From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.

-'Alone', Edgar Allen Poe

Chapter Fifty Seven: All I loved, P.1

Eric

My fingers trembled like startled sparrows.

So great was my excitement, that I could hardly keep my digits steady enough to select the correct ingredients.

"You must take hold of yourself, Eric! This is important!" I grumbled aloud as I began to collect the various mixing containers and chemicals that I would need to complete the most important drug I had ever concocted.

"Tonight is the night that you shall offer up our soul to our goddess, our dove."

"Eric's Angel!"

In the semi-darkness of a small room in my underground home, I set up the equipment for my special elixir. The walls were lined with glasses, jars, boxes, containers, and packages of all shapes, sorts, and sizes, and the rest of the cramped space was occupied by cluttered cupboards and a small wooden table in the center of the room.

The tiny laboratory smelled of spicy, exotic herbs and the burnt remains of experiments gone awry. A few of my precious parcels were scribbled with imprecise labels in my own disjointed hand, dating back to the dark days of my life, the terrible days just after Mitra had left me.

The days that gave birth to my opus.

Memories washed over me like a rising flood on an unexpecting shore, drowning me in their bittersweet wake.

…

Mitra had been beautiful, and the music she had drawn forth from her little violin had brought me to tears.

I worshiped my royal Indian goddess during those few weeks of bliss that she graciously bestowed upon me with a fervor unmatched by even the most pious of saints. I attended her as more of a slave than a captor, fetching her every whim and listening to her mournful music with rapture in my veins as I planned my next maneuver to seduce her into my bed. I was truly addicted to that one goal, and saw nothing else besides it.

For the first time in my wretched existence, I began to believe that I might find a way to make love to a woman! It was a hope beyond any I had ever known, ever dreamt of in my lonely time spent on this tiring mortal plane.

I abandoned my chores, I neglected my duties as the ship's physician, and I spent every waking moment captivated by my love and my desire for the lush pomegranate of a woman that was enshrined in my cramped quarters. I doted upon my prize as though she was the last woman on earth and I last man, desperate to win her affections.

My dreams, alas, were not to be.

My first love became so violently disgusted when she first discovered my accursed, horrific infirmity that she flung herself from the small window of my cabin, rather than spend another moment in my satanic presence.

Thus the depths of the sea that I both loved and hated welcomed my first love into their bitter embrace. By the time that my rowboat reached the place of her demise, her limp body had lost any vestige of the heavenly soul that had given voice to her little violin.

The strength of her will had been so great that she had drown herself without a weight to carry her down into the cluttered depths Davy Jones' locker.

It was on that very day, as I cradled her sodden, lifeless frame, that I resolved that I should never again love a woman with a stronger spirit than my own. The pain of her loss drove me near to the edges of utter insanity.

How I had mourned her loss!

Night after night, the crew of the Vanora was enthralled by the dirges I composed upon the lost princess's little violin. Night after night, I vowed that I would someday conquer the uncharted lands of love that taunted me over the dawning horizon of each new dreary day.

And out of my fierce determination for victory over the abstract idea of love, was born my greatest masterpiece.

Don Juan Triumphant.

I had once read a detailed review of Mozart's original 'Don Giovanni' in my father's house. Intrigued at the time, I had convinced one of the servants to purchase the music for it and had been mesmerized by the magnificent opera. But breathtaking though it was, the plot had never left me satisfied.

When Mitra abandoned me, I drew inwards for months, madly composing an idyllic world of make believe where Mitra lived and loved me as Don Giovanni, and where every woman on earth was just as easily charmed into my bed and into my heart.

But devastated by Mitra's betrayal, I had believed that I would never see love of such a magnitude while my repulsive body yet drew breath. I had thought that I would only know such sacred emotions in the world of my compositions, a world where I could bend the actors to my every whim and a world where it would never be my heart that was shattered.

Yet wonder of wonders, I was now on the verge of just one such impossibility, for tonight my beloved would willingly come into my embrace!

I saw in hindsight that the love I had felt for the mysterious Indian princess was merely a dull foreshadowing of the love that now overflowed my soul. It was much akin to comparing a delicate sparrow to a pure, brilliant dove. Both were delightful and pleasing to the eye in their perfect avian manners, but the dove was obviously far superior.

…

Reminded of my sweet dove, my demure and alluring beloved, I was started from my nogistalgic reminiscence. I quickly returned to my pharmaceutical pursuits, mindful of the quickly passing minutes.

With increasing urgency, I began to crush dried Siberian ginseng and grind several fresh leaves of forskolin with my pestle and mortar.

Many of the containers I selected with practiced grace bore faded, peeling labels that were written in a flowing Farsi script, for most of my drugs had been obtained during my rosy hours, back in the days of Manderzan.

They brought back memories of the happy days in of my little Azadeh, and the warmth and almost fatherly joy she had brought to my lonely life during her abbreviated stay on earth.

…

It was during my seclusion in Vanora's dim, womb-like depths that the inevitable finally came to pass.

The great ship was captured at long last.

Apparently, Mitra's threats of her father's retribution had come true, for a massive warship at last did battle with our faithful lady after nearly three months of eluding its clutches. Avenging the loss of one of his favorite children, the Rajah had had De Tham hanged from the main mast of our beloved ship as she perished by flame in one of India's many ports.

As I caught my last glance of the ship that I loved while I was chained and marched into a dark prison cell, I found that I mourned more deeply for the 'grand lady' herself than I did for her captain.

Though De Tham had been, in many respects, the nearest thing I had ever known to a father, I had known from the start that any kindness he showed me was an attempt to procure my services. When he bought me at age eleven from the gypsies, I had been intended as a sort of entertainment for the crew. My voice had grown considerably since I had fled my mother's nightmarish home, and I could now transfix entire audiences with a few notes of my unearthly voice.

To this day, I sometimes wonder just why I was blessed with such a gift.

Yet whatever it's origins, and whatever its calming effects on the rough, uncivilized crew of the Vanora, it was my voice but rather my mind that saved me from a life of being bought and sold from one ship to another like a foreign curiosity.

After one particularly unsuccessful heist, the great pirate captain himself had ordered me brought to his quarters to entertain him. I was presented bound with ropes, for I had mad several nearly successful attempts at escape, even injuring the first mate, before coming to learn that I was surrounded by nothing more than an unending sea of accursed water. While I secretly lamented my difficulty as I sang, De was planning to enjoy my relaxing abilities one final time before bartering me away to pay a debt he had incurred.

Yet when I had finished, the languid man entirely forgot to excuse me from the room, but began instead to bemoan his inability to formulate a successful plan for capturing the ship that he was currently following. He rambled for hours, and proceeded to get a bit drunk before I made a simple suggestion about his tactics that would drastically alter my young life.

So impressed was De Tham when the idea actually worked, that he gave me my 'freedom' and as many manuscripts as I could carry off of the newly conquered vessel. (For I was free to do as I wished so long as no other member of the crew objected, and I did not leave the decks of the Vanora till the day I died.)

Thus I became the ship's galley boy and general entertainer, spinning tales and singing my songs for the weary crew at night after a tiring raid. As I grew and read every document to be found on the ships we pillaged while pestering the aging doctor aboard the 'grand lady', I learned more and more about the art of doctoring wounds, eventually replacing the old greybeard when he died.

And though I always remained grateful to De for his unusual act of kindness on that day so long ago, I was constantly reminded by his cruel actions and words that my life was an uncertain thing with the coming of each new sunrise. Perhaps that was why I felt so little regret upon witnessing his fiery demise.

I was a bit more fortunate, for I was graciously allowed to keep my life as I rotted away for nearly an entire year in the diseased hell that was the Rajah's imperial prison. Stripped of my mask, and forced by my subsequently horrified jailers to wear a filth riddled sack over my head, I often longed and prayed to a God I only half believed in to be merciful and bring sweet death to comfort me.

I was ridiculed and persecuted by my fellow inmates in so many atrocious ways that it would break the reader's precious hearts were I to put quill to page.

My music was my only solace, my only friend in that evil pit of the damned.

It was only by a strange twist of fate that my songs one day reached the eager ears of a little girl named Azadeh…

…

Startled again out of my fond memories, I concentrated with all my might on the task before me.

The drug that I was intent upon would, once concealed in her perfume, allow her to loose her inhibitions when she took the stage. In truth, her terrible sense of stage fright was the only obstacle left to our union.

Soon, so very soon! she would come to me willingly (due in part to the sideffects of my 'remedy'). Yes, she would come happily into my embrace, washing away all of the dark stains of my past with her soft, innocent smile and her divine body.

I would only need to wait a few more hours, and I would have my prize, my dove.

Yet a tiny voice in the back of my mind still screamed of the pain I had received at the hands of another, only weeks before. The Iglesias chit was no longer of any importance to me, of course!

Yet the sting of her hatred lingered even now, on the night that I would be one with my angel.

Who was this woman, that she should keep hold of my thoughts? Why should I care about her insignificant emotions, long after she had served her experimental purposes? Why should a seed of guilt still fester in my heart about the injury that I had once caused her?

Perhaps it would be best if I simply killed her, and was done with the irritating affair.

Authoress's Notes: So, did anyone catch the biblical reference? Did you guys like my version of Eric's history? More to come on that. Idea's about what might happen to that drug?

Davy Jones Locker- pirate speak for the ocean floor. I wanted to give Eric a tiny hint of pirate flavor. He did live amongst a pirate crew for about seven or eight years, after all. That, and for some odd reason, I keep thinking of 'Pirates of the Caribbean' every time I imagine Eric as a pirate. Not that that movie is a bad thing; I actually liked it rather well, come to think of it. But Johnny Depp does NOT belong in a Leroux cannon story. Not by a long shot. That, and men don't belong in eyeliner … no matter what! (but that's a story for another day…) Maybe I'll have to sketch out a 'pirate' version of Eric so that I can keep my characters straight…

Empress Kipper- (Catches the luck you sent her and stashes it in her pocket. She is gonna need it!) Thanks for reviewing so faithfully, you always inspire me. My reviewers are the real reason I keep writing this story. I hope you like this chapter as much as last one, even though it's a bit stagnant plot wise… and yes, now that you point it out, I do recognize the quote!

Tigger- Never fear, there IS oodles more to explore … and yet we are almost 2/3rds of the way done with the story. Doesn't feel long enough, does it? Sorry about the e-mail, I shall try again… Maybe you should try sending yours to me if I don't get through this time. And thank you again, you are an inspiration as always.