To Those Without Pity

"I wrench the clock that was my heart out of my breast." -Heiner Müller, "Hamletmachine"

She knew she shouldn't be snooping through a house that wasn't hers. But then again, wasn't it hers in a way? Arguing with the likes of Erik would be useless, but nevertheless, there was just enough justification for her as she trekked silently through the house one early morning. She hadn't heard anything from Erik since the night before and for all she knew, he was awake somewhere in the house as well. Perhaps he even knew she was wandering about...

The very thought of the night before brought shivers down her spine, but whether it was because of her thoughts of Raoul or her astonishment at Erik's compassion, she wasn't sure. The idea was staggering, and yet it was difficult to decipher what had been dream and what had been reality. After all, she had awoken safely in bed, just the same as when she had gone to sleep the night before—who was to say the entire event hadn't been an unprecedented dream?

Pushing these thoughts aside, she forced prompt courage upon herself as she padded through the house, a small gas lamp balanced in her hand. The house was larger than she had anticipated, for the façade looked quite modest to her eyes. But with each turn, there seemed to be more hallways and dusty fixtures, all having clearly been neglected for years. She hadn't a clue where any of the doors led, and they all looked equally inconspicuous to her eyes.

Finally, Christine urged herself to try the knob of a door adjacent to her as she walked down the hall, and it gave way. It smelled overwhelmingly of dust, but she didn't mind, for the mere history of the room afforded her some comfort. Making her way into the room, her eyes searched the corners of the space as the light hit the walls. The first thing her eyes caught was a wooden table stacked with books and papers that were neatly arranged. Something else was there, though—something that she could not identify—and she took a step nearer to study it.

It was something akin to a box, but there was no lid on it. It was octagonal, or perhaps there were even more sides, and it was made up of little dust covered mirrors that reflected off of one another. As she leaned closer, the light of her flame caught one of the mirrors and instantaneously, the box appeared to be illuminated from the inside. With a small gasp she felt herself recoil and the light disappeared as quickly as it had materialized.

It was as she backed away from this little contraption that an image on the wall captured her attention. It was a painting of some sort, covered in a thick layer of dust that obscured the image. Stepping closer to examine it, she blew hard on the canvas to remove some of the dust. After the cloud had dispersed, she could see a face that stopped her heart dead. It was a woman, and it looked just like her.

Even as she blinked and brought the light closer, she still couldn't shake the resemblance. Her hair held the same curl, her eyes embodied the same sheltered wisdom, her neck had the same curve... The very bone structure that made up this woman's face mirrored her own. Her eyes searched the painting for some evidence of who this woman was, for it certainly wasn't herself—she had never had her portrait painted, after all. The only trace of identity she could find, though, was a small name at the corner of the painting: Madeleine.

"It's my mother," came a voice behind her, and Christine whipped around to see Erik standing there, hands behind his back. He was watching her with perfect composure, but she couldn't help feeling some kind of guilt for her discovery. She felt her hands begin to tremble, causing the glass of the lamp to shake, though Erik stepped forward and took it from her evenly.

"She was beautiful when she was young, was she not?" he asked, his eyes moving to consider the painting thoughtfully.

Pushing back her urge to question their resemblance, she asked, "Were you close to her?" She glanced back at the painting as well, the action quelling her nerves somewhat.

"No," he said in a short tone, stiffening slightly. Christine looked back to him for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing. "No…" he said again after a moment. "She despised me." The words were simple, but their weight and his cold affect struck her nonetheless.

"I'm sure that's not true," she insisted, taking a few steps towards the picture and brushing her fingers across the canvas. "You're her son."

When he didn't respond, she turned back to him, hoping for some kind of reinforcement. While he seemed quite at ease, he still didn't provide any accord and instead shifted the subject.

"Would you like to go out today?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers with an expectant gaze.

Christine stared at him for a moment, perhaps too staggered to respond initially. "Yes," she said finally, a smile bursting onto her face. She hadn't been outside in the daylight for so long—a fact that hadn't occurred to her until that very moment. And while the air was cold and snow was imminent, she still felt glowing anticipation bubbling within her. "That would be…I would love that," she finally said, almost catching a hint of elation in his eyes as she beamed at him.

"You aren't upset at me for exploring the house?" she asked hastily before he could continue, a fraction of concern supplanting her animation.

"Of course not—this is your home," he responded without a moment's pause, as if any other answer would be nothing short of absurd.

It wasn't until much later in the day, after they had both eaten and dressed for the cold weather, when they went outside to meet a brougham waiting in the drive. The same man who had driven them to this house initially was sitting there, and Christine felt herself smile at someone familiar. He did not seem to see, though, and so she let herself be led into the carriage by Erik without another word.

When he followed her in and the carriage began to move, she turned to him with eager expectance. "Where are we going?" she asked as she clasped her gloved hands in her lap.

"To a park in Rouen," he replied simply. It was clear that he was trying to hide just how pleased he was to see her so eager, and so she turned back to look out the window obligingly. Small snow flurries were just beginning to fall as she did so, and she touched the window lightly in awe. The sun had hidden behind the clouds by the time they reached the park, but she didn't mind in the least. As they came to a stop, she didn't even wait for Erik to open her door—she threw it open herself and stepped out onto the gravel path that was lightly dusted with a thin layer of snow.

Upon seeing this, Erik rushed out and came around to the other side of the carriage, though stopped as he saw her merely standing and taking in the surroundings. Turning to him, confusion crossed her face as she saw his hesitation. All at once it became clear to her that he thought she was going to run away, to try to escape somehow. Rather than acknowledging this, though, she merely smiled and moved towards him.

"Can we go down that way? I think I saw some rose bushes that don't know its winter yet."

It was barely visible, but she still saw the nervous tension in his eyes release as he nodded cordially and they began down the drive. She didn't bother to look back at the carriage, for she knew that it would wait there for them.

They did not walk arm in arm, though they walked close enough that every so often, their shoulders would brush by chance. This didn't seem to bother either of them, though, as they walked in meditative silence down the path. As they reached the rosebush in question, Christine rushed ahead a bit and crouched down to examine a flower near the hard earth. Delicately, her gloved fingers touched the hoarfrost that clung gently to the edge of each petal as a frown played on her lips.

"Will they die soon?" she asked, turning back to look at Erik who was standing mutely behind her, watching her carefully.

"Yes," he told her plainly, his eyes shifting to those icy blooms. "Particularly if no one is here to tend to them. They won't be able to take the cold if they're uncovered." She saw that he read her look of concern, and he quickly amended his statement. "But they're perennials—they will be back."

This seemed to satisfy her, and she stood back up so that they could continue on down the path. It was a voice behind them that stopped them, though.

"You!" the voice said, and both Christine and Erik turned quickly to find its source. There, ambling towards them was a middle aged man with a finger pointed straight in her direction, a newspaper clasped in his other hand.

"Pardon me?" she said automatically, retreating back to Erik out of pure instinct. She glanced in her husband's direction, but his expression was stony as he stared grimly at the man.

"You're this Daaé girl," the man said as he reached the two, shoving the newspaper in front of them. Indeed, there on the page was a drawing of her, clear as day. She was so caught up in studying this picture and the words underneath—prix: 15.000 ₣—that she barely felt Erik's hand grasp her arm roughly.

Before she knew what was happening, they were walking away, Erik determined to find safety in the brougham as quickly as possible while Christine remained silently dazed by this encounter.

"No, you must stay here!" the man exclaimed, though he knew that such a demand was empty. How in the world would he force them to remain with him, after all? All for fifteen thousand francs...

"You must have the wrong girl," was all that Christine responded as she glanced over her shoulder at the man who was standing there, dumbfounded, in the middle of the path. She could hear him calling out after them, unable to keep up with Erik's speed, but she did not hear his words. In fact, before she could comprehend what had happened, they were back in the carriage and it lurched away.

It took a moment for Christine to regain her mental footing, and she remained in stunned silence for several moments, staring dumbly at the floor of the carriage. This man recognized her… Her picture was in the papers… And who in the world would offer such a steep sum for her capture? And was that even the right word? Was she some kind of criminal, or was she a hostage? Finally, her attention flickered to Erik whose deadly eyes were boring holes in the window.

"What just happened?" she said finally in a weak tone. It was not the right question, but she didn't know what else to ask. When he didn't answer, she tried something else. "Where did they get that picture? I've never had a portrait done."

This time he turned and looked at her wearily, the hardness of his eyes diminishing. "It was mine. They found it underneath the Opera House." He didn't seem embarrassed, nor did she feel uncomfortable by this proclamation.

"Fifteen thousand francs," she breathed, the sum even more daunting as she spoke it aloud. "What does it mean?" she asked slowly, watching him curiously as he looked back ahead with firm destituteness.

"It means we will have to be more careful," was all he said, making a point not to look back at her.

With that, Christine turned back and looked out the window. The park was well out of view, but in her mind's eye she could still see the man, newspaper in hand, barking at them. The occurrence didn't scare her. Rather, what frightened her was that she didn't have a single impulse to try to run or communicate what had happened to this man. She didn't feel any kind of inclination to beg him to save her. He was the first outsider she had encountered, excepting the driver, and no small part of her wanted to seek help from him.

Yes, that was quite terrifying.


I hope you all enjoyed this one! Just a note—I have absolutely no tolerance or belief in filler in the midst of a story, because I don't believe that's what you come to read. At the same time, I don't believe in rushing for the sake of laziness. I dearly hope you don't feel that I am doing either of those things, as I'm always trying to perfect the balance. It's a thorny business, writing! Thanks again to all my reviewers, and I urge you to shoot me a review. Whether you're just joining the story now or have been following along for a while, I would absolutely adore hearing from you. Thanks!

Until next time,

Christine