Chapter 20:
Weeks passed. Isabelle's mother never awoke from the unconscious state she'd been found in after the accident that occurred on Christine and Raoul's wedding day. She's slipped from a state of simple unconsciousness, into a coma, and then passed away about a week after the accident. Monsieur Develõngê had been rightly overcome with grief, and seldom visited the hospital to see the only surviving relative of his that lived in France. Although he meant well in his heart, he could not get over the self-pity he felt at losing his wife, and having his daughter in an apparent coma.
Erik, however, never failed to be at her side. He took nearly a month of leave from the Opera so that he might remain by her side in case she should awaken. Although he struggled to make time for his beautiful children, Marguerite, Fleur, and Gerard, it was difficult to pry himself away from Isabelle's side. Before there was any sign she'd awaken, Isabelle's bandages were removed from her head, and a great many of her stitches were removed. Only the casts remained on her broken wrists. The more time that passed, the more concerned doctors became of her ever recovering. They told Erik not to hope for her revival, and that even if she might one day open her eyes, who knew what kind of damage might have been done to her mentality.
He never listened to anything the doctors said. He had some thirty years more experience in any field regarding anatomy and the brain. The young doctor, Monsieur Marius, who took care of Isabelle's daily needs, and saw to it a healthy amount of pain medication was injected into her body at a bi-daily rate, was a young man, who didn't have nearly half as much experience with the ill as Erik himself had. He hadn't lived in, or wandered around, slums his entire life. He hadn't saved two more than twelve people of dying from mysterious illnesses the first time he experimented with herbal medication. Erik adamantly refused to accept that perhaps Isabelle would not wake up. He sang to her every day, and spoke to her every day.
When he stared returning to rehearsals and performances at the Opera, he was quite surprised to find that Christine was still on her honeymoon through Europe with Raoul. The woman who was taking her place during her absence was a fine young singer, with an ambitious personality and kind countenance. Yet Erik certainly found nothing very interesting about her. He gave her three weeks before he suspected she would become the Prima Donna of the Opera. Not by title, but by attitude. Another La Carlotta for the company to deal with once success got to her head.
Marguerite was the only light in his life as the weeks turned into a time period of four months. He often took her with him to visit Isabelle, and they would have conversations with each other as though Isabelle could listen in on them, and find some joy out of the child's antics. Fleur was often with them as well, yet she was so quiet and reserved that Erik could sometimes come frighteningly close to forgetting that she existed. He spent almost every moment of free time in the hospital, when he wasn't at the Opera, and so he was not giving Fleur her piano lessons. That had been the little amount of time that had been only theirs, and they had both treasured it for the short time it had existed.
Yet now Erik found it hard to concentrate on anything when he was being pushed around at the Opera House, and then lectured at by doctors who didn't want his hopes to be too high at the hospital. Once, when the doctor had been off duty and Erik had gone to see her, a nurse had attempted to turn him away because he wasn't an immediate member of her family.
She never returned to the hospital once she'd learned how terrible his rage could be. Most certainly he hadn't hurt her. He hadn't even laid a finger on her. Yet his presence alone, thrumming with power and rage and terrible unleashed violence, had frightened her well out of his path.
No one in the hospital tried to keep him away from Isabelle after that.
When the doctor finally removed the heavy casts on her wrists to replace them with much smaller ones to make certain she wouldn't - if ever she awoke - thrash about in confusion as to where she was, Erik went out and bought a ring to fit on her left wedding finger. It was dainty, rather like she was. On a tiny setting was a small tanzanite gemstone in the shape of a heart, surrounded by somewhat smaller diamonds. When he'd placed it on her finger, Madeline and all three of her children had been with him. He'd gently stroked back Isabelle's hair, and kissed her cheek softly.
"I'll wait forever, my dearest." He breathed. "You know that. I'll wait forever."
That evening was the four-month anniversary of the accident, and the marriage of Christine and Raoul. He hadn't left her all of that night, and had kissed Marguerite and the others good-bye from where he sat beside her. The following day, after managing to doze in the chair for a couple of hours, he went straight to the Opera House, buying a bit of food on the way in order to make certain he would pass out halfway through the day.
///////////-----------////////////////////
"Erik . . ."
Moaning softly, she was first aware of how parched her lips and throat was. Then she was aware of a little light coming from somewhere off to her left, which she would later learn came from an oil lamp on a table beside the bed she lay on, the wick kept down low. When her eyes opened, the already very dim light hurt her eyes, but only for a few moments. To her right and ahead of her were white curtains of soft cotton, which swayed gently under a phantom breeze. Her eyes flitted slowly to the left, and all she could see was blackness. It was one great window. She couldn't tell that it only took up the upper half of the wall.
Grimacing, she shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, confused at the moment of where she was. She remembered last being at a wedding with her parents and despicable fiancé. Yet she couldn't remember the reception. She'd wanted to sneak off with Erik for a couple of hours, and perhaps get lost in the crowd with him for a while. What had kept them from dancing together at the wedding reception? Had something happened?
"Erik . . .?" She called again, trying desperately to lick at her lips and inner cheeks to wet them. There were footsteps on the other side of the curtain, and it parted to show a young woman wearing the severe uniform of a nurse. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back and tucked up under the mandatory cap, and she peered in at her in utter astonishment.
"Mademoiselle Develõngê!" She gasped softly. "Oh, Mon Dieu! You're awake!"
"Yes . . ." Isabelle replied in a guttural voice, clearing her throat violently. "What am I doing here?"
"I'll go get the doctor!" The nurse exclaimed, as though she hadn't heard Isabelle speak.
"No." She protested. Yet, it was too late. The nurse was gone, and the curtain was back in place as though it hadn't moved. Isabelle tried to sit up slowly, and found that she felt far too tired and weak to do so. Sighing, she collapsed back onto the bed. She wondered where Erik was. Although she had no memory of the accident, something told her he'd just been there. It was as though he'd just spoken to her less than five minutes earlier, and then vanished just as she opened her eyes. She could smell his presence there.
When the curtain opened again, a rather fine looking gentleman who appeared to be about thirty came into the cubicle where she lay, wearing a waist- length white coat that made him somewhat recognizable as a doctor. It was the uniform that all doctors were required to wear in most hospitals in France. Why they had to wear them, she didn't know. They simply had to. The doctor came in smiling at her with the softest blue eyes imaginable, somewhat hidden behind the bangs of unkempt black hair.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle. I am your doctor, Marius Lefeur." He said gently, beginning an apparent examination of her body that Isabelle found quite tedious and annoying. "Can you tell me who you are?"
"Isabelle Develõngê." She told him obediently. By now it was obvious she'd been hurt in some way and didn't remember it, and he was trying to find out if anything was wrong with her.
"How old are you, Mademoiselle?"
"I'm eighteen." She said quietly. This task was so tedious. The doctor smiled gently at her.
"The date?"
"May 17th, 1882." Sighing once more, she glanced around as he stood up, nodding a bit grimly.
"Well, at least you remember when you were last awake." He said. My dear, the date is now November 20th. You've been in a coma for the past six months."
Isabelle's eyes widened.
"What happened?" She demanded. "Where's Erik? I want Erik here."
"I knew you would. You were calling for him when you were found." Doctor Lefeur said in a tender voice. "We'll have a message sent to him, and he'll come immediately. I have no doubt of that. He's never missed a single day of visiting you for at least three hours. Sometimes he didn't leave all night."
"What happened to me?" She demanded again. "Where are my mother and father?"
The doctor looked towards his nurse a bit anxiously, who simply looked away from him.
"Your father is well. He had a broken arm, but it is fully healed now. Your mother . . . You were all in an accident the day of the Vicomte de Changey's wedding."
Isabelle closed her eyes, her body shuddering. Alarmed, the doctor reached out to touch her shoulder, and she shrugged him away violently.
"Don't touch me." She spat. "Is . . . is my mother dead?"
There was another long silence. Slowly, Isabelle opened her eyes to look squarely at her doctor, her gaze demanding. Quietly, sympathetically, he nodded.
"God no . . ." She breathed, closing her eyes again and beginning to weep.
"Your fiancé died as well." Doctor Lefeur sighed. "I am so very sorry, Mademoiselle." There was a long pause. No one tried to touch her again. "Messages have been sent to Erik, and to your father. I'm sure they will both be here shortly."
She was left alone with her grief, and she wept for nearly an hour before falling asleep in exhaustion. It couldn't have been long after that when she felt a very familiar presence looming over her bedside. Opening her eyes slowly, she could see Erik staring down at her in wonder. She smiled at him faintly, miserably, and he kneeled down to take her hand, kissing her knuckles frantically but tenderly. He was trying so very hard to be gentle. It seemed he didn't know what to say. Yet it was the first time that Isabelle noticed the ring on her hand. Pulling her fingers gently from his grasp, she looked down to the ring curiously.
"Erik, what took you so long?" She whispered without accusation. She wanted to ask about the ring, which she'd never seen before. Yet she was not overly concerned about it at the time. Obviously it was a gift someone had put on her finger while she was unconscious. It could be from anyone, and mean any number of things.
"I was at the Opera, Cherie." He explained quietly. "The messenger did not dare to interrupt the show in the middle of an act. He waited until the end of it to come and tell me you were awake."
"My father should be here soon." She noted softly, looking up at him. "Erik, my fiancé . . ."
"Yes, I know. I know everything." He said gently. "Does it hurt to know he's gone?"
"No." She replied. Finally, she looked up from the ring. He'd been staring at it as well, and now met her gaze anxiously, his eyes very near hers. She hadn't realized he'd drawn himself so close. "If you've been here so often, maybe my father knows about us."
"He does." Erik agreed. "The day of the accident, your father learned everything. He wasn't happy at first . . . but he must have seen how much I loved you. We barely left the hospital until . . . until your mother passed on. Then he came no more. I think it hurt him too much. I think he was afraid of watching you slip away too."
"He doesn't know how often you've been here then."
"No." Erik reached out, caressing the back of her hand ever so softly, as though he feared causing her pain. His fingertips brushed over her apparently new ring, and his amber-hued eyes returned to the glittering gems. "I gave this to you two months ago. It was a vow to you, and to myself, that I would wait for you to wake up no matter how long it took. I would have waited forever."
"Waited for what?" She asked, stunned. "For me?"
"Yes." He breathed. "I would have waited an eternity for you. I wanted you to wake up, and know that I was still yours. The day your father saw just how much I loved you . . . I think he blessed our relationship. That day I whispered that you had to try and wake up so you might become my bride."
Erik had never rambled like this. Usually when he could not think of what to say, or could not put something into the right words, he was silent. Now, it seemed that he simply could not be quiet at all. He kept on talking, almost droning on. Finally, her hand lifted, now without a cast, and gently touched his cheek. He kissed her palm reverently.
"Isabelle . . . Isabelle, I love you." He confessed gently, saying it aloud to her for the very first time. He'd replied to her confessions of love before with nods, or aborted sentences that made little or no commitment. It seemed that until now he hadn't been able to say them. Maybe now, having realized he might have never been given the chance to tell her straight out, he was not going to miss this second chance. "Isabelle, I want you to marry me."
"Erik, you know I would love to marry you." She smiled up at him. "I want to marry you."
Sighing, he leaned down to put his arm over her, and rested his face by the hollow of her throat, his face hidden from her. He was shaking slightly as she put her arms up around his shoulders affectionately. She said nothing, knowing he didn't want her to realize that he was crying. Yet she knew. She knew.
"I knew they were wrong." He finally breathed. "I knew that they had to be wrong. You're strong. You've always been strong."
///////-------////////////
It was another forty-five minutes later before Isabelle's father arrived at the hospital. Erik was sitting gingerly on the edge of the hospital bed, and she was sitting up, leaning back on a great big pile of pillows. A tray with some warm food had been placed in front of her, and she was carefully eating her first meal in six months. He'd cried out for joy when he saw her, interrupting her conversation with Erik to embrace her and cover her face with soft kisses. It was his turn to cry for joy and relief.
"My dear, I was so afraid . . ."
The words sounded quite amazing to Isabelle. He had never been afraid of anything that she could tell in her entire life. He had never been the kind of father who sat up with his daughter reading to her before she went to bed, and kissed her forehead at breakfast in the morning. He'd always watched her with affection from a distance. Although Isabelle never once doubted that her father loved her, this was the first time in years that he'd shown her just how deep his love ran.
"Father, Erik has asked me to marry him." She whispered when he had seemed to calm. The men in her life sat on either side of her, each holding one of her hands, her meal having been taken away by a nurse. "Please give us your blessing."
"Anything you want, Izzy." He whispered gently, using his old pet name for her. "Anything at all that you want." He looked across the mattress to Erik. "When?"
"I would say immediately, Monsieur." Erik confessed. "I don't want the chance to marry her to pass me by. Yet I want this to be done right. I want it to exceed every dream she's ever had of her wedding day." He looked towards Isabelle quietly. "A week after you leave the hospital, whenever that might be, we can be married. Surely a week would be enough time to prepare a wedding, don't you think, Monsieur? With your kind of money and influence, you can invite whomever you wish, and tell them the wedding will basically be on stand-by."
"That sounds like a terrific idea." Isabelle said excitedly, taking Erik's hand tightly between both of hers. She smiled at him adoringly, and Erik just continued to watch her with solemnly loving eyes. Those wordless emotions passed through his eyes once more, and she understood his silence.
"Then it will be arranged." Her father promised.
"There are a couple of things I must insist on, before you make your plans, father." Isabelle said with sudden boldness. "I want Erik's live-in family to be in the ceremony. I want Marguerite and Fleur to be my flower girls. I want Madeline to be my maid of honor. I want little Gerard to be the ring bearer. I want everyone who Erik loves to be in this wedding."
Erik looked away slowly, closing his eyes.
"I think they would like that." He whispered. "They came here a great deal with me. They saw my silent proposal to you when I put that ring on your finger. All of us held conversations with you during all the time you were lying there."
"All the more reason to have them in my wedding." She said proudly. "Who will be your best man, Erik?"
He looked up at her with wide eyes, startled. He'd never actually thought about who might be in the wedding ceremony other than himself and Isabelle - when he dared to think of their marriage at all. Yet the void that had been in his mind was filled immediately, and he smiled, simply shaking his head.
"Messieurs . . ." Doctor Lefeur came into the area quietly. "I am very sorry to interrupt you. Yet I must insist that you both go home to rest. You can't very well sit up all night with her. She still needs a great deal of rest, and surely Monsieur Erik, you've sat up enough times to be exhausted this week."
Sighing, Erik shook his head. Yet the doctor was right. He was tired. Even having been very adamant about being near her every day, he had to admit it had been taking its' toll on him physically. He never got enough rest. Until that very moment, though, he hadn't even been aware of his exhaustion.
"I suppose we shall leave you to your rest." He murmured, and gave her a gentle kiss on her cheek. He had never dared kiss her mouth, since the day she'd kissed him. He still would not dare to, even though they were engaged. He would not even risk dishonoring her by any of his actions. He wanted them to be married before he dare do anything at all. "Sleep well, my love."
"Mon amour . . ." Isabelle whispered, stroking his cheek briefly. With a smile, he touched hers in return, and then hurried out before his heart could convince him to stay. She needed to rest, and he knew he would only keep her awake if he stayed. For the moment, he would have to wonder about how to ask Nadir to stand by his side when he married Isabelle.
Weeks passed. Isabelle's mother never awoke from the unconscious state she'd been found in after the accident that occurred on Christine and Raoul's wedding day. She's slipped from a state of simple unconsciousness, into a coma, and then passed away about a week after the accident. Monsieur Develõngê had been rightly overcome with grief, and seldom visited the hospital to see the only surviving relative of his that lived in France. Although he meant well in his heart, he could not get over the self-pity he felt at losing his wife, and having his daughter in an apparent coma.
Erik, however, never failed to be at her side. He took nearly a month of leave from the Opera so that he might remain by her side in case she should awaken. Although he struggled to make time for his beautiful children, Marguerite, Fleur, and Gerard, it was difficult to pry himself away from Isabelle's side. Before there was any sign she'd awaken, Isabelle's bandages were removed from her head, and a great many of her stitches were removed. Only the casts remained on her broken wrists. The more time that passed, the more concerned doctors became of her ever recovering. They told Erik not to hope for her revival, and that even if she might one day open her eyes, who knew what kind of damage might have been done to her mentality.
He never listened to anything the doctors said. He had some thirty years more experience in any field regarding anatomy and the brain. The young doctor, Monsieur Marius, who took care of Isabelle's daily needs, and saw to it a healthy amount of pain medication was injected into her body at a bi-daily rate, was a young man, who didn't have nearly half as much experience with the ill as Erik himself had. He hadn't lived in, or wandered around, slums his entire life. He hadn't saved two more than twelve people of dying from mysterious illnesses the first time he experimented with herbal medication. Erik adamantly refused to accept that perhaps Isabelle would not wake up. He sang to her every day, and spoke to her every day.
When he stared returning to rehearsals and performances at the Opera, he was quite surprised to find that Christine was still on her honeymoon through Europe with Raoul. The woman who was taking her place during her absence was a fine young singer, with an ambitious personality and kind countenance. Yet Erik certainly found nothing very interesting about her. He gave her three weeks before he suspected she would become the Prima Donna of the Opera. Not by title, but by attitude. Another La Carlotta for the company to deal with once success got to her head.
Marguerite was the only light in his life as the weeks turned into a time period of four months. He often took her with him to visit Isabelle, and they would have conversations with each other as though Isabelle could listen in on them, and find some joy out of the child's antics. Fleur was often with them as well, yet she was so quiet and reserved that Erik could sometimes come frighteningly close to forgetting that she existed. He spent almost every moment of free time in the hospital, when he wasn't at the Opera, and so he was not giving Fleur her piano lessons. That had been the little amount of time that had been only theirs, and they had both treasured it for the short time it had existed.
Yet now Erik found it hard to concentrate on anything when he was being pushed around at the Opera House, and then lectured at by doctors who didn't want his hopes to be too high at the hospital. Once, when the doctor had been off duty and Erik had gone to see her, a nurse had attempted to turn him away because he wasn't an immediate member of her family.
She never returned to the hospital once she'd learned how terrible his rage could be. Most certainly he hadn't hurt her. He hadn't even laid a finger on her. Yet his presence alone, thrumming with power and rage and terrible unleashed violence, had frightened her well out of his path.
No one in the hospital tried to keep him away from Isabelle after that.
When the doctor finally removed the heavy casts on her wrists to replace them with much smaller ones to make certain she wouldn't - if ever she awoke - thrash about in confusion as to where she was, Erik went out and bought a ring to fit on her left wedding finger. It was dainty, rather like she was. On a tiny setting was a small tanzanite gemstone in the shape of a heart, surrounded by somewhat smaller diamonds. When he'd placed it on her finger, Madeline and all three of her children had been with him. He'd gently stroked back Isabelle's hair, and kissed her cheek softly.
"I'll wait forever, my dearest." He breathed. "You know that. I'll wait forever."
That evening was the four-month anniversary of the accident, and the marriage of Christine and Raoul. He hadn't left her all of that night, and had kissed Marguerite and the others good-bye from where he sat beside her. The following day, after managing to doze in the chair for a couple of hours, he went straight to the Opera House, buying a bit of food on the way in order to make certain he would pass out halfway through the day.
///////////-----------////////////////////
"Erik . . ."
Moaning softly, she was first aware of how parched her lips and throat was. Then she was aware of a little light coming from somewhere off to her left, which she would later learn came from an oil lamp on a table beside the bed she lay on, the wick kept down low. When her eyes opened, the already very dim light hurt her eyes, but only for a few moments. To her right and ahead of her were white curtains of soft cotton, which swayed gently under a phantom breeze. Her eyes flitted slowly to the left, and all she could see was blackness. It was one great window. She couldn't tell that it only took up the upper half of the wall.
Grimacing, she shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, confused at the moment of where she was. She remembered last being at a wedding with her parents and despicable fiancé. Yet she couldn't remember the reception. She'd wanted to sneak off with Erik for a couple of hours, and perhaps get lost in the crowd with him for a while. What had kept them from dancing together at the wedding reception? Had something happened?
"Erik . . .?" She called again, trying desperately to lick at her lips and inner cheeks to wet them. There were footsteps on the other side of the curtain, and it parted to show a young woman wearing the severe uniform of a nurse. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back and tucked up under the mandatory cap, and she peered in at her in utter astonishment.
"Mademoiselle Develõngê!" She gasped softly. "Oh, Mon Dieu! You're awake!"
"Yes . . ." Isabelle replied in a guttural voice, clearing her throat violently. "What am I doing here?"
"I'll go get the doctor!" The nurse exclaimed, as though she hadn't heard Isabelle speak.
"No." She protested. Yet, it was too late. The nurse was gone, and the curtain was back in place as though it hadn't moved. Isabelle tried to sit up slowly, and found that she felt far too tired and weak to do so. Sighing, she collapsed back onto the bed. She wondered where Erik was. Although she had no memory of the accident, something told her he'd just been there. It was as though he'd just spoken to her less than five minutes earlier, and then vanished just as she opened her eyes. She could smell his presence there.
When the curtain opened again, a rather fine looking gentleman who appeared to be about thirty came into the cubicle where she lay, wearing a waist- length white coat that made him somewhat recognizable as a doctor. It was the uniform that all doctors were required to wear in most hospitals in France. Why they had to wear them, she didn't know. They simply had to. The doctor came in smiling at her with the softest blue eyes imaginable, somewhat hidden behind the bangs of unkempt black hair.
"Good evening, Mademoiselle. I am your doctor, Marius Lefeur." He said gently, beginning an apparent examination of her body that Isabelle found quite tedious and annoying. "Can you tell me who you are?"
"Isabelle Develõngê." She told him obediently. By now it was obvious she'd been hurt in some way and didn't remember it, and he was trying to find out if anything was wrong with her.
"How old are you, Mademoiselle?"
"I'm eighteen." She said quietly. This task was so tedious. The doctor smiled gently at her.
"The date?"
"May 17th, 1882." Sighing once more, she glanced around as he stood up, nodding a bit grimly.
"Well, at least you remember when you were last awake." He said. My dear, the date is now November 20th. You've been in a coma for the past six months."
Isabelle's eyes widened.
"What happened?" She demanded. "Where's Erik? I want Erik here."
"I knew you would. You were calling for him when you were found." Doctor Lefeur said in a tender voice. "We'll have a message sent to him, and he'll come immediately. I have no doubt of that. He's never missed a single day of visiting you for at least three hours. Sometimes he didn't leave all night."
"What happened to me?" She demanded again. "Where are my mother and father?"
The doctor looked towards his nurse a bit anxiously, who simply looked away from him.
"Your father is well. He had a broken arm, but it is fully healed now. Your mother . . . You were all in an accident the day of the Vicomte de Changey's wedding."
Isabelle closed her eyes, her body shuddering. Alarmed, the doctor reached out to touch her shoulder, and she shrugged him away violently.
"Don't touch me." She spat. "Is . . . is my mother dead?"
There was another long silence. Slowly, Isabelle opened her eyes to look squarely at her doctor, her gaze demanding. Quietly, sympathetically, he nodded.
"God no . . ." She breathed, closing her eyes again and beginning to weep.
"Your fiancé died as well." Doctor Lefeur sighed. "I am so very sorry, Mademoiselle." There was a long pause. No one tried to touch her again. "Messages have been sent to Erik, and to your father. I'm sure they will both be here shortly."
She was left alone with her grief, and she wept for nearly an hour before falling asleep in exhaustion. It couldn't have been long after that when she felt a very familiar presence looming over her bedside. Opening her eyes slowly, she could see Erik staring down at her in wonder. She smiled at him faintly, miserably, and he kneeled down to take her hand, kissing her knuckles frantically but tenderly. He was trying so very hard to be gentle. It seemed he didn't know what to say. Yet it was the first time that Isabelle noticed the ring on her hand. Pulling her fingers gently from his grasp, she looked down to the ring curiously.
"Erik, what took you so long?" She whispered without accusation. She wanted to ask about the ring, which she'd never seen before. Yet she was not overly concerned about it at the time. Obviously it was a gift someone had put on her finger while she was unconscious. It could be from anyone, and mean any number of things.
"I was at the Opera, Cherie." He explained quietly. "The messenger did not dare to interrupt the show in the middle of an act. He waited until the end of it to come and tell me you were awake."
"My father should be here soon." She noted softly, looking up at him. "Erik, my fiancé . . ."
"Yes, I know. I know everything." He said gently. "Does it hurt to know he's gone?"
"No." She replied. Finally, she looked up from the ring. He'd been staring at it as well, and now met her gaze anxiously, his eyes very near hers. She hadn't realized he'd drawn himself so close. "If you've been here so often, maybe my father knows about us."
"He does." Erik agreed. "The day of the accident, your father learned everything. He wasn't happy at first . . . but he must have seen how much I loved you. We barely left the hospital until . . . until your mother passed on. Then he came no more. I think it hurt him too much. I think he was afraid of watching you slip away too."
"He doesn't know how often you've been here then."
"No." Erik reached out, caressing the back of her hand ever so softly, as though he feared causing her pain. His fingertips brushed over her apparently new ring, and his amber-hued eyes returned to the glittering gems. "I gave this to you two months ago. It was a vow to you, and to myself, that I would wait for you to wake up no matter how long it took. I would have waited forever."
"Waited for what?" She asked, stunned. "For me?"
"Yes." He breathed. "I would have waited an eternity for you. I wanted you to wake up, and know that I was still yours. The day your father saw just how much I loved you . . . I think he blessed our relationship. That day I whispered that you had to try and wake up so you might become my bride."
Erik had never rambled like this. Usually when he could not think of what to say, or could not put something into the right words, he was silent. Now, it seemed that he simply could not be quiet at all. He kept on talking, almost droning on. Finally, her hand lifted, now without a cast, and gently touched his cheek. He kissed her palm reverently.
"Isabelle . . . Isabelle, I love you." He confessed gently, saying it aloud to her for the very first time. He'd replied to her confessions of love before with nods, or aborted sentences that made little or no commitment. It seemed that until now he hadn't been able to say them. Maybe now, having realized he might have never been given the chance to tell her straight out, he was not going to miss this second chance. "Isabelle, I want you to marry me."
"Erik, you know I would love to marry you." She smiled up at him. "I want to marry you."
Sighing, he leaned down to put his arm over her, and rested his face by the hollow of her throat, his face hidden from her. He was shaking slightly as she put her arms up around his shoulders affectionately. She said nothing, knowing he didn't want her to realize that he was crying. Yet she knew. She knew.
"I knew they were wrong." He finally breathed. "I knew that they had to be wrong. You're strong. You've always been strong."
///////-------////////////
It was another forty-five minutes later before Isabelle's father arrived at the hospital. Erik was sitting gingerly on the edge of the hospital bed, and she was sitting up, leaning back on a great big pile of pillows. A tray with some warm food had been placed in front of her, and she was carefully eating her first meal in six months. He'd cried out for joy when he saw her, interrupting her conversation with Erik to embrace her and cover her face with soft kisses. It was his turn to cry for joy and relief.
"My dear, I was so afraid . . ."
The words sounded quite amazing to Isabelle. He had never been afraid of anything that she could tell in her entire life. He had never been the kind of father who sat up with his daughter reading to her before she went to bed, and kissed her forehead at breakfast in the morning. He'd always watched her with affection from a distance. Although Isabelle never once doubted that her father loved her, this was the first time in years that he'd shown her just how deep his love ran.
"Father, Erik has asked me to marry him." She whispered when he had seemed to calm. The men in her life sat on either side of her, each holding one of her hands, her meal having been taken away by a nurse. "Please give us your blessing."
"Anything you want, Izzy." He whispered gently, using his old pet name for her. "Anything at all that you want." He looked across the mattress to Erik. "When?"
"I would say immediately, Monsieur." Erik confessed. "I don't want the chance to marry her to pass me by. Yet I want this to be done right. I want it to exceed every dream she's ever had of her wedding day." He looked towards Isabelle quietly. "A week after you leave the hospital, whenever that might be, we can be married. Surely a week would be enough time to prepare a wedding, don't you think, Monsieur? With your kind of money and influence, you can invite whomever you wish, and tell them the wedding will basically be on stand-by."
"That sounds like a terrific idea." Isabelle said excitedly, taking Erik's hand tightly between both of hers. She smiled at him adoringly, and Erik just continued to watch her with solemnly loving eyes. Those wordless emotions passed through his eyes once more, and she understood his silence.
"Then it will be arranged." Her father promised.
"There are a couple of things I must insist on, before you make your plans, father." Isabelle said with sudden boldness. "I want Erik's live-in family to be in the ceremony. I want Marguerite and Fleur to be my flower girls. I want Madeline to be my maid of honor. I want little Gerard to be the ring bearer. I want everyone who Erik loves to be in this wedding."
Erik looked away slowly, closing his eyes.
"I think they would like that." He whispered. "They came here a great deal with me. They saw my silent proposal to you when I put that ring on your finger. All of us held conversations with you during all the time you were lying there."
"All the more reason to have them in my wedding." She said proudly. "Who will be your best man, Erik?"
He looked up at her with wide eyes, startled. He'd never actually thought about who might be in the wedding ceremony other than himself and Isabelle - when he dared to think of their marriage at all. Yet the void that had been in his mind was filled immediately, and he smiled, simply shaking his head.
"Messieurs . . ." Doctor Lefeur came into the area quietly. "I am very sorry to interrupt you. Yet I must insist that you both go home to rest. You can't very well sit up all night with her. She still needs a great deal of rest, and surely Monsieur Erik, you've sat up enough times to be exhausted this week."
Sighing, Erik shook his head. Yet the doctor was right. He was tired. Even having been very adamant about being near her every day, he had to admit it had been taking its' toll on him physically. He never got enough rest. Until that very moment, though, he hadn't even been aware of his exhaustion.
"I suppose we shall leave you to your rest." He murmured, and gave her a gentle kiss on her cheek. He had never dared kiss her mouth, since the day she'd kissed him. He still would not dare to, even though they were engaged. He would not even risk dishonoring her by any of his actions. He wanted them to be married before he dare do anything at all. "Sleep well, my love."
"Mon amour . . ." Isabelle whispered, stroking his cheek briefly. With a smile, he touched hers in return, and then hurried out before his heart could convince him to stay. She needed to rest, and he knew he would only keep her awake if he stayed. For the moment, he would have to wonder about how to ask Nadir to stand by his side when he married Isabelle.
