Chapter Thirteen: Your Deepest Hour of Darkness

Erik remained completely unaware of Wesley's now abandoned plight to find him and of Christine's diligent persistence against it. In fact, for the first time in years, Erik was not thinking about Christine at all. Nadir's health was depleting steadily, decrescendoing into a state of bleak withdrawal, and Erik had donated the expanses of his mind to finding his friend some form of relief. His attempts were failing miserably. Too fearful of endangering his friend, Erik hesitated to experiment untested drugs on him. Therefore he stayed on a basic medicinal diet: morphine for the pain, laudanum for his mental confusion. Any doctor in Paris could administer that, though, but Erik was still determined to force his lifelong study of medications into some sort of use. His first and foremost goal was to quiet the ever-increasing trembles of his limbs, which seemed to frighten Nadir with their persistence and intensity, often stimulating the incoherent babbles that Erik had grown to dread

Most often these periods were marked only by a temporary amnesia; Nadir didn't seem to know whom he was, where he was, or why he hadn't the energy to get out of bed. He would thrash about as much as his brittle body would allow, panicking, unable to be soothed. And while these attacks were frightening enough, they were nowhere as terrifying to Erik as the periods when nadir's mind would regress backward in his life. Sometimes he knew who Erik was, he only thought the year was different; these were not so painful to endure. They spoke to each other as they had back in Persia: Nadir would warn Erik of acting dangerously and Erik would reassure him that he had everything under control. Sometimes he found himself reciting his half of whole conversations that they had once had.

But then there were the other times, the far less pleasant times (as unpleasant as the former was), when Nadir spoke to Erik thinking that he was someone else: his father, sometimes (Erik never knew how to respond to that; in the course of their long friendship, Nadir had never mentioned his father), or the shah (admittedly, Erik found it a trifle more entertaining than perhaps he should to pretend to be the young Shadow of God), but most devastatingly often, he spoke to him as if he were Reza, the child he had loved and lost so tragically.

"Are you ill, my son?" he could often be heard asking, never remembering that those same words lad left his mouth mere hours before. "Your face is so pale, you look like a ghost."

"No, father," would be Erik's hoarse reply, "I am very well. You must take your medicine now."

"No, no. You are too young to do it. Where is your mother? I have been waiting for her…"

Erik would suffer through these carbon exchanges until he could convince his poor, sick friend that his wife would not come until he took his medicine. It was a cruel trick he hated to play, but all other enticements had failed. The laudanum silenced him quickly, encompassing him in a dark, drugged sleep that served only to preserve the body, not to refresh it. Erik's hands always trembled as he watched the drug take effect, trembled so badly that he sometimes paused to wonder who he really wanted to develop that new medicine for: Nadir or himself. It was voicing the words that were so unsettling for him, playing the role of Nadir's quiet, well-mannered son. Imagine, he, Erik, the Angel of Death, he could end the lives of hundreds of men without raising an eyebrow, but he could not call Nadir father without quaking like a demon being exorcised.

On this day, seven months after Erik had moved into Nadir's flat and three days after Wesley had given up his hunt, Nadir was thick in the middle of an episode. Calm though he appeared, the rapid eye fluttering and the presence of two large purple veins in his neck, jolting unnaturally out of the skin they usually rested beneath, said very plainly that his insides were not as serene as his face. His lips were a pale blue, threatening to turn the same fierce color as the ugly, leering veins, and though he was wrapped in blankets as tightly as a newborn, his skin was mallow and pale, as though it had never known warmth. Around his eyes were deep impressions of dark brown, the same color as the irises inside, and his hair, once a magnificent black reflecting his status as a princeling, now dulled like an ink spot that had been rubbed out. Erik hated to look at him, such a pale specter compared to the Nadir he had first met in Russia all those years ago. Only when clarity bestowed its grace upon him could the shadow of the man he had been be glimpsed through the wreckage, for his humor sparkled through his eyes and there was warmth in his smile, though his lips would have none. But that was not now, for at the moment clarity was nowhere to be found. No laughter squandered through his deadened eyes and, should the edges of his mouth chance upwards, there was nothing comforting in the tight crescent of blue lips.

He had been quiet for some time. Erik, as Reza, had been steering a stifled conversation with him until he had suddenly fallen silent. This, of course, was not unusual, and Erik continued to speak to him, knowing that eventually something would trigger a response. Half an hour went by without so much as a blink in answer to any of Erik's mindless questions. Nadir's vacant eyes had narrowed, facing inward slightly, and his breathing was so shallow that it didn't seem possible for the air to have made it as far down as the lungs, let alone the diaphragm. Erik leaned over Nadir's still body on the bed and listened. His stomach was visibly pumping along to a steady silent beat, synchronized precisely with the slight pant emitting from the small space between his lips. Erik scanned his friend's face, hopeful for a sign of recognition. But his eyes were still empty and, aside from a small tick on the apple of his right cheek, it was as if his entire face was frozen in place. Erik had turned to summon Darius when he heard the softest stirrings of a sound. It was low and breathy, pulsing and steady. It grew louder and stronger until he realized what it was—Nadir was laughing. He had never laughed like that before; it was a harsh, hard sound, quite different from the soft, lyrical laughter he used to emit. But this new laugh seemed to fit somehow with the new face his disease had fashioned him. Erik turned and watched him in a state of fearful intrigue.

The laughter reached its peak and stopped. Suddenly, something wasn't funny. In a raspy voice that didn't belong to him, Nadir spoke softly. "'Come with me and see,' he said…"

Erik could feel his hands start to tremble as they hung at his sides. "Father?" he whispered after a moment of silence in the quiet voice he had procured to masquerade as Reza. He despised doing this, but the important thing was to keep Nadir's mind calm but active, so that his facilities might return to him easily. Still, having to pretend to be the son of your best friend, who accused you of murdering the child… Had it been anyone but Nadir…

The gaunt man in the bed sharply turned his hollow gaze on the only other person in the room. "Erik," he said deeply, and the hands of the man he named stopped their trembling, paralyzed in fear. It was obvious that Nadir was not at all lucid: his rough voice and empty eyes proved that. So what did he mean by calling him that name when only a moment ago he was calling him son? But just as Erik thought this, his eyes, though still blank and unreadable, seemed to soften somewhere from within. "Do you know what he is, Reza?"

The rope that had been binding Erik still seemed to have granted him a little slack, and his fingers once again began their quavering. "A…" he started, confused. What was he, he had been asked, not who. Well, thought Erik, I am many things. But what did Reza see me as? "A magician, father."

Nadir's eyes floated away from Erik and upwards toward the ceiling. "Yes," he sighed, as if he were trying to convince himself that was right. "Yes, he's a magician." His eyes had not ended their journey at the ceiling, for now he had turned them entirely away from Erik, looking down at the floor on the opposite side of the bed. "And…do you believe he can use this magic of his to make you well," he asked, his hoarse voice raising its pitch ever so slightly, "my son?"

Erik did not know what to say, whether to give the response Nadir wanted or the one he needed, or if those were even two separate answers. But he must think like Reza, he reminded himself, and Reza would have never doubted Erik's capacity at anything, though he surely would have been wrong in doing such. Erik had failed at many things. "Yes, father," he replied, for regardless of what answer Erik may have given, this was what Reza unquestionably would have said. "I do."

Nadir closed his eyes and he seemed to nod, though it may have been a sway. "Good, good," he said softly. "Then, if seems, so must I…" Nadir looked over to Erik once more, and seemed to smile at him, but whereas a true smile would have calmed him, this here evoked quite the opposite reaction. Erik felt his fingers close around the smooth, small bottle he had placed on the nightstand, it shook as he lifted it to his heart.

"You must have you medicine," he said routinely. His mouth was bone dry and try as he could to salivate, he accomplished nothing but parching himself further.

"No, Reza," he declined, closing his eyes, his voice thick with spoilt exhaustion, "no medicine. Not until…" He drifted off, and after a few seconds, Erik saw his eyes beneath his lids roll upwards into his head. He sighed in relief and, replacing the small bottle of laudanum on the stand, returned to the hard wooden chair beside the bed that had been his home for the past seven months. He crossed his legs and, resting his elbow down upon them, placed his palm to his face. But contrary to his peaceful pose, his mind was restless. He wanted to do something other than sit here and watch Nadir decay! But there was nothing else he could do. As painful, as hard as it was to sit there day after day, Nadir deserved his attention now, attention he hadn't paid him years ago, back when he was diagnosed, back when he had first shown symptoms. Perhaps if he had noticed then…

Erik drummed his fingertips against his mask, not out of boredom, for his mind was never idle, but so he might concentrate on the annoying sound that ensued rather than the withering soul of his friend and the end that he knew was soon to come.

Nadir stirred. His eyes opened slowly, as if he were fighting to hold on to the last remnants of a pleasant dream. Erik was not surprised that he had woken so quickly: these interludes of sleep could last anywhere from an entire day to mere seconds. The question was never when he would wake up: it was where.

Erik watched closely as Nadir's eyes roamed, taking in the room familiarly. When at last they settled upon Erik, he smiled warmly with complete coherence. "Hello, Erik," he said, pushing himself up stiffly to sit against the headboard. His voice still held the same raspy quality as before, but not nearly as much, as if his vocal chords had been sanded down during his short rest. "How is it that you are always sitting there when I wake up?" Erik shrugged, too tired to think of a clever retort. His constant charade exhausted him far more than lack of sleep ever had. Still, he couldn't let himself be tired, not when he anticipated those lucid moments with Nadir as if they were his sole reason for living. Nadir squinted and looked slightly away. He, too, seemed tired, but with a fatigue that greatly overshadowed Erik's own. It was as if it had laid siege upon his blood stream and now his heart pumped exhaustion through his veins, not blood.

"I've been losing time again, haven't I?" he said, not looking at Erik. But his silence was enough to inform him that he was right. He turned back to his friend and forced a smile. "It really is a pity to lose so much of it when I seem to have so little left. We must take better care of it from this point on."

"We?" echoed Erik, confused. What did he mean by that? Nadir couldn't possibly think that he was working so strenuously to do anything other than care for him. "I—" he began to protest, but Nadir lifted his arm with great effort and showed Erik his open palm. He had meant nothing by that comment. Erik felt his shoulders relax slightly, and he waited for Nadir to continue speaking.

"Erik," he said after a moment's pause, his arm falling heavily back onto the mattress, "you have been a good friend to me."

"You have been a better one to me."

"No—" he replied modestly, shaking his head as much as his body would allow.

"Yes," Erik insisted. "You know you have." He thought that Nadir would smile at that, but he didn't. He simply shrugged as his dim eyes flickered toward his lap.

"Very well," he said quietly, "but now I must ask you something that may change your opinion on that…"

Suddenly, Erik was nervous. He had no idea what Nadir was thinking, but he knew it wasn't of lilacs and daisies. His body felt heavy, as if it were laden with small stones, filling the cavity of his stomach at an alarming rate. For some unknown reason that he could only label as intuition, he wanted to run from the room and refuse to come back until Nadir had given the idea of asking him whatever it was he had in mind. But as Erik could not do that any sooner than he could tear down the sky, he asked, uncharacteristically fearful, "What?"

Nadir's shifting eyes found Erik's again, and there they stayed, as if he knew what Erik wanted to do and by locking his eyes on him, he could magically bind him to his chair. He didn't smile now, the playful façade somehow broken, and now for the first time, he let Erik see just how much pain he was in. For he had been strong up to this point, repressing as much of it as he could, but now Erik saw just how much he had underestimated his friend's suffering. And he had thought him to suffer so much before…

Nadir took his time before he began speaking. Once he did, his words were heavy, and he let each one land before he moved on.

"I am old, Erik," he said; "I can't handle this pain. I feel like I'm covered in darkness. It paralyzes me, clouding my mind… But it is a holy thing, for it has made me not fear death. I welcome it." His eyes continued their hold, and as much as he wanted to break away, Erik found that he could not. The air was getting thinner in the room, which had never felt so much like a cage before. He urged his brain to plan an escape, but it was as if he were in a trance. Was this the power his voice held over others? Nadir was still speaking. "But as you know, I can't walk. I need you to carry me to it."

"Nadir—" Erik said at once, finally ripping his eyes from his stare and propelling himself out of his seat. He hurried away from the invalid and began to pace without any sense of direction at the foot of the bed. Nadir would not be discouraged.

"Let me die the way my son did, Erik," he called, louder than normal, as if this topic had rendered him partially deaf. "Let me share his rainbow."

"You don't know what you ask!" Erik yelled. His eyes were stinging; his hands were aching. Every organ, every muscle in his body was twisting into itself. He wanted to claw through his skin, wrench out everything inside and tear it apart with his fingertips. How dare he ask that of him!

"I do," Nadir said quickly but quietly, trying to reason with him. "Darius told me all about it, Erik, months ago, about what I said to you." Erik stopped moving; it seemed his heart stopped with his feet. He listened very carefully to Nadir but he could not turn to face him. "He overheard the whole thing." His voice was soft and understanding, his words once again slow. "I waited for you to speak to me about it, but you never did. I need to tell you—I don't blame you for my son's death, and if I ever did, it is long forgotten, especially now, when I know what it feels to have death's claws tearing at my heart." The mask was getting uncomfortably hot and Erik realized, somewhat delayed, that that he was crying. "It was very noble of you to keep it from me, when I know how much pain it must have caused you." Though he still wasn't looking at him, it seemed to Erik that Nadir had started crying as well. "I know you loved my son and did what was best for him. Now, if you love me at all, you'll do the same for me."

"It's unfair of you to say such things," he whispered over his shoulder, but still not looking, still not looking… "How can I live with myself once I've killed you?"

"It's unfair of you to be so selfish," he retorted. "How can I live in the state I'm in? This is no life;" he was pleading now, "it's a never ending intermission."

Then did Erik finally turn and meet his friend's eyes, the only light peeking through the desolate wasteland of his face. There were no tears visible, but their presence was still felt, for his cheeks bore their thin wet streaks.

"…That was very poignant," Erik said dryly.

"Thank you," Nadir replied. He grinned, a full grin, one he might have given back in his happier, healthier days, a grin that showed just how genuine his soul really was. "But I must admit, I thought of that a week ago," he finished with a laugh.

Erik walked back and took his seat beside Nadir's bed, his resolve set, even though it was against everything he wanted. It seemed that this would be their final talk, their final sojourn into the depths of a friendship that had become such a defining feature in Erik's life. And now that was over, or almost so. What could he hope to say, in these few moments, their last together, that could possibly tell him how much he treasured him? How could he condense a lifetime's worth of conversations into mere minutes?

"Nadir," he said, hoping that the right words would form themselves, "you are the only thing that kept me sane these past few years."

"Ah, alas," he said grandly, "ours was not a love to last."

"Iambic pentameter."

The tips of Nadir's fingers counted out the syllables as he repeated himself silently. "You're right!" he laughed. "You should write a sonnet with that."

Erik shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. "I am not a poet."

"Oh, but I'm sure you could be, being the goddamn genius you are. And you'd probably be better than Shakespeare."

"My genius does not like the insulting adjective you placed before it."

"Forgive me—being the amazingly wonderful genius you are."

"That's more like it." Without meaning to, he laughed. "But I think I'll stick to music." Nadir laughed as well, closing his wrinkled lids over his eyes as if to languish in the purity of the sound. When he looked at Erik again, his rugged features seemed to soften and his blue lips hinted at a smile that never came.

"I shall miss these prattles with you…" he said softly and then looked away, compelled by his own private moment.

Erik looked down at his hands lying open on his lap. Did they know what Nadir had asked of them? Apparently not. They rested there, fingers curled slightly, relaxed, without any sign of the trembles with which they had recently been so frequently acquainted. Perhaps they understood that, after everything Nadir had done for Erik, they could not deny him this final request. They had given him so much, these hands, Erik mused. Imagine if one day he were to wake without them. Almost everything he cherished—his inventions, his buildings, his music—everything was created using his hands. He relied on them for so many things without ever recognizing that. And now, in one swift blow, they would take their payment for a lifetime of servitude.

As much as Erik wanted to stay here forever conversing with his friend, he knew that Nadir's lucidity would not last long. Nadir seemed to know that too, for when Erik looked up from his hands, his eyes were already focused on him. They seemed to want to comfort him, but Erik would have none of it and looked away quite immediately.

"I'll need to get a few supplies…" he said softly to the floor.

"No," Nadir said. "Darius has stored everything you need in the kitchen. All you have to do is add it all together." Erik looked at him then, and Nadir gave him a sad smile. "I never forgot what you gave my son."

Nadir's fingers trembled too much and the entire contents of the first drink fell on his shirt rather than anywhere near his mouth. So as Darius changed his shirt ("I can't very well die in a dirty one!"), Erik prepared it all over again. Unlike when he made the first one, this time his mind wouldn't stay blank. It was really happening; he was going to kill his best friend. And now his hands were shaking. Fickle things, make up your minds! He should run out the door. He should smash the ingredients. He should fill the glass with water instead of poison. Yet his trembling hands kept moving, driven by an unseen force over which he had no power, adding the correct amount of this and the correct amount of that, until it was finally stirred into completion. The glass clinked against the gold ring he always wore as he picked it up. And though his mind screamed deafening curses at him, his feet walked him back into the bedroom.

Nadir was back in bed, sitting up like the prince he was, surrounded by pillows of deep red velvet and dressed in all his opera finery. He grinned as if today was his birthday and he already knew what his presents were. Erik made to laugh, but something seemed to be lodged in his throat and his laugh got caught on it, so that all that erupted from his mouth as a despairing sob. He quickly tried to compose himself, faltering a little in his steps and placing a hand on the bedpost to steady himself. The anguishing sound that had broken through the fortress of his vocal chords wasn't heard again, but in its place a series of tears began to slip down his sunken cheeks and fall slowly off his chin beneath the mask.

"Erik," Nadir teased, the smile never fading, "are you crying over me?"

"No, no," he replied, wiping the underside of his chin with the back of his hand. "I'm just thinking about all the money I'm going to lose from beating you at chess." Nadir laughed softly and shrugged.

"Of course. I should have thought." Nadir beckoned him over and, though he walked as slowly as if he were treading on glass, the room was very small and it took him no more than a few seconds to cross to the bed. Darius stood faithfully beside Nadir's head, holding the Koran. He stood aside for Erik, who, after one last thought of smashing the glass against the wall and refusing to make any more, held it out. Nadir's fingers closed over Erik's and for a moment they trembled in harmony. Then Nadir looked up, his calm smile faded, and said:

"I absolve you from feeling any guilt you may have for my death."

"Nadir…" Erik whispered, his mouth dry and his heart wrenching, one last plea for his friend's life. But Nadir's fingers had slipped off his own, enclosing instead around the cup of death that Erik had brewed. He pulled it toward himself and grasped it with his other hand as well, stifling the shaking temporarily. His eyes focused on the liquid that he held and for a moment, a flicker of fear appeared within them, as quiet as a flame. Erik saw this and he hoped that perhaps Nadir would be the one to smash the glass against the wall. But that didn't come to pass either. When Nadir looked back up at Erik, the complacent smile was once again on his blue lips.

"And don't forget, Erik," he said, the left side of his mouth inching up ever so slightly, "your conscience can never can never die. Wherever I am, you still report to me." With that he raised his glass in a salute and, tilting back his head slightly, brought it to his lips.

Erik didn't stay to watch him die.

After Nadir had drained it of its contents, Erik took the glass and left the flat immediately, pausing only to smash it against the side of the house. It shattered into a million pieces, as he wanted to do himself, as he felt his heart do over and over again. A shard of glass bounced back at him and dug into the open palm he had thrown it with, but he was numb everywhere and could feel no pain. He pulled it out and walked away, leaving a trail of bright red blood from this house that had once been full of peace and friendship, but which he had made into a house of horror and death.

It should be raining, Erik thought as he once again wandered aimlessly through the streets of Paris. But the night was clear, one could even say beautiful, though Erik certainly wouldn't, not when he was feeling so terrible inside. The sky was a deep blue and peppered with stars; the moon was large and golden yellow. A perfect night. How Erik loathed it.

And so he walked off into the Parisian night, not caring where he would find himself when he stopped, or even if he ever would. He shut his mind off to the pain; he had become good at that. And yet tears continued to sting his eyes, blinding him as he traveled. So he let his feet guide him, and that they did. They knew exactly where they were leading him, though Erik did not. But they did not know that the comfort they sought would not be found there. No, Erik's pain at losing Nadir would not be the last he felt tonight.


Wesley, by chance, had glanced out of the kitchen window just as the light from indoors bounced off an object outside, creating for one brief moment a glowing white light to cut through the darkness. What it was, for one who had seen it before, was unmistakable: a mask. Wesley laughed softly to himself. That was the absurdity of Erik, he thought. Search like a dog for him and you'll never find him; but once you give up looking, he magically appears!

Wesley went outside to greet him, but once he was in the yard, there didn't appear to be anyone out there. Wesley squinted through the night but he couldn't see a thing. It was not yet eight, but the sky was hauntingly black, and there was no moon tonight to shine its dim yet helpful rays. He called out, but there was no response. Perhaps he had invented the entire thing. Although he had given up his search for Erik, his reunion with Winifred had taught him never to give up hope, and he knew that one-day he would find the man and show his gratitude. Wesley laughed at the thought of his wife; it was undoubtedly the influence of her and her tireless imagination that had caused him to hallucinate so. Even she might be amused by him now, for though she daydreamed constantly, she never called out to someone who most obviously wasn't there!

Wesley turned to go back inside. But as he did, he heard the sound of heavy breathing coming from somewhere to his left. Wesley walked quickly in that direction and he almost stepped on him before he found him. Erik was on the ground beneath the window that Wesley had glimpsed him through. He must have collapsed, for he lay in a black heap and as Wesley knelt beside him, he found that his entire body was shaking as if possessed.

"Erik," Wesley said nervously, "what's wrong? Are you hurt?" Erik looked up at him and once again the mask seemed to radiate in the dark. Wesley noticed that, for the first time that he could remember, he was without his black cloak. His shirt and jacket were disheveled, untucked, his sleeves bunched up past his elbows. Wesley had never seen him so unkempt.

"Wesley? Oh, so is this where I am? Wonderful…" Pushing himself up to sitting, he pulled his legs into his chest and then, like a child, wrapped his arms about them, burring his face into his knees. He was still shaking. Wesley was astounded. He had never seen anything from Erik but an aura of the most regal nobility, but now he was a lump on the dirty ground, a seemingly destroyed man. It seemed like treachery to see him so, and Wesley knew that he needed to get him inside and hidden away from any of the other servants' prying eyes.

Wesley thought that Erik would struggle with him when he tried to move him, but he gave up his weight easily, letting Wesley guide him into the house as if he didn't even know he was there. He trembled so ferociously that at first Wesley was not able to hold him steady enough to walk, but after he threw Erik's arm around his shoulder and grasped his waist even tighter, he was able to maneuver him with a little more ease. Once he had him in the kitchen, Wesley thought quickly as to where to bring him. The servants would be either their supper now so he couldn't chance to put him in any of their quarters. The rooms that weren't currently occupied would likely be soon enough. So he must put him in one of the family rooms. The Vicomte would be in his study for the rest of the evening and his wife would be in her dressing room about now, getting ready for bed (she slept a considerable amount more now). So Wesley quickly brought Erik to the drawing room. No one was likely to go in there at night, and it was close to the kitchen, in case Wesley had to sneak him out quickly.

He set Erik down on the sofa. He was trembling so hard now that he seemed to be convulsing. He had to do something to stop the terrible shaking that, so difficult to watch, must be horrible to endure. Again, Wesley thought that he looked possessed, and wondered for a brief moment if he should send for a priest. But no. That was Winifred's imagination running away with him again. It would not do. He must be rational-Wesley now.

"Have you had anything to eat, sir?" Wesley asked hastily. Erik's eyes, which had been locked on his hands, lifted upwards to meet Wesley's. At first they were filled with such repugnance and hate that Wesley thought he was certain to be killed, but then his eyes went blank. He squinted and continued staring, as though he was seeing Wesley now for the first time.

"What?"

"Wh—When was the last time you ate?" Wesley stuttered. Erik looked away from him then. His eyes roved up and drew a semi-circle in the air before sliding slowly downwards to once again look at his hands.

"I don't know…" he said finally, curling and uncurling his fingers as though he was studying them, as though he never knew them. "The days have all bled together recently. It's hard to tell when a new one begins if you never sleep… I ate yesterday. Or last week. I don't know. The past few months have become just one long day…a day that's now over…"

"There's still a few hours left," Wesley said, hoping it would comfort him. But when Erik looked up again, he could see the sneer in his eyes.

"For you, maybe," he hissed. "And, unfortunately, it would seem for me as well. But the world has suffered a loss today, and from now on, believe me, no day will ever be as it once was." His words sounded like a curse, supported by the way he spat out each syllable with immense loathing. Before Wesley could think of a way to respond, Erik bounded off the sofa, suddenly rejuvenated to his full strength and barreled toward the drawing room door. "Thank you, Wesley, but I cannot stay here," he called.

Wesley was by no means faster or stronger than Erik, but he happened to be standing much closer to the door, and as soon as he saw him start towards it, he backed up quickly until he felt his back slam against the wood. There was slight amusement in Erik's eye as Wesley blocked his exit, but mostly exhausted annoyance.

"Wesley," Erik warned him with his voice, "move."

"No," he replied, unwavering. "Listen, Erik… Just sit down, please. Let me get you some food, and then you can go wherever you want. No one is going to come in here, I assure you." Erik huffed and looked away, but Wesley knew that he was thinking it over. "Please," he repeated. "Just let me do this for you."

Erik was still for a moment, but then he turned and walked away. Sitting back on the sofa, he crossed his arms and simply said, "I don't want anything green."

While Wesley was putting together some food for Erik, the bell rang to signal him to go to Raoul's study. He quickly dropped off the food and, after a word to Erik ("Don't leave when you're done, please, I would like to speak with you."), he hurried down the hall towards the study. On the way, however, he was deterred by Christine.


Christine was not ready for bed. The baby inside he was restless tonight and so was she. She had tried to go to sleep, or she had prepared for it, at least. But as Winifred brushed her hair out in her dressing room, Christine doubled over in pain. When she opened her eyes, Winifred was keeling beside her.

"Should I send for the doctor?" she asked, calmly smoking Christine's hair.

"No, no…" she replied, breathing rather heavily. "I just feel like…something's wrong."

"With the baby?" Christine shrugged, scared that perhaps something was. But Winifred remained composed, still stroking her hair, and Christine recalled that, although she had never been pregnant herself, she had assisted with three other pregnancies and knew exactly what she was doing. "I'm sure everything is fine," she soothed. "These things happen as you come this close to the end of term."

"Yes," she said, wiping tears from her eyes, "yes, you're right." But still, Christine was uneasy. She sent Winifred away after a few more minutes, saying that she wasn't ready for bed yet, and then wandered around the upstairs rooms.

As was the custom, Christine had been confined to the house as soon as she started showing. She considered it a ridiculous, silly custom, but she followed it, and in the three months that she stalked its halls, she came to learn more about her house than she had in her first two years of living there. There wasn't a room now that she didn't know intimately, and she fancied that she knew the house even better than Wesley (who humored her, though he seriously doubted such a thing could be true). Her favorite room of all was the old guestroom that she and Raoul had shared after the fire, and which had now been transformed into her baby's nursery. That was where she went now. It was so peaceful in there; nothing else existed in the little room but she and her baby.

As she wandered around the room, she imagined how he would be, a baby as perfect as a sunset, with clear, white skin and Raoul's marble blue eyes. And he would learn to ride, but not hunt, and he would be brave and noble, like his father. Christine could already see the tilt his chin would take as he stood up for what he believed in, his eyes squinting slightly with determination. Of course, he would be proud and slightly spoiled, as all gentlemen's sons seemed to be, but he would realized his mistakes, and he would do his best to solve them. He would value what was just over what was right, and he would learn to see beyond appearances. He would pretend to hate to be coddled, but inside he would relish it, and Christine would know this, and together they would share this secret as he came to her with all his problems. She would listen openly, advise when she could and just love him when she couldn't.

She sat down in the wooden rocking chair and caressed her stomach, humming softly.

Of course, it could be a girl. Yes, a beautiful little girl with big pink cheeks and a halo of golden curls around her head. She would warm every room she ever went into. And she would have dozens of pink and blue frocks made especially for her, with little shoes so shiny that they sparkled as the sun bounced off them. When she grew up, she would be polite, of course, but smart and quick-witted in ways that Christine never was. She would be elegant and refined as well, and every young man in Paris would want to make her his bride, but she would marry for love, and one day she would bring her own children to play at their grandparents' feet.

Christine stopped humming; she had remembered something. Earlier that day, Winifred (such a lovely girl, really) had given her a book of children's stories that she had found in the attic. It had been Raoul's when he was young, her husband had told her, and Christine realized now that it just might be the key to putting herself and the restless baby inside her to sleep.

She hurried down the stairs toward the drawing room, where she had left it, when she met Wesley passing by. He stopped when he saw her and glanced behind him quickly.

"You seem startled, Wesley," she said, smiling. Since her return from her honeymoon, she and Wesley had become close friends, sharing secrets with each other that he, no doubt, also shared with his spouse, but that she never could. Of course, that would probably stop now, since three days ago he came into her dressing room as Winifred finished pinning her hair and declared that his time would be better spent trying to capture the sun than chasing this ghost around Paris. But he would always be dear to her, even if their game of secrets ceased. "Do I surprise you?"

"No, madame," he said, bowing slightly. He never failed to do this, even though they were more than mistress and servant; they had wept together and seen each other open and raw. "I just thought you had already gone to bed."

"That book your wife found for me," she said, descending the rest of the stairs, "I left it in the drawing room." She made to pass him, but he turned and took hold of her elbow.

"Do you need it tonight, madame? It's so late."

She smiled at his curious behavior. "My maternal instincts inform me that it may be the only way to get my child to sleep tonight."

"Let me get it for you then."

"No, thank you, I can do it—"

"I insist."

Her brow wrinkled as she looked at him, confused. What was he playing at? For a moment he looked very guilty and sickly white. She had seen him look that way only once before. "Wesley…"

"Ah, Wesley! There you are!" Raoul had left his study and joined the two at the foot of the stairs, grinning widely. Wesley's hand dropped immediately from Christine's elbow and he bowed slightly to her husband, who clamped his hand on the other man's shoulder. "What took you so long? Hello, darling," he said to Christine, leaning in to kiss her cheek. She smiled back at him. "Why aren't you in bed yet? My son needs his rest!"

"I'm on my way," she said, with one quick glance at Wesley, whose eyes were downcast and postulant. "I just forgot something in the drawing room. So, if you'll excuse me…"

"Yes, of course," Raoul replied. "We have things to discuss ourselves. I'll be up soon." With that he guided Wesley into his study and Christine went the opposite way. She had no idea what had gotten way. She had no idea what had gotten into Wesley. The last time he had acted so strangely was the day she had discovered that Erik was alive. But surely this had nothing to do with Erik. Wesley would have told her certainly would have wasted no time at all to tell her if he had found him.

Unless he was dead, of course. The thought halted her steps just outside the drawing room door. He would not be so eager to tell her that Erik had died. And then it would be her fault, because she had been the one all day preventing Wesley from finding him! Had she not been so stupidly selfish, Wesley could have found him months ago and perhaps his death could have been avoided! Is that why he didn't want her to go in this room? Was Erik's dead body lying behind these doors?

Nonsense. Wesley would know better than to bring a corpse into her drawing room. Still, her hand shook as she turned the doorknob and she held her breath as she slowly opened the door and stepped into the room.

A tall, lean man dressed in black sat at her small card table facing away from the door. His back was hunched over like the face of a spoon, and his hands seemed to be struggling to support the weight of his head. He was crying, obviously trying to do so without any sound, but failing miserably. Christine was shaken; Erik never failed at anything.

"Leave and come back again, Wesley," he said softly, but his voice filled the room, or perhaps it just filled Christine's head. His voice could master any sound, display any emotion, but it had never been so soaked in sorrow that Christine began to weep silently at the first vowel. Not even when he had sent her away—either time—was his voice so laden with pain. "I need another moment."

Without meaning to, Christine called out his name. Perhaps his weakness had been a ruse, though Christine doubted that, but he jumped up with the same cat-like agility he'd always had and turned around to face her. He whispered her name back to her and then they were both silent as they stared at each other. He was here. He was standing right here in her house. She thought that she should go to him, but something stopped her. She was terrified. Terrified in a way that the sight of his face had never made her feel. Something awful had happened, something that destroyed the strongest man she knew, and she feared it like the wrath of God.

She didn't know what to say to him. How should she approach this? But before she had the time to think on such things, she felt his gaze trickle down her front to behold her vastly inflated stomach. He lingered there a moment, and then spoke.

"Forgive me, Christine… I don't know what I'm doing." His exhausted voice crackled like the lick of flames. "Please, don't think I meant to come here. I just…followed my feet… I ought to go." His shoulders started forward, but then he brought them back. Christine supposed that he hadn't the strength to move far, but seemed willing enough to wait for the energy to come.

"No, Erik," she said, taking a small step forward, "please stay. You're upset. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," he chanted as he brought a hand up to nervously swipe through his hair. She hadn't realized how hard he was shaking. "It's not important." Suddenly his left shoulder jerked backwards and Christine was certain that he would fall over. She ran toward him, but he straightened himself before she got there and she stopped a foot away, feeling foolish. He looked down at her, his lids so close to being closed that she couldn't see the eyes that lay beneath. "You're pregnant."

"Yes…" she said uncertainly, as if she herself didn't know.

"Congratulations." Placing a hand on the back of the sofa for support, he slowly increased the distance between them. "When…"

"Another week or so."

"Yes," he said, as if he knew all along. He traced the embroidering on the soda with a trembling finger. It was like an infection, this tremble; Christine noticed that it had spread into his shoulders now. "Well, I must really be off," he said casually, or at least with the appearance of casualty. "Congratulations again. I will not bother you any more." His hand left the soda and he took a step away. On his third step, he stumbled forward, and this time Christine was at his side quickly enough to help him straighten himself once more.

"Erik," she said, and he turned his head away from her at the sound of his name, "stop. Here, come, sit down." She took his elbow as he had so often taken hers and guided him back to the soda. They sat down together. He bowed his head and stared intently into his open palm as if he were praying to his fingers. His hands still trembled, as did his lower arms, but his shoulders were once again steady. Christine wanted to wrap her fingers around Erik's, to press them hard enough to smother the violent shaking or warm them with kisses, but she dared not. She was still afraid, though she was hiding it well. So she just stared at his down-turned eyes, hoping that he would lift them and look at her.

There was another silence for a moment as Erik continued to stare, transfixed, into his hands, until Christine, who had always found silences like these uncomfortable and hard to sit through, spoke. "Please tell me what's wrong," she said softly. "I've had no sign of you in, well, nine months. There must be a reason why—"

Her words cut off then, for he had looked up at her, and his gaze had frozen her throat. His mismatched eyes were… Christine didn't know the word to describe them. Empty, perhaps, but 'empty' couldn't convey the horror that she felt when she looked into them. She had seen Erik's eyes convey almost every emotion, from pure hatred to unequivocal passion and everything in between. His eyes were now like two deep wells, and someone had stolen all of their water and left them uncovered in the desert for the sun to bleach and dry. She never could have imagined that anyone could have eyes like that and still have a heart beat.

"Oh, Erik…" she whispered when she had managed to find her voice again. "Your eyes are…they're…dead." His expression, or lack of one, didn't change.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "If only the rest of me would follow suit."

"Don't say such things; you don't really want that."

"You don't know what I want."

"I would if you would talk to me."

"I can't," he said, turning his body away from her, once again directing his corpse-like stare into his palms. "I can't anymore."

Now Christine was annoyed. "Stop it," she demanded. "Just tell me."

"I can't cry in front of you." Though Christine was now raising her voice, Erik's remained soft and aloof, as if he were an official informing a soldier's wife that her husband had been killed in battle.

"Why not?" she spat. "You never had a problem before." Her voice was growing louder, her veins boiling under her skin. His passivity angered her more than his unwillingness to answer her questions. Erik never walked away from a confrontation!

"Now is different. You're pregnant." His words catapulted her off the soda and she stomped over to stand in front of him.

"What does that have to do with anything?" she yelled.

"It has to do with everything!" he hollered, his façade finally broken down, and jumped to his feet, his limbs once again filled with the power and strength they had always wielded. Christine felt a sadistic glee in angering him so, but stopped herself just short of smiling.

"Stop being so stubborn," she yelled, matching his volume, "and tell me what's wrong!"

"Nadir is dead!" he screamed, bending over as if it caused him much pain to shout the words, his elbows clinging tightly to his side. He straightened and turned away, his weakness evaporated entirely, though his whole body shook now. Or perhaps Christine was just dizzy from their exchange; she could feel herself tremble a bit. His words hung in the air like an umbrella over them. Erik raised his hand and smacked the side of a book that had been lying on the small table next to the couch. It flew off its seat and landed open on the ground a few feet away. He strode over to the wall and placed his hands against it, leaning forward.

Christine inched forward and finally spoke. "Erik…I'm so sorry. I didn't know…"

"Yes," he replied, composing himself more with each passing second. "Yes, he's dead. And now I am alone at last."

"You're not alone," she tried to soothe, nearing him. "I'm right here."

"Yes, you say that, and there you are—" he didn't turn around, but he motioned with his hand—"Married. Pregnant. And I am alone."

She placed her hands softly on his back, needing to comfort him from a place that was deeper than love. He jerked away as if her touch had stung him. She tried again, and he turned to face her, blocking her every attempt. "No," he said, gently pushing her shoulders away from him. "No, don't touch me. Christine. Stop." She didn't. Even with the force of his hands against her shoulders, she reached her hand up toward his mask, staring into his dead eyes. But before she could touch it, she heard a door click and a voice sound from behind her.

"Darling, I heard shouting. Are you—" Christine turned her head, the rest of her body frozen in place, and gasped.

Raoul stood in the doorframe, Wesley over his shoulder, and even from across the room Christine could see that his eyes were staring, with horror and murderous anger, at Erik.


A/N: Well. Phew. That took me FOREVER, I cannot tell you… I hope you enjoyed it though. It was a very hard chapter to write, both emotionally and physically. I wanted each word to be perfect and obviously nothing is perfect, but I'm really proud of this chapter. I worked hard. And it's long. Woah yeah, is it long. It's also much more descriptive than any other chapter I've written so far, which makes me happy because, in general, my descriptions suck. The paragraph that begins "On this day, seven months after…" took me an hour to write by itself. And afterwards, I called up my sister and was like "Caitlin…is this good? Please be honest, because I just spent an hour on it and I think it might be good." And I read it to her and she was like "…Yeah. Yeah, it's good." And my sister doesn't dole out compliments easily, so… Hehe, it's like my favorite paragraph. Think of the length and the effort I instilled into this chapter as one big long tribute to Nadir, whom I love, and whom I did not want to kill. He's not only a good friend to Erik; he's a good friend to me. He was where I put the snark that would not fit with Erik, and he got a bit more snark in this chapter too, even though he was dying. I just couldn't resist. And just because Erik didn't see him actually die doesn't mean he may still be alive. No. He's dead. Sorry. And I really am, sorry I mean. But I mean, people just don't wake up one day and go "Hey! My syphilis is gone! Yippee!" Unfortunately.

Oh, and sorry about the cliffhanger. Hehe, actually, that's a lie, I'm not sorry at all. Here's my sadistic glee, hehehe!

Please Review! If you liked it, if you hated it, or even if you felt indifferent about it, I would really like to know! C'mon, click that button. Do it for Nadir.