Chapter Seventeen

When You Think the Night Has Seen Your Mind, That Inside You're Twisted and Unkind

A/N: Agh, I really don't want this to happen, which from a story-telling perspective makes me certain it is exactly what NEEDS to happen...but agh! Why can't Éponine just like…NOT touch his mask? Please?

Also, CONTENT WARNING for some relationship violence/abusive stuff. It's as unextreme as I could make it. This sounds pretty dumb to say considering this is a fic about Erik (and Éponine for that matter) but I really wasn't expecting the unhealthy vibes to show up, and it bums me out that they did. But it's inevitable and inherent, so I guess we just have to watch these two navigate through as best they can, and hopefully end up in a better place. Again, I tried not to lean into this stuff, but as long as Erik is Erik, it's impossible to avoid unless I want to go super OOC.


Just as her fingers brushed his mask, but before she could remove it, his hand shot up and grabbed her wrist in a painful, vice-like grip. Éponine could not restrain a cry of pain and terror as he stood up, looming over her and not letting go of her wrist.

"a dio, terra; a dio, cielo; e sole, a dio." He sang again, except that this time, the words were not mournful and solemn, but rather taunting, biting, and cruel. "Do you know what that means, Éponine?"

"You're hurting me," she gasped. It felt as though her wrist might snap in two at any second. "Let go!"

In response, he did let go, flinging her to the floor. As she fell backward, she had put out her mangled hand to catch herself, and she landed on it badly, crying out again.

"'Farewell, earth. Farewell, sky. And sun, farewell!'" He let out the most terrible laugh. "Is that what you would have, Éponine? To never see the earth or the sky or the sun, ever again? To be condemned forever to this terrible underworld of nothing but death? Well?"

He stood over her, casting her in shadow, and she tried to make herself small. She was shaking all over. But even so, she glared at him and refused to respond.

"Why? Why do you want to see my face? Didn't I warn you? Didn't I say it would be a very bad lookout for you?"

She nodded, hoping he would just go away and leave her alone.

"If you could be content not to see Erik's face, things could be very happy. You narrowly escaped ruining everything! What do you mean by it, saying you aren't curious about my mask, and then trying to sneak up behind me and take it off?!"

Éponine felt that anything she said would only anger him further, but evidently her silence angered him as well, because he grabbed her firmly by her upper arms and dragged her to her feet, leaning so that his masked face was only inches from hers.

"Well?! Say something!"

Éponine spat in his face, and in response he flung her back down to the floor again. She narrowly missed hitting her head on the frame of one of the armchairs.

"I was wrong," she said, scrambling to her feet and backing away from him, toward the door to her room. "You are a monster."

He was silent. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His arms hung limply at his sides, and he seemed frozen. Éponine turned, went into her bedroom, slammed the door and locked it, and then threw herself onto the bed. She curled herself up defensively, and the throbbing of her wrist was nothing compared to the pain of her heart.

She expected Erik would try to come and speak with her, or worse, but there was neither the sound of anyone trying the knob, nor was there a knock.

She lay there, and even though she felt like crying, there were no tears. She thought, for some reason, that he would be different. She thought she would be safe here. Stupid. She was stupid to think that.

She was lying on her side, curled up, and her arm was parallel to her face so that she was staring at her painful, reddened wrist. Sooner or later, everyone got angry, and when people got angry, things got broken and bruises were left and people were hurt. It wasn't just men, either. No one could rage worse than Maman could. It was just a fact of life, and she didn't understand why it should create such a ball of sadness and hurt in the centre of her chest. Sooner or later, everyone would hurt her.

But even in her dismal thoughts, there was a part of her that rebelled, saying that wasn't true. She could imagine that Marius might get angry, but she couldn't imagine that he would ever hurt someone like that—not anyone, but most especially not someone he cared about. And that kindly-eyed man who had come to take little Cosette away, and who later had come to their dreadful little rat hole of a tenement to bring them clothing and money. As he left, he had been about to leave his coat, and Éponine, not thinking, had told him so. Her father had given her a look that told her she was going to regret her impulsive response. But the man had turned his kindly eyes on her, and said that he hadn't forgotten it: he was leaving it. For her father. The coat off his back! So, no. She didn't think he would ever hurt anyone either. His beautiful daughter—who was really not his daughter at all, it was the Lark—Éponine felt sure that girl would never suffer a bruise by his hands. There were good people. There were kind people. There were gentle people. She had to believe that. And she had really wanted to believe that Erik was one of them.

As she lay there, her eyes burning with tears that refused to flow, staring at the red mark on her wrist, she heard the organ start to play. It was not pleasant music. It was furious and sad and full of pain, and it went on and on.

She was angry, and the fragile trust she had been building toward Erik was shattered. But...she wasn't blameless herself. This never would have happened if she had left his mask alone. What had possessed her to think it was okay to try to unmask him, when he had made it clear that she was never to see his face? She'd had no right to do what she did.

And her heart reproached her when she thought of how he had looked after she called him a monster. She knew that would hurt him, and she wanted to hurt him. She knew she couldn't hurt him physically, so she lashed out with what she had.

She didn't know how long she lay there, just staring at her wrist and listening to the searing and harrowing music coming through the walls. Eventually, she must have drifted asleep for a little while. She was hungry when she awoke, and Erik was still playing. She glanced at the clock, and it was a little past six. She cautiously unlocked her door and peered out into the drawing room. It was dark. Taking a candle from her room, she padded quietly through the drawing room, past a door from which the organ music was emanating, and into a little hallway. The kitchen was off of this hallway. She helped herself to some bread and a bit of cold chicken she found. Then she went back to her room, locked the door again, and fell asleep once more.

—●—●—●—●—

It was hard to stay asleep. She kept waking up and still hearing the organ. He just never stopped. And the music was so dark and dissonant and unsettling to listen to. Éponine pulled the bedclothes over her head and tried to block out the noise or at least quiet her own mind, but she could do neither. So she slept only fitfully that night.

She thought about leaving. She knew she would remember the way out. But whether she would be able to row the boat or climb the ladder, that was another thing. And then what would happen to her? To go back to her father? No. What happened in the Rue Plumet, she was as good as dead where he and the Patron-Minette were concerned. She would have to avoid them all and fend for herself on the streets, where there were actual monsters, and not just Eriks who had monstrous moments. She was back in the same desperation that had driven her to her would-be death at the barricade.

And as she lay there, listening to that never-ending music which cycled through every dark emotion she herself was feeling, she started to be overwhelmed with empathy for Erik. She wished she could go back and do it again, this time not trying to unmask him. She had violated his trust, and maybe it was irreparable. And by doing that, she had brought the most monstrous side out of him, and then she had wielded that word, monster, like a skilful murderer wielded a knife.

She pushed the bedclothes back and got out of bed. Lighting the candle, she saw it was five o'clock in the morning. How many hours on end had he been playing, with no food, no sleep?

She examined the bruise on her wrist. It was progressing from red to a light purple.

She threw a shawl over her nightgown and went out into the drawing room, and then to the door where the music was emanating from. She had never been in this room. She hesitantly knocked. But that was silly; she knew there was no way he could hear her. Cautiously, she turned the knob and pushed open the door.

The room was all hung with black, and beneath a canopy, instead of a bed, there was an open coffin. Éponine was not really even surprised to see all of this. It fit with everything she knew about him, and all of his talk about this being a place for the dead. In spite of everything, she couldn't restrain an eye-roll.

The wall opposite the door was taken up by a massive organ, at which he played, his back to her.

Under the circumstances, she really did not want to sneak up on him. But as she called his name to no avail, she held her breath and walked over to him. Saying his name again, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

He flinched, stopped playing, and turned toward her with frightful eyes. But upon seeing her, he seemed to soften. The next thing she knew, he had thrown himself to her feet and was crying incoherently and begging her to forgive him. He gently grasped her ankles to prevent her walking away, and kissed the hem of her nightgown. In the most profuse terms, he affirmed that he was indeed a monster, and begged her not to leave him alone.

Such a display of remorse could not help but tug at Éponine's heart momentarily, but then her thoughts darkened. None of this meant that he was truly sorry. None of this meant he wouldn't just do it again the next time she made him angry. Overly dramatic attempts to make amends, in Éponine's experience, usually meant the opposite of true remorse.

"Stand up!" she said.

Erik rose to his knees but did not stand up. He looked up at her with eyes like the stray dogs who would often approach her when she wandered the streets at night. "Please don't kick me," the dogs always seemed to plead with their eyes.

"I was wrong," Éponine said. "It was very wrong of me to try to take your mask off, when you didn't want to show me your face. You trusted me, and I bungled that up and you might never trust me again now. And I'm very sorry. I hope you'll forgive me. But you were very wrong, too."

Erik tried to fall to her feet again, but she stopped him by grabbing his shoulder.

"No," she said. "Listen. I want you to listen."

"I am listening. Erik is nothing but a disgusting worm of a man who grovels before you and begs you—"

"That's not listening," Éponine interrupted, raising her voice. "That's talking. Stop talking. Close your mouth and listen to me."

Erik obeyed.

"Look at this. This one is from you." She thrust her wrist in front of his face, with the angry red mark that was deepening into purple.

He tried to turn his head away, but she wouldn't let him, keeping her wrist in his field of vision.

"Look! Look at it. You did that. I didn't think you would do that."

Erik didn't speak. He touched her wrist with gentle fingertips, and then he tried to press a kiss to the bruised flesh, but she didn't let him, pulling her arm in defensively.

"And this one. This one is also from you." She slid her nightgown down her shoulder so that he could see where another bruise was forming. "Look."

He glanced at it with sorrowful eyes, then glanced down again.

"Both sides." She showed him the other shoulder too, with a little bit of a struggle because she had to use her mangled hand. "Bruises on both sides, and you did those ones."

His head bowed and his shoulders drooped forlornly, but still he did not speak.

"But," Éponine continued, "I want you to listen. Listen to me carefully: I was wrong. You're not a monster. If you were, I would expect these, and a lot worse. I'm upset because you're not a monster, but you did hurt me."

Erik slowly brought his eyes to her face. "Can I speak?"

Éponine nodded.

"You don't know me, at all, Éponine." He looked down again. "You should leave. While you still can."

"I have no where else to go," she blurted out. It probably wasn't what he needed to hear in that moment, but it was the truth.

Erik was quiet for a long moment, and seemed thoughtful. Then, he spoke decisively: "I shall send you back to the Daroga's flat, and you can recover there. After that, I will secure a position for you, as a servant, with food and board and clothing. One of the managers of my Opera House will have to hire you, I shall see to it that there is an opening and that the position is yours. You will have wages and a safe place to live. Far away from Erik and this place of death." He started crying again. "I am. I am a monster."

Éponine stepped backward. She considered his offer, for a moment. The idea of being a servant in some fine house. Honest, probably safe. She wasn't sure it really appealed to her, but it was certainly a third option. A choice other than staying here with Erik's dark and unpredictable moods, or going back to the streets. Perhaps...

Then she looked at Erik, crying, kneeling, head and shoulders weighed down with sorrow, insistent that he truly was a monster, even though Éponine knew it wasn't true.

She dropped to her knees, resting her hands on his shoulders. He seemed unable to even look at her.

"I'll remember that. But for now, I'm staying. I know you can be gentle and kind. I've seen it. And I will hold you to it."


A/N: So...yeah. Please let me know what you guys think of this chapter. It wasn't a fun one for me, and this isn't resolved or repaired, but I think they're on their way to something good. (Oh, and the chapter title is a lyric from the song "I'll be Your Mirror" again.)