A/N: A huge thank you, as always to my lurkers and my readers. Thank you for continuously taking a chance on me, thank you for believing in me. Any/all feedback makes my day, truly. Please enjoy…
Little Dove
Their father was like a boundless storm that descended from the heavens, darkening the bright horizon with strokes of charcoal and folded fire. The dull roar of the massive crowd fell into hushed murmurs as he entered through the warm circle of laughter that Bruce had created; turning the smoke filled air of the Opera House into litters of ash, falling like snow in the deepest winter night.
"My sons," the man finally broke the silence, his voice raspy like a hardened whisper. "To see you both together again warms my heart. I do wish you had arrived a bit earlier…I had plans that have already been set into motion…most of them involving you, dear Erik," the man sipped carefully from a glass filled with amber liquid, a corner of his mouth twisting downwards at the taste. "Cheap brandy at a function such as this, can you believe it?"
Erik unexpectedly released Christine from his rigid grasp, and she immediately glanced up at him with alarm. His eyes had grown nefarious and depraved, similar to the look of a feral animal that was cornered in its own cage; a cage that had grown much too small…
Or was it that the animal had grown too large?
"Father, I believe we have arrived early, just as you had instructed," Bruce cut in, his voice wavering with undertones of apprehension. "If we are indeed late, please allow me to take the blame…it was I who let Erik know of the time," he finished anxiously, having let go of his muted, pearl-covered date's arm. Bruce began wringing his hands nervously, while Erik dropped his hands to his sides, moving his scarred up fingers in slow, meticulous patterns. Christine remembered the gossip that Rosie had relayed to her, about the war, of Erik's apparent imprisonment…could it be, that perhaps he held his father responsible for all of his scars…
For the very reason he wore a mask?
Their father shook his head, igniting a small smile that sent prickled crow's feet on the outer edges of his eyes. He looked upon his two sons almost lovingly, but a sour façade still seemed to hang in the air between them.
"I remember a time where it was Erik taking care of you, Bruce," their father commented through a smile, taking another sip of his brandy. Christine's eyes fell upon his fingers that held the glass casually, taking note of a large, silver encrusted diamond he wore upon his ring finger.
Bruce opened his mouth to object, but Erik cut him off with a loud grunt. "I remember a time where you were actually a father, not a tyrant," Erik replied callously, his voice filled with the tail end of a bull whip, snapping and cracking through the tension that hung visibly, so tangible that it could almost be touched with a finger.
Erik's father's eyes narrowed, and the smile disappeared from his lined face. "I see that you chose not to wear your uniform," he countered scornfully, his eyes straying upon the leather mask. "And you continue this folly of…" he waved his free hand in a gesture to Erik's face, deepening the lines in his brow. His words trailed off as he studied Erik sharply, his eyes seeming to dissect every little movement of Erik's eyes and lips.
Christine felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as the tension grew even thicker – veins were now bulging out from the sides of Erik's neck…it was as if he were holding his breath underwater, trying to contain some monstrous being by simply sealing his lips shut…
"Mr. Vanderbilt, I do not believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you," Christine exclaimed, forcing herself to step into the center of the circle, partially blocking Erik's direct path to his father. The man's light hazel eyes drifted to hers, and he was quiet for a moment as he scrutinized her. Christine forced herself to lift a hand, knowing that it was only proper that he take it – but it seemed as though he was considering whether he should, or should not…and if he chose not to, she might wilt from complete shame and utter embarrassment at her plan to painfully divert his attention…
But his eyes softened upon her, and his free hand curled underneath hers, turning her palm upward with a graceful motion. He bent his head so low that she could see the white and grey streaks through the dark of his hair, and felt his lips oblige upon the pale surface of her palm.
"Forgive me," he stated politely, gradually returning upright; strangely, he did not let go of her hand. "Call me James, my darling…please, I do insist. Though I must say…you look vaguely familiar to me…but alas, perhaps I am simply an old man who has been through too many galas," he added with a chuckle, his eyes still fixated upon her face. Christine gulped nervously, trying to concentrate on his eyes that seemed to see too much of her – did he read her, just as Erik had?
"James," she repeated kindly, forcing the widest smile she could muster. "What an honor it is…and of course, I am teeming with questions about…" she paused, searching her mind for any scraps of information that Raoul had ranted about… "your interest in psychiatry!" she blurted, instantly regretting the direct correlation she had provided to Raoul. James raised his eyebrows, cocking his head to one side.
"I am afraid I do not recall," he answered softly, his eyes drifting back up to Erik. "I am not interested in the practice itself, but of course, if it benefits the condition of my son…"
Christine's stomach dropped, and a ghastly realization slithered its way down her throat. She felt nauseous, as if she might be sick…for she had just unknowingly brought Erik's deepest secrets out to be dissected and picked at…all underneath the microscope of artificial crystalline light.
Erik stepped forward, tugging Christine behind him swiftly. She went willingly along with the power of his hand, wanting to drown herself in the very glass of brandy that James swirled within his hand.
"Condition, father? Is that what you're calling it?" Erik snapped, folding his arms across his immense chest. Bruce reached out to Erik, shaking his head, but Erik shoved him back violently. Bruce stumbled back into his date who now seemed mortified, and desperately sought the crowd for a hasty escape.
James's eyes glittered dangerously as he finished off the brandy in his glass. The two men stared at each other, not speaking a single word – when James suddenly flung the glass down onto the marbled floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces like a fractured mosaic – a beautiful story turned cruel and ugly in mere seconds. The crash of the devastated glass sent echoes throughout the great hall, but only a few patrons turned their heads, only to go back to their drinks a moment later, morbidly engrossed in their own life-giving gossip.
"I should have known you wouldn't be able to handle it," James growled, his lips curling in disgust as he kicked the broken glass in Erik's direction. He jabbed a weathered finger at Erik's chest, prodding him like a hound might snap at unruly cattle.
"Your mother made you weak! Weak and pathetic, with your little shared love of flowers…You should be thanking me! You should be grateful that I had the strength to push aside your asinine little dreams of fame…your singing and piano playing! All of it is fucking foolishness, stupidity! See…I saw an opportunity, Erik…I made you into what you are now. You are finally powerful, yet you ruined yourself, just like your mother ruined you…you hide in the corner like a wounded, fucking pitiful little animal!" James was shouting now, his eyes wide with blackened fury and bitterness. There was a small moment where Erik stayed stony and silent, staring through his mask in disbelief. The entire circle had grown cold again – but Christine could do nothing but watch. She bit the inside of her lip to keep the nausea down…her eyes watching Erik sorrowfully, wishing she could take the words she had uttered so carelessly, back…
Perhaps Raoul was right. Perhaps she was pathetic.
But it was too late. The words had been spoken. And now, her protector stood defenseless, with his father at his throat…
And she had been the cause of it.
The next moments of movement came from Erik's outstretched arms as he violently shoved his father to the ground. Bruce was shouting something, pulling incessantly at Erik's left arm to no avail. Erik kneeled atop his father, hitting him in the face, the eyes, the nose…anywhere he could reach…anywhere that would cause an immediate rush of blood to the surface of pale skin.
Christine felt tears prickle in the edges of her eyes, and she did not fight to hold them back, this time. She stood like a statue above the men on the ground, grunting and screaming and bleeding. The crowds had now turned inward to watch the fight – to observe the infamous masked Erik Vanderbilt beat the living daylight out of his aging father.
Another man from the crowd joined Bruce on Erik's other side, fighting to pull him off of his father's bloodied form. But Erik snarled and thrashed like a demon, sending the second man flying back into the crowd. Bruce had managed to latch himself onto Erik's back, and was attempting to choke him out at the neck…
Finally, with every ounce of might that Bruce had, Erik fell back from his father, clawing violently at Bruce's elbow that was locked around the front of his throat. Bruce released his grip, seemingly exhausted…and the two men lay on their backs a couple paces away from James who was unconscious – with a smashed, demented looking nose and blood pouring from multiple contusions on his face.
"Get that monster out of here!" A man screamed from the crowd, as ladies gasped and held tight to their partner's cufflinks. "Get him the fuck out of here before I call the police!"
Bruce pulled himself up, his white shirt spotted with his father's blood. He held his hands in the air, catching his breath as he addressed the terrified crowd; "Just a little family debacle, nothing to see here…" he laughed nervously as people began to eye James laying on the floor. "Someone please call a medic for my father! Now!"
A man stepped out from the crowd, projecting his voice above the worried murmurs of the masses. "Ladies and Gentlemen, settle down, settle down…I am a doctor. Someone please get me supplies, immediately! This man needs medical attention."
Christine's blood ran cold as the voice rattled her insides – she knew that voice all too well – its cold, smooth timbre that promised a façade of hope, when underneath, it truly meant death of all good things…
She whirled around to find Raoul standing behind her, with medical tape over his nose, and a sickening smile brandished upon his smoothly shaven face. He did not say a single word to her; instead, he addressed Bruce directly, while keeping his eyes pinned to hers:
"I suggest you get your brother out of here before the police arrive," Raoul said softly. "I, of course, wouldn't want to see him behind bars…would you?"
"Yes, I will take care of it," Bruce replied in a low voice, clapping a hand upon Raoul's shoulder. "Your name, doctor – I should like to thank you personally, please…"
Raoul's blue eyes gleamed. "Doctor Lenoir," he replied nonchalantly, his eyes darting back to Christine. Her knees went weak with terror as he stared her down, his eyes speaking a million words, yet saying nothing at all…
The silence of the room was like thunder in her ears.
She could feel every pronounced beat of her heart…
"Erik, come, we must go…now," Bruce urged his brother who still lay on his back, his hands covering his face. Erik got to his feet slowly, surveying the crowds that peered in silent awe around him, surrounding him, barricading him from any path to freedom, clouding all wormholes that led to the outside where he could disappear into the darkness…
He did not even take notice of Raoul, or even of Christine who stood helplessly, with tear tracks bleeding dark mascara down her face. Erik stumbled forward and the crowd moved back with screams of terror, as if he were a dead man that had come to life.
Erik's knuckles were covered in blood, and his white shirt was stained with spurts of red…there was even a smear of blood upon his mask. He looked around feverishly, ignoring Bruce who pulled at his arm, begging him to turn around, to leave peacefully…
But to Christine's horror, he was not finished.
Erik began to laugh. At first it was soft, but it soon grew into a loud, deep rasp that was borderline maniacal…the crowd plunged into utter silence before his imposing figure, staring at him with hundreds of wide eyes…
And Christine watched him, crying silently mere paces behind him. She had ruined him. She had shattered her protector.
"Entertainment, the primitive, disgusting need of the elites!" Erik gestured grandly to the crowd, running a hand over his mask. "I know why you all came, tonight! Now, I finally know!" He cackled to himself, shaking his head, shoving Bruce aside once more. "Erik," Bruce said through gritted teeth, "don't do this. Don't let him get inside your head! Erik! Listen to me!"
"One moment, brother. Let me show everyone what my father is so fucking proud of! Wouldn't you all like to see? Don't you want to see what he did to me – who he made me become?" With one theatrically aggressive movement, Erik ripped the mask from his face, hurling it into the crowd. The crowd seemed to collectively gasp, and one woman in the front of the masses fainted.
"There! You see? Look what they did to me! Look what the fucking Germans did! Isn't it pretty? Doesn't it go with my smile? Don't you just love it?" he screamed, advancing on the crowd like a predator closing in upon his prey. Some people began to back away; some men just shook their heads in awe – and others, mostly women, let out a few piercing screams. This only made him more powerful – it spurred him on, as if their fear and terror aroused him.
Christine felt her body moving forward, but she did not know what she might do. Her makeup was a liquid mess upon her skin now, and her hands were shaking…but she edged up behind him, step by step, softly, slowly…she would protect him. She must protect him.
She reached out a wavering hand and placed it upon his arm, and he whirled around violently to face her – deep shame grew within her once she realized her mouth had fallen open in shock…
They had cut up his face.
Butchered him.
His features still stood out, but there were scars everywhere – on the lids of his eyes, on the sides of his nose, stretching across his forehead…only below his nose, his perfectly full lips lay untouched, aside from the curved, rugged line of black stitches that extended the line of his mouth. Another tear fell from her eye as she forced herself to swallow the disturbance of it all – for the worst of it, truly, was the childish fear she could now see in the deep of his eyes.
He was sad. And he was afraid.
"Erik," she whispered above the hush of the crowds, as everyone seemed immobilized in one horrible and picturesque moment.
"Come with me," she offered gently, running her hand down his arm and settling it on the large expanse of his hand. She could feel the scars pulsing underneath her fingertips, and her heart broke for him all over again.
"Please," she whispered, never taking her eyes from his face. He was breathing heavily, his jacket torn open and his hair tousled in curls of black ruin. He stared at her, his face without the black mask, completely bare…she reached a shaking hand up to touch his face – the angry mural of red and white scarring. His breathing started to shake, and she saw tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He pushed her hand away gently, touching a thumb to her delicate chin.
"I'm sorry, little dove," he whispered, just as a single tear dribbled down the ridges of his cheek. And he turned on his heels and ran, leaving her standing helpless and alone, with a tiny spot of blood on her chin from the callous of his thumb.
A/N: DON'T KILL ME FOR THE CLIFFHANGER. The next chapter is coming soon. I love all of you…