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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
Chapter 16: Learning to Live Again
A/N: First off, I would like to thank all of my reviewers. I was overwhelmed by the response that the last chapter received. I truly appreciate your thoughts, insights, and opinions. You taking the time to provide criticism, encouragement, and suggestions means more to me then you will ever know.

Now, on with the story, I’ve babbled on long enough! Don’t forget to review and let me know what you think. Oh, and there is a somewhat unsettling dream sequence in the beginningof this chapter that alludes to non-consensual sex. If this bothers you, please skip over the first section.

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Each night it was the same, yet different. The cold, dark air was always heavy, the hatred always deep, and the feel of lifeless skin against lifeless skin painful and cruel. What was different was her eyes. They would burn with hate on some nights, and deep sorrow on others. Her breath was always shallow, often shuddering from the silent sobs that shook her fragile body. The tears were those wrought with suffering. Thicker than blood they ran, causing her face to swell as her chest heaved pitifully.

He was forced to hold her down; she struggled too much when he lifted himself off of her. If his hands did not confine her wrists, she would beat pitifully at his chest and attempt to throw him off of her with all the strength she could muster in her tired arms.

Her pale skin was covered in angry red marks where his fingers dug into her flesh, inflicting light degrees of pain to still her thrashing body and quiet her cries as he moved within her. His harsh growls and breathless grunts made her grimace, her face contorting into a look of such revulsion that he longed to roll her onto her stomach so that he could press that ravaged expression into the blankets while he had her.

He feared that making her face away from him would allow her to pretend he was someone else. He could not allow such treason. No, she would not betray him in her mind.

In his haste he had thrown the red velvet sheets off of the bed, they laid in a rumpled heap beside the it, a corner still tucked beneath the white mattress. With each and every movement of the mattress the coverlet dislodged itself more and more. Perhaps if he pushed further it would come away from the bed completely. Yes, once the sheet fell to the cold, gray stone, he would release her wrists and exit her body.

The hollow cavern was quiet except for her harsh sobbing and his frustrated grunts, the water gently lapped against the concrete shore. It left a green, filmy shimmer in its wake that turned the gray into a deep charcoal black. Darker and darker the stone became, from gray, to brown, to black.

More sobs. More grunts.

“Please…”
He did not hear. The only sound was his heart as it shattered at the sight of her bruised skin. He had tried, oh, he had! He tried to be gentle, tender, loving. She resisted. She cried. She struggled and sobbed. She called for her Vicomte. She even silently began to pray for her father.

Like a child, she wept for him. He took her again and again, begging, crying, and pleading with her to love him, to want him, to make love to him.

She struggled, he held her against the mattress. She cried out, he clamped his cold, calloused hand against her mouth. The wetness of her lips and tongue dried on his hand even as she continued to sob and shudder.

She remained mostly clothed. In his rage he had torn at her dress, ripping away the white silk fabric from her shoulders and shredding her outer skirts. Her sobs and pleas made him lose his patience. He had simply thrown her on the bed beneath him and he had his way with her, swiftly and without restraint.

The tears. The sobs. The hate. Oh, how they ripped into his chest and tore out his broken and bleeding heart!

The shadows descended upon them, enveloping them in hellish darkness. He clung to her, but her body had become cold and limp. The blackness covered her face like a veil, draping itself across her reddened skin and ceasing the wretched sobs that echoed mercilessly, driving him to madness.

He could not see her, but he could feel her. She was dissolving.

“I wish you had died…”
“Stop…” He called out to the darkness, but his voice sounded hollow and strange. Ugly even.

“In the cemetery, you were meant to die.”

“Please stop.” His pitiful cries were lost in the blackness.

“He should have taken that sword and buried it in you!”

He sobbed. It was an awful sound, one filled with pain. Intense, soul-searing pain.

“Do you feel it now?” The shadows whispered all around him, moving in closer and closer.

“Do you feel the blade inside of you?”

Light. Blinding, beautiful light drove the shadows away. He could see once more. He saw her, but she was not Christine. Scarlet blood ran from her eyes, her tears had turned to her body’s essence, leaving her drained and dead beneath him.

So cold. She was so cold, her skin as hard as porcelain; her face twisted and distorted, her body hollow and emaciated.

“No, no my angel!” He shook her. Once. Twice.

She crumbled like a castle of sand, falling away to nothing when he brought his hands to her body.

He shook violently. Once. Twice.

The sobs welled up even as his chest felt crushed beneath an invisible weight. The weight that would surely snuff the life from his body. His wretched, evil life.

The sobs exploded, racking his body even as he struggled to draw air into his lungs.

He sat up then. His chest heaved violently and his skin was soaked in sweat. Wiping his hair away from his forehead, he rested his head in his hands and let out harsh breaths as the sunlight came through the window, peeking between the thick black drapes. The dark oak floors were illuminated by the pale white light of morning, the lines of colour reaching into the room. The sky beckoned him to awaken, to calm his tortured soul once more.

Daylight became a virtuous savior. It used to be frightening; the glow of the sun was overwhelming. Too many things could be seen in the day with no darkness to mask what was meant to be hidden. Yet, as time went on he felt the sun to be less bothersome than he once did.

“Time heals all wounds”, they said. He believed that to be untrue. What he knew to be true was that time made one too weary to dwell upon the darkness of the past. The call of life was stronger than the call of memories and musings. Daylight was the world’s way of telling one to rise once more and continue living.

Time was merciful. Time was cruel. Time was a precious commodity that needed to be used with care and consideration.

With no opera to run, no minions to control, and no fantasies to sustain his imagination, time was all he had in the world. If he had learned one lesson from last night, it was that time should not be wasted, but savored.

Pushing aside the dreams that tortured his mind, he rose and shrugged into his black silk robe. Tying it loosely around his nude body he opened the drapes. Would he ever be used to this? Could one live as a man after living for so long as a ghost?

Today would be a day like any other. There were people to watch and objects to procure. Some he may pay for, some he may not. One did not need be an honest man when there was sport to be had in dishonesty. Eluding the standards of civility was most satisfying.

He was not satisfied. In fact, he was deeply troubled. Had he forced his affections on an unwilling woman the night before? Yes, Christine moaned and gasped as he touched her while they read, but she told him to stop. He did not. He did not stop until she propelled out of his lap as though he had burned her.

He had, the fire inside of each of them was spreading rapidly, but she resisted the flames. In fact, she doused them with the conviction of a bucket filled with ice water. But the embers still remained, orange and glowing, wanting nothing more than to be fed and brought to life.

He would leave her alone today. He wanted to give her time to think, and he wanted to give himself time to avoid the distrust in her eyes. He wanted to forget his dreams, his dreams of having her die when he touched her, when he took her roughly as they sobbed together. He sobbed because he loved her. She sobbed because she did not love him.

His touch bled her to death as the darkness consumed them. Their passionate words were forgotten forever when he slept alone, when his traitorous mind tortured him, taunted him, and destroyed him.

Who was he? Was he the monster who would force her to submit to him and kill her even as he loved her? Was he the man who could not allow their parting to be filled with tears and unfulfilled longing? Was he ghost destined to live in solitude? The murderer deserving swift justice? The boy wanting no more then to be held by his beautiful mother? Would he ever know?

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Bathing too often was said to be the cause of insanity. It was written, it was read, and it was preached by parishioners and doctors alike. Was it true? She was not sure. She did not care. The world was filled with uninformed fools, ignorant ones at that.
Sinking into the lavender scented water for the second day in a row, Christine let out a sigh. That warmth and steam caressed her skin, bringing a pleasant flush to her face as her lips relaxed in a soft smile.

Once she sank beneath the bubbles the frown returned. She had felt dirty. Filthy almost. If she had rolled in knee-deep mud with not a stitch of clothing she could not have felt less unclean.

Rubbing frantically at the sticky residue on the insides of her thighs she felt memories of the night before come back in flashes. Flashes of sin and debauchery. Flashes of betrayal, weakness, and shame.

She had never felt so alive, so filled with passion when he spoke to her those daring words of lust-filled desire. His hot tongue against her ear and neck made her legs weaken with need.

All night she dreamt of him. She had come to him, settling herself atop him as she clawed at his back and shoulders while thrusting her tongue in and out of his mouth in a suggestive rhythm. He had taken her, she begged him to. She pleaded huskily in his ear the most shameful prepositions!

Then he left her, and she saw the crying face of her husband. She saw the lifeless face of Joseph Buquet. The screams of the people in the audience permeated the air as they ran from the burning chandelier unleashed upon their innocent heads in a fit of rage. She saw him dragging her away, screaming at her, threatening her, howling at her like a wounded dog.

So much death. So much hate. How could she want him knowing of his crimes? How could she want him when she had Raoul?

Rising from the tub she dried herself off swiftly, her hair dripping down her back and onto the tiles below. Wiping the fading steam from the oak-framed mirror she glanced at her flushed face. She had what Madame Giry would call a healthy glow. It was a shame that the glow was one of a disgusting sickness of the mind that she wished away with all of the strength that she had.

She pulled on her robe and walked outside, looking this way and that before exiting the bathroom to make sure that Erik was nowhere in sight. She could not bear to look at him now. What could she say to erase what happened the night before?

A part of her looked to the window before her and thought of leaving. She should just go to see Madame Giry and stay with her as was planned. She could escape this waking nightmare, she could pull free from his grasp as she had last night, could she not?

Would he hurt her if she fled? Would he hunt her down and force her back to his home as he had done before, threatening the lives of others as he whipped her around like a rag doll while hurtling vicious insults at her?

Deciding once again to forsake a corset, she hastily dressed and prepared to head to Mme. Renault’s home. She needed to know how Erik was able to obtain his home; she needed to know how much was known about him. Perhaps once she knew of Erik’s habits and daily activities, she would plan her escape. She could not stay here, be it because of the danger or the temptation she could never know, but to remain in this prison of fear and desire was suffocating her, she could not do it any longer.

God knew she tried; she tried so hard to befriend him, to soften the treacherous memories of the past. She could not; she was not a sorceress or a healer. There was no cure for the pain of the heart. All wounds left scars, and some wounds were meant to gape open as reminders of past mistakes. She hated to leave Erik to bleed so fiercely, but she could not stay here any longer. She could not heal him as she and he both hoped.

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Charles walked with an air of alarming urgency. He also had excessively loud; nasally breathing that was amplified when his steps became too excited for his tiny legs to handle gracefully.
Adjusting his hat, he walked into the drawing room and cleared his throat twice. He had wished to attract Sofia’s attention as well as clear the congestion in his throat. He was becoming worried about the ailment affecting his throat. Throat problems, though common, could imply serious physical illness. Sometimes they even implied certain death.

A minor bout of illness could bring about coughing and excess liquid in the lungs, but so could fateful diseases. He felt sweat break out on his forehead as he imagined himself dropping dead in the front hall in front of guests. Oh, how humiliating it would be! He would forever be the man who died in front of the nobility. Imagine if he fell into the potted plant that Sofia cherished so much? It was too horrible to even think about!

His worrisome thoughts were abated when Sofia raised her eyes and smiled sweetly.

“Yes, Charles?”

“There is someone here to see you, my lady.” Bowing out awkwardly, Charles moved to the side and waved Christine into the room.

Christine marveled at the immaculate beauty of the room before her. It was distinctly feminine, but not girlish or garish. The violet walls were adorned with lovely paintings of clear skies and blue oceans. Lovely people walking hand-in-hand through lovely streets with looks of love upon their faces came alive. How Christine wanted to be one of the women in the pictures, free from all worldly cares as she walked arm and arm with a caring, passionate, good-natured man. Would the wind blow her hair about her face so freely and elegantly? Would the sky remain blue and the sun warm?

Sofia rose and welcomed Christine warmly. She was not expecting her. She had thought that their conversation at the house would be the last for quite some time. Her presence made her grow uneasy. Perhaps something was amiss with the masked lover? Perhaps Christine knew that Sofia had once been Erik’s lover and wished to exchange acid-toned words of condemnation.

“I am so sorry to arrive so unexpectedly.” Christine smiled weakly as she looked at the pale wooden furniture adorned with beige velvet. Such a warm, welcoming room.

“Oh, do not apologize.” Waving her hand dismissively, Sofia walked over to the sofa and motioned for Christine to sit across from her.

For a moment the two women just sat before one another, their hands fidgeting with their hair and skirts as they settled onto the sofas.

“Would you like some tea?” Sofia inquired before standing to look for Charles who had long since left the room.

“I would love some, thank you.” Sofia rose to find Charles and inform him before returning to sit across from the girl whose face held so many secrets. She was so very young, a mere girl emerging from childhood. She had been like that once, so innocent and naïve, so confused by the directions which the world pulled her in.

“Well dear, what brings you here today?”

“I thought I should come by and thank you for allowing me to stay here.” Christine knew not what else to say. She did, however, feel it most imperative to thank the kindly lady for her discretion.

“I am not really in a position to allow or disallow anything. Erik is the current owner of the farmhouse, he is entitled to entertain guests.” She knew that should she object to an affair occurring near her front door she could order Erik off of her property and demand that he seek lodgings elsewhere, but she was not one to judge others on their adult escapades. She was neither a puritan nor a hypocrite.

“Yes,” Christine continued carefully, “but you could express your discomfort, and I am appreciative that you have not.”

“Oh, my dear,” Sofia laughed lightly as she accepted her tea cup from Charles trembling hands, “I am not uncomfortable in the least. I can only hope that it is you who is not feeling out of sorts.” She raised her eyes to the young girl across from her who studied the white porcelain cup with distracted curiosity.

“What do you mean?” Christine lowered her glass and looked up at the motherly eyes that softly scanned her face.

“I am not one to pry into the affairs of others,” Sofia immediately regretted her use of the word ‘affair,’ “but I want to be sure that any…activity taking place in or near my home is safe.” She hated herself for being so distrustful of Erik, but he was still very much a stranger to her. She knew his body, she knew how he moved and how he touched a woman, but his mind was a mystery. Like a dark, endless cavern, the secrets held in his mind were hidden far beyond the reaches of her casual questioning and friendly conversation. Even his eyes were forbidding, the pain and longing in them almost staggering to behold.

“Oh, I can assure you, Madame, I am in no danger.” She lied once more. She had not even thought it a lie until the words escaped, tainting the air with dishonesty.

“Well, by danger I do not mean physical harm, Mademoiselle Giry.”

“I do not think you need be concerned.” Christine set her cup down on the saucer and smiled to soften the blow of her cold words. They sat for a moment in silence. Silence gave time for reflection, and it allowed one to recover their thoughts, especially when they ran so wildly.

“I shall take your word for it. Oh, and you may call me Sofia.”

“Thank you. Call me Christine as well.” Sofia was either a nosy busybody or an intuitive woman. That was most certainly unsettling.

For a few second there were no sounds except for the harsh clanging of porcelain against porcelain as they laid their cups on the saucers.

“How long has Erik been here?” Setting down her cup and leaning back against the sofa, Christine saw Sofia eye her thoughtfully as she mentally calculated the time that Erik had been silently haunting her peaceful home.

“Oh, a few months. He says very little about himself. I am not sure where he lived before, I never wanted to ask.”

“I see. He is a secretive man.” Christine was wistful as she looked out the window as the clouds covered the sun, leaving the sunny room in shade.

“A mysterious one indeed. Have you an idea of where he lived before?” If Christine was his paramour they would have had to have met somewhere.

“We…” she paused suddenly. She almost said that they had first become acquainted at the Opera Populaire. That would have been most unwise. “We met many years ago, I was very young. He knew my father, and as I became older, our relationship changed.” It was mostly true, only the times, places, and people had changed, the story remained the same.

“You must have known him when you were but a child.” Had Erik taken a romantic interest in a woman he had known since she was a child and he a young man?

“He never became interested in me until I was much older.” Christine knew that she was saying too much, but an impartial mind was what she needed now. Besides, she was still being sufficiently vague, was she not?

“My late husband. He and I met when I was 18, he was 42.” Sofia cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. “At first, I thought that an older suitor was a disconcerting reality, one I was far from comfortable with. He was attractive, and wealthy, but I knew little else about him. It was only after we were married for a while that I realized that older lovers are intelligent, caring, and often times more experienced in the ways of love.” Sofia watched in mild amusement as Christine’s face turned a lovely shade of pink at her innuendo.

“Your husband sounds like a good man.” She thought of Raoul, he too, was a good man. A man who was being betrayed by his wife in both body and mind.

“He was wonderful. Not perfect!” She chuckled softly, fingering her glass gently. “But,” she continued, “no man, or woman for that matter, is ever perfect.”

“I am so sorry that he is no longer with you.” Christine felt a deep loss for the woman at that moment; she seemed so strong, so alive for someone who had lost someone so close to her heart. Christine had never been able to get past the loss of her father; she had never been able to accept death as a reality beyond her control and comprehension.

“Yes, I am sorry as well. However, we must accept death as a part of life, even though we never forget and we never stop hurting, we must learn to live again.”

So much pain had ravaged Christine when she was so young. So much loss had made her so fearful of being alone, forgotten by a world that ignored the pleas of a broken child to allow her father to live.

“You do not need to talk about him if it upsets you.” Christine saw a distant gaze creep in Sofia’s coffee-brown eyes as she looked out at the window, the sun had began to shine through again.

“Oh no, actually, it is comforting to speak of Marius.”

“Oh, well then. Tell me about him.” It had been so long since Christine had engaged in idle chatter with another woman. Although the conversation ahead was filled with memories, sadness, and talk of love, it was refreshing to breathe freely without the weight of guilt or shame closing in.

Sofia sighed softly as the rays of sun grazed her face. If they were to walk outside and to the river the water would shimmer like liquid silver as it rippled gently in the breeze. On warm days such as these, families of ducks would often settle upon the calm waters, flitting and swimming about with joyful abandon. It was such a pleasure to watch them in their natural simplicity. It was such a contrast to the troublesome thoughts that pervaded the weary soul.

“I think we should move outside, it’s such a lovely day. It would be a shame to remain indoors.” Sofia stood, straightening her skirts as she walked towards the French doors that led to the quaint veranda. The breeze was slight and warm; too often a cool breeze would seep beneath thin fabrics and make the veranda chilly and uncomfortable.

Christine sat down gingerly, adjusting her blue silk skirts as she did so. The waters atop the river shone in the sunlight, the glare a pearly black that moved softly beneath the wispy touch of the wind.

Clearing her throat once more, Sofia began her tale. She had not realized how much she loved the freedom to simply sit and converse about all of lifes intricacies, be they pleasant or tumultuous. Her husband had shared in her love of thoughtful conversation, and although the prospect of marrying him had at first been a frightening one, it had turned to something wonderful. Looking to the young, unsure woman in front of her, she began to speak of the strange journey she embarked on so many years ago.

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It was a quiet night, but something felt amiss. Sofia could not identify what was perplexing her so, but she felt a deep discontent welling up within her. Nothing could distract her mind from the troublesome thoughts.
It was a Sunday night, and she had allowed a relaxing day pass her by languorously. There were no balls or parties to attend, no prospective suitors to acknowledge with polite refinement and blank gestures. The giggling voices of overzealous debutantes were not ringing in her ears.

Sunday nights were her most cherished nights. Ever since she and her family had moved to Paris from Siena, Italy, the haughtiness of French society had worn on her. The cheerful voices masked contempt and jealousy, as did the painted smiles and frowning eyes. All of life was but a competition, and all competitors ruthless in their resolve to lie, smile, and bat their eyelashes to victory.

The girls her age seemed petty, the boys insincere and shallow. People looked over one another as though they were purchasing horses. Fine, thoroughbred horses perhaps, but animals none the less.

Yet tonight, on the night of the week where she should have been most content, was the night she felt most uneasy. Something was wrong, there was a startling change in the winds.

She came to realize her greatest fears were at once realized when her father came into the drawing room and happily declared with a vivacious smile and wildly gesturing hands that she was to be married. “A most excellent match, a most excellent match indeed!” He proclaimed loudly, his voice rising to heights of euphoria has his proud almond-eyes shone with victory.

He ran his hand through his trim gray beard as his plump belly shook with joviality. All she could do was stare, her mouth agape, her eyes filling with tears.

It was as though her father was celebrating the sale of an expensive antique to a most willing buyer. He was not a mercenary man on principle, but matters of business were most important to him, and the only other times his elation shone so brightly was when he made a handsome profit. The flesh trade seemed a lucrative business with eternal rewards.

“Do you remember Marius Renault, Sofie? I saw him at the game hall tonight, my, he said the most wonderful things about you! He would be most honoured if you would become his betrothed. The man has a title, a fortune, and a respectable name!” His smile remained, as did her frown. The colour slowly drained out of her tan skin, leaving it an odd mix of white and yellow. Her pallor suggested she was about to be sick all over the navy blue Persian carpet. She had to press a hand to her chest to ensure that her heart was still beating.

“Sofie?” There was no sound but the blood pounding between her ears in time with her wilting heart.

“Sofia!” His smile faded. She simply stood up and walked from the room, her shoulders slumped, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She was too weak to even argue, too distraught to even speak. Her slow walk of defeat spoke loudly enough, her father stormed from the room, ranting and raving in Italian about the lack of graciousness in his family. She ignored him as she ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

She knew Marius Renault; she had seen him watch her at the Dupoix’s ball. His light blue eyes followed her every move, and when she would turn to meet his gaze, he would often be so bold as to wink at her, his lips turning upwards in a mischievous smirk that made him look half his age. A trim but fit man, he stood at a greater height than most and had a grace in his movements that was soothing to behold.

His skin was quite pale, but he did not look ill or boyish. He kept his hair shorter than most men, the sandy blonde thick yet shorn. His most striking feature was his eyes, those pale blue eyes that bore into ones soul. With one glance she felt nude, his deep orbs slowly removing her clothing piece by piece, even as his long-fingered hands remained around a crystal brandy glass.

A notorious gambler, he seemed a bit of a rogue. He would surely keep mistresses and anger wealthy gentleman at cards! Yet, since she was a woman, she would be expected to eagerly take his affluent Baronet hand and passively except any ill treatment with a wide smile and child-like indifference. Such was the way of the world.

They were married within three weeks of her father’s announcement. Her parents believed that long engagements were superfluous. They had been married within two weeks of meeting one another, they claimed that life was short, precious, and unpredictable, and decisions were a luxury not afforded to most people. Careful consideration was wasteful.

Her home had grown silent even as her muffled sobs escaped into the night, swept away by the moonlight. There was no joy to be had in looking out at the stars as they shed light on the Parisian streets below. There was no joy to be had as one was thrust unceremoniously into adulthood. Joy was not a luxury afforded to most people.

She had acknowledged Marius’s comments and gentle bantering with polite reservation. Rarely would she meet his eyes for fear of their seductive depths. Each time he reached for her hand or let his fingers graze her hair she would pull away swiftly, masking her fear and discomfort with a look of false feminine propriety.

The church ceremony was the first time she allowed him to kiss her, and kiss her he had. At the time she was repulsed, horrified even! He parted her lips with the tip of his tongue and held her cheek firmly as he briefly explored the depths of her mouth, inhaling the scent of his luscious young bride. He kissed her like a lover would. In front of her family. In front of God! Damn it all to hell, she liked it; she melted into him even as she pushed him away in her mind. That gambler, that rogue, that shady creature with the icy blue eyes was now her husband! He was nearly old enough to be her father!

The reception had been lovely, and her first dance with him was pleasant enough even as she trembled in his able arms. She felt as though her body and mind were no longer her own, she swore to herself that she would hate him, but as he held her, she felt safe. She fought against herself as her arms crept around his neck, she fought as her lips accepted his tender, she fought as her mind tried to ignore his past. Her mind screamed no, but her will collapsed as he hands traveled slowly down her back and grasped her hips firmly.

She had never felt more fearful than she had that night. Sitting in her white silk negligee she dutifully waited for her husband as she trembled violently, her stomach leaping with trepidation. Her lower back ached from the tremors of her body, the shivering would not cease. She had heard so much about the terrors and pains of the wedding night. The bleeding, the nudity, the complete and utter submission to the will of a man whom she hardly knew!

He had come for her that night, but they had not made love. He had held her as he pulled her thick, dark hair to one side and gently kissed her neck. He had shushed her silently, asking her to stop trembling, reassuring her softly. He had told her that when he first saw her he knew he had to have her, she consumed his every thought, dream, and fantasy.

She remembered relaxing in his arms as he held her. He had smelled so wonderful, so very masculine and fresh, so comforting. His red silk dressing gown had felt so soft and cool against her flushed skin, which had turned a hot shade of pink from her excessive worry.

They laid together that night, just talking. He did not frantically tear at her clothing or have her swiftly then return to his room. He pulled back the soft yellow coverlet and pressed her against his chest. Her hands curled into fists, her knuckles barely grazing his flesh. He played with her fingers gently, telling her that they would not make love until she wanted to.

In the days after their marriage, she felt as though this strange, mysterious man was very much in love with her. It was alarming; she did not yet share in his affections. His gambling worried her, as did his social carelessness and outspoken politics, but mild affection for him grew more and more each day.

His lingering stares and gentle touches spoke of the kind of reverance only present in poems and fairy tales. He had whisked her away from her old life, and although she resisted, she felt as precious as a diamond when he looked at her.

When they began making love, after he allowed her nearly a month to prepare herself, she felt herself falling as fiercely in love with him as he was with her.

She had come to him one night while he sat in his study, a glass of brandy in front of him catching the glare of the moonlight. He looked wonderful, his shirtsleeves were rumpled and his face somber. He had lost money the night before. She had wished to speak to him of her concerns about his activities, but felt such a conversation would be best had at another time. Tonight, she wanted to be his wife in every way.

It was truly beautiful. He was attentive, passionate, daring, and sensuous. Every touch, every kiss, every caress was thoughtful. His invasion had not been nearly as abominable as she expected, which he later attributed to her being an avid horsewoman in her youth, which she was.

The art of sex was one they explored together in greater depth than most. He often coaxed her gently to unleash her darkest desires and forsake the values of propriety that made her shameful of an act that was both natural and beautiful. A true libertine was her husband!

And a libertine he remained through the many difficulties they had faced, and there had been many. They had had many an exasperated fall-out over the game rooms, as well as over his consumption of brandy. Their age and cultural differences made some situations difficult to overcome, but each and every night, no matter what argument started the day; he would hold her against him while they slept, thanking her for taming this wild man.

During her difficult childbirths he had been nearly insane with terror, his eyes burning blue fire as he fought through the midwives to commit the forbidden act of holding his wife as she sputtered and choked pitifully as her body collapsed beneath the weight of sickness and exhaustion. She was weak, so very weak. Even as a menagerie of female voices screamed for him to leave her, he did not, he held her hand tightly, wiping the sweat from her face as she lulled on the brink on consciousness.

She had survived; he would not have been able to if she had not. When Marius’s heart became weak, her broken bedside pleas could not force him into consciousness. Never had darker days descended upon her, never had life seemed so bleak and empty. Despite her children, never had she felt so alone.

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“You see, Christine,” she wiped at her eyes quickly, willing the tears to dry, “there is no pain more ravaging, more consuming, and more heartbreaking than the pain of being alone.”

Christine sat back, her eyes moist. Her heart beat shallowly in her chest with a deep sense of loss for this woman who was naught but a stranger mere hours ago. All human beings shared pain, loneliness, and hope.

Perhaps it was only hope that kept Erik’s heart beating each and every moment. Perhaps it was only the foolish wishes of a battered boy and broken man that allowed him to rise each morning and look at the face that made the world turn from him. Perhaps only hope kept him from withering at the sight of the man in the mirror who murdered and threatened out of hate. Perhaps only the hope of redeeming love kept him from submitting to the hate that closed around his heart, blackening it and making it weep tears of anguish.

The savage heart of the savage man, the man whom she wanted to hate, and would hate to love. Her heart belonged to another man, a man whom slipped from her mind when she looked into the eyes of the beast. The tortured, brutalized beast. He had spirited her off to his underworld in the sun, and she wanted nothing more than to leave,yet the thought of leaving made her chest ache with the longing to return.

Christine and Sofia exchanged goodbyes, the silence between them speaking a truth too great to acknowledge with mere words. Christine had long since stopped believing in fate, but she knew that meeting this woman and hearing her story was destiny, a jarring destiny.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He saw her as she drifted across the grass, her feet seemingly gliding above the dark green earth that slept beneath the cover of night. The shadows covered her body, her face was shrouded in blackness, but still she glowed. Like an angel she moved. Like an angel she left him.
He had not seen her when he came home, she had seemingly disappeared, but now here she was, walking outside with not a care in the world. She was planning her escape he was sure. Her reaction to his touch the night before had frightened her. She could not have feared him so much had he struck instead of read her erotic passages while caressing her skin with his hungry mouth.

She wore no cloak to protect her lithe frame from the cold wind of the night, but she walked further and further from him, her face turned upwards and her arms crossed across her chest. She preferred to stand in the cold than enter his home and see the monster that nearly ripped her away from her husband. Only when she was enchanted by his touch and voice did she let him hold her, the rest of the time she despised him. The knowledge tore into his heart like a blade.

He walked out behind her, watching as she paused and looked up at the moonlight that left a silvery glow across her skin. He saw her back tremble slightly. Why was she trembling? Was it out of disgust? Fear? Shame?

He stalked towards her slowly until he was but mere feet from her.

“Wandering around at such a late hour, my dear?”
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Black Angels