The Fateful Expedition
When Henri and Elizabeth found me, mourning in the first grey streaks of dawn, it was to Christine that I called. I am sure that such an idea was the first they assumed, but words hold high meaning to one such as I, and to say it makes it more real, more true. The poem that I quoted was one that I had encountered long before, and of course even upon the initial reading was I struck with the similarity between the second stanza, and my own emotions. I do not know why it occurred to me to repeat it aloud, that morning—that mourning; it seemed fitting, and my instincts demanded it of me, and so did I do it.
Upon turning to face them—they are not nearly as stealthy as they think themselves to be—I was stung by their resemblance to another pair of traumatized young lovers whom I had once encountered. While I imagine it requires no imagination at all to conjure up which lovers I could possibly be speaking of, I will—for the sake of clarity, and for the sake of faultless records—state that I do, indeed, speak of Christine and the Vicomte. The way they clung to each other, trembling and weeping, and Henri trying so hard to appear brave for the sake of Elizabeth...
After that morning, I took it upon myself to learn more of what Henri did for me. Seeing him standing there with Elizabeth forced me to realize that it was possible that he would not always be around to aid me, and thus I felt that I needed to have some vague idea of his responsibilities. For, how would I find and hire a replacement, if I did not know the requirements?
"Good morning, Monsieur," was the quietly-offered greeting that he received, upon entering the kitchens for the first time in so long. Cook stood sheepishly near her stove, arms floured up to her elbows, contrasting strangely with her upper arms' ebon skin.
"And a good morning to you, as well," Erik returned, as he took his usual stool at the island. He folded his hands on the counter, and fixed a steady smile on his lips. She watched him uncertainly for a moment, and then rushed into motion, dropping her current work in favor of cooking his breakfast. It was accomplished in her usual fashion—superhumanly fast—and deposited in front of him with trembling hands.
"I am sorry it was not waiting for you, sir," she said with a curtsey. "We.. got used to not having you down here."
The smile faded at the timid behavior, and his back straightened. With stiff movements, he began to eat the food, at a much slower pace than his appetite demanded. Cook returned to her work, going about it with ridiculously delicate motions, as if she feared too quick or hard of an action would provoke him.
He endured the tense silence for only a few minutes, before dropping his fork with a clatter, wiping his mouth on the napkin that draped across his thigh, and settling a hard glare on her large form. It was only moments before she became aware of his scrutiny, and turned her head to look at him.
"Do you require something?" she asked carefully.
He considered a moment, and then nodded. "Yes, actually—I'd like to have my old cook back."
A startled look took charge of her countenance, and very cautiously, she murmured, "I have always worked here, Monsieur..."
His head shook, and he held up a hand in protest. "On the contrary, Madame, I do not believe you have. A very chatty woman used to be head cook in my kitchens. You look quite like her, but your silence suggests that she must have been replaced."
She watched him for a long moment, before a smile broke out on her lips. He responded in kind, though his smile was still rather reserved. "Monsieur, forgive me," she said in a rush. "Henri had warned us that you may not be in the best of dispositions, and so I thought—"
Erik smiled softly, and nodded, thus cutting her short. "I understand."
She relaxed visibly, as she turned back to her work, and tackled it with her usual vigor. A moment of silence passed between them, while Erik picked up his fork and began eating again. It was not long, however, until Cook began interrogating him with her inherent candor.
"Why did you not come and eat, for so long?"
He answered with a shrug. "I was busy, I suppose."
A nod, and more silence, and then, "What happened to your hands?"
With a wrinkled lip, Erik turned his eyes to his hands. He still held them awkwardly, still had a little trouble holding small items such as the fork, and was almost afraid to attempt riding César—for, with them still so tender, and the horse having gone unexercised in so long a time, he knew he would end up in more than a little pain. "I had a dispute," he replied finally. "With the mirror in my bedroom."
A raised eyebrow was granted him, this time, instead of the nod. "I see," she said. "And what of the music? Do not tell me you had a dispute with an organ, as well?"
He chuckled, and held up a finger to signal patience, as he chewed his current bite of breakfast. "That," he said finally, as his expression sobered, "was a dispute with far more than just an organ, Madame. That was a dispute with... fate, I suppose."
More silence, as she turned her attention back to her work. A sudden awkwardness overtook Erik, and he paused in his meal. He had never spoken of his music to anyone—except the obvious, Christine—and to have just done so with such ease was a suddenly disturbing thing. Now uncomfortable, he shifted on the stool, and began to pick miserably at his half-full plate.
"Are you not hungry any longer, Monsieur?"
He shook his head, and she took the plate away from him. A cup of coffee took its place, and he sipped it with a pleased expression. He was glad of the energy it would provide, for he was sure he would need it on this day; with energy came bravery, and bravery was needed in massive amounts to accomplish the things on his new agenda.
As if she had read his thoughts, Cook asked, "What are your plans for today, Monsieur?"
Another gulp of coffee and a long breath, and he felt steady enough in nerves to reply. "I intend to accompany Henri this afternoon, when he goes to see about business." As if this had not elicited enough shock from her, he plowed onward. "And prior to that, I intend to join Mrs. Lyle and her daughter for.." He winced. "..tea. I have realized that I have not paid them nearly as much attention as is due, and so thought that I should set to right that wrong immediately."
Cook nodded numbly, still looking at him with disbelief.
"And," he added, "a good stretch of the legs, for César and myself, is long overdue. I intend to fit that in, somewhere between now, my usual hour with Miss Bryan, and tea."
"Well, I suppose you had better drink that coffee quickly, then," she said with a weak attempt at a smile. Erik did not reply, except to do as she had suggested.
"We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of the dreams..."
He was not listening to her as she read. Her heartless drone of words, he had tuned out, for the sake of mental self-preservation—she did not much care for poetry, unless it were of the romantic type, and thus did she endeavor to sound as bored as possible whenever reading anything different. If he had not been so firm in his refusal to give in to her childish behavior, he would gladly have handed her something more to her liking, if only to escape the mindless progression of unfelt words.
"And out of a fabulous story, we fashion an empire's glory..."
His eyes had fastened upon the door to the Opera room. He had been within for so long... and yet, already, he longed to return. There were no more notes left to write—would not be, for years, if this piece was anything like his beloved 'Don Juan Triumphant'—but still he longed to lock himself within and never return. His heart ached for the Opera Garnier, and while returning to Paris was more work than he cared to submit himself to, the prospect of becoming entrapped within so similar a space was an appealing one. To sit before the organ, if merely for the sake of stroking its keys, to hear the quiet hum of music that only his fingers could so artfully wield—he would stroke those ivory tabs as he would have stroked her ivory skin, and listen to the notes as he would have listened to her voice.
But keys did not warm beneath his touch; keys did not look upon him with wide-eyed terror and adoration; keys did not reach out to reciprocate the touch he so lovingly bestowed upon them.
"For each age is a dream that is dying, or one that is coming to birth..."
And there was Henri. How could he lock himself away again, knowing how it disturbed his friend? To destroy himself was one thing; to drag down into damnation one of the few men who had shown him affection was quite another. His presence here was more important than he had thought it; the relief he had seen in Cook's eyes—the relief that had been almost palpable, in the stuffy air of the kitchen—upon seeing him smile... Elizabeth, as well, had cried out in joy upon receiving his invitation for a ride. César had trembled beneath his hand at the glee of an outing, had pressed his slimy lips to Erik's cheek and smeared the juices of his breakfast all across his rider's left side. The stallion's soft white coat, so neglected by the idiot grooms, had been near-grey with dirt. It had been matted, and muddy from inattention. And beneath those steady, familiar hands, it had been brought to angelic glory once more, in only a few minutes.
"But one man's soul it hath broken, a light that doth not depart..."
Things he would never have dreamed he could become attached to now tied him to life as surely as his music had tied Christine to him. The only question, now, was if the hideous reality of life would release him from its grip as easily as his own hideousness had released Christine. César was growing old; he had not been a young horse, even at the opera-house, and that had been years ago. Erik found himself floundering, even, to figure up how many it had been. They all had blurred together into a mass of boredom and self-pity, with few occasions serving as landmarks. Christine's visit, and the subsequent move to Africa, was the only events of any true weight. He could not even recall how long they had spent in London...
"Our souls with high music ringing: O men! it must ever be that we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, a little apart from ye."
And Henri would, surely, not wish to remain forever in the service of such a pitiable man. He would want a family, perhaps want to take what salary he had accumulated—which was enough to live comfortably off of for the remainder of his life—and start a quiet life somewhere, away from the anger and misery of the Opera Ghost. Surely, surely, he would leave Erik behind, just as surely as César would.
"And already goes forth the warning, that ye of the past must die."
Eyes sought out Elizabeth, fastening upon her with a dreamy scrutiny. She was, by far, the largest anomaly in his life. There was nothing for her here, and yet she refused to even consider departing. She was unlike any woman he had encountered before; hard, strong, and as quick to resort to violence as was any young man. She was intelligent, for the most part, though she did not have a very large attention span, and was almost convinced that anything she had never encountered before—as far as literature went—she would not like—and, upon being proven wrong, would endeavor to claim she had never foreseen a dislike of the material.
He was near-certain she had seen him without his mask. Even without any real recollection of what transpired after his fall to the temptation of destroying the mirror, he was certain—Henri had aided him; it was not a far cry from that, to assume that Elizabeth had as well. And yet, no look of disgust crossed her face, nor even lingered in her eyes, when she looked upon him.
"Great hail! we cry to the comers, from the dazzling unknown shore; bring us hither your sun and your summers, and renew our world as of yore; you shall teach us your song's new numbers, and things that we dreamed not before: Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, and a singer who sings no more."
The book was shut with force, and she raised her eyes to meet his own. He could see the rebellion shining in their depths; she would refuse to read anything more, this day.
Before she had the pleasure of refusing, however, he stood up. "I think that is enough for today, do you not agree?"
He saw and felt the anger flare in her; she knew as well as he did that he had purposefully stunted her attempt at mutiny. With a smile fighting desperately to lift the corners of his lips, he turned his back to her, to walk towards his bedroom. "I am going into town with Henri, this afternoon," he said over his shoulder. "You are more than welcome to accompany us."
As he unlocked and opened the door to his bedroom, he was kind enough to pretend he had not heard the vulgarities she had so comfortably spewn at his back.
Erik found himself wishing he had thought to drink something far stronger than coffee.
The town, he had expected to be much smaller than it was. Natives were everywhere, crowding the streets so thickly that the trio—Elizabeth, Henri, and Erik—had to urge their mounts to shove the pedestrians out of the way. César took to the job willingly; he was a good-natured horse, but had learned early on that his size was a useful tool, and was not at all afraid to exploit it. The courser fell into pace behind the ivory stallion; its wiry frame was not as suitable for forcing its way through a crowd. Elizabeth's horse—a mount she had never before touched, having grown used to riding the courser—followed Henri's gelding, gnawing anxiously on its bit.
When they reached the pub where Henri was to meet with this current business associate, the horses were tied up to a hitching post—Erik felt as if he were existing within one of the periodicals from their London days; a part of him half-expected to hear gunshots ring out, answered by the whooping cry of the American savages. Henri led the way within, and was kind enough to give pause at the doorway, while Erik's eyes adjusted to the shift in light. The pub was dim, within, and Erik's eyes had not yet become accustomed enough to the African sunlight to handle abrupt changes in lighting.
When at last his eyes did adjust, he found himself looking across a smoky expanse of tables and armchairs, with a bar sprawled along one corner. Trophies adorned the walls; the heads of every African creature that he had read of now stared at him with glassy eyes from their lofty perches. Cigar smoke clouded the room, and tickled Erik's nostrils relentlessly. Elizabeth pressed a hand to her lips, and gave a polite cough.
"Henri!"
All three turned to find a man—who, to Erik, looked astonishingly similar to Lord Pembroke—coming across the room towards them. Henri walked to meet him, and the two met in a jovial handshake. Words were exchanged, and they began to walk back across the room, towards a circle of armchairs where several other cigar-wielding men sat. Elizabeth tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and propelled him forwards. As they neared the circle, the men all glanced up from their drinks and cigars, and fell into uncomfortable silence.
Henri shifted his weight, and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen.. Might I present my Master, Monsieur... Erik." No surname was given; the two had never discussed what would suffice, should ever a name be needed—but, luckily, the men did not seem to notice. Each offered their hands, before allowing Erik to take a chair a little outside of the circle; Elizabeth drew a chair near to his, and sat as well.
"So, this is the 'eccentric Frenchman', hm?"
Erik's eyes turned to the man speaking; he was the oldest of the men in the circle, though Erik predicted he was younger than Pembroke. The man's gaze did not waver, and Erik granted a nod of assent, though it was not, in truth, required.
"A lion, hm?" Bushy grey eyebrows were furrowing over his ice-blue eyes.
Again, Erik gave a slight nod, his own yellow eyes locked onto the man's.
"Well, we're all hunters here, aren't we boys?" The man looked around the circle of uncomfortable men, and then back to Erik. The defensive anger rising in Henri was tangible; Erik wished he were closer, so that he could grant the boy a touch on the sleeve, to calm him. A smirk grew, beneath those icy eyes, as the next words were spoken: "With the exception of your young lady, there are none here who would be disturbed by your scars; take off that silly mask."
That comment about Elizabeth, so innocently thrown in, was Erik's savior. Elizabeth's pretty voice was flung into the smoky air: "Please, gentlemen, I've no desire to see such a sight." She pressed a hand to her throat, and gave a little giggle. It was all Erik could do not to snort.
"Yes, gentleman—please." Henri stepped forward to take a chair, and accepted a drink from one of the other men. "Let us get down to business, shall we?"
As they rattled on into their talk, Erik tried desperately to pay attention, and found it impossible. Music rose to his mind again without thought; his run-in with the mirror, that acceptance of a decline into total insanity and misery, had somehow given back his gift. And as the music played, so did the words to another poem begin to echo through his mind.
As the swallow glides over the seaI long to flee to distant lands;
But my wish is vain, a cruel girl
Has bound my heart with three gold strands.
His head cocked to one side, as eyes followed the lazy curls of smoke in the air. A violin sang along with that curl, its note swooping and shivering along with the air currents. Elizabeth leaned over and whispered something in his ear; a pittering of flute notes was all he heard.
I love her too much; I am her martyr,
With three gold strands she snared my heart.
Elizabeth was whispering again, and giggling; a rich and golden harp chord accompanied that laugh. He longed to hear her sing, and hoped never to hear it again. He wanted to raise his voice in song with her; he wanted to rip his vocal chords from his throat. He wanted to... He wanted to sing with Christine. His mind sought to replace Christine with Elizabeth, but his heart argued futilely against the act. "No wonder I feel as if I am in pieces," he whispered.
Pieces. Pieces, like the mirror. His blood, entwined amongst hardwood floor with glittering bits of reflection, making a beautiful portrait of A-chords and heartstrings.
Oh! If I could only untie my binding chain,
Forget my despair, unfold my wings.
But no, I would much rather die in pain
Than sever you, my three strands of gold.
Henri was standing, and so were the other men, to shake his hand farewell. Elizabeth tugged Erik to his feet, and again looped her arm through his. "Are you alright?" she murmured in his ear.
Murmuring, like a long, quiet cello note; or, was that a bassoon? How could one confuse a cello and a bassoon? He shook his head; the smoke was wrapping around his eyes, around his mind, and he felt as if he would never find the way to heaven if he were trapped amongst the ashen twilight of this pitiful place.
"You should come hunting with us, Henri," a man was saying, and the others all voiced their assent. Henri was trying his best to politely decline, but the men insisted. Henri turned to Erik, eyebrows raised—two perfect eyebrows, symmetrical and without fault. If Elizabeth had not had his arm so firmly entwined with her own, he would have raised a hand to his porcelain brow.
"Monsieur Erik? Shall we go hunting, next week?"
A snowy expanse clouded his vision; a tiny cabin, on the barest clutches of civilization, with the moonlight shining down on it and betraying its expensive make, despite its humble style. The dark forests of the northlands stretched behind it, while the light of a town glowed on the horizon to one side. He could envision it with very little imagination at all.
He had not been to the cold, cruel north since the days of his youth; the fairs had passed through, once.
"Yes," he breathed. "I think.. it is time.. to hunt."
While the old men congratulated one another on their imagined victory, Henri and Elizabeth locked gazes, and shivered.