The Treasure *Phantom of the Opera* (sequel to The Quest)

Chapter 31

**Chapter XXXI**

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Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.
~ Red Auerbach

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Christine felt weary, yet she persisted in her task and offered no complaint. Her cheek no longer smarted but her shoulders ached from being wrenched in her abrupt fall, afterward hanging by a rope with what strength she had in her arms. She shuddered, realizing how close she'd come to death. Twice.

Perhaps if she'd not undergone nine years of rigorous training in the ballet - Madame Giry insisted the dance should not only utilize the legs but the entire form and had meted out strenuous exercises to include all of it - Christine may not have endured before Erik had reached her. After months absent from her daily routine along with endless rehearsals she felt sadly out of shape, though she hadn't been inert either. Life with Erik, on the run, provided its own steady exercise. But after the hours of abuse her body suffered since the time she'd been abducted through her near fall, she ached all over. Her stomach cramped in pain, though it wasn't her time, and the edge of nausea came and went, just enough to make her feel out of sorts. She assumed the latter was due to her horrific sight of so many wounds, more blood than she'd ever seen in her life. Yet she was no child to shirk from unpleasantness, and these people needed help. She couldn't recall when she'd last eaten, but food held no appeal. She'd only taken a little of the wine Erik gave her before she tended his wounds, barely able to tolerate the taste of the sweet red pressed grapes.

Christine rose from the ground after wrapping the arm of a young woman who'd been caught in the crossfire with an arrow, and winced, putting her hands to her lower back that also had begun to ache. She smiled at a small gypsy boy who curiously blinked up at her from beneath a bandage wrapped around his head and gently laid her hand upon him as she walked past.

Her grievances were minimal compared to the many suffering tonight. Some from deep wounds, others from the death of loved ones, still others haunted by what the Don and his men had done to them. Men and women alike stared and blinked at the villa with uncertainty and caution, especially toward the east wing where tendrils of gray smoke still rose to the sky, as if hesitant the battle was truly over and they were at last freed.

With a gentle smile, a soft touch, a quiet word, Christine ministered to all those injured in body and soul. Of their own number, five men and three children had been found dead at last count. Her heart ached to lose even one, but she forced herself not to dwell on the tragedy, knowing that victory had been theirs, and sadly, to obtain lasting triumph some often had to die. Later they would be remembered in ceremony, but looking into the hollow eyes of the women and children, recently freed, she sensed at this moment they needed encouragement above all else. If she had the strength, she would sing, but to do so often drained her, since she gave all of herself in a performance. And though all able women helped, still more of the injured needed assistance.

Christine had approached Erik earlier at the campfire where he sat with the elders and quietly insisted that the wounded enemy soldiers also receive treatment, as would happen in any war. Erik had looked at her with confused awe, but agreed to her request though with the stipulation that the men be confined to a locked cell and well guarded. Nor would he let her tend them, even allow her near them, instructing instead two of the older girls in the camp to do so. Girls who had never been prisoners of the villa and did not fear the soldiers or abhor them like their victims did. Once they'd been treated, he instructed four men to take them on stretchers to the cell.