Erik

Southwestern Russia

March 1887

Every second he was not thinking of them he was cursing himself for his own stupidity. Oberon huffed, communicating his exhaustion from enduringly scaling the rugged terrain. The horse had aged significantly, as consequence to almost six years of constant travel. Erik felt likewise. Perhaps his few years of treasured joy with Christine had heightened his false expectations of the world around him. Distracted him from the true character of mankind. He had stupidly hoped for a quick return, one that was promised. That he had promised. Perhaps they all should have run from the start. But it didn't matter now, anyway. He had thought he had played it safe, going back to the wretched country to preserve his family's safety, lest the Shah uncover their existence with further investigation as to his whereabouts. After several failed architects, the graying ruler would have his palace completed, dragging back his Angel of Doom by force if need be. And so, Erik reluctantly complied, hoping to quietly tie up the loose ends of his past.

This logic proved to only lead to imminent danger for his family and himself, however.

He knew the royal court. He knew of their characteristic propensity to warp truth, or in more direct estimation, lie, especially the Shah. How then did he believe their word? Perhaps it was what he had wished to be true. Perhaps it was what he wanted to believe, that he could enjoy the one unexpected happiness in his once miserable existence. Maybe it was God punishing him. He had killed many people, lied and manipulated. The fairest punishment would be to take her away. He would wander until his last heartbeat puttered still, in hopes of keeping their safety intact. His rare joy was insignificant in comparison to his dear wife and son.

And so, he fled, aiming to drive the Shah's men off of his trail. He had sent Nadir to his home, to check up on his wife and son. Hopefully, he had arrived there by now. The pair had split up not long after they had fled Persia, planning to meet back up as Erik made his way to the far corners of the world in attempt to lead them off of his trail. After all, Erik was the one they wanted anyway.

It had been six years. Six awful, miserable years. Erik thought he knew torture. But to know happiness and have it taken away, swiftly and suddenly, he had never experienced anything worse. He would endure the deepest wounds of the lash upon his back, be kicked and beaten, drugged and abused, in order to regain them back. He felt exiled from his own life. Now, in the grasslands of Russia, he rode alone. God must laugh at his most hated son's fate now.

It was simple, really, how he ended up back in the desert. The Daroga had written him a letter, pleading for his presence. Living in Persia years before he had ever settled under the Garnier and met his angel, he served as Master architect and stonemason for the Shah, among other things. But that was no more. He had vowed.

The moment was innocent, domestic. A bitter contrast to his current state of being.

"Erik." Christine was propping young Alexandre on her hip, holding the post in her other hand. He was sitting at the piano, scribbling down something that didn't matter anymore.

"Erik." She approached him, a familiar smile tracing the outlines of her mouth. His hair tousled, mask out, waistcoat unbuttoned; this focused state was so like him.

"Yes, my love?" So, he must not have registered the first address.

"A letter, it is for you. It looks like it was sent to the Opera House. Madame Giry must have mailed it here. The return address is in a strange script."

Brow furrowed, he rose from the instrument, viewing the letter in earnest. With one glance, he accounted that it was from the Daroga, though he had no idea as to why his acquaintance had sent such a letter. They hadn't spoke since Erik left, so why would he send such a letter now? And how did he know where to contact him? Opening it worriedly, the torn envelope revealed within a small piece of paper, scribbled unceremoniously on and written obviously in haste. Christine could not tell, however, as she eyed it from behind, as it was written entirely in Persian.

Erik-

Your original design is not possible lacking your presence. The Shah knows of the Opera affair-rumors,-little else. Neither I nor the Shah know much of this relationship with Madmoiselle Daae, but his guards will investigate the matter further to find you, if you do not come. You must come. I have failed to keep you here, and if I fail to bring you back, I believe they will kill me. May allah watch over us both.

Nadir Khan

Erik merely stared at the words. The simple note threatened to upend his family, his entire life in mere seconds. He knew of the danger. If Nadir was writing to him, surely the situation was dire. He had, after all, left Persia, and the palace, suddenly -almost on a whim- in search of something better. He had found it.

Christine. He had used her name. His stomach dropped and his ribs seemed to constrict around it. So they knew of his connection to her. But most likely not their marriage. No, they had been careful about that. Moving out of Paris proved to be the right decision indeed. Still, the Shah's trackers would uncover more, so as to lead to him, which would lead to his wife and son. Could they run? There was a chance that they would still find his family, and he would not ruin Christine's life yet again, subjecting her and a small child to a life without permanence.

He looked at the date on Nadir's note. If this was dated months ago, then could Khan already be dead? If so, then there was still potential leverage on him. Madame Giry had not sent him anything in warning, so the Shah's men were not in Paris, yet. Yes, it would be best to complete the palace, satisfy the Shah with no bloodshed and return.

"Erik." She repeated. This time there was no smile. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

She set Alexandre down, he was beginning to get very good at chasing about the house.

Christine inched closer, placing soft hands upon his chest. She knew something was very wrong by her husband's frozen state. Her eyes bore into his, pleading for an answer.

They stood like this for several minutes, breathing together, her comforting him, though she did not know why. What she did know, after nearly three years of marriage, was patience.

"The Shah wants me to complete the palace. He knows of the Opera affair, and if he finds out more, you and our son will be put in very great danger. I must return to Persia."

He looked past her, to some vague point. It was much easier revealing the truth to her without taking in her reaction.

This did not matter, however, as Christine allowed her forehead to follow her hands, resting upon his chest. She didn't want to look at him, either, just wanting to feel him, to make sure that he was there.

Her voice, so loud and triumphant on stage, turned into a closed mouthed murmur.

"When?" Her fingers tightly clasped the front of his shirt. In response, his arms enclosed her form in a humble embrace, resting his chin upon her soft hair so as to shield her more.

"I must not delay."

Soon. It meant very soon. Christine carried a synopsis of her husband's time in Persia, although brief. He had told her that the palace was left unfinished, much to the royal court's dismay. Erik had left suddenly, exhausted and disgusted from court life. Funny, he had left one superficial spectacle for another-the Opera House. She knew, although he did not reveal to her, that he was also disgusted with himself, his horrible crimes he felt he had yet to atone for. Erik had worked on various construction sites, mostly in Tehran and Mazandaran, and had done other things to assist the Shah. She understood what that entailed.

But he could not leave! It was utterly ridiculous! For a stupid building! After all the trials they had endured, upended social convention and left behind their lives to start anew, he must leave? It was a sick joke. She had fought for-and won-her happiness, they had earned it together, and now they must be alone yet again? She knew he had thought of every circumstance, that he would fight, bleed, kill to stay with them. She shivered. Her husband could no longer be that man. He was a better man, she witnessed the change every day, holding Alexandre, doting upon her during her pregnancy. There must be a way to keep him here. Where he belonged.

She broke away swiftly, seriously. "You cannot leave us."

It was then his yellow eyes shifted back at her. The weight of them were heavy.

"Christine, this is not a subject for debate."

"After everything, the life we have begun, you cannot leave! There must be another alternative. We can move! Run from these men after you and leave it behind us, just like the Opera House."

His jaw clenched as she began wildly pacing about the room, thinking.

"This is not something we can run from Christine."

"Surely your friend, Monsieur Khan, was it? He may help sort this out."

"That is not possible.", he mentioned cryptically.

"We can leave with you. This is a house, it means nothing to me when it is absent of you."

"No."

He was a brick wall. "Why not?!"

"I will not subject my wife and son to such danger! These men are not the Sûreté! Perhaps I have not told you fully, my dear, but my time in Persia was not comprised of leisurely desert strolls and exotic feasts!"

She advanced upon him. "You would leave your wife, your so-"

He grabbed her wrists, pulling her towards him once again. "You think I want to leave? You. Him? You think I would willingly abandon the one shred of happiness God has bestowed upon my wretched existence?" His tone turned towards an imploring one. "Christine, I will not allow my past, my mistakes destroy this family. You and our son will stay here, I will complete the damned palace, and I will return to you. I promise." He carefully brushed away a tear before it could make its way down to her jaw, leaning his forehead against hers.

"When will you come back?"

He inhaled slowly. "Six months, perhaps a year including travel."

The look in her eyes nearly swallowed him whole. His wife looked as if he was betraying her in some cruel way. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had betrayed her before he ever knew her, committing terrible and malicious sins, staining his soul. By tying his corrupt being to such a pure angel. Ripping her away because of his actions, now that was what the few Hindus he had met would call karma.

And so, that night he gave Christine the bank accounts, investment papers, several items of upkeep. He showed her how to load and fire a weapon; he would not take any chances. Sitting at the dining room table, Alexandre was deposited on his lap, playing with the gold pocket watch in his waistcoat. The dogs lay underneath. It was a perfectly domestic image that would soon be nothing more than a memory. Christine took it all in with a graceful stoicism.

"Christine, I want you and Alexandre to be comfortable. Should you need more money, there are ample funds to be withdrawn in the bank account in town. Monsieur Boudreaux is a trustworthy financier, you can turn to him."

He was only met with silence.

"Do you understand Christine?"

Her response was monotone, childlike. "Please don't go away."

He opened his mouth, searching for the appropriate words. There were none. This was the situation, which he had caused, and they were now forced to deal with its harsh reality. These were the words she would say to him through the mirror, long ago. Late at night, in which she would have a nightmare, or following a lesson, she longed for the presence of her angel. And he would willingly obey. But this was not then, and he could not acquiesce to her wishes. As if realizing this, she began to cry. Hard. Alexandre clung to his father, echoing his mother's sentiments. Rising from his current position, with Alexandre in tow, he placed his son to sleep. He quickly returned to see his wife bent over, sobbing into the table, her arms cocooning her delicate face. In the dim light he could view her fingers grappling the tablecloth in earnest.

He stood there for a few moments. This is what he had caused. He'd rather be damned than to see her like that again. Hurt, abandoned. He took off his mask. Approaching her gingerly, he lowered himself at her feet. The gesture was imploring and meek.

"Forgive me."

She immediately raised herself upright in the chair, revealing a face contorted in grief, splotched with red. Evidently she was not aware of his being in the room. He stared two adoring eyes back at her, pleading for her word of response.

Her deep breaths came slowly. After a few moments of quietness, she threw her arms around him, almost aggressive in their fervency. He was nearly knocked backwards, placing a leg behind them both in order to stabilize the sudden force. He clung to her, and she to him, as he carried her to bed. Kissing the salty drops away before laying her softy down, he brushed her soft hair out of her face. Kicking shoes off, he lay down behind, placing his hand upon her stomach so as to pull her closer. She let out a shaky breath.

"I will always forgive you. I love you."

And with that his facade of strength crumbled into a mess of tears. Christine turned around in his embrace, harboring him as if her hold would never let him leave.

That night was simple, almost innocent in its seeking, mild passion. They made love selflessly, comforting each other. It was merely an extension of an embrace. A wordless expression, as if to say, "I love you, goodbye".

Nevertheless, he could not bear to utter the words. Erik got up from the peaceful reverie that was Christine, gazed upon her sleeping form for a period, and burned it into his memory. Unlike the many times he had done so before, this was scientific, practical, an inspection. He drew within him strength he did not know he possessed to break away, grabbing the portrait and his small collection of things as he moved on to Alexandre's room.

Leaning down, so as to briefly kiss the sleeping child, his son turned and smiled in his sleep. Just like his mother. Erik proceeded to mimic the same committal to memory with the boy as he had done with his wife. He looked like him, if that was possible, sharp features and amber eyes, closed in his dreamless sleep. Erik's gratitude for a normal child was expressed continually.

He quickly turned, leaving him as Macbeth looked on, as if receiving the responsibility of caring for the young boy. The Angel of Doom gathered Oberon and left his new life to return to his old one.