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Argh, totally only have time to post, totally am in trouble, totally have to go, TOTALLY GRATEFUL FOR ALL OF YOUR REVIEWS!!!! Seriously, I am. The more I get the more I'm inspired to write and right now I really shouldn't have written a chapter as I still have one assignment to do, and...
Yeah.
Chapter Twenty-One.Even as he held Rosalie and wept, he felt awkward – though once she was in his arms he could not let go even if he wanted to. He had had rare physical contact with anyone for years. As a child his Mother had never held him and the gypsy's only example of touch was to abuse him. Over the years he had been beaten and the one person who had ever reached out to him was Antoinette. But as he grew older into a young adolescent it was as if she looked at him through a distance, as if he were a caged tiger she could not get close to. He could not blame her for her wariness; his temper would have alarmed a pillar of stone. He knew she had often wondered why she had saved the child prisoner in the gypsy camp, not that she had ever regretted it – her heart was too pure with compassion for that. But he had often seen that question in her eyes when he went off in a rage and finally when calm crashed over him, found her cowering in the corner of his lair. Was it sick that in some twisted way there was a part of him who had relished in that power? Not that he would have ever hurt her (even a hideous demon has a conscience), he owed his life to her and there was some type of deep bond that existed between them, but for once he had felt the benefits of having power over somebody. Somebody being on their guard around him and it wasn't because of his face. This had changed of course when he had disappeared for those years and returned. She would not have thought twice about hitting him with her cane if she had had a problem. But she still had that slight dread of him and his unpredictability, and for once he was weary of being feared. He had longed for the days when she used to hold him when he was very small.
He knew this whole new life was a lie, but it was insatiable. This girl had no clue who he really was. So when she held him there was no fear.
No fear.
After awhile he finally pushed her gently back down on the pillow, pulling away the tendrils of hair that had stuck to her damp cheeks. His heart wrenched for Christine still, but it was as if there was a salve on his inner wounds. A temporary salve he knew, but he had not had any relief from it until now. His whole body was relaxed and it was not until she was watching him carefully that he realised he had been stroking her hair fondly and he pulled away at once.
"Are you feeling better?" he asked her to break the silence.
She shook her head slightly, "I could lie, but I know you will just rant and I really don't feel I have the strength or will to listen,"
A smile twitched the corner of his mouth, and he nodded slightly.
He stood as there was a knock on the door and let a maid in. He took the tray and sat back down on the edge of the bed.
"Oh, I really do not wish to eat," she groaned but her eyes widened as she saw him remove the lid of the tray revealing two bowls. One was a bowl of watery soup, but the other –
"Ice-cream?" she said excitedly with surprise, "Where on earth did you get that from?"
"I have my ways," he answered intriguingly, "But you eat this soup and you may have it,"
"I have only ever had it once…In Paris when I was young…" she murmured, barely listening to him.
With his thumb he dabbed the vanilla flavoured dessert and sucked on it, "It melts quickly Mademoiselle," he warned, "And I do not want to waste it. So I fear if you do not have it, I will have to,"
He placed the tray on the table and picked up the soup bowl. She longingly looked at the bowl of ice-cream and sighed, "I do not think I am well enough to eat it,"
He looked at her musingly, "Possibly. But it is also probable that after you eat the soup you will gain a little more strength and appetite," he paused, "And if not, I am sure you would not dispute one or two spoonfuls,"
She said nothing, but finally nodded, and he filled a spoon with soup and held it out to her. She complained at the lack of flavour but persisted nonetheless. Finally she turned her head away after she had eaten three quarters of the soup, "Please. No more,"
He silently nodded, discarding the bowl onto the table.
"Do you think you can manage the dessert?" he asked.
She was panting slightly, holding her stomach, "I don't…I don't think so…" then she turned and slipped off the bed, staggering to go to the basin before she fell. He quickly rushed over to her, grabbing her and taking her over where she threw up, weeping like a child.
"Why did you make me eat?" she sobbed, and he found himself apologising over and over again.
He was stricken at how incapable he was of looking after somebody with a common illness. He had studied gypsy medicinal practices throughout his time spent with them, had learnt the secret of their herbs for all ailments! And yet here he was, pulling the hair out of a girl's face and wiping her mouth with a handkerchief, comforting her helplessly. She clung to him afterwards, trembling.
"I feel so ill…" she murmured.
"Do you think you will be sick again?" he asked gently, and she weakly shook her head.
He picked her up and took her back to her bed.
"I'm so hot," she gasped, feebly tugging the buttons on the back of her dress.
Erik stood at once. Oh no! He would clear away vomit, even comfort her, but he would not help her undress!
"Stop it!" he ordered, but she ignored him, weeping as she was unable to do that simple act.
"I will…I will get a maid to help you," he said alarmed, and he instantly relaxed when she assented to that.
He finally knelt down beside her, taking her hand, "Do you trust me?"
She turned her face to him confused, "What?" she slurred.
"Do you trust me?" he repeated the question, "I know of a remedy – a gypsy remedy (he quietly soothed her as she shook her head at that) which will make you better. But the problem is it tastes vile and after you drink it you will feel terrible for ten minutes. But after that you will feel fine, even better than before,"
She continued to shake her head, mumbling "Gypsies are wicked…Children of the devil,"
He laughed at that, murmuring, "You cannot blame Satan for human evil," but he spoke up, "I know what I am doing. I have used it myself a number of times over the years,"
He would be damned if he spent that night playing nursemaid to somebody who would regurgitate and whimper away. It was bad enough she was bemoaning the death of her fiancé.
"You have used it?" she finally asked quietly.
"Mmmm," he answered, ignoring the further questions he knew were on the tip of her tongue and was grateful she was too tired to probe him.
"Alright…" she mumbled, drifting off into sleep.
He murmured quietly that he would be back in a while after he procured the ingredients for the remedy, and he would have a maid come up to assist her in removing her dress.
He left the inn after asking a maid to do just that and wandered the streets as carefully as he could, so as not to be noticed. His mind was completely on the task when all thoughts of that flew from his mind as he noticed a carriage drive past with a particular crest emblazoned on the side.
A young man stepped out of the carriage as it parked outside a tavern, and he instantly recognised him as Ansel Dumas, the youngest child of one of the wealthiest families in Paris. He waited for a figure to step out behind him; another young man who Erik assumed was his older brother. He had heard rumours of the older one's philandering from when he used to listen to the ballerinas talk. He was one of the most infamous playboys. Erik tilted his head however when the older one murmured something comfortingly to the younger one. He patted his shoulder and gestured for him to enter the tavern. The younger one shrugged and mumbled something, and the older nodded. They departed ways, the older one stepping into the tavern and Ansel digging his hands into his coat pockets and trudging down the street, his head bowed and completely lost in his own thoughts, his dark curls ruffling in the wind. He stopped outside a shop window, gazing in at infant wear of all things and folded his arms broodingly.
He turned away sharply, an even deeper frown on his features, and his eyes looked troubled as he walked past Erik without a second glance, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag, his hand visibly trembled.
Erik waited for a few minutes, completely forgetting his task at hand and began to follow Meg Giry's husband from a short distance.