A big thank you to FleshofMidnight, Mominator124, Aphaea21, MaFerviolon, WolfShadow1, Phantomgirl24, MrsDianaBlack, Astrophysicschic, SloaneDestler, TheTenthMuseSappho, Pensez-a-Erik, phanrose, Batty Dings, 101, peanutpup, and EvaLark! :D Thank you everyone!
Also, again thank you to MrsDianaBlack! I will change those grammar mistakes :) the thing about the accents over the letters, though, is that I totally would include them (as I want to for Daae) but have no idea how lol. As for the setting, thank you for letting me know about Venice! I did know that the regions of Italy weren't yet unified, but didn't know Austria had control at that time. I'll keep this in mind while I write!
To answer TheTenthMuseSappho, the mafia was Sicilian, not Venetian, but great guess. The Fox Den is not a mafia headquarters, but a few of you in the reviews guessed correctly what it actually was :) I also did some research, and it looks like Venice spoke (and still speaks) a Venetian dialect. I do not know this dialect at all, so I hope you'll suspend belief if I continue using the official (Tuscan?) version of Italian in this fic :)
Enjoy!
Christine
Chapter 46
The Prisoner
Shortly thereafter, I claimed that I was sleepy. Erik was more than happy to put me to bed. As he walked me to the bedroom, I heard Ibrahim wolf whistle and say something excitedly in Persian. However, when Erik returned to the parlor - rather than stay with me in bed - I heard the Grand Vizier express extreme, drunken disappointment.
I fell asleep as soon as the bedroom door was closed.
At some point during the night, in the foggy worlds between waking and dreaming, I felt cold hands pushing hair behind my ear. I felt a soft kiss against my cheek. Then I heard the hidden bookshelf door open and close.
And in the morning, I felt the most terrible mortification.
I expected that I'd have a headache, or feel nauseous, but I felt surprisingly fine. Sane once again. I looked to my right; Erik wasn't there. In fact, his side of the bed was neatly made. I wondered if he'd slept there at all. I pulled the covers off of me, finding that I was in my Rose outfit. This would be the third time in twenty four hours that I woke up in these clothes.
I exited the room to find Erik and Ibrahim on the couch, both drinking coffee, a breakfast laid out in front of them. Erik was leaning back in his usual foot-over-knee pose, watching Ibrahim, who was hunched over and seemed to be nursing a headache.
I put my head down, not wanting to look at either one of them at the very clear memories of what I'd said and done. This wasn't like alcohol, where some things were lost to me. No, I remembered it all.
I doubted they wouldn't see me, but a part of me still hoped, as I made my way around the couch and toward the study-
"Good morning, Christine."
I pursed my lips, reaching the study door. "Good morning, Erik." I opened it.
I took my sweet time changing.
And when I was done, I decided to simply brave the inevitable and sit across from Erik and Ibrahim. My face cast down, I looked at Erik out of the corner of my eye. "Sorry about last night."
"No need," he said softly.
I looked at him fully.
He wasn't smiling, but he didn't look angry anymore, either. "I have tried hashish. I don't care for it. I refuse to drink more than necessary, and I will never try the ever-so-popular opium. I don't like the idea of being out of my mind. Seeing the two of you last night sealed that decision as the correct one." He smirked.
I blushed.
His small smile disappeared. "Besides, the last time I was given a mind-altering substance, I was a small child. I'm not sure what that doctor gave me, but I woke up in a place I...didn't like, and wouldn't be able to escape from for years. When you're not present in your own head, people can do whatever they want to you. I don't really find that comforting. So, no, Christine. Don't apologize. I wasn't angry at you, or embarrassed. I was unhappy that you were forced into that situation. As for this one-"
He nodded his head toward Ibrahim, whose eyes were closed. His hands were clasped together around a steaming mug, head still bowed. Without the cup in his grasp, it would look like he was praying.
"He made that choice himself," Erik said, tapping his forefinger on his mug. "Didn't you Ibrahim?"
The Grand Vizier grunted.
"How is that splitting headache of yours?"
"Not so terrible as my broken heart."
Erik sighed, and drank a sip of coffee. "That the Prince no longer loves you is merely speculation. You know that."
"I know him."
"Yes, you said that last night." But Erik's eyes had turned sad, sympathetic. He shook his head. "Drink your coffee, Vizier. It will help."
I looked at the broken man before me, remembering how he'd cried. How he'd called me a friend. "Ibrahim?"
He opened his eyes; they looked absolutely miserable, almost drooping and tinged pink. He looked at me, expecting.
"The Prince loves you, yes?"
"He did," he said softly.
"And I'm sure he still does." It felt odd, comforting the second most powerful man in Persia. "If he loves you, then I'm sure he will know it's just a misunderstanding. Didn't you tell him you visit Flowers? As a...as a precautionary measure? That he now thinks it's real is probably just misinformation... Didn't you inform him what you do?"
He looked down.
A pause, then Erik asked, "Oh, Ibrahim, you fool - why wouldn't you tell him of your imaginary exploits?"
He closed his eyes, tightly, and then shook his head. He put down his still-untouched coffee. On the table, I found that none of the breakfast was eaten. I found, also, a cup of tea waiting for, still steaming.
"You don't understand," he whispered. "Neither of you could ever understand."
"Not understand what?"
He sighed. "Listen - I know that the two of you are in love." He looked between us. "Tell me you are not."
Neither of us said anything. We only glanced shortly at one another.
"It's very apparent. Nadir knows, too. He tries to deny it. But you will never understand what it is like to have to hide that."
Erik sat up a little straighter, gaping incredulously at him. "I'm sorry - we will never understand?"
Even I felt a bit offended by that.
"No, you - ah-" He rubbed at his temples. "You are frustrating me. You don't understand. Really think about it, and you will realize that you will never understand. But you do not think about it. Yes, you are both chained to this palace. But I am chained, too." He swallowed, bringing his hands down. He gripped his pants - the same pants he'd worn last night. Had he slept here in Erik's chambers? Was that something he was allowed to do, or would the Shah care? How many tabs did he keep on the Grand Vizier?
"How are you chained?" I asked gently.
"Because," he explained, looking at me with dark brown eyes, "if you two leave here, leave for France - or anywhere on Earth - you do not have to hide your love. It is only here that you have to hide it. But I - it doesn't matter where I go. The Prince and I will never be able to show our love openly. Anywhere."
Slowly, Erik brought his mug of coffee down to the table, staring at Ibrahim like he was seeing him for the first time.
"You said that you like both men and women," I said. "Then why not..." But the words dropped off. I realized how insensitive what I was about to say sounded. To my dismay, however, Ibrahim picked up on my meaning regardless.
His eyes darkened. "Then why not choose a woman? Because, unfortunately, I did not fall in love with a woman. I did not fall in love by choice... And this is another thing - because the Prince knows that I can love women, that I'm capable of it, he lacks trust for me, too. That is why I did not tell him. So I am chained, you see, but my shackles do not keep me inside, as they do for you two. They keep me outside. Not quite accepted publicly, but not quite trusted privately. So where do I go? What do I do? I have to pretend. I have to keep secrets. From everyone."
He stood and continued, eyes wetting again, looking between Erik and me. "You think I like this life? Oh, yes, jovial Ibrahim. Happy Ibrahim. You think it's real? Nothing is real about me. Sometimes, really, I barely know who I am. I have spent my life pretending, and now I can't even see my own soul. This person that I pretend to be - I do not know him. It is as much a mask as the one you wear on your face, Erik." His face contorted. "Allah above, I need to vomit."
And Ibrahim left us there, sitting, dumbfounded, as he stumbled his way to the bathing room, knocking into the table as he went. His coffee spilled. Judging by the amount, I don't think he ever drank a single sip.
