A/N: *Sigh* Why does no one review anymore? Well. . .it's a shame to let it just lie there, so I might as well post it. Story isn't over, of course. C'mon guys, review a bit? Lemme know how I'm doing. . . Also, aaahahaha, I need to return to fanfiction. I might. It's iffy. We'll see what happens after finals end in a bit over a week.
Disclaimer: Don't own, not making any money!
Ratings: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Not much. It's my first PotO chapter fic, but I've read the book, and Kay's Phantom, seen the 2004 and 1925 films as well.
Main Characters: Erik, Nadir, and an OC (Mignonette)
Additional Notes: All right, although I do not normally mention what music I listen to during a chapter-writing, I will say that, if ever any two chapters had a theme-song, then 6 and 7 would be it. The song is "Lullaby (Goodnight, My Angel)" by Billy Joel. I do so hope you enjoy this chapter.
Be My Shelter
Chapter 6: Goodnight, My Angel
In the weeks that followed the disaster at the opera house, Mignonette suffered terribly from fits of panic. The slightest amount of stress would set her off and Baudin had assured us quite quickly that it could be deadly to the child, as well as to Mignonette. Thus, Nadir and I were forced to walk on eggshells when near her. She was confined to her bed until the child was born and dreadful boredom and worry, in turns, plagued her mind constantly. Her nightmares became all the more frequent and soon not even the soothing sound of my voice or the old violin could calm her—Nadir and I took turns in watching over her at night, so that one of us would be there to wake her in the event of a nightmare. It was a tiring vigil, and one that I did not take kindly to.
Mignonette's betrayal still weighed heavily on my mind, though it was arguably less traumatic to me than Christine's. I could not understand why, after our initial meeting, she had lied continually to me concerning her identity. Even when she had known my true identity—a powerful piece of information and the perfect means of bending me to her will—she had kept hers a secret. Had she not trusted me enough? She had never given me any sign that she had less than complete faith in me. I couldn't understand it. Perhaps I merely did not want to examine the pain her betrayal invoked, nor the memory of Christine's that rode its coattails. Hadn't I been betrayed enough?
Also, there was the matter of Tristan Descoteaux, Mignonette's Desrosiers husband. I supposed I should call her Madame Descoteaux now, though the name was strange on my tongue and tasted bitter. What had happened? Something had obviously occurred between them—Baudin had said as much when he told us that they had been content for the better part of their marriage, Mignonette and her husband. Then something had changed, and she had left him. Or had she really? Tristan's sincere statement bothered me—"I loved her once." Once? What had changed? There had been such a cruelness in his eyes, such disgust and abhorrence. It was as though she was a monster in his eyes. And yet, there had been a kind of sadness, a kind of pain that told of a pleading wish that it all could have been different. Why?
I have seen many things in this world—from my native France, to Persia and India, and the cold barren lands of Mother Russia—and I had seen hate in most all its forms. But not like this. No, the hate and fear between Mignonette and her husband was different. It was far more tempered by the inexplicable sadness, by an air of almost unwillingness, as though they were loathe to hate. As though they still loved. I could not quite pin down the reason, try as I might. I spent hours puzzling an answer from the half-melted shards and slivers I had gleaned from her past; still, I was truly no closer to an answer then when I had first found her in the alley. Now, all I had for my peace of mind was a macabre sculpture of glistening glass that I knew would shatter the moment the truth brushed by it. The sculpture was the easy answer, encased in a fragile gossamer hope like a mist across the Seine. The sculpture was that he—that Tristan Descoteaux—was no more than a run of the mill bastard that had defiled my dear, sweet Mignonette and tossed her to the side when he was finished. The very thought colored my vision red. But still, something felt off, and I could not decipher what it was.
I stalked the Parisian streets like a wild animal many nights after she finally returned to Nadir's flat, two days after the incident at the opera. I had not spoken with her since that night, though I sang occasionally to calm her and sat with her in a tense silence. And of course, I played the violin for her regularly. And yet, always now there was the tenseness. It was entirely inescapable and I felt its presence even when I was walking at night beneath the full Parisian moon. Despite the instinct that still consumed me—and God in heaven, it burned me with want!—I kept myself at an ever lengthening distance from her. Still, I wanted to be near her. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to protect her. And all of this, against my better judgment. The two conflicting emotions were slowly tearing me in two, fraying my edges—soon, I feared, there would be nothing left of me—but I had promised.
And so I could only walk.
In my somewhat frantic walks, I relearned the entire eighth arrondissement and the gardens of the Grand Palais, as well as the Petit. It did not help, I well knew, but it gave me something to do, something away from Nadir and Mignonette. It was something safe. Walking along the Rue de Ponthieu, I could almost forget, for a moment, that I did not belong there. I could be anyone—I was visibly invisible. If it hadn't been for the instinct and the decidedly ill omen that greeted me one night, they would have been rather pleasant walks, allowing for circumstances.
It was still early evening when I found him that night. Of course, by "found" I mean to say that he nearly walked into me. I moved quickly and managed to avoid a collision. I glared at the well-dressed fop that had narrowly missed me—had not even noticed me, in fact—and it was a moment before I recognized who it was. Tristan Descoteaux. Behind the mask, my eyes widened. What, I immediately wondered, was the boy doing on the Boulevard de Courcellos, when Baudin had mentioned, at my insistence on one of his visits to the flat (to check on Mignonette's fragile condition), that Monsieur Descoteaux owned but one house, on the Rue Goethe. Surely he was not shopping, as he had just come from a prominent bar and the stench of alcohol was strong on him, though he walked with a fair stability. It only took a single moment for me to make up my mind. I turned on heel and began to trail him down the Boulevard. Halfway to the Avenue de Wagram, he hailed a carriage, and I was forced to do likewise (I was lucky there was another nearby). I watched M. Descoteaux's carriage for a moment before turning to my own driver.
"Follow that carriage," I commanded. "And by your life, be discreet about it!" Thankfully, the lad did as he was told, and did it well. In fact, I quite fancy that he enjoyed the "excitement."
In any case, we followed Descoteaux's carriage down the Avenue de Wagram to the Avenue Marceau, and finally turning off into the small Rue Goethe. It was not quite a high society street—but it held an air of money and dignity, as well as a nearly intolerable pride. The villas here were comfortable and not overly opulent, with small gardens that whispered of an earthy humbleness in contrast to the fine buildings themselves, but the estates were large enough to prove their owner's wealth; I could not help but think that perhaps Mignonette might have been better off with her husband. Unlike Nadir and myself, he could give her all the comforts she could ever desire. My eyes narrowed at the thought.
"…I loved her once…"
What had he meant? My hands fisted in my cloak and I pulled my fedora low, so as to shadow the mask more deeply, as the chaise at last halted half a block from where M. Descoteaux's had stopped. I paid my driver and was only fifteen or so feet from Descoteaux's carriage when the lad finally managed to drag himself from its confines. I watched, coming ever closer, until I had hid myself in the tall bushes that lined the walk to the villa, a mere three feet away from the place which Descoteaux was staggering down. The instinct was urging me to rid the world of this threat and I was fully prepared to do so when a woman's voice stopped me.
"Monsieur Descoteaux!"
I grit my teeth as I heard the soft patter of the woman's shoes on the flagstones. I growled quietly to myself, my hands twitching. I watched the path and decided that I would wait for another opportunity. As I watched, the woman came into view; I stared, thrown for a moment. She was obviously wealthy, as could be seen immediately from her evening dress. It was dark indigo, fitting exactly to her thin curves, and looked to be silk—I believe I even caught the glitter of the several jewels sewn into the expensive fabric as she rushed past my secret place to Descoteaux, who had stopped to stare in dumb wonderment. She attempted to support him, a semi-concerned expression on her fashionably white features, but he rather violently threw off her hand, glaring.
The woman frowned, straightening, her grey eyes hard and angry. "God," she muttered, "You're drunk!" She shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and reminding me eerily of the ballet mistress of the corps de ballet at the Garnier. "I suppose you've not found her then?"
Descoteaux groaned, and it was clear that he was suffering from the aftereffects of the alcohol. I was sorely tempted to laugh in his ear, but repressed the urge and only smirked to myself. "What are you doing here?" he asked, returning her glare with one eye, the other closed as he pressed his palm to his temple.
"I came in the vain hope that you had found her." The woman's tone was clipped; Descoteaux laughed at her words, though it was a bitter, harsh sound.
"I hate to disappoint you, Madame," he sneered; the woman flinched as though she'd been struck and I was suddenly far more interested in their conversation. "But it seems that she does not wish to come back—not even to you."
Though she was only about five foot five, the woman seemed to tower suddenly, her eyes bright and doubly alert. "You found her?"
Waving dismissively, he replied, "Yes, yes—a few days ago—why are you still here?" He sounded tired suddenly, and though I could not see his face I had a feeling it looked worn and far older than it actually was; at his words, I was certain now of the subject of their conversation: Mignonette.
The woman ignored his question, and when she spoke next it was with a horrible, desperate urgency: "Where is she?" The woman's face had grown even paler, her eyes wide, and the skin about her mouth had become taunt with anxiety. "I need to see her—"
"No," interrupted Descoteaux, his voice firm; he had turned slightly and I could see now that he was staring blankly toward the flagstones and seemed to have sobered somewhat. "I don't want you anywhere near—"
"You cannot keep me from her!" Her grey eyes flashed and her lithe hands were fisted at her sides now. "And besides," she hissed, "I know that she still—"
At once, Descoteaux's manner changed and he became the man I had met in the waiting room of Baudin's clinic; in seconds, he had the woman's upper arm in an obvious vice-like grip and had pulled her closer despite her harsh gasp of surprise. "Don't say it—don't you dare say it!"
The woman met his anger with a set determination scrawled across her features and reflecting from her narrowed eyes. "It's the truth."
A sharp crack split the night air and the woman stumbled back a step from the force of the slap; her hand gingerly touched her reddening cheek as she stared wide-eyed at M. Descoteaux, her red hair falling in wisps from her bun now, the ringlets brushing her cheek. Descoteaux suddenly shoved her toward the street and she stumbled back a few paces. "Keep the hell away from Mignonette and I," he said lowly in something redolent of a feral, guttural growl. "You have no place here!"
For the briefest of moments, the woman's resolve crumbled, her face contorting until she seemed the very incarnation of Misery herself. She left then, taking the carriage M. Descoteaux had abandoned; Descoteaux himself continued his trek to the villa, far more alert than before the woman's untimely appearance but still blissfully unaware of my presence. My teeth clenched in frustration, however; for as awake as he was now, I knew an attack would mean screaming and possibly an irritating tussle in the open. But it was no matter, I told myself; there would be other opportunities, I knew, as I retreated back to my waiting carriage. The ride to the Rue de Rivoli was silent and the Madeleine's bells were just chiming midnight when we reached Nadir's flat. I could not help but think that Mignonette did not belong with Nadir and I—that we were undeserving of her presence. She deserved, I was certain, more than I could ever give her.
The lights were dim throughout the flat—all save a single lamp in the sitting room, under which Nadir sat, scanning the lines of the Epoque. He did not look up when I entered, merely nodding in some sort of familiar obligatory greeting, as though this was normal. As though I was family. For a moment, I could remember the days of Reza and the somewhat happier times of my stay in Persia. I sighed.
"Where have you been?"
I spared him a glance. "Walking, daroga; as if you didn't know."
Nadir shrugged, turning the page nonchalantly, though I could see that it was an act. "You've been walking a lot lately." His voice held an air of curiosity that I did not like. "Quite unusual for you."
When I had hung my hat and cloak on the hook, I took a seat in the armchair adjacent to Nadir's. "It is none of your concern, daroga."
He folded the Epoque and looked at me with hard jade eyes. "No, actually it is." He gestured absently, tossing the newspaper on the end table. "You see," he said lightly, "When you act unusual for yourself, it tends to end in someone's death."
I bristled. The damn daroga should learn, I thought furiously, to keep to his own business! "Stop being such a silly ass, daroga," I snapped. "Your questions are beginning to irritate Erik—and Erik is not one to be irritated lightly." I grabbed Nadir's abandoned issue of the Epoque rather violently—more so than I had intended—and opened it to a random page.
Nadir's gaze suddenly became harsher and the atmosphere in the small room turned to one of cautious suspicion. He had a right to be worried, I supposed. "Where did you go tonight, Erik?"
A frown twisted what lips I had. "I've told you: you need not concern yourself with Erik's doings, daroga. We are not in Persia."
"Erik—" There was a new urgency in his voice now. "—what did you do?"
"Nothing of much importance," I muttered, my eyes not really seeing the page.
His voice became commanding then, and he growled, "I'll be the judge of that."
My grip tightened on the Epoque and I grit my teeth. "I saw Monsieur Descoteaux," I hissed. "I took a great pleasure in strangling him slowly as he begged for mercy—is that what you wish to hear?"
There was a pause in which I imagine Nadir's heart might have temporarily stopped in shock. "Erik—Allah!—you didn't—"
"Only in my mind, daroga," I sighed. "Calm yourself."
I heard him swallow. "Then you didn't—"
"No, I didn't. Believe me, I thought about it." I frowned as I finally realized the page I had opened to: the obituaries. "I merely watched him from a distance." I glanced at him and rolled my eyes, exasperated. "Don't look at me like that, daroga. He nearly collided into me on the street; he was drunk and I was suddenly quite curious—so I trailed him to his villa on the Rue Goethe. I swear to you that I did not touch him." Nadir did not seem convinced in the least. "He was never aware of my presence."
He fixed me with a stern look over his steepled fingers. "Stay away from him, Erik."
I waved away his warning, discarding the Epoque—it was hardly interesting anyway. We settled into a deafening silence. God, it seemed to smother me and I could not breathe properly. It was a disconcerting feeling—silence had never bothered me before; I had lived in relative silence for most all of my life. My thoughts, of their own defiant volition, turned to the villa on the Rue Goethe. I finally understood the origin of her curiously good manners and what's more, I realized that she belonged with Descoteaux. It was a painful realization and it bent my frame until my frame until my masked face was resting in my gloved hands. Oh God—could I do it a second time? Could I let her go, for her own good, and ignore my own selfish wants? I wasn't sure, but I would try—I owed her as much.
"She needs to go back to him, daroga." My voice was small and hardly more than a pained breath; I cursed myself for my weakness.
Nadir's expression was one of puzzlement and I cannot say that I blamed him. "What do you mean?"
However, I did tire of explaining everything; I flicked my wrist impatiently. "Mignonette—she needs to return to her husband." I frowned, my hand going to my chest. What is this pain in my chest?
Confusion contorted his features, his eyes suddenly troubled by my newest announcement. "Why?" he asked slowly, cautiously. "She's fine here—"
A ragged laughed forced its way from my throat; I gritted my teeth in scarcely repressed anger. "You are a sillier ass than I thought, daroga!" I spat viciously—I hated him for making me say it. God, the pain… "We cannot adequately care for her here with such funds as we have—and a child as well!" I shook my head. There was a bitter taste in my mouth and the dry smell of the fire's ashes only served to worsen my downward spiraling mood. "How do you propose we support them?"
He only made a helpless gesture, but his voice, when he spoke, was naïvely hopeful. "We will find a way."
I wanted to hit him for such an idiotically idealistic thought. "That's not good enough!"
For a moment, Nadir seemed to reconsider his reply, but then his eyes closed halfway and he smiled lazily, smugly at me, reclining back in his chair. "You could always sell one of your many precious compositions you have stashed away if need be."
That, I had no answer for. I looked away from him and the pain in my chest grew all the more: Nadir had given me a solution, a way to make her comfortable—a way to keep her here. But who was I to say that she wanted to stay? And even if she did… But no; I would not think on it. It was too much to hope for.
Mignonette's dreams worsened, to the point where only an embrace would calm her—it was something I could not give her. For her sake, as well as my own. I distanced myself even further from her and Nadir became her sole caregiver, with the help of his faithful Darius. I hated it, but I could not bring myself to see her—it was too painful, knowing that she would soon be gone. Though, once, I had needed to hear her voice—the urge was so strong that I had sunk instantly to pressing my ear to her door.
"Your food is getting cold, aziz (1)." Nadir's voice was slightly muffled through the door; I frowned. Aziz—dear. When had he begun to call her that?
Mignonette sighed. "I'm not very hungry. Thank you though." She sounded so sad and I could not help but wonder why.
Nadir clicked his tongue disapprovingly, reminding me of my own mother when I had refused to comply with her wishes as a child. "You need to eat." There was the sound of bedsprings creaking; he had apparently taken a seat on the edge of the bed. "Madame, what is wrong?"
I could tell that she was holding back a sob and the instinct began to hum in my mind. "Oh, Monsieur Khan!" she sobbed, "He hates me, doesn't he?"
My chest tightened painfully and I closed my eyes, leaning back against the wall beside the door of her room. Inside, I heard the frown in Nadir's voice. "You mean Erik?" A pause. "No, aziz, he doesn't hate you—he's only angry that you were not honest with him."
"He's been avoiding me," she countered, sniffing. "I didn't mean to lie for so long! I was just afraid…"
"Don't worry, aziz. He will come around soon enough; he's just stubborn, is all." I scowled at that. "Even a mule will concede sooner or later."
"Are you certain?"
"Very." I imagined that he was smiling, comforting her. "Now—" He was suddenly bright, cheerful, and business-like— "You just rest and I shall bring you a bowl of sorbet for dessert."
"Thank you, Monsieur Khan." It hurt to envision the smile she must have attempted. It was only a moment later when Nadir opened the door. He raised an eyebrow at my presence but he did not comment and shut the door behind him.
"I don't hate her," I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, the words out of my mouth before I had realized I had spoken.
He did not even look at me. "I know." He continued down the hall, toward the kitchen and something compelled me to follow him. "Mainly," he continued, "Because the last person you claimed to hate had his veins opened on your orders."
I frowned, shifting uncomfortably; I preferred not to think of the debacle of Mirza Taqi Khan's death. "The grand vazir deserved his fate," I muttered in my own defense.
Nadir glanced back with a pointed look, stopping at the ice box. "But Mignonette does not." I tensed, my eyes narrowing; he pulled out a bowl and spoon from the cabinet and set them on the counter with measured calmness. "You need to talk to her."
"No." I shook my head, folding my arms across my chest. "I can't, daroga."
His fist slammed into the counter, rattling the plates. "Damn your foolish pride, Erik!" he seethed; there were few times I had ever seen him that angry. "She needs you to forgive her."
"Daroga—"
"No," he snapped. He turned deliberately, forcing his breathing to slow, and ladled two scoops of the dessert into the bowl. "Just go to her, at least," he said, obviously frustrated with my stubborn insistence. "Talk with her, and perhaps you will learn something."
"But—"
"Not another word, Erik." He pushed the bowl of sorbet into my hands and I stared down at it for a moment before my eyes moved back to him, rested, and then back to the sorbet. I swallowed, then sighed in defeat. When faced with Nadir's anger, there were only two things to do: obey, or run.
I hesitated at the door for only a brief moment before entering with the bowl of sorbet still in my hands. Mignonette looked up and I could see the immediate surprise and half-fed hope in her dim emerald eyes. She was pale, I could see, and she looked exhausted—drained. I took a deep breath.
"Madame?"
She bit her lip for a moment, as though she hardly dared to test her luck. "Monsieur Erik? What is it?"
I shook my head, setting the bowl on the small bedside table, where it would be within her reach should she want it. "How are you feeling, Madame?"
On the bed, Mignonette smiled sheepishly. "Better." It was a lie, I knew, but I made no comment; she turned to look out the window, and again I could see the heartbreaking sadness. "I only wish I could go out again."
I nodded. "You will be able to soon enough, Madame." I smiled, though my heart had begun to ache. "I'll take you for a walk in the Jardin des Tuileries, if you wish—the child as well."
Some memory of the old light returned to her eyes and some of the melancholy left. "That would be lovely, Monsieur!"
"Yes…yes, one last walk before you leave…"
There was a sharp intake of breath and she pressed back into her pillows. "Leave?"
I gestured tiredly. "Surely you will return to your husband after the birth—"
"Monsieur?" Her voice was timid, quiet and apprehensive. "Do you…want me to go?"
At her fearful question my throat began to constrict and I was forced to look away from her trembling figure. "I mean only that he could care for you far better."
"Monsieur—no—"
I grit my teeth; I would accept no more lies. "I have seen his home on the Rue Goethe," I said, more curtly than I had intended. "He's rather well-off. He could provide for you—better than Nadir or I." I looked back to see her eyes wide and fixed on me. "I merely assumed you would return."
She was shivering visibly now, fighting against the tears, and I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. "No," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I…I had hoped to stay with you, and Monsieur Khan, if you would have me."
"Why?"
The question elicited one of the saddest laughs I have ever heard in my long life. It was downright painful. "I feel safe here," she whispered softly. "With you and Monsieur Khan." A sob at last broke through her quickly crumbling barriers and she pressed her small fists into her eyes, half laughing half sobbing. "Please, Monsieur Erik… Please, forgive me…"
As she cried and the guilt twisted, she began to choke—I recognized it as a fit and rushed to her, the most terrible fear surging through my veins. "Calm, Madame!" She reached out to me, shuddering and pale, and without another thought, I had her in my arms, her arms around my neck and her face buried in my shoulder. "Calm," I said again, quietly. "I understand—I do not blame you." I sighed as she slowly began to relax. "I merely want to know why you left him."
A whimper broke from her lips and I flinched. "Please… I can't tell you why—I'm sorry!" God, she was shaking so badly… "I just…can't…"
I swallowed. No, he wouldn't dare… But then, he struck the other woman… I held her closer at the thought, my blood coursing through my veins like molten iron. "Did he hurt you?" I demanded harshly; she shuddered and shook her head for the negative. "Did he neglect you? Threaten you?"
"No," she said, clinging to me as she struggled to control her tears—I could feel the salty liquid through my suit and on my neck and I ached to brush them from her face. "No, Monsieur. He did nothing like that—he was the perfect husband." She whimpered, holding me tighter, her arms around my waist now, her face against my stomach. "It wasn't him…"
"Then why?"
I had pushed too hard. She had shoved me back and hit me. Not hard, but with enough force for me to stumble back, utterly bewildered. "I can't! Please!" Her face was pressed to the pillow now, but she was no longer crying—she was panting, all her energies having been depleted; even her anger was fading. "Please…don't ask me…"
I was uncomfortable, my stomach writhing in guilt. I suddenly felt very small and childish. What did it matter why? "As you wish, Madame."
She swallowed, moving slowly and gingerly to a sitting position against the pillows. "Thank you, Erik," she said quietly. She took a deep breath—she looked so tired—and forced a small half-smile. "Will you read me a story?"
Her question completely threw me and for a moment I could nothing but stare. When I had managed to shake myself, I sighed and wearily smiled. "Of course. Which would you like?"
She leaned back and closed her eyes, the half-smile on her lips becoming wistful. "Oh please," she murmured, "Alice in Wonderland."
Of course Mignonette would pick such a fanciful, glistening tale; I smiled. "A fine choice. I quite enjoy it myself, truth be told."
The next three days passed in relative peace. I assumed my duties as a caregiver once more. It seemed also that Mignonette's fits became somewhat less frequent, and the welcome brightness returned to her beautiful emerald eyes again. God, I loved to hear her laugh—I fancied I could hear my unattainable Heaven in her sweet laugh. But always there was a feeling of encroaching darkness, of black clouds and rain. If I had only known…
Her first whimper awoke me slowly but the moment I was conscious enough to recognize the sound, I was at her bedside. She was leaning against the wall, clutching at her stomach and in horrible pain. The sheets around her were tangled and stained red. She began to pant, her eyes finding mine in the dark. "Erik," she whimpered before gasping from another wave of pain.
"Mademoiselle!" I am ashamed to say I panicked. The smell of the blood alone was enough to send me into something very near hysteria, and that is to say nothing of the stains or whimpers. I yelled for Nadir, flitting about Mignonette's bedside, my thoughts scattered and in complete disarray; I daresay I was incapable of a single coherent thought. Nadir appeared at the doorway, his thinning hair mussed horribly from sleep and his night clothes rumpled; his entire appearance leant him an air of the barely lucid. His eyes, however, were open and alert: he was wide awake.
"Aziz—is it time?" he asked, going to her at once, taking her hand as he felt her damp forehead; she nodded fearfully, a wince cracking her face. Nadir turned to the door, where Darius waited, and charged him with fetching Baudin—and all I could do was wring my hands in sheer panic as I paced the suddenly too-small room like a madman. Nadir smoothed the damp tendrils of ebony locks from her eyes, placing them behind her ears and out of the way; he smiled reassuringly as he carefully laid her back against the pillows. "Just breathe, aziz. The doctor will be here soon."
She let out a thin scream, unable to hold it back as she gripped Nadir's hand and the sheets. "But it hurts—!" She cried out and the sound nearly broke me into a thousand infinitesimal pieces; I simply could not think rationally—all my faculties had deserted me. "Oh, God!" I could not breathe now and I began to sink into a downward spiral of mindless panic as I hyperventilated. The daroga, after a moment, noticed my state of mind and scowled, grabbing my upper arm roughly and dragging me to the far corner of the room.
"Erik!" he snapped, shaking me. "Calm down, for Allah's sake!" I was panting harshly now, but Nadir's voice had cut short the worst of my delirium. "You're not doing her any good by panicking." I could only nod breathlessly. "You need to stay calm," he said evenly, his tone firm, "For her."
I forced a dry swallow down my throat and put a cold hand to my forehead. "Yes, yes," I mumbled, trembling slightly from the adrenaline in my system. "Of course." He studied me for a moment more before allowing me to return to her bedside; I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the role of the stable supporter. "Mademoiselle."
She latched onto me, almost before the greeting had left my mouth. "Erik—it hurts!" Pain had flooded her every sense and her emerald eyes were clouded with it as they pleaded with me to make it stop. It broke my heart—as trite as that may sound, I have no other way of describing the pain her suffering caused me.
I swallowed, stalling for more time to think of some comforting words I could offer to her (comforting had never come easily for me). "I…I know." I didn't, but at that point I would have said anything to make her feel better. "Just be brave, ma chere."
Her eyes were so large. "I'm scared," she whispered tremulously. Her grip on my hand tightened and I returned the gesture.
"It's all right," I told her, but I said it more to calm myself than anything. "It will be all right."
There was very little concept of time in that small room. All perception seemed to be governed by pain—that ebbing and flowing pain that seemed to eddy about the bed and in Mignonette's eyes. It could have been years between the painful contractions, or it may have been mere seconds—I was utterly oblivious to such concepts. I could see nothing in the room besides Mignonette. I could see nothing but her struggle and her every cry was like a knell that echoed in the lull between pains. Her every scream was like a small death—though whose death was a mystery.
Baudin arrived during a lull and Mignonette was half-asleep when Darius showed him in. Nadir's attention immediately turned to the physician and he nodded quickly. "Baudin."
Baudin waved away the greeting impatiently. "How long?"
"About a half hour or so," answered Nadir promptly.
The physician considered the information for a moment before nodding and going to the bedside, standing fearless next to the seat I was occupying. "Mignonette," he said soothingly in that tone I had always associated with Barye and the night of Sasha's death—and therefore had always hated. On the bed, she stirred slightly, groggily. "How do you feel?" It was then that another pain ripped through Mignonette's body and she screamed, curling over her protruding stomach, her eyes closed tightly against the affliction.
For a brief instant, a blazing hatred for the young physician and anger at the ridiculousness of the question flashed through my mind. "She's in pain!" I said savagely, biting my words sharply. "Can't you see that?"
However, instead of becoming angry himself—instead of becoming the enemy I could fight—Baudin merely gave me a calm and level look. "Yes. I am not blind, Monsieur." His hazel eyes turned to Mignonette and softened. "And I am afraid it will only get worse before it is over." My blood ran cold and he must have sensed my fear because he laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "The pain is normal," he continued, "Some would say it is a good thing. It means that she is progressing."
"Abel," Mignonette gasped, "Abel—how long?" She was shaking and I gently kissed her hand, in hopes that it would soothe her, even just a little.
Beside me, Baudin looked apologetic and hesitant. Finally, he said, "It differs, but nine to thirteen hours is the norm." Mignonette released a hopeless sob at his words.
As it turned out, Baudin was not far off in his prediction. Mignonette progressed well for a first-time mother. Per Baudin's orders, we begged, pleaded, and cajoled for Mignonette to eat and drink—to keep up her strength—at every lull. Reluctantly, she would. She would sleep as well, but those times were becoming far between and she was tiring quickly. After six hours, she could do nothing but lie limply in the bed and wait for the pain and the time when it would finally end.
"Erik…?"
It was a lull; she looked at me with half-lidded eyes, her lips parted somewhat. I answered, only half aware of her question. "Yes, mademoiselle?" I asked; the anxiety had driven me to exhaustion and I could hardly think properly now. "What is it?"
"Will…will you sing for me?"
The question sent a jolt to my mind and I tensed, suddenly fully aware. My throat closed from fear as the details and severity of the situation began to crush me beneath their weight. I swallowed, but it accomplished nothing. I looked away, avoiding her emerald gaze. "I…I can't." I closed my eyes as betrayal and guilt stirred in my gut. "I'll—I'll sing later. I'll sing you a lullaby."
I heard her whimper. "Erik," she whispered with a sudden desperate urgency. "Please, forgive me…"
I flinched in shame and guilt; I turned back to her, brushing away the single tear from her cheek and forcing a pathetic excuse for a wavering smile. "Of course, ma petit."
Things began to move quickly shortly after that. Mignonette's startled cry alerted us immediately that her water had broken. Baudin sprang into action, readying Mignonette for what he warned would be the hardest part of the delivery. He instructed her to bend her knees as she leaned against the pillows and to hold tightly to a towel that Nadir would secure at the end of the bed should she need it—like some perverse game of tug-o-war. I only held her hand, my own fear churning and writhing and making me sick as the acidic smell of blood reached me. There were tears in my eyes but I paid them no mind. Then it began. With each pain, Baudin urged her to push—always harder, always more—and Mignonette would scream. I would wince and try to ignore the pain in my hand (I was reasonably certain she had broken at least one of my fingers, given how hard she gripped them), mumbling helplessly all the while what had become my mantra: "It will be all right, it will be all right…" It seemed as though I could say nothing else.
Mignonette's cries were slowly destroying what little sanity I had, but—distantly—I heard Baudin say something, mutter something that sounded like "blood." Any worries or suspicions were cast from my mind, however, when a newborn's shriek rent the air only moments later. Baudin held the small, shriveled, screaming pink thing high and I finally let the tears come. I squeezed Mignonette's hand and kissed her knuckles, crying like a child in my relief.
She sighed in respite and exhaustion, but I could see a worn, content smile on her lips. "Erik," she whispered. She was so pale, but I did not notice that then, and her hair was spread about her on the pillows, the sweat glistening on her forehead and neck.
"Yes?"
Her smiled widened a fraction. Tiredly she closed her eyes. "Thank you, Erik…"
I laughed, almost cheerfully, kissing her hand again. Baudin came to me then, weary but grinning in triumph. He held out the child and I released Mignonette's hand to accept the bundle—a girl. I looked down at the babe in nothing short of wonder and awe. She was perfect. I swallowed thickly. "Mignonette—oh, she's beautiful!"
After a moment, I realized that she had not answered; I frowned a little. "Mignonette?"
Nothing.
I looked away from the babe; her face was clam, restful, but she was so pale—too pale. She was a deathly, ashen white. She was not moving. I called again, louder. And again. Over and over and over and over—but she did not wake.
—End Chapter—
A/N: …Please, review!
1. Aziz—as said in the text, it means "dear" in Persian. Actually, Farsi—but I believe that there is a good chance that Farsi was Nadir's native language, given that I found both the word "shah" and "khanum" in the same dictionary.
