A/N: Wow, this chapter is long. And when I say long, I mean long: it's over 9,500 words. Should keep you lovelies satisfied for a bit, I think. Still, I'm aiming to update next week, so you shouldn't have to wait too long!
As always, thanks for all the reviews and kind words. We're almost to a hundred, so if you could drop a few more to help me reach this milestone, I'd really appreciate it! Have a roller-coaster of a chapter as a reward.
A note to say that the second section of this remains unedited. I will try to tackle this as soon as I can.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. All rights of the song featured in this chapter, Reminder, belongs to Mumford and Sons.
And your light's always shining on,
And I've been traveling oh so long.
I've been traveling oh so long.
I burned so long, so quiet, that you must have wondered if I loved you back. I did, I did, I do.
— Annelyse Gelman
September 1980
His routine, though uncomfortable, was getting incredibly, boringly predictable.
Each day would see him shaken awake by some soldier—be it a young boy, one of his appointed guards or occasionally Nadir Khan—and be given a small amount of food to eat. A slice of bread, half a can of beans, a wrap of some kind. He would eat; wasting away was not an option, not when he needed his strength to be able to return home. He would then be escorted to Jalil's tent and bound to the same wooden chair—a chair he had come to call his own—and be interrogated about the location of the Soviet camp, their tactics, their ways. Each time was as unsuccessful as before, and each session left Erik with a new litter of bruises marking his skin.
It wasn't like him to need to be woken up, to accept food given to him and grit his teeth with every beating Jalil handed to him. He had always been alert, waking at the slightest movement, stoic and unshaken through every ordeal. And yet being a captive had somehow removed every care from his mind—every care apart from his wife, of course. She was the one constant, his guiding light through this entire ordeal.
Still, he knew that the Soviets would not risk a rescue mission for him, nor would he expect them to do so. It would be unlikely that he was to see his nation's soldiers again, and so he dropped pretences of ever being loyal to them.
Because the truth was, he wasn't. He was loyal to one woman, and one only—Christine. She was why he fought to overcome every challenge set to him, she was the reason he was fighting to survive in the camp of his enemy.
So he assumed an uncaring persona because Jalil would not be able to break his defences that way. Every snarky comment, every jab at the General was always given after deep consideration. He could not push this man too far—not this unstable, unpredictable man. Erik had no loyalty to his army, but did not want to reveal their whereabouts, either. He could not allow the mujahideen to win this war, but he could not show any hint of fear that this might happen. He had to know when to push, but also know when to draw back, to avoid the possibility of a deathly blow.
His life was something he could not risk.
It was impossible to discern what Jalil's mood might be in at the beginning of every day. The man was quick to anger, sorely fussy and fiery at times, sometimes jovial and light-hearted. He was spiteful and sadistic, a caring killer. Erik saw it in the way he moved, how easily swayed he was.
He wondered if, perhaps, the man had mania. There were psychiatrists in the West, he knew, who had conducted research on such people. Those who experienced inconsistent dispositions, who made decisions on a whim. Erik had never come across any before, but had enough knowledge to know of the elevated moods, the sudden periods of anger and depression. Jalil showed all of the signs.
Could he be?
It would explain his sadistic nature, his constantly changing moods. Such a disorder could almost make Jalil seem blameless in this whole ordeal, a victim of a condition he had no control over. There were no doctors here who could medicate him, nobody to treat him the way he should have been treated. Nothing that could be given to control his behaviour, his violent outbursts.
And yet, it did not excuse his actions. He was still to blame, no matter how ill, no matter how unstable. For once in his life, Erik was a victim, and for once in his life, he did not deserve to be at this mad man's whim.
It infuriated him beyond belief.
The day greeted him with a rude awakening, as it always did. Erik grumbled, opening his eyes and nodding to whomever had been sent to signify that he was getting up. He began to come to awareness; feeling the warmth of the sun upon his face, registering the uncomfortable log he was leaning against. There was nothing out of place—nothing to imply that anything was amiss.
Until his senses cleared to reveal the sounds of hushed whispers, orders being barked out, the sounds of hurried footsteps crunching dead leaves. He blinked golden eyes open, sharply taking in his surroundings.
As expected, soldiers were rushing about; some shifting uncertainly by their tents, most gathered by the General's domain, running errands or taking orders. Tanned faces shone with sweat, yet the men still insisted on donning their full uniforms, though some had folded their sleeves. Their shirts were clean—or as clean as clothing could be when in the army—so they hadn't yet ventured out of the camp, hadn't been tasked with an assignment yet.
What was it, then, that encompassed the air with a thick feel of uncertainty so early in the day?
Erik subconsciously twisted at his bound wrists, straightening his spine as he took in the confused surroundings. Attentive eyes observed the gathering by the General's tent a distance away from where he was bound, noticed how they seemed to be standing in a wide berth, looking at something just beyond their feet. He inched forwards as far as his ties would allow, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it was that had them so stunned, so frenzied.
He was also consciously aware of the stares being directed his way. They had always stared at him, of course—the pale, skinny, lanky man who called himself the Phantom; a fabled Soviet legend brought to life before their eyes. This time, however, they were unusually persistant. Those of whom he had caught gaping had quickly diverted their gazes, almost as if in uncomfortable fear. It only made his forehead crease in a frown.
He was so engrossed by the scene before him that he did not realise his ties were being undone by the same man who had woken him. Erik startled at the feel of loosening rope, turning to look at the soldier currently at work. He was a younger man—working at his binds with shaky hands, trying to free him as quickly as possible. There was no bread offered to Erik, this time, no water to wet his dry lips. There was only this soldier's hurried movements, his obvious inexperience.
"Boy," Erik spoke in clear, fluent Farsi, and the young man sharply met his gaze. His hair was lighter than the others, lighter than Erik's own, even—a curious mixture of brown and blonde, streaks illuminated by the sunlight. He had an honest mouth, soft features, but what struck Erik most were his eyes: a startling shade of oak green, vibrant and piercing.
He was young—too young. A child playing in a field of murder.
Erik consciously softened his tone, but was careful not to lose his gruffness, intent on maintaining authority despite his status as a captive. "You need not fear me," he said—no, ordered—the boy.
Russet, reddish-brown throat swallowed before his eyes—the boy was clearly nervous.
The older man watched him carefully, chancing a quick glance towards the gathering to ensure they were not being noticed. When it was clear that the group was otherwise occupied, Erik turned back to the boy, regarding him with an unreadable expression.
"Tell me what is happening."
The boy's forehead twisted worriedly, his demeanour obviously anxious. "I don't—I'm not—"
"How old are you?" Erik interrupted, inquisitive.
"What?" the boy questioned, taken off guard, before instinctively answering, "Seventeen." A darkened hand immediately reached up to press against his shocked mouth, and his eyes widened, obviously not intending to give that detail away.
Barely even grown, Erik mused, still intently scrutinizing the boy. Still a minor. Was he an enthusiastic volunteer, or another lad drafted into war? Did he leave sobbing parents behind, a mother who was uncertain of ever seeing her son again?
Did he, too, desert a faithful lover, not knowing if he would ever feel her arms around him again?
Erik sighed, shaking his head. Everything about this was unjust; a chess game of pawns sacrificing themselves to protect a king undeserving of their lives.
The boy crouched before him unsurely, watching him with an openly hesitant expression. "They want me to take you to them," he said apprehensively, making a vague gesture towards the gathered soldiers.
Erik immediately dismissed thoughts of sympathy towards this boy, focusing once more on the situation at hand. There was nothing to be done about the young man, after all—his thoughts would be more useful when directed towards the circumstances around him. Sympathy and laments would do him no good. "What is it they want?" he implored sharply.
The boy jerked away, startled by the sudden change in tone. Once again, he was doubtful, unwilling to give an answer. Fearful of obeying orders. "I shouldn't say—"
"What is it?" Erik pressed, impatient curiosity clouding his thoughts. He was no longer strapped to the tree, but his wrists were still tightly held together by rope, merciless and unwavering.
The boy hesitated. "They found—"
"Zahir!"
The boy—Zahir—whipped his gaze from Erik's, his entire manner panicked. One of the bearded men from the group—Erik vaguely recognised him from the night he had been caught—was impatiently beckoning for Erik to be brought forwards, his gestures jerky and stern, a clear order. Zahir quickly stood, grabbing half-heartedly at the sleeve of the captive's loosely hanging shirt, tugging him to his feet. Erik sighed and wearily complied, standing and following the boy forwards, half exhausted, half intrigued at what had unsettled the Afghans so.
As they neared, the tightly packed group of men seemed to part, stepping backwards instinctively. They gazed at him with a wary guardedness, increased suspicion in twenty clouded eyes. His uneasiness was growing as he approached. Zahir no longer guided him, instead lurking behind as he walked towards the gathering. Erik hardly noticed the eyes, now, entirely burning with the desire to know what was happening around him, what had the lieutenants and colonels with their heads in their hands, agitatedly scratching at their stubble. He quickened his pace and the crowd moved apart from him, revealing what had been hidden from his eyes.
He stopped short at the sight before him.
It was a dead body.
Or, more specifically, it was a dead body of a Soviet soldier.
His uniform could have been mistaken for one ranking from the mujahideen; a dark shade of army green, vest with holsters, utility belt strapped to the waist. It was sullied with mud which, Erik presumed, had tainted the material when he had been dragged towards the camp. Their boots were vaguely similar, dirt covering the area where a small red star would have been seen. He was just another man, another casualty of the war. He could easily be mistaken for a man from the Afghan army.
Save for his pale, white skin, his shock of blonde hair revealed beneath the fur-grey head covering he must have worn, the mark of an authoritative figure.
It was a shock to see one of his people after so long of being surrounded by men with exotic, darkened features, so different and unfamiliar to his lifestyle. The Arabs were a people distinguished from the rest of the human race—set apart by the colour of their skin, the language they spoke, the manner in which they carried themselves. He had never come across such men before, not even in his vast experience scouring through Europe.
It was a shock infused with numbness to see one of his people after months in captivity, dead before his eyes.
Erik stared at the dirtied body, obviously having held weapons to its form, weapons that were most likely stripped as soon as the dead man was found.
There were no marks upon his skin, no blood tainting his uniform. He must have bitten into the tablet given to a select few Soviet soldiers, hidden beneath the guise of a tooth, upon hearing the approaching Afghans. His death would have been instantaneous.
He wondered what the man had been doing in the first place. Had he been searching for tracks, for a hint of their enemy's location? Had he replaced their Phantom—their Phantom who had been missing for months, who they probably assumed to be dead?
The thought that he might have been replaced sent a cold, icy spread through his veins.
A loud snarl interrupted his thoughts and Erik looked up, meeting the gaze of an infuriated, livid Jalil. His eyes were fierce, bold—dangerous. He had been caught off guard, had discovered his enemy venturing closer towards the grounds than he would have wished.
This was the face of a man uncontrolled and feral, deadly as sin. The men around him seemed to shrink in the face of his anger, destructive and obsessive.
"Do you recognise this man?" Jalil asked roughly, furious black eyes trained on his. He was standing a little away from Erik, separate from the rest of the men gathered by the body.
Erik let himself look down at the body once more, carefully taking in the round face, the half-lidded eyes that revealed a hint of grey. No—for the life of him, he could not recall this man's face, his position within the Red Army. Still looking at the dead man, he shook his head, ironically truthful for once.
A growl ripped through the air and Jalil was suddenly grabbing Erik's forearm, dragging him along to his tent. Erik barely saw him move, still stupefied by his onslaught of emotions—numbness, shock, betrayal, irritation. The man was all anger, this time—a pulsing, animal menace Erik had only caught a glimpse of before. His wrists were still bound, surrounded by soldiers whom he knew were deadly even as they watched with stunned expressions. There was nothing he could do apart from follow, keeping up to ensure he did not stumble or trip over grasping roots and catching twigs.
He was brought to the same tent Jalil frequently used to interrogate him. It was not the General's, but it was not anyone else's, either; an empty, unsustained space of impersonality. The same chair he was bound to daily stood silently in the middle of the expanse, waiting to be occupied, but Jalil did not shove him towards it. Instead, the man barked orders in Farsi and the same burly men who constantly watched him entered the tent, striding towards Erik intently.
Erik immediately bristled as they roughly tugged at his arms, bringing them away from his sides, leaving his torso completely vulnerable to Jalil's wrath. "This is pointless," he hissed, golden eyes flashing with anger, carefully concealing the slight panic he felt within himself. "I know nothing of that man."
"Lies!" Jalil roared, advancing towards him. A swift blow was struck to his torso, this one stronger and more powerful than he had ever experienced before. His blood pounded loudly in his ears, and his chest heaved with a painful jerk.
He felt like a petulant child, trying in vain to convince an adult that he was innocent of some crime they had blamed him of. It was humiliatingly infuriating.
"He is from your army!" the General continued to bellow, now rounding the tent as if he were searching for something. His hands darted wildly around, knocking over bags of supplies, boxes filled with uniforms and bandages. "He was discovered—dead—by my men only last night! There have not been any Soviets rounding this area, none who have been tracking us. We have ensured it!"
"Obviously you weren't thorough enough," Erik spit out through gritted teeth, glaring at the man who circled the edges of the tent. His own fury was specked with bewilderment, a suspicious wonder at what the man was looking for, what he wanted to find as he scoured the space, jerky and sharp in his movements.
His answer was, however, probably something he should have held back from the unstable General. It riled Jalil up even more, and the man turned to glower at him, the promise of death behind soulless, charcoal eyes. It was at that moment that he seemed to locate the object he had been hunting for, for his breathing seemed to slow, wild rage now replaced by a sadistic, fiendish pull of lips.
Erik forced himself not to show any fear as Jalil moved aside, revealing the single, sharp blade in his hand.
The deranged man stalked forwards, and Erik watched him guardedly, trying to ignore the sudden hitch in his heartbeat, his quickening pulse in his throat. He felt completely out of his element; a predator unused to being prey. Instinctively, he tugged at his arms as Jalil approached, but the two guards held their strong grip, leaving him open and vulnerable to their General's attack.
"My men found you with ease," Jalil hissed, eyes flashing with a controlled wildness to them. He stalked towards his prey, bringing the knife forwards with every step, the sharp blade glinting in the translucent tent light. "They found you, the legendary Phantom, the ultimate Soviet threat. They are not so unpracticed as to let someone else slip by so easily."
Now standing fully in front of Erik, he brought the knife forwards and slashed at the bounded man's shirt in a single, vicious stroke; the ruined fabric fell apart, hanging off the man's shoulders, revealing his lean, lithe chest, his quiet muscles. There was no mark upon his skin, none apart from the constellation of bruises, black and blue and purple littering his torso.
Erik snarled and tugged more forcefully at his guards' grip to no avail. Jalil could bruise him, but he would not allow himself to be a victim to his maddened whims. "Then they were simply caught off guard!" he said vigorously.
"They were not caught off guard!" Jalil roared, sending an elbow to his ribs. It was sharp but controlled, this time; he felt nothing broken, even if his mind was in a struggling haze of blinding pain. "You've been in contact with them!" Jalil declared ferociously, shoving at his chest with an open palm. "You've been sending them messages—leaving them scraps of information!"
"You have been watching me day and night!" Erik countered in a bellow, furious at the man's unjustified paranoia, driven to panic at the prospect that this time, Jalil might go too far. "You tie and bind me to every surface, every object you can find. I have no weapons, no contact with your own soldiers. How could I have delivered messages to mine?"
"You did!" Jalil insisted with a shriek, and brought the knife down in a vicious slash, cutting a clean streak down Erik's chest. He gasped at the white-hot pain that filled his senses from the deep, long gash. There was the faint feel of blood escaping his body, warm and thick against his open wound.
"I wasn't speaking to them, Jalil!" Erik shouted, holding back his wince. The wound was sharp and thorough—not life-threatening, but enough to leave him in a severe degree of pain. It blinded him, made him more feral than before. He didn't want to comply to this man, but was beyond frustrated that his life was at risk for a crime he did not commit, a sin he was not entitled to. "There was no possible way that I was speaking to them!"
"He was already dead, Phantom!" Jalil responded wildly, savagely cutting at skin once more. Erik could not hold his wince back, this time; the gash was not as clean, having cut across his existing wound. He knew without looking that his chest had streaks of thick, warm blood coating skin. It was infuriating, humiliating, painful.
"These men are equipped with tablets when they are sent out into the field," Erik hissed through gritted teeth. "He probably heard your men advancing and murdered himself. This has nothing to do with me."
"This has everything to do with you! You and your Soviet army—"
"They are not my army—"
"And you are not of mine!" Jalil countered violently, eyes wide and feral. "Tell me where they are."
Erik exhaled exasperatedly, willing himself not to show his pain even as the wounds stung blindingly. "I've told you again and again," he said irritably, "I don't know. They've probably moved camps, like you have. It must be coincidence that they are close to yours."
"Coincidences are impossible."
"Not always."
Jalil let out another spitting roar, raising his armed hand up once more.
Outside the tent, the men shifted uncomfortably, weary from their General's violent tendencies. It was not unknown that Jalil was a strange, brutal man, but many of the soldiers disagreed with his ways, saw his savageness as unnecessary.
One man in particular stood towards the side, pursing lips together. His posture was stiff, his shoulders squared as he folded lean arms together.
This was not what he had envisioned being a part of when he had been enlisted.
It was late afternoon when the guards emerged with Erik, dragging him along by the arms. He was walking, but barely—his torso now littered with deep, opened gashes. Streaks of red littered his chest, an ugly map of scars along his skin. His chest heaved with painful breaths, his mind struggling to stay awake even as the pain threatened to overtake his senses. His teeth were clenched together, his lip torn from bites to hold back sounds of his discomfort.
They roughly dropped him by the same tree he had spent the night leaning against, but didn't bother to bind him; even though his wrists were free, it was clear to anyone that he would not be moving anytime soon. He barely noticed the shocked gasps, the open-mouthed stares from the other soldiers. There was only his heaving chest, his strain to exhale, to ignore the encompassing hurt from his wounds.
He hardly registered night falling, the soldiers retreating to their tents. The day had passed by in a painful blur of drifting in and out of consciousness. Everything was a clouded around him, a kaleidoscope of green and red and white flashing behind his eyes. It was a struggle to breathe.
And then, there was the sudden feel of wetness upon his lips, and he parted his mouth, greedily drinking the cool water. The liquid was heavenly against his parched throat, dry since the night before. He took a breath, barely feeling the bark of the tree as his head leaned backwards exhaustedly. Then, there was a feeling of coolness upon his chest, soothing the angry gashes upon his skin. They relieved his throbbing wounds, and a heavy groan rumbled through his chest, his body no longer under his control. There was something on his chest, something brushing at his wounds, wiping at the thick red coat covering his chest. It was excruciatingly blissful.
He only heard a familiar dulcet of, "This is too much, Jalil," before he found himself surrendering to the sweet darkness at last.
Jalil was less severe in the next few days, but his methods of questioning had gotten decidedly more violent since the fateful day that had rendered Erik incomprehensible. A knife was almost always present during one of their sessions, and the General was generous when using it.
He had finally accepted that Erik had no knowledge of the Soviet soldier, but his paranoia had increased. Since that day, soldiers were almost always stationed in various posts throughout the day, protecting their camp. The heads of the army had also come to send them out on more frequent 'expeditions' to ensure that they had a thorough knowledge of the land they had relocated to. Barely anyone was left at the camp during the day, and at night exhausted, weary soldiers would filter back in, eager to fill their bellies with food and get some sleep.
If Erik were not faring worse than them, he might have felt sorry for these men.
They were only boys, after all.
Still, he could not be particularly sympathetic at anyone if he was freshly scarred at the end of each new day. His chest was a coat of red and blue, wounds and torn skin, abused and used by Jalil to sate his madness. Erik would not be surprised if the man found sadistic pleasure out of seeing him grit his teeth together as a blade traced his skin, determined not to make a sound, not to betray the slightest inkling of pain.
The stares that he got at the end of every interrogation—were they even considered interrogations, now?—were expected. Some were sympathetic, some were smug, some were afraid. There were always eyes on his form, taking in his tattered shirt, his soiled form, his laboured breaths.
And yet there was always one pair that confused him the most.
He had assumed it was Nadir Khan whom had first given him water the first time. He assumed it had been the same man who dressed his wounds, ensured that he would not catch an infection when Jalil had lost his temper.
Nadir Khan would not let him die on his watch, he knew. But what he did not understand was Khan's need to linger.
Long after everyone went to sleep, he would quietly make himself known to Erik and begin to silently tend to his scars, ensure that he was well hydrated and nourished. Khan checked his temperature, pressed healing herbs to his skin, observed the pallor of his skin, and it was more than what any other man would have done.
Was Khan that compassionate, or was he after something else?
Erik leaned against the surface of the tree that night, sighing into the night air. It was noticeably cooler, now; a result of September rolling into October. The mountains were windier, the skies cloudier despite the pressing sunlight that disrupted their progress.
Khan had already tended to him, though there hadn't been that much to tend to. Jalil had been otherwise distracted by interrupting soldiers and had finally stormed off to deal with more pressing matters. Apparently there had been a commotion outside, a disagreement between two men. Erik hadn't particularly cared; if it meant that there was one less day Jalil would spend etching marks into his skin, he would take it. He managed to breathe without the need to surpress heaving gasps, at least.
His wrists were no longer bound; the mujahideen no longer saw him as fit enough to escape, and if Erik were to admit it to himself, he wasn't. His body was always sore at the end of each day, his entire being exhausted. He knew there was no point in escaping, as well; night guards had been stationed in various spots throughout the camp's borders. He was one injured, unarmed man. He would not be able to cross them.
Erik closed his eyes, taking a breath, reminding himself why he was pushing through this. Why he wanted to live.
Christine.
She was his light, his salvation and strength. He was determined to return to her once more, to feel her by his side.
Suddenly, he was overcome with the need to see her face. With a wary guardedness, Erik looked around, ensuring nobody was in sight before shifting slightly, reaching for something hidden precisely in his loose slacks.
He brought his hand up, opening his palm to reveal the golden locket she had given him.
It was stained from mud and dirt now, but there was no denying its strange beauty, its magnetic allure. He gazed upon the graceful markings softly, traced a tender thumb against the cool metal. And, as carefully as he could manage, he fumbled for the catch, clicking it open.
The two pictures that stared back up at him seemed as if they had been taken a lifetime ago. Christine by herself on one side, the two of them on the other. His wife was beautiful as always in both photos, but he could not stop staring at the photograph of them. She was smiling in her portrait, but she was glowing in this one. Cobalt eyes shone brightly, lips spread in a frozen laugh. She was breathless with joy, glorious in his arms.
And him—he looked so happy. Erik stared at his mirror image, wondering who this man was, wondering how he could have been so carefree. For three years of his life, he did not have to worry about the consequences of a misspoken word, hadn't seen the need to be overly cautious about everything. Everything had been under his control—his life, his happiness, his victims. For once, he had felt truly free to enjoy himself, to live alongside his gorgeous, stunning, loving wife.
He was so lost in memories, reminiscing in the bliss of his past, that he did not realise he was not alone until he saw a movement in front of him.
Immediately, Erik shoved the locket out of view, defences rising once more. No matter what, he could not let them take this from him. They had taken his weapons, kept him as a captive, bruised and ruined his flesh, but they would not take this from him.
He would not allow it.
He raised his chin, opening his mouth in order to let out a snarky remark, before he caught sight of the man in front of him.
Nadir Khan had come to check on him, once again.
A sudden rush of fury rushed to his temple, born and twisted from confused gratitude and bewilderment. He hated this man—hated him for his kindness that seemed to want nothing in return, his concern over someone who wasn't under his care. Hell, Erik was his enemy. Why did he care so much?
"I think it's long past your bedtime, Khan," he spit out, golden eyes flashing warningly at the Afghan.
Khan was not fazed in the slightest; instead, he moved to sit beside him, perching upon a log. His tanned skin seemed even darker in the darkness, barely lit by dim moonlight. His chin was freshly shaved, his hair clean but unkept. Hazel eyes regarded his own with a wariness to them, curious and probing.
"Someone gave that to you, didn't they?" he asked, and Erik found himself startled at the man's forwardness. There was no attempt to initiate a casual conversation, something society insisted on doing before broaching a subject. Khan was blunt and forward, staring at him as if he expected an answer, though there was no demand in his eyes.
And strangely, Erik found himself nodding. "Yes," he said slowly, knowing there was no use denying the existence of the locket if Khan had already seen it.
Khan, once again, did not bother to tiptoe around what he wanted to know. "Is she waiting for you?" he asked, nodding in the vague direction where Erik had hidden the locket.
Erik blinked, and once again found himself nodding. He didn't know why he was disclosing this to the man, but he did not seem to be in control of his senses. There was only the slightest, strange feeling within his mind.
Trust him, his subconscious told him.
Alarm bells went off within his mind, screaming at him to guard himself, to ensure that this man did not see anything beyond his hard exterior. But Erik was tired, damn it, and he missed the feeling of companionship. It was exhausting to be mistrustful all the time.
And Erik suddenly found himself not caring, for once.
He leaned his head back against the trunk, closing his eyes. "Why are you doing this, Khan?" he asked tiredly. When the man gave no answer, he elaborated. "Why do you tend to my wounds every night, see to my needs? I've not given you any reason to prove that I am not a threat to you."
For a while, there was only silence. The faint sounds of an owl hooting echoed in the air, distant and haunting. Then, a quiet answer.
"You are not loyal to the Red Army."
Erik's eyes snapped open. He turned towards Khan sharply, golden eyes suspicious and alert. "What makes you think that?" he asked sceptically, narrowing his eyes.
Khan did not even flinch. "It is the same reason I am not," he said plainly, obviously. "You are not doing this for your nation, or yourself. You're here, in this army, because of her."
It was astounding how words could be powerful enough to strike him dumb. Erik blinked, staring at this Arab man, a whirlwind of emotions flooding his mind. Confusion, understanding, realisation. Confusion.
"I tend to you because I believe what Jalil does is immoral," Khan continued, pursing his lips. "I did not agree to join this war to experience brutality from the hand of one of my own."
"It is inevitable, in war."
"It is unnecessary."
They lapsed into silence, a quiet understanding shared between the two men. There, the Soviet tied against a tree and the Afghan perching on the log next to him, reminiscing over their pasts, mourning over the unfairness of it all. Erik glanced at Khan, noting the man's creased forehead, his expression deep in thought. He seemed saddened, the representation of the tiredness Erik felt within his soul. He wondered what it was this man had left behind—if he had a wife like Erik did, if he had a family that missed him for every passing day.
Khan looked up at him once more, hazel eyes open and inquisitive, nothing to signal any ill intent, and Erik found himself feeling strangely at peace with the man. "What is your name?" the Afghan asked curiously, regarding the Soviet, hands clasped below his chin.
Erik immediately felt his defences rise once more. "I am the Phantom," he said blankly, shielding himself behind this intimidating, unfeeling persona once more.
"But she does not call you that." Khan observed him carefully, and Erik felt strangely exposed under his eyes. He reflexively straightened his spine, unwilling to look weak to this man who prodded at his personal life.
He should have felt irritated at the unwelcome intrusion, but he found himself to be unfamiliarly, unexpectedly relieved. There was someone else here who could understand, who might be able to provide him some sort of companionship.
And since he'd had Christine, Erik had become dependant on companionship. He felt drained, starved of it.
So he looked up, met the curious man's gaze. "Erik," he revealed quietly. It was peculiar to listen to his name said out loud once more. It was potent and resolute, hanging in the air.
Khan held his gaze for a moment more, and, slowly, gave him a small nod.
Present Day
Christine woke to find the space beside her empty.
She didn't lift her head, didn't move from her spot on the bed. Cobalt eyes stared at the sheets, pale lips parting with a sigh at the sight. Just another day of waking to find no Erik beside her, not even after months of him being back from Afghanistan.
Of course. What else did I expect?
She expected to feel the familiar ache for him flood her bones, strong and insistent, a constant reminder of their failing relationship, but the feeling never came.
Or rather, it was dulled. An eased comfort traced her bones, almost as if she had been relieved, had felt him with her for even a moment. It confused her; she had not felt him hold her, kiss her, for months.
Wait.
Christine's eyes widened as an onslaught of memories flooded her mind, suddenly reminding her of the events from the last two days. Seeing his face, feeling the horror that had now lessened to a softened vexation. Having him scream at her, golden eyes flashing with an anger she had never witnessed before. Her nightmare of him, his reaction to finding out that he haunted her dreams. The tears she had shed, the broken anguish in his eyes. Curling up in her room with her head buried in her hands, too cowardly to face him. And then, finally finding the courage to venture out into the living room only to realise that he was gone, and wondering with increasing panic if he would even come back.
He had, she realised. She remembered curling up on the sofa he had slept on, hugging his coverlet to her chest, trying to cease her shaking sobs. She had fallen asleep, she knew, but even now she vaguely recalled feeling strong, familiar arms lift her from the sofa, moulding herself against a body she had not felt against her own since she had hugged him at the airport.
With a jolt, she noticed that while the blanket she was tucked underneath on the other side of the bed was intact, the pillow was mussed and obviously slept on. A closer look revealed the duvet to be wrinkled, pressed flat into the mattress as if it had been laid on. Her breath caught in her throat. She had thought it had been a dream, a sweet, blissful dream…
Erik was here.
Erik had come home, Erik had carried her to the room, Erik had slept by her side.
Erik was here.
Christine sat up instantly, fully awake from the revelation. Her heart was thudding wildly, eyes wide and clouded with incredulous joy at the hazy memory of asking him to stay, giddy when she realised that he had. A slow, sure smile spread across her lips, hopeful and nervous all the same.
But he came back.
They still had a chance.
She had done him wrong, she knew. She had pondered her actions the entirety of yesterday, mulling over her reaction to him, cursing her stupidity for pushing him away when all she wanted was to melt into his embrace.
But today, he was back, and he had slept next to her, a feat that remained unaccomplished even throughout their months together since he had returned.
It was a wonder what one day apart could do. When he had left she had cried, screamed, begged the empty flat to bring him back to her. Pain had clouded her thoughts, attacked her chest, flooded her throat. She had felt like suffocating at the thought that she might not see him again. His face, his guardedness—none of it mattered, not if it meant that she couldn't have him. If it were possible, she had felt even more alone than she had when he had first left for Afghanistan—because at that time, she had no reason to question his love for her, had no reason to wonder whether she had driven them apart all because of her stupidity.
To know that he had returned, that he did not leave her—it sent a thrill of unadulterated exhilaration through her chest. Her heart swelled and grew, threatening to burst from her chest, wanting to join with its mate.
Perhaps he didn't love her, maybe he even hated her—she wouldn't blame him if he did. How could he even begin to accept her feeble apologies after what she had done to him, how she had reacted? He had suffered day by day, and she had been oblivious to it all, clouded by her own shallow judgement. She wouldn't have forgiven herself.
Still, the fact that he had returned to her meant something. She would spend the rest of her days begging his forgiveness, attending to his every wish if it meant she could see his smile again.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice—a beautiful, magnetic, a velvet undertone, soft and melodious, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.
"Good morning."
Her head instantly whipped to the sound of the voice, eager to find its owner—and there he was. Sitting by the windowsill, illuminated by the warm sunlight of the morning. He wore his bandages, but the sunlight seemed to transform the gauze into beautiful shades of beige and brown, twisting and blending together to compliment his visage. His back was straight, his posture regal as always, masterful and adept, but there was a softness to his form that hadn't been there before, a gentle uncertainty betraying the pain he had endured. Golden eyes glittered, pure and unearthly as they watched her with a guarded wariness, a stoic calm.
She felt her voice catch in her throat, heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. He was beautiful, her man and his quiet strength. He was no stranger to cruelty, having been on the receiving—and giving—end of it the entirety of his life. The scars on his back, the distortion of his face was proof of that. He had been used and abused time and time again, an object to politicians and soldiers and governments.
And yet, he had still found it in him to keep fighting. To survive, when lesser men had faded and diminished under the slightest hint of pressure. He was so much more than her, deserved so much more than she could give him.
Even with what she had seen of his mangled, ruined face, he was ethereal before her eyes. He was magnificent.
She loved him so, so much.
Christine forced herself to swallow, willing to compose herself from the onslaught of emotions threatening to burst in her chest. Her breaths were uneven, blood pounding in her ears. Taking a breath, she managed to say, "Morning," in reply.
Erik didn't respond, nor did she expect him to. She would have been content to stare at him for all eternity, trace his body with her eyes and hands and lips, soothe the scars upon his back, his face, etched into his soul. She wanted to kiss him, she wanted to cry for him, she wanted to hold him and have him hold her.
Instead, she said breathlessly, "You came back."
He was still watching her, gorgeous golden eyes careful and composed. Slowly, he nodded. "I did."
"You didn't leave me."
"I didn't."
"You stayed with me last night."
At this, Erik shifted by the windowsill, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Yes," he admitted, and to her bewilderment he shot her a guilty look. "I did. I hope you don't mind—"
"Erik," she interrupted, shaking her head with an incredulous laugh. "We're married. Of course I don't."
He seemed unconvinced. "I thought, since I slept outside—"
"I always want you next to me, Erik." Blue eyes met gold, honest and open as she gazed at him from her position on the bed. She wanted to cry from the mistrust in his eyes, his doubtful stance. She had done this to him, had made him question their relationship and marriage.
She hated herself for it.
"I'm so sorry I didn't make it clear," she said in a whisper. Erik stared at her for a long moment, searching her eyes as if to look for a flicker of a lie, something that would prove her words wrong.
Dainty legs slipped out from underneath the covers, swinging over the edge of the bed and resting feet upon the insulated carpeted floor. With careful, concise steps, Christine inched off the bed towards him, holding herself tentatively, gauging his reaction. He didn't betray a flicker of emotion, simply watching her come towards him slowly. She vaguely registered his golden eyes tracing her form, taking in her bare feet, her lean thighs, halfway concealed by his shirt that hung on her form, its sleeves much too long for her. Still claiming herself as his, even when he could not be further apart from her.
Her gaze on his was steady despite her nervous demeanour, cobalt orbs wide and open and pleading. She was so close to him now—she could detect the faint whiff of his scent, musky and undeniably Erik, a scent she had been denied for far too long.
She stopped in front of him, gazing softly down as he looked back up at her, still guarded, still hardened. "I'm so sorry I didn't listen," she continued quietly, holding his eyes with her own, willing him to see the truth, the honesty behind her words. "I didn't think, I didn't know—"
"You couldn't have known," he murmured, expression still unreadable. Still, his tone softened slightly, and Christine took this as an initiative to sit beside him, careful to watch his reaction. He turned slightly to face her once she was seated, and she let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
He was cooperating, he was responding to her. Perhaps he was ready, perhaps he wanted to fix this wedge between them as desperately as she did.
Still, she could not rejoice, not when his words cut her to her core. "But I should have," she said, so softly that she wondered if he had caught her words. She closed her eyes, shutting them painfully at the fact that she hadn't been there for him when he had needed her most.
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
"You wanted me to tell you, Christine," she heard him sigh beside her. "I chose not to. This is not your fault."
"It is not yours, either."
They were silent for a moment, contemplating each other's words. She could feel him breathing beside her, quiet and controlled. His arm brushed hers and she fought the urge to just take whatever she wanted from him right then and there, to claim his lips and his breath and his voice.
She had ached for him for so long.
Christine took a breath, forcing herself to focus on the situation at hand. She needed to earn his forgiveness before she could think about anything else. And there was one aspect, one sin she had committed against him, something inexcusable and despicable of her.
"I'm sorry," she said finally, "for screaming at you. At—at seeing—"
"My face," he said flatly.
She swallowed and nodded, blinking cobalt eyes open. He was not looking at her, and she fixed her gaze on his sharp, defined jaw, the bandages that wrapped around what she knew to be scars, twisted and horrible, skin that had been cut away. Without realising what she was doing, she had lifted a hand to caress the bandages, feeling rough, ragged material beneath her palm. Erik flinched at her touch and she froze, expecting him to rip himself away from her, to yell at her for trying to tear away his defences once more, but he simply let out a deep, shaky breath and held still, allowing her touch.
Progress.
Carefully to ensure she didn't upset his bandages, she traced the bumps and crevices, exploring what she couldn't see with her touch. "Does it hurt?" she asked softly.
He closed his eyes, shaking his head with the slightest of movements.
She lightly dragged a finger over his cheek, breath hitching when she felt an unnatural dip, knowing that this had been created by another man. Frustration built up within her and she bit her lip, dismayed at the inhumaneness of it all, the unfairness. All this time, he had been quietly suffering, broken by a heartless, cruel man.
How could someone do this to him? To her Erik—her pure, poor Erik.
Her chest expanded in a shaky breath. "Who did this to you?" she asked, willing to keep her voice steady.
Erik looked down towards his lap. She couldn't read his expression, could see nothing except for the uneven dressings covering his skin, a shield, a guard against her. He clasped his hands together, still looking down, and spoke quietly. "You don't need to know, Christine."
"I want to," she said assertively, and found herself surprised at the truth in her words.
I do, she realized. I want to know.
This was different from before—this need to understand what he had done and what had been done to him. When he worked as an assassin, she hadn't wanted him to tell her anything. She would hold him, comfort him if he needed it, but hadn't wanted to know the details of his kills. There were moments, of course, when she had offered to lend an ear to ease his burden of carrying this load by himself, but he had never accepted it and she had never pushed him to. She was more than happy to live in their little world of ignorant bliss, basking in his love as he did in hers. It was almost as if she was denying this truth in him—this side to her husband that was so unfamiliar, the polar opposite of the wholesome, loving man she knew.
But now her blood was boiling, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. She wanted to ease his burden, yes, but this was more than that. She wanted to know who had dared do this to her husband, dared to disfigure him in such a way.
They had hurt him, and she wanted someone to direct her anger to, even if there was not much she could do about it.
"I don't want you to," Erik responded, looking at her sharply. Her thoughts of retribution were disrupted as golden eyes bored into hers, firm and deadly serious. "There are some things I don't want you to hear of, Christine."
"I can take it," she insisted, affronted that he might think otherwise, even if there was little evidence to support her claim.
As she expected, Erik shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "Leave it, Christine. I think the bandage explains enough, as it is."
And there it was: the self-depreciation she knew so well, his bitter and cynical side coming out once more. For his suffering to be brushed aside so casually, so dismissively—it cut her to her core. Her mind recalled images of what he'd had to endure—the brutal etches upon his back, his face that was hardly a face anymore—and she couldn't help herself from letting out a choked sob.
He sighed, looking back down at his lap. His shoulders drooped and he suddenly looked as if he had aged a thousand years. "Don't cry for me, Christine," he said tiredly, sounding weary, exhausted. "I don't deserve your tears."
"You do," she shook her head.
He barked out a laugh and she felt her heart shatter a little more, hating how much he hated himself, hating that she had done nothing but reassert that disdain from her horrified reaction to him.
"I've done so much wrong, Christine," he said, words spit out through clenched teeth. He still refused to look at her. "My whole life I've stolen, lied, killed."
"But that's not you—"
"God, how can you be so blind, Christine? How can you forget what I did to you—how I lied and let you down again and again—"
"Erik, please—"
"Don't deny it, Christine!" he hissed. He was not seated by her anymore, having wrenched himself from her grasp to stride to the middle of the room. Gone was his composure, his calm, replaced by frustration and exasperation. He exhaled harshly then brought a hand up to his face as if to run fingers through his hair but stopped short, remembering his bandages. She watched from her seat as he stared at his hand, controlled grief barely reflected in his eyes.
"Maybe I had this coming," he said bitterly, letting his hand drop.
Christine looked up at her husband from her seated position, cobalt eyes sadly regarding him. "Nobody would have deserved this," she said firmly. "And you definitely didn't."
His lean, tall form stiffened at the sight of her smaller one rising, unfolding to stand upright. Once again she walked towards him, and once again he watched her sharply, taking in her every step, her every movement. "Christine," he began warily, velvet voice trailing off as she stopped to stand in front of him, tilting her head upwards so she could better look at him.
"I wish you could see yourself through my eyes," she said softly. "I wish you could see how much I admire you, how much I respect you."
He was staring at her openly, now, intense and unwavering, hanging onto her every word. A soft, sad smile graced her lips, reminiscent of all they'd had, their simpler, happier days. Those two people are gone, she thought sadly.
"I know you can do so much better than me," she sighed, lifting a hand up to brush at his chin. "You are so, so brilliant, Erik. So talented and intelligent. You have so much to offer the world." She shook her head, letting out a humourless laugh. "And underneath all that is the most passionate, caring, noble man I've ever known. Of course I'd have to love you."
A flicker of uncertainty crossed his eyes and she frowned, suddenly confused. "What's wrong?" she asked worriedly, searching his eyes. "Did you ever doubt that?"
He looked away, directing his gaze to their feet, and with a dull horror she knew her answer.
He thought she didn't love him.
One hand lifted to grab his chin, forcing him to look at her. Cobalt eyes regarded golden ones intensely. "I love you," she declared, her voice strong and ringing through the empty room, purposeful and firm. "I love you," she repeated, taking a step towards him. "I don't know how to tell you in words how much. Yes, you've done some terrible things, and I know that your past was horrible to you. But that doesn't mean that you deserve what's been done to you."
She took a breath, trying to sort her thoughts so as to better explain to him what she was feeling, but found that her emotions were a disorganized, clattered mess. How could she begin to explain to him what he meant to her? How could she begin to apologise for her inexcusable actions?
"I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, that night," she murmured, now being the one unable to meet his eyes. She felt his gaze on her, hard and piercing, and couldn't bring herself to return it. "I was shocked and I just—how could I even expect to see what I did?" she whispered.
He shifted, and she felt him begin to pull away from her, to retreat back into himself. "I don't want your pity, Christine," he said gruffly.
She held him fast, unwilling to let him go again. "You have it anyway," she said, then quickly elaborated when he sent her an icy glare. "You have it all—my pity, my compassion, my love. Everything I feel is for you, to you, because of you. Nothing can change that, Erik. Nothing," she insisted.
It was embarrassing to feel the tears threatening at her eyelids. Here they were, having a discussion—or something similar to one, anyway—for the first time in months, and she couldn't even form coherent sentences without being reduced to a blubbering mess. Still, how could she hold back her tears when he had become so mistrusting? Hardened by the need to survive, broken by experiences beyond her control. Her heart was twisting painfully in her chest.
She let out a sob, ducking her head and pressing her lips to his shoulder in a silent apology. How she hated herself for not putting his needs above hers. He was still against her, and she shakily breathed in his scent, heart aching at his sadness, swelling at the feel of him finally against her once more.
"I'm so sorry," she whimpered into his shirt, shutting her eyes tightly. "I was frustrated and selfish, and you didn't deserve any of that."
"Christine," he said softly above her, voice soft and melodious. It was different, this time; more gentle, less rough.
Melodious and virtuosic once more, the tone he had used with her when he had first spoken to her that morning.
She lifted her head and her breath caught at the sight of him. Gone were his defences, his carefully guarded expression. Erik looked at her, tentative and unsure, and all she wanted to do was kiss his uncertainty away, to bring him into herself and allow him to forget, if only for a moment.
"I love you," she stated once more, bringing his hand up to her lips and pressing a kiss to his skin. His eyes were glued to their joined hands, poised and firm between their chests, and he took a single, shaky breath.
"Christine," he breathed.
Without another word she opened her arms and he fell into them. She held him tightly to her, a floodgate of emotions breaking as she felt him mould himself into her, grasp her as close as possible. It was when she felt his lips pressed to her neck, something he used to always do whenever he embraced her, that she allowed her tears to fall. Holding him against her was bliss, agony and tragedy wrapped in one. She couldn't describe what she was feeling, this nameless, exotic thing of beauty soaring into her lungs, twining into her veins.
He shook against her and she trembled for him. "I'm here," she whispered in a pained reassurance, letting her hand thread through his hair, caressing his scalp. "I'll always be here."
He only tightened his grip around her, silent and unmoving in their little bedroom.
A/N: I'm exhausted just scrolling through how long this is. Let me know what you think! Let's try for 95+ reviews this time round, shall we?