Hi folks. With Halloween looming, I was feeling inspired to start something with a "it was a dark and stormy night" idea. This is a primarily AU fic... it is Kay-compliant up until Erik is 8-9 years old, then it splits off into a different direction. There will be the occasional mention of various instances in the novel, when remembering Erik's childhood. So, if you haven't read it and need clarification, just let me know.

In the summary, I use a quote by Ray Bradbury: "Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage."

-0-0-0-0-

Spring 1840

"Marry me!" the doctor pleaded. "You cannot go on like this. We can start a new life together."

He strained to listen to the sounds around him. The medication in his veins fogged his consciousness and tried to force him into sleep... yet he could not help the feeling that this conversation was important. If I can only... stay... awake...

Madeline hesitated. "I would... you know I would. But... my son..."

Erik perked up again and his ears tingled. His mother referred to him as many things, but never that. Rarely did she speak of him without vitriol... never used the word 'son'.

"Erik will be fine," he doctor assured her. "It was a flesh wound. I know all the blood is alarming, but-"

"That is not what I mean, and you know it," she answered, impatiently.

The man cleared his throat. "I know of a place. An institution. They will take him, I am sure. Madeline, my darling, trust me. This life was not meant for you... it is draining you dry. Come with me, and we will start afresh together. And Erik... Erik will be safe. He will get the help he needs. You know he is unwell... and not just physically. They will take care of him, there. He needs this, as do you."

Erik began to panic. Institution. Sending me away. NO! Must... move... escape... PLEASE! He struggled briefly with all the strength his small body could muster. He felt a soft, trembling hand brush his arm. "Mother," he moaned, but it came out as a garbled mess.

The careful touch was removed and replaced with a syringe in his mouth, forcing more of the foul-tasting elixir into his throat. That was the last thing he remembered feeling.

The last thing he heard, though, before succumbing to unconsciousness was his mother's resigned voice as she uttered the words, "Fine... I accept."

-0-0-0-0-

Years later... Winter 1864

It was raining horribly. The hospital was still miles away and her father was running out of time. In the back of her mind, Christine knew that this would be a possibility—that he might not survive the trip—but she had refused to entertain the thought. He had to live. Simply had to.

But now... now the chances were looking bleak, indeed.

"No no no no, Papa! You mustn't sleep. Stay awake for me, Papa, just a little longer." The man was fading, leaning more heavily on Christine with every step.

Their wagon had broken an axle three days ago, and the man Christine had hired to repair it had run away with their money. She'd berated herself for hours. How could I be so foolish? Papa would never have let something like this happen. Her father, Gustave, had always taken care of her. Once, she had declared herself very grown up and responsible... yet now she never felt so unprepared, so inept.

But never so determined, either.

She sold most of her belongings—including the remains of the broken wagon—for food and some medicine to ease her father's discomfort, then helped the old man onto the horse's back and continued forth.

But last night it had begun to rain, and they had traded the horse for a hot meal and a roof over their heads for the night.

Perhaps they might have stayed there for a time. Christine could have offered to work—cook or clean in exchange for a few more days' lodging—but in the night her father took a turn for the worse.

They were out of money, out of time. 'Out of luck,' the gruff innkeeper had said.

His wife, though... well, while she didn't offer them help, exactly, she did offer encouragement in that she believed the hospital was not terribly far and could be reached in a day's journey on foot.

Christine clung to that shred of hope like a canteen of water in the desert.

However, well-meaning as the woman had been, that hope had been misplaced. Not only was the hospital farther away than she'd estimated, but obviously when she'd said "a day's journey" she'd been accounting for two healthy adults, not a young woman with a dying father draped across her shoulder with a staggering weight.

"Just a little longer," she assured her father, not believing a word of it.

Had he been feeling better, he would have indulged her in the fantasy. Made jokes about how he felt fine and what adventures they would have in the future. Now he only mumbled incoherently. But at least he is conscious. There is still hope.

For the first time Christine began to wonder just how many of her hopes were nothing more than fantasy. Her father had taken great care to shelter her… he never let her see the horrors of life... made sure her childish dreams were not crushed by adulthood.

And if she lost him...

If this was reality, she was not sure she wanted to live it.

A tree limb, dislodged by the weather, fell into the road and she tripped, landing into the mud with her father groaning beside her.

Until now, she had been strong. She had kept her tears to herself in the quiet of her room, and been all smiles and denial when she tended her father.

But now...

She cried. She cried as she prayed for rescue, cried as she struggled to stand or call for help, even cried when she saw a lantern in the distance... because it seemed too far, too impossible.

-0-0-0-0-

The twins were used to going out at night. It was just easier to avoid the stares, that way. And when people did see the hulking men traversing the streets after dark, they tended not to ask questions.

Let them make whatever assumptions they liked, Jean-Pierre wasn't going to correct them. Neither would Jacques, for that matter, because he couldn't. He had no tongue.

Still, there were times when leaving at unconventional hours was a nuisance.

Like today, when all they wanted to do was go down to the pub and unwind a bit, and the blasted weather made it a near deadly endeavor.

Sure, they'd left easily enough, but returning half-baked had been a bad idea. The rain had swept away most of their familiar road-marks. At least Jacques hadn't been so far gone as to forget the lantern... they'd be in real trouble, then.

So, they'd return. Sooner or later. They'd be wet, cold, and drunk... but they'd return.

And Rose was going to be furious.

"We better hurry home, eh brother?" Jean-Pierre said. "Rose'll have our hides, for sure." Jacque didn't appear to be listening, though; his eyes were focused on some unknown point along the road. Annoyed, he elbowed him in the side. "Jacque! Did you go deaf as well as dumb?" His brother, though, just smacked him and shushed him with a hand gesture.

Jean-Pierre squinted and tried to see where his brother was pointing. There did appear to be something there. "What is it?" he wondered.

Through the sound of the rain, they barely—just barely—made out the cry of a female voice.

-0-0-0-0-

Perhaps, had she been willing to leave her father, Christine might have been able to save herself. She was healthy, strong enough to walk on or at least seek out some shelter until the storm passed... but not if she was dragging the lifeless body of her father.

No, not lifeless... not lifeless. It was true, the man lived yet, if only barely. She knew it, not only by instinct, but by the fact that she could feel his unnaturally heated skin through her clothes and shawl.

She couldn't abandon him... but she couldn't go on, either. And so she sat beside the road and waited for death to overtake them both.

The bobbing lantern still hovered in the distance and, in fact, had come near enough that she could barely make out the silhouettes of the two large figures following it.

"Help us!" she cried out, one last time. Then she shut her eyes.

-0-0-0-0-

On the verge of sleep, Christine was startled by a light slapping on her cheek.

"You there! Girl! You awake?"

She opened her eyes to two cloaked men, carrying a lantern between them. Something about them struck her as odd, but she couldn't place it. Perhaps it was simply a trick of the light.

One of them grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Christine started, suddenly frightened, and was just about to scream when the other man put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Easy there, love. Nobody's gonna hurt you. We're only trying to help. You're in quite a state... for a minute there we thought you were dead!"

"Dead," she whispered, in horror. "Please! You must help me! My father, I think he may be dying." She gestured to the old man at her feet, only to see that the other man—the one who helped her stand—was already kneeling beside him, examining for a sign of life. He looked up and nodded, but the look on his face was not hopeful.

"Jacques says he hasn't got long," the other explained, despite the fact that his companion had not, actually, said anything at all. "I doubt he'll make it to a hospital." Christine sobbed into her hands and would have sunk back to the ground, had a strong hand not been holding her upright.

"Ah... come on..." he whined awkwardly. "Don't cry... don't... ugh... please don't cry."

In the back of her mind, Christine found herself feeling a little bad for this man—she knew that some men were terribly uncomfortable with crying women, and he clearly was trying to help her—but she could not manage to restrain herself. The more she tried to stifle her weeping, the more her body shook with tears.

He glanced away, instead watching the quiet man maneuvering Gustave into a sitting position.

"Look..." he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I... I know of someone who can help your father."

The quiet man—Jacques—jerked his head up and gave him a sharp look.

"You do?" Christine cried. "Take me to him!"

Jacques gave a shake of his head, to which the other replied with a shrug. "What else are we to do? We cannot leave them here."

"Please..." she entreated. "Please help us. What must I do to convince you? You are our last hope."

The men looked at each other one last time as Christine held her breath. "Come on, then," he said, helping his companion to lift Gustave off the ground. "At least we can get them out of the rain."

Christine was just about to gush in gratitude when the hood fell off one of men's cloak. She gasped. The skin on his face was puckered and scarred, his earlobes completely missing, and in the flickering light of the lantern, she could see that, from his forehead, protruded a crown of razor sharp spikes.

The man sneered at her. "Are you coming? Or would you prefer to gawk some more?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. Should she go with these men? They could be taking her anywhere? It was wrong to judge, she knew, but how could such a face belong to an honest man? Spikes! Perhaps she had been mistaken to be so trusting. Had she been alone, perhaps she might have taken her chances on the road... but her Papa seemed to have run out of options.

She would have to risk it. If, indeed, a man lived who could save her father's life, it was worth any danger to herself.

"Yes, of course. Forgive me."

-0-0-0-0-

It was only a few minutes to their destination, even at their slow, halting pace. Christine might have been sheepish about having given up so easily, had it not been for the fact that the building was virtually invisible if you weren't looking directly at it. Ivy crawled over the bricks and hid the walls from prying eyes, the outer structure seemed to be in quite a state of disrepair. Christine noticed the remains of some sort of sign placard, but the text was obscured by moss. Not a house, then, she thought. Some sort of hospital? No, that does not sound right... the hospital is miles up the road. Whatever it was, it was definitely not meant to be discovered by anyone who didn't already know where to find it.

It was only when one of the men nudged her that she realized she had been staring. She murmured some apology and followed them through the gates.

The entrance to the main building was rusty and appeared ready to fall apart; even with the key, the brothers still had to muscle it open.

"You best wait here," one man said, while the other gently lowered Gustave to the ground. "We are not accustomed to visitors, and the Master does not like surprises."

Christine knelt beside Gustave, whispering encouraging platitudes to him as they waited. She hated the fact that their fate was being decided—at that moment, her father's life literally depended on whether or not the person on the other side of that door granted them entrance. What if those odd men said the wrong thing and she was denied as a result? If only she could make the appeal herself!

But, no, she could only wait and trust that these strangers would not leave them to die on their doorstep.

Perhaps it was the rain, but the seconds rolled by like hours.

Eventually, the door hinges complained again and a soft light shone from the hall within.

A low, female voice called out to them. "Enter, child, come in from the rain." Christine had, perhaps, never been so grateful to hear a voice in her life. The hope it gave her renewed her energy and she found the strength to pull her father inside.

They were greeted at the door by an old woman. 'She's lovely!' was Christine's first thought. And she was. Her hair, though completely white, was impeccably neat and hung down nearly to her hips. It had been braided for sleep, obviously, and Christine realized with some embarrassment that they must have dragged the poor woman from her bedchambers.

However, she did not appear rumpled or unaware in any way. In fact she was the picture of elegance, delicate without being frail. Christine vaguely wondered what she was like during the day, when she was fully composed.

But her eyes were her most astounding feature. Even in the half-shadows, they were bright and shining blue. Christine saw how they caught the light from the fire and reflected it back like cut-gemstones.

"Please," Christine began, "My father is very ill. Can you help us?"

The old woman shook her head. "I cannot. But there is, perhaps, one who can. Erik is the master here. If your father can be saved, it is Erik who can save him. He is often busy, though, I warn you. Jean-Pierre is speaking with him on your behalf."

Christine hung on the woman's every word, wringing every drop of optimism she could.

Soon, Jean-Pierre and his brother returned, towing a wheeled examination table behind them.

"He wants to see him," he said, emotionlessly. The two hefted Gustave onto the table. Christine gushed grateful words and took hold of her father's hand. "Alone," the man amended.

She was just about to protest when she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. "Follow me, child. You would only be a hindrance, and Erik does not abide distractions."

Christine was dismayed, but nevertheless, released her grip on Gustave. The old woman's hand settled on her elbow.

Something about the old woman seemed comforting to Christine, like a kindly grandmother she could confide in without reprimand. "I really would feel more comfortable if I saw where they were taking my father. Those men... truthfully, I am not sure I trust them."

As she spoke, the woman guided her down the hall gently, but purposefully. "Why not, dear?" she asked, kindly. "Did they not bring you out of the rain?"

"Yes, but..."

"And did they not help you when you could have been left to rot in the street?"

"Yes..."

"Then what on earth has given you reason to suspect them when they have been nothing but kind?"

Christine swallowed, feeling somewhat like a chastened child, but continued nonetheless. "It is true. But... have you not seen them? I have never seen honest men who looked so..." She trailed off, not knowing what to say and feeling so terribly improper. Surely the woman knew what she was referring to.

When Christine did not finish her sentence, the woman stopped and turned to her. What Christine saw, then, in the light of the hall, caused her blood to run cold.

Those eyes... those bright shining eyes she had just taken note of? She had no eyes. The eyes that shone like gemstones... were gemstones. Someone had taken two large sapphires and stitched them into the sockets where her eyes should have gone.

The woman made no mention of Christine's sharp intake of breath. And her staring—if even noticed—was similarly dismissed.

"What is your name, dear?"

"Uh... Christine, madame."

"Pleased to meet you, Christine. My name is Rose."

Just like that, Rose had managed to dismiss Christine's protests just as if they had never been uttered. No chastisement, no retort... just erased them from history. She continued to lead Christine along the halls, occasionally making remarks about the architecture or this-or-that historical reference.

For Papa, Christine chanted in her head as she forced herself to take each forward step. They can save him.

Eventually they stopped at a beautifully furnished parlor. Rose smiled politely and bid Christine to take a seat.

She started to protest. "But my fa—"

"Is being seen to."

"But why can I not—"

"Erik's rules, not mine, dear. When he is ready, someone will come find you. In the meanwhile, I shall have some dry clothes brought to you."

Christine sat down gingerly, trying not to ruin the furniture with her muddy dress. "Thank you, madame."

Rose was just about to leave when she hesitated at the door. She seemed to be pondering something...

"My dear, Christine... please do make yourself comfortable. But it would be best if you remained in this room."

A loud cackle emanated from down the hall, punctuating her request.

Alarmed, Christine asked, "What was that?"

When Rose turned back to Christine, all warmth and politeness had drained from her countenance and cold-steel stood in its place. Those gemstone eyes, once simply disturbing, had become outright dangerous. "Do not leave this room," she reiterated, and quickly vanished into the hall.

For several long moments, Christine stared slack-jawed at the door. She felt simultaneously horrified and foolish. Something unsettled her about these people. Even the servants, the awkward young man and mousy girl who delivered a privacy screen and tidy bundle of clothing... even they unnerved her. The way they refused to meet her eyes and answered her polite greetings with barely a nod.

It just didn't feel right. The air was too cold, the room too silent.

No, Christine shook her head. It was in her mind. Her dress was soaked, and she was cold. And it was nighttime, likely most of the household was asleep.

She should probably stay put, as she was told. But she couldn't shake the restless confusion of a stalked animal.

She could go in search of her father and that mysterious healer attending him. But the corridors all looked so similar, she supposed she might get lost. And that chilling noise she'd heard earlier did not do much for her confidence.

So, she stayed, head high and ears alert for even the slightest of noises.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine had to admit, being warm and dry helped her disposition a great deal. The dress she'd been given was simple, and worn, but it was clean and comfortable. Much more than she had a right to expect, having essentially been dropped on their doorstep in the middle of the night in a shivering heap.

They really had been very kind, she recognized. They hadn't deserved her unkind thoughts earlier. She prayed in embarrassment that the two men who brought her would never hear the words she had uttered to Rose only an hour ago.

An hour? Is that all it had been? It felt like it had been ages. Perhaps the clock was broken? Christine's chest began to pain her, and she sensed an attack of panic. She didn't want to be alone here. She wanted her father. It had been so long... could he be dead? No, surely they would have come to tell her. But what if he was still waiting? What if this Erik fellow had refused to see him? What if they'd forgotten?

He could be dead. He could be dead right now and I wouldn't even know it. I am so foolish! I should never have left his side! I should have insisted... should be with him now!

The pointed clearing of a voice pierced through her labored breathing and Christine's head popped up to see a young man in the doorway.

"I am supposed to fetch you. If you don't mind. Rose wishes to speak with you."

With a nervous nod, Christine followed the boy back out into the front entrance hall where Rose was waiting to greet them. It alarmed her... made her feel as if they were being cast out. Is he dead? Can he be saved? The woman's expression was unreadable, though to be fair, Christine's eyes had quickly averted from Rose's lidless, gemstone gaze. She looked too much like a living, human doll for Christine's comfort and she did not want to risk saying or doing something to further offend the woman. For Papa... for Papa...

"Christine?" called a crackled voice.

Gustave was half-sitting, half-reclining on a sofa by the fire. Despite being conscious and covered in blankets, he appeared even closer to death than before. Christine ran to him, knelt by his side, and took his hand. It was clammy and damp, but the fever seemed to have abated somewhat.

Briefly she glanced at Rose, standing impassively beside them, before returning to her father. "So? Can he help him?" She asked, desperation evident in her voice.

"He can." Rose stated, flatly.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much... you have no idea-"

"For a price."

The demand made her heart drop. "We... we do not have much money."

"Erik requires no money."

"Then what?"

"A favor. Payment that he will collect at a future time... of which you may not refuse."

"Do not do this," her father rasped. "I have seen the devil. I fear he wants your soul." Christine shuddered, but hushed her distraught father. He had been delirious for weeks, sinking in and out of hallucinations as his fever rose and waned.

Christine pleaded... begged the woman to show mercy or see reason. "But what does he require? How can I know if I can pay... if I do not know what it is?"

The woman's brow furrowed. "I am afraid we cannot help you," she said abruptly and turned on her heel. "Our business is concluded, here." Christine followed her to the inner door to the front parlor, and Rose very nearly shut it in her face.

She shoved her foot in the door and forced it open. She took the old woman's hand and clutched it. "Please! I will do anything! Anything to save my father!"

Her jeweled eyes gleamed in the firelight and she grinned... a smile that was more feral than friendly. "Then you accept the terms?"

"Fine... I accept."