Excerpt from the Journals of Erik:
I don't know whether or not to call Katherine's apparently boundless ability to tolerate my proximity a symptom of madness—now that she has seen—now that she knows…. I had never imagined that reaction. Nor did I ever dream that the Daroga would act as he did.
If I write it out as it became clear to me, perhaps I will glean some insight from the finished account.
Madame Giry came back with Katherine's clothing and other such necessaries, just as she had promised. She helped her out of the bath, and into a dress of dark wool.
Once she was dressed and able to get about without help, even if she was still weak, I could finally let go of that terrible conviction that had me in its grip, the conviction that her life, like any candle, would flutter out. Yet, unlike a candle, I could not re-ignite that spark with a mere thought.
We passed a quietly pleasant morning. Katherine wrote a letter to her professor; I worked on my re-arrangement of Giselle. When she had finished writing, she went around the living room, looking at everything with intelligent interest.
She found the chess set. "Oh, you play chess!" Overt delight sparkled in her eyes.
"Do you mean to tell me that you do?" I knew the answer already, even as I asked the question.
"Red or white?" she challenged. "And I warn you, I beat my professor on a regular basis."
"Ladies first, of course. I'll take red." I demurred.
"It's your funeral. Joking aside—don't deliberately lose the game because you want to please me. I'd rather lose a hard-fought game than win a thrown one, any day."
I set out, therefore, with the intention of winning, but very slowly, so as not to crush her spirit. She checkmated me in seventeen moves.
"Your mind wasn't on the board." she scolded me, as she passed the captured pieces back to me.
It hadn't been, in truth. I had been looking at her. At the curve of her neck as she bent over the board; at the arc of her eyebrows, the delicate contours of her ears. Her ears stick out a little—added to her immense dark eyes, the combination puts me in mind of a young doe fawn.
It is strange—I can look at her, and recall that I have seen women with whiter, finer skin, with more perfect features, with hair of rarer color, women who are famously beautiful, acknowledged as such by all who see them—yet for all of that, there is no more beautiful woman in the world. I would rather look at her than at any other.
As we set up the board again, she suddenly looked up and asked, "You chose the name of Dantés from The Count of Monte Cristo, didn't you? Edmond Dantés was the Count's real name."
"In all honesty, yes, I did." I replied.
"Then it must be a favorite of yours. What do you like best about it?" she asked, as she moved the first pawn.
I moved mine. "Won't talking distract you?" I was glad she did not care to bring up the topic of my real last name.
"Not particularly. I think literary discussions use a different part of my brain than chess does. But if it'll distract you…" She chose a knight and made her move.
It might distract me from admiring her, which evidently used the same part of my brain as chess did. "Not at all. I think it is the best of its kind ever written. At its heart, it's not a revenge story."
She looked up. "I agree. It's a story about justice".
"Yes! Although Edmond manipulates and maneuvers people as we do these chess pieces, although he does terrible things—it is all done to bring about justice on Earth. He is, as he says to Villefort, an agent of a higher power. He never harms a good or innocent person. He goes to great lengths to reward the deserving Morrells, and protects Valentine, despite her father's crimes. He is moved by the pleas of Mercedes, on the eve of his duel with Albert. And ultimately, he himself is rewarded."
"Yes, by Haydée. I was never quite sure about her, though. She finally gets to show some character and backbone by going into that court and testifying so magnificently, and then what does she do? Rips up his will and faints!" She spread her hands and shrugged, with exasperation written all over her face.
"Because she loves him and is afraid he'll be dead the next day! Of course she's upset. What would you have her do?"
"Grab a sword, dress up as a boy, take a horse from the stables, and ride after his carriage in the morning, prepared to disrupt the duel by whatever means she can." Katherine nodded decisively. "Men never write women as we would write ourselves."
"And how would she learn to use a sword and ride a horse astride? Is that what you would do?" I could almost see it….Katherine, the hero, riding off to rescue her lover from the consequences of his own folly.
"If the book were written by a woman, he would have trained her up to it. And yes, that is exactly what I would do. Now if you look at The Three Musketeers, you'll see a female character who does get to do things and take an active role in the story, but since that's just too unthinkable and too threatening, she has to be the villainess."
"You mean Milady de Winter? But she's terrible—vicious, cold, murderous, unchaste." I countered.
"And isn't that a message sent to all the girls who read that book? If you're intelligent, resourceful and capable, you are evil and you'll get your head cut off. And the other girl—Constance—she was planning to be unfaithful to her husband, so she has to die too. It's rough, being female. I was so disgusted with the story as it was, that I rewrote it one summer. I still have it in a trunk somewhere in Xavier House. In my version, Milady is still one of the Cardinal's agents, and not a runaway nun, but a foundling who was a kitchen maid until she stabbed her employer, not fatally, with a paring knife. For good and sufficient reason, too, but the court ordered her branded anyway. She truly loved Athos, and they are finally reunited and happy together. After enough story takes place, of course."
"Of course. But there are a lot of women writers—why not write a new novel with characters who are entirely your own?" I took one of her pawns.
"Hmm. The Professor, who, brave man that he is, actually read the entire thing, asked me the same question. Maybe I will, some day, but I wrote Milady for the fun of it—for practice in writing, too, I guess, and to share it with my friends, but finally just because The Three Musketeers is my favorite adventure story. Dumas got friendship exactly right—just the way it is, if you're as fortunate in your friends as I am." She moved a bishop, and took a pawn of mine.
"Truly?" I studied the board. "Then—tell me. Tell me about them."
She fixed me with a serious look. "You already know that I can make myself intangible. You have powers of your own. You're telekinetic, pyrokinetic, and telepathic."
"I'm what?" I had never heard any of those words before. "Taken from the Greek, tele— meaning distant, and kinesis, motion. That's very well thought out. Yes, it's true; I can move things from a distance. Now, pyro means fire—."
"It should really be telepyrokinesis, but usually, the 'tele' at the beginning gets dropped."
"Distant fire motion." I translated.
"Exactly. Telepathy isn't as easy to break down, but it means you can communicate by thought alone. These words didn't even exist until about—six years ago. The leading founders of the Society for Psychical Research in London, Mr. Frederic William Henry Myers, Sir Charles Xavier, and Sir Erich Lensherr, Baron Ware, had to invent words to describe what they were investigating. Sir Charles Xavier is my professor. He started a school on his estate in the country, Xavier House, to take in and teach people with unusual powers and abilities, people like us."
There—there it was, the first indication that her mind had taken refuge in a fantasy that was more real to her than life.
She wove for me a gorgeous tapestry of delusion as she described her friends—Auroré, the beautiful Algerian with cocoa skin and ivory colored hair, whom the heavens obey, who commands the lightning and the winds, and Kurt, the German, furred like a cat, with the heart of a Musketeer. "You'd like them," she assured me.
I liked hearing about them. I can imagine a desperately lonely Katherine, spinning up this imaginary school, where everyone is cherished for who they are, not what they look like, nor their wealth or parents or social standing. It is a particularly beautiful dream.
As fantasies go, hers is a very elaborate construction, surprising in its cohesiveness and its detail. She never contradicted herself—never betrayed a too-hasty fabrication.
She truly believed in what she said.
To finish it all, she smiled very kindly at me, and said, "It's quite all right if you don't believe me."
I responded carefully, with "You must admit it doesn't sound very plausible.", and suggested lunch. She readily acquiesced, and took in her first solid food in days. Nothing too difficult for a convalescent's stomach—just chicken soup with vegetables, bread, rice pudding.
There were still delicate smudges of purple under her eyes, and the bones of her face were pronounced. She looked rather younger than her age; instead of seventeen, she looked fourteen. That helped me keep my thoughts away from the carnal.
Once we were back at the board, I reintroduced the topic of literature, where her ideas, although somewhat radical, were nevertheless firmly grounded. "Do you have any other favorite authors besides Dumas?"
She took one of my knights. "A lot of them. Jane Austen, of course. Mark Twain. William Makepeace Thackeray. I don't care for Charles Dickens, but I like Anthony Trollope. He may be my favorite, at the moment."
The loss of that knight put my queen in an awkward position. "What sort of books has he written?"
"He writes novels with several storylines going all at once—not adventure tales or romances, although there are usually love stories in them. The book that won me is The Way We Live Now. It's all about money. There's this horrible girl called Georgiana Longstaffe, who's from a very poor but very aristocratic family, and she has a suitor named Mr. Brehgert. Mr. Brehgert is a widower, has children already, he is middle-aged and not very attractive, but he is extremely wealthy. He's also Jewish. I'm used to finding anti-Jewish sentiments in the books I read—just as I'm used to finding brainless, spineless women in them, but I had thought better of Trollope…"
She paused and took a sip of tea, then continued, "Their courtship progresses, and he asks her to marry him. He promises to be good to her—both personally and financially. She accepts, over the protests of her friends and threats from her family. Then Mr. Brehgert suffers a large financial loss, and he writes to tell her that he won't be able to afford a house in London for a few years, as he had promised, because he has other obligations that must come first—such as his family, and the money he promised to settle on her, so she'd be taken care of if he died. While she's reading that letter, Trollope observes, 'It never occurred to her, that although he was over fifty, and had a family, although he was greasy and butcher-like and a Jew, that she could have trusted herself to him because he was an honest man.' That line sent shivers over me. It proved that Trollope knew what he was doing all along, as a writer with insight and genius."
It seemed that there was another conversation going on between us, one below the surface. "Do you believe, then, that a person's virtues can overweigh and overwhelm his flaws? I do not include being a Jew as a flaw." I ventured.
"I sure hope so." she answered. "Otherwise there isn't much of a chance for any of us. You, however, with your secret passages and hidden doors, are not an honest man. That's all right, though. I have many notable scoundrels for friends, and I daresay you will fit right in among them."
"Did she marry Mr. Brehgert?" I asked.
"No. She sent back a petulant complaint about the vanished house in London. He realizes what she really is, and the match is broken off."
"How does this fit with your opinions of women in fictions written by men? Do you not want to redeem her, write a Georgiana, as you reinvented Milady de Winter?"
"No. That's the difference between adventure tales and social commentary in fiction form: Miladies de Winter are far and few between in real life, but there are a great many Georgiana Longestaffes."
I moved my rook. "I was hoping you would do that!" she said, and moved a bishop. "Check." I had the devil of a time extricating my king. She did not win that game, but it was not an easy win for me.
And in all that time—not once while she was ill, nor all that day, did she ever mention my mask. She spoke to me, looked at me, permitted me to touch her hands when I passed her a cup, or when we traded captured pieces, and never looked away. Nor did she flinch. She acted as if…as if I wore no mask, and needed none.
After we finished that second game, I showed her around the rest of my house. What came out then, her tale of the boy who impulsively married someone else, had the ring of truth about it. Her grief was too real, the subject too painful to be the product of her fancy. So I must be patient, and wait for her heart to mend? I can be patient— as patient as she is honorable.
She went to lay down for a couple of hours before dinner; she tires easily. Although she is improved, it is less than thirty hours since she was dying.
Her appetite for dinner was good—she ate most of the chicken, but refused the crayfish. Apparently Jewish dietary law forbids them.
(Note to self: must find an unbiased reference book explaining Judaism to non-Jews. Clearly necessary. Doubt libretto for La Juive would be of any use.)
After dinner, I went to fetch the Daroga. "He has been my friend for some time, and although he is a busybody by profession, I want him to know I am not holding you prisoner here. I hope you do not mind?"
"Not at all," she replied. "This is your home, and you should have whatever guests you please. If his mind needs to be set at ease, of course I'll talk to him."
As I poled the boat and climbed the stairs, I found I was actually anticipating the Daroga's visit with pleasure. I wanted to see him, and I was looking forward to making him known to her. I was happy, and I wanted to share that with someone, someone who knew something of my despair.
I certainly did not anticipate what was to follow.
He was waiting in the third sub-basement, where I had left him that note.
"Hello, Daroga," I said fondly. "It's still five minutes until the hour of seven. You're early."
"I know you too well to think you would wait were I more than a minute late, and I did not want to risk that."
"Punctuality is politeness, and I cannot bear incivility. But before you can take one step along with me, I must insist you wear this over your face."
I handed him a domino without eyeholes. A blindfold would be unreliable with a man of the Daroga's stamp. He would contrive a way to peer at his feet. I could not have that.
"Even between us, you insist on so much secrecy," he remarked sadly, as he slipped it on.
"Especially between us." I answered. "You know more than any other, Daroga, and so you are dangerous. There is only one who I would take to my home without these precautions, and that is she who I am taking you to meet."
In a day or two, I'll take her all over the opera house, using my private corridors and doors. Not that she would need to use the doors—they will be no more to her than mist.
"Ah. Yes. This Katherine Pryde. Erik, I do not understand."
"What is there to understand? To put it simply, I have met the woman I intend to marry. Watch your step—there are steep stairs ahead…"
I would not permit him to remove the mask until he was in my living room. He blinked in the candlelight for a moment, and then he saw her, where she sat on the sofa, with a book in her hands, and he bowed to her.
"She is only a child!" he said, without any greeting or preamble.
"I am nearly eighteen." she refuted him.
But she did look very young, with her hair down and her face innocent of paint. I had given her my robe, which she wore over her dress to keep off the drafts, and as she is so much shorter and smaller than I, its shoulders were sliding off of hers, the sleeves were ludicrously long, and the skirts threatened to trip her.
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. It is only that I am concerned—Might I not have a word with her alone?" he turned to me.
"I would prefer to stay." I told him. "I know you, Daroga, and I won't have you bully her, or ask her questions so rapidly that she confuses the answers. Katherine, you can answer him, or not, as you choose and how you choose. I am not afraid of any honest answer you can give."
She shrugged, and grabbed at the robe, which tried to slither off her shoulders. "Ask away." she said to him.
"Thank you." He paused, and frowned. "Did you come here of your own choice?"
"Not—exactly. I asked him for help, and he provided it by carrying me here and taking care of me while I was sick with cholera."
"Cholera?" he asked, startled by her assertion, and cast a questioning glance at me.
"Yes. One of the most prominent doctors in Paris diagnosed it." I answered.
"I'm much better now." she chimed in.
"I am glad of that. Do you remain here of your own choice?" was his second question
"Yes, for the present." she gave him in reply.
"And how long shall that be?"
"Until I no longer feel dizzy when I stand up."
"Do you know what his intentions are toward you? Do you know that he has said he intends to marry you?" he pressed.
"He has made his intentions clear." She said it levelly and coolly.
"Are they distasteful to you?"
"I cannot help what he intends. I can't see that it is any business of yours to ask me that. You are not my friend—and you aren't talking as if you were his friend, either."
"Are you afraid to give an honest answer in front of him?" His voice gentled as he asked that.
"No. I've made my feelings known to him."
"Do you have friends, Mademoiselle? Or family? I am prepared to help you to leave here, and go to them this hour, if you wish it."
My tolerance was beginning to give way to outrage. The answers she made him were keeping my rage in check, as she deflected and parried his questions.
"I have friends, M'sieu. I am in the home of one of them right now. I thank you for your offer of help, in the spirit with which it was made, but I do not need it."
"You say that he is your friend. Do you know of his powers? They are fearsome and supernatural. He is a dangerous man. I have seen him kill more people than you have seen years of life. Do you know what he has to hide under that mask?"
"I have a tolerably good idea of just who he is, underneath it." She was becoming angry, and in her that came out in a voice grown quieter, softer, more intense.
"Daroga, the ice you are treading on is growing perilously thin. Be careful." I warned him.
"I see. She doesn't know. But I believe she should—!" and with that, he turned and ripped the mask from my face.
She gasped.
I used both my physical arm and my mental blow to knock him across the room, and I might have had my hands on his throat and been beating his treacherous brains out against the floor—except that she was there already, and she had my sword.
It was stuck clear through his chest. She held the hilt in both hands.
He saw it—and he has cause to recognize my sword when he sees it—and gave a sick moan. His face had turned a peculiar color. But no blood was marring the pristine white of his shirt, not yet, nor was there blood puddling on the Karastan carpet under him.
She was using her own power, and as he realized he was uninjured, she spoke to him.
She said, "The trick is that he isn't doing it. I am. And if I were to let go, you would be in terrible trouble. But not for very long. You say he is dangerous? Well, I am dangerous too. You say he has fearsome and supernatural powers? These are mine. And if he is a killer, it may be that I have not lived to be almost eighteen without killing anyone. I don't think you can have any more questions to ask me, M'sieu. I know I have nothing more to say to you." She withdrew the sword, and dropped it on the floor beside him.
Then she turned to me.
I raised my hand, to cover my face, to conceal myself, but she stopped my arm, and said, softly, so softly, "If you came down to breakfast at Xavier House, just as you are, the only thing anyone would say is, 'Good morning, Erik. Would you care for some coffee?' Although they might offer you kippers as well… I think I've overexerted myself this evening. Will you excuse me?" She walked through the wall as she went—just to make the point clear to the Daroga.
He was a very unhealthy color. "Oh, Daroga. It's a good thing you're already down on the floor—because you ought to kiss the ground where she stood and thank her for saving your miserable life. Hand me my sword, would you?"
He did, and got to his feet, very carefully, unsure of his footing—unsure of anything.
"I did tell you, Daroga, in my note, that she was not of your kind, did I not? Do you believe me now?"
"Yes. Although I did not—I could not—and you intend to marry her? What sort of children will you get between you?"
"I don't know, Daroga. But I hope—and so should you, and all the world as well—that they take after their mother."
With that, I took him back up to the surface world, and warned him, as I left him, not to meddle with my affairs again, and that henceforth, we were no longer friends.
When I returned, she was waiting. "I didn't want to go to bed without saying good night, first." she said. "There are things that we need to talk about—but nothing that can't wait until tomorrow. I haven't the energy now… Good night, Erik." With that, she stepped up to me—and she kissed me on the cheek.
My arms went around her. It was involuntary—it was an instinctive impulse. I held her in my arms, and she did not flinch, she did not struggle—I kissed her on the forehead, and I let my lips linger there. Never, never before had anyone given me what she gave, so freely and effortlessly.
If she is mad, let her never grow sane.
My body woke into sudden, painful arousal at her closeness, but I did not heed its insistence. It would have been so wrong… I could never scare her, I could never hurt her.
"Erik—you're squashing me." she finally said, and I let her go.
"Good night, Katherine." I said.
"Good night."
That was about three hours ago, now.
My cheek is still warm from her kiss.
A/N: Next time, Kitty's side of the story.
Still writing, but let me say: Pickledishkiller, you have an awesome pen name. Can these be virtual Toll-house chocolate chip cookies?—and you're welcome!
Lexi—Kitty has been a fav of mine since I started reading the X-men—and recruiting her means I get to avoid the accusation of "Mary-Sue" Heh-heh-heh (evil laugh!)
Hobbit babe: Yes—and I thought it would be one of Erik's favorite books! Good call!
All my lovely reviewers—Comments keep me inspired! Inspiration keeps me writing! It's a vicious circle!