A/N: If I could turn your attention to the story's rating, it is an M and the beginning of this chapter deserves it. I tried to make it vague and tasteful and it's in no way gratuitous but I thought due warning was merited. However, it does tie into the plot and the ever-evolving dynamic between our lovely characters so if you do skip, there might be a touch of confusion later on.
This is a dense chapter wherein a lot goes down, including the progression of feelings, a revelation about Erik's identity, and a very integral scene. I kicked around whether or not to write it in this early but ultimately decided it fit rather cohesively with the general mood.
Many thanks for the reviews! As for Child of Dreams, you'll find out soon enough what cataclysm I've selected to befall our intrepid duo. No spoilers, sorry! ;)
5 May - Day 8
The dream was surreal, bright and pristine unlike the nightmares that usually dogged him. He sat on a grassy slope, a canopy of stars overhead so like the others he had camped beneath, not an ill wind in sight, no sounds beyond the crackling of a campfire and din of insects. In retrospect he should have been suspicious - perfect as it was - but instead he laid back and let the damp blades tickle his neck. When had he last enjoyed the feel of grass? Within his head he charted the constellations, content with the uncharacteristic serenity.
He should have known better; he should not have fallen into the trap.
But he hadn't and he did.
Of all people Erik should have known how often curses were disguised as blessings...
It's truly sublime, seeing such beauty before you, is it not? If not for its distinct femininity, he might have believed the voice lived within his head.
Erik sat up, irritated that she had caught him pining over the cosmos like some feckless poet. I suppose... His reply tapered off unfinished when he saw; Christine grinned down at him in a such a way she knew would vex, obscuring a chunk of sky, the thin chemise she wore stirred by the soft breeze, starlight shining through the diaphanous material.
A goddess.
Until that very instant the extent of her comeliness had been overlooked. Her face was pleasing - that much he already knew - and her figure, slim and delicate, beneath the ill-fitting menswear, hinted at being equally so but just how much he could never have imagined. Adorned in bagging attire, hair tied back, chest bound, and hat upon her head it was easy to ignore her womanly allure. Occasionally he would catch glimpses of coffee-colored doe eyes, of full, rose colored lips and a complexion of the purest cream and startle with the recollection that it was Christine not Christopher who trailed behind him.
There was no further demurral: she was perfection and in the shadow of profound revelation Erik gave no pause to wonder at her change in attire.
Why or how mattered not, only that she was scantily clad and so very close and he was just a man, a man who was starving and drowning at the same time, a hopeless man. Could she sense her peril, feel the danger she shyly courted?
Resigning himself to an eternity of damnation, he made no effort to escape as she came to sit beside him, her thigh abutting his. He was overcome with an urge to touch her, to discover if her skin was as soft as it looked. If he was to be doomed he might as well savor it. What was an infinite span of hell to the electric thrill of pleasure?
Transcendent. he echoed, his voice deep and melodic, brazen fingers ghosting across her silken cheek.
The stars? came the hushed query; she had begun to tremble. His skin prickled with the realization heat creeping up the nape of his neck. Somewhere deep in his subconscious a voice shouted a warning, begged him to wake up. He didn't heed it. Why would he? This - whatever it might be - was far more appealing.
Your beauty. All else is dull and dim in comparison, even the brightest star and whitest diamond.
Blush became her oh-so-well, the thrum of desire pulsated collectively with the blood flushing her cheeks. God, he could feel it.
The queer boldness possessed him once more; he was out of body and—assuredly—out of mind. Yet as his lips descended upon hers, swallowing their mutual gasp of surprise, Erik found he could not object. Gentle at first until coaxed into something of hunger by her coy response, his kiss was initially returned with virginal bashfulness but she quickly gained confidence, eroding his composure with her every caress, every brush of lip. Tentative, he slipped his tongue into her mouth to better taste her and she eagerly met it, at last snapping his fraying tether of control. With a growl he pulled her onto his lap, their chests pressed together in perfect imitation of their lips as they each sought to crawl into the other, his fevered hands tracing every part of her body, committing it to memory, blatant arousal pressing shamelessly into her.
Let me touch you.
Her breathy request nearly stopped his heart.
A frown scored his brow so deeply he speculated it might remain forever etched there, his mouth agape with combined shock and stark want; he couldn't formulate a reply—either assent or refusal—his tumbling respiration all he could manage.
Erik's breathing stuttered as her hands wandered into his shirt, fingertips skimming his chest, and ceased completely when she traced the path of hair below his navel. Everything froze as she undid his breeches, her action confirmed by the immediate release of constricting material. The heat of her nearby hands was torturous—to have her so close yet not touching him excruciating—and he feared it might well kill him. Impatience demanded he take her hands and guide her but he didn't give in, curbing his wicked whims by some miraculous feat and waiting for her to take the initiative she so boldly requested.
And dear, sweet God when she at last did...
Ah—fuck...
His stomach hitched inward with such violence that he swore it shattered against his spine and his heart almost burst with the ferocity of pure longing. He must have jumped at the contact for she exhaled sharply against his mouth. Erik's groan at the dynamic feel of her hand mingled with her subsequent moan at the proof of just how much he yearned for this, for her.
Never had he wanted something more or with such surety.
He permitted a few scant seconds of her fumbling, sensual exploration before he could no longer endure. Soon she was pinned beneath him, all barriers between them gone, the millions of twinkling tapers above casting her nakedness in an ethereal light, and he shuddered with restlessness to be one with her.
But he dared not act on impulse more appropriate for a boy green in the art of love and eager to take a tumble.
First he would show her the paradise only to be found in the arms of a generous lover—the only type she deserved. First he would worship every part of her body, make her beg and whimper and shake with desire.
She whispered his name when he at last joined them, tears slipping from her eyes; he kissed them away. Keeping himself still despite the hot, wet tightness enfolding him was a Herculean effort, but Erik browbeat his body into submission; he would play the role of considerate paramour or else. When he did gingerly resume her exclamations were of pleasure instead of pain, increasing in desperation and volume until she was screaming, screaming his name. Christine was fast approaching salvation, hovering just at the gates; he could feel the building wave rising within her. So close. All she needed to do was...
Let go, he half-beseeched, half-ordered.
Christine surrendered at the exact moment his own constraint buckled, exploding within her.
Erik! Her final shout before his eyes flew open.
Erik blinked once, twice, four times forcing his vision to focus, finding himself back inside their shared tent drenched in sweat, chest heaving. She sat near him, hand outstretched and poised over his shoulder, clearly alarmed by his sudden return to reality.
"A-Are you all right?"
Better than all right, he wanted to say before coming to his senses. It had all been a dream, an unattainable fantasy, every single bloody wonderful minute. Confusion and comprehension quickly yielded to indignation over the interruption, all of which caved in the face of shame.
"Why did you rouse me? Is it your goal to make every moment of my life—waking and sleeping—miserable?" he barked harshly, too harshly, for he saw the shine of tears threatening in her eyes.
"O-Only you were having a tterrible nightmare, moaning and yelling. It f-frightened me, I thought something was wrong."
"Yelling?" Christ, if she were to deduce the content of his dream...
"Y-Yes. M-Most of it was unintelligible b-but there was..."
"What?! What was there?! Answer me, idiot girl!" Truly he hadn't meant to snap, it was a direct violation of his promise to treat her more kindly but his nerves were roiling uncontrollably. What if she had heard something?
"You said what sounded like my n-name."
"Whatever you thought you heard was imagined." His voice came bitingly frigid in the hopes she'd let the matter drop.
"Still, you don't look well, you sweat through your shirt. Are you f-feeling ... ill?" At the last she reached out and grazed the small bit of forehead not covered by his mask.
It was an automatic response, sharpened to precision by years of those too foolish to keep their curiosity in check. The next second, Erik had her hand ensnared in his vice-like grip. She cried out in pained shock but it brought her no reprieve.
"Don't touch me!" He squeezed hard for emphasis before violently shoving her hand away.
And, then, in an instant he had stormed off into the night loathing himself. Hating the monster that terrorized, despising the creature that lusted, and above-all detesting the dampness in his breeches: his personal Mark of Cain, proof of his sin.
o o o
The rising sun brought with it the return of Erik's glacial aloofness. If yesterday had been a step towards friendship, today had double-backed five; the abruptness stunned her. They had bickered a touch last night but ultimately parted on good terms and she had not said nor done anything to antagonize since. So why then were they back to moody silence punctuated by his occasional flare of temper?
Christine did not contemplate asking, not that she'd even receive a response if she succumbed to such desperate folly... It wasn't worth the risk. He was mercurial at the very root of its definition: wroth in one minute, tender in the next. Such knowledge was no secret, having been reaffirmed on multiple occasions, but this time was different, the keen sting of regret, of loss, clawed at her core. Perhaps it was the fact that they'd made such progress only to regress. Yes, that had to be it. Even still, the disappointment continued to dolefully haunt but she lacked motive for further analysis, knowing she should just chalk it up to his being a despicable scoundrel, however with every day that passed she was finding him less horrid and more...
Good Lord, there was something wrong with her! Christine was given no chance to ponder what had happened to the girl who had once been so assured in her convictions, for she—quite suddenly—found herself being dragged through the brush and shoved against a tree.
"Wha—?" she began, the rest of her words lost to the large hand clamped over her mouth. Brown eyes flared in fury. How dare he? What game was this? She stared back at him, her gaze burning into his with the same searing vitriol he had patented.
Erik simply gestured to the path they had been on seconds before, as if that would answer everything. Christine speared him with another vicious glare until she heard the unmistakable approach of ... people? The voices and footsteps were obviously male. Odd to be confronted with the evidence of humanity having been so long with only him for company, almost as if she had forgotten they two were not the world's sole inhabitants.
Who were these men? Were they farmers or fishermen? Concealed within the little snatch of jungle, she craned her neck for a glimpse through the foliage; and curiosity turned to horror at the sight of weapons.
How could she have failed to remember that she was being hunted?
Events of that night came rushing back with breath-quenching rapidity and she felt as though she might vomit. With him by her side she had put reality's unpleasantness from mind but now, confronted with it, terror swamped her every sense.
Oh God, what were they to do?
Erik slipped off his pack one-handed in reply, placing it on the forest floor, his eyes alight with an unspoken command to stay silent. As soon as she met the calm blue-grey irises a wave of nerve-steadying reassurance washed over her and fright blossomed into giddiness. In an echo of last night mere inches spanned between their bodies, hers capturing the heat of his like gas caught a flame. Christine was entranced, the pounding of her heart, the strange fluttering in her stomach, and those eyes the only things that registered; a finger placed to her lips was enough to ignite her whole being, a hand on her thigh and the gathering wave of nauseous apprehension crashed against her organs, throbbing within her ears.
Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he unsheathed the knife resting there, infecting the muscle with a quivering instability. Her mind grew cloudy as he moved closer still; she couldn't begin to process his intentions. Lord, did he mean to kiss her?! The prospect—startlingly—evoked neither disgust nor protest. Did it then mean the opposite? No, of course not! She was just horribly muddled! Intoxicated and swayed by his scent, his proximity, the heat of his breath fanning over her face, his thrice-damned eyes complecting whatever sorcery strangled her rationality... This wasn't her; she couldn't possibly want such a thing, not now, not ever.
Yet, traitorous eyelids still flitted and disloyal lips still parted expectantly awaiting his kiss.
It never came.
She opened her eyes in time enough to see the maddening smugness in his expression; and, had he not slunk off like a damn jungle cat, she would have walloped him. To hell with Erik and his bloody games! Christine squeezed her fists in anger, surprised to feel resistance digging into her palm.
The knife. When—how had it gotten there? It came to her then, he must have placed it there, the implication clear: defend yourself if need be. And with her returned lucidity came fear both old and new: fear that she'd be captured, fear that he'd be... Christine sank to the ground in a daze and held herself tight letting the tears flow.
He would come back, he simply had to.
But the stretching moments brought with them no sign and with each passing second she grew number, colder, more lost. Eventually her senses were too deadened to perceive the nearing footfalls - although they were so stealthy that they might have gone overlooked - until she saw boots beside her. Friend or foe? Not that it mattered, it was too late for a reaction, she had been uncovered and was being roughly hoisted into a standing position.
"Open your goddamn eyes, girl! We must go!" Even before he had spoken she knew it was him, recognized his touch, and her heart was pierced by subsequent joy.
There stood Erik, in the flesh, his shirtsleeves askew and splashed crimson, his trousers stained with mud mingled red. There was a wide-eyed pause before he relinquished his grip and bade her follow. Throughout the walk she trailed after him, stopping, slowing, and crouching when ordered, her head reeling.
"Are you h-hurt?" she interjected, her words timid and broken. She couldn't account for why she hadn't asked earlier, but all of that blood... The sight shook her, unnerved her, rendered her queasy. What if he had suffered a grievous wound? Lord, she couldn't bear to think on it!
"No, and keep quiet." he growled.
All of that blood and none of it his. Which meant—Oh, Father in Heaven! Like an automaton, she plodded mindlessly forward as her thoughts churned frantically with hideous images and memories.
o o o
They halted for the night as the sun was melting into an orange band on the horizon. With each task completed, she felt more grounded, more solid, and a nagging curiosity overtook her, building until she could no longer endure. She had to know, had to hear either confirmation or denial. "T-Those men... D-Did you kill them?" The question smacked of accusation aloud. There was no immediate answer, instead he persisted in covering their tent with the usual array of camouflaging foliage. "Well? Have you no—"
"Why do you insist on making ridiculous inquiries?" he spat, "Do you truly seek verification of the obvious?" She stared at him, eyes round with shock. "Yes, I killed them, the evidence of my crime is spattered upon my person. None of it is mine, I assure you. There you have your admission of guilt, little princess." Christine heard his teeth gnash. "Tell me do you take exception to it? Am I to be condemned for a murderer?" He rose gradually, his back to her.
"W-Was there no other way? Could you not have bound and left—" Erik wheeled around with such speed that she instinctively hopped backwards, nearly tripping over a root; his eyes drilling into hers.
"Oh, yes, perhaps I should have extended them an invitation for tea. How remiss of me! Are you dull-witted or does it still elude you that these men will raze villages to find you?! Or, maybe, you'd rather travel back to dear papa with them instead of the hideous, crazed, murderous escort you are presently cursed with? Go ahead, Christine, you have my blessing! I won't receive recompense but I'll travel quicker and be spared your mind-numbing stupidity!" The words poured forth in a steady hiss, his tone somehow more menacing than if he had shouted. With a final scoff of disgust, he turned and resumed his previous chore.
Christine remained stock-still, not daring to speak, not daring to think, until her legs began to tingle with impending numbness and she elected to make herself useful. She slipped away to get firewood, not making it very far before something closed around her arm and a hand caught her scream.
"Do not move."
Ugh, devil take him!
Was frightening her witless punishment for her earlier transgression? Regardless, it was wholly uncalled for! She wanted to yell and lash out but something eerie in his earlier command gave her pause. One hand withdrew from her face while the other lingered on her arm. "Are you completely mad?! What in the world—"
"Fer-de-lance,"
"What?! What does that mean?" He pointed to a pile of leaves not a meter from her still-outstretched leg; nothing was there and she was quickly tiring of this cryptic exercise.
"A viper, highly venomous, just there. Move back slowly." Despite her continued inability to locate a snake amidst leaf litter, she acquiesced and allowed him to escort her back to camp.
"Can you be trusted to stay here or must I tie you to a tree?" His usual facetious nature seemed restored with the teasing quip. Lord Almighty, she'd never understand his moods! Not that she even wished to... Christine plopped upon a rock and gave a small, disinterested nod. Let him collect the damn firewood, she'd be more than agreeable to sit idle and watch the sun set.
He came back not ten minutes later wearing the satisfied smirk of a schoolboy who had accomplished some great mischief, naught on his person but a smallish wooden box and a look of triumph blazing in his bizarre glaucous eyes.
"Should I bother inquiring?"
"If you please, young Daaé, I'd be glad to show you." Christine massaged her temples, wearily noting that he had spanned four emotions in less than half an hour. And it was said that only women were disposed to hysteria?
"I cannot confess to being interested unless it contains firewood or food."
Erik rested the box on a nearby rock and waved a dismissive hand. "There will be no fire tonight, not with our prior encounter. No, this is much more riveting, come have a look." With a roll of her eyes, she trudged over. It took every ounce of her self-control not to shriek.
"Is that a ... snake?!" she screeched, "You went off to collect the snake I almost trod on? What on earth for?!" Oh, she wanted nothing more than to throttle him! He had to be the most infuriating example of man on the entirety of this good, green earth!
She eyed his prize derisively: it was around two feet long and stout, colored an ugly conglomeration of mottled browns with a light belly and a horizontal black band running across each side of its head.
Perfectly disgusting.
"Bothrops lanceolatus or fer-de-lance, the only venomous species of snake to inhabit Martinique. It belongs to the Crotaline family, known as pit-vipers, so-called for the indentations between nostril and eye containing organs which allow the animal to sense heat."
"How utterly fascinating." she said flatly.
The little viper was oddly calm—relaxed, almost—it flickered a tiny mauve forked-tongue and stared blankly out of unblinking, slit-pupil eyes. It was the strangest thing. Although she knew nothing of snake behavior, she didn't expect they'd willingly allow themselves to be captured and molested by a giant foreign creature yet here it was content in Erik's hands.
Very peculiar... Christine tore her gaze away from the revolting serpent.
"While this ... lesson on reptile biology is incredibly stimulating, why did you bring that thing into our camp? I thought you said it was poisonous."
"Venomous," he amended, "Poison must be absorbed or ingested, venom is injected." Shamefully, she found herself hoping he might get bitten right then; it would serve him right! "Though inaccurate in your terminology, you are correct regarding the snake's toxicity; the venom is quite potent. As for your question, my purposes for keeping him are entirely my own."
"You mean we are taking that thing with us?!" Christine's tone went shrill, scratchy in her throat.
There it was, he was delusional; he had to be insane! No one possessed of their right mind would wish to keep something so... hideous and unnatural.
"You needn't worry, he will be secured and unable to escape."
This couldn't be happening. He was actually serious.
While her expedition thus far had not been ideal she had adapted quite well, which, for a young lady of Society was rather remarkable, but Christine would see heaven damned before she'd willingly share what little comfort she retained with this slithering abomination. Maybe persuasion necessitated a divergent tack...
"It seems cruel to keep him confined. Would it not be better if he had freedom to eat and move about in his natural habitat?" From his quirk of brow she knew instantly her plan had failed.
Damn!
"While your concern is touching it is misplaced, reptiles do not metabolize food at the same rate as mammals. A snake this size requires nourishment once or twice a week and he's recently eaten. His species is not a particularly active one, neither quick nor adapted to a mobile lifestyle; vipers prefer the ambush over the hunt."
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Admitting invariable defeat in the matter, she groused sullenly, "So does that mean I too am to be relegated to weekly meals?"
"Of course not," Erik bowed, when he rose the snake had been replaced by a can. He tossed it to her; she caught it with a thunk. "Supper, as my princess commands..."
"Do you expect me to open it with my teeth?" He flicked something at her in rejoinder, a blur of silver in the low light, it whistled through the air and stuck fast into the ground at her feet. When she identified it she was livid. "You threw a knife at me?! In the dark, no less! Would you have even cared if you had hit me?"
He guffawed, characteristic smirk undoubtedly garnishing his face. "Had I wished to hit you, I most certainly would have, dark or no." In that same darkness she struggled to expose the contents of the can, stabbing at the tin to vent her frustration and having little success.
"Christ, girl, are you mutilating or opening that?"
"Perhaps if there was light could see what I was doing!" she retorted snappishly, wishing the can was his face. A strike, a hiss, and a small lantern came to life, casting the camp in a mire of dim illumination and shadows.
"Does that serve, little princess?"
Hunger compelled her to ignore the annoying moniker and continue her endeavor. Christine labored for several more minutes before Erik grabbed it with a huff, handing it back opened. He wiped the knife on his breeches eyeing her hesitation with derision.
"Do not fret, it's not the same blade I used to dispatch our friends." he sneered coldly, "Your supper is untainted by blood."
The meal was eaten in quietude apart from the sound of chewing, neither of them glancing at the other. Tempers ran high and both recognized that only conflict would follow any conversation started at present.
An hour afterwards he sat cleaning and loading his pistol whilst Christine attempted to read her botanical field guide, her mind drifting to a day which had begun - and seemed destined to end - with a nightmare. And what a day it had been! A day fraught with criminals, serpents, murder, that almost-kiss. She shook her head, mutely observing the expert skill with which he handled the pistol and indeed all weapons, noting the lithe, long fingers, wondering how they'd feel tangled in her hair as he... Desperate to rid her head of bodies, slithering things, and him, she perforated the reticence.
"Have you always been in this... line of work?"
"To exactly which line of work do you refer?"
From the acerbity in his tone, it was clear she had offended and she strove for more neutral phrasing. "Surviving off your wits, fighting." A dark and mirthless laugh answered; her skin tingled to hear its malice.
"Ah, and here I had been contemplating what tragic past you had dreamt up for me, now I needn't wait any longer! Did you think me the result of a laborer's rut with a whore? That, neglected and as good as orphaned, I left because the slut who birthed me was either too drunk or indifferent to provide for me, dragging myself from the gin-soaked gutters by my fingernails? And, following years of stealing books to teach myself letters and brawling for morsels, I took to the sea to find honest work?" Erik took her quiet as confirmation, his scowl sharp and cutting. "Alas, I'm afraid I must disappoint... I am not the offshoot of a drudge, in fact, the circumstances into which I was born surpass most, including your own. Does that stun, little princess? I can see it does." He beamed maniacally, offering a grand flourish, "Here before you stands the eldest son of the Earl of Chiltern, young Daaé."
Her mouth sagged into an O of bug-eyed surprise. There was perverse satisfaction in her shock, well worth the reveal. "Yes, the Lord Erik Charles Grey, Viscount Latimer... or so was my father's courtesy title until I renounced both it and him at the tender age of thirteen. Do not look so afflicted, my girl!" He tutted scornfully. "It was not as irresponsible as it seems, I did mention I had a brother so my dear father was not without an heir. To him my flight was a divine blessing, of that I have no qualms; he was rid of a troublesome child, one who was of irritatingly sound health and mind, one whose legitimacy he could not even argue. I look remarkably like my father, you understand, I've his same eyes, coloring, and build, it's been said that my face is the very image of his. Well, half of it, that is..." Again he relished in her awe, supping on it, feeling himself grow bolder and stronger in his crazed confession. He had said far more than he wanted, why not bare it all? She wanted to know.
Well, by God she would!
An unhinged chuckle rattled from his lips, mixing with short, rapid breaths. "Did you think I wore the mask to enhance my roguish charm? Let me disabuse you of that notion, let me dash your illusions and plague your nightmares to come. And the nightmares will come, of that you can be sure, for my face is more hideous than death itself. When I was a torturer for the Persian Shah it was my most effective device, more productive than the pliers, knives, or any macabre device conjured by my twisted mind; it could break the hardest of men with greater efficiency than rack or wheel." He took a menacing step forward, one step nearer her. Christine tried to shrink away but, petrified, stayed rooted to the spot.
"I was called the Angel of Doom, a title I earned a thousand times over. Why, you'd be harried to uncover a more apt description ever bestowed upon a man. It haunted every one of them, my face, just as it haunted my father. For all the hatred he showed me, I was glad I could give him that." A pause and he cleared his throat.
"You asked about the mask before, young Daaé. Most men I wouldn't have suffered to ask at all, let alone twice. And, had your welfare not been entrusted to me, I might have snapped your pretty neck the moment I gleaned your designs to unmask me; it would have proved no more difficult than breathing, just the barest flick of wrist and..." He snapped his fingers for accentuation.
Words honed his grin to a demonic sneer and she was convinced this was how the serpent had appeared to Eve. "That frightens you, yes? As well it should. I am a dangerous man and you are a clever child, so very delicate, so very easy to break. Can you feel the way your body stiffens, tension humming through each individual hair? Do you perceive the frantic clip of your pulse, the way each breath draws in less air, the weakness spreading into your legs, which feel as though they would collapse were your knees not locked? That is fear, sweet girl, unadulterated terror. Isn't it magnificent?" The question was punctuated by an emphasizing inhale.
"Perhaps you want to flee but know you've no chance at escape. But this is far from novel, you've feared me from the beginning, haven't you? It may have ebbed somewhat with time but still it remains at your core, an instinct, of sorts; the subconscious can sense a threat before the host is cognizant, intuition always recognizes a monster. You tremble, you cower, you grapple with what it may mean to provoke this beast whose heart is blacker than pitch ... and yet persist all the same. Foolishness is hazardous, but your mind quietens all protest in the name of interest. Even now that curiosity burns hungrily, I can see it in those lovely eyes. Despite the knowledge that such a wish may well be your last, nevertheless you are willing to gamble your very life." He closed the distance between them, a great, looming shadow.
"How intriguing you are, Christine! It is a rare occurrence indeed to pique my attention, so to you I offer the 'gift' you desire, I offer a free glimpse of the horror."
She shut her eyes tightly and turned her head, but he seized her chin, jerking her face forward. "You will look." he hissed, "This was what you wanted after all, my dear, savor it. Maybe you should learn to be more careful with your wishes."
And he removed the mask.
Good Lord, it was horrible!
All tangled, mottled, broken, twisted, knotted skin and bone. A ruin; a mess; scarcely a face. The faint glow of the lantern rendered it more grotesque, more dreadful.
Christine's mouth dropped open, precursor to a mute scream. Whatever she had envisioned was nothing to the reality. She had accepted there would be scarring, likely owing to a wartime injury, but not like this... This which defied classification, this which looked more appropriate rendered on a page of some obscure medical textbook than in actual flesh. The grip around her wrists tightened, his mouth curving into a leer of validation, apparently delighted by her panic.
Half beauty, half beast; half monster, half man; half angel, half demon: an exercise in duality recalling the Roman coins of Janus papa had once brought her from Italy. Christine steeled herself for the battle ahead, prepared to claw, bite, kick, punch, whatever it took to get free; an internal voice-of-reason reminding her of the knife sheathed at her thigh.
But then her sweeping, panicked gaze met his eyes—those cool, cleansing eyes uniquely Erik—and her terror evaporated, her budding scream retreating, nestling back within her chest, curled like a cat before a hearth. His grasp slackened, the slight tremor in his hands nearly undetectable; it appeared her sudden calmness unnerved him. They stared at each other, neither knowing quite what else to do, every minute that elapsed an infusion of confidence.
Christine made the grave indiscretion of speaking then, believing his rage to be spent. All she sought to do was reassure, to make it known that she was not like the others: his father, the Shah, the countless cruel masses... Too late did she ken her fatal error.
"I'm sorry, so very sorry. You didn't warrant such treatment, not any of it. It's not you who are the monster, Erik, your father and the Shah are the true villains." She took care to speak at a compassionate hush, as one might adopt to comfort a child during a storm.
This proved more of a mistake than her carefully-selected words.
"No?"
He shoved her away with such abrupt brutality that she tumbled hard into the dirt. He towered over her, seething with electric wrath that was like to shoot forth; writhing, crackling anger sparking off his person in a brush discharge, like the Tesla oscillator she had seen as a girl. His entire body was alive it. No longer Erik, this was the Angel of Doom; his eyes ghastly, mad, two glowing red coals that threatened to incinerate if met directly.
She knew true fear then.
The kind that twines itself about a person until it cuts off all breath, choking every scream, paralyzing the body completely. Suffocating, tangible fear. Mind blank, senses dead to all but fathomless terror she uttered a feeble, tottering appeal.
Laughter, a booming peal of malevolent laughter, the sole response she received. Erik's laughs were rarer than emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and diamonds and to her more precious than all combined. But this - she'd swear to her grave - was the chortle of the Devil. No mortal could generate a sound so horrifying yet mellifluous nor could an angel produce one so evil. Once she'd been positive he would never harm her.
Now, however...
Would he rain blows upon her, beating her insensible? Would he rip her soul from her body as payment for her blunder? Or would he simply snap her neck?
Certain these could well be her final moments, Christine managed another pathetic mewling plea, arm raised over her head part in supplication, part in defense should the kicks and punches come.
"Not a monster, you say, yet you recoil from me like Periboea thrown to the Minotaur... Well, there is no Theseus to save you, dear girl, you are completely at my mercy. What is to stop me from devouring you, from wringing that dainty neck?" A bone-rattling shiver tore through her; he grinned savagely to witness it. "Ah, but alas I am not a complete beast, there's your shred of humanity, of 'goodness'! I will allow you to plead your case. Why shouldn't I wrap my hands about your throat? Tell me, Christine. Why?"
"Well? The monster grows impatient. I'll not wait an eternity."
"I-I meant no affront. I f-feel..." She drew a steadying inhale, "I feel awful that you, you who are brilliant, gifted, and kind were treated so abominably. You did not deserve that, nobody does, and for something outside of your con—"
"SPARE ME YOUR FUCKING PITY, GIRL!" he roared, "I'd rather you bedamn my name and flee than withstand your goddamn platitudes!" The leer twisting his already hellish features lent him an uncanny resemblance to the gargoyles atop Notre-Dame Cathedral; the whole of his face evocative of a subject from Goya's Black Paintings fused with Ingres' depiction of classic beauty. His flawless - handsome, even - left side was the last thing she saw before he tied the mask back into place and whirled away.
Eight days spent in his constant company had endowed her with a sense of his habits, rendering Erik somewhat predictable, and his actions left but one conclusion to be drawn: he was leaving.
Leaving her scared; leaving her defenseless; leaving her alone.
Before she could stop herself she had cried out, her entreaty crumbling against a stony wall of silence and swallowed by the precipitating interlude.
"I-I don't want to be alone," Christine murmured to her boots as if they might care or console.
"Not alone, you have Adam; he is a living, breathing creature, is he not?"
"Adam...?" Then she realized. "The snake?! You named that disgusting reptile?"
"You shouldn't be so judgmental, little princess, for you two are one in the same. Different species, perhaps, but both vipers notwithstanding." Caught out by his statement, she stood temporarily dumbstruck. What defense could she give? What was there to say? She opened her mouth with the hope of conjuring some comment only to find empty space.
Just as the day before last, just like this morning, just as this afternoon, he was gone. Words lingered in his wake, bits of burning paper torn from the morbid pages of Gothic fiction swirling about, stirring the air.
Torturer.
Horror.
Death.
Nightmare.
Monster.
Beast.
She was aware he had killed, conscious he had seen combat and violence, but had absolved him of these crimes; it was kill or be killed in war and here, pursued like game, the same principle applied. Every death at his hands had been for her safety; he had saved her life on two occasions. Killing in defense surely wasn't a sin the same as baseless murder.
But he had also tortured, inflicted unspeakable suffering - Lord, she didn't even wish to think upon whom - to feed the gruesome caprices of a twisted man. Worse still, there was no remorse in the way he recounted this information, instead he did so almost gleefully, his voice resonating with malicious exuberance. He enjoyed the kill and made no attempt to hide it. Maybe his motives weren't so noble after all...
How could she reconcile such evil? Why would she want to?
As she sat down awaiting his return Christine ruminated upon these two questions, turning them over and over in her brain, chasing after an answer or—at the very least—some clarity.
Well, that happened...
A/N: Periboea was one of the maidens intended to be sacrificed to the Minotaur and on the way there is assaulted by King Minos; she's rescued by Theseus.