Thank you all so very much for your support! Special thanks go to: Writer, E/MOTP, Virginie, Hero Sis, poof, PrincessSYS, and all of the lovely readers! Huggles for all.
Just for clarification: any large blocks of text set in italics from this point forward are flashbacks/past action. Since many of you won't leave me alone in regards to what happened to Erik and Meg between the end of "Desire" and the beginning of "Devotion", I've decided it would be a good idea to provide this information, as it will be alluded to in further chapters. Also, since this chapter can get sort of confusing, anything that ISN'T in italics picks up immediately from the end of the last chapter, so you might want to read the last few lines again so everything flows smoothly.
disclaimer: I own nothing. I also think many of you will be surprised (perhaps even disappointed?) as to what happens in this chapter, all things considered...
chapter 3
"How long has it been, do you think?" she asked, sidestepping a patch of mud.
He looked back at her for a moment, considering. "An hour, I believe."
Her expression sobered. "She would've found it by now…"
"Found what?" he asked, then stopped in his tracks. "You left a note." His tone was accusatory.
She brushed past him, contemplating the riverbank beneath her feet. "Yes."
"You fool!" he hissed, overtaking her in a matter of seconds, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. "What did it say?" he demanded.
She looked him full in the face. "Nothing but the truth. About you."
If possible, his expression darkened even further; he let her go, almost disgusted. "Incompetent…" he muttered, stalking away purposefully.
She sighed, struggling to catch up with him. "Erik…"
"You will be silent for the rest of the trip," he said curtly.
"As if you can make me," she whispered under her breath, but said a little louder, "Fine. But the minute we reach Le Havre…"
He turned on his heel abruptly, waiting until she was standing immediately in front of him. "When we reach Le Havre, I will let you reevaluate your decision."
She sighed, shifting her small duffle bag on her shoulder, already knowing what she would say; she couldn't leave him, not now, not ever. "Very well."
In a sudden, uncharacteristic show of affection, he bent down and kissed the top of her head. "Come; we still have many kilometers to travel, and the night is fading fast."
-----
"Prove it?" I asked, putting on a shocked expression, but secretly pleased. "I wasn't aware that I had that sort of power."
That threw him off, just a bit. "What?"
"The power to worm my way inside another's mind. I thought that was reserved specifically for you."
He drew in a sudden breath, but that's all I noticed of his apparent discomfort with the way our conversation had turned. "You're quite right. And it's something that I use shamelessly."
"What am I thinking now, then? Right this very second?"
"What indeed?" he asked, trailing a single finger down my cheek and neck, causing me to shiver.
It was all I could do to stop myself from throwing myself at his feet. "Well? I'm waiting."
He shook his head, taking my chin in his grasp and turning my face up towards his. "You are far too obstinate for your own good, Meg."
"I know."
"It'll get you in trouble, one day," he said, any and all amusement in his voice gone as he spoke. "Serious trouble."
"The worst of that is over, I think," I mused, looking into his eyes for clarification.
The mismatched orbs shone coldly in their sockets. "No," he disagreed, moving away from me and off of the bed altogether, much to my disappointment. He appraised me sadly from where he now stood across the room. "The worst has yet to begin."
-----
"Hold still, will you?" he snapped, but caught her around the waist just the same, keeping her steady.
"Erik," she moaned, holding her head with one hand and clutching his arm for support with the other. "I don't like this…"
"Good God, Meg, to think a dancer would have such an atrocious sense of balance."
"At least the stage didn't move," she retorted feebly, her voice hoarse. "Please tell me that the next won't be this bad…"
"No, it shouldn't."
"We should have waited for the next ship," she whispered, sitting on the small bunk bolted onto the wall. The thin mattress squeaked beneath her, and her vision spun and her stomach lurched as the ship creaked and fought its way through the choppy waters outside.
"And risk being caught?"
"It has to be better than this."
"The way things are turning out leaves something to be desired," he agreed, sitting down awkwardly next to her; his legs seemed abnormally long compared to hers in the cramped space. "Then again, you didn't have to come."
Her eyes flashed angrily as she glared at him for a moment. "We've been over this," she said, then returned to wallowing in her misery, anything to keep her mind off of the constant movement of the waves, the incessant churning of the deck below her—
Her arms wrapped around her middle, she sprang up from where she'd been sitting before, ran unsteadily to the far corner of the room, and bent over the rather large, unsightly bucket, trying her best to stifle the sounds of her retching.
Erik looked away, not out of some compulsion to be polite, nor awkwardness; in all actuality, the sight made him sick. To think that the mighty Opera Ghost, the ruthless torturer, the cold-blooded murderer could be swayed so easily…
He stared at the floor, ignoring the sounds from the corner, concentrating instead on the peculiar reverberations of the timber around him. He closed his eyes, lulled into a stupor by the rocking motion of the craft, the singing of the decks…this certainly brought back memories, some more pleasant than others.
"You're lucky," she rasped, and he raised his head to look at her. It appeared she'd rinsed her mouth out with the help of the spigot—the sound of the water must have escaped his notice—and was clumsily drying her face with a sleeve of her dress; the rag hanging limply on its bar by the faucet looked far from sanitary. "You're lucky you're not like me, and don't get sick all over the place…"
He straightened up, slow and deliberate, turning his death's head to meet her gaze more adequately. "I hardly consider a small bout of seasickness worthy of such discussion, considering the circumstances."
She blushed, realizing too late the absurdity of the comment with regards to the intended receiver. "Oh, I… I suppose you're right."
He bit back a chuckle, maintaining with utmost ease the tense outer façade. "I'm always right. And your coloring looks ghastly…green and red don't suit you at all."
This made her blush even more, and she slowly approached him, sitting gingerly next to him, still aware of the movements of the ship. "I would say the same," she said sweetly, tentatively edging closer to him, "but that would be terribly rude of me."
He shook his head, looking away. "You're horrible."
She gently laid her head against his thin shoulder. "I know."
He looked at her, never ceasing to be amazed that she was here, next to him. He brought his face to her hair, kissing the top of her head.
"Always my head," she sighed, not without a touch of bitterness.
"I don't like to rush things."
She laughed at this. "Oh, yes, well, I suppose that making love and fleeing the country with me isn't rushing things at all."
He scowled. "A lapse of judgment on my part. As for fleeing the country, that would be a clear lapse of intelligence and common sense on your part."
"Are you saying I'm stupid?" she demanded.
"For choosing me, for choosing this? Yes. No one in their right mind would," he retorted, thoughts growing bleak.
Despite what he said, Meg was shrewd enough to know where his thoughts had led him. "Well, think of it this way," she said, determined to remedy the growing gap in their conversation. "Now you'll have someone to accompany you in prison. An accomplice, you know."
"One that won't shut up and leave me to my thoughts, one that insists on sticking her nose into everything and prying into every aspect of my life," he said sourly, glaring at her.
"Pardon me, then," she said coldly, making to stand and leave the room, but at that moment the ship lurched violently, and, bewildered, she wound up sitting in his lap.
He roared with laughter. "Christ, Meg, you're hopeless," he gasped.
She smiled in spite of herself. "We're a good match, then," she said, self-consciously sliding off of him.
"That's what you think."
-----
"What makes you say that?" I asked, perplexed at his mood and cryptic comments.
He sighed. "Never mind, Meg. Just leave it alone." He turned from me and made his way over to the table in the corner of the large room, rifling through a messy stack of paper—his new compositions.
I now recognized just what sort of mood he was in—pensive, bitter, and just a little remorseful—and I knew for certain what (who, rather) he was thinking about. I also knew better than to bother him during such times, but something led me to follow him.
He had by now seated himself stiffly in a chair, and he stiffened even more when he felt me standing behind him. "Please, leave me alone, Meg," he said. "You and I will both regret it if you don't."
"Will you, though?" I wondered aloud.
He spun around to face me, extremely angry, I knew, but expending a huge amount of effort in keeping calm. "Yes," he replied through clenched teeth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a song to write."
"I'll keep that in mind. I have a favor to ask of you, though."
"What is it?" he asked, still staring at me, still annoyed.
"Write me a song one day." I placed particular emphasis on the 'me', my eyes communicating that I knew full well who these compositions were for, and why he wrote them. "Not now…just…eventually."
His eyes grew soft, the cold aloofness breached, but only a little. "I will," he whispered, then turned away from me, his shoulders slumping as he bent over his work.
Make no mistake: I intend to hold him to that promise.