"Please, do not be afraid."
It was him! The Voice! His voice!
She choked and a moan escaped her dry lips. She bursted into tears of relief and the weight lifted from her chest. Yet, despite her obvious joy, he remained there staring at her, like an animal through cage bars.
"I won't hurt you."
She shook her head, trying to make him understand in between her tears that she was not afraid. No, she was safe now and they could return home. He didn't seem to understand and fiddled with his gloved fingers like a nervous school boy. Christine had found he did it compulsively whenever he was at a loss for words, a rare occurrence for him. She wanted to tell him, to explain, but the tears would not stop. She cried a river and-accepting she could not draw enough breath to sustain speech-she crawled to his feet like a child and took his gloved hands in her own. Instinctively, he tensed as she brought them to her lips, holding the leather surface against her soft, trembling mouth. She moved trying to say something but he understood. Thank you, she breathed to his hands and collapsed on his knee. Without a word, he unclasped his long cloak and draped it around her, holding her tight against him as she wailed once more.
How long did they stay there, unmoving, mourning? An instant merged into an hour and time lost its meaning, leaving them in the cold and dark, underneath a crystal sky. He did not bother her, leaving her to ease her agony and pour it all on him. Her tears dried and she raised her head to face the black mask in front of her. His hand brushed the hair off her face, making sure not to touch her porcelain skin.
"Let's go home, my love."
That sound...what would she not give to never stop listening to him speak. Even in that moment, when the world seemed inhuman, he managed to lift the pain away, to create a barrier between her and the hurt.
Obediently she stood and flinched as her weight distributed on her two sore legs. He caught her and swept her in his arms, her head resting on his bony shoulder.
"Did he hurt you?" his voice was worried, but his tone hinted murderous anger.
"No,"she answered half-heartedly. He had managed to scar her for a long time, though. "No, Erik. He didn't have the time to."
Erik's silence made her suspicious and she turned her head towards the pile of flesh on the ground.
"Is he dead?" She questioned.
"Yes."
It felt twisted, but she was glad to hear that. She returned her head in the crook of his neck
"Let's go home, Erik."
The man hummed in response and soon his rhythmic step had soon lulled her to sleep.
She could not remember where she was or what time it was when she woke up, but a comforting heat was embracing her body, so she decided to bask in it a while longer, before opening her eyes. Her ears were picking up only the crackling of wood, from what she assumed would be the fire providing her with warmth, and the shuffling of fabric, as she shifted under her heavy cover that smelled of home. The more she lay there unmoving, the more she felt her body in its entirety, and it was then that she realised an acute pain at the lower part of her leg, as well as her right hand. Her hand was throbbing softly and a jolt of sharp pain passed through her fingers when she flexed them. Her leg, however, did not feel that bad, only a burning sensation alongside the itchiness one gets around open cuts.
Her self-examination was terminated abruptly, as she felt someone kneel on the floor next to her. She slowly opened her eyes, as the dim gaslight made them hurt, taking a look at her surroundings; a classic, probably a little outdated-living room with dark wallpaper, paintings and bookshelves on the wall. She was on a loveseat and was covered with a thick burgundy cotton blanket. She felt terrible, dirty and sweaty, and she rubbed her eyes in an attempt to wake up.
Then, she realised she still had not turned to look at her companion, who was still inspecting her silently, and she was not surprised to be face to face with the familiar black leather of the mask she had come to know too well.
"Hello," she whispered, her voice rough and cracking.
His thin lips twisted into a slight smirk.
"Hello, my dear," he answered and his silky voice floated around her in a single note. "Are you feeling better?"
She twisted to try and get up, now feeling a few more sore spots around her skin. She scratched through her hair and looked at him grumpily.
"I guess so. But I have...I don't know, it just hurts in some places."
He moved in understanding and stood, disappearing behind the open door into the kitchen.
"I think it's...what's the word...blåmärken? I can't find the french word for it..."she said a little louder, trying to make him hear her from afar.
A moment later, he was back with a small box in one hand, a bowl of steaming water in the other, as well as a towel hanging on his shoulder.
"I don't know the word, my love, but we will soon find out," he whispered in a tone often addressed to small children and she could tell he did not have the patience to clean up her mess.
In truth, her right hand was swollen and her palm had acquired a deep purple colour. Her leg also turned out to be slightly scraped just above the ankle and she flinched when he pressed a cotton ball drenched in alcohol over it. Other than that, her pale skin was decorated with multiple dark spots, with the deeper ones on her legs, around her wrists, and under her jaw. When he put the warm compress around those areas, her mind immediately flew to the feeling of that stranger curling his fists around her neck, so she shoved his gloved hand away.
He sighed, but did not move to touch her again.
"I know this is too intrusive, my dear, but I have to treat those wounds of yours. If you could only bare me for an instant." He rubbed his temple with his free hand.
"No, it's not...it's not that, Erik. The memory is still too fresh."
He paused and she anticipated his next move.
"I understand," he finally managed to choke out. "I understand," he repeated as he combed through her hair with his fingers, taking it away from her face. "My brave Christine."
She did not know how to respond to his sudden sadness, so she just looked away as he now, more carefully, pressed on those areas again. In a few moments, he had cleaned her wounds and wrapped har hand in gauge to stabilise her aching fingers.
As he worked on her, Christine noticed his always steady hands twitching slightly and he sighed regularly. The process seemed to be torturing him and he sweated, which caused him to roll up his shirtsleeves that were slowly getting drenched. She could not remember ever seeing him in such a deteriorated state and she could feel a needle sting her heart, thinking he had suffered because of her. If only she had been wiser, this whole affair would have been avoided and they would be singing, instead of patching up wounds.
The rare sight of his skin caught her eye. It was incredibly pale, one could almost call it transparent, and blue veins snaked around, swollen in a few places. All this could be ignored, if only his skeletal arms weren't abundant with scars of various sizes. Some must have been deeper when inflicted, thick dark lines staining the ivory skin. A specific pair, however, shocked her most of all; curling around each of his wrists, like the tightest bracelet, the skin was rough and darker, hinting at something terrible Christine, despite her innocence, could guess. Bondage. The realisation created more questions than it answered, all of them buzzing inside her tired head. Chains? Ropes? She could only imagine what accompanied them. Torture? Humiliation?
What had her tormented angel endured?
He had noticed, of course. The way her eyes fixated on his destroyed arms betrayed her curiosity, but he allowed her to stare, perhaps curious himself to see what emotions they would bring. Finally, her brows furrowed and she averted her gaze to the opposite direction. It might have been too much for her, so untainted was her beautiful soul, she could not bare the cruelties of man.
"It is bothering you," he stated, before rolling his sleeve down and covering up the scars that betrayed his past. "Forgive me."
She felt awful at his comment. She wanted to apologise, explain it was not his fault he had gone through so much and that she was there for him. But the lump in her throat did not allow her to speak steadily.
"Please do not apologise, "she managed to choke out.
He simply sighed and resumed to his work, as if nothing had happened.
He was dreadfully silent. Not a word further was exchanged between them as he put her to bed and disappeared into the shadows of the hall. Instead of pondering on his behaviour, however, she cuddled inside her warm covers and was soon asleep, the laudanum he had administered already working wonders for her haunted mind.