-1Warmth. Permeating, thick and sinking warmth that nearly boiled her in its heat. Evelyn's eyebrows knitted a bit as her mind began to focus. Warmth? Her body felt as if it was floating on soft clouds, so heavy and immovable. Her eyelids seemed to be weighted with sand, making it nearly impossible to open them. Blankets covered her to her neck, tucked about her comfortingly.
As she listened she heard the crackle and spit of a fire nearby to her right and the quiet shuffle of feet. It felt like a vice of panic gripped her heart. Had they found her? Damn! She tried to move her legs to see if she could possibly run. Damn! Still too weak
Gathering up whatever courage she had Evelyn warily cracked an eye open to a blurry scene. To the side she saw the light of a fireplace and its hulking maw. Formless shapes obscured her vision but one moved, giving her a partial heart-attack. It was a tall shadow, seeming almost like a fictional devil in the red glow as it moved to the right of the fireplace and disappeared.
Taking a deep, silent breath the woman opened her eyes completely and looked about, even though sleep clawed at her. She was in a large oak bed with dark red blankets, embroidered with long curvaceous words in Latin. To her right was a side table with a cup of water. For a moment she stared in blatant fascination at the drawers that were etched with music notes. Definitely not Laterr's taste. To her left was a stone wall, rough in a natural way but not uncared for.
A larger table with two oak chairs stood between a door and the fireplace. Underneath it were large crates, some open with spilling contents: shirts, belts, rope, the like. On the right of the fireplace was another door the shadow had disappeared into.
The walls beside the one next to her bed had worked shelves, covered with food baskets, piles of paper and other miscellaneous items. The room was rather small, no where near as big as the suites she was accustomed to. As she lay there she felt the worn folds of her wedding dress and spotted the ruined, damp slippers by the fireplace.
Where was she? Who had found her? There was no sign of Laterr's handiwork or a trace of those scum who worked for him. Hell, there wasn't even a sign of drinking or rowdiness.
The door next to the fireplace opened with a slight creak and a man came out, busily folding a white shirt, closing the door with his foot. Evelyn choked a gasp and continued to watch him silently. He was like nothing she had ever seen. It was strange; he bore no resemblance to the nobles and royalty she had grown up with and yet he didn't seem like the common workman.
The man wore dark breeches with black boots. His open vested white shirt was filthy and thin, half wet from sweat. Eve temporarily found herself staring at the muscles in his neck. As long as she could remember, men kept those tight collars where you saw naught but their chins. It was fascinating to see the cords move as he set the shirt on a shelf, still not seeing her. He had a strong chin, a bit unclean and unshaven, giving him a more haggard look. Rugged brown hair fell in his face, half swept back as he shuffled a pile of papers.
His face…a white half mask gleamed from its seat on the right side of his face, covering all but the sharp blue eye and the lips. It drew back from his somewhat smirking lips. Under thick, expressionate eyebrows were intelligent, sad blue eyes, almost gray in their color.
Quietly Evelyn swallowed, wincing when her dry throat made her cough slightly. The man looked up at her, startled to see her awake. The expression was wary, the eyes studying her for a reaction. He looked as if he expected her to scream bloody murder. To be honest she thought she might. He had the look of a beautiful but dangerous creature and (quite blatantly) he did scare her quite a bit. Instead of saying anything she took to watching him.
Erik eyed her, wondering what on earth he should do. Her eyes were terrified and…curious? The horror he could understand but the curiosity? She studied him warily, her sharp eyebrows drawn together in faint anger.
"I'm not going back," she whispered quietly, defiantly. Erik quirked an eyebrow curiously. With a sigh he sat down at the table and set his elbow on the surface. Resting his chin in his palm he smirked.
"Non(no), I imagine not. You were nearly dead when I found you. Why on earth would you go back to such frigid waters?" he replied, a tad sadistically. The woman blinked at his reply and frowned thoughtfully.
"So you aren't one of the marquis men?"
"Non, I have been no ones man."
"Oh…" she sighed, seeming to deflate somewhat in relief. Fruitlessly she struggled with her arms, trying to raise herself up. Protocol was embedded in her actions. Lying so in bed while attempting to carry on a conversation was not at all polite. Heaving a sigh she gave up. "Pardonnez-moi(pardon me), monsieur, if I do not rise. May I ask of my savior's name?"
Erik took a while in answering, watching her as he ran a hand over his chin. Hadn't she realized who he was? Well, actually it was a bit silly to think everyone in the world knew who the Phantom of the Opera was. He opened his mouth but paused. He didn't know his last name. No one had ever asked for it.
"I am…Erik."
The woman smiled weakly, her forehead beaded over in sweat.
"Just Erik?"
"Oui, just Erik," he affirmed a little stiffly. Evelyn sat there, listening to the trained timber of his deep, raw voice. It was thick, voluptuous and rich like polished gold yet tinted with cynicism and bitterness like serpentine silver. This was no common man. The way he held himself revealed so. Ever since she was little Eve had learned posture and its meanings. He sat like a man at a piano, on the verge of bursting into a triumphant aria.
"I am Evelyn de Maitrese. Are we still under the streets in the sewers?" she asked curiously, now becoming more talkative.
"Oui. You are in my home."
"Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur Erik, but why do you live down here?"
"I have my reasons," he muttered coldly, turning to focus on the fire, his blue eyes dazing as he thought. She quietly waited until he turned to look at her again, this time in an aloof manner. "Mademoiselle de Maitrese, what were you doing in the tunnels?"
Evelyn struggled again to sit up but only managed to tiredly prop herself against the headboard. She sighed darkly and stared at her limp hands, lying on the red coverlets. Her body felt as if it was burning up but she could not stop shivering.
"I was running from a marriage I did not want. Not that it helped. I'm married to the slimiest démon(monster) in Paris," she gave a snort of dervish dislike. "My father married me to him for money. Mon dieu, Its not uncommon but…"
Evelyn let her words fade to hang in the air. Erik gave her a hidden and furious look, trying hard not to be unreasonable. Was God being cruel for no reason? Why the similarities? Running from an unwanted marriage…God really hated him.
"You ran."
"Oui, I ran and I ran. They were following me from the chapel. I came upon La Rue Scribe and escaped into the sewers. After a while I became too cold and sat down," she replied a bit sleepily. She rested back, drawing in a deep breathe and letting it escape. Erik looked at her flushed cheeks and frowned.
"You are still tres(very) sick. Sleep. In a few days I shall take you to the surface. Then do faites comme vous voulez(do as you please) ," he said distantly, turning back to the table and his spread of papers. He eyed one page. It was his new birth papers. It would be stupid to go to a new country with no identification, fake or not.
Evelyn had slumped into the blankets but upon hearing his words she shot up, despite her weak limbs and trembling frame. Her wide green eyes stared in panic and lips frantically fumbling.
"I can't go there. S'il te plaît(please), do not send me back up, monsieur! Laterr has men everywhere, spies and contacts in every shop and tavern. He'll find me and I don't know what he will do," she cried pleadingly. Erik turned a curious, surprised eye on her, shocked that she could actually move so much. Maybe he should be rid of her sooner than he said.
"Mademoiselle, marriage can't possibly be that horrible. You would rather stay here in this dark festering hellhole than marry a marquis?" he asked in half-started temper, his voice rising. Deep down he knew he should calm himself but her words sparred him to anger. Were all women so stupid? Were they all so ignorant to the pain they inflict?
"To be completely honest, monsieur, oui! I would never wish to marry without love," she replied heatedly, a bit of her own indignation at his words slipping in. He might have saved her life but he had not right to get upset when he hardly knew her.
Erik stared at her darkly, his blue eyes raging in turbulent despair and his heart burning in anger. She was just like Christine! Damn it all to hell! Why did he bother saving her?!
"He does not have any aimer(love) for you? Not at all? Are you sure you are not merely rejecting a man who offers devotion?" he demanded through clenched teeth, a deep growl reverberating in his tone. Unconsciously he rose from his seat, his hands clenched into fists. He came closer, his immense aura over powering the exhausted, sickly woman.
Evelyn sank into the blankets further, almost positive that this strange madman would kill her then. The anger permeating from him caused her to shrink as far as she could from him. What on earth had she done to make him so upset? He asked and she just answered!
"S'il te plaît! You don't know how awful he is! He drains all of these poor people who work for him. He-he's sick and twisted! When he last came he-" she pleaded with him, trying to calm him and explain herself, until she caught herself. She was almost disgusted at the squeak in her voice. Opening her mouth she closed it again. Looking away from him to the wall she felt tears well slightly in her aching eyes. "You have no idea what he has done to me, Monsieur Erik. Do not judge me."
Evelyn's quiet words stilled the anger in his chest, causing him to deflate somewhat. Almost ashamed of himself for such an outburst Erik sat down in his seat, trying to quall the storm in his mind. Why was he so turbulent about this? Was this inquiry to satisfy his own questions? Was he trying to learn Christine's reasoning through a similar case?
He almost laughed at the thought of him passing judgment unto someone else. All his life he pleaded for understanding from Christine and here he was, shouting at a girl he barely knew just because she was suffering a similar trauma to his angel's. What a hypocrite.
"You said you would never marry without love. What of those other women out there who do what you refuse everyday? Is that not for their families?" Erik asked coolly, still finding her reasoning somewhat shallow. Evelyn's head snapped back to glare at him, her green eyes clearly shooting venom at him. Who did he think he was?
"Family? What family? My mother is dead, and my father is a debauched old fool who loves only prostitutes, gambling and wealth," she hissed, sitting up on her elbows, her heart raging in protest. "He sold me to a sick serpent who would kill me if it was legal. You speak of family amour? If my family held any for me at all, I would give it all for them. But if they did I would not be here, would I?"
For a good long moment Erik eyed her, measuring her words and the intense fury this sick girl was conjuring from seemly nowhere. As he thought more on the circumstance and gradually set all his own perceived ideas aside, he felt a sinking guilt weigh on him. Unable to admit it yet, he managed to mask his expressions.
"Qu'est-ce que tu en sais(what do you know)? What do you know of love, of amour?" Erik muttered bleakly, somehow finding himself hoping to hear some kind words of encouragement. He didn't deserve any; he knew he didn't but that didn't stop him from wanting. Evelyn flinched visibly upon hearing these words and turned slowly on her side, back to him, after sending a final glare of dislike at him.
"Nothing. I know nothing but a romantic fools delusion."
After that he heard nothing more from her. He smiled in a decadent way. Despite all the guilt he felt and self-chastisement for being bitter to the only person who had talked to him in over a month, he chuckled lightly. In a way, she seemed so childish, so hopeful, despite her despair. He could see it, under all those barricades of polite mannerisms and anger, she was a hopeful one.
It almost struck him as sad that those kind of strengths are eventually crushed by the weight of the world. It was a terrible reality but one she would eventually face. Evelyn was apparently a noble, royalty maybe, and perceivably was quite innocent to the cruelties many faced. It was rather sweet but very inconvenient.
For a while Erik worked on several forms, the only sounds his scratching pen, the crackling fire and Evelyn's faint breathing. The forms were of his new identification and a deed to a mansion outside Munich, Germany. It used up only an eight of the fortune he had accumulated from his occupation as the Opera Ghost from the past decade or so.
As he finished up the last form he paused and rested his chin in his palm, watching the fire dance. Why was he doing this? What was the point? Beyond defying God (which he had done all of his life), what was the point? Why did he carry on? Christine was gone, married to that simpleton. What did he really have left? He didn't even have music left. When was the last time he had sang?
A sudden groan caught his attention and he turned to watch Evelyn's sleeping form. He let out a small sigh. And what was he going to do with her? She didn't want to go up into Paris but she couldn't safely stay here with him leaving next week. Then again…did he really care? Why should he burden himself with her well-being? What kept him from sending her back out there and locking his door on her?
Taking a deep breath of desperation Erik folded his arms on the tables surface and rested his weary head upon it. Too many questions, not enough answers. With that frustrated though Erik drifted into a dreamless slumber.