TWO WEEKS LATER
Christine really could not comprehend how Erik could stand it.
She watched him, silently disturbed, her masked companion held a would-be thief against the wall of a building, his noose pulled taut around the stranger's throat. When Erik let him drop to the ground, dead, he sighed through his nose and flexed his obviously sore hand.
"He won't do that again."
He sounded so tired.
"Erik..."
Stepping up in front of her, he looked down at her with those horribly loyal eyes. "What is it?"
Christine looked away from him, at the ground. "How much money do you have left?"
"Enough," he replied, without even checking his pockets. "What is it you want?"
She touched that fabric of her dirty, worn dress, and thought about all of the dust and soil that must be in her hair. They had been traveling for ages and neither of them had had a chance to wash properly.
"I would like to find a place to stay so we can wash. We're both filthy. I feel like a beggar. Please...I'm very tired."
He stared at her, then slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a small satchel, dipping his fingers into it and silently counting money. He emitted a barely audible sigh, then nodded to Christine and motioned for her to follow him. She could barely contain a relieved smile as she walked closely behind him in the darkened alley.
Somehow, Erik managed to navigate his way through the blackness and find a man who had rooms available. The way the man at the desk looked at Christine made her shudder, but she knew that as long she was near Erik no one could hurt her. Erik could kill faster than she could think.
After listening to him speak a few words and exchange money with the man at the desk, she followed him closely up a rickety flight of wooden stairs and into a completely black room. Christine stood motionless for a moment while Erik found the lamp and lit it. The dim light cast his gigantic shadow onto the other wall, creating the illusion of a monster, something out of a storybook.
Erik had shed his cloak on the bed, and dragged a old, worn washtub out from beside the bed. He pulled it near the closet, then removed the sheet from the bed and began to tie it from a lamp on the wall to the coat-rack.
"I am afraid there is no hot water for you," he said, but Christine didn't mind; any bath at all, hot or cold, was a relief to her.
"Thank you for doing this," she told him as he stepped back.
As Christine disrobed awkwardly behind the sheet, Erik went to fetch water. He returned with a pitcher, which he carefully handed to her through a gap between the sheet and the wall. The water was ice cold, and Christine had to keep from shrieking as she poured the water over her head and body.
When she finally emerged, dressed in her chemise and her hair wet, she slipped on her little shoes and went to seat herself in a nearby chair. Erik was sitting on the bed, facing away from her, but she no longer minded if he saw her in this immodest state of dress. She was too exhausted to mind.
Her eyes rose to stop on Erik's back. He was breathing softly. He had done so much for her during these past days. Far too much, in fact. He was like machine vacant of human emotion, only existing to serve her and kill those who came too close. She also realized at this moment that she had never really spoken to him that often, nor asked him serious questions about himself.
"Erik," she said.
"Yes?" he replied without moving.
Christine slowly stood and sat next to him on the bed. He wouldn't look at her. She touched his shoulder, and felt his muscles, hard as stone. Was he even human anymore? Was he ever?
"Lay down, please," she said. Finally, he raised his eyes to her face. They frightened her. He looked like he had just crawled from the grave. Surprisingly, however, he obeyed her wish, and laid back on the bed, watching her.
She tentatively touched his forehead. He was ice cold. "Are you ill?" she said sharply.
"No. I am very tired," he answered in a deep sigh.
"Well, I'm not surprised. You've killed so many men, I would be worried if you were not tired." Her voice was a little more accusing than she had intended it to be.
"Killing does not tire me," he said, still looking at her eyes. "It is the worrying for your safety that exhausts me."
A frown wrinkled Christine's brow. "Do you really love me that much, Erik? Where is your emotion? Most of the time I feel as if a dead man is accompanying me. I am tired of dead men, Erik. Much too tired." She looked strongly at him.
"I don't know how to answer that," was all he said, and he sounded quite honest. "But you have changed, too."
She glanced down at her hand. Her nails were chipped. "How so?"
"You have grown cold. Like myself. When I saw you for the first time, you were warm and content."
"That is because I was happy then," she retorted quietly.
Erik actually smiled at this, but it was not a pleased smile. "Seeing death has hardened your heart. That is what it has done to mine."
Christine grumbled. "I am not like you, Erik, I've said it before. I'm not a killer, and I do show emotion. Now, sit up." He did so, and Christine shifted behind him. She firmly pressed her hands into his shoulders, rubbing the extremely tense and stony muscles. A few more squeezes, and she even got a relaxed groan from him.
"I am tired of being catered to by you. Now it's time for me to do something for you. A gift for you, I suppose."
"I don't need—" Erik started, but Christine's hand reached around to cover his mouth. Her other hand reached down and took his hand, feeling the rough calluses that were most likely a result from pulling a rope around many men's throats. She squeezed his hand hard, over and over until it felt warm, like a human hand instead the cold fingers of a corpse. She was a little taken aback when his fingers curled around her hand.
"I suppose you are alive, after all," she remarked, and Erik even laughed a little.
Erik eventually left the bed to go wash up himself, and Christine slumped onto the bed, tucking her legs up. She didn't understand why she had just touched Erik like that.
She'd actually enjoyed it a little.