Thanks for continuing to read my story!

Note: Review if you catch the small (super subtle) nod to Leroux's Erik in this chapter :)

Chapter 16

The Stars

I awoke with dawn's yellow sun beaming through the window.

Until now, my dreams had been feverish - chaotic and unfamiliar - or nonexistent entirely. Last night, however, I dreamed of peace. Soft orange and light blue hues, twinkling light, laughter, and kind eyes. My father's violin. Erik's voice. Reza's swinging legs. Happy, good things.

Though I felt well-rested, my eyes were heavy with the deep sleep I'd enjoyed. I lifted my hands to rub at my eyes, letting my fingers massage my eyelids as I yawned.

I gasped aloud.

My hands.

I held them in front of my face, making fists and flexing them, marveling at how I could move my arms at will. I smiled widely. I couldn't stop the squeal of delight, and the laughter that immediately followed.

I could move my hands!

I could draw!

My legs remained inaccessible, but I didn't entirely care.

The door opened and Mitra appeared, eyes wide. I brought myself - my own self! - to a sitting position and waved both of my hands in front of me, grinning with more fervor than I had since being taken from Paris. It took seconds for her to understand, and when she did, she smiled as well. She brought her hands to her mouth and spoke quickly, excitedly - I had no idea what she said, but I could see the joy in her eyes that reflected mine.

I remembered what I'd learned of her daughter and felt immediate kinship with her.

She hurried away, and came back minutes later with Nadir. He walked into the room already beaming.

"I hear you have use of your entire upper body now," he said, as Mitra assisted my moving backward to sit against the headboard. This was still difficult without my legs' help.

"Yes!" I giggled. It didn't matter to me that I sounded like a child given a shiny new toy. I was higher than the sun in the sky.

"This is excellent news, Mademoiselle Daae." Nadir's eyes shone behind his glasses. "Would you like to use your newfound arms to eat breakfast on your own, then?"

I nodded vigorously, nearly bouncing up and down in my ecstasy. "And paper. May I have paper? And a pen? Please?"

I wanted so badly to draw.

Nadir laughed and said, "Of course."

I made art the entire day.

I drew until my hands hurt - but I told my aching fingers to quiet their complaints, that I missed them and they would have to deal with the work I was putting them through. I took barely any rest between each drawing, only stopping periodically to reach out and feel the blanket, the side table, the oil lamp beside me - activities I never thought I'd need to take time to appreciate.

It was an incredible relief to eat, to rub at my own face when I needed, to have some sort of control over my surroundings. I felt power return to me. I felt no longer helpless.

Reza came to my room to spend time with me, excited that I could now hold his hand while we talked. He was, unfortunately, soon called away to be tutored in French - honestly, I felt that his French was better than some Parisians' use of the language, but this wasn't my place to say.

Nazneen arrived with my dinner, pleased that I could move. She stayed only until she was sure that I could eat as I had this morning, and then left me alone to do so. I quickly ate about half my meal, decided I was decently full, put the plate aside, and continued to draw.

And then, when night fell, my bedroom door opened once more.

Erik.

I looked up from my current drawing - a cat, that looked very much like Ayesha, sitting by a fireplace - to see him watching me wide-eyed in the doorway. He looked at my moving hands, at the dozens of drawings strewn about the bed. I gave him a joyful expression and waved. His lips lengthened into a genuine smile.

"Nadir did say that you regained the use of your hands," he said. "Does this mean you'll be no longer interested in singing, then?" He gestured to my ridiculous amount of art.

"I still want lessons," I answered quickly - the idea of not hearing him sing again was an absolutely terrible one.

He looked pleased. "Good." He cocked his head to the side. "So you are now able to draw. But you told me yesterday that you also enjoy fresh air."

"Yes."

He nodded. "I have a bit of a gift for you, then."

I raised my brows at him. "What kind of gift?"

Erik stepped toward me, a bit of slow trepidation in the movement. "Would you mind terribly if I carried you?"

Where was he taking me?

Outside?

It wasn't safe outside.

But I still answered, "No, I don't mind."

"And this time, fair maiden" he said, slyness on his tongue, "you can wrap your arms around Eric's neck."

"With a C."

"Now you're catching up."

He picked me up, and though I knew he'd been partly jesting when he said I could hug his neck, I did so anyway. It felt more natural this way. He tensed a bit at the contact, looked briefly at me, but didn't say anything about it.

He carried me through the quiet, darkening house, to a room at the end of the hallway. He asked me to reach my hand out and turn the doorknob. I smiled and obliged. He entered, and then brought the door closed behind him with his foot. This space seemed to be for storage, as boxes and old knick-knacks lined the edges of the floors and shelves on the walls. At the far end of the room was a staircase, leading up a door in the roof, similar to the stairs in the Echo Hall.

I didn't say anything as he brought me up the stairs and then asked me if I could, again, unlatch this door. I pulled the metal bolt, and Erik pushed the door open with his head and shoulders - needing to walk sideways and then backwards to make it work.

And the sight I was greeted to stole the breath from my very lungs.

We were on the roof, illuminated brightly by the full moon. A wall - as tall as Erik - surrounded the space. Lining the edges were potted palm trees; in the middle of the roof were chairs, tables, and beautiful shrubs and flowers in ceramic pots like the trees. Near the chairs were, laid out, two enticing-looking thick, colorful, patterned woolen blankets, spaced apart from one another about two arms' lengths. A bottle of white wine was in between the blankets, as were two glasses.

"We have two options," he said softly as I took in the roof. "We can sit in the chairs, or we can lie down."

"What are we doing?" I whispered.

He paused, and then whispered back, "Look up."

I did.

If I'd thought the roof was a lovely sight to see, it paled in comparison to the sky. In the ebony atmosphere above, thousands of stars glittered down at us, like tiny beacons of hope in the vast emptiness.

"Lie down," I breathed.

"Sorry?"

"I want to lie down to look at them."

He nodded slowly. He brought me to one of the blankets and set me down with extreme tenderness. He asked if I was comfortable, and I gave confirmation that I was, in fact, very much so.

"I brought wine," he said, the shrug not quite hiding his sheepishness. "You don't have to drink any, and I won't if you won't. But I thought, perhaps, it could be fun."

I stared at him in wonder. This was so...nice.

Romantic, even - though I doubted that was his intention.

I smiled at him. "That would be fun, yes."

He nodded again and went to the other blanket. Though there was a note of tenseness in his eyes, his hands remained smooth in their pouring of the wine into the glasses. He placed mine within reach of me, on the ground. I sat up, pushing myself up with my arms, and picked up the glass. I took a sip - and whatever it was, it was smooth and delicious going down my throat. At that, Erik followed my lead.

I leaned back on one elbow, the other hand holding the glass, as I looked up at the stars; the warm, breezy air swaying the leaves of the palm trees and the soft, chattering sounds of Tehran at night beyond.

"Christine?"

I looked at him; he was watching me with a frown on his face.

"Yes?" I responded.

"Before we continue the evening," he said softly, "I think I must remind you that I executed Amir tonight."

I looked away, shocked annoyance bubbling inside of me as I was taken out of my small reverie. To bring me up here, set this beautiful scene, and then remind me of-

But I understood why.

He'd said that he executed him tonight - meaning that it couldn't have been too long ago. He'd known Amir was my friend - rather, I'd considered him my friend before his attempt on my life. He likely felt like an impostor for being so kind; a killer, after all, wasn't kind. The guilt he must have been feeling was nearly palpable as I turned my attention back to his gaze.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked him.

He narrowed his eyes. "Do you want to know about it?"

At first, I was about to respond that, no, of course I didn't. That it was a morbid topic and I wanted to avoid it.

But something stopped me.

The part of me that asked and looked and dug for information.

Though it was likely better that I didn't indulge, I was curious. I wanted to know how my betrayer perished.

I would regret it.

"I'd like to," I said softly.

He looked into his wine for a while, so long that I felt guilt as well and nearly told him that it was fine, he didn't have to relive it through words, but he spoke before I got the chance.

"I did some research into him," he said, "before I killed him. I don't normally do this, but...given his association to you, I felt...well-" He sighed. "His mother was apparently half-French, which is why he knows so much of it; though I assume she either died or stopped teaching him as he speaks it brokenly. He became a eunuch when he was still a child, training to serve in harems for years before he trained the Shah's courtesans and then you." He looked at me. "Apparently - and this information was found out by the Echoes listening to him speak to other members of the Violet Dawn - he poisoned the tea by stopping the servant who brought the tray of food, telling her that you prefer a specific kind of sugar, and procuring that very sugar right then and there. He added it to the tea, and the servant didn't stop him. She, and the members he spoke to, are currently being held in prison as they await my punishment over the following days."

"Did she know?" I asked. "The servant?"

"No. It sounds like she didn't. Amir himself said she didn't."

"Then why-"

"Because she should have known better than to let another tamper with food," he said bitterly. "It's not her fault, no, but it was careless." He pursed his lips. "I'm not happy that I have to kill her, Christine." He brought the wine to his lips and drank.

"I know." I took a sip as well.

He put the glass on the floor again and sighed. "Amir died quickly. He was gone within seconds."

My heart hammered.

It was foolish to inquire.

But I wanted to know.

My curiosity was scratching at my lips to part and ask.

"How?" I whispered.

A long pause. Silence, except for the breeze and city sounds below.

"A card trick," he said finally.

I sat up fully. "A card trick?"

"Yes." He didn't look at me. "With him shackled, I performed for the Shah's mother, the Little Khanum - the Shah doesn't typically attend the executions, unless he has me perform for guests, as you saw with the taste-tester. I had her pull a card at random, knowing it would be a card I painted and placed in there, titled the Foe, picturing a bloodthirsty knight."

I listened intently, letting him pause as he took anther sip of wine.

"I put Amir into a tall wooden box with a door for several seconds; and when the Little Khanum pulled the card, I revealed I knew the card by opening the box. And inside was Amir, his throat slit and a word carved into his forehead - FAUX." Erik was barely breathing. "He was dead, of course."

I took a long drink of my wine.

And in the silence that followed, I finished my entire glass.

Erik asked me if I wanted any more, and I said yes.

We stayed silent, and over the next ten minutes or so, I finished that glass too.

This wasn't fun. Knowing wasn't fun. I shouldn't have asked.

I finished the second glass and asked for a third. Erik hesitated but poured the bottle.

I drank that glass as well. I predicted that it had only been a half an hour since I started drinking; and I wasn't a very large person at all.

The world had started to rock gently back and forth.

But it was nice. I was forgetting about what he told me.

I laid down and looked at the stars. After several seconds, he did so as well.

I loved the stars. I loved them so much. But it was my love of the outside world that landed me here in the first place.

"I was taken while out walking alone," I said - and was surprised to find my speech was slurred slightly. "I didn't see them coming."

Silence, and then: "I'm sorry, Christine."

"It's my fault." I closed my eyes. "I shouldn't have been outside."

"The cruelty of others isn't your fault," he responded immediately - definitively.

Another long silence.

"When I was a small child," he said softly then, "I used to have a recurring nightmare that I would be gazing up at the stars just like this, and one by one they would all wink out, until it was just endless darkness above me - so vast and empty that I thought I would fall upward into it and never land, just...continue on forever like that."

I opened my eyes to the sky above, to the blanket of glittering white dots - thankful that they were there and his dream was only in his mind.

"But," he said, "that dream no longer frightens me. In fact, I think it would be better that way. I like the idea of oblivion. The idea of nothing - no pain, no suffering... Nothing, forever."

I looked at him.

He had his arms crossed behind him, and I could see that he was looking upward. I wondered if he forgot that I was here - if he forgot he was saying those words aloud.

This was so unlike him.

But maybe it wasn't.

Because Erik was the night sky. Cold and dark, but if one looked - really stopped to observe - sparks of light could be found in the blackness, scattered at random yet constant.

And I wanted to say to him that I knew his killings weren't his idea, that I knew he would stop them if he could. That he wasn't a monster, or evil, or death incarnate. I wanted to tell him that his face wasn't a problem, that his appearance stopped bothering me the moment I saw his fear at that despicable dinner. I wanted to tell him that I could see past his occupation and his face, to his soul - a soul that genuinely cared about the happiness and well-being of blind child and a disabled concubine. I wanted to articulate that I felt safe with him, that his voice was a better indication of what was inside of him than what others could see.

I didn't say any of that - though it wasn't for a lack of trying.

The words were lost in translation on their way from my drunken brain to my thick tongue, and I proclaimed, "You aren't a killer, and I like your face."

At first, he didn't respond. Then, slowly, his head turned to me. He stared at me for several seconds, and I realized with a jolt that his rounded eyes appeared as though they were about to shed tears. He sat up, took the wine bottle, and shakily corked it.

His voice was hoarse and thick. "That's enough wine, I think."