A/N: Just keep in mind that all of this stuff is going down within the span of half a day. Things are turbulent with a capital T. Erik and Christine have been through the wringer, they're exhausted, on-edge, in shock, emotionally drained and trying to make sense of it all so expect a lot of brooding on both sides with a delightful hint of irrationality - actually, probably more than a 'hint'. If the thoughts within this and the last chapter seem redundant, frazzled, or contradictory it's been done on purpose.
Thank you to Child of Dreams, Not A Ghost3, lovecelticopera, and cotesgoat for the lovely reviews! And way to call me out, Not A Ghost3. Just kidding, I deserve it. I'm glad everyone is still enjoying the story, even if I am torturing you. ;)
Ah, yes, and for those wondering when the tension and angst will implode the answer is... next chapter! It's pretty much done but requires the usual amount of polishing. I think it turned out nicely, there's fluff, angst, backstory (wherein we see Erik's good side from another POV), and some making up. However, I'll be a dreadful tease and tell you that this aforementioned resolution falls flat in comparison to another I've written (you'll see it 3-4 chapters down the road).
Oh, and before I forget, on the subject of sex (cotesgoat)... a slow burn is just that, dear readers, slow. It will be a while yet before the sexy times but hopefully by then it will have been worth the wait. I'm not heartless, though, there will be steaminess. You think our characters can remain totally pure for that long?
At least this chapter will bring them one step closer, or will it? ;)
8 May [12 Hours Post-Eruption]
Erik fled at a frenzied clip until he reached the corridor containing his cabin, slowing only when positive he hadn't been followed. He stopped a short distance away from his door, not yet ready to hole up like a hermit in the bowels of the steamer and started to pace. Pacing had helped him collect himself since he was a boy - sometimes the servants could be overheard saying that the young master was less a child and more a grandfather with the way he paced and brooded - today the familiar ritual did nothing to calm him. In an opposite turn he grew more enraged and letting go a feral growl punched the metal hull. The impact, keen and intense, provided sweet release; the sole release he'd achieve in the foreseeable future.
Again. Again. And, again his fist collided with the unyielding surface bringing him no wave of satisfaction quite so heady as the first. Then, the pain set in; the agonized, throbbing received from him no more reaction than a grimace, curse, and curl of lip.
Physical pain was an old acquaintance, their relationship kindled within the exotic reaches of Persia. Erik gave the afflicted hand a detached appraisal: the knuckles were torn and bled freely, a bruise blossomed jauntily over two of them both of which were already thick with swelling. He put each finger through an excruciating course of movement and found nothing markedly amiss. There were no obvious fractures but days of tenderness were to be expected. This knowledge was of little significance to him, he'd been dealt much worse than smarting digits in the past. Suffering he could endure, what he could not presently abide was company and when he heard the approach of the latter he was tempted to loose a second assault upon the steel even at the risk of shattering every bone in his hand.
"What's all this noise? Did you find a loose rivet? I know you English don't consider we Boers civilized but at least we use a hammer." The fact that it was Andries didn't make the presence any more agreeable but possibly saved his unwelcome guest from a broken jaw or worse.
"It is nothing to trouble yourself over." Erik said in warning.
"Like hell it isn't, it's my ship you're mistreating!"
"There's no damage done, Andries," he sneered, "stop carrying on like a bloody woman."
"It's the principle of—"
"Fuck your principles."
"What in God's name has you in such a way, Erik?"
"That, is not your concern." Every syllable was a plain threat, a quiver of a rattlesnake's tail.
"Has the girl said something? Have you two argued?" At this Erik snapped round his eyes alight with a conflagration to rival that of Peleé while the captain's shone with grim recognition bordering on sympathy. Damn it all! Why was pity determined to act as his constant companion?
"I know that look..." Andries murmured.
"Then you will know to let me alone!" Erik spat viciously, slamming the door behind him.
He wanted greatly to destroy something, to reduce the space to uninhabitable rubble. His thoughts were measured out in eviscerated books, smashed glass, hemorrhaging pillows and pulverized wood. It was contemptible enough that he was jealous but to have another of his sex notice and comment upon his vulnerability was humiliating.
Contrary to what might be believed of a man classified by most as aloof and unfeeling, he was intensely emotional. That was precisely why he learnt the necessity of restraint at an early age. Dangerous things, feelings, as unpredictable as wild beasts. Few forces could make or break a man quicker than a fit of passion, this he knew all too well. Temper was the one emotional vice he wrestled to control, all other ludicrous or soppy sentiments - he was proud to say - were quashed then culled. And, he had been successful in doing this—so very bloody successful—then came her.
It was an easy system to maintain: dalliances over devotion. For him the concept of jealousy never existed, Erik was indifferent when those he bedded sauntered into the arms of some other fellow. He didn't begrudge them this, perchance a different chap could provide for what he lacked in sentimentality. But then came her...
She was as of yet untried, it was patently apparent. No, she was as pure and innocent as the Virgin Mother herself. The boy hadn't touched her nor made any intentions known, therefore Erik's envy wasn't borne of a legitimate cause. However, envy was at its core irrational, an incredibly human flaw, and it elicited a black rage that Christine should even dream of another. Better that she be entirely sexless than yearn for someone else, this aberrant part of him growled. It was infuriating that he cared and cared so much. And at the crux of it all he was completely to blame.
That boy, that fucking boy!
...Raoul.
What a soft, pretty name, a woman's name! Given what he recollected of her golden-haired dupe it suited. He cringed to think of the buffoon, the desire put further abuse to his poor fist suddenly overwhelming. From the first the boy had irritated him, ever in the way, continually ruining his plans. Well, precious little had changed! True, the fop wasn't here - if he were the ship's hull would have caught a reprieve - but he was still in her heart and mind occupying the place Erik himself sought.
Always he'd be relegated to second-best in her affections and Erik Grey despised defeat, especially by one whom he regarded as inferior. It wasn't that he wanted her for himself (he didn't), it was more so his competitive spirit. That boy was no more substantial than a painted China doll. What had he done for her other than bask in her radiance, trailing after her like a trained monkey? Tasked with her welfare the imbecile had delivered her right into the lap of the curs hunting her. Some guardian the boy made drunkenly allowing her to traipse off into the night, he couldn't be a more dismal failure than if he had chained her naked to a rock in the town square. While he had not only protected her, nearly laying down his own life in the process, but also looked after her every need and saved her how many additional times? He, the one with whom she'd been acquainted for less than two weeks, had done more for her than dear Raoul had in the span of fourteen years. But, alas, the position of Christine's regard was one of tenure not proficiency. The lackey had been by her side from the beginning and thus had guaranteed status regardless of his gross ineptitude.
What could Erik, a man she had just met and—honestly—just begun to tolerate (though after his outburst that point was debatable), ever be to a boy she'd known since childhood? How he longed to be that boy, to have known Christine as she grew from headstrong girl to stalwart woman! His wish wasn't rooted in reasons romantic (he was eleven years her senior, after all) but in the reluctant fondness he'd developed for her over the last fortnight.
In his mind's eye he could see her: scaled-down and in a freshly starched dress, the same defiant jut to her chin that was both aggravating and endearing. He could picture her ducking away and running off onto the grounds whilst a frazzled governess yelled after her; she'd tear at those dainty plaits, which had likely taken the aforementioned woman an inordinate amount of time to complete, with untamed little fingers. Determination flaming in those large, dark eyes she'd clamber up a tree scuffing her polished shoes, putting runs in her stockings, ripping her mud-flecked skirts, and throw her head back and laugh letting her riotous curls catch the breeze. When the sun grew low the fae-child would emerge from her wilderness kingdom not sulking but walking bold, her father would be waiting with arms crossed and stern look, she'd run to him beaming, light dancing in her irises, chubby face smudged with dirt, twigs in her hair. She would look an absolute fright, like some formerly civilized thing reclaimed by nature, and his ire would melt away an indulgent grin replacing it. His grievance forgotten he'd welcome her jovially back into the fold with wide embrace. Within her hand she'd clutch some stone or leaf and eagerly regale him with its origin, citing Whitman, Wordsworth, Shelley, or Keats to his heart's delight and he'd say, 'That's my Christine!' and be proud to have such a daughter.
Yes, Christine would have been every bit as strong-willed and outspoken in girlhood, a bane to every governess who tried to subdue her fractious nature. The image brought a smile to his lips, those exact traits he once detested—in Christopher then Christine—were growing on him. That boy, that idiot, was too dull and cultivated to appreciate them, to understand the uninhibited, passionate creature that lived inside her. She was squandered on him like shillings on a drunk yet Raoul would eternally hold his unmerited spot as first. Well, not the first in everything... Here, Erik's grin darkened as he relived their kiss, that much would be his and his alone along with so much more if he had his way.
Disturbed, he gave his head a robust shake. He should cease immediately, cease and dispense with such thoughts - nay, flights of fancy. They were the embodiment of trouble, good for only disgrace and would ensure his downfall were he incautious. He should be ashamed to have had them at all! If not for whatever witchcraft had aroused his emotions, this newly-hatched parasite with no name draining him from within, there would be no dreams, fantasies, or yearning and he wouldn't be in uncharted waters but instead fortified in heart and head as he had been prior to the wretch entering his life.
Christ, he loathed these arcane feelings, loathed the visions they provoked, loathed the absurdity with which they forced him to act! It was the most despicable torture and worse still was exacerbated with each day, coiling tighter about him like a great constricting serpent. Fighting, it seemed, was useless. However Erik was obstinate, even confronted with futility he wouldn't fold until the end was staring him dead in the eye. Only then would he suffer to admit what he was beginning to fear, that supposed impossibility, that other thing madder than jealousy and deeper than infatuation.
o o o
For Christine the solitude was no more conducive to relaxation. In the aftermath of Erik's shocking flight she vacillated from stupefaction to confusion to enmity, all in rapid-fire succession. A barrage of questions came every bit as speedily: Why would he ever assume Raoul was her lover? What had possessed him to say such horrid, crude things? Why had he reacted thusly? Was he—could he be, jealous? She dismissed the final one for the tosh it was. Jealousy necessitated a deep want and while there might be an inkling of physical attraction he most assuredly harbored no feelings for her apart from superficial desire. Ridiculous is what it was, he hardly tolerated her!
But, a voice in her head argued, what about the kiss?
Ah, yes, the kiss. Surely that had to have meant something. After all he wasn't keen on physical contact—it was one of the first things she'd learnt about him, the lesson not an easy one—so his actions must have had motive. True, it could be explained away as a manifestation of his desire, yet the way he'd looked at her as he leaned in... maybe she was still reeling from her ordeal, but Christine could have sworn she glimpsed some deeper emotion. Or, more likely, it was imagined. They had almost died, was there any greater catalyst for daring behavior than cheating Death? This phenomenon could be observed in soldiers coming home from war: overjoyed, and reckless because of this, they'd brazenly kiss strangers lining the streets. The explanation was straightforward: relieved and drunk off invulnerability Erik had kissed her, mystery solved, there wasn't anything more to it. She was surprised to feel a pang of disappointment in the revelation, and, shaking it off she returned to the puzzle at hand.
So, what then had prompted his outburst?
Each possibility was as obscure as its predecessor, perhaps something else had vexed him and he was snappish; perhaps he had tired of her emotional upset; perhaps fatigue had rendered him irritable - all were equally plausible. After a while the guesses stopped and only indignation remained, the kind that induced maddening, teeth-grinding frustration. From this muddle resentment sprang, resentment at his inscrutability, at her circumstances, at the tension between them, at being caged in this floating hell of steam and steel, unable to scream.
Some amount of time bled by. There was no clock to determine how much or the lateness of the hour and for the entirety she fumed and fumed and fumed some more. She punched pillows, kicked the mattress, held her breath, yanked at her hair, wrung the quilt until her hands burned, violently rifled through the pages of her book, and at the end of it all bemoaned her loneliness. Eventually she noticed that he'd left his beloved Hugo on the arm of his chair and directed her fury towards it for a split second; she should read whatever annotations he'd scribbled in the margins, read them and rip the book to shreds. That would show him! Although this proved empty bluster, she could never needlessly destroy a book, not even one belonging to Mephistopheles. Then, later, she seriously contemplated shying it at his head when he popped in to deposit a plate of food by the door but instead pointedly chose to ignore him.
At first her high dudgeon was too sustaining to yield to hunger's pull. She resolved not to take a single bite - in her frayed mind eating was equivalent to capitulating - and give him the satisfaction of her dependency. It didn't matter that he had long-since left and couldn't see if she touched the food. He would know somehow, he always did, and Erik would get no such satisfaction from her! Christine glared murderously at the dinner in question and considered throwing it at the hull with every ounce of strength she had. There was abundant appeal in this daydream, in hearing the fatal crash of the plate and watching it splinter, in seeing the ruined fare slide down the metal, adding color to the bland grey steel. The image ignited some savage thing within her and she saw the world around her in degrees of devastation: here was an overturned table, there was a pillow bleeding feathers, in the corner was a cracked looking glass, the chair beside the bed—the one he had claimed—sported a mortal gash. Half-mad with ferocious anger she spotted the knife he had gifted her atop a dresser and withdrew it from the sheath. She drew the weapon back and forth through the air to get a feel for it, temporarily mesmerized by the lantern's flame glinting off the blade.
Concentrating upon her hapless victim she lunged towards the chair and stumbled barely grasping onto the bedpost in time to steady herself. Christine's head was whirling, a wave of dizziness nearly drowning her, she felt frail, on the verge of collapse. The knife clattered as it met with the floor, it was enough to bring her back into her right mind. Logic identified hunger as the culprit. Apparently temper was not so nourishing as previously believed and, like a wild creature recently domesticated she took a few cautious bites before wolfing down the remainder.
Countless additional minutes trickled on and she tried not to let the suffocating disarray close in around her. Christine never cared for vagueness, she liked knowing the hour—whether by timepiece or celestial movement—not this stretching, timeless oblivion. This place made her feel trapped and lonesome, it reminded her of that stifling cave. Her one available solace was Gaskell's sooty Northern manufacturing town.
In Lennox's case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for different reasons. In Mr Thornton's case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse had been one continued series of opposition. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging to her, the individual. As far as they defied his rock-like power of character, his passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off from him with contempt, until she felt the weariness of the exertion of making useless protests; and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate way, to make known his love. For, although at first it had struck her, that his offer was forced and goaded out of him by sharp compassion for the exposure she had made of herself,—which he, like others, might misunderstand—yet, even before he left the room,—and certainly not five minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would love her. And she shrank and shuddered as under the fascination of some great power, repugnant to her whole previous life. She crept away, and hid from his idea. But it was of no use. To parody a line out of Fairfax's Tasso—
'His strong idea wandered through her thought.'
On the cusp of slumber Christine's thoughts did wander, to him, to the home she left behind, to those days spent traversing the island of Martinique, to how much she had changed in the space of a week and a half, and back to him. She thought of herself in Margaret's place, mused over what she'd have done if two gentlemen in her acquaintance had gotten it into their heads to make her an offer. The scenario didn't naturally lend itself to her imagination but, intrigued, she forced it. Would Raoul defiantly promise to continue loving her in spite of her offended rejection? Would Erik play on her sympathies whilst apologizing for his impertinence in the hope she might renege and accept him?
No, she had that wrong. Raoul was Lennox; Erik was Thornton. Christine thumbed backwards through the book until she found the page she sought, and, with the confidence of a physician making a diagnosis, read to herself:
Now, in Mr Thornton's face the straight brows fell low over the clear, deep-set earnest eyes, which, without being unpleasantly sharp, seemed intent enough to penetrate into the very heart and core of what he was looking at. The lines in the face were few but firm, as if they were carved in marble, and lay principally about the lips, which were slightly compressed over a set of teeth so faultless and beautiful as to give the effect of sudden sunlight when the rare bright smile, coming in an instant and shining out of the eyes, changed the whole look from the severe and resolved expression of a man ready to do and dare everything, to the keen honest enjoyment of the moment, which is seldom shown so fearlessly and instantaneously except by children.
Yes, he was assuredly Thornton. One day she'd tell him as much. Smiling at the uncanny likeness between the two, one fictional, the other very much a real person, she shut her eyes, and whimsically pondered what it might be like to be loved by a man such as he; fierce, passionate, all-consuming, frightening in its intensity, terrifying yet thrilling in a primitive sense— A massive yawn interrupted the progression of her reverie and she recognized sleep was not far off.
Unaware if it was eight o'clock or the wee hours after midnight she was forced to trust her body's rhythms. Christine closed the book and marked her page, afterwards scrubbing her teeth with her finger - the best she could do at present - and changing into her de facto nightgown of Erik's shirt; she rinsed her mouth one last time and crawled back into bed.
They came to her as she floated in that realm before sleep, the images of death and destruction, the same comprising her nightmares. Strange, with the airy pleasantness occupying her just moments ago. She tried to put them from mind, to think of anything and everything else but the grisly apparitions became more insistent, filling her head the instant she closed her eyes. Inescapable and unrelenting, they loitered, lying in wait for her to doze off so that they might plague her. Christine sat up and chewed her cheek, she'd get no rest tonight, not unless...
There was one solution, one balm for her endless dreams of fiery suffering, and armed with a lantern and steadying inhale she went in search of it.
Two fumbling passes later she located the door she was after, the steel notched and paint lightly chipped. Without pausing in doubt Christine knocked, fully cognizant of the potential consequences should she be incorrect, but she couldn't afford to think on them, not now. Still nervous, she held her breath as she awaited the reply that would either send her scurrying through or away. It was to be the second; relieved, she practically leapt into the room.
"Christine?" Her name was issued with the soft-spoken uncertainty one might use to address a spectre, as if questioning her veracity.
She gave a sheepish sort of half-shrug, half-smile of confirmation. He was unmoved, annoyed, even, sitting at his little writing desk scowling like a disgruntled prince.
"What in God's name are you doing here?!" His eyes went wide as he beheld her, his mouth slightly agape, "And dressed like..." Erik leapt up immediately and before she could comprehend that he'd moved at all there was a swish of dark fabric and a man's dressing gown lay draped about her shoulders - a dressing gown, where had that come from? He frowned, "Have you any idea what could have befallen you roaming the ship at midnight, knocking on doors? Idiot girl! Have you taken complete leave of your senses?!"
His harsh reprimand bit unusually deep; it caught her off-guard, bringing unsolicited tears to her eyes. Despite her wobbling lip and cloudy vision, she withheld from crying. She'd made a grave mistake in coming here, there was no comfort to be had, just conflict. Why had she presumed he'd be welcoming, that he would have forgotten?
"I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have bothered you." She had no sooner taken a step than Erik called out:
"Where are you going?"
"B-Back to my quarters." She heard him sigh; his tone was resigned, devoid of vitriol.
"You needn't—" Another sigh. "I didn't mean to frighten you, but it seems I have quite a gift for it."
"I'm not afraid. Just, I'd forgotten you might still be angry with me. I'll take my leave now, forgive my imposing." That she managed to keep her voice steady was a source of great pride and some of her confidence came fluttering back.
"NO!" he countered with more force than necessary, "No. I should—there's something I must... Earlier, I spoke out of turn,"
"Please," she interposed, "Don't. I didn't come for an apology." It wasn't the apology itself with which she found objection. No, she'd come here to escape, to wipe the slate clean, not to rehash their feud over the exact thing she avoided. Acknowledgment of any sort would do just that.
"Then, why have you come?"
Yes, why had she? Suddenly she was terribly unsure, his presence was flustering her, he was standing nearer than he had been seconds prior. When had the air become so thin?
"I—well, I c-cannot say... I-I should r-return." Christine backed towards the door.
"Wait," he said on a heavy exhale, "I'll escort you."
"T-Thank you." Was this what she intended? She no longer remembered her original purpose but nevertheless accepted his offer, repeatedly second-guessing doing so.
As she and Erik walked down the corridor they cultivated distance between them not words. She lagged behind, he forged ahead, and neither did anything to upset this fragile balance. The journey back was a quick one. It could not have taken more than a minute but space and silence lengthened even the most infinitesimal amount of time. And, although it seemed to protract until Christine could scream for lack of noise, there was not opportunity enough to think of what she might do or say next. When they reached her—or rather, the captain's—cabin Erik held the door open and, panicked, she partly shouted the first thing that came to her.
"Come in, won't you? You must! I cannot sleep with the nightmares, they're constant, you see. Being alone makes them worse, I can't be alone." Her frantic speech was reflected in her eyes, round with desperation, imploring as if she was bargaining for something dearly important.
"I shall sit with you, then, if you believe it will help."
The part of her which had on occasion arisen, the one eager to embrace him, surged to the fore. Go to him, seek the safety of his arms, it goaded. She didn't heed it, though she continued to look up at him slavishly, communicating her gratitude without words. He gazed back equally restrained, his bearing rigid; at his sides his hands flexed. To the outside observer the thrumming tension between the two was palpable, but was to each of them confusing and uncomfortable. Like the most naïve of children neither quite conceived how to act on these novel impulses. Erik was the more experienced of the pair; he could comprehend - to his evolving horror - what it meant, whereas Christine was oblivious and dazzled. Consequently it was he who shattered the lull.
"We should go inside, unless you'd prefer to spend the night in the hall." A vibrant blush lit her face.
"Y-Yes, of course."
Once they were in the cabin Christine took the chance to study him; he sported fresh apparel and appeared to have since washed and shaved. Come to think, his attire wasn't just laundered but new, she was sure she'd never seen that shirt or those trousers; and the dressing gown still enshrouding her, that was definitely unfamiliar. Where had he gotten them? More importantly, were there any for her? The idea of exchanging her stained, sweat-soaked rags for clean clothes held considerable allure. She couldn't help but inquire.
"You've changed your clothing. Whose is this, the dressing gown?" An exquisitely fine garment of black and gold silk brocade with black velvet cuffs and collar, expensively tailored, it wasn't something he merely found; the elegant fabric was a divinely smooth caress against the bare skin of her legs.
"Mine."
"Y-Yours?" She gaped in shock, her ears burning with the cognizance that she was clad solely in garb belonging to him. "But, how?"
"Did you suppose I brought only my service uniform and a few shirts? Were that the case, what would you presume I'd wear in transit, tatters?" The questions were rhetorical and obvious now that he mentioned them. Christine wished she'd made that consideration for she would be stuck in tatters henceforth. "I left my trunk with Andries and took what I needed onto the island."
"I see." Christine extracted herself from his robe and handed it back before climbing into bed; were she vigilant she would have observed how his eyes flared at the sight. "Well, thank you."
"Yes." His reply was gruff, there was a strain in his voice. Peculiar, but she didn't give it much thought.
"What will you do?" she asked abruptly. When she had pressed him to stay she'd failed to take his needs into account, he was more deprived of sleep than was she; remorse over her selfishness flooded her. That he saw her as a burden was no surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"How will you sleep?"
"The chair will serve me fine should I get tired."
"What will you do in the meantime? Would you like your book? You left it here when... I didn't open it, don't fret." Erik simply stared at her, receiving the worn novel when it was extended to him. She flashed him a tiny smile settling herself into the mess of pillows and bedding. Several minutes elapsed with nary a movement or sound and figuring she was asleep, he opened the text that had been his constant companion for the past three years. Then, with a restless rustle, Christine flopped onto her back dramatically and turned to him.
"Can I ..." Her words were carefully selected and deliberately uttered, "May I hold your h-hand? Please, I need to know I'm not alone."
Slowly, gingerly, Erik raised his right hand and brought it to rest palm-up upon the edge of the mattress. There was an expectant sadness in the gesture, one echoing of anticipated last-minute rejection. He did not speak, did not point out the foolish nature of her request, he likely couldn't have spurred his tongue into action at any rate.
Stay, please, promise you'll stay.
Christine's final entreaty resounded in the enclosed space, hardly a whisper but somehow a thunderous pounding in his ears. He would stay, this time he knew he must, there was nothing for it, no debate. In that moment of susceptibility and worry laid bare Erik could not refuse her, for all his coldness, for all the inconvenience she brought, she was just an artless young girl, a wandering child, lost and helpless; he would have crooned and recited nursery rhymes had that been her desire. His compassion wasn't new nor was it indicative of any change within him—he had felt much the same when she'd injured her hand those many nights ago—he'd always harbored a tenderness for broken, downtrodden things; there were no ulterior motivations, he would extend the same humanity to anyone else in her position. This blatant lie offered short-lived appeasement, at least. These so-called pretexts were becoming harder to justify.
He watched her as she drifted off cleaving to his hand like a lifeline amidst a tempest, a hint of a smile on her face. Indeed she looked carefree, so light and at ease, so content. A bubble of pride rose in his chest that he was responsible for her security and happiness. For a brief second he too felt unburdened, lighthearted; then rationality intervened, it wasn't he who had provided her consolation but instead what he represented. Outside of her tyrannical guardian he was nothing to her. Queerly, this realization galled him. He frowned, uncertain what to make of these thoughts; and, discreet so as not to disturb Christine, re-opened his copy of, L'Homme qui rit on his knee, slipping a fountain pen from his pocket. The task was a clumsy affair to manage one-handed and made all the worse by his injury - as, unwilling to explain the state of his mangled appendage, Erik had given her his unscathed right hand.
With a good deal of bungling he flipped to a page with blank margins and could have laughed.
Part Two, Book the Second, the one dedicated to the lovers, Gwynplaine and Dea, more specifically he'd turned to the fourth chapter, 'Les Amoreux Assortis'. What were the odds? Erik was not a God-fearing man by any stretch but sometimes even the skeptic was obliged to open his mind, sometimes coincidence was too pure not to be orchestrated. Funny, that. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled when his brain registered where his eyes happened to fall and he almost flung the book away, convinced it was possessed.
Ce visage était épouvantable, si épouvantable qu'il amusait. Il faisait tant peur qu'il faisait rire. Il était infernalement bouffon. C'était le naufrage de la figure humaine dans un mascaron bestial. Jamais on n'avait vu plus totale éclipse de l'homme sur le visage humain, jamais parodie n'avait été plus complète, jamais ébauche plus affreuse n'avait rican dans un cauchemar, jamais tout ce qui peut repousser une femme n'avait été plus hideusement amalgamé dans un homme; l'infortun coeur, masqué et calomnié par cette face, semblait à jamais condamné à la solitude sous ce visage comme sous un couvercle de tombe. Eh bien, non! où s'était épuisée la méchanceté inconnue, la bonté invisible à son tour se dépensait. Dans ce pauvre déchu, tout à coup relevé, à côté de tout ce qui repousse elle mettait ce qui attire, dans l'écueil elle mettait l'aimant, elle faisait accourir à tire d'aile vers cet abandonné une âme, elle chargeait la colombe de consoler le foudroyé, et elle faisait adorer la difformité par la beaulé.
This face was frightful, so frightful that it was absurd. It caused as much fear as laughter. It was a hell-concocted absurdity. It was the shipwreck of a human face into the mask of an animal. Never had been seen so total an eclipse of humanity in a human face; never parody more complete; never had apparition more frightful grinned in nightmare; never had everything repulsive to woman been more hideously amalgamated in a man. The unfortunate heart, masked and calumniated by the face, seemed forever condemned to solitude under it, as under a tombstone. Yet no! Where unknown malice had done its worst, invisible goodness had lent its aid. In the poor fallen one, suddenly raised up, by the side of the repulsive, it had placed the attractive; on the barren shoal it had set the loadstone; it had caused a soul to fly with swift wings towards the deserted one; it had sent the dove to console the creature whom the thunderbolt had overwhelmed, and had made beauty adore deformity.
Pour que cela fût possible, il fallait que la belle ne vît pas le défiguré. Pour ce bonheur, il fallait ce malheur.
For this to be possible it was necessary that beauty should not see the disfigurement. For this good fortune, misfortune was required.
Erik stopped there and closed his eyes; reading the next sentence was unnecessary, he knew it by memory.
Providence had made Dea blind.
...but Christine was not, she could see and had seen.
She had seen the monster in its true form, seen the frightful face, the hell-concocted shipwreck beneath the mask, not of a true animal but of its human equivalent, the mask of a criminal, a murderer. His was the look of a brigand inspiring wary distrust in most; this served him nicely both in his line of work and in repelling the majority of the populace. Oh, how delicious the terror in their eyes was! The sight of them hurrying off or shrinking away amused him endlessly. Yet Hugo's words held more truth than comfort permitted. Was being a reprobate really a badge of honor? He then wondered what it might be like to be whole and unmarred. How would it feel to be a man as any other, to have a father's respect and an unblemished soul, to win a woman's affection? Christine may not have been christened for the Divine as was Dea but to Erik she similarly symbolized the world on high. In they two the universe was complete in its three orders—human, animal, and Divine—with Erik representing both the animal and human, his face half-man, half-beast. Like Gwynplaine he yearned for the redemption and deliverance she alone could give.
But, why?
Not for love, no, he could not love, it was fact. Once upon another time, perchance, but his heart hadn't beat in over a year. In the months following his brother's death it had grown black and calcified, never to stir again. He could not love. The worms would have his heart, that was to be his fate as sure as the sun would rise.
Erik was not Gwynplaine; Christine was not Dea. He did not love her, he was not falling in love with her. Love caused suffering, sorrow, and death, Hugo's star-crossed pair had learnt this tragical reality firsthand; he was shrewder than to let himself be likewise blinded again.
Monsters did not get a happy ending.
Gwynplaine should have known; Ursus should have better instilled this lesson in his charges. Christine still clutched his hand, her fingers now interwoven with his and the same blithe tilt to her mouth. Maybe beauty could adore deformity.
Certainly more impossible events had come to pass...
And, he discarded this delusion, exiling it to that rubbish pile containing the random, demented whims from which no man was immune.
He did not love her.
Where Gwynplaine's deformity was limited to the face, Erik was an abomination through and through, corrupted absolutely. His pen moved furiously over the page, the rasp of nib blending with her gentle breathing. He wasn't writing anything specific however he couldn't stop; his maimed hand throbbed in rebellion but he didn't stop. The scratching was requisite, the rhythm it produced compensation for the heart that didn't beat.
Sleeping, she resembled an angel; he had noted the same that first night when she was Christopher. Even if he were to want her he did not deserve her.
He could not love.
He was not in love with her.
HE DOES NOT LOVE HER, JEEZ! Give the man a break! A bleak end, I'll admit, but I can assure you all that next chapter's will be much sweeter.
A/N: Part of the reason I split this chapter from its predecessor was so I could include the ending in all its glory without needing to abridge it. When I first stumbled upon Victor Hugo's novel I knew it was perfect and conceived of a situation in which it could be used without seeming trite. Then it came to me as ideas randomly do and I'm very pleased with how it all turned out. For those of you who are curious it's actually a really good book and I highly recommend it as I do North and South.
*The 'being chained naked to a rock' is in reference to the Greek myth of Andromeda. I believe I already discussed that one in an earlier chapter.
*I already discussed North and South in the last chapter and wasn't planning on incorporating it into the story too much; it was intended as more of a 'mention in passing' deal but while looking back through it, I was like why not give Christine an amusing little anecdote to capture her thoughts as they contrast to Erik's?
*L'Homme qui rit or The Man Who Laughs is a novel set in 17th century England chronicling the tale of a man called, Gwynplaine, who's been horribly disfigured so that it looks like he's always laughing. The story starts with him, aged 10, being abandoned by a gang of bandits when they sail from England. He sets off into a snowstorm in search of civilization and on the way discovers a dead woman and her infant, who's still alive but barely. He wraps her in his coat and takes her with him not knowing what else to do. The two eventually stumble upon a caravan owned by Ursus, a performer, and his pet wolf, Homo. Ursus gives the children his food and decides to adopt them, naming the baby girl, Dea; it is revealed Dea is blind. Fifteen years later the gang is making their living at fairs throughout southern England, Gwynplaine's deformed face is the crux of their act. Dea, meanwhile, has grown into a beautiful young woman; she and Gwynplaine are in love. Later Gwynplaine comes into the service of the beautiful, spoiled Duchess Josiana, the bastard daughter of King James II, who is attracted to his grace and intrigued by his deformity. While off with the Duchess he learns the truth of his origin: he is actually Fermain the legitimate son of a Marquis - an enemy of King James II; upon his father's death Gwynplaine (Fermain) is abducted on the King's orders and sold to a band of criminals who mutilate children and exhibit them in carnivals. Dea is informed that Gwynplaine is dead and falls ill with grief. However, he is the opposite of dead and has been granted his rightful title and holdings, including a seat in the House of Lords, and slated to marry Josiana. Eventually he renounces his peerage and returns to his adoptive family, who are being deported. He reunites with them on their ship; Dea is overjoyed but the shock is too great for her system and she dies while Ursus faints. Heartbroken, Gwynplaine throws himself into the sea. And it ends with Ursus regaining consciousness and finding Homo howling at the sea. Heartwarming, right?