Author's Note: Thank you, everyone, for the reviews, and congrats to those of you who picked up my subtle little joke about Chagny/Chaney. It is true that in English, the two names would sound very similar, but Erik, being a Frenchman, would notice those subtle differences and cannot resist the urge to correct people.
The Way to Love
Melancholy
Erik woke up early and watched the dawn as it broke through thin, wispy clouds, weak light filtering in through the window of his room. The pain medication had worn off several hours ago and now not only did his head hurt, but also his chest hurt, the scorpion stings hurt, and most of all, his foot was throbbing like hell. He looked over at the bedside table and eyed the bottle of laudanum longingly and considered taking another dose, but then decided against it.
In the past, he had partaken of his share of opiates and narcotics. Initially, the drugs had given him a feeling of euphoria, but later, as their effects wore off, Erik had found himself weighted down with melancholy thoughts. Over time, the melancholia had become intolerable, and at last, he gave up the usage of drugs altogether. Last night had been the first time he had taken laudanum in many years, albeit reluctantly.
He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but with no success. So, he threw back the covers and got out of bed. He eyed the chairs by the wall, thinking that perhaps sitting up would help. With careful steps, he made his way across the room.
Wolf, who had refused to leave Erik's side, noticed the activity and looked up, keeping a watchful eye on his master.
"Don't worry, boy. I'm not leaving. I'm just going to sit over here." Wolf, not taking Erik at his word, rose up and followed him.
Erik found the chair didn't help, however, and a few minutes later, he was fumbling with his bandages. He took a peek under the wrappings around his chest. The cut Rahzoul had given him would never have been fatal, but it had been deep enough and long enough to require stitches, and the doctor's handiwork reminded him of a very long, thin millipede crawling across his body. Erik tucked the bandage back in place.
"Just what I need," he mumbled, "more scars."
Then he stared at his foot and eased it up off the floor, resting it atop his other leg, curious to see how bad the damage was in the light of day. As it was, the entire front of his foot was bound in layer upon layer of linen, making his foot twice its normal size. He unfastened the wrappings, unwinding them until at last he could see his big toe and two more beside it. Then, there was an empty space. Where once there had been two toes, the skin was now neatly stitched closed, the surrounding flesh bruised. His stomach lurched, and Erik closed his eyes, forcing down the nausea. It wasn't that he had never seen injuries before, but it was different when they were your own. Memories of how helpless he had felt as Rahzoul's prisoner did not help matters.
"No!" he groaned through clenched teeth, shoving what happened last night into a corner – out of sight, out of mind.
The nausea abated, and he remained seated, his gaze wandering to the window, the light filtering through the lace curtains and creating strange patterns on the floor. He stared at the shapes, then back at his foot. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the chair when a knock on the door roused him from his thoughts.
"Mr. D.? Are you awake?" It was Mrs. Flynn. "I thought I heard you call out."
Erik knew the woman would not leave until she was satisfied that all was well. "I'm fine," he said, hoping his voice would reassure her and that she would leave him alone. "I'm trying to sleep."
"And not doing a very good job of it by the sound of things. Since you're awake, I'll bring you breakfast. No sense making double work."
"I'm not hungry," he said, scrambling to rebandage his foot before she decided to walk in, which, sure enough, she did.
She had a breakfast tray with her, but immediately set it down when she saw what he'd been doing. "Goodness' sake, sir, but you shouldn't be taking those dressings off your poor foot." She kneeled down and quickly fixed the bandages. "I suppose you wanted to see what the doctor did, but for heaven's sake, you should know better than to do something like this," she chided, talking to him as if he were a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"It's my foot," Erik said sullenly, the miserable feeling that had come over him taking a firmer grip, and watched distractedly as Mrs. Flynn efficiently finished with the dressings.
Assuring herself that the bandage was securely in place, she got up, brought a small folding table from the closet, and placed it next to him. "Well, as long as you're sitting up, let me bring your breakfast over here," she said, putting the food where he could easily reach it.
He looked at the coddled eggs, toast and coffee, his stomach objecting. "I don't want any breakfast."
"But you need to eat, to build your strength back up."
Erik dismissed her admonishments. What he wanted most at the moment was answers, not food. "How did you and Raoul know where to find us? I don't suppose Rahzoul left you a note with directions."
If Mrs. Flynn heard the sarcasm in Erik's voice, she didn't show it. "Well, sir," she said, talking as if they were old friends, "it was like this. I came home from taking Wolf for his walk as you'd asked and found the front door wide open. I knew right away that something was terribly wrong. Wolf did, too. His nose was in the air, sniffing, and he started getting all antsy."
"Antsy?" Erik despaired of ever understanding English as it was spoken in this country.
"You know, agitated. I called for you but got no answer. I thought that there might be a burglar in the house, so I let Wolf check things out first." Wolf perked up his ears at the mention of his name, and Mrs. Flynn patted the dog on the head as she continued her story. "He headed straight to the parlor, sniffing like he was on the trail. I followed him and my heart sank. A couple of the chairs were overturned and the carpet was scrunched up, as if something had been dragged across it. That must've been you, sir," she added, her voice dropping as she recalled the scene.
"I have no memory of what happened." He saw the quizzical look on her face and explained. "A package arrived. It was supposedly from Christine, but it was a trick. When I opened it, I was pricked with a needle and drugged. When I next woke, I was in the warehouse."
"That would explain it then, I guess," she said. "The messed up room, I mean. But I didn't find any package. The miscreant must've taken it with him."
"Perhaps."
"Where was I? Oh, yes. I was about to dash off and get help when someone came pounding on the door. It was that other Frenchman, Mr. Chaney."
"It's Chagny."
"Yes, that's what I said. Mr. Chaney. Anyway, he was all flustered and excited, and I could see he had a small cut on his temple. I tried to get him to calm down and have a seat, but he kept pacing and going on about someone waiting for him and Miss Daaé, and her being kidnapped. That's when I put two and two together and figured that whatever had happened to all of you had to do with that mysterious man you've been warning me about, the one who was courting Kathleen."
"Why didn't Raoul just go to the police?" Erik asked.
The housekeeper shrugged. "Who knows? People don't always act logical when faced with a crisis. I suppose he thought you'd know better about whom you were dealing with than any policeman would."
Mrs. Flynn went on to say that all during their conversation, Wolf kept demanding their attention. "I told Mr. Chaney how the dog is always tracking you down, even when you leave him at home and go into town. I told him it didn't matter if you took the streetcar or walked, the dog always seems to find you. So, we decided to let Wolf lead the way. And that was how we found the warehouse," she ended, a self-satisfied look on her face.
"Impressive," Erik said, looking down at Wolf, grateful for the dog's tracking skills that used to annoy him. And then it occurred to him; it wasn't just Wolf's tracking skills, it was the animal's loyalty. He looked again at Wolf, admiration in his eyes. "So, you like me. Is that it?" Wolf grinned and nuzzled Erik's hand, and was rewarded with a scratch behind the ears.
"Now then, sir, will you please eat some breakfast?"
Erik ignored her. "I'm not hungry, and I don't want to be pestered any more about eating. In fact, I want you to dismiss the staff."
"What?" she exclaimed, nearly dropping the tray in her hands. "Wh—what are you talking about? Have they done something wrong? Is it Kathleen? Is it something I've done?"
Erik shook his head sadly. "I just… I just don't want anyone around."
"You want me to turn them out, just like that? Beggin' your pardon, Mr. D., but that just isn't right," she said in a huff, her Irish up. "Those people have served you well. You owe them more than just to be thrown out without so much as a by-your-leave."
Erik paused and considered her point. "Give them a month's pay; whatever it takes. I don't care. But get them out of my house."
"But—but they love working here, Mr. D. They'd all feel terrible leaving when you're still mending."
"I don't care to discuss the matter. Just—just do as I have asked."
"Are you sure you're thinking straight?" she asked boldly, her eyes traveling to the laudanum bottle on the table.
Erik read her face, displeased with what he saw. "Perhaps you've forgotten that this is my house? I will not have you or anyone else questioning my judgment," he answered angrily.
She walked over to the tray, picked it up, and headed for the door. "Fine," she snapped back. "Sit there and feel sorry for yourself. Don't give a thought for anyone else's feelings." And she slammed the door behind her.
-0-0-0-
A knock on the door woke Erik from a fitful sleep. After his conversation with the housekeeper, he'd crawled back into bed. "Damn that woman!" he mumbled. "Mrs. Flynn, I thought I told you…" He stopped when he saw Ambrose enter the room.
"You up to some company?"
"Not really," Erik groused.
Ambrose ignored him. "Of course, you are. You just don't want to admit it. Mind if I sit down?"
"Not at all. You're going to do what you want anyway," Erik replied.
Ambrose laughed. "Don't worry. I won't stay too long. I know you're probably tired, but I wanted to see if there was anything I could do for you, see if you needed anything."
"Peace and quiet," Erik muttered.
"I thought Mrs. Flynn was exaggerating, but it seems that you are in a foul mood today," Ambrose said in his typical light, breezy manner. "Must have something to do with trouble always finding you."
Erik shot the other man a look, wondering exactly what it was that Mrs. Flynn had told him. "Maybe I'm star-crossed. It seems that nothing I do will improve my life. Eventually, I always lose out, no matter how hard I try. Makes me wonder why I bother."
"Hmm, sounds serious. I think I know what the problem is, though." Ambrose stopped smiling. "Erik, listen to me. It's not unusual for a person who's been through a near-death experience to feel depressed in the days that immediately follow. I know what I'm talking about; I saw it enough during the war. You went through hell last night. No, you don't need to fill me in on any details. A person only has to look at you, at your injuries, to know this is true. What I'm trying to say is, don't wallow in that puddle of self-pity too long. It'll drive you mad if you do."
Erik was about to shoot back an angry retort when Christine entered the room. "What is this?" he asked. "Grand Central Depot?"
Ambrose chuckled as his good humor returned. "I think this is my cue to leave you two lovebirds alone," he said, getting up from his chair. He took Christine's hand and, polite as any cavalier, bestowed a kiss upon it. "You don't need an old man like me around here, but I'd best warn you – he's being cantankerous." He winked at Christine, wished them both a good day, and left, whistling cheerily as he walked down the hall.
Christine pulled the chair next to the bed.
"I can get out of bed, you know," he said, nodding towards the other chair in the room. "I'm not a complete invalid."
"Yes, but last night the doctor said you were to stay off your foot as much as possible for the next few days, and I didn't think you wanted the two of us to be shouting across the room at one another. Ambrose was right; you are rather touchy today. Maybe I should leave."
"It might be for the best, Christine. I'm afraid I'm not very good company. I'm…"
"Cranky?" she completed for him. She gave him an understanding look. "It's all right. I've seen your bad moods before, but I'm wondering if I should come back later. I had some questions, but now might not be a good time to ask them."
Erik looked at her sadly. "Would it make a difference?"
"I honestly don't know. I thought about it all last night, considering the possibility that Rahzoul was telling the truth. I tried to comprehend what that would mean to me, but until I hear it from your lips, everything I'm considering is hypothetical. I won't really know how much of a difference it would make until you tell me what really happened back then. I know so little about your past," she said. "You told me a little about when you lived in Persia. That's where you met Rahzoul, isn't it. Last night, he said some terrible things, things I don't want to even think about, but I cannot get them out of my mind. I know he was trying to turn me against you, but I need to know – how much of what he said was true?"
"Some," he admitted. "I make no excuses. When I was a young man, I was restless and wandered the continent as an itinerant player. I performed mostly in Eastern Europe and Russia, and built up a reputation as a magician of some renown. I was invited to perform for the Shah of Persia and there was offered an appointment there. It was soon discovered that I had special talents that I could utilize in the service of the Shah and of the Khanum, his mother. The court was a place rife with plots and subterfuge. My job was to secretly weed out enemies of the royal family. Yes, there were times when I had to question men, and sometimes it was not pleasant, but it was a job that needed to be done. It was nothing from which I ever took pleasure. It was Rahzoul who enjoyed the torture."
"Then you—you tortured men?"
"No. I interrogated them; Rahzoul tortured them. I was assigned to him, told to learn from him. It didn't take long for me to realize that he often went beyond what was necessary…that he took an obscene pleasure in inflicting pain upon our prisoners. In time, he manufacturedreasons to arrest people. No one was safe, not even his own wife."
"And that remark about sending the man your bill from the cleaners?"
"I'm no innocent, but I never said that. Again, that was Rahzoul blaming me for his own doings. By the time I left Persia, he had become delusional, paranoid, obsessed with the idea that I had supplanted him in the Khanum's favor. She, too, had begun to notice his excesses, but court politics can be tricky, even for the most adept. Rahzoul came from an ancient family. If he were removed, if he had disappeared, there were people who would avenge him. I knew I had to leave Teheran while I could. I explained the situation to the Khanum and, with her help, made my escape. Even after I'd left Persia, I was not safe, for by then I had become Rahzoul's obsession.
"I lived in hiding. After many years, I thought he had tired of tracking me. I quietly returned to Paris. For a time when I thought I might live an ordinary life, but I was only deluding myself. Whenever I tried, this," he pointed to his face, "got in the way. I always loved music, and managed to find work as a contractor, building the Opera House. But even then, after demonstrating my abilities as a builder, I was shunned because of my appearance." He looked away, shame on his face.
"I'm bad luck, Christine. Wherever I go, misfortune follows me, and this time, my past almost killed you. Now that you know the truth about me, you will want to stay as far away as possible." He halted, fighting his emotions. "Being with you was more beautiful than I ever imagined it would be. I hope you know that I will always…always…wish nothing but happiness for you."
"You mean…you don't want to see me again?"
"I think it would be for the best. There's another man who would make a fine, upstanding husband. You were right, two years ago, to have chosen Raoul. He's a good man. He can provide for you, keep you safe. You'll be happy with him."
Christine shot up from her chair and stormed across the room. She rounded on him, her hands on her hips, her face red with anger. "I don't need you telling me who I should spend my life with, Erik Duquesne. I'm quite capable of making up my own mind these days." Her anger turned to tears. "I thought we had something wonderful between us, something magical, filled with beauty, music and mystery. The most beautiful thing that ever happened to me was when you took me to your house by the lake." She took a ragged breath, trying to stop herself from crying.
"But…"
"Do you have any idea how thrilled I was to hear you sing to me in those days? To have your voice fill my dressing room? And how empty my life was when you left?"
"I…I didn't know…"
"Of course not," she snapped. "You're always thinking of your face, blaming it for keeping you from enjoying your life fully. We both know that isn't true. You've been happy in America." She softened, pleaded with him. "Isn't there room, just a tiny bit of space, for me beside you, here in New York?" She paused, as if assessing him. "Oh. I see. Are there other enemies waiting out there? No?"
"No," he said quietly. "All my other enemies are d—gone."
"Then maybe we have passed the point of no return. It looks as though I am too late. You don't appear to want me anymore, so I shall wish you a good day."
Erik stared at her as she nearly ran to the door and stopped for a moment. Was she waiting for him to call her back? He wanted to, more than anything on earth, he wanted to call her back, but he wouldn't . . . couldn't get himself to say the words. Instead, he watched her leave, believing it better that she hated him, that this was all for the best.
I hope you're satisfied.
Erik looked around, but he knew he'd see no one. The little voice inside his head that used to harangue him all the time had returned.
"I don't need to be lectured, least of all by my self."
Apparently you do. All your life, you've bemoaned the fact that you were alone and unloved. You botched your first chance with Christine and then, don't ask me why, but you've been lucky enough to be given a second. So what do you do? You drive her away – again.
"Shut up!"
You're pathetic.
"Perhaps," Erik said to himself. "But at least she'll be with a better man."
-0-0-0-