So, here I am again, after another good half-a-year's respite. It's funny, because every time I post a chapter for this story, I lose interest and decide to abandon it. And then some person somehow stumbles across it five months later, leaves me a review, and my muse returns. And besides, I didn't want to end the story where Chapter four leaves it. I at least want to make my point before I give up. ;) And though all the people who once read this story are possibly long gone, and have lost interest, here is my next offering.

Chapter 5

Julian Levoire slowly put his hand against the back of the chair to steady himself. Don't fall, don't fall, he told himself over and over. With even more caution, he leaned forward, sticking his head and upper body past the window frame and into the crisp morning air. He would hang the windchime back on its perch, he would. The memory of his father's words two days ago was far too fresh in his mind to be ignored.

"You've knocked it down, again? If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't want it up there!"

"Erik, I'm sorry! It was an accident." Julian called the man Erik, because that was how he always referred to himself. By the time Julian had learned that other children usually called the man who had fathered them "Papa," it was too late to break his habit.

"Of course it was," was the reply. The edge had left his voice, but the weariness was still there. "Just like they all are." How tired his papa looked, now, as so often before. Some bitterness returned. "Well, see that you don't let it fall again. I am not going to replace it for you forever, you know."

Julian clenched his teeth and focused on the task at hand. He wouldn't disappoint Erik this time. He tried to turn his head to see the little hook where the chime hung. It was directly over the window, so that, when the pane was opened, the wind blew through and made is sound so prettily. Julian loved the sounds of the windchime. It was the most soothing thing he knew, next to Erik's voice. He loved to watch the little pipes strike each other, glancing off one another's shiny surfaces. They were each decorated with such lovely little animals. Erik had made it for him, and hung it in the window to bring them comfort on lonely days.

But the wind did not blow every day. And sometimes Julian would sit and cry until Erik stood and touched the chimes with the tips of his long, white fingers. And then they would dance to life again and play their sweet music. And when Erik was out, on the roof, where he liked to draw, or out in the town running errands, Julian would sit on the floor and cry for hours because he wanted to hear the chimes. The neighbors used to come and pound on the door, telling him to stop the racket, and the old women and maids who had agreed to watch over him in his father's absence would scold and screech. Of course, the scolding partly had to do with the fact that Julian always managed to tangle up their sewing or spill his food all over the floor. Few of them ever returned to take care of him a second time. And Erik had sighed and told him that, if he continued to misbehave, Erik would be forced to stay home all the time. "And then who would do our shopping and buy you food and toys?" he had asked, and Julian was sad, because he knew that Erik could not take him into the town; every time he did, Julian always created some kind of disaster. Either he was knocking over fruit stands, or bumping into old ladies. Oh, he didn't mean to, but he couldn't help it. As it was, Erik could barely leave for half an hour, for fear of something happening to Julian, which made running errands extremely difficult.

Then Julian had discovered that, if he made a pole out of things he found lying around, spending long hours tying the odds and ends together behind his nursemaids' backs, he could reach the chimes from where he sat, making them dance all by himself. But sometimes his pole got caught on the little strings that held the chimes together and brought the whole thing tumbling down onto the windowsill. And then the pretty chimes cracked and Erik had to fix them.

Well, this time, Erik was sitting on the roof—it was a flat roof, with wide, even shingles—drawing his buildings, because there was not room in their tiny flat to spread out all of his plans and measuring tools, whereas the roof was ideal. And Julian had begged and begged to be allowed to stay in the apartment, as he was afraid of heights. He had promised to be good and not to get in any trouble. He had sworn he would hardly move a muscle of his body, and Erik seemed to like it when Julian showed initiative and responsibility, so he had agreed at last. And now, Julian would not disrupt his father's work just because he had been clumsy again. He would replace the chimes himself. He needed only to slip the little string over the hook, so the chimes could hang. Julian felt sure that, if he just showed a little more confidence in himself, he could accomplish all the things he currently found so challenging. He would grow up to be strong and graceful, like Erik, who never spilled juice while he was pouring it or fell down the stairs. He craned his neck further to see the little metal protrusion, only barely keeping his balance, and reached out a slow, shaking hand to reaffix the windchime. He was concentrating furiously, and his fingers clenched so tightly around the string, that his nails dug into his palms, and he could feel his hand sweating. Carefully, Julian extended his hand and slid the string over the hook.

But the hook was suddenly not there. Or, it had moved, rather. It was not where he had been sure it was. And, without anything to halt the motion of his extended hand, Julian overcompensated, lost his balance, and tumbled into space. He only vaguely heard the sound of the chair tipping and crashing to the floor. Only vaguely felt the windowsill strike his back as he fell. The air rushed past him, and he heard himself scream.

Like a hare, startled from its burrow, Erik shot off of the roof, unthinking, dropping lightly onto the windowsill beneath, where he skidded for a moment, before letting himself drop further. The roof was easily accessible from his bedroom window, for someone with a little climbing talent, and the drop was not far. The drop from the second-story window the ground was a bit more intimidating, but Erik was too frantic to care for his own safety.

Of course, following the scream—all to easily recognizable as his son's—he was already too late. All he could do was watch as Julian tumbled ahead of him and landed—thank God!—in a laundry basket fortunately situated below the window. The less fortunate woman who had been sorting her laundry, screeched in surprise and fell away from the basket, landing unceremoniously on her backside on the gravel path. Erik dropped lithely to the ground moments after, frightening the woman still more, and lifted Julian out of the basket, clutching him to his chest protectively in one motion.

"Oh, God," Erik moaned, the shaking of Julian's body matching the wild beating of his own heart. He sank slowly to the ground, leaning desperately against the side of the building for support. "Oh, God," was all he could say.

The hapless washerwoman was not similarly afflicted. "Monsieur Levoire! I should have known. Who else would accompany children falling from the sky!" She had righted herself, and was haughtily dusting her clothes off with an offended air. "With all the trouble that boy causes daily, one would think you'd keep a better watch on him. Little devil, that one is."

"I would thank you, Madame, not to liken my son to the devil!" Erik found his voice at last, after several minutes of labored breathing. These daily—near hourly—ordeals could not be having a good effect on his heart. Or his nerves for that matter.

"Hmph," the woman sniffed, "If not the son, then perhaps the father…" She did not notice how Erik's hands clenched tightly into fists, nor how his eyes narrowed darkly. "Imagine raising a child so horribly. The poor mother must be rolling in her grave, if indeed she be dead." This same woman had made it blatantly clear, on her first meeting with Erik, that she found Julian's motherless condition to be highly questionable.

Hauling himself to his feet, Julian still clutched in his arms, Erik drew himself to his full height. For once, he took pleasure in seeing the ill-disguised fear that lit her eyes as he did. "I would thank you still further to keep his mother out of this," he spat. Where Christine was concerned, Erik was not certain what he felt. If she had truly cast aside her own son, allegedly because Erik had sired him, well, that hurt. It hurt like hell. It hurt like something gashing open your skin and then pouring lemon juice on the wound and jabbing sharp, little pebbles into the exposed flesh. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to hate her. What woman would not be ashamed of a son sired by him, after all. And anyway, she was his Christine, whatever she chose to do, and he would not have any dishonourable implications aimed at her person.

The woman simply swallowed hard, collected her laundry basket, and hastened away from the scene. By this time, spectators had thrust their heads out of the windows and were gaping openly. Julian had his head buried against Erik's chest, and Erik desperately wished he, himself, had somewhere—someone—against which to lean, to hide. But there was no one, so he pretended not to see the curious stares that followed him back into the lodging house, pretended not to hear the whispered words exchanged.

Once inside the relative safety of the house's walls, Erik immediately sought out Monsieur Dufour, the owner of the place, and the landlord. "Monsieur Dufour," he greeted crisply, on being ushered into the man's office.

"Ah, Monsieur Levoire, what can I do for you?"

Erik had chosen the name Levoire by tossing his throwing knife at a newspaper and choosing the name closest to where it landed. The paper had been open to the obituaries. The knife had left a nick in the surface of Nadir's dining table. "Monsieur, I must insist on being moved to the first floor. It is simply not safe for Julian."

"I assume that racket just now was you and your boy, then?" Dufour looked up and gave Erik a weary smile. It was an expression adopted by him out of habit, and not true joviality. "Monsieur Levoire, we have been over this many times. The first floor is where my more…respectable tenants live."

"I'll get you the money, whatever you ask."

"It's not that Monsieur, it's just… The first floor houses all the important facilities and rooms. And my guests, they feel…uncomfortable in your presence."

"I am barely out of my room," Erik protested, trying to remain civil. It would hardly do to insult his landlord. God, but it had been ages since Erik had been answerable to such a man, and he found the matter left him with a sour taste in his mouth. "I disturb no one where I can help it. I reside above them, as it is. Is that so different from residing in the adjoining chamber?"

"You and I know there is no difference," Dufour continued patiently, "But people are superstitious. They are wary. If they feel it better when you restrict yourself to the upper floor, how can I deny them that? You are lucky I allow you to live here at all. If I am not mistaken, you were having considerable trouble finding lodgings when you came to me. And anyway, what about the roof you treasure so much? How would you reach it from the first floor?"

"We practically live in the attic," Erik retorted. "And the roof is merely advantageous, not necessary. I hardly need it to live."

"But I wouldn't want to ask Monsieur to give it up…"

"I am giving it up myself!" Erik shifted Julian in his arms and freed his hand run it through his hair. "I am throwing it away. Take it. I care only about the safety of my son."

"If you care so much about that, Monsieur Levoire, perhaps you had better teach him to behave himself better." Dufour let a little of his impatience and displeasure show through his pleasant façade. Erik closed his eyes, enjoying the momentary respite this brought, staring at the mercilessly blank backs of his eyelids, before facing his problems once again.

"Fine," he said, waving a hand through the air distractedly. "I can see we are going nowhere. Thank you for your time and patience." It was all he could do not to bring his fist crashing down against the man's desk, splintering the wood as he had done to so many such flimsy tables in his time. It was all he could do not to choke the life out of the man for his pigheaded insistence. But instead, he shook his head clear, replaced his hand under Julian's legs to support them, and carried the boy upstairs.

Once in the room, Julian burst into sobs. He curled up on the bed and buried his face in his arms. Erik seated himself on a little chair by the bed and glanced around their dismal room. It was bedroom and sitting room in one, with only one little side chamber for dressing and bathing. A little room where Erik spent hours daily trying to get Julian to put on his own clothes and brush his own hair, something the boy seemed determined not to do. Finally, the shrill crying wore down his frayed nerves. "Stop that noise," he barked, his silver voice turned harsh and cold.

Julian whimpered and sat up, rubbing his eyes miserably and hiccupping in distress. "Just what were you thinking," Erik demanded, the cold terror that had gripped him slowly melting into inexpressible rage. His eyes took in the tumbled chair, the open window. "It had better not be that damned windchime again! I swear to God, Julian, I am sorry I ever made it!"

"I just wanted to…it fell…" Julian practically whispered, trembling in fear. He looked around the room frantically and was met with a terrible sight. The windchime in question lay on the floor, shattered into hundreds of pieces, the clay shards winking in the bright, cold sunlight. The little pipes were broken at jagged angles and the little animals twisted beyond recognition. The head of a little deer gazed forlornly up at him, its tiny legs broken into several pieces, and its torso nowhere in sight. At this, Julian burst into tears anew.

Erik, all his patience completely disintegrated, stood angrily, knocking over his seat in the process. "Julian, for God's sake, what is the matter with you?" He raked his hands through his hair, on the verge of pulling it all out. "I tell you not to do something, and the next day you do it! I teach you how to take care of something, and five minutes later you have forgotten! You cannot walk five yards without upsetting some stool or barrel or vase or what have you. I must fear to leave you be for a few minutes lest you wreak some new havoc in my absence, and even in my presence you are no better. It is only that, with me around, at least someone is there to compensate for your ceaseless stupidity!"

Quite at his wits end, Erik seized up the fallen chair and hurled it at the wall. The legs cracked and splintered, and the whole thing struck the wooden floor with a loud thud. He strode across the room, and brought his heel mercilessly down on the pieces of the windchime, churning the clay into the floor. The deer's head bucked und crumbled to dust. Then he kicked at and scattered the tiny shards, sending them skittering across the wooden planks. Julian stifled his sobs only through fear. His large blue-gray eyes filled with enormous tears.

Unable even to bear the sight of the offending child any longer, half for anger and half for shame, Erik flung himself out the large window and, grabbing the edge of the flat roof with both hands, heaved himself onto its balcony-like perimeter. The wide, flat space was ideal for sitting on, and it provided an unequaled view of the outskirts of Paris on the one side, and an idyllic country scene on the other. Both made for excellent subjects where painting was concerned. In fact, sometimes Erik managed to sell a painting of two, although he mostly lived off the little bit of money he made selling his architectural plans, no doubt to bumbling, uninspired fools who were mangling the seeds of his creativity and turning them into mundane living spaces. Even so, his talents in this field were so extraordinary, he always managed to find someone who was willing to pay for his ideas. Extraordinary, yes. That was an apt description for everything about him and his hapless son. Although Erik found that the word, when used to describe him, usually carried an unusually negative connotation.

Erik had decided, after some time and with no little amount of urging on Nadir's part, to move out of the house on the lake. He had said, after all, that he wanted Julian to grow up normally, which simply could not be accomplished underground. He had pooled all his earnings and savings together to afford this small, unexceptionable room in an out of the way lodging house. Even had he wanted to acquire a better-paying, more respectable job—ha! Even had he been able to find someone to hire him—it would never have worked out, what with Julian needing constant attention and supervision. It was getting harder and harder to find nannies for him; the boy's reputation in the town had about the same effect on people as a rumor of plague. As it was, they scraped by, and Erik would not really have been so unhappy. It was rather novel to live in the sunlight again, and he would have gladly bourn the strange glances and rumors that followed him wherever he went, for Julian's sake. And yet, the boy did not seem to be improving at all for it.

Several years had passed since his discussion with the daroga. And in those years, Erik had struggled endlessly to follow his friend's advice. He had encouraged Julian to try new things on his own, had sometimes refused him assistance in an effort to provoke the boy's will to learn, and even allowed him to suffer the consequences of his sometimes incomprehensible clumsiness and inattention, forcing him to understand the disastrousness of such things. And none of it had worked.

Julian had finally learned to walk with much coaxing and many failed attempts and tears. And yet, whatever joy that event had brought Erik, it was quickly overshadowed by the fear of new ways for Julian to create mischief. No fragile object was safe within his grasp; tables and cabinets fell prey to his stumbling gait, and, when in his hands, all objects seemed suddenly covered with grease, so great was the ease with which they slipped from his grasp.

Love, unbounded love, had tempered Erik's naturally fiery disposition. At first. But sleepless nights, restless with fear and concern, slowly took their toll. Days of constant alertness and trepidation wore him down. He had lost weight, his clothes hung off his frame more than usual, and the dark holes in which his eyes were set deepened, and darkened further. His eyes were bloodshot. He was haunted by constant migraines. But worse than all of this, far worse, was the voice that whispered in his head, ceaseless and unforgiving, 'What am I doing wrong?'

What mothers would listen to his complaints and concerns berated Julian for his disobedience and laziness. Laughing, congenial fathers, turning on their barstools to face him, and then turning quickly away, recommended beating him into submission, an idea that shook Erik to his very core with awful memories of his own boyhood. The letters and occasional visits from Nadir proved only to be more harrowing. Nadir had a kind of infinite patience with Julian, which, while not always sympathetic, seemed not to question too deeply anything that he did. It was this quiet understanding and acceptance that had led Erik to confide in the Persian man in the first place, all those years ago in Tehran. But now it only infuriated him. Could Nadir not see that something was wrong? That something had to be done?

Julian, with six years behind him, could not solve the mysteries of a knife and fork. Occasionally Erik was forced to spoon-feed him, like an infant, for the child had, most unfortunately, more his father's temperament than his mother's, and frustration often led him to terrible fits of temper. He couldn't write or draw; he could not even hold a pen correctly. And Erik tried to understand. He used to comfort the child by ridiculing his own chaotic handwriting, which generally succeeded in lifting Julian's spirits. But in trying to find similarities between himself and his son, Erik only seemed to find an ever-increasing gap. And always the same questions.

Erik sat, bent nearly double over, and sobbed. Why could he not raise Julian? What was he doing wrong? Why could he not seem to manage even the simplest of tasks, such as teaching the boy to feed himself? Was he doomed to forever be the worst father on the face of the earth? Pounding his fist into the stone, Erik ignored the jolt of pain that flew up his arm and into his shoulder. He pounded again and again until is hand was numb and bloodied, whereupon he threw himself down upon the hard surface and wept bitterly.

AN: So what did you think? As usual, feel free to leave a completely honest review. This chapter was a big step for me, and I could easily have overlooked something. If you find something that you think should be revised, just tell me, and I'll look into it. I've been warned about consistency problems--and I totally agree with this. Is this better? Or are they still there? If they are, what are they specifically/how can I fix them? I've tried hard to fix grammatical errors, but I still have no beta reader and these things sometimes escape me.