Chapter Forty-Six

Eternity Would Be Easily Gotten Used To


At first, Éponine intended to wait until morning and ask Cosette's permission to leave for a few hours. The problem with that was, the entrance leading to Erik's house that they had used when they'd come and gone during the day was locked. Erik had the key. She only knew how to get in through that other entrance they'd used when he brought her back from the Daroga's flat at night, with the ladder. And if she tried climbing down through that grate during the day, surely someone would see and get curious.

She knew exactly what Nicolette and Mlle. Gillenormand would think if she were caught sneaking out at night, or sneaking back in. But there didn't seem to be anything else for it. She blew out the candle to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Then, she slowly stole up the stairs into the room she shared with Nicolette. She listened to the older woman's light snoring—the most comforting sound in the world, under the circumstances. Very carefully, she crept over to the chest at the foot of her bed and opened it. Feeling around in the dark, she grabbed what she was pretty sure were the garments she required. She closed the lid as carefully as she could, but her fingers let it slip too soon, and it fell shut with a sharp wooden sound. Nicolette's breathing was interrupted mid-snore, and Éponine winced and held her breath. Her heart banged painfully against her chest for a horrifically long moment, before the snoring resumed its normal rhythm, and Éponine was able to breathe once more herself.

She took her boots, and carefully made her way back down the stairs to the kitchen. She went into the horrible little storage room where Cosette had been meeting her father until recently, just to give herself a little more privacy in case anyone came downstairs. She already had on her chemise, which she had worn to bed. She pulled on a pair of stockings and her boots, and then realised with dismay that she had no one to help her with her corset.

Frowning, she considered her options. Then, with matter-of-fact resolve, she did the laces loosely in front, turned it around, adjusted it into place, and biting down on her tongue against the agonising pain it gave her rib, she reached around and began to tighten the laces. When she became faint from the pain and had to stop, she leaned against one of the armchairs and caught her breath. She only gave herself a few moments before telling herself she'd just have to suck it up. Her breathing was ragged and there were tears in her eyes, but at this point, there was no sense in not seeing it through. In the end, it wasn't as snug as it ought to be, but it was good enough. She sat down for a moment to catch her breath, and gingerly felt her rib. She hoped she hadn't made it worse. But that was life.

Standing up again, she put on her petticoats and then her dress. She was hoping for the deep blue one, as that would be more ideal for sneaking around in the dark, but it had been hard to tell which dress was which just by feeling, and she'd ended up with the green plaid. At least it was a dark green.

Heart still pounding fast, and pain still shooting from her rib, she slipped out the door and into the night.

—●—●—●—●—

Éponine felt her way along the dark passageways until finally she saw the edge of the lake, which had that faint bluey glow to it. As she approached, she remembered how that night when they were playing chess, there had been that ringing sound that let Erik know the Daroga was outside. How could she get that to happen, so that he'd know she was here and row her across? Because there was no way she would be able to row the boat after what she'd already put her rib through that night.

Then she tripped and nearly fell, but managed to catch her balance. She leaned down to feel what had nearly tripped her, and found that it was a piece of wire, suspended just barely above the ground. She smiled. Although she couldn't hear it, she was fairly certain that there was a ringing sound which could be heard in the house on the lake. She kicked the wire a few times with her foot for good measure. She was cold and very tired, and she wanted him to hurry.

Éponine continued closer to the lake's edge, listening intently. After a few moments, she heard the sound of the boat gliding its way through the water.

"Erik?" she called out.

There was no answer, but suddenly a light appeared on the water. He must have just lit the lantern. As the boat drew closer, the light illuminated Erik's black-cloaked figure calmly rowing. Éponine waited somewhat impatiently as the boat finally made its landing. She stepped back to give some space as Erik jumped out with the lantern, which he set on the shore. Still not speaking, he secured the boat with rope. But in the lantern light, she could now see how much he was trembling, and his fingers were uncharacteristically clumsy as he fastened the rope.

"Erik," she said, making her voice as soft as she could, because she wished he wouldn't tremble so.

He stood, turned toward her, and then the next thing she knew, she was struggling not to fall backwards as he sort of fell into her in a flailing motion, and was on his knees, gripping her tightly, his face buried in her skirts against her stomach. His shoulders shook with sobs.

"Oh. Erik. It's—shhh, there's no need to cry." It was so jarring, after so many days in such an ordinary household, to be thrust again into this strange underworld where she stood on the shore of a hidden lake with its cloaked inhabitant who, just to look at him, anyone would find ominous and imposing. And yet, with very little notice or ceremony, he could be quickly reduced to clinging onto her, in tears.

He gripped her hips more tightly, although most of what he was holding, thankfully, was skirt and petticoats. Still, she was rather stirred by this unexpected closeness and felt a bit dizzy. Sighing, she ran her fingers through his hair to sooth him, and that's when she noticed he was wearing neither his mask nor his wig. Instead of the perfectly smooth dark hair she was used to, he just had wild, untamed, greying tufts. She would have smiled at his vanity in hiding that all this time, but actually it made her sad, how many things he thought he had to hide. She continued to gently stroke his hair, and she was about to start talking, but he interrupted her. Without loosening his grip at all, he pulled his head back to look up at her with eyes which pleaded in the lantern light.

"I thought you wouldn't come. I mailed the letter, and then I realised—and it was too late..." He looked miserable.

"What was too late?"

"I was supposed to write an apology." He hid his face against her again.

Actually, before he'd begun weeping and hanging onto her like this, she had been on the verge of making a quip about whether any of the failed attempts littering the floor contained the words 'I'm sorry.' She was very glad now that she hadn't.

"Well," she asked simply, "are you sorry?"

His reply was muffled into her skirts, and his fingers clawed even more intensely.

Her voice came out a bit rough. "Erik, you've gotta let go of me."

He let go and pulled back from her as quickly as though she were a hot coal, looking absolutely dejected. She joined him in kneeling on the cold stone floor, and grabbed his hands before he could misunderstand it as a rejection.

"I know you're sorry. Can we go inside?"

He was still quivering, but the crying had subsided. It was too dim for her to see the expression in his eyes very clearly, but she knew. It was that look of hopeful wonder that made her feel powerful and awful and warm and frightened all at once.

As they rowed across the lake, there was so much she wanted to say, but now that he was here in front of her, she found herself unable to say it. She started babbling about where she'd been all week, and the people she had been with, and what she had been doing. He hardly spoke, not that she gave him many pauses in which to do so. When they made it to the other side, he helped her out of the boat and he opened the door to his house, but there was no welcoming glow of candlelight, only blackness. He hurried ahead into the drawing room to light some candles. As Éponine followed, she noticed that there was no fire in the fireplace, nor even glowing embers to show that there had been one recently. No wonder there was such a damp chill in the air. There was, however, a whole pile of crumpled pieces of letter paper in the fireplace. And she was immediately struck by an absolute eerie silence that she didn't remember being there before.

Erik saw her shiver, and with a mournful cry of, "Forgive me!" he hurried to get a fire going.

She took off her bonnet, which allowed her hair to fall down around her shoulders and down her back. She hadn't taken the time to put it up before leaving the house, so had just twisted it around and tucked it into the bonnet. Glancing about the room, there weren't any particularly dramatic signs of disarray. It was the small things. The fact that there was absolutely no fire and no lights lit. The fact that the opened, mostly-empty bottle of wine was still exactly where she had left it on the sideboard. Yes, what she saw in that room were signs of complete inactivity, and somehow that was far more chilling than if he'd gone about smashing and breaking things. She went and sat in her familiar chair and watched him as he finished building the fire and turned to look at her, kneeling there in front of the fireplace. He was so pale—even more than usual. On the unblemished side of his face, a dark circle under his eye could be seen. His cravat was loose and askew, his waistcoat unbuttoned.

"Well?" he asked acerbically, noticing her staring. "Had you forgotten what a handsome fellow I am?"

"You don't look well at all. Haven't you been taking care of yourself, since I left? You need to take better care of yourself, Erik."

"You look well." He said it so bitterly.

"And what would you have me do? Stop eating when there's food? Stop sleeping when there's a bed? No matter how badly you've been torn to pieces inside, no matter how much you hate your life, if you're not going to die properly, then you've got to get on with it. You don't have to like it, but it's the only life you've got. If you don't want to end it, you have to stay alive. Right? What's the sense in letting yourself die slowly? I hate starving. I don't know anything more provoking. I want nothing more to do with it! But you don't want to die, or you'd be dead. So, eat, you stupid man."

Erik stared down at the carpet.

In a softer tone, she said, "I did miss you, you know. Terribly."

Erik still wouldn't meet her eyes. "I thought when you were here I could tell you. But I don't know how to begin."

Éponine slid from her chair to join him on the floor in front of the fireplace, her skirts puddling around them. She watched his face flickering in the firelight. The distorted side of his face was the one closest to the fire, and as the light and shadows danced upon it, it was truly a terrible sight to behold. But she had never been so glad to see anyone's face in her entire life. Gently, she reached out her left hand and used it to cup that side of his face. Twisted, marred flesh on twisted, marred flesh. His an accident of birth, hers a result of her own folly. His breath caught, and he took her other hand and pressed it to his lips.

She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry Erik. I should have let you explain yourself. I didn't even give you a chance—"

"No." He moved their hands away from his lips so that he could speak, holding them instead against his chest.

She slid her left hand down from his face, along his shoulder, down his arm, finally linking her fingers with his. "I was just so tired and everything felt turned upside down. I still don't know what's up and what's down. We're not really bad people, are we?"

"I would never place you in the same category as myself."

"But I would. And you told me you're not really wicked."

"It was unforgivable of me to let you go out into the night by yourself."

"Let me? Were you supposed to hold me prisoner instead?"

He sighed.

"You had to let me go. I wouldn't have forgiven you if you didn't. And I was fine. Perfectly safe." She squeezed his hands reassuringly.

He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles, and seemed to make an effort toward a smile.

"Erik..." She leaned closer so that he would have to meet her gaze. She had missed those eyes of his. That intense amber colour that could look soft green in certain lights. She leaned close enough to see her own reflection in his pupils, illuminated by the firelight. "Do you know that I—"

He abruptly let go of her hands and stood up. "Éponine, I must show you something." He took a candle and went into his room, coming out with a little leather bag. He set the candle down and impatiently pulled the bag open, taking out a key. "I cannot simply wait for you to discover something else that will send you away again. I don't have the strength."

She studied him, and he stared down at the key in his hands. Then, with a resolute air, he motioned her to get up and he walked over to the door that she had not yet seen behind—the one which she had found locked. She got to her feet and joined him there. He looked at her, brushed her hair back from her face with a faint smile, and then, looking like a man on his way to his execution, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Upon stepping in, Éponine's eyes instantly told her she was in a forest, until, in addition to infinite trees, she also saw infinite Eriks and Éponines, and her mind registered that they were in a room with only one tree, and six mirrored walls. She walked forward and felt the tree, and as lifelike as it looked, discovered it was only made out of iron. She laughed with delight and turned to smile at Erik. "This is so clever. What is it, and why is it locked?"

Her laughter was stopped by the grim look on his face. "This is my torture chamber."

She frowned. Then, with a pang in her heart, she thought she understood. The absence of mirrors in the house, and then a whole room where anybody would see themselves reflected infinitely. "You torture yourself? By standing in here—"

"No. I torture other people. By making mirrors as horrifying for them as they are for me."

Éponine's eyes widened, and looking around again, she saw a noose lying at the bottom of the tree, near her feet. She saw scratches and what looked like shoe prints on the mirrored walls. And on one of the panels, a circle of shattered glass. She walked towards it, and felt a chill as she saw the bullet embedded in the wall at the centre of the broken ripple.

She turned her back on this sight, and slid down the wall until she was sitting. It was a lot.

He came and sat beside her, and he slowly unfolded a terrible and fantastical tale set in Persia, where he had first built a room like this to amuse a sultana, who was delighted by the illusion, but quickly bored of it. After that, it had been used for a much less innocent form of entertainment. He described to her how the room functioned, and how the horrific game always ended. She watched him carefully as he spoke, and thought he looked haunted and sad. But at the same time, there was also a kind of perverse, boastful pleasure at his cruel invention—two very conflicting attitudes existing simultaneously in the endless enigma that was Erik.

Éponine finally believed that Erik's hands were certainly more culpable than her own.

She bit her lip, trying to think. Trying to make sense of all of this, trying to put it together in a way she could move forward to make it fit with the Erik that she knew, that she loved. "Right. So what happened in Persia, I'm going to forget about," she said slowly. "Because the Daroga let you live, so he must have thought you weren't all bad. If the Daroga thought you deserved to live, then I think it's all right. That's fine. We'll blame the sultana. I don't care about that and won't think about it any more." She sighed, feeling relieved to be able to shrug off this disturbing revelation. "But...then you came here and built another one. Why?"

Erik's shoulders sagged, and he made a helpless gesture. "Security?"

"To protect your house." She nodded as though it were perfectly logical. As though it made perfect sense. Even though she felt like she was outside of herself, and in truth, nothing made sense any more. "How many people have been—have been tortured here?" She pointed at one of the desperate scratches on the wall.

"Three. On two occasions." He didn't just look sad. He looked completely defeated. "The first was a scene-shifter. He must have found the entrance, and was dead by the time I found him. He hanged himself, on the iron tree." He sighed deeply. "The second time, it was the Daroga and Christine's vicomte. They came to interfere and take her away from me, and found themselves here."

"You put them in here?"

"No. There's a hidden entrance that leads right into here. That booby led himself and the vicomte right into the torture chamber."

"And you let them out?" Éponine said, feeling a little relieved.

"Yes."

"And you let Christine go."

"Yes."

"Well then, who cares about the past?" If Cosette could forgive her, just like that, why shouldn't she be able to forgive the man she loved? She looked at the infinite number of reflections of them, sitting there in a fantastical forest underneath the Opera House. In the reflections, she could see that Erik was looking at her hopefully. She didn't dare look too closely; she dreaded nothing more than to see him looking at her as though she was something more than what she was. They could ignore the past all they liked. They could pretend that anything which happened before they met had never happened. They could ignore the scratches on the walls and choose to only see the two of them, and this one infinite moment. They could do that. But what she could not do was have him looking at her like that in the present. She would only end up disappointing him.

She turned her head to look at him, though still avoiding his eyes. "Why did you want me to come back here?"

"Isn't that obvious, my dear?"

Part of her wouldn't mind if he would speak to her in that voice while looking at her that way all day long. But the better part of her mind held back. "I don't know." She dropped her gaze. "I won't steal for you any more."

"I would never ask you to. It was wrong of me. That is not why I want you."

Want her? She swallowed. "Erik, you don't really want me. It's just because you've been alone all your life, and now I'm here, so you think, why not? Don't you want a respectable wife so you can go out amongst normal people and fit in? Because I can never be that, Erik. I don't belong in places like that restaurant we went to. I don't even want to pretend. I'll always be just as out of place, and then you'll get tired of me."

His shaking fingers lightly stroked the outline of her hair. "Never."

She fixed her gaze on the iron tree. "You need someone with a beautiful voice, who can sing your music for you."

"You enjoy music. You understand my music. That's enough."

Keeping her eyes on the tree, she forced a rather breathless laugh. "You don't want a 'pure and charming star'?"

Lightly, he curled his index finger under her chin, turning her head gently toward him. His eyes insistently searched for hers, and she brought herself to look at him. "I want you."

She blinked quickly, trying to still the beating of her heart. "I told you, I won't be your mistress," she said as lightly as she could, forcing a playful smile.

He looked at her seriously, steadily. "I would never disgrace you that way. I want for us to be married."

Her heart swelled up, and she had to glance down again, unable to meet the intensity of those eyes. He had such a brilliant mind, and he was capable of so many wonderful and terrible things. There had never been anyone else like him, certainly not in her life. And yet, at the end of the day, he was just a person who tried to be kind and gentle with her, and who had lived a very sad life and done unimaginable crimes. And she recognised that in him there was a large, gaping void, which she would never be able to fill. There was too much missing. He was not complete, and she wasn't fooling herself into thinking she could complete him. He needed so much. In a low voice, she looked him in the eyes again and managed to say, "I can never be what you want me to be."

"My dear, you already are." His eyes burned so intensely, and she knew he was looking straight into her soul. I could tell you that you are nothing like the sun, nor the moon, he had said in his letter. And she knew what he meant by that now that she was here, and he was looking at her. He didn't look at her like she was his salvation, or an imaginary ideal, something more than human—something to be obtained and adored.

He looked at her like she was a person, and she was loved.

She drew in a shaky breath. She should tell him, now. Now was the time to tell him. But instead, she scrambled to her feet and said she wanted to go sit by the fire, that she was cold. But then she only made it as far as the iron tree. She stood there, looking at the endless forest of trees with an Éponine leaning against each one, and an Erik standing behind her. Uncertain. A little bit sad.

Her mind was spinning so much that in the end, it finally landed on something entirely unrelated. "Erik, I wanted to ask you something."

"Anything." He stepped forward, and she turned to face him.

"The person who writes the silly plots for operas, and the words—?"

"The librettist."

"Do they need to know how to write the music too?"

He furrowed his brow. "No. It's more common that a composer and a librettist will work closely together. The libretto usually comes first. Why?"

She pulled her little book out of her pocket. "I've been amusing myself with—well, I had some ideas. But I don't know how anyone comes up with music, I've just always liked stories. And words. And I—" She cut herself off, feeling suddenly shy. She hugged her little book protectively.

With a curious look, Erik stepped closer. "Some ideas? Ideas for operas?"

"Maybe. And some songs too. Just words, though, I can't come up with music I haven't heard before."

Erik's eyes lit up even more as he looked at her.

"Well," she said, "I don't know if a composer and a librettist can make enough to live on, but—"

"Perhaps." He had a look about him like his brain was racing excitedly.

She smiled at him. Now. Now was when she should tell him. But then, she had a stomach-clenching realisation. She hurried back into the drawing room. "What time is it?" She went to the clock on the mantle, and it was stopped.

That's why it had sounded so eerily quiet when they had first walked in. There wasn't a clock ticking in the whole place.

Erik appeared in the doorway of the torture chamber with a sigh. "I haven't wound any of the clocks since you left. Forgive me."

"You don't have any idea what time it is?"

He shook his head helplessly. "Why?"

"I've got to get back before anyone knows I'm gone." Her eyes darted around the room until they landed on her bonnet. "I don't want them to wonder where I've been."

He looked panicked. "You are going to leave Erik all alone again?"

She held the bonnet in her hands, swinging it a little. "Of course, I need to. I can't just disappear in the middle of the night and never come back."

He looked like he was about to cry again, and Éponine set her bonnet back down and hurried over to him, resting her hand on his face and solemnly looking up into his eyes. "I'm coming back. I promise."

He sighed.

"You don't believe me?"

He merely sighed again, dropping his gaze.

"Erik..." Her heart was pounding so quickly that it hurt, but she needed to say this now. She smiled. "I love you."

His eyes widened and finally met hers. And oh, the way that he looked at her then! She grasped his arms and spun them both back into the torture chamber with a breathless laugh, and he just allowed himself to be led in this strange dance, and they landed with Erik's back against the mirrored wall, and Éponine, moving her hands up to his shoulders, her raspy voice saying, "You could kiss me, you know."

Erik was overcome. He brought his tremulous hands to her face, touching her as though she might break. Sucking in a sharp breath, he swiftly bent and kissed the top of her head. Then he let go of her face and looked at her, wide-eyed. Hopeful, pained, filled with awe and fear.

Éponine smiled bemusedly. "That's not exactly what I meant."

He nodded. He knew.

"You don't have to be scared." She stepped as close as she could without actually stepping on his feet, and stood up on her toes. A breath away from his face. "Unless you don't want—"

She wasn't able to finish her sentence. With swift decision, he had taken her into his arms and the room was filled with infinite Eriks kissing infinite Éponines in an endless forest. An entire world where it was only the two of them in each other's arms, and nothing else. On and on. Reflections throwing reflections for eternity. And forever could not be long enough.


A/N: If you stuck with me this far, you're amazing and I thank you endlessly! I've been so overwhelmed by all of your beautifully kind comments and support. I really didn't expect very many people would be interested in this pairing. Thank you all so much!

I would really love to hear what you thought, no matter how old the fic gets. Nothing makes me happier as a writer than hearing from and interacting with readers.