Hello all-
Here's the newest chapter of "A Thousand Words"! I know that the plot has been a little thin up till now, but I never claimed to be writing "Pride and Prejudice"-just a fluffy little fanfic. The plot will thicken up soon, though! I hope you like this installment. Please take a quick moment to drop me a review. Thank you my dears!
-ls

A Thousand Words
Chapter 11
Beautiful Music

"You know, when I suggested we do something today, I thought we would actually go out," I murmured to Erik as I snuggled closer to him in his massive bed.

His body was still warm from our most recent bout of lovemaking, and I was drawn to him as a moth is drawn to light in the darkness of a warm summer night.

"What fun would there be in that?" he retorted as he nuzzled my neck.

The right side of his face–the masked side–was buried against his soft, downy pillow, and all I could see was the beautiful, manly left side of his visage. I caressed his cheek and felt the faint beginnings of stubble along his jaw.

"Fun? Well, there's fresh air, and sunshine, and... food. I'm starving."

He raised his head to look at me with that devilish grin of his. The sun streaming in through the wall of windows made his mask glow.

"Starving, you say? I do believe I can remedy that problem."

"Oh no, not more Pringle's and ice cream!" I made a cross with my two index fingers as if warding off a vampire as the memories of the last time he fed me a "meal" popped into my mind.

He chuckled.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Come with me."

XXXXX

Clad in matching silk robes–he must have gone out shopping–and standing downstairs in the kitchen, I watched in amusement as Erik made a big show of rummaging around in the refrigerator before emerging with a huge covered pan.

"What's that?" I asked warily.

"Baked ziti. Or it will be, once it's baked."

I gawked at him with wide eyes. "You cook?"

"I have been known to," he said with a self-satisfied smirk. "I just don't like to cook only for myself."

"When did you do this?"

"This morning, before you came over."

He slid the pan into the oven, setting the temperature and the timer.

"There," he said with no small amount of satisfaction. "Would you like a piece of fruit or something to tide you over until this is ready?"

"No, thank you," I said. "I think I'll wait for the main course."

Erik selected a bottle of wine from the well-stocked rack, pulled two glasses out of the cupboard and ushered me into the living room.

My gaze fell on the gleaming black baby grand in the corner.

"Do you play?" I asked, gesturing to the finely crafted instrument.

"A little," was his answer.

If I knew Erik, he played more than just "a little." In our short time together I hadn't known him to do anything just "a little."

"Would you play for me?"

"If you like."

After he poured wine for both of us and we clinked our glasses in a silent toast, he seated himself before the keys and took a deep breath.

I was right.

I was astounded at the music that poured forth from the piano by his hands. It was music I had never heard before: at times haunting, at times unbelievably romantic, at times so full of anguish it brought tears to my eyes. He played with his eyes closed, with so much emotion on his face–at least, on as much of his face as I could see–that I knew this music was his own creation. Were there no limits to the man's talents?

When it ended, all I could do was look at him, dumbfounded.

Erik looked up at me, waiting for my response.

"That was wonderful," I said quietly, trying with all my might to keep the tears at bay. "You wrote that?"

He nodded.

"So your talents lie not only on the canvas."

He smiled. "So it would seem."

"Would you play some more?"

I felt like a child begging for another piggy-back ride, but I couldn't help it. I was entranced.

He turned back to the piano. "I didn't write this one," he said to me.

I immediately recognized the tune he played. It was an old standard, "Autumn Leaves." My Aunt Millie had a recording of Frank Sinatra singing this song, and she nearly wore out the grooves of the album because she played it so much. And then, a few years ago, I found a recording of the same song by a brilliant singer named Eva Cassidy. It was just her voice, a guitar and a piano, and it was so raw with emotion that it brought tears to my eyes. When I found out that she had died from cancer before she gained the fame she so rightly deserved, the song became even more poignant.

I don't know what came over me, but I began singing along with the music.

The falling leaves drift by my window,
The falling leaves of red and gold.
I see your lips, the summer kisses,
The sunburned hands I used to hold.

Since you went away the days grow long.
And soon I'll hear old winter's song.
But I miss you most of all, my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.

As the last notes melted away into nothingness, Erik looked up at me in shock.

"I had no idea you could do that," he said in wonder.

"Do what?" I asked.

"Sing."

"I don't," I demurred. "I was in my high school choir, but I haven't sung in years."

"You have a beautiful voice. And I'm surprised you know that song."

I explained about Aunt Millie and her love for Ol' Blue Eyes. He smiled at my story.

"You probably didn't know the song was originally written in French," he said. "The title was 'Les Feuilles Mortes.' I have never heard it sung in English before."

"Maybe sometime you'll sing it in French for me?"

"Perhaps."

"Erik, would you sing something for me?"

"What would you like to hear?"

"Anything."

He thought for a moment.

"Do you like the Beatles?"

We had never talked about music, our likes and dislikes. If we had, he would have known that the Beatles were my favorite group. Even though I was too young to even remember when they broke up, I loved their songs and listened to their music all the time. In my opinion, no other group has or ever will come close to them.

"Love them."

"All right then, this is for you."

I immediately recognized the opening chords of "Let it Be." I held my breath in anticipation of hearing him sing for the first time.

He sang of finding himself in times of trouble and of speaking words of wisdom.

Oh. My. God.

Paul McCartney paled in comparison to the man seated at the piano, pouring his heart and soul into this song. He was simply sublime.

He sang of being in his hour of darkness and of speaking words of wisdom.

I moved to stand behind him and slid my arms over his shoulders, caressing his chest through the silk robe. He leaned back into my embrace as he continued singing. Through our contact I could feel the vibrations of his voice course through my body like an electrical charge, making me shiver.

What was this man doing in an artist's studio, surrounded by canvases and covered in paint, when he should be sharing his God-given voice with the world? He could be singing arias in the best opera houses in the world, yet he chooses to hide away in that tiny garret! Even before the thought completely formulated itself in my mind, I knew the answer: his mask. He didn't want to face the world and all the questions that inevitably would follow.

In that moment, I felt such a profound sorrow for Erik. He had so much talent, so much to give, yet he kept it all hidden away for fear of rejection and ridicule.

He sang of a night that is cloudy and of a light shining down on him.

Let it be, let it be.
Let it be, let it be.
Whisper words of wisdom,
Let it be.

A single tear slid down my cheek. I wasn't sure whether it was from the sound of his voice or from the sadness I felt for all the sacrifices he must have made in his life.

XXXXX

Dinner was splendid. The pasta turned out perfectly, and he added a green salad and a loaf of fresh Italian bread to round out the meal.

After stuffing myself in a very unladylike manner, I sat back and took another sip of wine.

"So, you paint, you play and sing, you cook..." I nodded to the table for emphasis of that point, "...is there anything you don't do?"

Erik thought for a moment.

"I don't ski."

I forced myself to keep from bursting out laughing. "Why not?"

"Something about strapping two boards to my feet and sliding down the side of a mountain doesn't sit well with me," he explained before draining his glass.

"Don't they have a name for that?"

He pursed his lips. "Fear of death."

I laid my hand over his on the table. "Well, I'll just have to help you get over that fear."

He snorted. "Not bloody likely."

Erik shifted a bit in his seat as he toyed with his empty wine glass. I could tell he had something to say, and it couldn't be good the way he was fidgeting.

"Christine, I hate to ruin the mood, but I have something I need to tell you."

Oh shit.

Those words are the kiss of death in any relationship. My heart dropped into my stomach.

"I have something I need to tell you" is a first cousin to "we need to talk," and in my experience a conversation beginning with either of those sentences never turns out well. It's usually followed closely by "It's not you, it's me" or "I'm not ready to make a commitment" or some other lame kiss-off line.

I thought we had been doing very well. I thought we made a real connection.

I guess I thought wrong.

A shaky "Yes?" was all I managed to get out of my mouth. I braced myself for whatever would come.

"I have to go to Paris for a few days."

I exhaled the breath I didn't realize I had been holding in. Oh, is that all?

"Paris? What for?"

"My parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. They have demanded that I be there for the celebration."

"But you really should, for such an important occasion," I said to him.

"I just don't want to have the same arguments with them that we've had dozens of times before. And, I would be without you."

His face brightened just as he finished that last sentence. He took hold of my hand as he asked, "Would you come with me?"

"Me? Go to Paris?"

He wants me to go with him? He likes me, he likes me, he really, really likes me!

He leaned forward in his seat. "Of course! We could make a vacation of it, see the sights. Please say you will. You would make the trip bearable for me."

Oh, yes! Yes! YES!

...no.

"Oh Erik, I wish I could, truly I do, but I just started back to work. I can't possibly take time off right now."

"You're certain?"

"Yes. I'm so sorry."

He looked crestfallen, like I was sending him into the den of wolves all alone. Which, in fact, I was.

XXXXX

As night fell, we found ourselves reclining on the sofa. I was lying back against him and his arms were around me as we gazed into the hypnotizing flames of the fire.

We lay together in silence for a long while, just enjoying being together. Erik absently ran his fingers up and down my arm.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"You've never spoken of your mask. Will you tell me about it?"

He sighed heavily, but did not say anything.

"Was it an accident?" I asked.

"No," he answered quietly, "It is a... disfigurement that has graced me from birth."

I couldn't see his face, but I could tell from the tightness in his voice that this was a subject he would rather avoid.

"Will you show me?"

"No."

His answer was firm. The tone in his voice told me there would be no discussion about it.

"Why?"

"Only my family have seen my face. And one woman–girl–a long time ago. She... well, I never saw her again... afterwards."

I knew I needed to tread lightly; this obviously was a very delicate subject for him. I turned in his arms to face him.

"Erik," I said softly, "I know that whatever is behind your mask must have caused you much pain in your life. But please understand that I'm not some foolish girl. I am a woman, and a physician at that. But I won't push you. I know you'll show me when you're ready."

To place emphasis on my words, I kissed him with all the passion I could muster to let him know that I wasn't going anywhere.

How could I? I had fallen in love.

* I do not own "Falling Leaves"-it was written by Jacques Prévert (French lyrics), Johnny Mercer, (English lyrics) and Joseph Kosma (music).
I also do not own "Let it Be"-It, of course, was written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney.