CHAPTER ONE

Boscherville, France, 1881

He still knew these dirty, messy roads by heart. He could close his eyes and know that the baker's was on the left and the butcher's on the right. Countless times he had visited each of these places dotting the road in his youth. The smell in the air brought back the memories of running down into town to fetch groceries for his mother.

He took another turn and it was not much time at all before he was face to face with the ivy covered walls of his childhood home once more. A pitiful, yearly pilgrimage. Cold logic would dictate that this would mean nothing in the end. Warm sentiments, nostalgia and a pervasive fear of the unknown kept him trapped in this routine. He knocked on the door.

The family that lived here now had done so for at least ten years. In perfect honesty, he wasn't quite sure of the exact time. He simply visited them year after year with the same intention to complete this ridiculous ritual. He knocked on the door.

"Monsieur Delacroix, I had a feeling we'd be expecting you soon. You appear to be quite well," A middle aged woman answered the door with a grin. The man bowed his head and politely tipped his hat towards her.

"I am, my latest concerto is still the talk of the town in Paris," He replied with a smirk.

"How lucky we are to be visited by such a famous Parisian every year," she remarked, stepping aside to allow him to enter the house. With his height, he had to bend down to fit through. He fondly remembered the days when such a thing was not required. A simpler time.

"I would hardly call myself famous. I do what I love and for some reason, people are willing to pay me for it. If that is all it takes to be famous, it is of little consequence to me," He removed his hat and smiled.

"Always so humble, M. Delacroix. Truly, you must be an oddity among the rest of the city."

"A side effect of growing up here, I'm sure," he chuckled. His eyes couldn't help but wander around the house. The carpet was different than in his memories. The decorations far more modern. It was hardly recognizable as the house he once knew.

"Would you like some tea, sir?" The woman asked. He nodded.

"Yes, that would be quite lovely. You must tell me what your husband has been up to lately, and how the children are."

An hour later, after all pleasantries had been fully exchanged and permission had been granted to harvest the flowers, the man found himself in the backyard of the little house. One by one, he carefully cut roses from the bushes. Red and pink, yellow and white. Oh, the hours he and his mother had spent cultivating these flowers that still reached for the sun.

He laid a bloom near an oddly shaped rock that was concealed by the shrubbery. A small memorial for the canine companion of his youth. Dear, sweet old Sasha. He remembered all the times he had gotten in trouble as a child for helping the dog dig holes around the yard. All the fine clothes he had ruined in the hopes of finding something special hiding in the dirt. Nothing seemed to rattle his dear mother more than the ruination of perfection.

With his arms full of flowers, he left the house behind. The constant dichotomy between fond, happy memories and the deep, cold resentment that festered within him was too difficult to bear in those walls.

Down the road sat Mademoiselle Perrault's house. He had spent a great deal of time there, too. His mother's most trusted friend, Marie Perrault had once been a constant presence in his life. Since he had left Boscherville behind, she too had been pushed to the back of his mind. The guilt often weighed heavy on his conscious. It was never her fault that he had become such a bitter man, she had never been anything but kind to him.

On this day of remembrance, he could smother his feelings and do the proper thing. After shifting the bundle of flowers in his arms, he knocked on her door. He recognized the woman that answered. Her face had gained more wrinkles since the last he saw her but he'd know those warm eyes anywhere. Simonette, the maid that had served he and his mother for so long. As a boy, he'd had a particular fondness for her. She had always been rather beautiful to him, despite her plain features.

"Charles," she greeted him with a large grin, "what a pleasant surprise!" The man laughed, the sound of his own name feeling foreign to his ears.

"I haven't been called Charles in quite some time," he replied.

"You'll always be our little Charles here," she said.

"I know, my presence lingers on, despite the fact that I haven't lived here in decades," he scoffed.

"Everyone that knew you as a boy still likes to tell the stories of all the times you'd climb trees and either get stuck in them or fall out of them and hurt yourself," she said with a wistful air.

"It's quite fascinating how such tales haunt us all," he remarked.

"You left quite an impression on everyone, Charles. While we know you've moved on to bigger, better things than this sleepy town, your presence is missed. Despite what you might think, we do care about you."

His brows knitted together. A slight pain lurched in his chest. He didn't want to think about how these people might miss him and spare thoughts for him in his absence. It made it far easier to wrap his past up with a neat little bow if he could pretend they weren't real people.

"How is Mlle. Perrault?" He inquired, changing the subject before Simonette could indulge in more sentiments. The woman sighed, her shoulders deflating.

"She is currently resting, Marie has been quite ill for the past month...She has been doing much better but I can't imagine she will make it through another winter," Simonette explained. She herself was not a very young woman by any means, she wasn't all that much younger than Mlle. Perrault, in fact. Still, she seemed far less troubled by the ravages of time.

"That is...quite unfortunate," the man swallowed a knot in his throat. He both felt the need to preemptively grieve and to celebrate the cutting of one more string that trapped him here.

"Has the doctor visited? What has he said about her condition?" He inquired immediately, "If his diagnosis was unsatisfactory, I can send a doctor from-"

"Paris? Our new doctor is fresh from the academy, I honestly doubt that another Parisian doctor could come up with a better explanation. She is simply old and-"

He interrupted her just as she had stopped him, "Where is Dr. Barye? Did that overbearing dunce of a doctor finally retire?" He sneered. Simonette paused, looking up into the man's piercing eyes.

"He died, Charles. Last year. Shortly after your last visit, an illness swept through town and swept him away with it. Most people were fine after about a week but he...he had never been the same since Madeleine-since your mother died."

Unable to restrain himself, he laughed. A deep and bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Immediately, Simonette's features soured. Her warm eyes grew dark and her lips pursed into a disappointed scowl.

"Yes, of course. Nothing was ever the same after Madeleine died, the angel among us all," he snorted.

"He loved her, you know that. They were inseparable," Simonette defended her old friends with sharp conviction.

"He hung on her every word like a dog waiting for scraps. Just like everyone else that ever entered her godforsaken orbit," he sneered. Simonette's nostrils flared at his hurtful comments.

"I think that you should leave, Charles," she growled.

"Yes, I do believe that I should be on my way. I can't keep all of Paris waiting for me forever," he gritted his teeth slightly, forcing a caustic grin to his lips. He picked a few of the flowers from his arms and handed them off to Simonette.

"Give these to Mlle. Perrault when she awakens. Tell her I send my best. Good day, madame." And at that, he turned away. He heard the door creak closed behind him. Simonette said nothing more, yet in his mind, the man could hear his mother's voice chiding him from beyond the grave.

"Your best will never be good enough, Charles."

His grip tightened on the flowers until the thorns were digging into his fingers.

The next stop on his stroll through this infuriating place was the church.

Despite his tumultuous relationship with his faith, the man's memories contained in its house of worship were remembered with a genuine smile. He had learned so much here. Heard so many stories, studied so many things. For years, he had played the organ that sat just behind the altar. As soon as his feet could reach the pedal board, he had insisted on learning how. Being of exceptional height, even as a child, it did not take too many years before he could. The temptation to sit on that bench and fill this place with beautiful music was great and nearly overwhelming. Still, he resisted the urge. The desire to finish his business here and be on his way back to Rouen won out.

He walked down the aisle and spent little time inside. He went out a door on the side of the building that led into the cemetery. He thought that if he sped through the church, it would be far easier to pretend that Father Mansart was just around a corner in there, too distracted by his reading to realize someone had entered. He vaguely remembered that the priest now was a young man with a particularly sunshiny disposition and that was something that he did not wish to engage with presently.

In the cemetery, he passed the graves of people that had died long ago. One he remembered meeting briefly as a boy. Another, he had only heard an odd assortment of stories about. There was a grave with a particularly ornate headstone that he had always meant to ask about but never had. He had always imagined that his own fantastical story of how the man came to rest here was far greater than reality. For how could anything interesting ever really happen in this sleepy town?

He came to his first destination among all the memorials. A simple headstone with a cross. The man knelt down into the grass with practiced grace.

"Hello, my old friend," he spoke out loud, his normally smooth voice stammering on the syllables. He laid a few of his roses on the grave, one of each color. Then he traced the name on the stone with a soft, reverent touch. Father Erik Mansart.

Over twenty five years later and his grief struck him as if it was fresh. As an eccentric child that had difficulty relating to others his own age, the man had found a confidant in the priest. Father Mansart had been a constant presence of light when the world seemed only dull and dark. Whenever mother would lose her temper, Father Mansart had allowed that odd little boy to stay there in the safety of the church. If she refused to see reason, the Father would stand his ground against her and defend the child. Once the Father had died, few were willing to challenge Madeleine's indomitable will.

The man's fingers lingered upon the letters of the priest's first name. Erik. The name the man had adopted for himself shortly after Father Mansart had passed away. It had always felt poetic to carry on the man's legacy in some small way once the name Charles had become too much of a burden to bear. Charles was trapped by his mother's unreal expectations while Erik could be whomever he wanted to be.

Or so he told himself. The truth of the man he had become was somewhere between the two.

Erik stood and carried on with his journey through the cemetery. His mother's grave was next on the list. Immediately, he saw the addition of Dr. Barye's headstone beside his mother's. The sight provoked his anger. Of course his stone would be put so close to Madeleine's. Now, all in a row was his father's, his mother's and then the doctor's. It was so terribly ironic that Erik couldn't help but laugh. Madeleine always had such difficulty parting with her favorite things!

He dropped a rose on his father's grave. Erik had never met this man. He had died a few short months before Erik had been born. Still, Madeleine had taken his name and given it to her child in remembrance. Charles. Oh, how he had grown to hate that name! And yet, he could not fault it for being his father's. Perhaps if he had lived, Erik's opinion would have been different on the matter. It still felt like he knew him through all the stories that mother would tell of him. That even if their romance had been rather short lived, it had been the sort of love of fairy tales. Erik still liked to believe such a childish notion. He wanted to believe it, lest what he knew of his father be tarnished. He didn't wish to think that his father had simply been another poor bug trapped in the never-ending web of Madeleine's control.

Erik looked to the doctor's grave. It was clearly the newest of the three, the stone still perfectly sharp and bright in the sunlight. He supposed he should pay his respects. He dropped a rose on the grave, too. For all his faults, Dr. Barye had tried to be a good man to Erik. Perhaps it had been some sort of twisted jealousy that had kept him from ever letting the doctor become a true presence in his life. Perhaps Erik had already been haunted by too many other ghosts to ever give the man a real chance.

Or maybe he refused to like anyone that could bring such a wicked woman happiness.

Finally, his gaze settled on the stone in the middle. This one was the most elegantly carved. With sweeping flourishes and perfect little flowers, it painted a quaint little picture that this woman was loveliness personified.

Though one could certainly argue that she was exactly as such. In her own mind.

Erik remembered when she had fallen gravely ill and Dr. Barye had asked him to design the headstone and possibly carve the thing. Overhearing the conversation, Madeleine had immediately destroyed the notion.

"That hopeless boy? You'll be putting him in the ground before he ever even decides between granite or marble."

For all her wicked little games, for all her cold cruelty and manipulations, she was still his mother. The terrible and the wonderful things about her were so intertwined that it was impossible to sort them all out. For years he had believed himself useless when in reality, that had been the furthest thing from the truth. Madeleine had simply wished to see how far he'd go. Being his mother, she had known every way to pick and stab at all his little insecurities. She had learned early on that he was the stubborn sort of person that did not like being told what he could and could not do.

He hated her. He loved her. He hoped she was burning in Hell. He hoped she had found something to finally make her happy and bring her peace. This internal war was what kept him coming back here year after year to pay his respects.

He dropped the rest of his bouquet on her grave. He hoped she could see them, see how beautiful they still bloomed. That somehow, after all these years, they were still perfect. At least, he thought them to be perfect. He fingered one of the silky petals and knew that Madeleine would find some way to criticize these wonderful flowers. Nothing would ever be good enough for her, so what point was there in trying?

Objectively, this was easy to understand. One should not allow their life to be governed by such unrealistic expectations. And yet Erik could not seem to shake his drive to achieve absolute perfection in everything he did.

With the name he borrowed from the priest and the name he had inherited from his father, Erik left everything his mother gave him behind. At least until next year, in any case. Life in Boscherville would go on without him and he rather liked it that way. Paris was calling, there was much work waiting back home for him at the opera.

But first, came the journey back to Rouen.

A few hours by brougham, it was past noon when Erik made it back to the train station. He then discovered that he had narrowly missed the train he had originally planned on taking back to Paris. Typically being punctual to an obsessive degree, Erik gritted his teeth and barked a long string of unwarranted insults at the poor clerk at the ticket window. When the man threatened to call the station master, Erik growled and left in a huff.

The next train would not be leaving until much later this evening. Therefore, he'd have a few hours to waste away in this city before returning home. At the very least, he thought, Rouen was a far better place to be stranded than Boscherville.

Still, he was rather anxious to return home. He never did like venturing too far from his dwelling, despite the flicker of wanderlust in his heart that begged him to leave France all together and climb a mountain. Or see the pyramids. Or perhaps the Orient. These were the wistful dreams of an old man with a youthful soul, too set in his ways to really make an effort to change now. His imagination had suited him quite well for the entirety of his life; he could be content with that.

He tried to wait at the train station. He purchased a newspaper and skimmed it over. Most of the stories would only concern the locals. The few that concerned Paris were things that Erik had already known, being so well connected to the elite. Business affairs, the latest gossip passed off as news...Though he did make a note of the story concerning Bernard Comtois' missing daughter. Erik had thought that had only been a rumor. He had once been well acquainted with the man, he would have to write to him once he returned home to see how he was faring.

Soon though, Erik grew restless. With far too much time stretched out before him, he bolted from his spot on a bench and made his way into the city proper. It occurred to him that he should eat away at some of these wasted hours by in fact, actually eating. He ducked into the next restaurant he came across, not particularly paying attention to the sort of fare they served there.

He stood out from the other patrons in the place, his perfectly pressed and tailored clothing betraying his status as part of the Parisian upper classes. He ignored the stares and awkward glances as he sat down to eat. Seated near a window, Erik found himself far more interested in watching the people strolling just outside than actually eating. In one hand, he held his fork, in the other, he held a pencil that was furiously sketching away in a small notebook. He drew the people he saw in short bursts, focusing on the details of them he found interesting. A man's well-kept mustache, a woman's particularly large, flamboyant hat. In between the strokes of lead, he picked at his meal.

When it came time to pay, he inquired as to what on Earth one could do in this city to pass time while he waited for the train.

"Well, the carnival just came to town. They're boasting all sorts of new, fascinating things to see," the waiter replied nonchalantly. Erik mulled the idea over, frowning as he did so. The faire was not what he expected, nor what he thought his first choice ever would have been. Given the emotionally taxing day he'd had, dealing with crowds had not been on his agenda. He had seen advertisements for the faire plastered to the walls of the train station. There was a contortionist performing. Various tattooed men and women that could breathe fire. Magicians with their astonishing tricks, musicians from all around the world come to share their songs…

Something seemed to be beckoning him to go, despite his initial reservations. If he went for even just a little while, perhaps the visit might prove useful. Perhaps he'd find inspiration for a new composition there. Inspiration to hand over to the costume makers for the next opera season. Being distracted by a vibrant cacophony of the human condition seemed far preferable to just sitting around the train station and waiting. Such idleness would breed dark thoughts in his head, sending him into a downward spiral of painful memories.

The traveling carnival was, as expected, a loud mess of people. Erik disliked the chaos. The mechanical rides were of particular interest though, if only because of his love for machines. He was rather entranced by them, watching the perpetual motions over and over. At least, until a familiar voice caught his attention.

"Erik!" The voice called out. Immediately, he turned in the direction of it, "Of all people I expected to see here...you were not among them."

"Nor was I expecting to see you, Vicomte. Does your brother know that you are here?" Erik replied, leaning over to pin the much younger man with an accusatory glare.

"Phillippe?"

"Do you have any other brothers?"

"Well, no, but I-"

Erik couldn't help but laugh at the young man's flustered state. Raoul was so very much the opposite of his elder brother.

"When I last spoke to Phillippe, I thought he said that you were going to Reims for a few weeks to explore a new business venture...this is the opposite direction," Erik pointed out, crossing his arms against his chest. Raoul awkwardly ran his fingers through his sandy blond hair and glanced behind his shoulder. Erik followed Raoul's eyes and found a young woman that was watching them from afar. A beautiful, small thing, she was clearly dressed as a performer. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders in thick curls and her eyes were an uncommonly vibrant blue.

"I swear that my original intention was to go to Reims," Raoul quickly explained, "I, I shall give you a full explanation of my actions once we are home in Paris. Please don't say anything to Phillippe."

"Your brother can hardly fault you for chasing after a woman, given his own personal exploits," Erik chortled. He knew far more than the young De Chagny likely did of the Comte's own debauchery.

"I know, I simply don't think it completely necessary for him to know of all my affairs at present," Raoul replied, his tone suddenly sounding so much older.

"Fair enough, Vicomte. I'll leave you to your affairs, then. Though I do expect the details, as promised," Erik said, looking forward to the full story.

"Yes. yes of course, we will speak once we are home," Raoul nodded, taking his leave to once again join his lady friend. Erik watched as they smiled and laughed together. Ah, to be young and in love. Erik had known Raoul for the entirety of the boy's life, he had always been a bit of an eccentric young man. Incredibly naive, of course, but the boy had a kind, gentle heart.

Erik turned away and continued down the pathway. Getting further and further away from the festivities, the noise seemed to calm. In the distance, he could hear delicate notes pouring from a violin. Inexplicably lulled by the sound, he followed it.

The tents that now surrounded him were less extravagant; he must have wandered into the camping area for those that lived with the carnival. For a moment, he simply stopped and took in all the small pieces of these people's lives. With the music from such a talented violinist floating through his mind, it was quite easy to dream of all the details. He imagined what it must be like, the stories they could tell from all their travels. How simple their lives seemed compared to his own, and how much more complicated at the same time. There was definitely a story that could be told on stage in this place.

And that violin! He had never heard anything like it. He spun around, searching for the musician. His heart stammered in his chest, a strange wash of emotion overwhelming him. Anyone capable of producing such a magnificent sound on such a difficult instrument deserved far more than playing to the empty air. Erik had half a mind to steal them away and put them in a more deserving spot in the opera's orchestra! He wanted-no, needed to find the gifted violinist.

He continued to ruminate on his dilemma when the music abruptly stopped. With desperation that caught him off guard, he still searched, hoping to find an echo of such heavenly music on the wind. Instead of hearing the strings, he heard a strange voice. Suspicious, he stood his ground.

"Come here," the voice called out again with a thick accent that Erik could not immediately recognize. Slowly, he turned.

"Come here, I wish to tell your fortune, it will take precious little of your time," the voice added. His heartbeat thudded in his head as he looked for the source.

"Fortune telling is a waste of time," he replied, still unsure of the direction the voice was coming from. He was far too focused on the sound, the odd, dreamlike quality of that voice to tell where it was. He became rather certain that the one who possessed the voice was also responsible for the violining.

"Ah, but it is all in good fun. That is what these festivals are all about in the end, yes?" The voice asked with a small, feminine laugh. Slowly, Erik turned around and found the source. A dark tent, separated from the others. A person, draped in a torn, gray cloak sat at a small table. On that table sat a collection of carved, polished stones...and the violin. The figure behind the table wore a mask that appeared to be made of black silk. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was speaking to some sort of ghostly apparition.

"I'm not about to spend money on such foolishness," Erik scoffed.

"I never said anything about money, monsieur. It's about my fun as much as it is yours, honestly," The figure shrugged. Erik stared at the ghostly shadow, trying to guess where her eyes were.

"And why on Earth would I play along with such a childish game?" He asked, folding his arms behind his back in an attempt to hide his growing frustration.

"Because you are curious. I can see it in your eyes, monsieur. If you truly wanted to leave, you would have done so already, " The shadow leaned back in her chair and made a gesture that Erik could only interpret as a shrug.

His temper flaring, he could not seem to find words that were polite. He bit his tongue to keep his impeccable manners in check. He couldn't let her know that she was correct, his curiosity was currently getting the better of him. He was hanging on her every word The girl noticed his discomfort. She tilted her masked face while she observed him.

"How about this, then. If I can guess your name, you can see my performance this evening for half the price. If I guess incorrectly, you can see the show for free. You'll see a great deal more of my skills as a musician if you come," She offered. Silence fell between them again as Erik deliberated.

"Fine," he agreed with a sigh. This would, at the very least, make an interesting story to tell at the next gala, the odd shadow girl with her odd voice and odd skill with a violin. Erik took a step closer to the figure. He paid more intensive attention to the lines carved on her stones. He vaguely remembered seeing something similar in his studies. Nordic runes, he thought.

"You will not regret it, I promise," she said, her own excitement creeping into her voice. Her hands came forward, poking out from her cloak. Erik watched with morbid fascination as she picked up each of the stones on the table and moved them in her palms. Her hands looked ancient, grayish skin pulled taut over her bones. The sight did not match the youthful sound of this creature's voice.

"I already regret it," he pointed out, though that was not the truth. His feet were firmly planted here now and Erik could hardly explain why. Was it her voice or her music? So strange, so unlike anything he had ever heard before? Was it the sight of her odd hands? Or the mystery of the mask? He cared not to dissect his thoughts.

She carefully placed each stone back on the table and shifted them around, arranging them in a particular pattern. Finally, she spoke again when four stones were lined up in front of her.

"Ehwaz, your bonds of friendship are unbreakable. Raidho, you long for a journey. For freedom and renewal. Isaz, you command authority. Kenaz, that authority comes from the fact that you bring light wherever you go."

He could not hold back a bitter scoff. What inane nonsense was this girl going on about? He had followed until the end. Bringing light? How ridiculous. All of his contemporaries would agree that he was of the darkest, most sour disposition.

"Let me finish," she insisted, interjecting with calm authority of her own.

"This is asinine," he grumbled. She continued with her assessment, ignoring his displeasure.

"Mighty and distinguished, yours is the name of a king, Erik."

If he had been any less of a composed and collected man, his jaw would have dropped at her final words. Instead, he only stared at her, the shock clearly hiding behind his harsh eyes.

"The name my mother gave me was Charles," he smirked, proving the strange woman wrong. She shook her head and a few pieces of her white hair came free from the hood of her cloak.

"Erik suits you far better, I think."

"What do you know, it wasn't a real guess. You could have easily overheard a friend of mine call me by that name a few minutes ago, thus proving all this fortune telling nonsense to be exactly that. Nonsense," Erik said, his arrogance dripping from every word. She could only laugh at him.

"Perhaps I did overhear your friend," she agreed with him, gathering her stones off the table and dropping them back into a small velvet pouch. She stood up from her seat, "But you're going to come to my performance anyway." With a flick of her thumb, she threw one of the stones at him. Without thinking, he caught it. He turned it over in his palm and noted it was the stone she called raidho.

"Give that to the boy taking admissions. He'll recognize it," she explained and Erik could have sworn he saw her lips move into a smile behind the dark fabric of the mask. She gathered the violin and bow off the table and disappeared into her tent.

And Erik was left alone, staring at the tent where she had just been. He had half a mind to rip the thing down and confront the girl inside. The thought was surely tempting...but his feet stayed in place. He didn't dare invade her privacy in such a way. He would never stoop to that level of monstrous.

But he almost threw that damn stone back at her. The only reason he decided to still attend her little performance was that he needed a decent conclusion to this story when he told it to all the silly socialites. Having the story end after this odd creature had practically begged him to attend her show? That, simply would not do.

When he found the small, haphazard stage that she was to be performing on, he got in line to pay the fee. He held the little stone in his palm. The surface of it smooth, aside from the carving, he couldn't help but continue to caress it. Idylly, as he waited his turn, he looked up at the sky. Quickly, it had gone from blue to orange, various shades of pink and yellow intermingled with the sparse clouds.

"10 francs, sir," the boy at the entrance said, breaking Erik out of his trance. He looked down at the stone in his hand...and deposited it in his own pocket. He couldn't explain what had possessed him to keep it. It was a souvenir. He imagined it belonged to a matched set, perhaps keeping it would be an inconvenience to that ghostly woman.

Especially when the price for the show was so inconsequential to him. He reached into a different pocket and handed the boy an indeterminate amount of money that was obviously far too much. As Erik walked away, the boy tried to stop him.

"Sir! This is 100 francs, the fee is not-"

"Keep it. It matters little to me," he muttered, continuing on. The boy was left in such a state of shock that he nearly forgot to take coins from the next few people in line.

Erik took a seat towards the back. Regardless of class and money, he found it discourteous for someone of his height to sit in the very front, where he'd certainly be a hindrance to the viewers behind him. He focused on the stage, bathed in the warm glow of the sunset. The show would be starting soon; he could see that her violin was sitting toward the edge of the makeshift platform.

The jagged, clashing fabrics of the curtain rustled. A man stepped out, dragging something behind him. As he came into the light, as did his cargo. Erik recognized the cloak. That limp thing being pulled out was that girl...and she just hung there, unmoving.

Unceremoniously, the man threw her down to the stage with an echoing thunk. Erik watched her fall, limbs landing splayed in an unnatural way. She...she appeared to be dead. Why on Earth had she invited him to such a display? Whispers traveled through the crowd as they also speculated what was going on. Erik wanted to stop this at once. His nails dug into his knees as he tensed, getting ready to make a stand.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have quite the spectacular sight to see for you today!" The man started, immediately hushing the whispers with the sound of his loud, dramatic voice.

"Unlike anything else at our faire, this is something truly remarkable! A scientific wonder, a modern mystery! This creature here appears to be completely devoid of life!" He punctuated his speech by kicking the cloaked body hard enough for it to make a sound.

"But I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, this creature is not dead. What's that you say? Impossible? No, no. This creature is neither alive or dead, it is something in between!" He paused to allow the audience to digest his words. "Far, far to the North, where the sun burns at midnight all summer and the moon glows in the morning all winter...that is where this creature was discovered. The ancients called them the draugar, undead monsters sent to torment the living! But this one...this one has been tamed, at least as much as a feral beast can be…" As the man's word's faded, a terrible shrieking sound came forth from the undead creature laying upon the stage. It was all an act, Erik reminded himself. She had allowed that man to hit her for the act. His worries aroused over simple showmanship. At least, he tried to tell himself that. He remained unsettled.

Suddenly, the figure moved from her spot. One after another, her arms reached forth from her cloak, shooting out at odd, broken looking angles. One hand grasped the violin. The other took the bow. And then, with an obviously well practiced motion, the creature stood and positioned the violin at her chin.

She was wearing a different mask, now. This one made of wood and iron, it looked heavy and uncomfortable...but it certainly added to the ancient mystery of this performance.

She started to play. Erik found himself sitting on the edge of his uncomfortable seat, watching her with morbid fascination. He had recognized her skill when he had only heard her, but now, seeing her pale fingers masterfully dance across the strings left him entranced. The song was nothing he recognized before, though it made the clear impression of being as seemingly ancient as the rest of this odd tale. The melodies would stay in his mind long after this, that he already knew.

As soon as she had started, she had finished as well and the show continued on.

She handed the violin and bow off to the man on stage with her. He held them both in one hand and used the other to pull her hood off the top of her head, fully revealing her mask...and her shock of bright, white hair. She made another shriek and stomped on the stage, lunging towards the audience to scare them.

How old was this creature, exactly? Judging by the sound of her voice earlier, she had sounded like a young woman. Or at the very least, a woman young enough to not have such blindingly white hair.

"A talented little monster, isn't it?" The man laughed. She stood there, unmoving, waiting. The man reached for her again and this time, undid the clasp on her cloak. With nothing holding it on her gaunt frame, it slipped from her shoulders and cascaded down and pooled on the stage.

In the orange sunlight, she was revealed. Beaded braids framed her masked face. Her clothes hung off her body, enhancing her terribly skeletal appearance. Some sort of animal pelt was hanging off one of her shoulders. Her chest was covered by a kind of breast plate; she looked like an old norse warrior, truly risen from the dead. There was even a trophy skull hanging from her belt.

"This draugr is talented with far more than the violin, though. You will not believe your eyes! True magic will be seen upon this stage! Beyond that of this creature's state between life and death!"

At that, the man took a step back and the girl took that as her cue to move on. One after another, she started performing small sleight of hand tricks. Erik recognized most of them easily, he had performed a great deal of these in his youth. Still, they were nothing to scoff at. Her tricks grew more complicated until she finished the segment with what appeared to be a ball of fire illuminating the inside of her trophy skull, bringing it back to life. When the flames dissipated and she was clearly unharmed, a man near the front of the audience decided to make a nuisance of himself.

"Take off the mask! We want to see its face!" He shouted. For the first time of the show, Erik saw the girl break her character. It was almost imperceptible, but as a man with as much experience with those on stage as he, it was obvious. Her posture fell. Her shoulders slumped and she looked away and towards the ground. It was something she clearly didn't want to do, want to show. And then she recovered, just like that. What else could she be hiding?

"All in good time, my faithful friend! It is not a sight for the faint of heart!" Her stage companion laughed. She looked out at the crowd, her attention wavering from what was happening. She was searching for something...and she found Erik.

For the first time that day, he truly saw her eyes. The vibrant light of dusk hit them just right behind the mask and they glowed through the shadow. Each appeared to be a different color, though that could easily be a trick of the light. Erik stared back, wondering why she would pick him out of the crowd. Why she would choose him on which to ground herself to. She had been so confident when they had spoken alone. Now, he sensed that this poor girl was about to crack and crumble.

The man on stage with her continued to drone on about the supposed mythology of this special creature. She continued to stare at Erik, until she interrupted the other man's story about Glámr the draugr. She started to sing. The man tried to finish his story, raising his voice over hers, attempting to cover up the fact that she had intentionally started the last part of the show a few minutes too soon.

The sound of her voice, however, drowned out all other sounds in the immediate area. Birds stopped singing, insects stopped buzzing. When this little draugr girl sang, even the wildlife stopped to listen. Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer intensity of her song.

Erik could not find any adequate words to describe the sound pouring forth from her thin, pale throat. If she was merely talented with the violin, her voice was that of a goddess. Or an entrancing demon, or an angel. With every cascading note, her voice grew in strength and ferocity. And he could not breathe. He clutched at his chest, willing air to fill his lungs. His heart seized and he hoped for the traitorous muscle in his chest to resume beating as it should.

Instead, he was hypnotized by the strange pull of her, strangely content with the possibility of imminent death. He never wanted to hear anything else but her voice ever again. No music would ever compare to hers. The world had been so empty, now it was overflowing with everything all at once. Happiness and joy clashing with the deepest melancholy as if there was no other way to experience them except as a violent cacophony. Nothing could ever be the same, now that he had heard such a sublime sound. Perfection he never could have predicted.

Then, she removed the mask.