Ch. 11 – Long in the Telling
A/N – The (former) chapter "Reunion" has been removed, rewritten, significantly added to, and split into parts. This is the first part. I hope you all like the changes. And no, these are not the last chapters in this fic.
"…Come praise
The wine-dark of the wood's intricacies,
The nightingale that deafens daylight there,
If daylight ever visit…"
- William Butler Yeats, Colonus' Praise
"Erik?" Christine repeated.
At first he could scarcely believe what he was hearing. The sound of his name on her lips was what he had waited for for so long; had heard a thousand times over in dreams and fantasies. When he finally heard it in reality, he stood transfixed for a moment.
Golden light poured down upon him from high in the rock cliff. Slowly, Erik lowered the violin from his shoulder and stood, staring. Christine, still fragile from her illness but strong enough to stand, leaned against the cottage door for support. Her hair, slightly damp from the steam in her bath, spilled over her shoulders in loose waves. She was as lovely as a vision.
Please, he thought fleetingly, don't let this be another daydream…
Shaking off the spell, he crossed to her quickly, setting the violin down inside the front door. His eyes searched her face: he was filled with a hope, a desperate yearing he also feared, in case her memory had made only a partial recovery.
Christine stretched out a hand toward him, then timidly drew it away again, overwhelmed by the memories that had come flooding back. She hardly knew herself - there had been so much she had forgotten, and yet she felt as if she'd come home after a long absence. Tears spilled from her brown eyes. "I remember," she said, and stopped. He waited, holding his breath.
"I remember everything," she finished, half-afraid to find what his reaction would be. Afraid of herself.
"Everything?" he asked huskily.
She nodded, unable to meet his gaze, now that this had been spoken. "How could I have forgotten?" She felt ashamed, though she knew it was not her fault. But something so important… I didn't mean to forget, she thought. I never would have, had the choice been mine…
She saw the movement in his throat as he swallowed, fighting back tears himself. He reached for her gently, then suddenly drew her entire body to him in a fierce embrace. "Christine," he whispered against her hair. She closed her eyes.
For an instant, time hung suspended, The light filtering in from above, glinting off the water, the warm rock walls where the birds nested, the cozy little cottage hidden away from prying eyes…Christine felt that if she held her breath, the moment might last forever. Don't let me be dreaming again, she thought. I need to feel you solidly against me. I need to know that you are real…
She clung to him as fiercely as her returning strength allowed. Erik held her as if he never wanted to let her go.
At last, afraid that if he held her too tightly he might injure her, Erik released his grip slightly and looked down into Christine's upturned face.
"I should have thought of it before," he said, his voice tight; strained with emotion. "I should have known that it would be music that would bring you back to yourself." And to me…
Christine pulled a little away from him, looking deep into his eyes. One hand rested delicately on his brocade vest.
"Erik," she said, "There's something I want to ask you…"
"Anything," he said. At that moment, he felt that his entire being was open to her. Anything she wished that was in his power to grant, he'd do, and gladly.
"Are you able to tell me now why you had to leave Paris so suddenly, the last – " she blushed, and looked down again, toying with a button on his vest. "The last time I saw you?"
He smiled, a broader smile than she had yet seen from him. Not a smirk or a wry grin, but an expression that transformed his face.
"I can," he said, "and I will. But come and sit down. You shouldn't be tiring yourself out."
Keeping hold of her hand, he led her into the cottage's tiny parlor, made certain that she was comfortable on the divan, then sat beside her.
His knees were brushing hers; his hand was dry and warm and seemed to engulf her own small one. This is Erik…Christine thought to herself, still marveling at the return of her memories. Erik is next to me. Erik is holding my hand…Erik, whom I missed for so long…so strange, so new, yet so very familiar…more familiar than any other person. Her body was flooded with an intense awareness of his physical presence, though she'd been around him for days. She wanted to close her eyes and continue to just feel, but she had asked something important, and he was answering.
Christine shook her head to school her straying thoughts, and listened.
Erik cleared his throat.. "Do you remember the red roses I used to leave for you?"
She smiled. "Of course."
"Did you ever wonder where I obtained them?"
Christine shook her head. Everything about him had seemed magical in those days – almost supernatural; the good and the bad. He was still magical, she thought, but in a different way.
"The first time I heard you sing," he continued, "you reminded me of a red rose. Darkly beautiful. Something to be prized." He shifted, slightly embarrassed by this confession. "But I had no garden. No way to grow roses. I went looking for a florist, and I found one."
Christine looked a bit surprised. She knew he'd ventured outside the Opera in those days; he'd driven her to the cemetery. But he rarely spoke of such excursions.
"There was a small flower shop in the Rue Aubet, right off the Rue Scribe. Not far. Flower-sellers do a brisk business, with the Opera so close. The other shops were too public, or closed for business, but this little place was quiet. Once I went inside I discovered why.
"The owner and his daughter were Algerian. Not that that would have made a difference in most cases, but there are some…people…who treat natives of nations under French rule as personal property. A minor nobleman had made unwelcome advances to the daughter, and her father had chased them off with such vigor that the young man and his friends vowed never to go near the place again. Their feelings were evidently made known to their entire social circle, and business at the shop had fallen off sharply as a result."
Erik paused. Christine was unable to stop herself from asking. "Was she beautiful?"
He turned to her, the corners of his eyes crinkling a bit, and softly put a hand against her cheek.
"No," he said, gently. "She was not. But she was kind, and no person should be treated as she was."
"Of course not," Christine stammered, blushing again. "Please go on."
"They asked no questions about the mask," he said, "For which I was grateful. I arranged always to have my roses from them. I would send them a note with my requirements, enclosing payment, and the flowers would be delivered to the entrance I'd requested at the time I'd asked, and I retrieved them. They were always there, and always fresh. Even in winter. An agreeable arrangement on both sides."
Erik paused again, releasing Christine's hand. He seemed distracted, staring at his own hands, now resting on his thighs, as if they were no longer a part of him.
"And so things continued," Erik said, "Until the night of the Opera House fire. And then…I no longer needed roses."
Christine wanted to reach for him again, but dared not. Such memories were not pleasant for either of them. She waited. When he eventually spoke again, his voice had a hoarse quality.
"I wandered for days, Christine," Erik said, slowly, still not looking at her. "I wanted to die. I could not eat. I rarely slept. At times, I was in complete darkness, wandering through the maze of cellars and tunnels. Sometimes I could see, which meant that an opening or window was nearby, and that it was daytime. I paid no attention; it was all one to me. I don't know how long I continued in that state, but I kept on until I had nearly worn the boots off my feet with walking, and then, I collapsed."
He twisted his hands together in his lap. This time Christine did reach for him. Erik took her hand in his again.
"I lay where I had fallen. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself out of this life." He cleared his throat. "Without knowing it, I'd come back near to the place where I had started. Though I know the undergrounds of Paris so well, I no longer knew nor cared where I was or whether anyone found me. I was only vaguely aware of being able to see daylight.
As it happened, I was near to the entrance where the flower-seller's daughter brought the roses. I heard someone calling, "Monsieur, monsieur." I made no reply, but she found me anyway. It was her, the girl – Nadira. She never knew my name, but she had heard stories after the fire, and had connected their anonymous rose-buyer with the descriptions that were circulating. I have a rather singular appearance, it seems."
He flashed her a brief, wry, look. Christine's heart twisted at the pain in his green eyes, but she knew he needed to get this out.
"You say her," Christine prompted, "But what of her father?"
"Ah," Erik said. "The crux of the matter."
Puzzled, Christine waited for an explanation.
"The month previously," Erik continued, "Her father had returned to Algeria the month previously, to assist an ailing relative. Since the greater part of my contact with them had been indirect, I did not know this. The father had had the misfortune to be on the streets during a sweep for political agitators. French rule has not been universally beloved."
Christine nodded.
"Algerian natives were being rounded up and questioned indiscriminately. Since Nadira's father had actually been to Paris, this raised further alarm bells. He'd been indefinitely detained for over a month when she found me, and she was convinced that the authorities were going to let her father rot in prison for the rest of his life. She was probably right."
"But the man is innocent?" Christine asked.
Erik looked momentarily startled, and Christine thought, he thinks me naïve, but I can see the changes in his thinking. He stops to consider whether the end justifies the means – at least, when asked.
"Go on," she prompted, softly.
Erik shrugged, still a bit bothered. "I assume so. In any case, he had treated me fairly, and his daughter – his daughter had just saved my life.
"When she found me, I was a wreck. I was delirious; scarcely human. She was not strong enough to move me, but she brought food and water, and nursed me back to health. She'd never seen me without the mask before, and I had hard time convincing her that my face was not injured." That wry grin again.
Christine squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture. She wanted desperately for him to hold her close again, but she also wanted to hear what he had to tell her. There would be time enough…and he was speaking again.
"When I had recovered sufficiently, she had a favor to ask of me."
"She wanted you to rescue her father," Christine guessed.
"Yes."