no he had made his excuses and returned to the manor, for what purpose he could not recall...
Erik shook his head on the pillow, wishing to remember all recent events of the past, but he could barely make sense of the present. His head was an instrument of anguish, like so many tiny hammers of a piano striking his skull in discordant notes, and he put a searching hand to his clothbound face and the bandage that had been wrapped there, leaving his mouth, part of his jaw, and one eye uncovered, his nose with only holes to breathe.
"The doctor did what he could to save your face." Madame's voice held a nervous tremor. "Had you not had the presence of mind to dunk your head in the trough of water, he said it could have been much worse."
Erik wearily took in her words. Much worse? What could be 'much worse' than the tragic mistake of a face he had been cursed with, unless, of course the undamaged side had now been permanently flawed as well, making him twice a monster with no relief of even a hint of normality.
Leery to find such truth existed, he gingerly touched the bandage on the left side over his cheek and forehead but felt no sting or ache at his inquisitive probing. Unlike the torment he endured on the twisted side. In all likelihood the cloth had been wound over the normal flesh only to anchor the bandage and keep it in position.
A damned nuisance, one he would rectify as soon as he was able.
"The mask you used melted and seared into your skin," Madame went on, like the annoying buzz of a gnat, speaking of what he already surmised. "Also, you have a lump on the back of your head the size of a small grapefruit; whatever happened must have knocked you out cold."
Her words brought to mind the vague recollection of waking up on a wet floor, with an inferno of flame eating into the walls and ceiling all around, the wooden beams ablaze and raining fire from overhead …
His one good eye fell shut.
"How long have I been indisposed?"
"Three days, monsieur. You contracted a fever…"
"Three days?!" His uncovered eye once more flew open to regard her in alarm. "And you - why are you here?"
She regarded him in confusion. "Why to tend you, monsieur."
"In Marseille."
She bristled slightly at his brusque clarification, though still looked troubled. "I wrote you of my intent to come."
He forced his bleary mind to concentrate, to conjure old memories.
The letter…
"You said you had a matter of great import," he remembered. "Well?"
She shook her head. "It can wait. What matters now is to see you fully recovered."
"I will decide what matters -"
"When I found the boarding house in flames -"
They spoke at the same time, but her words hit with grave precision, joggling loose the full memory.
Boarding house - fire - Christine!
He threw the bedding aside, aware that he wore his black silk pajamas and having no wish to know how he came to be clothed in them. The sudden movement made his throbbing head spin, but he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress despite the infernal malady.
"Maestro! What are you doing? You cannot get out of bed - the doctor said -"
"I don't give a damn what the doctor said. I must find Christine."
"I sent a boy into the city two days ago to inquire," she attempted to reassure. "He was told that, save for one unfortunate man, everyone escaped. No doubt she found refuge elsewhere. I am certain she must be alright."
"Not good enough," the Maestro bit out through clenched teeth, the act of stringing together syllables to make full sentences so damnably tiring.
Reaching for the bedpost, he grabbed it as a brace to rise to his feet. But they did not feel grounded to the floor, his legs as insubstantial as wet noodles, and his fool legs buckled, sending him back to sit heavily on the bed. The exhaustion refused to leave him, no matter how he willed it, and he growled softly in frustration as another memory surfaced -
The triumph glittering in Laurent's eyes as he held an unconscious Christine in his arms and falsely accused Erik while others nearby turned to watch.
"That fiend - is with her. He took her. I ran..." He shook his head in disbelief as the wretched event at last played out to further torment him. "I should not have left her, but the mob. They were closing in…she saw my face. She saw my face and she screamed…"
Madame Giry hovered nearby in uncertainty. No doubt his beleaguered mind had taken him back to the night of the Opera House fire and his traumatic experience with his terrified young protege and the Vicomte de Chagny. The doctor had warned that a head injury such as the Maestro suffered could cause him, when he did awaken, to be confused with time and place.
"You must rest."
Madame shook off any nervous intimidation felt in recent years to be in his presence, treating him as the young, frightened boy she once saved from the threat of discovery at the fair. She moved forward to place her hands on his wide shoulders and gently push him down, a bit startled to see how easy the task was accomplished, having expected him to fight her off. He appeared to be as malleable as a wooden puppet whose strings had been severed. The moment his head returned to the pillow, he closed his one uncovered eye, glossy with unshed tears, and her heart twisted in sympathy as she again covered him.
"When I return, I will bring you some broth." The aroma of cooked beef had filled the lower rooms all day, the rich meat juices from what would be tonight's dinner just what the Maestro needed and what she had ordered the cook not to throw out or make into a gravy.
He said nothing and Madame moved to exit his bedchamber.
At the threshold she hesitated to look back at him, where he lay so still beneath the sheet, and worried that his injuries might be far worse than what she had been led to believe…
On the most recent of catastrophic nights, she had enlisted the aid of two male bystanders standing at the fringe of the crowd that gathered, to carry an unconscious Erik to her waiting carriage. On their return to the manor, the doctor had been sent for. The elderly gentleman approached his wounds with horrified fascination - stating, much to Madame's shock, that he was the physician to deliver Erik at his birth and in this very house, which explained how the reclusive Maestro had come into possession of so grand a home. She had often surmised that he'd come from wealth by his bearing, by his speech when he finally did speak, and by his manner of ordering her about, even as a child.
At her first unimpeded sight of the recent carnage to his poor twisted face, with the bright flame of the nearby gas lamp to explicitly tell the morbid story, Madame's stomach had betrayed her, the need to retch overpowering. Upon returning to his bedside, she forced herself to assist as needed while the doctor cleansed the burnt flesh while scraping away the abundance of melted wax from his latest mask, afterward applying cold, wet compresses to the raw skin, as well as treating other burns of far less consequence. Lastly, he applied the leeches, as he had returned to do each day. From what little she knew of the Maestro, he would be none too happy about the latter and dreaded telling him. Perhaps she should withhold that bit of information, so as not to upset him even more.
In truth, she felt helpless with what to do, had done all she knew how, and needed further direction. Especially if he proved to be obstinate again the next time he awoke and she was unable to stop him from his single minded goal. She, too, was concerned about Christine, beyond grateful to know she had escaped the fire. But the girl had traveled to this distant city alone, and Madame felt assured that she could fare by herself this time, too, until something could be done to locate her.
With the secret kept and demanded of her regarding Paris - and the sought-after Phantom of the Opera lying inert in his bed - she certainly couldn't notify the gendarmes to seek out the woman whose name was also connected to the crime.
Her thoughts took her three days back, to the beginning of that night when nothing went as planned …
Upon first arriving at the manor, the housekeeper told her the Maestro recently departed and wasn't expected to return for days, as was his custom. Not wishing to wait, Madame learned the location of the boarding house and arranged transport there, intending to confess to him - to both of them, in turn - her guilty part in all of what happened on the night of the Don Juan and afterward, involving her share of the ploy to keep them apart. She first wanted to see for herself that Christine was truly well - later speak with the Maestro and persuade him to end this latest, absurd masquerade and at last make his confession of his true feelings known to Christine - (that is if he would listen to reason, once Madame made her apology and assuming he did not throw her out after hearing it…)
That had been her intention.
Instead, she had exited the carriage that night - aghast to witness the boarding house ablaze - her first thought, the fear of who had committed such massive destruction and why. She had seen a child emerge from the alley, running past Madame, frightened and crying about 'his face' - then in the distance beyond witnessed a man jump from a low window of the burning building to fall against the wall on the other side, catching himself then attempting to hurry away in the direction opposite of the populace and any help, his steps faltering.
His lean build, his tall height, his manner of fleeing from the scene - all had pointed to the Maestro, and following him, she had been correct in her assumption. His long, wild hair and strange clothes did not deter her; she had known he would be in disguise, and at once she, too, had conformed to old habits, doing all she could to help him as quietly and quickly as possible.
But now she felt at a loss.
She could not remain in Marseille indefinitely - she had originally planned to stay only a few days and had done so already. She would soon be needed at home with upcoming matters that required her full attention - but neither could she leave him like this! The housekeeper, what little she had seen of the woman, was certainly of minimal help - not equipped to take charge from what Madame had witnessed, with the need to be instructed in everything - even initially having to be urged to send for the doctor.
Then there was Christine - whatever had become of the reckless girl? That she could fend for herself, she had proven. That she should was another matter altogether. Madame had promised Gustave Daae on his deathbed that she would watch over his daughter and had come to think of Christine as her own flesh and blood.
Closing the bedchamber door, she came to the conclusion that she must seek outside assistance - someone who would care about the fate of both the intimidating Maestro and his foolhardy protege ...
And on a sudden wave of inspiration, she knew exactly where to find it.
xXx
Christine anxiously stood just inside the door of the back room she'd been given and warily peeked through the crack. At the rear of the church, beyond the rows of pews, two men walked in behind the priest. By their helmets, she could see they were gendarmes.
She gasped at the dreaded sight and softly closed the door, turning the key in the lock and leaving it there. Though if they wanted inside, that would not stop them for long…
She had confessed everything to him - since the night a fire overturned her world, in Paris, to the night a fire again recently razed her existence, seizing all she had worked so hard to regain: A new home, a new livelihood, a new life. She had known the tenets of his vocation did not allow a confidence to be shared when given in the sacrament of penance - but despite that, had he turned her in for thievery? Her heart told her no, the law officials could be here for any number of reasons. The priest had been so kind and considerate after hearing her wretched story, giving her food and shelter these three days past…
Yet others she once trusted had lied and deceived, a harsh awakening to her former naiveté, and Christine thought it better not to take the risk. Horrific visions of being incarcerated in a filthy cell, with no one ever the wiser to her sad plight, urged her to act with haste.
She slipped the violin case inside the carpet bag she never once unpacked, save for her Angel's small journal that she now kept safely stowed in one of the hidden pockets of his cloak, grateful to have learned of their presence there. Another pocket she had stuffed the previous day with her Angel's borrowed money, first wrapping the roll of bills in a piece of discarded oilskin she'd found, to better protect them. Not wishing anyone to witness her actions and learn of the secret hiding place for her valuables, she took precious time to withdraw twenty francs, stuffing ten in her reticule to have at hand for food and other daily necessities she might require. The remaining ten she laid on the cot she had used, to help cover her stay. It wasn't much, perhaps, but it was all she felt she could afford, and if he truly had turned her over to the gendarmes, she could not accept his proffered 'kindness.'
After throwing the cloak around her shoulders, she then dropped her bag the short distance to the ground from the window and slipped her legs over the ledge to jump down.
Hastening along the back street, Christine was grateful to see no one about who might have witnessed her frantic escape but did not stop to consider which direction to go until she looped around to a parallel road that also led to the main thoroughfare, now busy with pedestrians and carriages trundling past. The sun in the sky told her it was past the noon hour.
After making an inquiry to a fellow pedestrian, she walked for some time, at last finding the desired street, its surrounding buildings familiar to her.
All but one...
She stopped and stared in horrified dismay at what was left of the boarding house. Two thirds had been charred, with intensive damage to the roof in places and the windows broken. Parts of the wall had also caved inward - and she wondered how it was still standing, wondered too how the buildings near it had not suffered the same fate.
However, one question took precedence, revolving inside her mind as it had for three days and nights -
What had happened to the reclusive tenant, her Phantom of the Attic, who against all odds had become such a dear friend and teacher?
Where had Monsieur de Ranier gone?
She knew he had also escaped - indeed, had saved her life! And with shame she recalled the last time she'd seen him. How in her shock and exhaustion she allowed her emotions to deceive her...how she had put her hand to his face and actually screamed at him in terror when it seemed to melt hotly against her fingers ...
That entire, horrid night had deceived her - the thick smoke and blinding fire - into believing she had seen and felt what could not possibly be real.
She looked up and down the street, longing for a glimpse of him, hoping that he'd found sanctuary somewhere nearby. If only she could speak with him again, to explain, to apologize. Hopefully to renew their acquaintance …
But first she must find him.
xXx
The door behind creaked open, followed by a stunned gasp.
"Mon Dieu!"
Erik lowered the shears from near his throat, spinning on his heel and almost collapsing with the motion - instantly grabbing hold of the back of a chair.
"Damnation, woman!" he groused. "Why are you here again?"
She straightened her shoulders, a determined set to her lips, and approached. "Apparently to keep you from making a grave mistake." She set the cup and saucer with what appeared to be broth down on the table.
"I do not require your interference," he shot back and returned his one-eyed gaze to the mirror, again lifting the shears to snip the bandage.
"Maestro - the doctor will not be pleased -"
"The doctor can go hang. I have taken care of my own ailments and injuries thus far and am well experienced with how to manage." The cut end of the bandage in his hand, he laid down the shears and flicked his eye toward her in the looking glass. "You may go now."
"Why are you dressed?"
She eyed his poet shirt and trousers that had been the first thing he could locate and for long minutes had struggled to slip into, the accursed fatigue hanging over him like a despised mantle.
"Leave!"
"If you hesitate because of my presence there is no need. I assisted the doctor after I brought you here. I have seen what you work so hard to hide."
He frowned. "Madame …"
"Look at you," she continued, her uncharacteristic boldness to confront him not waning. "Your body trembles. You can barely stand long without assistance -"
"Yes - let us speak of that," he broke in, his one eye blazing in sudden anger and rendering her momentarily speechless. He whipped back the unbuttoned sleeve of his shirt from wrist to elbow, revealing several reddened Y-shaped marks on his forearm. "Did you also assist the doctor with his damnable bloodletting?"
"I had hoped you would not know."
"Did you think I would not guess?"
He thrust his arm closer, and she winced to see the vivid leech marks, dropping her gaze to the rug. "He said it was necessary, to remove impurities and align the humors -"
"I don't give a damn what he said. Is it any wonder I must fight for what strength I have left when I have been drained like the victim of some vampyre of lore?!"
"Even if I had spoken against it, I could not have stopped him," Madame insisted in her defense. "He was very determined to tend to matters as he saw fit…"
Erik's rant at his useless aide had ironically stolen what burst of strength such fury aroused, and dizzy again, he sat down heavily on the chair. He shook his head in weary disgust at his infernal weakness, though at least his memories had returned to him, as difficult as they were to bear.
"I must find her," he said, his voice little above a whisper.
"You are in no fit state to travel anywhere, monsieur. I can spare one more day to go find Christine."
He regarded her in surprise. "You don't know where to search."
"The boarding house?"
He gave an impatient nod. "Yes, yes, to inquire from those nearby if she's been there. And the cafe around the corner. And the hotel on the next street, as well as two boarding houses near the wharf that she first approached - and a dozen other places she has visited as well as all those she has not."
He shook his head, the task monumental if not hopeless in this bustling seaport town. For all he knew, she could have stowed away on one of the many ships and wouldn't put it past her sometimes questionable reasoning. She had proven what a determined young lady she could be when she set her mind to something ...
"I shall manage. I assure you, Maestro, I will do all I can to find her."
After a moment he nodded. "Very well, Madame. It seems I have little choice. If you should find Christine, bring her back with you to the manor, but do not tell her that I am in residence here."
"Not tell her?" Madame said, incredulous. "Is that wise?"
"It is how it must be. If she should ask who owns this place, devise a story - tell her it is a friend's. Keep her away from this wing of the manor. Should she have found another dwelling of merit and wish to remain, bring back to me the place of her residence."
"You mean to engage in yet another subterfuge," she said with disapproval.
"I mean to spare her the horror of once more being confronted by the beast," he corrected. "Especially now…" He sighed. "Though I will see to it that she wants for nothing; I owe her that much."
When Madame made no move to leave, he stressed, "Either you go or I will."
"I have said I would. Only …"
When still she hesitated, impatience reared its head, though he kept his voice low, to shout only making the ache worse.
"Well?!"
"The fire - tell me you had nothing to do with it, that it was not a product of your creation."
At the distinct question in her tone, briefly he closed his eyes, curbing the immediate impulse to order her to get out, that she had no right to question him. After the disaster at the Opera House and all of what she'd lost, he supposed Madame was well within her rights.
"The tragic circumstances that befell the boarding house were not of my doing. Now go."
She exhaled in relief but remained stubbornly fixed in place. "I don't think I should leave until you are finished with the task you seem determined to go through with, and return to your bed. If you should grow weak and fall…"
He let out a disgusted snort. "Spare me even a shred of dignity, Madame. You may have seen the grotesque truth of my misfortune while I was unaware, but that does not mean I wish for you to look upon my afflictions a second time. If I fall, the floor is not so great a distance, and I can crawl to my bed."
"As you wish," she said with reluctant exasperation. "Do drink the broth while it's hot, monsieur. It is sure to give you back a measure of strength."
x
He waited until she had finally gone before picking up the cup and downing the liquid in a few hasty swallows, grateful for the heat that helped ease the tickling ache in his throat, no doubt from inhaling too much smoke.
He hoped that wherever she was, Christine did not suffer the same malady…at least he knew for certain that she had not been burned …
And this time he was not the dragon to blame for the fire that destroyed Christine's livelihood. No, that egregious mishap could be attributed to a small, clueless child. A little fool she'd been, though he did not regret saving Jess, no matter the hardship he now suffered. In a roundabout way, perhaps it could even be considered atonement for those lives harmed or otherwise affected in the disaster he did create in Paris.
Fitting that the monster should be injured by a fire of similar nature though the inferno at the Opera House was of far greater magnitude…
He glanced in the looking glass toward his cloak that lay slung over the bedpost. Stowed safely in one of the deep, inner pockets, her gift of the music box rested. That one item, besides the rope, he recalled having taken with him upon his escape from the burning building. He hoped it survived the ordeal and had not been broken in the fall. At least when he'd departed from his manor that night, he'd left his Stradivarius behind - that one rare bit of forgetfulness working to his aid.
An angel Christine had proven herself, moreso every day. She had been a promising student, in voice and violin, surprising Erik with how ably she learned both. And though part of his previous assessment of their relationship had been accurate - especially the three-way merry-go-round between himself and Christine, and Christine and that wretched boy - on the last night in his former lair, despondent anger had fueled Erik's words. Words intended to wound as he had felt wounded. Insults used as weapons he wished now he'd never shot her way.
After the charity bazaar - even before that - though he had struggled to renew and maintain distance these past weeks in her company, time spent with her, actually being in her presence and treated as a normal man, had made him think. It had given him a perspective that had been missing when walls of plaster surrounded each of them into two separate chambers and he had remained unseen, under the guise of an angel she revered. Now he could recognize a truth, one difficult to admit:
Selfless and kind, with a beauty of the soul as breathtaking as her face and form, she was a rare, coveted jewel that had obsessed the unworthy dragon to have her for his treasure. At any cost.
Whatever small part she had been forced to play in his downfall, she did not deserve the harsh fate that had been thrust upon her… though his punishment was just.
The broth gave him a small burst of renewed strength, though nowhere near that to which he was accustomed, and once more he faced the mirror to unwind the bandage and survey the consequences of his uncharacteristic stab at heroism… Hero? No. Never could he be considered such a white knight, like the perfect, wretched Vicomte. The most anyone would ever see in Erik, despite his uncommon act of chivalry, would be the feared dark knight of exile - all of what a beast could hope to attain.
Especially had they known what lay beneath the mask.
Pressing his lips together, he forced his mind to the task at hand, to learn that truth as well...
With the first few revolutions, he saw with some relief that the undamaged side, save for a minor burn on his cheek that should leave little to no scar, remained unblemished.
As the bandage came further undone, he hissed in a hard breath to see the new mutilation.
No stranger to extremes of pain, he had endured much anguish in his life. In Persia, before the Shah recognized his existence and exalted him to chief assassin, the fool guards had used torture as a daily method in an attempt to break his strong and rebellious spirit.
In the three decades lived, he had known beatings, whippings, the cuts from a blade, indeed - numerous vehicles of violence and torments utilized by man. His deformity was often a target and a small part of the reason he had stayed hidden beneath the Opera House, also engineering traps so that his enemies could not find him.
He had seen much, endured much, and faced with this new set of injuries, could do no more than shake his head in jaded acceptance.
A monster he was…a monster is all he ever would be. 'Much worse' had been an understatement - this was much worse - unless, of course, there had been nothing left but a skull - but then he'd be dead.
Perhaps that would have been a blessing.
The warped flesh was entirely red and raw, in places he could see glimpses of muscle where only a fragile layer of skin remained, and he sneered to see the accursed Y-shaped marks, the fool doctor having utilized his barbaric methods on this most tortured area of his face as well. Though what 'purity' and 'alignment' could hope to be achieved with such gross abnormality was ludicrous. The eye that had been covered was blood red - the veins inside having taken over the white completely. At least he could see out of it, the image presently blurred, a condition he assumed temporary, if former mistreatment from beatings could be used as a measure.
To his distress, he would not be able to wear a mask for some time, not if he wished to avoid infection. He would implement his own array of reliable herbs and poultices to heal - and do so with all haste.
Should Madame fail to find Christine, as he dreaded would occur, no matter the present torment suffered, Erik resolved to look for his missing protege the very hour his strength returned to him.
Without aid - his aid - he did not see how she could survive.
xXx
Christine stood across the street from the boarding house, unable to take her eyes from its burnt hull. She refrained from walking toward it - having not known what she was thinking to come to this place. Surely no one could be inside to answer her questions …
After a moment she turned from the distressing sight and began walking toward the cafe, deciding to obtain something to eat and plan out her next move. With the boarding house uninhabitable, perhaps her teacher might have even left word at the eatery about where to find him, knowing of her frequent visits there.
Excited by the prospect, she quickened her step.
"Mademoiselle?"
At the familiar voice, she stopped and turned, delighted to see the girl Jess unharmed.
"Oh, mademoiselle!"
To Christine's shock, the child ran forward to embrace her, her skinny arms wrapping tightly around Christine's waist.
"I'm so sorry!" Jess burst into tears and Christine put her free hand to her back in comfort.
"There, there…whatever is wrong, child?" Noticing they received double-glances from a few passersby, Christine softly suggested, "Perhaps we should go somewhere to talk."
In response, the girl only tightened her arms around her.
"I'm so very sorry," she whimpered again. "And so thankful you're not dead too."
Christine's brows drew together in sympathetic understanding. "Oh, Jess, not your mother…Did something happen to her the night of the fire?" she urged when the girl did not answer, only continued to cry.
"Jess?"
"Maman is alright," she sniffed at last. "We're staying with her friend across the road. No, it's him who isn't, and it was all my fault - he even came to save me." The girl quietly sobbed out her strange confession, still pressed against Christine's bodice.
A looming sense of dread brought a haze to her reality, the world losing its definition. Nothing seemed real.
"I'm sorry," Jess said again. "I didn't want him to die."
"Jess," Christine found her voice and pulled away, putting her hands firmly to the child's shoulders and giving her a little shake. "What are you saying? Who died?"
"Monsieur d-de Ranier," the girl stuttered, the arrow of her soft reply ripping a hole into Christine's heart. "I know he was your friend."
"Are you…" Christine could hardly find the breath to ask for what she had no wish to hear. "Are you certain it was him?"
The tears continued to fall as Jess nodded. "They found his blue spectacles, all twisted. I was so frightened when the lamp fell and fire went everywhere. I hid - in the pantry - an-and he found me. But his face! One side dripped all over like wax from a candle. It was so horrible and it scared me! He set me outside the window and yelled for me to go, but he… he didn't come after me. Mademoiselle…? Mademoiselle!"
Christine barely heard over the harsh hum that filled her ears as she backed away, slowly shaking her head. She bumped into a man, who spared a glance to give her a stern look, like a master silently chiding his pupil...
Much like he might have done.
Like they both might have done...
She could form no apology, her tongue thick and her mind awhirl.
No... no!
It was insane!
She would not believe it.
And yet, despite that, he was... he was...
She could not think it, much less speak it.
Though Jess's terrible words played on relentlessly in her mind...
Pivoting, Christine began to walk. Barely aware. Continuing her earlier trek. Her steps gradually coming faster.
They took her past the cafe and down the busy street, a greater distance than she'd ever gone before, the tears that gathered in her eyes blurring her vision and heedlessly raining down past her jaw. Still, she did not stop or decrease her pace, moving deeper into the bustling city and further away from what so briefly had been a home but had become yet another place of heartache …
This time taking with her only a trove of bittersweet memories.
xXx
A/N: This seems a good place to stop. 0-: ) (runs deeper into the city to evade the oncoming mob…) At least they're both alive - yes? : ) … that said, more from Through Bonds Immortal next :{ fangs - (heh heh heh) - and thanks again for the reviews!