A/N: m-oquinn- Pride and Prejudice will always be my favorite, because Elizabeth Bennet was such a lovable heroine. I enjoyed Persuasion, and liked Anne, but found Wentworth annoying. I thought Northanger Abbey was hilarious, and liked that it was less serious than Austen's other books. I also loved Sense and Sensibility, because I can relate to being an older sister, but didn't like Emma very much. And Mansfield Park was ok, but not one of her best. I hate reading the unfinished ones, because I get so into them, and then have to stop because there is nothing left to read.
Well, that was entirely unrelated to anything, but I am an Austen fanatic. For that reason, I will never much like the Bronte sisters, because they looked down on Austen as a writer of cheap, meaningless novels. Very prissy and judgmental of them, I thought. They were just jealous cuz she could tell a more amusing story. Also, I think it is a little immature to walk around criticizing your contemporaries' work. Talk about lack of class. Austen was just trying to tell a good story, no need to get all superior because her stories supposedly aren't as meaningful.
Enough of me blathering, on to my story. Hope you enjoy this chapter, because I enjoyed writing it. Please review, and tell me what you think!
"You gentlemen all know why you're here? No questions?" Leon stalked back and forth in front of the gathered ruffians, sizing them up for intelligence and brutality. Choosing the proper mix of lackeys was the most undeniably important part of the job. You couldn't get men who were too stupid, or they would bungle everything. Likewise, too much intelligence could lead to mutiny or a demand for more pay. They had to be vicious, but controllable; dumb, but not incompetent. "You! What did you say your name was?"
A man with a dark scruffy looking face came forward. "Roger, sir."
He looked strong and dull. He would do nicely. "Go stand on that side." Roger complied, and Leon scanned the crowd once more. He passed over a few who looked too weasel-like to be trusted, and his eyes landed an enormous shaggy blond. "You, the tall one! Name?"
"Johannes." His accent was thick, and he spoke slowly, with the unaccustomed tongue of a foreigner.
"Where are you from, my good man?"
"Belgium, sir."
"Go stand with Roger."
The next man he dismissed as having the look of an idiot, and the next was too small. Finally, he settled on a third, a wiry tall man with hard eyes and a swagger to his step, named Marc. Three was a good number, he thought, and Henri will make four. More than that might be hard to control, and for catching two people, four ought to be quite sufficient. Especially considering that his fiancee was nothing more than a bastard child with the pampered air of an aristocrat.
"The rest of you may go."
Once the rest of the foul-smelling group had trickled out, he turned to his new band of muscle. "As you know, I am hunting a man who has stolen some property of mine; my wife-to-be. They are both hiding under the old Opera House, and I have recently obtained information on their exact whereabouts. We are going to leave at first light, and find them, wherever they have hidden themselves away. Once we find them, I want you to tie them both up, gag them, and wait for me. I, obviously, will stay well behind the fight until they are secure. Noble blood, you see, not fit for bar fight style brawling."
"I thought you hired us to kill them?" Marc interjected, looking delightfully blood-thirsty.
"No, I hired you to help me kill them. You can watch, of course, but I must be the one to take their lives. It isn't any fun if I only get to watch, is it? Now, any questions? Good. I want you all back here by four tomorrow morning, when we begin our little witch hunt."
I awoke the next morning with an odd heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, not knowing why I felt so sad. Then I remembered; I was leaving this morning. I was going to Marseille, where I would be safe and free. And I would never see Erik again.
With a heavy heart, I gathered my meager belongings, got dressed and tucked my gun and my knife into my belt, so that they were hidden by my blouse. For the last time, I pushed aside the curtain and walked down the steps to where Erik stood looking at his organ. He turned towards me when I approached, his face entirely blank, as though entirely incapable of expression.
"Good morning, Remy." I was at a loss to see what exactly was good about this particular morning, and for that matter, how he knew it was morning at all, but I returned his greeting.
"I went to the station last night. The next train to Marseille leaves in about three hours. The station is about three miles from here, so, there is time to eat breakfast, if you like."
"I rather think it would be better if I left at once. I can walk to the station, and still have plenty of time."
"If you take a cab, then you can wait a while and still have plenty of time." Was it possible he actually wanted me to stay? If not, why was he so anxious for me to have breakfast with him?
"No, really, I would much rather walk. I am already accepting enough money for a train ticket, I hardly want any more of your charity."
"Very well then. You think it best to leave now?"
"I do. No point in delaying, is there?'
"No. Here is the money. It ought to be enough for a ticket, and anything else you might require." He pressed a small purse into my hand,
"Thank you. Not just for the money, you know. For everything."
"You're welcome." He took my hand in his, and pressed his lips to it softy, like a perfect gentleman. I felt tears threaten to spill down my face, and pulled my hand before he could affect me anymore.
"Goodbye, Erik." With that, I turned and walked away, not even waiting for his reply. It wasn't until I was through the mirrored room and into the burnt-out hallways that I allowed myself to cry, letting hot tears fall down my face as I stumbled out of the opera house and into the Paris streets, while the leaden gray sky cried tears of its own.
He had never minded silence before; he used to find darkness comforting. Now it seemed to weigh on him, crushing his soul. He sank down on the organ bench to stare at his instrument, hoping that it could cure his ills the way it always had, knowing that it wouldn't. He stretched his bandaged hands over the keys, ignoring the pain of his unhealed wounds as he pressed them lightly down, trying to draw sound from the organ, trying to fill the silence, and drown his memories of Remy.
But the only song he could think of to play was the one he had begun to write on her first night here, when he had tried to drown out the sound of her nightmares. Over the next week he had written music while she slept, music that reflected the fire in her eyes, and the gentle warmth of her touch. But his broken fingers would not set the music free; the noise from the organ sounded like a dying animal, not the beautiful piece he had written for her. He couldn't even stand to keep trying, couldn't bear the grating noise in his ears; accustomed as he was to quality, the fumbling of his own hands would drive him to distraction.
He could not break the silence; his music, his greatest ally, had abandoned him in his time of need, and he was entirely alone. Such was his life; long periods of loneliness punctuated by intervals of companionship that served only to increase his pain. His mind began to drag him backwards, back to the time Christine had left him, back to the hours he had spent hoping that she would return, that she would realize the depth of love he felt or her and return it. But she never did. And he was not a man to make the same mistake twice; he would not hope for Remy's return, because he could not bear to see his hopes dashed once again.
But then, what was he to do to fill the long solitary hours that awaited him? All the amusements he had once found so engaging; his books, his music, his artwork, seemed to lose meaning and grow dull, and the thought of pursuing any of them was distasteful to him now. Where had all the color and light gone? It seemed his life had shifted from vivid light to dull, dark, gray in the time it had taken Remy to walk away.
Damn her! What right had she to make him so weak, to destroy what little happiness he had left? He tried to blame her, tried to make his pain her fault, but the anger would not come. The anger and hatred that he had lived off for years had deserted him as well, leaving nothing but a dull ache that gnawed at his heart. He had nothing left to sustain him; there was nothing left to do but die.
Deep in his reverie, he did not hear the footsteps coming down the stairs, or the sound of four men wading through his lake towards the grate he no longer bothered to keep closed. And he did not hear the soft click of a pistol being cocked and pointed in his direction.
A/N: I am depressed because I need to go back to school tomorrow, so poist a review and cheer me up!
