Chapter 7 – A Friend in Need

"Erik…"

Slowly dragging open his eyes, he found her sitting before him. Focusing his gaze upon her face, he wondered how only a moment ago Pieter had sat in that very place and spoken of her, and now here she was. As he watched her expression brighten, he suddenly remembered his face was uncovered and turned away. Yet even as he stared at the wall, her presence affected him more than he had expected or could allow.

It had only taken a moment to drink in the warmth of her smile and marvel at the way the sunlight streaming in through the window highlighted gold and white threads in her hair. The scent of that subtle fragrance which was uniquely hers confirmed his suspicions that she had been at his side throughout his illness. Aside from her subtle beauty, just the way she said his name in that soft husky voice of hers unbalanced him, reaching down into his soul and stirring things better left buried and dormant. He chided himself for not anticipating her coming to his room, and for not placing the mask she had no doubt left within reach for his use.

"I'm still here, Erik," her soft voice complained.

He told himself that it was no use averting his face; she had already seen not only his face but probably more than he cared to admit, if indeed she had helped nurse him. Slowly turning his head just enough to meet her waiting gaze, he was surprised by the teasing light in her eyes. She had shifted to the edge of the chair and regarded him with a pleased expression. The warm brown depths of her eyes swallowed him up, leaving him uncharacteristically speechless.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything?"

"'Morning," he croaked, hating the raspiness of his voice. He swallowed, shifting his attention to the window. "Or is it afternoon?"

"Afternoon," she confirmed, "if it matters that much."

His eyes shot back to hers and held. It was difficult not to stare at her, for though hers was a familiar face it was also a remarkably lovely one, especially in the light of day and at close distance. Her skin was flawless and soft looking, brushed with a pale hint of color over her cheeks. The mauve rose tint of her lips complemented her coloring, as did the ivory muslin dress she wore. She nodded toward the table where his mask lay abandoned.

"Still not accustomed to being without it," she challenged, "after all this time?"

He studied her face despite his embarrassment at trying to hide his. Unsure of what he read in her expression, he wondered why she did not flinch at the sight of him, especially in this light.

"It is habitual by now," he answered softly, returning the challenge, "and I believe it has only been eight days." He watched her color and look away, toward the vicinity of the foot of his bed.

"How is your leg?" she shot back, "after all this time?"

"Numb and cramping—are you teasing me?"

"It has become habitual," she admitted with an unrepentant sigh, her gaze returning to his. "Should I apologize, Erik?"

His lips lifted halfway toward a smile. "I don't mind it—not from you."

"Why not?"

He pulled his gaze from the soft curve of her lips. "Because I deserve it, after all that I've put you through."

"I'll remember that," she smiled, laying a hand along the edge of the bed. "...but surely you've noticed the difference in your face."

Something about her barely suppressed excitement made him nod. "What did you do?"

Her smiled widened. "It's what Dr. Arnand did—when he first saw you he decided the mask should stay where it was on that table, and after his treatments he's gotten his wish!"

He wondered what she was so excited about. "I remember feeling wet cloths over my face," he admitted. "They had a strange odor--"

"Avocado and oatmeal," she explained. "We ground the two into a paste and applied it with linen strips for half an hour twice each day. Somehow this worked to gently peel off the surface skin. Then we applied moisturizers to the new skin beneath. Hopefully it feels as good as it looks. Everyone is quite pleased—"

"And who exactly is 'everyone'?"

She looked surprised. "Dr. Arnand and Pieter, Ben and everyone who came to pray for you—"

Alarmed, Erik lifted his hand to his face. "How many people have been in here?"

"Why dozens," she smiled, her expression quickly sobering when he turned his head away.

He closed his eyes, wishing himself far away from this place.

"I know you are hardly accustomed to it," she said gently, "but we all need other people, at times--"

"You are right—I am not accustomed to it," he said, feeling violated.

Obviously unaffected by his gruff reply, she touched his arm. "Erik...how much do you remember about the last few days?"

Regretting his harsh tone with her, he sighed tiredly. "Not much...only a few impressions."

"What do you remember?"

The man whose face had been destroyed, then healed. The man with rainbows of sadness in his eyes. Then there were the impressions she had left with her nearness and her touch, things that were too personal to share. Not knowing how to reply, he hesitated.

"We almost lost you, Erik," she said softly. "You drifted far away...even to the next world, as Pieter believes."

Erik took a deep, shuddering breath, choked with emotion. He could not look at her.

"He believes you lost your will to live, and that you needed our presence and our prayers to pull you back..."

Her voice was thick with emotion, forcing him look at her. When he did, he saw something unusually rare in her eyes: complete acceptance. It made him want to share his thoughts with her, a strange feeling indeed.

"I didn't want to come back," he admitted, holding her gaze.

"Well," she smiled, her eyes misting, "I for one am very thankful that you did."

Something connected them in that moment, yet they began to hear the approach of heavy footsteps. He watched her smile brighten as her hand tightened on his arm. "Don't worry," she encouraged just as the steps halted just outside the room. They both turned as a round, childlike face peered around the threshhold. It was a man's face, Erik noted before he averted his own.

"Awake at last!" the man called, his steps bringing him into the room. Erik felt his hand being grabbed and pumped once in a surprisingly strong grip. "You probably don't remember me but I'm Timmy—want something to eat?"

Erik turned halfway toward him, feeling his hand released abruptly. The man stood next to Meg, and Erik threw her a quick glance before he spoke.

"Hello, Timmy—" he said hesitantly, seeing the twinkle in the man's brown eyes. He was not much taller than Meg was when seated. "Have you met Meg?" he added, trying to remember his manners.

Timmy looked at her and burst into laughter. "Hi, Meg—but you didn't answer my question! I want to make you something good for the first time you get to eat."

Meg turned to look up at him. "Not yet, Timmy--only juice and broth for the first few days."

Timmy frowned. "Broth? But I am a baker!" He shot a conspiratorial grin to Erik. "How about a biscuit, or even better, a cinnamon roll?"

At the mention of food Erik's stomach growled; even worse, they all heard it. Quickly deciding that what little he had left of his dignity had already been shattered, he quirked a brow toward his nurse.

"Just a taste, please?" he asked her.

Timmy bowed in mock supplication to Meg. "Yes, please Meg?"

She glanced from one to the other with a laugh. "He's already siding with you Timmy, and you just walked in."

Several floors below them the heavy scrape of a door opened and closed, bringing Timmy to immediate attention. "That must be the doctor!" he whispered. "Quick Meg, go so I can help Erik get ready!"

She threw him an apologetic look, and Erik saw her begin to blush as she got up. "I will be back later," she said demurely before promptly exiting the room.

Taking his cue, Timmy bent to reach below the bed, glancing toward the hall as if to be sure she had left. When he straightened he ceremoniously deposited a clean chamber pot at the foot of the mattress. Their eyes met and the in the ensuing silence they listened as her footsteps echoed further down the hall and faded into the silence.

He cannot possibly expect me to relieve myself in his presence, Erik wondered, yet Timmy nodded with a knowing look.

"You are not serious—" he began to object, but Timmy turned his back and stood waiting.

"Do you want me to leave?" he whispered, and without waiting for Erik's answer he retreated back into the hall, staying out of sight.

Bemoaning his lack of privacy as well as his weakness, Erik sat up and reached for the offending object as he prayed for a fast recovery. Too irritated to admit the duty brought him undue relief, he complied despite the awkwardness of his condition. He shoved away his alarm at the lack of feeling in his hip and leg, which was heavily bandaged beneath the thin blanket covering him. Finally bending over and placing the ceramic on the floor, he stopped abruptly as a wave of nausea overtook him, stealing his breath. He heard Timmy's boots return and his protest as he balanced himself on one elbow, still leaning over toward the floor.

"No, no, let me do that!" Timmy objected, pushing it away with one foot as he gripped Erik's arm. Gently guiding him up and back against the pillows, he kept his hands on Erik's shoulders. "Breathe deep and make it pass," he ordered.

Taking his advice to heart, Erik did so while he heard Timmy carry the thing out to the hall. Timmy returned quickly and stood over him again."Better?"

Erik nodded, slowly opening his eyes again. "Yes, I think so."

"Pieter was right," Timmy sighed in obvious relief. "He warned us that we might have to force you to let us help!"

"Pieter is a wise man," Erik admitted, "I will try to remember that."

"He is a doctor, too," Timmy said distractedly as he glanced toward the door. They listened again but heard no one approach. Timmy looked at Erik and shrugged. "We have more time than I thought," he apologized sheepishly.

Beginning to relax in his presence, Erik nodded. "May I ask you something?"

Timmy sat down on the chair, putting his hands on his knees. "You may."

Erik hesitated a moment, but at Timmy's smile he forged onward. "Why aren't you afraid of the way I look?"

Timmy looked puzzled. "Why would I be afraid? Besides that, fear is a sin you know."

Erik stared at him, trying to digest that incredible statement. "My face frightens people," he attempted to elaborate.

"Why? It's a nice face," Timmy answered, getting up and going to the bureau. He returned holding out a hand mirror toward him. Erik stared at it without moving. Then Timmy chuckled.

"I forgot," he admitted, laying it upon Erik's lap. "You mean when you first came here—but that got better, too. Take a look."

Remembering the way his skin felt, Erik was tempted to do just that, though he would have preferred being alone. He was becoming too aware of the fact that there would be little opportunity for privacy here, and since he had initiated the subject and Timmy was waiting, he slowly raised the mirror. Staring at his reflection, he raised a tentative hand and touched the smoothed out surface of his face.

"It is better," he breathed, hardly believing what he saw. The drooping sac of skin below his right had tucked itself back into place. It looked firm and barely different from the other side. His skin was uncharacteristically healthy in color and without ulcers or sores. Beneath its improved surface the underlying bones were still uneven, but the overall appearance of that side of his face was much less shocking.

"See? It's getting better Erik."

He looked up at Timmy. "How long have I been like this?"

"Meg stopped making the masks two days ago."

Footsteps were climbing the stairs and Timmy snatched back the mirror. "That must be the doctor," he whispered, returning the mirror to the bureau. He turned as an older man knocked on the open door. He was stout but well dressed, distinguished in appearance, and Erik watched his look of surprise change to a wide grin.

"You're up!" he stated, nodding to Timmy as he entered and approached the bed. Slowly placing a black leather bag on the mattress, he extended his hand to Erik. "Dr. Marc Arnand at your service," he introduced himself, shaking briefly before he planted his hands on his hips. "I admit to being thrilled at seeing you awake and sitting up."

Erik nodded. "Thanks to your help, Sir."

"Please, call me Marc," he ordered good naturedly as he sat in the chair, shaking his head. "I must say you were quite a challenge even for somelike with all my years of experience," he said as he reached to open his case. "But you're young and strong, and you had a lot of help."

Timmy came up to his side, holding Erik's expectant look."Can he try one of my rolls for dinner?" he asked the doctor. "His stomach growled."

Dr. Arnand glanced up. "That is up to the patient," he answered, meeting Erik's glance. "Go easy on food the first few days, and drink more than you eat. You've lost a lot of blood so you will need beef stock twice a day for at least a fortnight. It will help you recover your strength."

"I will be back with some samples of my baking," Timmy said, dismissing himself as Dr. Arnand reached for Erik's wrist. He took out his watch and studied it as Erik unconsciously gripped his thigh against at painful cramp.

Dr. Arnand's eyes followed his gesture, returning to his watch."When did that start?"

"Just a moment ago," Erik answered, "though I'm relieved to feel anything at all."

Dr. Arnand dropped his wrist and pulled back the bed covers. "Any pain in the hip or groin?"

"No," Erik answered. "Just numbness."

"I'd like to inspect it--let me know if you're very uncomfortable."

They both fell silent as the bandages were quickly dispensed to reveal the damage. Feeling sick at the sight of his doubly swollen leg, Erik studied the black and purple coloring and lines of stitches, grimacing when it was cleaned and liniment reapplied. Dr. Arnand finally looked up, meeting his gaze.

"Don't worry—it won't look like this much longer if you keep it raised," he advised. "And don't put any weight on it until I next see you."

"Will I be able to walk as before?"

"In time, if you follow instructions."

"When can I get out of this bed?"

Dr. Arnand chuckled. "Fed up with lying around already?" he said, shaking his head and returning to his work of changing the bandaging. "When I finish I'll help you over to that chair, but only for an hour and only if you keep it elevated."

"Agreed."

Dr. Arnand returned his attention to his work of applying new gauze squares to cover the wounds. "Now I want to find out what you think about your face."

Erik hesitated, answering when the doctor glanced up meaningfully. "I saw it only a moment before you arrived," he said, still overwhelmed by the change. "The changes are remarkable."

Dr. Arnand nodded, continuing his work."I took the liberty of using an experimental treatment on you," he said, glancing toward the white mask on the table. "Wearing a mask only complicates the problem...skin needs sunlight and fresh air to be healthy."

Erik gingerly lifted his leg as the bandaging was wound around it. "I have had little of either."

Dr. Arnand glanced up. "What kind of place have you been living in? Any mold or dampness nearby?"

"Both," Erik admitted, grinding his teeth as he attempted to keep his leg up.

"Then you must find another place to live—and I would like you to see a surgeon about the bone deformities."

"Surgery?"

"If they are not corrected you will experience problems with breathing and infection, if you haven't already."

"I have, but is surgery really necessary?" he gasped, lowering his leg back to the mattress.

Dr. Arnand straightened, tossing the roll of clean bandages back into his bag. "There has been great progress in that field, particularly for victims of accident."

Erik leaned back against his pillows feeling exhausted. Pain was beginning to rampage throughout his leg and hip. "I am not sure I can arrange that—"

"The best surgeon lives in Paris, but travel is out of the question until that leg heals."

Paris… Erik stiffened, wondering how he would ever explain the impossibility of returning there, as well as his reluctance to have anyone examine him. He was exhausted, overwhelmed and uneasy with all the people and decisions facing him.

"At least think about it--now, are you still as eager to get out of this bed?"

He nodded. "Very eager."

"But first let's get you another dose of medication so you will be able to tolerate the effort."

Meg maneuvered her way up the stairs, careful not to spill either the broth or tea she carried for him. Reaching the top stair, she entered Erik's room and stopped. He was sitting in the upholstered chair with his back to her, his leg extended over two pillows atop the ottoman. He turned enough to greet her and though she could see how pale and exhausted he looked, he smiled. His gaze dropped to the tray and returned somewhat hesitantly to hers.

"...is that for me?"

Coming quickly to her senses she nodded and came around before him. As she set the tray down her eyes were drawn to the half opened robe he wore over his nightshirt. A sprinkling of dark hair peeked out at the juncture of his shirt but she quickly shifted her attention elsewhere. Someone had helped him pull on black trousers; one fabric of one leg had been cut off to accommodate the thick bandaging he wore. She grimaced at the sudden memory of the knife stabbing into his leg as she met his puzzled look.

"Something wrong?"

She pulled up the chair she had occupied earlier. "I keep seeing the arc of that knife," she said, sitting down to face him.

"I keep feeling it," he said, his eyes drawing hers into his heated gaze. "If you hadn't seen it, I might not be sitting here."

Forcing away that thought, she leaned over to pick up the mug of broth, which she extended toward him. "You must be relieved to be out of bed, at the very least."

He nodded as he accepted the mug, took a few sips and leaned his head back, his eyes lighting with amusement. "You don't know what it took to get me into this chair—a mighty effort."

Thrilled at the return of his sense of humor, she watched him take another sip. "And I see that you've dressed for dinner Sir—how very formal."

He glanced down at his wrinkled nightshirt. "Quite a stretch of the imagination, calling this 'dressed.'"

She smiled into his gaze. "We had better call it that if I am to remain here alone with you," she said primly.

His eyes held hers as he took another drink. "I thought we had already moved beyond the rules of etiquette."

Admiring the masculine beauty of his hands as he held the mug, she remembered their strength in gripping her waist and steadying her hold on the pommel of Prince's saddle. Glancing up, she met his interested gaze, deciding that his eyes were by far his best feature. They revealed every expression he sought to hide, their color changing with his mood. She could not determine their color, for differing hues of green and blue fought for dominance, at times yielding to every combination of the two. Even now she saw them change from aqua to dark green, fired by glints of silver around the edges. They caused something deep inside her to come to life, unsettling her.

"You must be starving," she said suddenly, glancing back at the hand cupping his mug. "It's been over a week since you've eaten."

"This is very good—although for some odd reason I keep thinking of cinnamon rolls."

She met his gaze, enjoying the twinkle in his eyes and deciding he was not at all like she had imagined, and nothing like what people feared.

"Timmy makes huge rolls dotted with sugar and cinnamon, as well as nuts," she tempted him. "Drizzled with butter on top."

He smiled then, and it changed his entire appearance. She thought she had never seen a more attractive man, despite his deformity. She watched him place a hand over his stomach as he groaned softly.

"Don't tempt me—it has been too long since I last tasted a sweet."

"Really?" she sighed, leaning forward to lift a dry cracker. "Until he returns, might I tempt you with one of these delicacies?"

He nodded, taking it from her hand. "I'd like to test the limits of my appetite beforehand, not wishing to offend him."

"Very thoughtful of you," she said, sitting back. "He is rather proud of his baking."

"As well as other skills, better left unnamed," he stated blandly, biting into a cracker.

She knew he was referring to that embarrassing moment when she had been ordered out of the room. "I imagine he made it as practical an issue as possible, God bless him."

Erik swallowed with a nod. "Thankfully, he did."

They sat in companionable silence as he finished all the broth and ate another cracker. He took a few sips of the tea before lowering that mug. Sighing tiredly, he rested his head back against the chair, holding her gaze.

"You will find your place here, in time," she said simply.

Something fired in the depths of his eyes. "I am completely out of my element here," he answered. "As we are both aware."

She smiled sweetly. "You think so?"

"I do."

"Give yourself time, Erik—the change might be good for you."

He pinned her with a challenging stare. "In what way?" he asked softly.

The tension between them heightened, making her heart beat more rapidly. Careful to gauge his reaction, she leaned toward him again. "For one thing, you could try a piece of cheese," she suggested, holding one out to him. His eyes darkened as he leaned toward her, his fingertips lightly brushing hers as he grasped it. A jolt of awareness shot up her arm and stabbed her in the stomach.

"Why not?" he said softly, his heated gaze burning into her. "I am not one to back down from a challenge."

Lost in those eyes, she realized there was no other place she would rather be. "Live dangerously, Erik," she said softly.

His eyes fired and changed as he leaned back, dropping the cheese into the empty mug. He sighed and looked away, gently shaking his head. "No more games," he ordered softly.

She stared at his profile, noting the grim set of his lips. What had she done? Offended him? Teased him too much just to let him know that she enjoyed his company? "But I like our games," she admitted.

He swung his gaze back, his eyes full of pain. A nerve jumped in his unshaven cheek. "Some games can be dangerous."

She nodded. "I know--I don't care."

He looked away without a word, one hand moving to grip his thigh. "I cannot play any longer," he stated, his voice tight.

Was he thinking of Christine, and comparing them? Quickly getting up, she reached for the tray. "I'm sorry, Erik—I did not mean to cause you any more pain—"

"Don't go."

She looked down into his guarded expression, watching in fascination as the corner of his mouth turned up.

"It's not polite to interrupt a meal," he stated, his eyes moving toward the plate of crackers. "And you haven't had a bite."

She tilted her head and studied him a moment, lilfting a cracker toward her lips. "May I?"

He nodded, watching her slowly lower the tray and take her seat again. She chewed it slowly, holding his gaze.

"Now that that's settled," he said, relaxing his head back again, "tell me how you acquired your nurse's training."

She swallowed her cracker and smiled teasingly. "I am not a nurse."

His eyebrow lifted. "I was fairly certain that it was you who nursed me during my long journey into delirium."

"Oh? How can you be certain?" she parried. "There were dozens of people in here—"

"I have my ways," he interrupted, his smile sly. "You cannot fool me, Marguerite."

Thrilled at the sound of her formal name spoken by his marvelous voice, she forced herself to concentrate on their conversation. "All right, I admit I did but that does not qualify me as a nurse."

"Then what are you?"

She shrugged. "Just another pair of hands to help when needed."

"I sense there was more to it than that."

"How so?"

He looked thoughtful. "For one thing, you administered a tourniquet on the ride here, if I recall correctly."

She nodded, her throat dry. He offered his tea, which she drank without pause, well aware of the intimacy of sharing his mug.

"Timmy tells me you applied the skin treatments as well," he stated, his eyes moving to her lips.

"I thought that if you were to awaken and find a stranger doing it, you might resist."

"You're probably right about that," he admitted, watching her carefully. "I believe you also read to me and, if I was not imagining it, you even sang."

She handed back the mug, avoiding his burning gaze. "I don't sing."

"Are you sure about that?"

Christine's face flashed before her eyes, but she pushed the memory away and looked up. "I'm sure," she emphasized. "But I do dance, as you may recall correctly."

He nodded, his eyes probing the depths of her soul. "I do recall," he said softly.

There it was again, she noted; the interest, even the attraction. How brave of him to risk it, she thought, cherishing his effort. His lips bore the hint of a smile as their eyes held.

"She is a wonderful dancer," Pieter interrupted, startling them both.

Flustered, Meg looked up, wondering how long he had been standing there, just outside the threshold. Blushing hotly, she quickly collected the dishes. "Pieter—we didn't hear you coming," she said, lifting the tray and getting up. His attention was on Erik, who had half turned toward him.

"No, I don't suppose you did..."

Thankfully Erik intervened. "Thank you for bringing my dinner," he said to her. "I was more hungry than I first realized."

She glanced at him with a shy smile. "I will see you tomorrow then," she said, dismissing herself with a nod toward Pieter.

c. 2007 by Christine Levitt