Hanna's recollection of the exact manner in which he had carried her back to the house was becoming hazy, though his firm grip around her body was a memory that clung to her.
He had cradled her with a tenderness that stayed with her, gently setting her upon the bed. As he did, a series of candles in the room were extinguished, casting the space into a softened glow. Her plaintive whimpers accompanied the emergence of light, and her delicate eyes surrendered to the painful pull of darkness.
Behind her closed eyelids, the universe seemed to revolve in a dizzying dance. Her physical form was enveloped in an amalgam of pain and haze, leaving her with a single, unwavering yearning—to be liberated from this anguish.
Just as if scripted, frigid fingers embarked on a careful exploration of her scalp. A muffled whimper slipped from her lips as those digits made contact, sending ripples of sensation through her. "Please…," her voice slurred, a plea carrying the weight of her discomfort. Responding with the utmost care, her head was cradled and lifted, plush cushions positioned with precision to provide a gentle cradle for the back of her skull. A sweet liquid, cool and soothing, cascaded into her mouth, tenderly moistening her parched lips and bestowing a sensation of exquisite relief.
Summoning her final reservoirs of strength, she battled through the haze to swallow the liquid. After a few gulps she sighed, her lips parted from the glass, and she was once again laid down.
It did not take long for the pain to gradually recede from her body. The dull throb in her head lessened, and all sensations ebbed from her legs. Oh, what a bliss!
After some moments, her breathing grew shallower, and she slipped into a brief slumber.
She awoke after several hours with the sensation of her head being elevated. She kept her eyes shut as the glass returned to her lips. And there it was again! That divine elixir that had alleviated her suffering!
And so, she spent countless hours, perhaps even days, with time slipping by imperceptibly. Gradually, the pain subsided even without the infusion of the saccharine liquid. Occasionally, the man patiently administered clear broth when she lay awake for fleeting moments. Throughout this entire period, not a single word escaped his lips, not a mention of the promise she had uttered in pure desperation.
Oh, yes, she could vividly recall what she had promised him. And she knew he remembered too; she could discern it in his eyes. They practically radiated with that knowledge, sending a shiver down her spine at the sight. She had granted him complete freedom of choice.
Almost soundlessly, the man rose from his chair and exited the room, stealing a brief glance back at her over his shoulder before gently closing the door behind him.
Hanna remained still for a few moments, gazing at the door behind which the stranger had disappeared. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision, and soon, hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She suppressed a sob.
Emotions overwhelmed her, and even though any movement still required a great deal of effort, making her dizzy in the process, she sat up in bed, trembling, and brought a hand to her head. Her fingers found the bandage, and she cautiously continued to explore until she reached the area near the wound at the back of her head, a sharp intake of breath escaping her.
She let her hands fall into her lap, staring down at them with vacant eyes.
She didn't know what to do next.
She was uncertain of the next step to take, or what she should even anticipate in the days to come.
"Maybe just keeping myself alive," she laughed bitterly, instantly regretting it as a dull throb in her temples made her flinch. Yet, the pain didn't deter her; she continued to laugh softly, and soon, more tears splashed onto her bedcovers as her body trembled.
Suddenly, cold hands enveloped hers, and she looked up. The man was kneeling by her bedside, his gaze meeting hers. Startled, she pulled her hands away from his grasp; she wasn't accustomed to such behavior from him. He had always been aloof towards her; she hadn't expected this display of compassion.
His eyes hardened at her rejection. "I... I'm sorry," she attempted to explain, her words coming out in a soft murmur. "It... it caught me off guard." He remained silent, rising from the floor. Guilt settled upon her for her impulsive behavior, and she lowered her head once more.
She wiped away the tears, but a momentary dizziness accompanied the motion, and she instinctively placed her hand against her head, her brows furrowing in response to the sudden ache.
A gentle hand wrapped around her wrist, coaxing her hand away from her head. She looked up at him, the eyes behind the mask cold and unyielding as he gently guided her back onto the pillows. Retrieving a small tin, he proceeded to apply a salve to her temples with careful, practiced motions. A soft sigh escaped her lips as the cold contact of his skin against her temples elicited a reaction. Skillfully, he continued his ministrations with his fingers, and the throbbing began to ebb away.
"Thank you," she whispered, seeking his gaze. She felt an immeasurable sense of gratitude towards him for his assistance. She couldn't fathom how she would navigate through this time without him. While it might sound melodramatic to some, she was penniless, basically without an identity in the year 1882.
His eyes softened, and his fingers left her temples.
"You should continue resting. During your encounter with the Shadow, you sustained a concussion. Avoid unnecessary movements," he spoke calmly, his voice as soothing as his gaze.
She wanted to inquire about who this Shadow was and why it had attacked her. Yet, she recognized in his gaze that he wasn't inclined to engage in that line of conversation. "Yes," she acknowledged his instructions. She would inquire about the Shadow at a later time. And in general, she wanted to learn about these entities that lurked in the depths of Paris – Sirens, Shadows, and a man resembling a living skeleton. It sent shivers down her spine.
"What's to become of me now?" she inquired softly, her gaze fixed upon him. His attention dropped to his empty hands, which he began to knead restlessly in his lap. Eventually, his eyes lifted to meet hers, a look within them that eluded her comprehension. It was an emotion that seemed to arrest her—a glimmer of hope.
Her heart seemed to constrict as she lost herself in his golden, indescribably sorrowful eyes. A lump formed in her throat as she felt herself on the brink of drowning in the open expanse of his emotions. With great effort, she tore her gaze away from him, fixating instead on the candle on her nightstand, its warm, flickering glow appeared to calm her racing heart.
"In the trap," he started with a tentative tone, his voice as sweet as it was dependable. Hanna closed her eyes, allowing the cadence of his voice to envelop her like a gentle embrace. It felt so comforting, so alluring. She had never experienced anything like his voice ever before.
"...when you lay there... you made me a promise."
Reluctant to open her eyes, she eventually did so, nodding with a measured stiffness. Yes, she remembered. Driven by desperation, she had offered him an assurance of anything he might demand if only to be relieved of her agony. And he had indeed provided that relief.
Biting her lower lip, she straightened her posture, her resolve bolstered. She was no coward. She intended to honor her pledge. "I recall," she affirmed. He remained silent. Perplexed, she looked at him and flinched in surprise.
With his hands folded upon the bed, his head bowed, he slid from his chair to the floor, a quiver coursing through his shoulders. He was crying.
Stunned by this sight—the towering, imposing figure now hunched before her—her hands instinctively reached out, enveloping his cold palms within her own. "What is the matter! Oh, please… no need to cry. Please stop. Please … please! " She couldn't bear to witness it; she felt a sense of desperation, overwhelmed by the situation. How could she possibly calm him?
Hesitantly, she released one hand from his grip and began to stroke his back soothingly. "Calm yourself, please. All shall be well. There's no need for tears," she tried to coax, but her attempts faltered and only seemed to make him shake even more.
"You returned. Voluntarily. No one has ever willingly come back to poor, poor Erik," he moaned between sobs, his breaths ragged and rapid.
Erik? So that was his name.
Hanna continued her gentle caresses along his back, her fingers tracing the contours of his spine beneath her touch. His words caused her heart to constrict. His voice was a wellspring of pain and sorrow, penetrating her to her very core. Oh, this unfortunate man!
Her rationality attempted to offer a warning, reminding her of his prior deceit, an orchestrated act to elicit her sympathy. Yet, all reasoning seemed to abandon her; she couldn't fathom the depth of the emotions cascading within her. It was as though she was ensnared in a trance, her empathy overriding any caution.
"How could you? You have seen this face! The face of a corpse!" He emitted a laughter tainted with agony, abruptly pulling away from her touch as he rose to his feet. His gaze bore down upon her, and in a swift, almost dramatic motion, he tore the mask from his face, revealing the grotesquely disfigured visage twisted into a ghastly contortion. His golden eyes bore into hers, his face drawing nearer to hers.
Hanna caught her breath, her body instinctively tensing as his pallid face neared hers, his quick breaths brushing against her cheeks. He awaited her response, his intense gaze locked onto her. But with wide, fearful eyes, Hanna remained utterly frozen, gripped by the terror that he might turn violent as before.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as dizziness enveloped her.
"Ha!" Erik's laughter echoed, a grotesque sound that reverberated through the room and sent shivers down her spine. She clutched her ears, his voice burrowing into the very core of her being, leaving a bitter aftertaste. Nausea churned within her.
"Please, Erik, stop!" she whimpered, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her head felt like it could explode at any moment. Bony fingers seized her wrists, wrenching her hands away from her ears. Startled, she looked up from this abrupt move, and a shriek escaped her lips. His face was mere inches from hers, and she could detect the musty odor that pervaded the entire underground dwelling, emanating from him as well. Despite herself, she involuntarily wrinkled her nose in response.
Upon her reaction he laughed directly into her face, maintaining a firm grip on her hands, preventing her from shielding her ears from the cruel sounds. Again, she squeezed her eyes shut, a low moan escaping her lips as her headache intensified. "What's the matter? Never seen a corpse before? Eh? Come, feast your eyes upon a living corpse! Surely you've never witnessed something as ugly as me! An attraction, isn't it? Come, come, I insist...!"
"Erik, please!" she pleaded, her voice trembling as tears flowed freely. "You're hurting me!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. His icy hands released her as if she were searing hot, and she slumped back into the pillows, utterly drained. Her hands flew to her eyes, and she wept bitterly.
Both spent the ensuing moments in silence, their labored breaths the only sounds to echo within the room, filling the space with the weight of their weary souls. Her head still throbbed incessantly, and even the mere attempt to part her eyelids prompted a dizzying whirl that caused her eyes to roll back in their sockets. An anguished moan escaped her lips as she grappled with the pain.
Before long, a glass was gingerly pressed against her lips. Greedily, she drank from it, each drop promising respite from her torment. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice but a breath. As the liquid gradually took effect, she dared to open her eyes once more, her cheeks bearing the vestiges of dried tears that left behind an uncomfortable stickiness.
Seated on the floor beside the bed again, Erik's gaze was averted downward, his mask firmly back in place, avoiding any semblance of eye contact with her. Involuntarily, her heart constricted anew at the sight. Oh God, grant her strength for what lay ahead!
This poor soul, she thought, residing beneath the earth's surface, secluded from all human interaction. She recalled the state in which she had found him, on the precipice of death. What series of events had led him to this dire strait?
Moved, she lifted a trembling hand and gently touched his shoulder, a lingering trepidation betraying her uncertainty whether he had indeed fully calmed or might yet spring upon her in a fit of agitation. He flinched at her touch, recoiling slightly. Slowly, he looked up, his eyes unimaginably sorrowful, glistening with tears concealed behind the mask.
"Oh, Erik," Hanna sighed with compassion. Her acquaintance with the man was brief, yet her heart brimmed with empathy for the plight of this disfigured living specter.
He captured her hands, drawing them against his chest, before lifting them to his face. Through the silky, obsidian mask, he pressed kisses onto the backs of her hands. A shiver raced through Hanna, a cascade of sensation as this stranger … this ugly man … pressed his lips, devoid of life, against her skin. Her stomach clenched, a surge of discomfort coursing through her. Compassion swelled within her, yes, but it didn't extend so far as to welcome unsolicited kisses from just anyone!
Her instinct was to wrench her hands free, yet his grip held fast, and so she was left suppressing her repulsion, forcing herself to avert her gaze. Oh, how cruel she felt within! Yes, his visage repulsed her, she couldn't pretend otherwise. He had a point, after all. He was a living corpse, the odor clinging to his form reminiscent of the damp earth of graveyards.
She bit her lip, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to despise herself for wanting to react in a manner akin to those who had shunned him.
"Hanna?" he whispered, his voice gentle and sweet, like a dagger to her heart. It served as a stark reminder of the cruelty dwelling within her. "Are you still alive? The touch didn't claim your life? The kiss of the death..."
His words were the final straw for the flood of emotions raging within her. Sobbing, she tore her hands from his grasp and flung her arms around him, an embrace born from her pity for this wretched man, who sought nothing more than the closeness of another human being.
Erik stiffened beneath the abrupt weight of her embrace, caught off guard by the suddenness of her action. She wept into the fabric of his shoulder, a torrent of emotions coursing through her—pure desperation over their predicament, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness, a profound compassion for him, and a deep self-loathing for finding him abhorrent and repugnant. These mingled feelings shook her very being.
A melody as delicate as an angel's whisper began to unfurl, filling the room with its ethereal notes. Hanna's tears gradually ceased, her sobs replaced by a hushed curiosity as she let her gaze wander around the room, seeking the wellspring of this soothing music. The source of the calming serenade, more potent than any amount of laudanum, seemed to quell the fiery turbulence of her emotions.
A subtle vibration resonated beneath her tight embrace, drawing a sigh from her lips as she recognized its origin. Erik was singing. The words flowed from him, an aria as if the very angels themselves wished to serenade her, as if the heavens themselves extended their welcoming arms.
She eased her grip on him, and soon, she found herself gently guided back onto the bed, the comforter drawn over her body like a tender embrace. Her breath steadied, no longer held captive by the waves of emotion.
Hanna raised a trembling hand to her forehead, her fingers seeking to still the persistent throbbing that had once commandeered her thoughts. Her senses were consumed by the soft, melodic cadence that gently enveloped her, a gentle whisper of sound that nestled within the recesses of her consciousness. With each intonation, she became a willing captive, her entire being ensnared by the dulcet tones that unfurled like the petals of a long-forgotten blossom. Her parched soul drank in every nuanced vibration, each delicate resonance of his voice greedily absorbed.
As the last notes of his song ceased to linger in the air, she lay there still, as if caught in the fragile thread of an enchantment. Her mind remained adrift in a hazy reverie, a sea of thoughts unable to coalesce, the magnitude of those fleeting minutes defying comprehension.
"What is it that you seek from me?" she whispered, her words a breath of air, as if reluctant to disturb the fragile peace that now enshrouded her. She feared that even the faintest sound might shatter this ephemeral cocoon, rending the soothing tapestry woven by his ethereal song. Yet, despite her hesitance, she knew that her words had reached him. The mattress shifted as he settled, and she could feel the weight of his presence.
She heard him breathe. It seemed like every breath he took was filled with anticipation, as if he might collapse from the intensity of his feelings at any moment.
A cold hand brushed over her hair, the touch sending a shiver down her spine. Slowly, his breathing evened out, and she dared to open her eyes, her vision muddled from the effects of the laudanum and the lingering echoes of his numbing song.
His fingers played gently with her hair, his eyes filled with a sense of wonder and amazement. His eyes held an unmistakable sense of awe, as though he beheld a precious rarity before him. Under his breath, he mumbled something inaudible, a soft murmur that carried a touch of intimacy.
She allowed his touch to linger in her hair, her hesitation mingling with a cautious acceptance. The thought of rejecting him now, of triggering another emotional outburst, held her back. There was something in his gaze that she feared — something that made her stomach knot with apprehension. The rising panic was hard to ignore, the uncertainty of what he might demand from her unsettling.
In that moment, she couldn't decide which was scarier — the prospect of his anger or the raw emotions that seemed to flicker so openly in his eyes, that left her feeling nauseous, the waves of trepidation crashing against the shores of her uncertainty.
At last, he found his voice, though it trembled uncertainly as he spoke. "Poor unhappy Erik yearns for a normal life. He loathes to be down here. But he must. His face..." His words trailed off as tears overtook him, his mask hiding his features, yet she could all too well imagine the contorted ugliness that lay beneath. Oh, the heart-wrenching revelations she was about to hear!
"His face and the weight of his deeds, they deny him a... a normal life. Oh, a life like any other!" The anguish in his voice was palpable, each word a painful admission of his own suffering.
His fingers gradually released their hold on her hair, allowing the strands to cascade onto the blanket. She simply stared at him, tears involuntarily pooling in her eyes once more. She yearned for it to stop — the emotional torment that seemed unrelenting. How selfish she felt for her inner turmoil, a man baring his soul before her, yet her thoughts were consumed by her own desire for solace. How wicked!
"Erik longs for nothing more than an ordinary life," he lamented, his gaze meeting hers, conveying the weight of his confession. "A life… with a wife."
Hanna's eyes widened, and she abruptly sat up, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as the swift movement sent a jolt of pain through her. Yet, she disregarded the discomfort, her sole focus on escaping from this conversation. How could he dare utter such words! She attempted to distance herself, to create a barrier between them, but he was upon her with lightning speed, pressing her back onto the pillows, his grip firm on her wrists.
Hanna writhed within his tightening grip, his hold growing stronger with every passing moment. "Stop this! Let me go! I don't want this. Stop!" she shrieked in desperation. Her head thrashed from side to side, her eyes squeezed shut as his face drew nearer, seeking her gaze. But Hanna knew that if she were to meet his eyes now, she would be consumed by the overwhelming sadness she sensed within them. And then, under the weight of that compassion, she might succumb and give in to his desires.
It took very little effort on his part to sway her emotions; he understood the power he held over her all too well. He knew precisely how to manipulate her, like a master puppeteer pulling invisible strings. Hanna was left with nothing but fear, a fear that gripped her heart in an icy vice.
And then, once more, his voice invaded her senses, a whisper of a ghost that seeped into her ears. She screamed against it, refusing to acknowledge the tendrils of his voice worming their way into her consciousness. She resisted, unwilling to surrender herself to the enchanting cadence. But he was relentless, his voice gaining strength, resonating so loud in her ears that she felt as though she might collapse from the sheer intensity of it.
The very essence of the man before her was a paradox — a beguiling blend of vulnerability and manipulation, desperation and control. His grip on her emotions was unyielding, his influence over her overwhelming. In that moment, Hanna found herself caught in a fierce struggle between her instincts and his influence, her cries echoing in the dimly lit chamber, a testament to the emotional turmoil that raged within her.
"Imagine, Hanna," he implored, his voice dripping with a mix of desperation and anticipation. "A living wife…! Oh, Hanna, can you fathom it? Erik's dear little wife, nestled by his side. He envisions caring for her, adoring her in ways she has never known, if only she allows him."
His words hung in the air, charged with a palpable energy. "Erik will be the embodiment of tenderness, a devoted husband beyond her wildest dreams. A slave to her desires, he will become—her willing servant. A gentle captive of his dear little wife," he enthused, his voice dancing with a fervent hope. With a reluctant sigh, he withdrew slightly from her, the magnetic pull of his presence still lingering.
"You promised, dear Hanna," he murmured, his tone both beseeching and insistent. "You were saved by the touch of poor, unhappy Erik. Now, it is time to fulfill your vow." He edged closer again, his nearness accompanied by the subtle yet unsettling odor that clung to him. Hanna fought the urge to recoil, paralyzed by her circumstances. "You mustn't forget your promise," he added, his voice taking on an almost haunting tone.
Caught in the web of his words and the bleak reality before her, Hanna recognized the futility of resistance. She longed to weep, to release the torrent of emotions welling within her, but her body lay limp and powerless, a vessel of helplessness.
Her reply came in a fragile whisper, almost a surrender to the inescapable fate that loomed over her. "Yes," she breathed, the word heavy with reluctant acceptance. The weight of her decision settled upon her chest like a boulder, the echoes of her past promise reverberating through her thoughts. Hanna yearned to turn back the hands of time, to undo the pact she had so unwittingly struck with this repulsive being and the shadowy world he represented.
Cold hands clasped around hers, guiding her hands to rest against his bony chest where a heart beat with wild fervor. "Oh, my dear wife," he breathed, his voice a mixture of awe and longing. "A wife, a living wife, bestowed upon poor Erik. He dared to dream of normalcy, and now, behold, he possesses a wife to cherish." Hanna's heart wavered between pity and revulsion at his words.
Tears streamed from his eyes, an unattractive symphony of ugly, guttural sounds mingling with his barely audible mutterings. He clung to her hands with an intensity that bordered on desperation, his fervent grip a testament to his emotional turmoil. Through the mask that concealed his face, he pressed kisses upon her hand, the gestures as poignant as they were unsettling, while his body swayed rhythmically as if rocked by an internal tempest.
Then, with an abrupt release, he tore himself away from her and sprung from the bed. "I must depart, my dearest," he announced with a strange mix of urgency and excitement. "Our wedding mass awaits me. I must compose it — a masterpiece that will surpass your wildest imagination. Await my return… my dear little wife!" And just like that, he was gone, leaving Hanna motionless on the bed, the lingering echo of his presence still palpable. Before long, distant strains of happy melodic notes reached her ears, a stark reminder of the nightmarish predicament from which there seemed to be no escape.