WNoir54

Just as she had intended, Corinna had renewed Erik in the deepest, most intimate way possible. His health greatly improved through the remaining winter days, and by the time the snow melted and the first green leaves appeared he was stronger, happier, and no longer inclined to remain in solitude. His hair grew thicker, the weight he had lost during his weeks of wandering the darkest streets of Paris returned.

He now resembled the man Corinna had first met in London, the awkward but charming dark-haired Parisian who had escorted her to India.

Corinna kept a room separate from Erik's, though there were few nights that she woke alone in her room. She savored the feeling of his warm body against hers, his strong arms wrapped around her in the night, his soft breath on the back of her neck in the morning. He belonged to her. She could feel it in the form of butterflies in her stomach.

Traces of his discomfort remained, though Corinna knew he existed only because she had found him. That was all she had wanted. In time she hoped the memory of the years that had knifed through their happiness would disappear, that what had changed could still be undone. He was different and so was she.

Once the days grew warmer their afternoons were spent in the courtyard. Corinna kept birds in walk-in, steel-barred houses, though a peacock and peahen were allowed to strut freely through the garden. Corinna fed the birds or watered the flowers while Erik composed or sketched. All that mattered to her was that he was near. She saw his affection in his eyes when she glanced at him, though often a twinge of despair lingered in his gaze, and Corinna pushed her concerns into the farthest recesses of her mind. In time he would heal completely, she told herself.

At night they dined together, their meals prepared by two Indian servants who spoke broken French and English. Neither had any idea who Erik was,nor did they care,as long as they had food, shelter, and funds of their own.

"I haven't heard you play the organ all day. How are your compositions coming along?" Corinna asked over dinner one spring night.

"Fine," Erik nodded. He paused, stirred his soup and quietly added, "thank you."

Corinna smiled, satisfied with his response until she glanced at him and saw the uncertainty in his eyes. He looked away at once and his attention fell on the floral arrangement in the center of the table.

"What is it, my love?" she asked, placing her fork on the edge of her plate.

He said nothing at first, shaking his head in a transparent reply. It was the first time in months he had refused to answer her.

"You enjoy composing," Corinna asked, her tone more a question than a statement.

"Of course. It was my life," he mumbled.

She studied him for a moment, noticing how rigid he had become, how his lips had straightened and his eyes had moved from hers. He was distancing himself, withdrawing from her.

"Was your life?"

Again Erik refused to answer and an uncomfortable silence fell over the dining room, one which Corinna could not manage to break. She watched Erik from the corner of her eye as he viciously cut through his food and bit it off his fork. Pain returned to his gaze, his attention fully focused on drink and food.

"If there is something—"

"It's worthless," he said suddenly, shoving his plate away. "A waste of time, a waste of energy, a waste…it's all a waste. Day after day, sheet after sheet, Corinna, and no one will ever purchase a single score."

"You cannot say that," she protested as she reached for his hand.

Erik pulled his hand away, which angered Corinna.

"Why would anyone bother? An unknown composer, no training, no background. Only a name, a dead name. It's over. My passion is over. My reason to write is…"

Her patience stretched too thin, Corinna rose from the table. She wanted to be his passion, his reason for writing, for breathing, for shedding the skin of a ghost. His words stung her. His words echoed that he loved her, but she was not his life.

"Your passion?" she snapped. "And what passion is that?"

Erik remained seated. He stared at his folded hands and lightly shook his head, refusing to continue a conversation that would only lead to an argument.

"Christine?"

Their eyes met briefly, Corinna daring him to answer her, Erik looking bewildered. He tore his gaze away and pushed back from the table.

"She was your passion," Corinna said as she crossed her arms and glared at the fresco wall. "She is still your passion. I care for you, I searched for you but you still want her. You will always want her."

The heat within the room increased, and Corinna exhaled hard, fanning her cheeks in irritation. She had never been so angry that she felt her blood temperature rise. She wanted to scream but her throat became painfully tight, and before she knew it there were tears in her eyes.

Corinna heard Erik walk around the table and for a moment she wanted him to quietly leave the dining room and return to his room. She was ashamed of her insinuations and fearful that she was correct.

His hands gripped her shoulders, weakening her knees, sending a rush of hot blood through her body. She felt like she was falling, like the floor had opened up and she was sinking, rushing, flying feet first to the center of the earth.

"It has nothing to do with Christine," Erik said.

Dark spots danced before her eyes, and the rush of warmth nosedived into bitter cold that encompassed her. Her body felt leaden, her knees weak and head spinning. In all of her life, Corinna had never felt anything like it before.

"I think…I need…to sit," she said before the world went black.

She had fainted, though for what reason Erik didn't know. One moment she was fine, the next moment angry and accusing, and the in the following moment she had passed out in his arms.

In the arms of a man she thought still loved another woman.

He had caught her before she hit the ground. For a long moment he had pressed her head against his shoulder and ran his hand over her head, embracing her in a protective hold that she couldn't feel.

Erik swept her into his arms and carried her to her room, resting her head against his chest. Unshed tears lingered on her long, black eyelashes. Tears he had caused.

"I will try," he whispered as he lay her down on her bed and covered her with a blanket. "I will try never to think of Christine again."

He sat beside Corinna on the bed but guessed she wouldn't want to find him there when she woke. Reluctantly he rose and found a chair, which he pulled up to the bedside. After he placed a cold, wet rag on her forehead, he removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and sat beside her, waiting for her to awaken.

She roused slowly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment before she rested again, her head falling to the side.

"You are everything," he said as he turned the rag over. "You are the only life I want."

Erik touched her cheek and she sighed, her eyes opening again. She blinked at him, her face turning toward his caress.

"I should have followed you," she said under her breath as she struggled to keep her eyes open.

"Rest," Erik said. "I don't want to upset you a moment longer."

Corinna closed her eyes as Erik rose and fetched her a glass of water. He helped her sit upright and brought the glass to her lips. Once she was finished, he placed an extra pillow behind her back and asked if she was warm enough.

"We saw you in the crowd after you left the carriage," she said, ignoring his suggestion that she rest.

Erik nodded, recalling how he had stumbled away in the darkness, his body bent and bruised, his head throbbing and the burns across his face and scalp raw and aching. He had forced himself to continue, to hold back the tears and the pain in his chest. For months he woke in the night to Corinna's pleas, to her screams for him to return.

"I begged my father to let me follow you, but he refused. He told me to stay in the carriage, to stay where I was safe. He told me it would be foolish to pursue a man who wanted to be left alone."

"He was correct," Erik said as he turned away to pour her another glass of water. "Or that's what I believed in those days."

"I would never have guessed that you would flee to the opera house," Corinna said as she shifted in bed. ''Though I suppose I had no idea where you would go."

Erik felt his stomach tighten. He longed for his mask again, for something to hide the source of his greatest anxiety. Instead he kept his back turned and his hands on the dresser.

"I returned home," he said. "I went to my mother and father's house that night but didn't have the courage to rap upon the door. I walked past several times and heard people talking and knew that it was true, that my mother had remarried."

Corinna did not reply, which made Erik turn to see if she was still listening to him or not. Their eyes met briefly before Corinna swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"You need your rest," Erik mumbled.

"Then sit with me," Corinna suggested.

Erik did as he was asked and joined her once more, unsure of whether or not she was angry with him still.

"You stayed with your mother?"

He shook his head, still refusing to look Corinna in the eye. "When I was too hungry and tired to be concerned about pride I knocked on the door. Her husband answered, drunk and stupid from the moment I first saw him. I attempted to explain who I was but he refused to listen. He started to shut the door but I pushed back. I had to see her. I wanted to know about my father."

Erik shuddered and ran his hands along his arms. He had not been close to his mother. He had not been close to his father, either, though they tolerated one another. His mother, however, had always resented him, telling him he was lazy and ungrateful. His hope that night was that when she saw her son was still alive she would allow him to live within her home until he was healed enough to find work.

"She never listened to me," Erik said softly. "She took one look at me and said that as far as she was concerned I was dead. Then she told me to leave."

Corinna inhaled sharply and took his hand in hers. Her dark eyes filled with tears again and she nodded solemnly, her lips quivering.

"I asked her where my father was buried and she refused to answer me. She told me to leave, her husband shoved me away from the entrance, and I fell before I heard the door slam shut.

"There was no other choice, so I left. I wandered for several days until I came upon the opera house. I don't know why, but I walked around to the back and wondered if I could find a way inside, a place where I could sleep just for the night. I was starving, exhausted, and my wounds were draining. I knew if I remained outside I would die."

She squeezed Erik's hand, reassuring him that he could continue, that she wanted to know what had become of him. When Erik looked into Corinna's eyes he realized that he wanted to tell her, to tell someone what had happened all those years ago.

"It was late at night when I found it. There were two doors open for the men to move grain into the stables for the horses. I waited until they were milling around and I entered, swift and silent until I was well below the surface of the earth. I had no idea what I was going to do, but there was a pile of rubbish near the lake, and within the refuse there was a bed and a dresser without a back. Stage props, I realized, but when one has nothing it no longer matters. It was a bed, it was a start. And it was mine."

He looked her in the eye, his face set in a frown. He could still recall how painful the burns were weeks after he had been set on fire. He took a straight razor, sat hunched over a dirty mirror, and scraped away the dead skin. It took hours to remove the useless flesh, hours of screaming and quivering and forcing his hand to move. Alone and feverish he tended the wounds, dousing his tender skin with wine to prevent infection and covering the injuries with cloth stolen from the seamstresses above.

Looking back, he had no idea how he had managed to survive. He was like a weed, ugly and unwanted but managing to survive without sunlight and warmth.

"It was only supposed to be for a night or two. I wanted enough time to heal, to regain my strength. But then I realized that I had what I needed. Shelter, clothing, food…music…all at my disposal."

"But you were alone," Corinna pointed out.

Erik shuddered again. He didn't speak for a long time after her comment. The first few weeks had been joyous. He savored the quiet, the stillness that allowed him to rest and recover. When the upper floors were quiet he wandered around and found food, which he stole from the store houses. His guilt lasted only for a few days, as he knew without sustenance he would die. It didn't seem to him that anyone noticed a missing loaf of bread or bottle of wine.

But then weeks turned into months and the communication he had lost with the rest of the world became more noticeable. There was weight to it, heaviness that settled on his shoulders as he paced the apartments he had created by the lake.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I was alone. Day and night, month after month I saw people from a distance and listened to performances from several floors below. I lost track of time, of day from night, and suddenly…suddenly I didn't know how to enter the world again. So I stayed. And once I made up my mind to stay there I heard someone say that there was a ghost haunting the catacombs. Once I realized I was the ghost I couldn't return to the world. Years had passed…and I was beyond lonely. I was desperate."

Corinna considered his words for a moment. He could see the thoughts forming in her eyes and knew what she would say to him. He waited, holding his breath as he stared at her and regretted the moment he had wandered beneath the Opera Poulaire.

"And then you saw her? Then you saw Christine Daae."

Erik closed his eyes and nodded. "Then I saw someone as lonely as I was. Then I saw someone I thought would listen. That was all I wanted. That was how it started."