Julia38

It saddened me to think he wanted—or perhaps assumed he deserved—nothing more in life than doting on a woman who gave him only fleeting thoughts. Now that I had met her, I wasn't even certain I could say she had ever considered him.

He mumbled as he spoke, his eyes cast down, sorrow dripping from his words. He spoke of how Christine had loved and hated him, invited him in and pushed him away. Forgiveness on her part, he said, groveling for his.

There were few times he had brought me gifts, though I had never dragged him so ruthlessly by his heart. I had been the one to seek him out, to begin our relationship, as unconventional as it had been. I wondered if he found satisfaction in the one being praised and doted on rather than ridiculed and torn apart. For everything I knew of him, it seemed he had never been the one to be loved, the one wanted or needed—aside from what gifts he could offer.

"You made a nice benefactor," I commented.

He didn't seem surprised or angered by my words. Perhaps he had finally been given a different angle in which to see how the past had unraveled. He spoke of how she had abruptly refused to see him and a flash of anger gave his deep voice a razor sharp edge.

"She left me once the lessons no longer improved her voice," he admitted. His face darkened. "And once she knew for sure about Alex."

He had poured the very essence of himself into his love for her, though in truth I wondered if he did love her. He spoke of destruction, of days without sleeping and eating and how he had lost his ability to function.

Then he had been a different man, one seeking company over solitude. The Erik I had loved was never desperate for my company. He came to me as requested by candlelight and slipped easily through the kitchen, leaving his music for a few hours, then retreating back to his home. Though there were times when I caught him watching me through the window, I had always felt it was out of affection and curiosity, never obsession.

There was so much I wanted to ask him, but he spoke softly, so honestly that I couldn't interrupt him. I came to understand he was not speaking only to me, but to himself. In his eyes I saw remorse and horror and knew his recollection of the past made him keenly aware of who he had been. I could tell he wanted nothing to do with the man he had been, and nor did I. Too much of the past had risen up like smoke, gathered between us with as much substance as choking fumes.

He told me of his opera, which I had remembered reading in the paper. My uncle had not attended the performance and I could only imagine what he would have thought of such a lusty story on the stage, not to mention what had happened in the theater itself.

"I hoped Christine would at least pity me or allow me to die in her arms," he said under his breath with more sincerity than I cared to hear. "I couldn't even get a death wish to go as I had wanted. Not even hell would have me at that point."

I don't think he realized how much hell he had been through.

"Yet you still loved her," I said.

I waited silently for him to tell me he still did love her, that no matter what she did to him, there would always be a place for her in his heart. More than anger, I felt a surge of sadness and remorse for him, wondered what he had endured that made him continue to return to someone who hurt him time and again.

I knew very well what it was like to be the victim, to see no possible chance of escape. I had smiled through many horrors, had swallowed my tears and bravely looked on when I felt hollow inside. Sometimes the worst trap keeping me pinned to Louis was my own insecurities. There could have been an escape, but I was too afraid to leave. Looking at Erik, I knew he'd been too afraid to walk away, to leave what he thought he knew.

"I want to prove I am more than a monster to her," he said. "I want to be more than a beast who heard a voice. That's what I want."

"What you want?" I questioned.

He licked his lips. "What I wanted for many years," he said. "Now…" He looked past me and I glanced over my shoulder to see what had caught his attention. He stared at himself in the mirror, hopelessness consuming his gaze. "Now I want to be an ordinary man."

I looked at the drawer where he'd abandoned his note from the soprano and frowned. He had done much in his past, many shameful tricks and ploys to gain affection. He knew he had been foolish, though I doubted he understood he was no better now than he'd been ten years ago. I wondered what would have happened if Comte de Chagny had gotten hold of him much earlier, if he would have killed Erik years ago. In a way, I was almost certain this would somehow save Erik, if he could be redeemed. There was no further he could fall, though he had certainly tried to dig himself a deeper hole.

"Will you tell Alex?" I asked, nodding toward the drawer.

"No." He answered faster than I had anticipated.

"He may have heard her come to the door."

Of course he had heard her come to the door and I had no doubt he had listened to every word. If nothing else, Erik had taught him the art of being silent as a cat.

"I have no doubt he heard her," he said, sound almost proud of him for his actions. I should have guessed he'd appreciate Alex's stealth. "But I don't give a damn if he heard her. This he will not know, this he will not suffer."

"But if his father—"

"I am his father," he said, his voice low and stern. His eyes widened, his jaw set. He reached for the note and showed it to me as if there would be concrete proof of his paternity. "I know I am his father."

Other than a surly streak, they shared little else in common. Alex had a temper that matched his father's, though I assumed that was a learned behavior as he was also witty and charming just like Charles, and he would dramatically protest much like Lisette. He was a wonderful imitator of his surroundings, a parrot for his father and his tutor. He was very bright and vibrant, a product of the people who had raised him.

He didn't play an instrument as far as I knew, which Erik passed off as his son's impatience. Music had not yet found him, he would say, though as the son of a composer and a soprano, I had no idea how talent didn't ooze from his very soul, unless it was not fully encompassed in his parents' talent. The Comte was not a man of musical talent either.

Erik's proof of claiming the right of fatherhood furrowed my brow, his evidence little more than a smudge on the back of the letter—a faked bruise to draw him out.

"Why would she bother?" I asked.

"She knows how I despise men beating women," he answered.

He looked me in the eye when he spoke and I felt myself inwardly shudder at his words. For a moment my own past crept into my thoughts and I studied him, wondering how such gentleness could exist in the midst of turbulence. He was as vast as an ocean; both calm waters and tumultuous waves.

"I taught her many things," he said, rambling on as he voiced his thoughts. "Most were just sideshow attractions but they amused her, just as they would a Persian Princess or Sultan."

"I beg your pardon?"

He paused abruptly and stared at me with his lips parted. "I—I said nothing," he stammered. "Just…thoughts."

I had caught him in a lie and he knew it, but now was not the time for elaboration. I had heard him whisper Sultana several times over the years, almost always in a panic-stricken voice. The first time I expected it was a dream about a lover, but the way he woke with a start, jolted out of a nightmare, I wasn't sure I wanted to know what or who plagued his dreams. Each time he woke and said that name, he reached for his throat.

Wisely I chose to change the subject.

"Erik," I said as I handed him the note. "Do you think Alex looks like the Comte?"

He shook his head at once, which I expected. Though I hadn't seen much of the man, I didn't think Alex resembled either de Chagny or Erik. For what it was worth, he favored his birth mother. I knew Erik realized this and wondered if as much as he adored his son, he also saw Christine each time he looked at him. I thanked God Lissy and I shared the same traits.

I wanted nothing more than Alex to be his son. The thought of losing this child would kill him, destroy him in the way Christine had almost succeeded in doing all of these years whether she knew it or not. Alex was everything to him, even when he failed to show it.

"Please understand, I want nothing more than for Alex to belong to you," I said. "But how will you know, how will she know that he is your blood?"

"He's more than my blood. He is my life." He stared back at me, his eyes filled with desperation, but unwavering passion. "There is nothing that concerns me past that."

His words made me shiver as I looked back at him, knowing he had accepted Alex without a second thought. Even if he did see a trace of another man in his son's face or actions, he would never think twice of it. He had made Alex his son in every sense of the word and nothing would keep him from loving him—not even his birth mother. I dared not think what would happen if anyone attempted to take Alex from him. I knew Erik would die first before Alex was taken from him and it frightened me to think he didn't care. His life meant nothing without this child.

Before I could say a word, a dog howled and I saw his dismal, sullen visage immediately light up. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth and I pursed my lips at his display. Naturally he showed little joy in my company—after all I had done little for him—but the dog he said he supposedly didn't care for immediately changed his disposition. Perhaps I would have won him over if I had licked his face.

"Madeline," Erik said under his breath. He feigned excitement in seeing Madame Giry though I knew he really wanted to see his dog. He managed to find his strength and balance and hobbled his way to the window to look out. Instinct took over and he shielded his face with his hand as he peered out.

A soft groan left his lips and I knew he was still in a great deal of pain, but he had pushed it aside on behalf of a loved one. Secretly I wondered how many times in his life he had done this, how many moments he had sacrificed his own well-being for someone else. I knew already he was not a man that enjoyed or sought much comfort as agony had seemingly plagued him.

"I'll see Madame inside," I said. "But the dog…I don't want muddy footprints everywhere and you need to keep the wounds sanitary."

He didn't seem to notice my words and nodded readily, offering me a glance over his shoulder. Nothing I said mattered when it came to the long-eared dog still howling as she approached the house. He would devise a plan and spirit her into the house, no matter my protest.

I started to leave but paused and looked him over one last time, glad for the change in his disposition. It had been far too long since I'd seen him genuinely excited for something in his life, other than Christine—and she was not in his life."

Oh, and Erik, if you're planning on staying here much longer, at least attempt to limp."

I heard him grunt before I closed the door and knew not only had I caught him, but that for once he wasn't about to argue.