Disclaimer: Same as last time.
A/N: Okay, this chapter really jump-kicks the rest of the story. I hope you like it! Please review! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE review!! I haven't gotten many, and it makes me kind of sad. I am enjoying writing this story immensely, but half the fun is knowing that others are enjoying it as well.
One more chapter until chapter seven! After this chapter, you can guess why I am SO EXCITED for that chapter!
Erik slammed the guest room door behind him and tore off his mask, throwing it across the room. He blindly started hurling items against the wall, everything from pillows to china. He grabbed hold of the small mirror hanging on the wall with both hands and focused in on his horrific face. What did you expect, he asked himself. They're married. You should be worried if there wasn't love between them. This is what you wanted.
Then why am I so angry? He tore the mirror off the wall and broke it on his knee. Glass shattered everywhere. He put his hands on the wall to steady his trembling limbs but the longer he stared at it, the more he thought about ripping the ugly green wallpaper off, which did nothing to settle his nerves. Someone knocked at the door.
"Erik?" Nadir.
"Go away," he hissed.
"It took me five minutes to get myself out of bed and next door and it will take me another five to get back. The least you could do is let me rest in between."
Erik hurled open the door and stood over his friend, glowering. Nadir's face betrayed his surprise (he had not expected Erik to be without the mask), but he quickly altered his expression and raised an eyebrow. He peered over Erik's shoulder to the ruins that lay behind him.
"I'm pleased to see you consider yourself at home here." He smiled. Erik walked away from him and retrieved the mask.
"Not now, Nadir," he said, tying the mask in place.
"I'm in no mood to socialize."
"You? Bah! You're the most sociable person I know," he said sarcastically, sitting down on the desk chair. "What happened?"
"What do you think happened?" Erik sat down on the bed, his chest heaving in rage. He really should calm down; there was no reason to be this upset.
"I assume you saw her. Then again, I always assume you saw her. But this time, I have a feeling I'm right." Erik just stared back at him. "I see I am right. You didn't like what you saw?"
Erik sighed and lay down; formalities meant nothing between them. "It's all incredibly immature of me," he said softly, laughing at himself.
"You forget, Erik," Nadir said, his eyes flickering off into a memory, "I was in love once as well. And I know that your brain often disconnects from your emotions sometimes… Why, I once nearly castrated a servant who I thought was looking at my wife the…" He trailed off, murmuring, lost in his mind. After a moment, Erik sat up and looked at his friend, confused as to where he went.
"Nadir?" he called. His eyes had glazed over; his lips moved but no sound came out. "Nadir…" Erik repeated, to no response. "Nadir!"
The Persian snapped out of his reverie, his eyes still glazed over. He looked at Erik, confused. "What… who are…" Erik felt his veins flow with panic. Nadir's eyes suddenly filled with recognition. "Oh, hello Erik. What was I doing here? Ah well," he said, picking himself up out of the chair, "have a good night. I will see you tomorrow." He limped out of the room, leaving Erik in stupefied silence. More is happening to him than aging, Erik thought, worried. But, oddly enough for him, he was thoroughly exhausted, too much to contemplate this drama-filled day. He lay back down and, for the first time in his life, fell asleep as soon as his eyes closed.
The next morning, he awoke with more questions in his mind than he wanted to ask. So he didn't. He hurried out of the house, calling to Nadir about having to get something and began to walk without a destination throughout the city of Paris.
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Christine and Raoul had spent most of the morning lounging about in bed. Finally after hours of stroking, talking and kissing, Raoul decided that he had spent enough hours over the last week in bed and wanted to do something else. So the pair dressed and moved down to the drawing room, where they lounged about, stroking, talking and kissing. Christine was overjoyed; she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so carefree. Though her thoughts did occasionally drift away from Raoul and toward a different man, she caught herself quickly every time and turned her attention back on her husband, who was recovering marvelously. The skin on his left leg and arm still had large patches of redness (which he would keep for the rest of his life), but it didn't pain him and he was walking better with every step. He and Christine were shrouded in newlywed-like bliss, which is what probably triggered his mind to this topic.
"I've been thinking," he said, stroking his wife's hair as she sat on his lap and lay against his chest, "we never went on our honeymoon." This was true. After their marriage, Christine was deeply in mourning (though Raoul just believed she was still affected by her traumatic experience) and he had decided that the best thing for both of them would be to begin a regular routine and make a home for themselves. Christine had agreed instantly; a full house to run would keep her bust and her mind off Erik, whereas weeks of traveling and sightseeing would leave her endlessly wondering if he had been where she was, if he had once seen the things she saw. She would be entirely too miserable to enjoy the pleasures of a honeymoon. So they had postponed their trip indefinitely, until today, when Raoul recalled the long-forgotten subject.
"You're right," Christine replied, letting her lips brush the side of his neck.
"Well?"
"Well…?" she teased and he laughed.
"You want me to ask, don't you?"
"Ask what, darling?" she said, feigning innocence.
"Would you like to finally go on our honeymoon?"
"Raoul! This is so sudden!" she joked, then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "I would love to." Her husband became very excited; today obviously was not the first time he had thought of this idea.
"Wonderful! We can go anywhere you want, Christine. We'll tour Europe! Italy, Switzerland," (her heart skipped a beat when he mentioned Italy; she remembered dozens of stories Erik had told her about when he had lived there, but she pushed the thought to the back of her mind) "England, anywhere!" He took her face in his hands and kissed her. They spent the rest of the afternoon planning their journey, which would begin as soon as Raoul was fully recovered. To them, at that moment, nothing in the world existed unless it was within the confines of the drawing room doors.
The next morning, Raoul summoned Wesley into the drawing room. It was considerably early for a man in recuperation, but the de Chagnys were both dressed and alert.
"Wesley," the Vicomte started, sitting comfortably in his chair, "my wife is going shopping, but will not let me accompany her."
"The doctor says," she interrupted, "you are not supposed to leave the house until you have completely recovered."
"'The doctor says,'" he jeered, smiling. "Fine. Wesley," he began again, "my wife is going shopping but 'the doctor says' that I may not accompany her. She is going to look to refurnish our room, and I do not want her to purchase anything too—how did I word this darling? —Feminine." Christine rolled her eyes playfully. "I trust your judgment, Wesley, and I was wondering if you would escort her to Paris in my stead."
Wesley bowed. "Of course, monsieur."
Raoul stood up and clapped him on the back. "Thank you, Wesley." He leaned in and whispered, "Make sure she doesn't go overboard on the 'lilac' colors."
"Ahem. What was that?" Christine called.
"Just informing him of your color scheme, darling," he replied with a wink at Wesley.
And so that was how Wesley ended up spending the day shopping. They went into practically every store in Paris and by suppertime, Christine had contracted a carpenter to build a new bed frame and found a lovely seamstress to create the coverings and grapes. However, she still hadn't found the perfect carpet, the one item she felt she had to buy that day. They went in store after store to no avail. Finally, in what she promised was the last stop, Wesley found Christine fingering a beautiful Oriental rug longingly.
"Is this the one?" Wesley asked, smiling slightly.
"What?" Christine snapped out of her thoughts. "Oh." She looked back at the carpet. "No. No, I don't think so."
"Pardon me saying this, but why not? You seem to like it." Wesley did not feel uncomfortable speaking to his mistress in such a manner; she had always treated him like a good acquaintance and never like a servant. She sometimes even took time to speak with him in his native tongue, using the little English she knew. She was the kindest woman of his esteem and he was very fond of her.
"Yes, I do like it. It reminds me of someone else's run." She laughed. "Although if I wanted it that badly I could just go and take the original, I'm sure Erik wouldn't mind."
"Erik?" The innocent question fell out of Wesley's mouth before he could think about it and Christine looked back at him, horrified.
"Wesley," she said urgently, clutching his arms, "forget that name. Do not mention it to Raoul, please, I beg you. That man passed away long ago and there is no need for Raoul to feel any more pain. Wesley was taken aback, but he nodded in consent. Christine smiled at him. "I don't think we'll find anything here," she said, walking toward the exit without a glance backwards. "I shall look more another day." Wesley trailed out behind her.
The next evening, Wesley was still thinking about that exchange when the answer came to him. Literally. He had been alone in the kitchen when suddenly the masked man stood in the doorway.
"I need to speak with you," he said. Wesley nodded and led him down a hallway in the servants' quarters and into an empty room, shutting the door behind them. Wesley sat down at a small table while the man chose to remain standing. After a short, uncomfortable silence, he threw a full purse onto the table.
"I am in no further need of your assistance," he said. "There is your stipend. Do not try to contact me." He turned on his heel and began to leave.
"Wait!" Wesley said. He knew this could be the last time he had to have his questions answered. The man stopped and turned around.
"Yes?"
"You're Erik, aren't you." The man looked at him, a frown in his eyes. Wesley thought he would leave, but to his surprise he took a seat across from him.
"Where did you hear that?"
"You were mentioned."
"By?"
"The Vicomtess."
"On what grounds?"
"She saw a rug which reminded her of yours. She begged me not to say anything to her husband."
"Yes, she would do that." Wesley wished the mask wasn't there; he desperately wanted to know what this man, Erik, was thinking. "So you have discovered my name. Congratulations. Most do not."
"And you don't want any more notes?" Wesley asked on a completely different topic. His head was spinning.
Erik thought for a moment. "Very well. Weekly letters are not necessary. I just…" He trailed off to some place in his mind. "Just tell me if someone is grossly sick or badly hurt."
"That's all you would like to know?"
"No," he replied simply. "I would like to know every time she smiles, the color of the sparks in her eyes when she laughs… But if I can't be there to see it myself, perhaps it is best that I know nothing of it at all."
"She thinks you're dead."
"Good."
"Were you a suitor?" Wesley had no idea why he was being so abrasively inquisitive, but Erik seemed relaxed, as if he had expected questions, and this made Wesley speak unrestrained.
"I don't know if you could call me that," he replied with a small laugh. "If I was, I had a very odd way of courting… Let's just call it a unique situation."
"You loved her?"
"Love her." He paused. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this."
"Why, don't you like me?" Wesley asked, a joke. Erik didn't seem to find it humorous.
"I don't think of you."
"I admire your honesty."
"I have nothing to lie about anymore." This made Wesley all the braver.
"What changed?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean… Why don't you want… letters?"
"My friend is sick. This thing with… the Vicomtess… It distracts me. It eats at me, and I can't think of anything else. So it needs to end."
"I'm sorry," said Wesley, suddenly feeling very sorry for this strange masked man.
"I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity, it's compassion. I understand some of what you're saying and—I can't believe I'm saying this to the person who threatened to torture me—I sympathize."
Erik stared at the floor and for the first time, Wesley saw how he was truly a tortured man himself. "Thank you," he said quietly. For some reason, Wesley felt compelled to share something with him, and so he removed a piece of paper from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. Erik picked it up silently and looked at it. It was a miniature portrait of a young woman, sitting stiffly and uncomfortably. She had soft, dark hair and large eyes. A gentle beauty shone through her discomfort.
"My cousin Frederick Garland took the photograph for me. Her name is Winifred Evans, and we were engaged before the family she worked for moved to England. We tried to get her a position here, but there was no room and so she left. That was four years ago and I haven't seen her since. We've written letters, but not many; it seems to hurt more than it comforts." Erik handed him back the miniature. "So, you see, we have some things in common." Erik nodded and Wesley realized how odd it was that he had found solidarity with the only person he had ever cursed.
After a silent moment, each man lost in his memory, Erik stood up. Wesley followed, slightly surprised. "I must go," he said, collecting himself. "The best of luck to you."
"And to you," Wesley replied, extending his hand automatically. The other man just stared at it for a moment before shaking it. His hand was deathly cold, but Wesley didn't flinch and looked him squarely in the eyes. And as he disappeared down the abandoned hallway, Wesley couldn't help but think that he had made a strange connection with the most unusual man he had ever met.
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The following day, Erik began the next chapter of his life. He spent all morning taking notes on Nadir's symptoms in order to discover what was happening to him and hopefully solve it. He helped Darius assist Nadir until the Persian yelled about being treated like an invalid and then Erik let his friend beat him twice at chess (Nadir knew the whole time, he just liked to take Erik's money). Eventually, they settled at the table for tea, and Nadir once again forced Erik to talk about Christine.
"It's all over, Nadir," he repeated for the third time. "I told you, I gave it all up. It was destroying me even more than before."
"And what of the servant?" Nadir asked. "Did you kill him, or blind him, or whatever you said you would do?"
"Of course not. I paid him."
"Paid him?" Nadir's mouth dropped open.
"He did me a good service; he deserved to be rewarded."
"You just love to play God, don't you?"
"Who knew it could be almost more entertaining than playing Satan?"
Nadir stretched stiffly. "That wasn't very funny."
"You never did understand my humor."
"So you've moved on. That's good. I've been telling you to do that for years."
"Now who wants to play God?"
"I'm being serious, Erik. You have plenty of time left in life. Go back to contracting, you did it once before. Leave France—"
"I always move when living becomes too hard in a certain place. I like Paris. It's the only place I've ever felt could be home."
"Well, you must at least leave the Opera House. That is not a healthy situation for you to be in."
"And how do you expect me to get my organ across the lake, up five stories and out the front door?"
"God damn you, Erik!" Nadir exploded. "I am thinking of your best interests and you just sit there, joking! You don't even know what—and why—and this just—" He started to rock back and forth, his palms over his face. Erik reached a hand out toward him. "I'm fine, I'm fine," Nadir said, breathing heavily. He put his hands on the table to steady himself. He looked up, his eyes glossed over once again, and obviously didn't recognize Erik.
"Nadir…" he said hesitantly. He stood up slowly and turned to get Darius as Nadir spoke behind him.
"Who are you? Where am I? Where are you—Wait!" Erik paused and turned around. "I know you…" There was something different now. His eyes were…glowing red, and his voice had turned to ice. "You killed my son."
"What?" Erik asked breathlessly, stepping backward. The alien feeling of terror coursed through his body.
"You killed my son!" Nadir stood up with surprising force, upsetting his teacup and spilling its contents all over himself and the table. "You killed my son!" he repeated, growling in rage. Before this moment, Erik had not thought it was possible for him to growl so furiously. "You took him away from me! My one link! My only heir! My dear boy!" He lunged at Erik over the table. "I'll kill you! Get out! Get out!" Erik tripped over himself as he ran out of the house and down the street.
This is worse than I imagined, he thought, his feet only gaining momentum. The degeneration of his limbs and mind…they have to be related. How did this happen so— A woman suddenly stepped into his path and, although he tried to avoid her, he was running too fast and they collided, tumbling to the ground. His hat fell off on impact and the woman stared unabashedly at the mask, confused and startled. He quickly helped her to her feel, and inquired if she was hurt. After she replied in the negative, he tucked himself into an alleyway, making it seem that he had simply disappeared. Then he began the trek through less populated streets to the Paris Opera House. It may have been filled with his personal ghosts, but decades-old guilt had just settled on his shoulders, and the only refuge he could think of was his music. He had to get to his organ before his mind exploded.
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Christine was spending another pleasant day shopping in Paris, this time alone. Raoul had wanted Wesley to accompany her again, but she was commissioning traveling clothes and had insisted that she did not need a man's help with this. And, as much as she loved spending time with her husband, she needed a day by herself. She had met with her seamstress and then decided to walk around the city before she had to meet her carriage. She was certain that this was not how a Vicomtess was supposed to act, but it was a beautiful day and she just had to spend it outside.
She also loved to simply watch people, an activity she had not indulged in since before she was married. A man mumbled as he walked past her. Two small children on her right marched beside their au pair while two small children on her left screamed and kicked and climbed all over their parents. A woman stopped short a few meters in front of her and accidentally crashed into a tall man who had run out of a cross street. They toppled to the ground. Christine started to hurry to their aid but halted after a few steps. In the tumble the man had lost his hat, leaving his face exposed. Not his face, actually, for that was completely covered. By a white mask. Christine couldn't breathe. She tried to call out to him, but all she could do was stare. By the time she regained her senses, the woman was back on her feet and the man gone. What had just happened? Where did he go? She had seen enough to know one thing for certain:
Erik was alive.
A/N: Like it? Hate it? PLEASE review!!!
