8.

The next thing I knew, I was lounging uncomfortably in the red settée, peering out through half-cracked eyes on the dark world that was Erik's home.

I saw that the gas lamp had been relit, burning softly, unobtrusively in the corner. Cautiously I looked toward Erik's chamber. Aware that the door was ajar, I carefully rose from my resting position, shivering violently and realizing how very hungry I was.

My bare feet were cold against the stone floor, though the soft Turkish carpet underfoot was, as I paused to look at it, beautiful and somehow reminiscent of those days long ago when I had seen Erik in his cage.

How could I have ever forgotten this, let it be so buried beneath the layers of my unimportant life. As I walked toward his open chamber, I paused a moment, considering what I had almost done the night before. He had saved my life. And now that I understood the origins of Erik—the morphine thief, the murderer, the blasphemer—like a haze of smoke, I could trust him. I lifted my hands to my lips in astonishment as my fingers brushed over them, recalling as I did so how white the skin of his scarred back had been. I giggled—Dear Lord, I had not laughed for so long!—at this improper thought. I peered into the chamber, seeing his pallet neatly made and his torn shirt folded on top of a wooden bureau.

"I mean to change my sleeping arrangements eventually, you know."

I spun around, shocked and embarrassed to find Erik standing a few feet away, his impenetrable glance sweeping over me, unreadable in his black mask.

"Is that so?" I whispered, fearing his rage if he suspected I had disobeyed his wishes.

"I intend to make a raised dais of red and black and sleep in a coffin."

I gasped a little, dropping my eyes. As far as I could tell, he was amused by my shock moving his hands from his long sides to cross over his chest as he looked down from his lofty height. I noticed without his black cloak he seemed less ghost-like. He was wearing a black silk waistcoat and a blood-red cravat over a pristine white shirt. I realized how grimy I must look in my woolen nurse's dress, feet bare.

"What is it?" he asked suddenly, his grey-gold eyes sweeping over me in icy curiosity.

"Nothing." I looked up from my dirty vestment to the dark crimson of his cravat, imagining how lovingly his long white fingers, pale as champagne flutes, had crafted such an elegant bow.

"You must be hungry," he stated abruptly, fishing an antique pocket watch from his waistcoat. He peered at it almost impatiently, then looked into my face for confirmation.

I nodded. "But I do not wish—to intrude, Erik."

He laughed in his short, harsh way. "I can hardly believe that, Mademoiselle. You did force yourself into my company and mercy."

"That does not mean you have to feed me," I retorted pointlessly.

I stared stubbornly at his polished black leather shoes. At length I ventured to lift my gaze to his face. The expression was of great amusement. "Doesn't it, though?" he murmured.

My lack of response seemed to puzzle him. "Aren't you well, Mademoiselle? Yes, I realize we are none of us very well at the moment!" he snapped. "Did you not sleep?"

"I d-did," I managed. "How did you sleep?"

His gaze shifted to the wall behind me, his hands restlessly untucking themselves from his pockets. "I only require a few hours' sleep. Surely you recall."

"Indeed."

Silence. I imagined with sorrow how high his wall of pride was fashioned, that he would not even admit to himself those moments when his human soul penetrated through. I did not know him that well, but it seemed to me that the memories, the ugliness he believed was his sin . .. He hid it with hardness and talent, which he believed were his salvation. But I had seen him, I had heard him.

"Well, come with me," he interrupted. "It won't do for you to stand there all day staring at my shoes." There was a hard edge at the bottom of his voice.

He led me through his half-completed house. I found it was no lighter in the morning than it had been at night, due to the fact that we were five levels underground. I had a sudden stab of claustrophobia, of disorientation as I considered my fate. My throat was still tight from the day's near-strangulation.

"Erik, what time is it?" We entered a small room, something of a parlor tucked back in the limestone.

He glanced back at me as he ducked, missing the low rock ceiling. "Seven o'clock," he replied, turning a chair to its upright position and dusting it off with a handkerchief.

"Please sit," he offered by way of command. I did as he asked, watching curiosly as he knelt by a great brass object. It looked—well, it looked like a Russian samovar. Could that be it? It appeared I was right, for he removed a delicate porcelain cup and handed it to me. Inside waw a brownish liquid I knew to be tea. "Thank you." I cupped my hands, grateful for the warmth.

"You are familiar with tea?"

"Yes," I replied, sipping the tea.

"That—that is surprising," he declared. He stared at the tea cup in his own bony hands, then lifted it to his mouth. I watched in slight fascination as his thin lips curled upon the porcelain, wondering if the mask at all hindered his movements.

"I have news for you, Mademoiselle," he recommenced, putting the tea down upon a table near his bent knees.

"Yes?"

"Paris has surrendered."

I looked up. He was emotionless, gazing into his tea cup. "And, now what happens?"

He shrugged. Somehow he made such a blasé reaction look cultivated and natural, fluid. I was suddenly aware of the gestures of a lonely man.

"Any number of things," he replied coldly. "Probably, nothing at all, immediately."

I sighed. "Nothing at all?"

"Oh, things will be pleasant enough for you soon enough," he assured me with sharp derision. "You may have to become a German citizen in the process."

"Won't you?"

He smiled abruptly, secretly. "If I've managed this long without being subject to their petty nationalism, I won't start now."

"But aren't you subject to them? You said yourself you've become a prisoner in your own home."

"At least I'll always have my own free will," he murmured. "No one shall ever be Erik's master."

"Well," I ventured cautiously, "what is to be done with me?"

He turned sharply. "In due time, I should imagine I can arrange for you to be smuggled out to Belgium—and then to England."

"England? Would that be necessary?"

He glared in the superior way of his that made one feel absolutely low. "You are, after all, being blamed for the murder of a military man of some rank. It will not be as simple as allowing you to walk out into the city."

I nodded. "You are right."

"Of course I am." He placed the cup on the table with a jarring clang. He rose. "Good day to you, Mademoiselle."

"Wait!" I cried, reaching for his arm. He pulled away, his upper lip curling in distrust. "You can't just leave now. We're down here, and—and you can't pretend that I . . . don't exist."

"I have other business to attend to," he exclaimed, dragging back from me in a way that was almost like the desperation of that day in the cage, but much more irate. His gold eyes blazed orange.

"But I, I have no business of my own," I said sadly.

"Then you should not have come down here!" he snarled, eyes livid. "It is not my business to entertain you."

"All I want is to talk."

"Talk?" he retorted. "There is nothing I have to say to a convent spinster like yourself, and doubtless you have nothing I would care to hear!"

I burned at his emphasis of "spinster." "So what will you do, Erik? Retreat to yoru little hole and yourself full of morphine? Will you wall yourself in and seep in your hatred, meditate on your own superiority?"

His face was like a white light, beaming, contorted in anger; his fists clenched and trembled. His teeth were revealed, sharp against the smoothness of his shaven chin—what a time to realize his skin was smooth, hairless . . .

His breath suddenly seemed like the roaring of the ocean, harsh, ready to explode. I could perceive, like a trail in snow, a bulging vein on the side of his throat—or was it a scar?

"I have never struck a woman before," he growled. "Do not make this the first time."

At that moment, the top button on his black waistcoat popped up, flew into the air, and hit my shoulder. It was only a tiny pressure, unnoticeable really, but I watched it strike me and then fall.

And inexplicably, I burst into tears.

It occurred to me I hadn't wept since the night I had heard the war declared. I wanted to leave the room, but Erik blocked the exit. So I turned away, buried my face in my grimy hands, and fell upon the hard chair.

Jean, Jean, I wondered, where are you? My bare feet were cold, writhing on the dirty floor. I felt sick, though whether it was from hunger or emotion I could not tell. My hands were so dirty, so dirty—I could imagine the grime mixing with my tears and running down my face like a whore's makeup smeared after a hot evening. Well, that was that—this was how Despair felt. Surely there was—

I had passed out! I had passed out on that hard chair at the bottom of the world, with a murdere who hated me.

I stretched a moment in silence, feeling slowly rushing back into my joints. I shook my head, my unwashed hair thick and sticking to my brow. As I moved, I saw next to me was a silver tray, worked in strange, foreign designs. On it was a small bit of bread and a teacup full of wine.

Wine from the stocks belonging to the military above, according to my tastebuds. But it was filling. Revived, I got to my feet and considered my next action. There wasn't much to consider: I wouldn't go back up; they'd surely arrest me for the murder of Collier, if not kill me on the spot. I would not be able to leave until the danger was past, which would not be until the deadlock of surrender had resolved itself. The only thing to do was stay alive, so I might one day be reunited with Jean. To stay alive was to keep eating, and to do that, I had to make certain Erik would continue to feed me.

His door was closed, but from within I heard the sound of a pipe organ being played. I stopped a moment to listen, absorbed in his artistry as I had been upon hearing him before. If only he would sing. The best chance at joy in my life was to hear him sing.

I knocked with a trembling fist. His mask seemed lighter than before, as if the whiteness of his face had been absorbed into its fabric. I remembered what was behind it. I knew I was not the most wretched being alive.

"You should be asleep."

"Thank you for the food."

He seemed to shake his head, not opening the door further. His thin frame did not fit all the way through, though I could see his waistcoat was unbuttoned. I followed the buttons on his white shirt to his collar, devoid of cravat; his throat was visible, the outline of his Adam's apple suddenly discernible.

"My temper—I—"

"You never wanted this. I know it's an intrusion, but I believe you must be patient just some time more."

He cleared his throat. "What is it you want of me?"

The grey in his eyes glittered, as if lit from some other source than the oil lamp behind me. What did I want of him? "I don't suppose there is much to occupy me here."

"I'm afraid not. I have a few books . . ."

"Then what do you do to stay sane?"

"Occasionally," he hazarded, "I'm able to venture outside. I have my music . . ."

"And you would talk to me . . . sometimes?"

He laughed his mirthless laugh. "What are you so desperate to know?"

"Your eyes," I whispered; "they hold great mysteries. I want to know them."

"My eyes . . ." He looked down, the intensity of the grey amid the gold transferring to my feet. "God, your feet!" he cried.

"What about them?"

"They must be cold!"

A ghostly smile formed on my lips. "That's hardly important."

"But it is," he whispered. He looked up, swirling gold and grey making up the whole of his being. "Have you not once, Manon Lapaine, ever wondered what was behind this mask?" His voice was harsh and yet quiet.

I said, "No." He inhaled incredulously. "I know. I've seen."

He moved back as if struck, one hand clasping his heart, the other flailing at his mask. "How—how is that possible?"

"You were the man in the cage. I was only a child—"

"No!" he cried, shaking his head.

"It's true. And it doesn't matter."

He gasped. "You've seen—seen—me?" He shuddered. "Are you not repulsed!"He trembled for a moment, his face pressed against the door. "I can't—I can't—" It was evident I had shaken him badly. Had I been able to see his face, I'm sure the lines above his sunken sockets wuld have in tortured pain.

"I can't talk about this," he managed. "Excuse me."

Author's Note:

First off, I want to express my gratitude to everyone who has been reading and reviewing, especially my returning readers (Chantal, Immok, Pertie, HD Kingsbury, Maidenhair). I know this isn't the shortest nor the easiest story to get through. Reading your reviews is very nice for a poor writer's ego. To answer a few questions … Lady Karol asked, as I had written this story awhile ago, if it was completed and if I was making any changes in it. Yes, the story was completed many years ago. However, I am changing parts of it as I post it. I am trying to peel myself away from Kay a little, as at the time I was taking some of her ideas as canon. I am also making Erik and Manon's relationship a little more platonic than it was in the earlier version. Pertie mentioned she would have liked for Manon to have kissed Erik. That is what she did in the earlier version. I decided to change it for reasons of character, as I felt that was a bit forward for Manon at this point in time.

Many readers seem to express surprise that "Scars" has fewer reviews than they would have expected. Might I humbly suggest that those who enjoy the story recommend it to their friends?  I am hoping to be able to take a look at all of your work, as I am flattered by the fact that you continue to read. Feel free to look at my other stories if you are curious. "Debt to Aretino" only has 2 reviews!

Finally, this is very much off-topic, but do any of you enjoy Batman Begins fic? I have a story I'd like someone to beta.

The next chapter should be up soon!