A/N: This is what prompted this new burst of Erik/Nora—this vignette is, in fact, not new in the least. While rearranging my home office, I happened upon the notebook that had my original notes for Stroll. These included the majority of chapters one, two, three, and thirty-six (the very first thing I ever wrote for the story), an outline through to what became chapter twenty-two, and a brief list of alternate names for Nora (I, for one, am glad she isn't named Eloise Bradley.) So, I suppose you could say this chapter has been a long time in the making. The style may not be quite consistent with the rest of the story, but I decided to keep it more or less as it was.

And the warning from 'Friday' holds- there is sadness herein.

1913

The irises had bloomed early and plentifully, thanks to a precocious spring. Erik did not feel the least compunction of taking his switchblade to a few of the choicest blooms, building a bouquet of dusky purples, bright periwinkles, and creamy whites. Satisfied, he started back towards the house.

Morning was giving way to noontime and Nora would be wondering where he was. But the morning had been charming, the sun warm on his cheek. It had been some years since he had all but abandoned the mask when he was on his estate. After all, the papery skin, the hollowed cheek, the jaundiced eye—all such things were expected from a properly old man.

He had a notion that age was a deformity earned, acceptable to society because it was understandable. All old men were walking skeletons, survivors of time who would not endure much longer. And so he walked about his grounds with nothing but his false nose to block the sun from his face.

"My God, you are a color," Nora had commented a few weeks after he first adopted this particular mode of undisguise. "Will the wonders never cease?"

Ah, Nora. He found her in the east-facing parlor, dressed very a la mode in a much-pleated Fortuny tea gown and open velvet tunic, a book in hand. When she noticed Erik, she closed the book and snatched the spectacles off of her nose.

"Well, my dear man, what have you for me today?"

With an elaborate bow, Erik produced the concealed bouquet with a flourish. He pulled it off with the light hand of a practiced prestidigitator, though perhaps not as nimbly as he might have in past years. His fingers were not what they had once been, alas. They ached, protesting the trick as frivolity. But there was nothing frivolous in making his wife smile.

And smile she did, taking the flowers and patting the seat next to her.

"I find myself fond of the irises," Erik commented. "the gardener said that he has some fine bulbs that might be packed well and sent to your niece."

Nora took his escort into the dining room when luncheon was served. His appetite had been poor for some time, but he found himself making an unusually good meal, taking great pleasure in the courses. They chatted quietly and amiably. Trivialities, really—but they never seemed to run out of subjects to speak on. His kind, pretty Nora held little mystery for him now. But he could never cease to be fascinated by the woman who loved him so well and for so long. He smiled at her over the rim of his wine glass.

She smiled back, and all was well with the world.

Nora could hear Erik moving about in the next room: a slow, lumbering pace. She tied off the end of her rather-more-salt-than-pepper braid quickly and entered the bedroom.

He had sat down at the edge of the bed, gaze abstracted. She touched his arm and he started.

"Are you well?"

He blinked several times, ran his bony fingers across his bare pate, and finally nodded. "Well enough, my dear."

It was another moment before he finally settled in the bed. This stillness lasted for a very brief spell—Erik tossed and turned for the better part of night. Nora did not sleep, but kept a silent watch over her husband's restless form. When his breathing shallowed and shook his chest, she rang for the valet.

"The doctor, and quickly," she directed, fastening her heavy robe and lighting the lamps in the bedroom.

Even this activity failed to garner Erik's attention. Nora perched on the edge of his bedside and laid a pale hand on his chest. A breath. Another. Another.

Pale yellow eyes opened at stared at her in abstraction. "Nora?"

"Erik? I think you've caught a chill, dear. I've sent out for Doctor Vidal. Perhaps a glass of brandy?" She made to rise from her seat, but Erik caught her by the wrist. Once, such an action would have left Nora with bruises. Now, his touch was feather-light. She could have cast off his hand with ease, but Nora obeyed it like it was a vise.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and blinked again. "Nora?"

She leaned closer to him, one hand over his heart, counting the erratic beats. "What's your will?"

His eyes focused on her for a just a moment. "My will? It is moved by that which moves the sun and all the stars."

She didn't pretend to understand him, but kept still and silent and watchful.

Nora had curled herself onto the ragged chaise on her veranda. Her veranda. For twenty-two years, it had been their veranda—their home—their life. Twenty-two years was a pittance in the grand scheme of things, but Nora felt like it carved some deep and impassable rift between her and the rest of the world.

She slowly became aware of the shuffle-shuffle of old Darius's slippers. He wordlessly sat next to her. She thought that she should have felt some measure of surprise—never had the Persian taken such a liberty—but feeling was rather beyond her capabilities.

She turned a listless eye to him. "Do you need anything, Darius?"

He shook his head. "No. Do you?"

Nora pondered this question deeply and at great length. What she needed was Erik—alive and happy and brilliant and ready with a sardonic comment to make her smile. Since he was not available, what could she possibly need?

"I—" damn, but speech seemed rather beyond her at the moment, as well— "I need to leave." The words were spoken without consideration and she found herself shocked by their truth. "I can't stay here."

Darius nodded slowly. "Where shall you go?"

What a question. Nora had once traveled far and free and utterly alone. She dimly recalled wondering how she could ever change. But now, Nora thought of Erik: thought of all of the places they had gone, of the peculiarities of traveling with a companion. She found herself wondering how she could change back.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully.

There was a rustle of pages and then Darius handed Nora an open book. An atlas, she noted, opened to a map of the whole world. She ran a fingertip across the Atlantic.

"Choose," he urged.

A bit of yellow on the map, a rather pale gold that reminded her of a pair of unusual eyes, drew her attention. She chose.