Hi, guys! Here is the horribly delayed (and lengthy) chapter nine. I'm really sorry for the late update!
As always, please let me know your thoughts. And more importantly, whether you are still enjoying the story!
I felt a Cleaving in my Mind --
As if my Brain had split --
I tried to match it -- Seam by Seam –
But could not make it fit.
Emily Dickinson – I felt a Cleaving in my mind.
oOo
Dance of the Moirae. Part II.
oOo
The bright autumn day had turned into a cheerful early evening. A blush of red was cast across the sky, promising that another happy day would follow. The low sun was almost white, and twinkled through the trees like a proud star. Red leaves littered the streets and gave the impression of fire in the rusty boulevards. Peace seemed to be within the air itself, and through the window, one could be deceived into thinking it was an evening in high summer.
Christine held her head in her hands, but her brain was spinning on a violent axis. The sun came through the window, making warm patches on her back. It was a comforting touch from a force she could not see, the warm hands made her skin tingle.
The notes were there, again. Dragging her, they seemed to pull her down into a pit. Trying to make her the queen of a dark realm she did not want. She held in the urge that made her want to scream, the constant throb in her lungs that was begging for release. Hammering against her insides, it would be easy to scream, she thought, it was harder to keep it all inside. And the ache wasn't too bad; one could become quite accustomed to it.
"You should eat something," said Meg's concerned voice from the doorway. Christine looked up at her from where she was sitting on the divan, red smudges were on her face from where her fingers had pressed her skin.
"I will, I was waiting for your mother to come home," she saw that Meg was dressed in a formal gown, and suddenly cursed her own self indulgence.
"You look beautiful, Meg. What time do you have to leave?"
"Peter should be here any moment." Meg said, moving to stand by the window. "Are you sure you'll be all right? I can stay home, if you need me to, he will understand -"
Christine raised a hand, shaking her head softly.
"I would never hear of such a thing. I'm fine, I promise. It's just a headache."
Meg frowned to herself, just a headache. It was always a just a headache.
"…and the food at Le Meurice is to die for, I could never let you miss out on that!" Christine said, forcing a smile onto her face, like a painted mouth in an opera parody. She knew Meg would not leave unless she was completely satisfied that she was all right. And she wanted to be alone; she could not bear for Meg to see how weak she was.
Meg seemed to be making an inventory of Christine's whole person, taking in her posture, her hands, her skin, and her eyes, especially her eyes. The one place she knew Christine could not hide from her. Christine blinked a little and tried to look away; knowing that behind her eyes there would be nothing. Not even darkness.
Meg shaped her mouth as if to say something, but a knock on the door stopped her. She looked out of the window.
"It's Peter," she smiled slightly and made her way across the room, "Are you sure you'll be alright? Why don't you come, yes, come with us! We can wait for you."
Christine shook her head again, touched by Meg's concern.
"Just go," she said, laughing. "You're keeping Peter waiting."
Meg frowned. "Very well, I'll see you tomorrow. Tell mamman I said goodnight."
"I will, now go!"
Meg's eyes made one final sweep of her friend. And she gave Christine a crooked, almost regretful smile. A look of sincere pity; and then she turned and left the room.
When the front door closed Christine let her smile fall, like a red velvet curtain covering the stage. She could be herself now, hiding behind these misty drapes. The world could no longer see her. She was almost at peace in this melancholy, she had made a home inside it, and now did not know the way back.
The notes made their way into her mind again. Creeping. And that voice, echoing through the dark mists of her mind. It was both enthralling and obscene. And she knew she should be appalled by its presence within her; but she was not.
It was sewing itself into her very soul, an unbreakable weave that could never be undone. Voices could be dangerous. A voice might not be able to break a bone, but it could pierce the soul. And life could seep out, a corrupted mess on the floor. And once it was out, it could not get back inside.
Christine walked up the stairs, slowly. Floating amongst the mist, she found herself outside her room, staring at the small locked drawer. She wanted to beak the gauze separating her from the past, suffocating her with its veiled fingers. But she was also disgusted by her want. The music wanted to be let inside completely, to flood her body, to drown her. And she wanted to dip her feet, to be submerged in its glorious warmth.
But this was wrong; she needed to burn it! Erase it from the world. Destroy the thing that had tainted her, destroy the thing that made her regret things that she did not know she felt.
Burn it…
She rushed to get the key that she had hidden in the drawer of her vanity, it was still there, at the back, hidden within an old stocking. She was shaking, her fingers quivering as she peeled back the fabric and held the cold, iron key. It was a gloomy weight in her small hand. And there was an urge inside her, drop the key, let the secret live … do not open the past.
She knew that once she got the music out, she would never be able to put it back. She either had to drench herself in it, or destroy it, there was no other way. They could not coexist; there was no peace in this world for both of them. She knew that she must either bow to the intolerable pull of this music, or continue to struggle against the tide of freedom.
What scared her most was that she did not know which she wanted more. This ache would not subside, not until she saw those notes again, felt them in her mouth, and maybe even sing?
No, not sing. She would never sing it.
"Christine?" someone spoke her name, and there were footsteps on the stairs…a voice whispering in the dark…
Madame Giry.
It was only Madame Giry. Calling to her normally; not whispering. Christine dropped the key, and it clanked against the wooded floor, a loud crash in her ears. Panicking, she kicked it beneath the chest of drawers. Her breath was coming in hard gasps; Madame Giry would make her take out the music. She would have to face it all, in front of eyes that judged her aching soul. She would also have to see the paper, those hideous words that announced that Raoul had married someone else; he had married someone else because she did not have the courage to try and keep him…
"Ah, here you are my dear," said Madame Giry, standing in the doorway. She noticed the colour of Christine's face and her smile turned upside down. "Are you all right, child?"
Christine felt an arm go around her waist, as madame Giry guided her to the edge of the bed. She pushed on Christine's shoulders slightly, forcing her to sit down. But Christine could feel herself floating, she was high above them, looking down.
"Yes, I'm fine, honestly." But she knew the cold beads of sweat on her forehead had given her away. "I was just feeling dizzy, I think I need to lie down…"
"You need to eat," diagnosed Madame Giry. "Come, I will help you down the stairs, you can lie on the divan,"
Christine winced inwardly; Madame Giry's voice quelled the notes in her head. The music was gone; silence ate at the tunnels of her mind. The music was gone. But it would be back, she knew … it always came back.
They made their way down stairs slowly, and Madame Giry helped Christine to the divan, she placed a shawl over the girl.
Christine let her body relax, letting every muscle rest against the cushioned fabric. She closed her eyes. It was all right, she thought, everything was all right. The smell of tangy onion stew soon filled the room, and she realised how hungry she was. It was a kind of hunger that hurt, stinging with a sickly ache.
Part of her did not want to eat; this pain was something else to focus on. It was something to pull her mind away from the tirade of echoes in her mind. It was a distraction. This pain made her real; she was a normal girl who needed something as simple as food. That was all that was needed to cure her. She could give a label to this ache, she was normal.
Hours must have passed, because by the time Christine opened her eyes the window was dark, the smell of the stew was stronger now and she thought her stomach might consume itself. The ache had turned into a vicious throb, and ravaged her senses with its angry need.
She sat up, and watched the shawl fall from her small frame. She looked at the clock on the mantle piece, six thirty - she had only been asleep for an hour. She could hear the familiar sounds of Madame Giry in the kitchen, the clanking of cutlery and pots. Such domestic and normal noises, she looked into the modest fire that crackled in front of her and wondered if the whole thing had been a dream. Maybe Raoul would call on her soon, and take her to supper, she wore his ring around her neck, she would soon be his wife.
"Supper is ready, my dear,"
Christine blinked several times and looked at Madame Giry, she shook herself, realising that this was her reality. This was all there was.
They ate in relative silence, Christine was drowning herself in the delights of quenching the pain in her stomach. And Madame Giry was happy to see the young girl actually eating something.
"I have a guest coming tomorrow, for afternoon tea." Said Madame Giry, lowering her folk. "I would like you to be present."
Christine swallowed and looked at the older woman. There was something heavy, and almost strange about this casual request.
"Of course," Christine forced a smile, "Is it anyone I know?"
"No, I do not believe so, but I should like you to be present, all the same. His name is Monsieur la Claire."
Madame Giry picked up her folk and continued eating, without another glance at Christine.
oOo
It was late when Meg returned from her supper with Peter. Christine was right; the food at Le Meurice had been to die for. Meg could still taste the delicate flavors in her mouth, mixed with the sweet tang of wine that still sizzled on her tongue. It had been a beautiful meal, and she could picture her new life with Peter so clearly. She felt so happy. They would laugh together, and she believed all of his sincere promises. She had no reason to doubt him. She could imagine how Peter would have liked Raoul; there were many similarities between the two young men. Both of them were kind, devoted and generous. And she felt a renewed sadness at the thought that Christine had given up such a life.
Edgar had joined them later in the evening, he had been dining at Café de la Paix in the Place de l'Opéra, and had taken up the invitation to meet afterwards. Meg noticed with amusement that he wore his usual spectacles with removed lenses. And when he took out his pocket watch, there were no hands on the clock face. Edgar smiled at the watch, and placed it back into his pocket. Meg shook her head and laughed slightly, Peter and his father were poles apart. She had never known two people to differ so. The only similarity was the bright smile and kind nature that seemed to shine from them both.
"I would certainly recommend the place, Peter!" Edgar had said after giving them a detailed description of his meal "I'm sure young Marguerite would like to be taken there, wouldn't you, my dear?" he winked at Meg, pretending Peter was unable to see. Then he continued:
"Of course, the place has lost much of its gaiety since the Opera closed, not like the glory days when the Patrons and Composers would frequent the tables. I saw Massenet there once. Don't give me that look, Peter! I promise you, it was him, very nice chap, very nice indeed. Those were the days! That part of the city isn't the same now. There is no sparkle, no zest. But still, I suppose it is one of the most beautiful restaurants in Paris, the painted ceilings are exquisite, you should take young Marguerite soon, Peter, you really should,"
"I will father." Said Peter, Meg could tell he was beginning to lose patience with his father. Peter had wanted to take her to Café de la Paix since their arrival in Paris. And now his father would assume that when they did go, it would be because of his recommendation alone.
"Has the commission for a new opera house been approved?" Meg asked.
Edgar rubbed his hand over his face and gave a weary noise.
"Yes my dear, they have some young upstart architect taking on the commission. Not the man I wanted, but still, that's another matter. But the project is likely to take many years to complete. I wish I could retract my involvement in the whole thing! Nobody seems to care for my opinion!"
Edgar took a large gulp of wine, and then his mood seemed to brighten.
"But that is enough melancholy for one evening, let us talk of happier things!"
And so they had spent rest of the evening talking of the wedding, and art shows and of the memories they all shared from London. Edger stated that although he missed London, Paris would always be his favorite city. He and Peter's mother had shared their happiest years in Paris. And whenever he walked down the boulevards or took a ride in the Bois du Boulogne, he would always think of her. Meg was touched by this undying devotion, and began to wonder what Peter's mother had been like.
These thoughts had stayed with her most of the way home, and as she entered the small house, she was surprised to find her own mother still awake. Madame Giry had pulled one of the armchairs close to the fire, and had black shawl pulled around her shoulders.
"Did you have a nice evening my dear?" Madame Giry asked as Meg entered the room.
"Oh yes, mamman, the food was delicious. I could eat it all over again!"
Meg crouched on the floor, and took off her gloves; she held her bare hands up to the fire. Madame Giry smiled, and listened as Meg began to tell her all about the food, and about the opera commission. She had not seen Meg this happy for such a long time.
"Is Christine asleep?"
"Yes, she retired several hours ago, the poor child was exhausted."
Meg frowned, and her manner seemed to wilt.
"Mamman, how long can we let this go on? Christine is fading, I feel like I do not know her anymore. I know how you feel about confronting her with the truth, but this seems worse, I feel like such a liar!"
"Please keep your voice down, Marguerite!" Madame Giry said in a harsh whisper. She was conscious that Christine might awake and hear their conversation.
"I'm sorry, mamman, but how can we let this continue? What we are doing is almost as bad as what he did. We are deceiving her mamman."
"I know," Madame Giry rubbed her forehead "I know, my child. But do not compare this to what he did. It is because of his deception that Christine is as she is now. He cast this spell upon her, and now we must collect the pieces of the life he destroyed. He destroyed Christine, and I can never forgive him for that, no matter what his motives were."
"Do you have any idea where he is?"
"No, I do not. And what scares me most, is that I may never know. He could be anywhere, he might even be dead."
Madame Giry was shocked to hear Meg gasp. As if the life of that man mattered to her, as though she hoped he was still alive.
"Do you really think so?"
"No, no I do not really think he is dead," Madame Giry said with a sour laugh "he will linger in this world as long as Christine is alive, he would never leave her so completely. His life will always be bound to her in some way."
"So, you believe that he really does love her?"
"Yes, I have always believed that. And while it gives him some credit, it is not enough. It does not make him good. Erik does not follow the same moral code as the rest of us."
Meg jumped at the sound of his name, as if it were some dark curse that should never be uttered aloud. Madame Giry gave her a reassuring smile, and then continued.
"Erik must redeem himself before he could ever love Christine properly, the way she deserves to be loved. He must leave the mask behind and become a man. And I do not think he will ever be able to do that, life cannot be found in the shadows, and he will never make a life in the light. It would mean confronting the past, facing up to all of the lives he has ruined."
"And you don't think he could do that?"
"Yes he could, but he does not want to. And that is the problem."
"But, mamman, he might be the only thing that brings Christine back to herself. We could try, we could talk to her. Or maybe try to find him again, we have to do something."
"I tried to find him once;" Madame Giry said, staring into the fire "I even spent months wishing for his return, willing him to come back! What madness, wishing for the return of a man who has ruined so much! But then I saw the light. It is better this way."
"What do you mean?"
"Having that man back in our lives would be a curse far worse than this one. I do not believe him to be evil, he does have some morals, but he is not innocent. Once I thought that he might be able to repent, to redeem himself, but as I said, I do not think he will ever want to. And until he does, every path he turns down will become a dangerous one. I will not put you or Christine through that again, not ever."
Meg nodded softy, the image of a man hanging from the rafters still burned her mind.
"That is why I have tried to find help elsewhere."
Meg's eyes found her mother's. She was confused, but then remembered something her mother had shown her when she first came back to Paris. It was a letter from a doctor, claiming that his new methods might be able to help Christine. Her mother had written back angrily, saying that he should mind his own business, and ignore any rumours he had heard concerning Mademoiselle Daae. And that he was not to try to contact them again.
"The doctor," Meg whispered "But, mamman, what made you change your mind? Does Christine know?"
"No, she knows nothing. I don't know what else to do, this is the only way I can think to try and save us all. None of us can carry on like this. If Christine has really forgotten, he may be able to bring it back. We cannot do this alone."
Meg was staring at the floor, in her heart she knew this seemed so wrong, but she also knew there was no other way. Raoul was gone, Erik was lost and Christine did not know herself. It seemed to be the only way.
"Meg, I need to know I have your support. We both need to be strong,"
Meg looked at her mother, her eyes full of tears.
"Yes, mamman. You have my support. But, are you absolutely sure, can we trust him?"
"I hope so, child. He seems to be a kind man. And I believe his intentions to be sincere. He is more trustworthy than Erik; I can assure you of that!"
"Very well, when are we to meet him?"
"He is coming tomorrow for afternoon tea. It will be very informal, just a chance for him to meet Christine and for her so see that he means no harm. I would like you to be there also. I do not want Christine to be overwhelmed."
"Yes, mamman, I'll be there."
"Good, now to bed with you. Tomorrow looks to be a very trying day. We all need to rest."
Meg nodded and kissed her mother goodnight, leaving Madame Giry to sit by the fire alone.
oOo
To his own surprise, Erik found that he was growing fond of Henry's company, the old man did not intrude on his privacy and there were no questions asked. It seemed that Henry was completely content to let his guest do as he wished. Nothing was asked of Erik, he was not the master's magician, not the assassin, nor the freak in a cage. He was just a guest, and Henry seemed content just to have him in the household.
He had been seen or heard of Christine, the maid that had been present on his first evening in the house, she seemed to have disappeared completely. And Erik was glad, hearing that name again was worse than any torture. It was a constant reminder of the past, of the ghosts that would not vanish. He wanted to erase that name from the world, extinguish its existence, and destroy the beautiful sound forever.
But more than anything, he found that he wanted to say it again. He dared himself, over and over, just to whisper it once, to set those beautiful syllables free on the air.
"Christine…"
It had escaped his lips before his mind could stop it, and he shivered at the noise. It was such a beautiful sound, her name, delicate and soft, like a sigh…
He cursed himself, fighting the sensations that stirred within. He could never see her again. He had exiled himself from France, from her life. She was happy now, she was happy! She did not need him. That was enough, to know that she was happy, and alive. He could find a relative peace in that, he had given her back the freedom he had taken from her. He had loosened the shackles and let her free - she was free of him now.
But he knew he would always be chained to her.
He could live just knowing that she was happy, it was enough, he thought. She was still out there, somewhere, maybe even thinking of him. He wondered if she did think of him in her new life, but then he felt the blood stop cold in his fingertips. Of course she thought of him. He was sure to be inside every nightmare, the black shape in every shadow, tormenting her in the darkness! He was probably in every place that haunted her, every place that made her sad…
There was too much blood on his hands, in his soul, she would never think of him. Not in the way he wanted her to. Only in the moments of her blackest despair, and in her new life with the Vicomte, he doubted there was room for despair.
He left his room, needing to escape these thoughts. He descended the steps two at a time, he needed to leave this house! He needed air. But he knew that beyond that door lay something worse than the torment of his own mind. Masses of people, hundreds of them, ready to crush him with their eyes. He would give anything to be back in the bowels of the Opera, in the freedom of the labyrinth.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Henry.
"Ah, there you are," said the old man "I was just coming to see if you fancied another round of chess? You were at an advantage last night, I was out of spirits! I think I deserve a rematch."
Erik tried to compose himself. Henry was eyeing him curiously, clearly confused by his masked guest's apparent inner frenzy. Erik levelled his breathing and calmed his mind. When he spoke his voice was low and reserved.
"So, you wish for me to beat you again? I admire your courage, monsieur! But be warned, I will not take pity on you."
"Pity? Ha! I have taken many men down in my time, boy! I can beat you without your pity, or perhaps you fear you might loose to an old man?"
"I can assure you I fear nothing of the sort. I merely wanted to save you and your pride. But if you insist on embarrassing yourself again, please, do lead on!"
Erik followed Henry into the study. And here they stayed for the next two hours, no words were spoken, and hardly a breath passed between them. For those two hours nothing else existed, the pieces moved in strategic patterns, and one by one disappeared from the board. Erik would occasionally steal a glace at Henry, and smile at the presence of sweat on old man's brow.
Erik set his pieces into place, knowing that he had defeated the old man once again. He knew he should claim his victory and end this façade, but he found he could not. He could not deny himself the joy of seeing Henry squirm, Henry Cranmer, the notorious crime lord of London, dangling by a thread! It was not the same as terrorizing a theatre, or sending fear into the hearts of the ballet rats. But it was a triumph all the same, the wicked elation that his dark heart would always crave.
At last, he knew it was time to release the old man from his suffering.
"Check mate." Erik said coolly, as he moved his king into place. He sat back in his chair with his arms folded. He could not contain his victorious smile.
"How did you?" Henry gasped, studying the board, "I had you! I was winning, how did you did that?" he wiped his sweat laden brow on his sleeve and continued to study the board.
"Do you demand another rematch? Because I should find it rather tiresome to beat you for the second time in one evening,"
Henry was rubbing his temples with his index fingers.
"Damn you. How did you do that? I was sure I had you!"
"I would tell you -"
"Ah, let me guess, but then you would have to kill me?" Henry finished.
"Of course."
"Well, I'm perplexed. You seem to be full of surprises, my friend." Henry stood up and walked over to his bureau. "Brandy?"
Erik nodded and they moved over to the chairs by the fire place.
"I will beat you soon, Erik! Mark my words,"
"I am alive with anticipation."
Henry gave a contented chuckle. "Your arrogance astounds me, my boy, it really does. Tell me, have you ever lost anything? Or are you one of these men to whom victory is a common thing?"
Erik swallowed the contents of his glass back with a hard gulp. And Henry was sure he saw a ripple of pain flash across the unmasked side of his face.
"Victory is a very subjective term. Either side of a battle may claim be the victor, depending on their point of view. I would not say that I lost something … but I have set something free."
"The girl," Henry said, nodding softly. Erik's eyes shot to his.
"I do not know who has provided you with this information, monsieur. But I advise you to tread very carefully."
Henry raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Calm yourself, my friend. I did not intend to anger you; it was something Rajan mentioned to me in his letter."
He saw the veins in Erik's neck begin to tighten, his breathing looked painful.
"…but I will not press you on the matter. Not if you find it too painful to speak of."
"There is nothing to say. I let her go, and now she is happy. Her life is no longer my concern." Erik filled his glass and raised it high in the air "To the Vicomtesse de Chagny!" he spoke calmly, but his voice was laced with spite.
Henry saw flecks of venom glowing in Erik's eyes. The Vicomtesse de Chagny that name was familiar, de Chagny, the old Comte de Chagny! Of course, Henry remembered him, and his two sons. Someone had once tried to hire him to kill the old Comte, but Henry had refused. He did not particularly care for Parisian nobles, but he did not want to see them dead either. In fact, he found the aristocracy to be his biggest form of income. It seemed every nobleman in Europe had someone he needed to be discreetly taken care of.
It was routine for him to follow the movements of such large families. Digging up every piece of dirt they tried to bury. He did not kill nobility, but he had no scruples in an innocent threat of blackmail. And he had followed the de Chagny family with great interest.
"You speak of the Vicomte's young bride."
"She is married then," Erik said bitterly "I had not heard it for sure."
"Yes, several months ago. I hear she is quite the beauty." Henry said, aware that he was treading on ice.
Erik made a resentful grunt "Some might choose to call it that."
He was staring into the fire with a hunger. When he spoke again, his voice was eerily calm. "Pray tell me, how does a man of your talents come to know the honourable de Chagny family?"
"A former client once had a grudge against the old Comte." Said Henry "He wanted me to take care of things for him, but I do not kill nobility. However, I do make it my business to know all of their business. "
"And where do the Vicomte and his lovely bride reside now, a mansion just outside of Paris? I'm sure he has built quite the palace for her!"
"No, they sailed to America not two months ago. The Vicomte is in charge of all his fathers' investments over there."
"America?" Erik said in disbelief, the anger falling from his voice. He could feel his hands begin to shake. She was in America?
"Yes, old Duchamp wasn't too pleased; he was very fond of his daughter, but he and the Comte go back several -"
"Duchamp? What do you mean?"
"Annabelle Duchamp, the new Vicomtesse. Well, she is Annabelle de Chagny now I suppose. "
The colour drained from the visible side of Erik's face, making his skin and the mask akin to one another. He felt the soul fall from his body, and there was no rope, nothing to stop this rapid decline into darkness. He fought hard to assimilate this information. Annabelle Duchamp was the new Vicomtesse. How was this so? He could not believe the Vicomte would forsake Christine.
It could not be so!
"You are certain of this? You are certain her name is Annabelle Duchamp?"
"Yes, my friend. I am certain."
Erik stood and began to pace the room. Knowing only that he needed to move, a sickly tide was rising in his stomach. The rope was around his neck now, and he was sure that he was sweating blood. The hot panic in his veins made him want to burst. He told himself that he did not care. Her life was of no concern to him. He did not care. He did not care.
She wasn't married after all…
But he did not care.
"Erik, are you all right? Dear God, will you stand still man! You are making me ill!"
Erik stopped pacing and rested his hands against the fire place. He kept his back to Henry. The fire soothed him, and he wanted that world beyond the flames. He wished with an ardent desire that he could escape into the hearth and never come back.
"Try to forget her, Erik." Henry said, trying to calm his guest "America is far away, you will never have to see her again"
"Indeed, I shall not." Erik said. His voice was thick and raspy. "Do not worry; I shall put Annabelle de Chagny in the darkest vault in my mind. You have my word; I shall never think of her again."
Something in the masked man's tone caused Henry's skin to prickle. And he felt a shiver pass through him. This man had suffered, it was clear, and Henry felt a strange pity for him.
"I do not know if this will ease your pain, but I do know how you feel."
Henry chose to ignore the sceptical scoff Erik gave to this statement.
"I lost someone once … The only girl I have ever loved."
Erik turned around slowly and fixed his gaze upon Henry. What was this? Was this man actually confiding in him? Sharing something from his past to try and ease his pain, to make him see that he was not alone? This was a very strange sensation; nobody had ever spoken to him like this before. Like a friend. He returned to his chair, accepting this new role of friend and confidant.
"What happened to her?" he heard himself ask.
"I lost her to another man." Henry said thoughtfully "I had known her for years, since our infancy. She promised to marry me. She was everything, the most beautiful girl the world has ever created. But she came to know of my dark ways, it seems she did not love me half so much when she found out who I really was! And she married another; she gave to him everything that should have been mine."
Erik frowned, unsure of what was required of him in such a situation. So he said the first thing that came into his mind.
"Is she still alive?"
Henry closed his eyes, and all of the muscles in his face fell.
"No, she is not…"
When he opened his eyes again, Erik saw the sorrow that swam in the dark pools of grey.
"…but my son is."
oOo
