I had truly forgotten how much I loved being in his company, but that day he was oddly detached from the music. He would always throw himself into the song, his perfect voice floating in the room; it sometimes felt as if I were drowning in the music, but his voice and his presence would always hold me and secure me against the music's violent flow. But this was the first time I had heard him very nearly miss a beat, the first time he sang so apathetically. Even when he played the violin there was no emotion behind it. It was almost as perfect as ever, but it was so empty that I felt like weeping.
After he left, I slumped heavily onto the divan, feeling as if I had been hollowed-out. What was it that had changed Erik so much? At first I decided that he was most likely bored with the material. We had gone over Faust so many times that even I knew it forwards and backwards. Yes, I thought as I tried to convince myself of it, that's it, Erik's bored. . . Exhausted, I laid down on the divan and closed my eyes.
I sighed when there was an insistent knock at the door. The ballet rehearsals must have finished, I thought lazily. "Not right now," I called. "Can it wait until tomorrow?"
There was a pause of indecision, and the knock came once more. Sighing again, I swung my legs off of the divan and told Meg to come in. "Oh!" I exclaimed in surprise when my visitor entered. Instantly I recognized the Persian and began apologizing profusely. "I'm sorry, Nadir, I thought you were my friend Meg -"
He held up a hand to quiet me, watching me warily. "Good evening, Christine. I hope I am not disturbing you?" I shook my head dumbly and offered him a chair, which he took.
"If it's not too rude to ask, Nadir. . . what are you doing here?"
Nadir smirked slightly and relaxed his tense shoulders. "I needed to talk to you." I waved for him to continue, knowing what our subject would be immediately. "What are you doing back at the Opera House?"
"I didn't want to spend my time with Raoul knitting or sewing; I wanted to keep myself busy so I came back to the opera house -"
"Right." He chuckled softly and crossed his arms. His eyes bore into me almost viciously, and I tried in vain to return the intensity of his stare. After a second or two, he said shortly. "Don't hurt him. He's already experienced more pain than either of us could ever imagine in his entire life."
This was what I was expecting, but he still managed to catch me off-guard. My fingers traced a crease in my skirts, my head bowed. "Nadir, may I ask you something?" He assented with a grunt. "He came in a couple of times before, yesterday. . . he had a full mask on, though, so I didn't notice until today. . . He had scratches on his face - new ones and old ones alike. Some looked like they were going to bleed at the softest touch. . . They pained him - I know it; I didn't think when I was doing it, but I touched one of the scratches and. . . What happened to him?"
At first Nadir was silent, and indecision danced in his eyes. He touched his temple and leaned back in the chair, piecing together a reply. "There were times," he said finally, "when Erik's own grief got the better of him. He. . . has always been a rather violent person. . ."
There was a finality in his tone while he let the words hang in the air. Of course, I could think of nothing to say to that anyway; nothing to build upon. I knew then that I had caused all of Erik's grief and suffering, even if Nadir had tried to spare me the knowledge. There was so much about me to hate, that I wondered how anyone could even begin to think of loving me. I was the source of so much pain. . . Could I even hope to heal it all? It would definitely need more than the usual kind word and gentle touch. . .
Could I now tell Erik my feelings for him, knowing I had given him so much agony? It seemed as if he would be happy if I left him alone to his own life. Even if I told him, would my love for him be reciprocated? Could he - would he - still love me too? Erik had taken on the role of my mentor once again. Was that a sign that he would no longer think of me intimately?. . .
I was aware of Nadir rising to leave. He bowed slightly in a sort of mock politeness and opened the door. "You're going to hurt him," the Persian said softly, his back to me, "even if you don't mean to. Just. . . try to ease the blows, all right?"
And with that, he left me alone with my thoughts.
Nadir:
"Erik, what are you doing?"
He looked at me mutely, that dream-like quality in his eyes. Slowly he returned to reality and seemed a bit surprised. "I'm re-stringing my violin," he explained in a hushed voice, as if he were trying to preserve the quiet that had fallen in his home. "I. . . fear I have been putting it through much - abuse, lately."
Erik smiled slightly, though his expressing was still a plaintive one. He plucked one of the strings gently and set about tightening and loosening them. Concerned, I watched his face for any sort of sign, but, like always, his face and the mask that hid it was calm and indifferent. I glanced over the visible scratches on his left cheek and noted with a frown that they still looked raw. Still, it was apparent he didn't want to be disturbed with my lectures of keeping those scratches clean as he busied himself, so I decided not to bother him. I had only wanted to make sure he was all right and, that done, I decided to leave.
"Daroga," he called huskily, surprising me with the title. It seemed as if it had been a while since he called me that, when the last time had only been yesterday. I mused that Christine's mere presence had changed him once again. . . I came back and waited for him to continue whatever it was he wanted to say. Erik hesitated a moment, and I saw him bite his lower lip before he plunged into the question. "I. . . Do - do you. . . think it's foolish that I should - that I should still love someone who. . . will never love me in return?"
I watched him quizically, thinking perhaps he wasn't serious. But as he stared at his violin distantly, I knew that he question was in earnest. He seemed so innocent sometimes, even if he was only a few years younger than myself. And now that same naivety I once saw in my Reza was sparkling in his gold eyes. His hands barely shook as he waited for my answer, his head tilted slightly to the side.
"No. . ." I heard myself say automatically. "No, I don't think it is. It's only foolish if you use that love to hurt someone." Did I imagine seeing him wince? . . . Erik nodded once more and pretended to work on the violin. But when I turned to leave again, I saw the glint of gold in the candle light.
"Good night, Nadir."
"Good night, Erik. . ."
It was a little maddening, I mused as I rowed across the glassy surface of the lake, seeing that resignation in Erik. That passion for Christine had deadened all of his other emotions and caused him to withdraw from all else. There was sadness and a sort of desperation in his eyes as he came to conclusions that no one else thought of. He was using his impassiveness as a shield against all of the other feelings that whirled around him; he was re-building the walls around his soul. Though they were nowhere near as strong as they had been previously, those guards were more vicious, if not more dangerous. There was a broken mass in his chest where his heart had once been, and the broken shards still seemed to float in that darkness. He would never be the same - his apathy and passion for that girl had reached a peak and seemed to be staying there. . .