Chapter 4: Odd Findings

Christine gawped for a moment at the sight before her. Upon prying up the first scale one Erik's hide, she had found much dead matter, dirt, and even tiny parasites, much to her squeamishness. "Do you never clean beneath the surface?" Erik snorted.

Most dragons live in pairs, and can groom each other. I have lived alone for my entire life, and do not intend to flit about looking for a mate. He shuffled uncomfortably. However, not being social means that you are going to clean me instead of some…promiscuous female.

Christine frowned. Every living thing needed a companion- her father had taught her that lesson long ago, by showing her a snake and its eggs. She had been rather fascinated, even though she was frightened of the slinky reptile. The eggs were evidence that even a much-feared creature like a snake could love and be loved. "You must be quite lonesome, then." He did not reply.

She wiped at the debris, and finding that it did not come away, discarded her scrap of leather. The slow breathing felt like vibrations beneath her fingers. Her eyes drifted to a sharp, thin bit of stone that had been discarded in the construction of her bath. Must this dirt be scraped away? The caking of junk reminded her of the muddy buildup beneath a horse's hooves. She moved away for a moment, and Erik heard her.

What is your intent, human?

"You are going to be cleaned, of course." She picked up the shard and selected a large scale against what would be the reptile's ribs. The plate lifted, almost reflexively, and exposed the grime underneath. "I cannot simply rinse away the refuse."

At the first stroke of the new tool, Erik shivered. "Would you kindly hold still? I would not like for you to lose scales on account of my carelessness."

That tickles, he grumbled. And your efforts will not be fully appreciated until you have done the whole of me.

"You complain quite a lot for one who is receiving his first true cleansing in years," Christine commented, poking at the sensitive flesh beneath the hard scale. The whole of the skin and muscles underneath twitched involuntarily, and Erik shuddered, trying hard not to move.

And you punish much for one who claims only to be grooming.

The bits of dead matter soon began to pile up as she wiped away the dust of the years. Mites and other small things were dropped to the ground and quickly squished, and Erik found himself rather enjoying the feeling of being clean. Christine's work soon spread over his entire side, and he thanked whoever had raised her to be so thorough.

You do very well.

"Thank you, Erik." She prodded at a scale that was just barely peeking out from under his foreleg. "Now, would you mind lying flat so that I may reach the rest of you?"

He eyed her almost suspiciously. Christine found herself rather dizzied by his eyes. The twists of copper over gold made his irises much like the fabled golden eggs, but with an artisan's decorations. You cannot climb over me?

"I cannot reach under your leg, and I highly doubt you would enjoy my walking about on your belly." The light was beginning to fade fast, and she could just make out the smallest scales. Her pale skin was awash in amber light as she placed a hand against the hard, ovular surfaces. His warmth was not like to a roast before a fireplace, but a like a soft water skin filled with hot water.

Very well. He gave what looked like a mock glare just for good measure. I move only if you swear against all tickling and touch of that manner.

Christine did her very best to keep from giggling. "I solemnly swear to refrain from tickling you." Erik grunted and rolled onto his side, exposing his chest and underbelly.

I sometimes wonder where you hid my modesty, little Christine.

"Oh, 'tis quite simple," said she, beginning to remove more dirt from beneath an armor-like chest scale. "I let it fly out of the cave and into the sky, along with mine own, as it seems I have no need of clothes here."

That seems fair, he sniffed, twitching as she touched a particularly sensitive place at the base of his neck. So indeed is the fairness of nature. Humans simply define 'civilization' differently than other creatures.

Christine took the rest of her time cleaning to think upon what he had said. She had never seen her life and surroundings from such a lens as the one he provided, being another species entirely. She worked her way down towards his tail, almost not registering how near she was to his hindquarters.

Erik jerked away just as she reached his more…sensitive…areas. Those would be for him and him alone to touch, and although his anatomy bore more resemblance to a crocodile than a cat or a dog in that respect, he did not wish to be invaded like piece of livestock. Those happen to be off limits. You may continue at my back legs.

She looked up at him, questioning. "Why? Have I hurt you?" He gave a long, smoky breath of frustration.

You obviously used to be a healer, of humans, of animals. Need I explain? I value modesty in touch if not in sight. Then she realized exactly what he was speaking of and blushed, glad that her expression was not visible in the dim light- or was it? She knew little of dragons' visual abilities.

"Oh. I owe you an apology." She moved rapidly away from his under-parts and began working at the spot on the inside of his leg. After a few minutes of awkward silence, she looked where she supposed his head might be and asked, "Is it uncomfortable to hold your limb in place this way?"

Two golden circles appeared in the dark as he opened his eyes. No. The circles disappeared again. Do you wish for light?

"Yes…please. It is too dark for me to see." She paused in her labor and blinked as a veritable explosion of white fire focused on the floor near her bath. When she could see clearly again, her shoulders tensed into a gasp. Erik, too, showed his surprise in an unintelligible rumble somewhere between sound and thought.

A pile of dust and grime covered the floor, littered with footprints and here and there, clumps of thick, foggy films. Christine made a face, and her companion swiveled his head so that he might see her. He found it mildly entertaining that her nose wrinkled like that of a rabbit's. She looked at the soles of her feet and made another face. "I thought reptiles shed their skin, just like snakes."

Some dragons believe that this way of shedding, with assistance, was designed by nature to encourage a lifelong partnership similar to your concept of marriage. I, however, have managed to circumvent that by acquiring your services, albeit for a short time. The result of his logic almost made her laugh outright.

"Then, dragon, am I your wife?" He could hear the laughter in her voice and see the smile on her lips, and he stiffened. Courting and mating was an extremely solemn matter- but surely she could not know this, having lived in her small human world for most of her life! He decided to let her unknowing offense pass.

You are a different species, and live for quite a shorter period than I. And, should I ever try to groom you, my claws would flay your flesh from your matchstick bones. He nudged her warm, small body with the tip of his nose, so close that he was able to see individual pores in her thin skin. She laughed and placed her hand against his muzzle to regain her balance.

He watched a curious change come over her. It was different to touch him when she did not have to, at least in her perspective. She timidly drew back and suddenly found her feet very interesting. He sniffed. What is your matter?

Her answer surprised him. "I do not know much about the ways of your kind. What if I were to meet another dragon, and spoke of something that embarrassed you, or was very rude to him or her?" She looked down again. "What if I have said aught to offend you?"

If ever you have said as such, I would have alerted you. But you have not, and only slipped in your forgivable ignorance. As for meeting another dragon, that is highly unlikely. I am considered antisocial among even my own people. This only seemed to agitate her more.

"If I am to live with you, I should know your ways, and the ways of others!" Her eyes met his, and he considered their blue coloration in return, vaguely noting the flecks of silver in them.

As you wish then, human. I will tell you about culture, but it will not be even slightly like yours. By the way, you are quite possibly the most argumentative creature I have ever met.

…

Ciara had listened from the rooftop, and had heard Raoul go after he plucked the piece of her skirt from the wall. How could she be so foolish? She had almost revealed her secret in her haste, and had left him something that would most probably cause him to point her out as a criminal!

Now sitting in her little shed, she wept. Her father had been so wrathful that he'd killed her pet, a little kitten that slept next to her and ate the mice in her infested dwelling. He lived elsewhere, outside the town, and had left after rebuking her.

I might be dismissed from Philippe's service. After all, what is my meaning to him compared to the word of his brother? And to be dismissed from his service negates my reason for existing as I am.

She recalled the 'conversation' she'd had with her master before leaving for the edge of town. He had asked after her life outside work, and questioned her about the stinging gossip the other servants circulated about her. It was as if he truly cared- or was that his standard procedure for one under his care who had need of a healer?

The young woman sighed, at last wiping away the hot tears that chilled her cheeks in the drafts. What use was it to wonder when she would receive her answer the next day? The answer would either save her life or end it. What would she do if she were dismissed? She would live with her father then, give in to his wishes, and become as he was.

She would be a mindless, heartless creature who lived only to consume. She would become a Dark, as her father was, and his father before him, and their ancestors before that. What an unpleasant thought, to be ripped from her human life and the memory of her sweet mother.

Her long, bruised fingers clutched at her thin arms. She could sense the mice around her, but they did not scare her. They were only going about their nightly business of surviving and nesting in the straw that covered her floor. The money that she earned went to her father, so that he could remain hidden as a respectable, hardworking man. She was like the mice, only surviving. She could feel one tugging at the hem of her skirts with its small weight as it clawed its way into her lap.

They were always like this, the animals. They did not fear her as they did her father, or the full-blood humans around her. She let her index stroke the mouse's ear, listening to the small squeaks and chitters of its brethren and cousins. Perhaps it was because she was not human, not a destructive, oblivious creature, and she was not a Dark, a malicious spirit feeding on souls, and energy.

She was somewhere in between, as her mother had been human. Ciara, caught between human and another species (if one could call it that), had been born with her disabilities and coloration, but also with a wondrous power. It was a power that had spawned all the rumors about her being a witch.

The mouse stepped onto her waiting hand, and from there, scrambled up to her shoulder. Ciara smiled through her sorrow. You and me, mouse, we live here, and we will stay, won't we?

The mouse was accepting of her idea, and nosed along her neck, whiskers whipping over white, translucent skin. I cannot leave. I cannot, when Philippe should care for me so, even just a little. Don't you agree?

The tiny mammal paused, then seemed to lose interest and scurried down her arm to the floor again, and disappeared into a crack in the wooden wall. The scratching of its little claws echoed in the silence of both her personal night and the night around her. She projected her thought after her small friend. I apologize. I meant not to tire you. She could sense the rodent's industrious need to gather seeds and grasses for its family and its regard for her as a small distraction. It irritated her somewhat.

The mice were always too busy for a proper conversation. Her kitten had been simple-minded, but engaging and interested in all that she did. Her kitten had cared for her in his silly, opportunistic way.

Now it felt as if she had not a true friend in the world. She could not go to Philippe for help- her father would kill him if he knew she cared for him, for he wished her to become a full Dark, not a 'weak bastard child with no taste for what was good and right.' She could not seek help from her Dark relatives, because they were likely out hunting for unfortunate souls, and a few had even made it clear to her that they wanted her dead, because she polluted the purity of their line. She did not even have her pet anymore.

Oh, to be human! Then her father about being a half-breed could not harass her. Then she could speak to Philippe, she would be pleasing to the eye (for her oddities stemmed from her parentage), and she would have no bruises to show her Dark heritage.

But alas, this was not possible, not that she knew. As a half-Dark, she knew the laws of nature. Everything, no matter how sweet or ordered, always decayed into corruption and death. The same was true of her. It was not possible to become fully human.

She sat on her straw-strewn floor and laid her head on her knees, tired. The sounds of the creatures about her kept her alert for minutes, but at last, she entered dreamland. It was a dreamland full of happiness, light, warmth, and it contained Philippe and his kindness. She did not wish to be waked from her sleep.

…

Philippe inwardly grimaced at the people around his table. They were all very strangely dressed, but he supposed that was because they had adopted some of the clothes of eastern traders. They had come for a business dinner, as arranged, and his dining hall had been appropriately furnished.

They were clad in gold and purples, fine silk and soft linen, and had probably had years of experience walking in robes and loose-fitting desert-suited clothes. Precious metals practically dripped from ears, lips, noses, limbs, and fingers.

He was not sorry for being late, as his lateness had been due to his visit to the healer's with Ciara. He had explained his excuse, but now they had made that the subject of their talk, and how shameful it was for him to be on the level of his servant. "Oh, it is admirable of you to care so much- but you would lose face in any other place," one woman was saying. Her painted and heavily pierced face was supposed to show status, he supposed, but to him, it only showed ostentation and conceit. "Of course, your customs must be…different…here."

He ground his teeth in frustration. These traders called themselves civilized, and yet they thought kindness an embarrassment and had practically insulted his entire family by saying that the mercy he had been taught was lowly. "Of course my town is different, most honorable guests; however, let us no more dwell on past matters, but what we are gathered here for." These were obviously the sort of merchants that bullied provinces and cities into submitting to their sales, their policies, and their laws through maneuvering and blackmail. He was only trying to change the subject and politely control the discussion.

"Of course," the woman said, "let us talk of the spices first."

The discussion went adequately for the rest of the evening, but Philippe struggled to keep his composure. Each person, man or woman, old or (to his annoyance) young, had something to say for his or her cause and against his. It was as if they were all teaming up against him to raise prices and undermine his authority. A roguish young teen had winked at one of his maids, earning an extra goblet of mead and a shy blush. This gesture tested his will.

He had always to keep in the front of his mind that respect was a necessity, and that he was not to criticize the customs of these wandering traders. Their culture was different, and perhaps not admirable in his world, for he had yet to peek into their moral core.

Still, they urged him almost to his limits.

When the dinner was done and all envenomed pleasantries exchanged, they had settled the price on five silvers per measure- too high for many of the villagers to pay, and too low for the merchants to be truly content. Perhaps they catered only to the wealthy.

Slowly, they left, bowing as they went in a mockery of respect. The last one out, the flirtatious adolescent, threw him a cocky wave, and he ground his teeth once more. He had been as such once, when he had been younger, and now he knew why some elders disliked him still.

That reckless spirit had been cured by the arrival of Ciara. It had been his mother's idea to make him give the girl a tour of the home as best he could and outline her duties. Then, almost without his noticing, she had become a young woman, and her body and face had been stretched like putty into a form pleasing to the eye, instead of a gangly composition of skin and bones.

Now, though, she was troubled. Had she been beaten? Or had she fallen someplace rocky and bruised herself? Had it aught to do with her father? His heart ached for her pain.

…

Raoul's searches of Gustave's journals revealed very little of what the man had done before arriving at the town. His activities were always very vaguely mentioned, and sometimes concealed with drops of ink, as if to purposely ruin the papers. It was really rather frustrating.

Some of the paper had been torn out, and the missing pages were nowhere to be found. His head stung from his having scratched it in confusion so many times, and his fingers were dry from holding the parchment so long. His back ached from sitting on the stool without support, and now he felt a headache coming on.

So, because of all his trouble, he decided to reward himself by eating out at one of the few restaurants in town (mostly because he had no idea how to cook, but we must digress). It was a struggling restaurant, as the custom had only just been adopted, and they had not much to offer other than what people cooked in their homes every night.

He gathered his cloak about him and lit a lantern for protection against Darks, and stepped out into the cold. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness around him, and he walked up the street, holding the lantern high so that his light would have a farther reach. The place cannot be far from here, he said to himself. I was there just weeks ago, and the streets looked as they do now.

His efforts were sorely disappointed. The restaurant was nowhere to be seen.

"Ho, Raoul!" Surprised, he turned. It was an old woman, one who seemed familiar. Her age-lined face was serious, making the folds around her lips and neck deeper. She carried a lamp like his in her left hand, and in her right, a basket of tinder and various-sized sticks. "I have aught to do with thee and thy residence."

Raoul approached, curious. "What is your matter?" he queried. "And why are you carrying so much wood?" She watched his face carefully, reading him as he had read the journals.

"Have ye found the journals?" The young man gasped, eyes wide.

"How do you know about them? I thought a journal was a private thing, especially for such a man as-" He stopped, suddenly suspicious. "What do you want?"

The old woman sighed. "I want what is best for ye…and for all. There are some things better left in ignorance." She began to walk in her hobbling step again, sliver hair reflecting golden firelight. "We must destroy those records."

Raoul's mouth opened, but she spoke again: "I ken ye, boy. You are too inquisitive for your own benefit."

"But why must you destroy the journals? Are they not valuable, and full of information that could be kept in the library of Alexandria?" He kept pace with her, noting that she was headed directly for the shop he had just left.

"They are perilous, boy. If you wish for the knowledge, you may keep it, but aught else of them…they are accursed."

"What?"

"I intend to burn them to ash whether you consent or not." He blocked her path, stepping to the side as she did so in an attempt to pass.

"I intend to keep you here until you tell me what in heaven's name is going on!" he defiantly exclaimed, "And I cannot in good conscience let you burn aught that another man has writ!"

Her old, nearsighted eyes burned into his. Then, she did what he least expected. She bowed her head and breathed out a long, shaky exhalation. "I suppose ye deserve to know, then, being his daughter's would-be suitor."

Raoul let his dominant stance falter. "What is there to know? I found nothing in those papers."

"Swear unto me with your most solemn oath that ye will not tell what I know."

"I swear," he said without hesitation.

"On what do ye swear?" the lady persisted.

"I swear on my love for the now-deceased Christine Daae." She gave him a curious look, one eye on his face.

"'Tis a dangerous thing to swear upon, boy. Ye best not swear upon love for her. Ye'll be accursed too." He thought on this for a moment. Was this some superstitious old wench who was half-mad in her senility? Or did she truly know something of what she spoke? If not, how then did she know of the journals? She still had not answered him that. "I will answer all if ye let me in at your shop."

He did a double take. Perhaps she was simply experienced in watching faces. "Very well," he said at last. "What will you do, after that the paper have been destroyed?"

"I will die," she said very seriously. The boy held back a chuckle. Perhaps she was mad after all. And if she did anything too insane, he could easily overpower her and force her away.