Chapter 32 - Their Guilt
Three days. Seventy-two hours. No way to escape.
What was more, there was only Erik and books for company.
She huffed, turning her pillow to the cooler side and snuggled back down. Her back was to the window, as it vainly tried to pierce her with morning light.
A sizzling noise emanated from the walls and from the smell, it was Erik resorting to frying bacon. It shouldn't surprise her that he knew bacon was her cure-all, her go to comfort food. The fact that he knew was gradually getting easier to bear.
Maybe it wasn't all bad that someone would get up just to make you bacon in the mornings, merely because they wanted to do something for you. To make you smile. Be happy. To love them back.
Christine sighed into her pillow.
It was only a few minutes later before there was a soft knock, "Christine? Are you awake?"
She was sorely tempted not to answer, but the idea of fried food made her mouth water.
"I'm awake," she yawned and shuffled up in bed. Catching sight of her bra and trousers she quickly leaned over and shoved them under the bed, just before there was a rattle of the door handle.
Erik entered, holding a tray. Perched on top was a glass of orange juice, a plate with bacon, a fried egg, toast and beans, along with a smaller plate that had strawberries that were dusted in sugar. A sprig of parsley was placed delicately on top of the central dish.
It seemed so…Tentative, coming from him. Not from a cook, or a hotel. Even the meals she had eaten underground had felt rushed in comparison.
The tray hovered above her lap a moment before he set it down. Warmth radiated into her legs through the covers. His hands tremored ever so slightly as they retreated to being clasped behind him.
"Thank you," her fingers curled around the cutlery, looking up questioningly when Erik hesitated to leave.
"Is it to your liking?" his head bowed, as if he was a small boy wishing desperately to be praised.
Christine felt the wave of guilt pinch her, it's you who made him doubt himself. It's you who made him relock the doors in fear of you leaving. It's you who can give him validation.
"You don't have to wear the mask, you know," she tried to make her voice strong, though her stomach revolted at the idea of even looking at that face again.
I may have watched a few horror movies, but even they can't scratch on that…visage. Can skin actually be grey? Or was I over-exaggerating it? How could it move?
Erik's head jerked, eyes widening, before his mouth set in a thin line. If he had a nose instead of a hole, it would have flared.
"That is not a wise idea,"
The speck of relief that she felt died, as Christine realised that she'd have no way of returning to his good graces before she would be coaxed into a white dress.
"I don't want to get married, Erik,"
"Perhaps you should have thought of that before you said yes to my proposal, my dear," he sneered.
"Had I said no, would have you still asked again? Would have you still given me freedom that night?"
The tense posture slipped and Erik twisted away, turning towards the window, the watery light grazing the cheeks of the mask, "I would have given you anything that night, Christine, had you not betrayed me,"
I hadn't betrayed you! I would have come back –
The protests – the lies – she bit back. The truth was…she didn't know.
"Would you care to dress after breakfast? If you wish, we may meander around our new home,"
"Where is our new home, I mean, where even are we?"
Erik still had his back turned towards her, and the fists that clenched reminded her that questions were dangerous.
"I know you don't trust me," she sighed, poking the egg so that it wobbled under the fork tine, "But I like travelling, I'd like to know where I am so I can cross it off my list. What harm would it do? There are dozens of islands in the world, I just want to know which one,"
Silence.
"I'll sing for you," she offered at last, looking at his back, the man that desired her voice like a drug, "I'll even –"
"Shetlands," he cut in, "We are in the Shetland Islands,"
Oh.
"We're in Scotland?" her brow furrowed, "You seem to like The British Isles, don't you?"
The man gazed out the window, "Though the governments are useless, their notoriously changeable weather suits my habits,"
And not because some of the most gothic books in history is based in the rural places of England.
The room was washed in grey as clouds blotted out the light of the sun, "And you don't find it…Miserable here?"
A small hiss of amusement left his lips, "Peace is hard to find Christine, and if I have to resort to secluding myself – ourselves - in the untameable regions of a Scottish island to obtain it, then so be it," his shadow elongated as he turned back to her, eyes glowing, "I have spent my life in miserable places, so trust me when I say this is the least miserable,"
Christine shuddered and cast her eyes back to her plate. The beans had stopped steaming.
"Now, eat, bathe, dress, we will be leaving shortly afterwards," he eyed her carefully before the door shut and left silence, surrounding her like a shroud.
The fact that he would allow her outside was miraculous, until she remembered…
There was nowhere else for her to go.
The irony was that the food she'd scarfed down in the airports and planes under the skies of freedom, never tasted as delicious as the breakfast Erik had made her.
In the modest bathroom made from the same planks of wood as the rest of the cabin, Christine evaluated the finger shaped bruises that marked her back, wincing as she probed them tenderly from over her shoulder. Not as bad as yesterday, but certainly not perfect by any means.
To think that it had only been a day from when she had first seen that face. Was it terrible that part of her had thought that he might have been handsome under that mask, had desperately hoped that he didn't have a legitimate reason for his behaviour?…That she could have a reason to resent him more, rather than less?
The soft spray of the shower pattered against her skin, wiping away the sweat she'd gained in the chase and two flights that had cemented into her skin. It stung against her back, but God, it felt nice. She never had to worry about her privacy being interrupted here, despite the fact it was a man she lived with, he'd never once glared at her lecherously. Longingly, yes, but never…Never like that.
Her fingers threaded shampoo and conditioner into her curls, grunting when they snagged on numerous knots.
Eventually, (after using what was most of their hot water supply), Christine turned off the shower and stepped out, rubbing her elbow gingerly from knocking it a few times against the sides of the cubicle.
By the time she entered her room, wrapped in her towel, her mouth opened slightly as a parcel sat on her bed, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
I can't be surprised, not anymore. Yet somehow… I still am.
Tenderly, she lifted out the layers of clothes, a beautifully decorated hairbrush, along with the few toiletries she'd been carrying already. Ironically, or perhaps disturbingly, he'd been tracking her own cycle and supplies had been stacked neatly at the bottom. At least locked away in the mansion she could have pretended that he had just known that females needed certain products. Medication for cramps also appeared after unfolding new underwear.
Raoul would have never –
Exhaling, Christine turned around, grabbed the necessary products and stalked back into the bathroom.
Threading the laces into bows, she sat on the steps of the cottage. Erik had his back to her, waiting, with his arms laced behind him.
It seemed so…So…She remembered, misty fields and wondering around with her palm in her father's, big and hairy. A picnic, of squashed pies and too-ripe apples, juice sticking to her chin, the tart berry pie and swig of juice to wash it down. His rippling bow dancing on violin strings and the faint whisp of air that had felt like her mother, sitting there beside them under the afternoon's rays.
Christine pushed the thoughts away as the wind nipped at her cheeks. Despite the pain of remembering, how it stung to be bereft of that peace now, there was something easier about it. That for a moment, she'd glimpsed the past without it catching on a heartstring, snagging painfully. Brutally.
The music last night, had it hurt or healed? She could only remember a myriad of melodies, twining together in one song. Some of it sad, some of it happy.
A familiar hand obstructed her view.
"Shall we?"
Rising, she placed her hand in his, the curl of his fingers over hers like the great legs of a spider ensnaring prey.
The rugged vegetation lumped under her shoes as they trekked away from their cottage, winding over a bubbling brook, accompanied by the susurrus of the leaves. While Erik's strides were more than double hers, he shortened them to accommodate her, so their pace was languid.
She didn't look up. Not higher than where her hair brushed the tip of his shoulder.
"There are ruins on this island, you know," Erik mused, melodic voice filling the void.
"I don't know much about Scottish history," Christine murmured, finding relief as the masked visage glanced southward, his attention drawn away from her.
"Though I do not know the specific history of this isle, the Scottish history is riddled with conflict with the British,"
"Well, they were an empire," she replied, viewing the land with an absent sort of longing, the greenery pleasant to the eye, "It'd be odd if they didn't fight with another culture,"
She felt Erik nod beside her, "They didn't appreciate the Scottish choosing to be Catholic when they were Protestant,"
"It always goes back to religion," she said softly, biting her lip, - stopping when Erik gave her a warning squeeze of the hand.
"Will you ever give up that little habit? It has been almost a year, and yet it shows no sign of stopping," there was an odd edge to his tone.
Stopping, she pulled her hand from his, shaking her head in dismay.
"You think you'll iron out every bad habit, everything you don't like, don't you?" she snapped, stepping back, "You think you can change me?"
Erik stiffened, eyes turning cold, "Is that what you believe? That I can change people?"
"What else am I supposed to think? You've hounded me across continents!" she inhaled unsteadily, the scent of impeding rain stinging her nose, "You can't change who I am,"
His eyes sparked as he moved closer, "Oh? Do you think I desire a slave to my whims? You think I would dare? This is my agony, Christine! Forever separated from goodwill, forever separated by callous thought," he stopped abruptly, eyes misting for a second, "I've but been hounded across the world, Christine, for what they say about inner goodness," he sneered, "It becomes a pale phrase when compared to a visage that strikes terror in the heartiest of men…Even the most compassionate of women," his Adam's apple bobbed, chest rising and falling as if supressing sobs.
She shook her head, finding guilt when she tried to shut it out, the exclamation of Raoul's echoing in her head.
He's made you think he's worth saving!
No! She couldn't always be in the wrong, couldn't she? Was she wrong to know that this man who shuddered in horror of his own face, would never be allowed a second chance in society? Why did the thought of it make her want to cry?
Was it wrong for her to feel that she should have a choice? Rather than two opposites demand everything from her? Deny her the right to think for herself?
"I can't work out what is right anymore," a weak hand massaged her temple, and she shook away the headache creeping into her mind, "It's too much,"
"What is too much?" his stare narrowed.
"This!" Christine gestured around her, "I can't think without someone breathing down my neck, telling me what is right and what is wrong all the time,"
"That boy, he's poisoned you against me," the shadow seethed, gaining height.
"No," Christine raised her chin, staring him down, "You've poisoned me, and that isn't about to go away, just because you think music makes everything better,"
"You love music,"
"Self-respect comes first," she snapped, and she stalked to the bridge with the wind shuddering against her curls, "You don't seem to understand that,"
"You didn't love yourself until music came to you," his voice followed her eerily, resting against her ears in a whisper, "You never loved until your voice soared, and your heart flew with it. Don't deny what we both felt those nights ensconced away, honing what was left of your soul, Christine. I will not have it,"
She shook her head, pushing away its relentless echo.
"The nights you spent curled up outside my room," his shadow joined her on the bridge, "The nights when my music called to what is his, and you came, every time,"
"Shut up," her knuckles cracked.
"Forget what is real, and you know deep inside, what has been there all along," a spidery laugh tickled her ears.
She gripped the stone so that it bit into her palms, "Shut up!"
"The nights you cried out, it was my voice that rested your fears,"
"You lie!" she swung back and pushed the body away from her, but there was no satisfaction from hearing the breath rasping from the corpse who cackled crookedly behind her.
"Do I?" his voice flew deliriously. Do I? Do I? Do I?
"Leave me alone," she pushed forward along the trail, winding away from the vegetation, gravel grinding underfoot.
"Once again, you run! A child who cannot cope in the face of truth!" the man spat behind her.
Forget it. Forget him. Don't listen to his taunts, you're better than that. You know what you gave up when you went to see Mama…
You're a little girl, Christine, who runs away from the monster.
It was painful, the voice that boomed inside her mind, and her knees buckled, breath spurting out in pants.
"Get out, get out of my head!" her fingers pulled at her hair, the pain grounding her as his footsteps stopped a few feet away.
"Please, get out of my head," she whimpered, "I can't cope, there's too many voices, I can't think,"
"Hush now," the voice crooned, "Hush now, you have no need to be afraid. I will take care of you,
Fingers swiped away the tears pressing against her eyes, searching for who lay within Erik for now, but his gaze revealed only tenderness, a beckoning hand. He stood before her, a mockery of a prince.
It wasn't fair.
Swallowing away the tears, she intended to push past him, to run away – but his taunt echoed in her mind. Who was she? She'd spent the last year running, and what use had it been? How many months had he pursued her? How long would his hope last?
How could she be the one to crush that beautiful plaintive voice, the quivering boy who should be a man?
He needed to grow up.
She rose, the position of subservience was beneath her, yet she could no longer pride herself on being morally pure. If only she hadn't torn off his mask.
If she couldn't escape marriage, if she couldn't escape him, then why make things worse? When his behaviour would soften, when he would be more good than bad?
Christine relinquished her hand, flinching when the long fingers enclosed over hers like a trap. The only chain that was missing was the band of gold around her finger.
They spent the afternoon singing soft songs and wordless melodies that his bow pressed from the violin. Eventually, she wound up on the sofa, listening to the keening wind and smattering rain which whipped around them.
Erik stood contentedly, swaying to the music that drew his mind above earthly matters, before a window. The fire crackled, popping serenely. She vaguely remembered unwrapping a parcel that contained a book she'd been wishing to read, but it was left open in her lap, as her head spun with music.
It was wrong to find peace, when she no longer knew herself, what she wanted was so twisted and each choice she made wrong, leaving only murkier waters. This was easy. Surrendering. Her mind no longer hurt with the effort. Maybe in another year or so she would begin to feel herself again, be able to be content with her lot in life, wear a ring on her finger with tolerance, even with potential surrendered affection?
This was easy. Loosing herself in this warm cocoon. He was happy. And his music made her feel so warm. Maybe loosing her heart to it wasn't so bad. If he was music, then he'd return her heart, and ease the longing she felt from its separation. Maybe one day, this is what would only matter. Making him happy.
Happy. If he was happy, then was this happiness?
A screech and the bow clattered to the ground, Christine bolted upright, staring in horror as Erik wheezed.
"Erik!" she jumped from her place on the sofa to his side, horror dropping her jaw as she took in the sight of a stain blotting the black silk of his shirt, "What's this! What can I do? Let me help," her hands hovered over him.
He recoiled slightly, jerking his head towards his wound, "Oh, nothing but a parting gift from that boy of yours. He saw fit to shoot the monster,"
"Stop calling yourself that," Christine bit out, pushing aside the horror of the image of Raoul raising a gun at him, "Now tell me what to get so we can stitch it, or wrap it, or whatever it is you do when you have a – a gun wound – Ok?"
He met her gaze seriously, "You wish to help?"
"Yes, now tell me what to do,"
Gritting his teeth, Erik moved to the kitchen table, "Go to my room and retrieve the first aid kit. It is at the end of the bed, resting on top of the cabinet,"
"I'll be right back," Christine scurried to the end of the hallway, and cautiously entered his room.
Erik's bedroom was plainer than hers, in decoration at least. It looked…Average. Not the fine drapes or ebony shelves of nick-nacks that lined the rooms that she was so accustomed to. His eccentricity was replaced by plain grey curtains, royal blue covers that she couldn't see him sleeping on and a picture of a stormy highlands that dominated one wall of the room. The only signs that it was inhabited was the suitcase that was placed in front of the window and violin case resting on top of the chest of drawers. The first aid kit she collected at the end of his bed.
When she re-entered the kitchen, Erik had laid a towel on its surface and was in the process of rolling up the silken sleeve of his shirt. Grey-tinged skin and stark blue veins and the barest dabbling of hair lined his arm, and her stomach squeezed at the sight. Deftly, fingers stopped in their task and his head jerked up.
"Now you may leave, if you wish. I know that the sight of blood causes you weakness,"
"I'll be fine," she pulled out a chair beside him, "Will you allow me to help?"
He cast her a doubting glance, before stiffly rolling the rest of his sleeve, faltering as the shirt caught on the lump of bandages over the shoulder.
Her hands reached out, pretending not to notice the way his hand froze as she carefully lifted back the silk of his shirt, fighting the recoiling of her stomach as she tasted metal. It was slow progress as she realised the blood that had seeped from the bandage had dried in areas and she gently tugged at it, wincing as it finally left the binding. Peeling it higher, a breath left her as blood took up her vision, the sickly smell encouraging her to gag.
I can't believe that I once thought that I would make it as a spy when I was a kid. Gunshot wounds aren't nearly as pretty as Hollywood led me to believe.
"Look away," Erik's tender voice broke the silence, "You're white as a sheet,"
Glancing away a moment to regain her breath, she inhaled, before pushing away the unsteadiness. Christine met his gaze, mouth pursing resolutely, "I want to help,"
Erik sighed, "Very well, will you be able to unwrap my bandage? Use the gloves inside the kit, as it will be more hygienic,"
Nodding, she reached for the gloves, slipping them on and carefully unwrapping the bandage with more steadiness than she felt she had in her. Despite the creeping worry with each pass she unwrapped, the stain got bigger the nearer she got to the wound, she pressed on until Erik finally held up his good hand.
"Stop, a moment. This next bit, if you'll allow me –"
"I can do this," she snapped, "If you'll stop treating me like a child –"
"I am not treating you like a child, Christine, but this bit is tricky without a more experienced hand," he gestured to the kit, "Now, if you still wish to participate, then open up the gauze, I will need a new bandage as well. I have simply broken the scab that had started forming,"
Reluctantly relinquishing the end of the bandage to his waiting hand, she turned and opened up the packets of the damp saline gauze while pulling out the tape and scissors. It was hard not to look back as she heard the sharp breaths of pain.
"You're remarkably calm for someone with a gun-wound," her voice trembled.
"Eventually it becomes part of your routine, dear,"
"Routine!" her fingers gripped the chair's armrest.
"Don't scare yourself, there's no need," he reproached and a long hand gestured at the gauze.
"You mean…How exactly, how many times exactly have you been s-shot?" she tremored, as she placed a strip onto fingers.
He laughed, a cold greeting, "Oh, there is a certain part of me who does not wish you to know, I've partly lost count. Memory is a fickle thing, Christine,"
She shuddered, picturing barren wastelands and artillery fire, back street alleys and leering men.
"Did you fight? In the army?"
Erik let out a sharp breath, hissing through his teeth, "I see what you are doing! Oh, you wish to know the story of this, this infestation?"
His fingers snatched another saline strip, "Unfortunately for you, there is no heroic origin, no gone wrong experiment, other than a woman who had to live with bearing a deformed little devil," fingers flashed as he grasped another strip.
"And that devil became no more than of which it had been destined,"
"You can change that, Erik, you can change that," she turned to look at him, "No one controls your life but you,"
"Oh? Is that so?" he snarled, fingers clenching, "Then look at this! This was left by the man who despised my attempt of controlling my life," his hand reached, the barest flash and her hair was tugged to see the trickling blood through the gauze, the dark ash-marks left on alabaster skin, the scent filling her lungs. She tasted blood.
She didn't fight the hand that held her, clenched her hair at her nape, tightening in his panic that flared with each shallow breath that he took.
He was vulnerable.
He was scared.
He was alone.
"You were my one concession, my one fatality," he shuddered, breath rippling, "I never needed air until I breathed yours, and I knew warmth for the first time. Never once had I seen innocence until it was reflected in your eyes. And I wanted that; is it so terrible? Is it so terrible?"
She couldn't speak – the pain that wracked him, this battered shell that hadn't been given a chance to stand alone – asking her if what he has done wasn't terrible.
Because, without a doubt, it is. But I no longer know if it is terrible for him. He thinks he is in the right, taking what he could, how he could, knowing it would be the one thing to make him 'happy'.
But in the 'real' world, the one with morals and sanity, with a spectrum of good he's obviously never witnessed…Or experienced…He's considered to have done the worst. A criminal, an outcast.
I don't want to understand him, but I can.
Talking 'sense' would never reach through because her logicalness was his illogicalness.
They were so different. How could this man have functioned in a world like this for so long?
Maybe this was why he wasn't coping.
"When I left, did you see it as your happiness going away?" she murmured.
"I saw a fiancé eloping with another," he growled and released her abruptly, "Turn around, run, if you wish. It is, after all, what you're good at,"
Christine recoiled, brimming with anger. He had no motive to snap like that! Again! Each time he had driven her away, it wasn't her fault.
And yet, he doesn't see it like that, does he?
Sighing, Christine deflated, "Do you need a bandage now?"
"No, the non-stick gauze," he snipped.
The urge to stand and storm back into her room in retaliation was extremely potent, but, taking another deep breath, she passed him the gauze.
"If you spoke gently to me, things might improve between us,"
"And that is the cure? Will that be the way to know your love?"
"No. Not the only thing. But it is a start. Music isn't, despite what you may believe, all I want in my life. It is only a segment,"
"What else do you want?" he remarked, "You do not seem receptive to the things I buy you, unless buying them for yourself,"
"I can't be bought, Erik," she stopped herself from laughing at the petulant look he shot her, "My world revolved around others, it can't just revolve around the one you put in place for me, at least, one I can't love in, or be happy in,"
He soured, "You've never been happy once, in all this time?"
"In Paris was when I was nearest my happiness. Having the ability to decide where I could go, where I could eat, what I could do, what I saw and heard? That was heaven, Erik. If we did more –"
"You. Left," he growled.
Christine sighed, threading her fingers together, "I know. I did."
"You took my mask,"
And you took my freedom!
"I did. I had to see what –" she paused, "genius lay beneath your mask…You followed me back across continents…" her tongue hurt as she bit it, "How was I supposed to try to understand when the person behind it never once showed their face?"
"Faces matter when people wish to see, blind people don't see, Christine. Are you saying they don't understand?"
"No, I'm only saying that I didn't. Not knowing you…It never helped me feel – like I knew you, like you were still someone distant. I guess you could see it like that because I now know that part of you, but it could help me 'adjust' better, to this. This life,"
Erik pulled his lips back in thought, and began wrapping a new bandage over the layers, after setting down the tape that had stuck the pad over the saline strips.
"Seeing Erik's face will help you love him?"
Christine shivered, knowing the question was unavoidable, "Yes,"
Eyes regarded her with suspicion heavy in their depths, "You shrink back in horror – do not think I do not notice, Erik will not burden you with such a weight more than he has,"
"Where are your parents? Are you an orphan too?"
"You do not need to know that," he muttered, the chair scraping as he stalked to the living room.
Christine stood, gritting her teeth, "You can't run away from me when it suits you. If I can't, then you can't either,"
Erik hunched, retreating to the fireplace – as if seeking sanctuary, "This is what drove them away," his hand splayed across his face, disgust leaking from him.
Christine stopped, eyes widening, "They abandoned you?"
He laughed unhappily, teeth baring in a grimace, "I'm a monster, have you not learned?"
She sank to the sofa, "How could they? How could they have just abandoned you? Are they still alive, somewhere?"
The man shrugged loosely, eyes misting, "Two graves, side by side. I cannot remember where I last saw them – things get muddled," he vaguely gestured to his head, and inhaled, "It is the one place where Erik cannot visit,"
"What? Why?" she glanced up.
"She would never desire that – why should I taint her dying wish?"
Christine sighed, "You must be able to mourn, Erik. It's not right,"
The man shrugged, "I never met my…sire, and never knew a good moment with my mother, I don't have much to mourn,"
Christine couldn't supress a cringe.
"You see! Even tales of such a wretched life terrify you!" Erik sank into a chair mournfully.
"We could go and visit them, if you wanted?" she said quietly, "If you happen to remember where they are,"
He affixed her with a tearful gaze, "I cannot understand if your words are true, or merely to placate,"
Her head dipped, a silent sigh, "Maybe someday we'll learn to trust each other,"
Abruptly, Erik stood, a shadow that crept over her, "Perhaps there is a way, Christine,"
There was a strange tone to his voice.
"What do you mean?" her voice tremored, leaning away.
"Yes, there is a way. A way, where we can eliminate black and white, yes, there is a way," a tiny smile pulled back his skin, indentation of teeth from underneath showing, "Why Christine, you marvellous creature, I believe you have solved our riddle,"
Erik leant forward, hand patting her head, "Oh dear, we have much to plan! Now, go and pack your bags – we shall be leaving this destitute island!"
"B-But we just got here?" she gaped, "Where are we going now? How can you afford all this travelling?"
"Wait – I have overlooked that I have remised in giving you something to pack into. Oh, you shall just use mine," Erik hummed, "Come, come, you must start packing, and I! Well, we will have a whole new itinerary,"
At his gesture Christine dumbfoundedly rose, following him to her room, where he placed a black suitcase a moment later.
"Erik, what's going on? Tell me, please?" she blocked the door of her room.
The ambience died a little as he beheld her, sympathy twitching as her chin wobbled – the verge of being overwhelmed, the poor dear. Perhaps he had been a bit hasty.
"I have discovered a way to trust you, my dearest, so that you may have your freedom, and I shall have my happiness – all you will need to pass is a small test, then we will both be free,"
"T-test?" she stuttered, alarm flaring in her rapid breathing.
"Calm, my dear," he soothed, "You will know in due course,"
The creases around her eyes wilted, as she fell back and let him pass, "You know how to throw a curveball,"
His heart clenched, painfully. Hair had fallen limply, and stress had caused some acne to flare up on the sides of her face – should he order her some cream? He'd have to check, he couldn't remember which skin care she abided with, she'd switched in the last year.
She's dying.
He lingered a moment, eyes watching the tremulous intake of breath, fingers aching to grace himself with just a touch, to reassure that blood warmed her veins.
She lives, he hissed back.
Soon, she would live all the time – just like she used to!
"When are we going?" her childlike voice sounded small. Her eyes stared blankly at the floor.
Terror wormed through, making him shudder. Her voice, why did it sound so dead? Why wasn't it living anymore? WHY?
A primal urge to shake her, until she screamed back, until she ran for the hills – so he could see the Christine again that recoiled at his touch. Where had she disappeared to?
Her anger had flared like the pops of the dying fire, the last sparks before the flame would go out, please let this not be the end of her wanderlust.
He backed out of her room, the time he uttered forgotten as he all but ran to the doors of the cabin – unable to stomach the sound of her silent tears.
Would she be happier without Erik? Without this monster that hounds her days and haunts her nights? No – I cannot live without her, not this heart who aches at even the thought of her absence! Erik cannot function without purpose, no music of his may grace the world, but the burden of his love was breaking such fragile shoulders…
A rasping sob left him, his fingers latching onto a ribbon tucked inside his pocket, blue like the little forget-me-nots he'd seen in the gardens that sprawled around that English estate. It didn't smell like her now. No, the dust that seeped through and the past remnants of tears had plagued it.
He needed a new one, but no longer knew if it was possible.
For once, the Vicomte was right. She'd never been his. But soon. Soon she would.
Till death due them part.
Nadir wheezed, fingers scraping against the endless seams that withheld his freedom. Dear Allah, he'd never forgive himself if they died on his account! Not when he was trapped and alive, unable to help. Screaming would not help when the very room was soundproof – well, it was deep enough that no one would hear even if he did. Time had passed with increasingly worrying effects, only the eerie drip echoing from elsewhere kept him company.
Erik had left him to die of thirst, had cruelly shut the lights off so that even he could not die with dignity from the hanging tree. It would be too much to hope that even within that cruel carcass that he had shut the lights off in an act of mercy.
Erik had never known mercy's face.
So, with waning effort, and destabilised hope, Nadir languished in his tomb.
Allah have mercy, if not for me, then for the monster I've created.
Why hello my lovelies! It is I, the long dead and gone authoress struggling to upload and maintain a healthy sleeping schedule! It's been…Hectic. Very little time to process and then when I've set aside time to write, it's exactly when no muse will dare show up!
I'm also battling some exams and heavy course-work leaden subjects at the moment, so I say this now, is that I may need a bit longer before I can update for a while and not jeopardise my mental health! :D Especially with all that's occurred in the last month or two…
So please enjoy/I hope you have, and please excuse the poor errors if there are any!
I really need an Erik to sing me asleep right now. And curl up next to. -_-"
Thanks for reading and your ever-lovable reviews (you are really keeping my morale up ^^) : Qtkittee (yes, lots of questions haha! I will try to ^^) , GothicLolitaxo (your endless support is just heart-warming – thank you T0T), Marrz (welcome btw! Thanks for saying hi!), HoursOfMazenderan (hehe! I see that the butterfly connection is made and through haha! I'm glad I can deliver!), and Landidie (thank you so much for your corrections – much appreciated! I hope you can excuse my poor typing! I'll keep an eye out for any new De Chagny mistakes phshs ^_^)
Your humble writer,
Enigma