Paladin17

Not even wine could bring Erik sleep. He stood for a long while in the middle of the room and stared at the mirror he had covered with his bed sheet. Behind one thin cotton covering lay a monster that never deserted him, no matter what.

With his hands laced through his hair he listened to the muffled sounds of movement from the floor below. Karl Turro was still within the house, within his house. And he was watching over Sophia over his…

Erik shook his head lightly. She was not his, so why did he care whether or not the man had come to care for her? The most he should do for her was teach her how to play the piano. He could already sense the boundary, the narrow line he had crossed with Christine's lessons.

"A gargoyle," he said under his breath. "You are her gargoyle."

He heard Citrine's voice and glanced at the clock. It was half past midnight when the house finally grew quiet, save for the howl of wind outside. Not knowing what else to do, Erik walked to the window and stared out at the blustery night. There was not enough light to distinguish where the clouds ended and the hills began.

The lack of definition saddened him, though before his mood further soured he convinced himself that it was the wine and lack of food in his belly. More than anything he wished he had taken his meal in his room as he had grown accustomed to doing. It was better that way, he told himself as he turned toward the mirror again.

Erik forced himself forward, dragging his leaden feet across the wooden floor. It was better to be alone than to struggle for something that didn't exist for him in this lifetime. It was easier to give up hope than keep a glimmer, one small, shining reminder of how he had failed time and again.

As the sheet fell away in his hand Erik exhaled sharply, barely able to look into the mirror. He could still hear the glass breaking in his lakeside apartments, still feel the shards prick his skin as the mirrors shattered one after another.

For all of his destruction nothing had changed. Whether he could see it or not the face still existed.

As much as he tried he still couldn't shake Sophia's words from his mind. Her voice reverberated through his thoughts, her words becoming more desperate as the hours passed. By the time the clock chimed four, Erik had convinced himself that she feared him and that there had never been any gargoyles, only him. Her intoxication had revealed the truth. Lack of sleep was the only way he could bring himself to finally see what he had only suspected from the moment he first saw her.

It was strange that he could still remember the first moment he saw her. She was not so different than the rest of the servants. Her clothes were plain, her hair pinned back. She was petite, almost mousy in appearance with black hair and dark green eyes. There was nothing exceptional about her. Her waist was not small, her body not statuesque. She was merely a girl, a simple girl.

She should have been easy to forget.

But as he removed his shoes he could still feel her hand bump his as she reached for the wine bottle. The incident made him cringe. For years he had dressed the part of a man. He had acted as he desired, but choosing to imitate the sophistication he saw within the opera house. Once he was alone, Erik realized his missteps. The night was cursed from the moment he seated himself before the two women. One small, expected, cordial gesture had ruined the night.

It was simple to think of himself as normal, as nothing but a man when he was alone. There was no one to tell him he had done something wrong, no one waiting to mock his mistakes.

There was no one.

Erik glanced around the room, around the empty, heavy silence that only music could replace. It was comforting to replace nothingness with the sounds he created, with the haunting voice of a violin and the violent thunder of an organ. He could turn the violin into a wistful voice, or the piano into an enchantress. He knew music, knew his soul through sound. When there was nothing else there was song, melody, and meter. That was his life. That was where he could feel normal, accepted, in control. That was the world he knew.

Rules needed to be established, he realized, barriers that he would build himself. He would not dine with Mademoiselle Dupree again. He would never indulge in wine, conversation, or any sort of pleasantries where his staff was involved. He would devote his days and nights to music and forget that anything else existed. This would be the home he had left, the world he had lost. This would become his dark kingdom, and the downcast king would reign again. He would be what he was before Christine twisted and writhed into his mind, into his every waking thought, into his dreams and nightmares.

Inspiration came to him even before he had finished making up his mind. Lighting the lamp, he sat down at his desk and began rummaging through sheets of paper until he found enough blank sheets to write the symphony slowly churning in his mind. His hands trembled, itching for the feel of the pen in his hand. It had been months since he had finished his opera, his life's work. Now he would begin anew.

A masterpiece, he mused, he was on the edge of creating a masterpiece. To hell with Mozart and Bizet.

Erik tore his cravat from his neck, ripped the buttons from the holes, and pushed his sleeves up as he committed the notes to paper.

His muscles slowly tensed, the disaster from dinner fading away as he allowed music to wrap a firm, protective cloak around him. His eyes closed and he removed his mask, having no fear as he sat with his music, as he wrote blindly, savagely tearing the pen across the page.

Erik was completely unaware of dawn breaking over his right shoulder. He was too preoccupied with writing to notice the taps on his door, or the creaking of the hinges, or Sophia standing several feet away. He knew nothing, absolutely nothing, other than his plans to become a hollow shell, an unfeeling master of music were failing. He had tasted but a drop of humanity, and the taste was the sweetest, most bitter, most addictive libation he had ever sampled.

Sophia stood perfectly still holding a coffee tray. She was mesmerized by Erik's diligence and his disheveled appearance, by the way he held the pen and wrote upon the paper. In the early morning light she could see the ink splatters on the left side of his face and neck, his collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. His fingers were black with ink, which transferred to his white lawn shirt as he unbuttoned his shirt at the collar. He sat hunched over, his toes on the ground and heels resting against the legs of the chair as he wrote with feverish determination.

"There," she heard him whisper as he ran his hand through his hair. A smile formed on his lips as he paused and read everything he had written. Once he seemed satisfied he continued.

While he wrote with his right hand, his left hand moved along the desk's edge as he hummed, as he composed something that she knew needed to be released on paper before he lost the tune.

Sophia watched Erik as he paused and took a deep breath, hand tapping against the desk. He muttered something, dipped his pen into the inkwell, and then sat motionless as ink dripped onto the table. A name escaped his lips in a sigh. A woman's name spoken so softly that it was like a prayer, like a secret he couldn't bear to divulge. He dropped the pen and touched the back of his neck, slightly shaking his head.

"Lost," he said suddenly. "Damn it."

Erik sat for a while, brow furrowed, eyes staring into the distance. The exuberance he had shown while writing faded, and the longer Sophia stared at him the more she realized he was now frustrated.

He glanced toward the door unexpectedly and found Sophia standing little more than arm's length away. She jumped, the look in his eyes sending a current of fear through her. Realizing his anger was building, she started to speak, desperately searching for her voice, but words abandoned her. Slowly, she backed away from him, her hands held out, her mouth still moving, wishing she could find the words to explain her intrusion.

"Leave," he said simply, rising to his feet, his hand over the right side of his face. "Leave me alone."

Sophia nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from his. She couldn't help but think that the words and his expression didn't match, that the sadness in his eyes conflicted the anger in his voice.

"Never enter this room again," he said slowly, evenly, his hands shaking as he spoke, his legs stiffening with each step. "Do not speak to me, do not look at me, do not acknowledge that I am within this room or on this estate. Just leave. Leave and never return."

Sophia's back hit the wall and she stopped, feeling her way toward the door, fingers desperately searching for the doorknob. She began to shake her head, the words slowly appearing in her mind but refusing to reach her tongue. She had no idea why he was angry with her, though she suspected it was her clumsiness at dinner.

What a fool she had been to accept the wine and become inebriated. He was insulted by her behavior, appalled by how she had fallen to the floor. She knew what it must have looked like to him, but she had been so embarrassed by falling and too ashamed of her failing eyesight to say a word. She knew the drink had contributed to her mishap, but the distortion in her vision had caused her to misjudge the width of the doorway.

"It's over," he said so quietly that Sophia barely heard him speak. "It's all over."

Sophia's hand wrapped around the doorknob, but her body was pressed so firmly to the door that it wouldn't open.

"Please forgive me," Sophia blurted out.

And with her words he froze.