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*-* Erik IX - Discussion, Books and World

There were no more hard discussions after that, as she turned to the books which lined the back wall. As many books, old and leather bound, as could fit the space.

They'd moved to the sofa, and she started to quiz him over his books. He had read them all, in subjects as varied as medicine, astronomy, cooking, gardening and of course literature. His favorites were French authors, but he'd read plenty of old and contemporary authors, including some in their native languages. There was an old first edition of Dorian Gray, ones by a Russian writer she couldn't decipher, and another dozen in Arabic. A polyglot, too.

Every thought he spoke about his books was so profound, so well-articulated, made her wish she'd read as much as him. She wanted to start diving into every book he'd described to her, to see for herself the poetry of that particular novel, revel in the unfolding tragedy of another, or cry in joy at the happy ending in some of his favorite legends.

He spoke about his travels, to Iran, in his youth, to Russia, to England, and Eastern Europe in general. As she'd guessed, he was well-travelled and well-read. When he spoke about the places he'd encountered, it was so vivid, so descriptive, making her feel as if she were there, beside him. The smells, the noises, she felt them all.

He was such a smooth talker, he never made her feel as though she was less, always listened to what she had to say, very intently, very carefully, considering every word she spoke. Not many of the men she'd encountered did that. Treated her as a true, equal human being, and not just a pretty face to brag to.

So much so she almost didn't notice how half the night had gone by, until her eyes were burning from lack of sleep, and his voice nearly lulled her to sleep.

"You should perhaps stay the night," he purred, tenderness in his eyes. "Driving back to your home might not be the best course of action in your present state."

"I think you're right. But I don't want to impose, I've already stayed the last time…"

"I can assure you, it is quite alright. I… I greatly enjoy having you there. I feel a lot less lonely."

There. Had it been so hard to tell her what he felt?

"Alright, then."

His heart would have danced, if it was still beating.

"Then allow me to show you to your bedroom."

Not that he hadn't spent some time the past night to ensure he would have a room ready for her, should she ever need one…

She followed him up the stairs, into a vast room, more like a suite than just a bedroom. The curtains were drawn, but she knew that the next morning, she would be overlooking the valley. Still, in her sleepy state, she only cared about the bed, a giant thing with soft sheets and big pillows.

And a modest nightgown waited for her on a chair.

"You have an attached bathroom, if you want to refresh yourself. If you need me, call me, and I'll come right away."

"Thank you, Erik."

"You're very welcome, my dear."

"Good night."

"Good night, Christine."

And on these words, making her moan out loud, he left her to her own devices.

She undressed and settled into bed, his voice still echoing in her mind, lulling her to sleep.

He didn't linger near her bedroom door as some part of him wished he could so, just to remain in her presence a little longer.

Their discussions had entranced him. Without noticing, he'd spent most of the evening, and the better part of the night talking about himself, and listening to her, as well. He hadn't planned on speaking so much, and yet he'd told her much about his views on life, on everything, as they'd discussed his favorite books and places.

She always had the most witty comments, kind remarks, and the wishful look she had in her eyes, when he described to her the smells and noises of a Persian souk, the mysteries and the agitation of a traveling fair. It had been many years, of course, but he could still remember it as if only mere weeks had passed. As a vampire, time held a stranger meaning.

And he'd almost slipped, more than once, but so far, she hadn't questioned it. And there he was, having her under his roof, for the second time this week.

There. She was sleeping. He could hear her soft breathing, smell the scent of her dreams, and they were kind and mysterious, like a meadow after a rainstorm, life awakening slowly.

He closed his eyes, standing on the steps of the staircase, just breathing in, savoring each sensation.

Such a good day. Her singing, his playing, their talks… So much light after the foul mood he'd been in after his improper behavior towards her. She'd forgiven him his actions, if the way she'd looked when he played was any indication…

Melodies were rising again, within him, tugging at his heart to be written down and experimented with. And he was as much a slave to music as a master of it. Tonight, she was his muse again, and the music commanded him.

And so he would obey.

He strode to his room, hands trembling, and began losing himself in his compositions again.

He wanted to write her an opera fit for her voice, for her talent, to make her so beautiful and so striking, she would be remembered for the rest of time. Not for him, never for him, but for her. A token of appreciation. Of admiration.

Of love?

It was too soon to tell. She was filling his every thought, recently, but he wanted to be cautious, still. His old Angel had given him everything, but in the end, he had lost it all, sanity, music, heart. He only existed, until this new Christine had appeared to fill his void.

But she was so much more than that. And she deserved so much more than him.

Why had she come into his life? The mysteries around her tugged at his mind, in every waking moment. Why now? Was there just a coincidence? The seer had not mentioned it, but she had to know about it. She'd seen something, about his new Christine, he was sure of it. Otherwise, why would she have broken the promise never to tell the other villagers of the secret of his existence?

It didn't matter, though, did it?

And yet, part of him knew she wasn't his old Christine. He'd known her well, had loved her to the point of madness, cherished every detail of her personality, and this young woman slumbering upstairs wasn't her.

She had moved on, and the world had kept on turning, without her beauty, her kindness, her wondrous voice.

And the world had forgotten her.

There were no recordings, no pictures of her. In his weaker moments, with the internet, in recent years, he'd tried to look for pieces of her, if she'd ever been spoken about. Nobody remembered her, how passionately he had loved her, and how forgiving she'd been. An angel in the flesh.

Perhaps his new Christine was a gift, from up there. A young woman sent to test his resolution, now that he was ready for her. Able to be the man she deserved.

No. A person could never be a "gift". She might feel like that to him, but thinking that way would be dangerous. As he'd sworn before, he would strive to be the best "man" he could be. And in the process, they would see how their music combined.

Lost in the music, again, he only looked up when he heard her move overhead. She was awake. Her steps were slow, as if still prey to a sleepy dizziness. He would let her emerge, as long as she wanted, and then…

He would hear her again.

He couldn't wait to see if yesterday had only been a lucky day, or if truly, her acting had improved as only he would have imagined in his dreams.

But first, to clean himself up a little. A dashing figure in a well-tailored suit always helped, and he would need to tell her some delicate things today.

That, though, he would happily postpone.