Erik's POV
May 17th, 1886
Christine de Changy,
How can you demand I do not worry for you? Do you not realise how frightened I was to read your words? Of course I worry, you silly little-
No. No, I cannot write such a thing.
I screw the paper into a tight ball and toss it over my shoulder, where it lands with a rustle amongst the hundreds of other letter drafts I've thrown away throughout the years. Christine is taking up most of them.
I grab my face in my palms and cry for a long time after that. I'd ruined the poor child. I'd clipped away at her mind until she was simply a dim light behind an elaborate lampshade. She was having such dreadful episodes of what I could only assume was untreated trauma. Because of me.
May 17th, 1886
My dearest, Christine de Changy,
Oh Christine, my child! How can you ask me not to worry? Have I left you so tortured? Have I haunted you long after I promised to stop? Sweet Christine! Why you?
Why her indeed? If it were at all possible, I'd hold her until every bit of remorse seeped from her mind into mine, that I might take her burden, which should have been mine in the first place. But possible is the one thing it's not. I am no more her husband than I am her Angel, and I shudder at the thought of that result.
It is not my place to comfort her, not my right to hold her. I can only trust the Vicomte. But trust in these days is in rather short supply.
As I sit hunched over, my chair pushed away from the desk, Ayesha rubs against my legs and mews loudly. I sigh, taking my hands from my ghastly face - if one can find their voice enough after observing it to call it as much - and leaning back in the chair.
"You're just as insane as I," I mutter as she chases a floating piece of dust. I pat my leg, catching her attention. "Here, Ayesha. You shall be my muse."
She looks less than pleased with that, but jumps into my lap all the same, using my leg as a scratching post for a moment until I flick her ear.
"What would you say, petit chat?" I sigh, fondling her small head with the pieces of bone I have been granted as fingers. She glares at me over her shoulder and hops up onto my desk, the little bell I fashioned for her collar jingling away, driving me further into insanity than I already am. "Of course. I shan't take your advice then."
I look back at the letter, sigh, and dip my pen, ready to resume at last.
I do recall begging you not to worry in a previous letter. Please, my Christine, if I must hire a cab and have the driver push the steed into a gallop so I may fall at your feet and beg for your good, sweet nature to grace this earth once more, make no mistake, I should do so in a heartbeat.
I read that paragraph through and contemplate bashing my head off the table at how childishly lovesick it sounds. I, a murderer, a killer, a monster, am pouring my heart out in the Langue d'Amour without shame. What have I come to?
Please, tell me more about your life and how happy you are. Tell me of the banquets and flowers and gowns, of the terrible gossip and the amorous ways of high society. It shall be my portal into your world, which I hope will make you happier, to share your experiences. And, I pray, tell me of Christopher and Philippe and Raoul! For as long as you are happy, I can be content with my existence and live a week longer, if only to read your words.
From your fondest, and utterly terrified,
Erik.
I shove the letter into an addressed envelope before I can spare a second thought to its contents and seal it, only remembering to breathe when all is said and done.
Ayesha glares at me accusingly and hops off the table, stalking away to the Louis-Philippe room.
"You're just jealous!" I call after her. Just to spite me, she flicks her tail haughtily and disappears down the hall.