of Paradise ~ Private OnexOne

[Without Knowledge]

“That, mademoiselle, is precisely what your mother and I were discussing before your arrival.”

The claim earned the perk of a thin black eyebrow, true, attentive question flashing in Marguerite’s eye for the first time in that conversation without any clear indication to interrupt or pounce with instant reply. No, once her curiosity was pointed once more to the meat of the discussion she had walked in on moments ago it stuck. The cascade of apologies and allowances earned little more consideration from the daughter than it did the mother, but there was certainly knowledge to be combed from what M. Khan had to say. The desperation and short notice involved was something in and of itself, but the implication of authorities involved… Where that detail had hit Madame Giry with clear concern and sobriety, however much it did not shake her resolve to see this through, it struck Marguerite with a clear, breathtaking wonder that bordered on sheer excitement, silent and still as she remained. It was all in the wonder in her eyes, the idea of this not being an issue of inconvenience or secrets with no details shared, but something clandestine, of real stakes, real motivation behind seeing through whatever they intended to do with this… Unconscious ghost.

A ‘ghost’ apparently quite ill, although when the girl followed Nadir’s gaze to his sleeping form hesitation marked her face for not knowing how ill. His clearly naturally strange appearance belied any proof of whether this was some inconvenient but passing ailment or that he was a breath from death’s door. All of the rumors she had heard of him, all that was last known offered no insight into what had happened to him after the disappearance from the stage… Even if his presence there, alone, hinted that the claims that Christine had run off with the missing Vicomte were based in fact, for certainly she did not seem to be in the picture there, among them. Just one of numerous questions she had for the men, but even as she strove to put all of them in order in her head to best phrase one of them aloud, the curious Persian proved himself stuck in the same mode of sensibility as her mother, focusing on what they had already decided was to be done and how to go about it, offering assistance however possible. A point that struck even Marguerite as a great relief, even among the distractions plaguing her, and washed at least one layer of strain from her face where her mother acted as though his offer to provide extra hands and resources was appreciated, but unnecessary, nodding her quick, silent thanks before speaking.

“That is appreciated, though do not feel any rush to take him elsewhere, unless it proves necessary or something truly better is arranged. I will not have harm caused simply to be rid of some nonexistent inconvenience.” The claim drew a wry glance from her daughter she chose to ignore, shaking her head instead to Nadir’s offer of help. “There is little to arrange.” And it was true enough… Despite her prim household, Antoinette could not abide the idea of chancing sleeping on the floor in any capacity, and the only other furniture even viable for sleep was the sofa in the main room… A point that would have been a grand problem if either Khan or his man planned to stay, but easy enough to arrange with only her and Meg. While she would have to strive to make the thing as comfortable as possible without making it look indecent to any visitors, she herself had little schedule to abide to around her side work, and could easily rest when her daughter was away at work during the day, freeing the furniture for the girl during the night for as long as was necessary… Assuming nothing else was arranged within the week. “If you wish, though, you can sit here while I prepare some tea, and set up anything else Monsieur… Erik, might need should he wake.”

“I can stay with him” immediately fell from the girl’s lips, her apparent daze as she looked once more to the sleeping masked man breaking in a disturbingly quick instant to look to her mother, only to just as quickly turn to Nadir Khan when she saw nothing that boded well in Antoinette’s startled glance, granting the Persian a warm, well-meaning smile that would have looked quite sweet if suspicion for it hadn’t instantly clouded her mother’s face. For she had clearly looked to him in place of Madame Giry because she hoped for a better answer… Aiming her glance calmly at him even as she was inwardly reeling from all that had happened, from the surprising visit to a drop of a name just a second before she cut in. For none of it could stifle the opportunity that had popped up right under her nose. “I do not need to be awake early tomorrow, so it’s no trouble to sit up with him a little while, if you need to go.”

I Understood Something :: Dario Marianelli || ❖
Look at that, a shorter post! || ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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Where Nadir may have suspected continued indignation at the mention of the authorities, perhaps even a complete crack in the composure which kept the-- what he suspected to be-- anger at bay in her attention, he was not quite expecting the buzz of near excitement in its place to appear on the younger Giry's expression. For a brief moment, the Persian could only quirk a thick, dark eyebrow and stare to the young woman as if searching for the underlying agitation he was certain would be in short order, no less finding none. But it was only in the breaths that followed that he was reminded, however by sheer coincidence, that she was somewhat... Renowned about the Opera for her inquisitive nature. For no matter how little he had directly interacted with her or the other ballerinas within her corps-- why, even as sparing as his interaction with any of the other performers-- he had caught enough wind, enough hearsay, to know the girl to be something of a mischievous one. Though never would he have pegged her for quite that impish as to meet the threat of her and her family's own well-being in the face of authority, or to look upon the former tyrant of her theater-- now unconscious, so very real despite his odd appearance-- with anything short of what he would deign sensible agitation or worry. Where he should have likely felt relief for the reception, even if were strange, the Persian could not help but experience a slight pang of uncertainty in the face of that reaction... A worrying thought that was for nothing in the end, as surely she would be of no concern and her interest would only better pad the potential discomfort of having been so unexpectedly volunteered for the risk and trouble of 'caring' for their dying ghost.

Before he could pay the entire thing any further mind, however, Madame Giry's words bid for his attention toward the more immediate, the more relevant of concerns just before him-- that being the two ladies' comfort, or lack there of, in their commandeered space. But her gracious assurances earned little more than a skeptical look, as he could not quite fathom how she would not be eager to see this arrangement taken elsewhere sooner rather than later... Or even receptive to his assistance in ensuring that both women were as best cared for in the situation as possible. But he was no one to so brazenly question her word, and though the tentatively unconvinced expression remained evident on aged, regal features, Nadir nonetheless dipped his head in a gracious, complying nod. "I do very much appreciate all of your generous hospitality. Should anything-- anything at all-- happen to arise that I may be of assistance with, please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention and I will be certain to arrange whatever I can."

Yet at the mention of 'tea' and 'sitting up' came to mind, earning something of a mixed emotion in the man-- something between quaint comfort at the notion of a warm cup and an overhanging dread which colored the concept of remaining conscious for yet another hour, however necessary, absolutely appalling-- the former daroga was very much on the verge of accepting her kind invitation only to be caught short at the younger Giry's unabated offer. Nadir had expected nothing of the sort, really... Nothing beyond perhaps a mildly peeved young woman who may have continued to pout in corroborating silence or perhaps storm from the room the moment she realized this was not a fleeting fancy... But the fascination had remained, after all, painted colorfully across her features still in that odd, roundabout way where it had taken itself from detesting to... intrigued... in a matter of moments.

He thought little of how the girl had honed her attention in on him, however dazed he found himself in the aftermath of her offer... The idea that, perhaps, her mother would not be pleased with the idea hardly occurring to him as his mind struggled to catch up through the wave of exhaustion hanging over him. All he could see, really, was the kind-- perhaps curious-- young lady peering up at him with her assuring proposal. Perhaps if he had been of a clearer mind, he would have looked upon these ideals with a measure of cautious suspicion.. But, at the same time, he could not rightfully remain there 'round the clock. Doing so would simply put a mark on his head as an even more significant of suspect in the entire case, all the while further implicating the Girys as well...! And if he were to have any hope of dodging unnecessary sightings of his coming and going there, it would be best if he kept his visits brief and well under the cover of night or other, less peculiar hours. "I suppose that would be alright." Before he even truly realized it, the words were slowly leaving his lips under a careful, easing sort of consideration... Still vaguely unsure as to whether her offer was founded purely in generosity or something a bit more... Sly. Oh, it was not as if Erik would even know the difference, honestly. And, above all else, what was the worst that could happen?

Lots of things, his instinct reminded him. But the thought was for nothing, really. He could not risk being there too long or else draw even further attention to them. And if he could not bring himself to trust the Giry girl, then what good did this arrangement do them in the first place? "I should certainly make my leave, before it gets any further into the morning so as to refrain from drawing any further question from your neighbors or landlady. But I will return tomorrow evening, or otherwise send Darius to check on things, should I determine that my own visitation would be too much a curiosity." He had turned his attention toward the Madame by that point, going then to retrieve and subsequently shrug into his coat once more. "I will leave an address, however, to my home, should you need to send any word or note. We will need to be cautious of how much we openly communicate, but I should think with a little careful coordination, it should not be too much trouble." He began toward the door then, meaning to accompany Antoinette to the front portion of the house should she intend to go there herself for the aforementioned tea. However, just before passing through that door, he paused, turning a speculative glance back on Marguerite followed by a slow, thoughtful attention upon the ailing 'ghost.' "For your own good-- I would advise that you simply allow him to rest. Do not touch him. And... Do not touch the mask." The green gaze lingered for another beat, twitching then back to the ballerina as a tired but no less kindly smile tugged at his lips. "Thank you, mademoiselle. I hope you will rest well, despite this inconvenience." With one more nod, the Persian then gestured to the Madame first and then made his way through the door frame toward the front, likely anticipating further discussion with the former box keeper toward his leave.

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || I Understood Something -- Dario Marianelli
❖ || -flops!- Got a little busied right after work, but here's a daze, hopefully not-too-jumbled post!

[Without Knowledge]

“I suppose that would be alright.”

Before Antoinette could even gather together some means of politely refusing Marguerite’s offer to the Persian to take his place and allow him to not feel obligated to stay in the household any longer, given it was she herself who had asked the task of him out of necessity and she certainly could not stand on that idea while telling her daughter she could not do the same, her efforts fell short in the wake of his slow answer. It was not truly an issue, for if she had had any true fears of her daughter being about the ailing man, as clearly dangerous and unknown as he could be, she would have refused to harbor him outright, from the beginning. But her daughter, for all of her kinder instincts and resilient, accepting nature, was far more often carried away by a curious mind that had been formed likely from birth and wild impulses that had sprung from her girlhood… By the end of this predicament, however short or long it may be, Madame Giry might find sound reason to be proud of her daughter’s behavior in all of this, but it would likely only come after she had pulled her aside on their own and found a way to convince her to follow reason, to take no chances and focus only on recovery and subterfuge in the days to come, of her own volition… To expect it of her against her nature or purely on order alone was folly of the highest order.

But, the point remained she could not tap into that delicate balance right there, before both Monsieur Khan and Meg, and so all she could do in the face of her surviving child’s rising smile and pointed nod was look on, a hesitance in her eye hanging stubbornly before she finally allowed it to drift away on the weak comfort that it was likely only for a few minutes, at most, and then she would be able to take over the watch until morning, when the sudden upheaval would not seem so new or exciting, with any luck, and Marguerite would be awake and alert and more likely to mind when she spoke to her. In the meantime… At least there was nothing too much to fear, with ‘Erik’ unconscious and out of reach of knowing about the girl’s curious eye and likely prodding questions. As such, Antoinette was clearly not ecstatic about the shift in plans, but there was nothing but her calm veneer in place by the time Nadir had turned his eye back to her, speaking to her as she heaved herself to her feet once more and answered his sensible detailing in kind. “Well enough— And if you cannot get here without being seen, for some reason, I imagine the point to keep in mind is that you and I should not be seen together, particularly, given who both of our names are already linked to…” A quick glance to the figure in the bed that had grown no less outrageous a sight for the growing familiarity, even as everything about his look continued to reassure of his identity, and she moved to follow the departing gentleman. “Better to speak through someone else if it comes to that.”

In Antoinette’s mind, the ‘someone else’ had been Nadir’s man Darius… But the girl then behind her the point was a curious one striking a different note, managing to draw Marguerite’s gaze away from the figure on the bed to follow after them with a piqued interest… Only to find herself meeting the Persian’s eye, just as he spoke to her. Really, it was only the young dancer’s good fortune that saved her from instant suspicion, as Nadir would have likely easily read the guilt in her face before she recovered from the shock of the instruction. But to her luck her mind, while needling through the mysteries of the far more exotic guest most thoroughly, was set on a far more generalized idea of being able to investigate this person without her mother breathing down her neck for a moment… Allowed no time to move on to obsessing even over the most obvious of temptations involved. And so the open warning not to touch him… The mask, it earned a shoot-up of black brows over eyes quite baffled, the expression vague over what she thought of the idea but clearly implying a suggestion she had not considered. And once she recovered she was happy to school that expression into more permanence, sliding even into affronted before he gave her a worthy reason to clear it all from her countenance, replace it with an allowing little grin and nod. “Think nothing of it! I will do just fine- As will he, as long as he’s here. Isn’t that right, Ma?”

“Of course” came the short reply, but the old concierge did not strive to meet her daughter’s level of assurance, being too preoccupied pinning her girl with a look that carried no particular words, but a sharp pointedness before she pulled the door behind her, leaving a wide crack that allowed some amount of privacy so that she might step out with the deliverer of their ghost and speak with him about the immediate needs of the day to come, what was to be done without disturbing those left in the bedroom… But giving little implication of allowance to Meg. It rang with the same point as her glance, just before she had retreated… Behave.

A message that was heard loud and clear… For all the good it did.

For little, besides an awareness of suspicion already on her head causing her to be cautious, could deter the girl from at least looking at the man, and wondering what secrets that sleeping façade held. No, he could have looked exactly like any boy off of the street, bland as could be, with no story to tell that she already knew of, and the fact that he was suddenly unconscious in her bed with the police after him would have been enough to prompt her to stare and ponder. But he was much more than that… This Erik. He was the ghost. The figment and reality of the shadows of the world that had become her life over the bare two or three years. He was the one who worked so closely with her mother and turned her head with promises— Thus revealed as likely lies as the lack of ethereal power shot holes through the high boasts involved. He was the one who managed to occupy some strange space in her mind between good and cruel, generous and cutthroat, playful and dangerous as the devil. Truly, it was difficult to even comb out what was real any longer, what she herself had made up or what was suspicious testimony from others and what was the definite, certain truth… And certainly her grand, thinly spread impression could not be a proper one, for what true man could truly capture every one? Who could be that profound?

But whatever she thought, Marguerite could not confirm or disprove anything about his nature… When she looked down at the face under the mask the eyes were shut beneath the eyelids, as pallid and yellowed and near translucent as the rest of him, and the sheet over him gave evidence to his stillness, broken only by a small crack of a cough here and there that almost but never did quite break through her thoughts, only itching uneasily at the edges of her notice. No, as her wonder at the near-outline of the bones in his hands and the state of his person faded away the mask caught her eye all the more, taunting her with the certainty that, while so much of his eerie appearance was put on open display, this extra, harsh protection still in place bespoke a promise of something much more… Something she could not even quite guess, even if the evidence of the rest of his person heralded no handsome royal beneath its cover. No, she expected nothing pleasant… And yet the girl could not help but peek quickly over her shoulder to be certain that no one was there, or could see in at her, on the idea of being unwitnessed… Of getting away with it… For no one would know, and really, so many other answers had been denied her that night that she felt a warm rush at the idea of having a little one of her own… Of finally, possibly understanding the mystery of the man who had haunted her life for so long, and never spoken to her, or certainly shown his face… Common sense started to needle up from the edge of her senses, whispering warnings against her would-be logic, and as always Meg rushed forward before it caught up to her and she spoiled her own fun— Leaning over to carefully contour her hand to the shape of the mask without pressing down too much, finding some natural give to pinch and lift the porcelain without ever directly touching the man’s flesh… All to uncover what lay beneath.

And what she saw made her go still, still half-leaning over the bed, the mask perched in her fingers just above… Everything about her froze and she dared not even breathe, move, even twitch beyond her eyes. For her hundreds of farfetched guesses converged into truth that denied even the expected givens the eye expected to find on every face… Of a nose to make a proper silhouette, and skin, if not smooth or pretty, at least even against the bones with fat to fill the face. But all but the basic bone and the most minimal flesh was missing in this case, a face of the same odd skin fitting to the contours of a skull in some places and breaking into a mess of scar tissue in others, adding strange bits of color to the man’s skin where it was not expected. And the nose… Marguerite had never considered just how necessary a nose was to the natural line of a face, until suddenly it was not there. She had seen many strange sights, odd or bizarre features on the displayed dead, but never anything quite like him. But oh, it was those other odd, openly shown dead bodies that struck her mind, and slowly the girl – her eyes having proven themselves capable of widening at least twice as far when given a reason for shock and scrutiny – realized that that was what the sleeping man reminded her of… The chilled corpses displayed in the windows of the city morgue, waiting for someone to come along and identify the suicides and violent crime victims that had been gathered up and still needed a name, and in the meantime getting ogled by hundreds of curious bystanders who stepped into the public display area simply to look… Marguerite had never understood why her mother disapproved of her going by, from time to time, given how openly so many others went, but she had recognized at least the seriousness of her protest, and had made certain to go with a trusted friend… Something of the bodies pulling on a mix of curiosities in her, from the purely morbid practice of matching the reality to the references of death in her books, to the wonder of whether all bodies looked like that, once death had had time truly passed through… Something she had never been allowed to see as a younger girl, the only dead she had known disappearing from her sight within hours of passing.

But the one before her then… He was not fully still, as those corpses had been, even as he somehow surpassed the true thing in his own display of fatality. For a cracking coughing came from him, startling her out of her numb inspection, the paralyzing shock and awe sparking into dread until it became clear his own ailment had not roused him. Even in her relief, though, she remained disturbed, the strike of life struggling out of him on the sound dashing the impressions from her mind and leaving in their wake a slew of different, just as morbid recollections that she did not seek to nurse… And as such all that remained to her was to assess the man right there, just before her. Breathing, living… Still suffering, as Marguerite mused within as her expression relaxed into something touched with sympathy for the strange comradery, understanding that had struck her, buried as it was beneath a growing skittishness and uncertainty. She had seen, and as she managed to carefully replace the mask, she found she might well have gotten away with it… And yet, all that struck her beyond the vague shame for having given in to impulse and the struggle to accept what had been blazed in her sight even as she covered it once more, was the certainty that she had only found more questions as reward for her risk.

Cello Theme :: Craig Armstrong || ❖
Iiiiiiii hope I never write a post that long again! xD;; Either way, hopefully AIM will behave tomorrow. || ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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------ ------ ------

And so days passed.

It proved more difficult than ever to judge the passing of time, the number of hours or nights that passed wherein little improvement was seen... If, in fact, it were not a worsening of the symptoms instead and the simple, undeniable fact that the final words Nadir would have with his 'old friend'-- however odd, however unusual their relationship may be-- would be those short, bickering snips at one another on the curb of the Giry's street-side home. For all that he heard of the women's progress and the goings on of that place in his absence-- Erik did not wake again... Save for the closest excuse that could be warranted to the occasional, fevered ravings of a dying man, sparse but occasional in their vehement bouts of rambled calls for death, for lost sopranos, damned men, for forgotten dreams and hopes and-- more frequently-- the terrors and furies of a life that certainly made no true sense to anyone but the very man who so unknowingly spoke them. Yet, as soon as they had begun-- they always seemed to stop... Without warning, without reason, until after the second day, they seemed to stop all together and warrant the man completely paralyzed.

The Persian was true to his word, of course, paying a visit here or there whenever he could spare the time or excuse for having left his home on the rue Rivoli without too much suspicion or question on his departure or arrival to the little house. When he himself could not go-- be it for business, interrogation, or the plain endeavor to prevent from falling into predictable patterns or behaviors-- he sent Darius in his stead.. A servant who was known, after all, for regularly coming and going from that small but no less comfortable flat in the city to attend to his lord's various errands or chores about town... Thus easily disguised and excused for his absence. Whoever it was who showed up on the Madame's doorstep however mattered little, as the men made a regular practice of arriving with medicine, food, tea, coal, or any other such household necessities the imposition would have surely resulted in their far swifter consumption of or otherwise found to be needed around the house. Nadir knew, of course, that the man within their care would have proven to consume little to nothing even in his stay-- particularly when lacking in such cognizance-- but the supplies came no less, if only as a veritable payment or show of gratitude to the women for having taken upon themselves such a burden as a wanted, dying man.

But for all he did, for all he said, the man may have very well been a ghost ever still-- One of a quieter, grimmer variety where death came slowly, painfully, without obstruction. He did not wake, but his breathing certainly grew shallower with each passing night, the coughs wracking him more severely and yet, still not enough to spur him from whatever comatose state had befallen him. Even when blood made a practice of trickling from the corner of pale, narrow lips in the aftermath of such ailment, what little color that had been present on that cold, clammy skin days before was as muted, as absent, as the bed sheets in which he laid. A place that, for as far as Nadir had begun to suspect, would certainly prove to be the 'ghost's' death bed. For a doctor was out of the question-- Not only for the sheer risk of involving a complete stranger, the threat of another being aware to the man's position, his vulnerability, but also for what little dignity the Persian knew Erik would want, nothing more, than to maintain in his final hours-- nor did he believe a physician would be of much help, regardless. It was not something the Persian made a habit of discussing openly with the women of the house, having long since deigned it indecent conversation at best, but he certainly made no show of hiding his solemn regard or his long, pensive stares on the dying man when he did visit... And, perhaps on occasion, a low murmur would be shared between himself and Darius in a tongue completely foreign to the little, Parisian home. But the somber moods were broken, perhaps, only by the occasional visit when the youngest woman-- Marguerite-- was present as well to assist her mother who otherwise took on the majority of the deed herself.

Yet where the Persian's initial concerns may have been well placed in fear for the girl's curiosity-- That same inquisitiveness occasionally had its way of offering a small measure of solace to him in the wake of her bright-eyed questioning and chipper curiosity. If it had been any other time, any other scenario among any other person, he would have likely diverted those discussions in more vague, careful ways... But for all the women had done for them, for all of their own understanding and toleration to the peculiar sense of the entire arrangement, he could not help but feel compelled to humor her many questions about both himself and the peculiar man who her mother was calling under her care during his most vulnerable time. Though he was always careful to divulge as little as possible in regards to the alleged 'Phantom' himself-- keeping the character in his entirety shrouded in the mystery he knew would befit Erik's liking-- he no less offered a few, fleeting tales of how he originally came to become involved with this strange, strange man... Of treks across Northern Europe in a search for the enigmatic 'magician' his Shah had demanded for his court and the wildly outlandish voyage that ensued beyond that as he, the daroga, attempted-- futilely-- to corral this living specter of a man back to Persia... A man who had, so clearly, felt little sense of 'duty' or real desire to attend as much as he was simply bored.

It was near the very end of one of these very tales that Nadir grew aware of just how dim the golden hues were becoming across the curtains of that darkened room-- a light that had, momentarily before-- reminded him of such rosy hours of the past only a short time before. "-- I only narrowly survived that blasted trip... If only I'd realized it was merely the beginning. Perhaps I would have been blessed with the foresight to avoid later nuisances." Despite the grim nature of his words, he could not quite help but shake the slight twinge of a vaguely bemused smile in such retrospect as he turned a brief glance on his company. "But I suppose that is enough for this evening. I should take my leave and allow you your rest. Darius should be waiting outside." Moving to stand from where he'd been settled in the little chair in the corner, the Persian shrugged his way once more into a sable coat and straightened his collar. "I should return tomorrow, lest an appointment prevent me..." He paused, his gaze hanging dully on the still, shadowed frame within the bed.

Something heavy hung at the tip of his tongue-- but it was cut short by a nagging shame that ached at his bones and filled his chest with a lead weight that choked his words and stifled his thoughts, forcing the topic to be quickly shifted to other, more menial subjects as he so often had before in a bid to escape that reality... But that evening, he felt no need for it, something torn and contradictory humming mercilessly within his head. For while that day seemed to have brought a calming to Eirk's state-- his breathing slower, quieter-- it continued to rasp with what Nadir could only shamefully assume to be a donning death knell.. And yet simultaneously hoped to be, perhaps, signs of improvement...

"-- At the very least-- I will send Darius, per usual, and he will deliver any word you may have for me shortly after. If you happen to need anything while he is by, however, please do not hesitate to send him. He will have sufficient funds for anything you may require..." Yet, as he had made his way toward the door, uttering quiet regards to the women they were both likely familiar with by that time, it was not long before he had ambled off his good-nights and was gone.

* * *

Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing...

"I should return tomorro--"

... Her hair was as golden as the sun's rays... and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes...

"--ardless. I will send Darius, per usua--"

... She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll...

"-- by, however, please do not hesitate to send hi--"

... Took great care of her frock and her red shoes and her fiddle...

"-- anything you may require."

. . .

... But loved most of all, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music.

A sharp cough. A quick gasp. Something hot and searing through his lungs.

It was dark... Warm... The lacking of moisture in the air, the absent scent of mildew and dust, it was perhaps the first thing to catch him off guard. Yet despite all his shock-- He barely moved, barely made much more of a sound... For it was nearly as if, for a moment, he was rendered paralyzed and his voice had been lost, simply unable to manifest itself. If he had not been reeling in the aftermath, had not been struggling simply to differentiate the ceiling of that little room from a whirlwind of nightmarish landscapes, the peaceful quiet of his surroundings from the shrieking howls of demons, he may have actually experienced true, unadulterated panic for fear-- perhaps-- this was his living hell; To have no voice, no power to move. But soon, the shadows receded from the edges of his vision, his lungs labored, his chest rose and fell as it had continued to do so through its struggle to process the simple, sweet aroma of his surroundings... And soon, Erik began to realize... to comprehend... the cushioned 'ground' at his back, the blankets that covered him, the dim-- narrowly non-existent light of a fading sun... And the soft glow of a lamp in the nearest corner... The modest drapings of humble decor and meager living... And gradually, he recalled. He was no longer in the Opera. No longer in his self-encased 'tomb' of a home. He was elsewhere.

And yet... He was not alone. Yellow eyes had settled in their venture across the room-- the rest of his form motionless in their journey as a sense of keen awareness began to settle over him again and gather up a cold, numbing caution-- on the form of a woman, settled in a chair stationed nearest to the lamp.

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Cello Theme :: Armstrong
❖ || Leaving very open-ended there for you to decide which of the two you want to be in there. xP And hopefully the rest of that wasn't too kfjadkfajx all-over-the-place.

[Without Knowledge]

“-- I only narrowly survived that blasted trip... If only I'd realized it was merely the beginning. Perhaps I would have been blessed with the foresight to avoid later nuisances.”

“What a horrid thought” came the counter, a reproach too cheery to land harshly amidst a smile much more assured, pure than Nadir Khan’s own passing match. “If you had avoided all of that trouble, would you not have such interesting stories to show for it and share with me.” And likely would not even be there at all, sitting in her bedroom, waiting to see if his apparent friend was doing any better, or finally slipping away, to where none of their support could do him anymore good. Marguerite might be keen to have something to say in reply, having found that her show of open pleasure in the shared stories yet minimal pressing for more when there was nothing exact to question was the best response she could likely provide… Particularly in encouraging further sharing. But to play too lightly with what he had to say or the predicament the main figure of his tales was currently in would be nothing short of callous, especially when the man kept looking to their sleeping tenant like some a laid out body at a wake, presented for mourning. And he was the friend paying his condolences, heavy, grim feelings in his eyes more often than concern or worry and as always prompting the young lady to turn her eyes away and pretend she didn’t notice, as much from a lack of something clear to say as to offer some measure of privacy.

Yet it seemed whatever she had to say that evening or not, it would not change the outcome in the short run, as the Persian noted the time of day and rose to move with the basic pleasantries on his tongue, prompting her to rise herself and trail him at least as far as the front room so as to reply to his offers of contact and support with a wide smile and open reply of thanks. For where her mother would clearly appreciate the offers and accept what was offered with almost a dutiful air, she nonetheless played a front of it all being unnecessary or excessive where the daughter happily took what Nadir had to give… Perhaps too happily, but the reaction was at least softened by a clear gratitude and deep relief that was arguably much more honest than the elder Giry’s proper front. And as she was not there to counter her that evening, having left Erik under Marguerite’s watch out of a spiritual obligation to take advantage of her daughter’s day off to attend at least the evening mass for Easter, the girl could openly show that appreciation in tandem with a passing, clearly by-habit regret that the man had missed the Madame in his short visit.

As for Little Giry… Her mother’s absence certainly had its silver linings. Even if she must play hostess to the family’s curious new friend – mundane as he was next to the object of their efforts, even unconscious – and look after the household and sleeper, the holiday meant she could go about it in her best dress, more than old fashioned yet made of fine, red fabric with a gold leaf print, and once she had seen Nadir Khan out, she had a chance to pick up the novel Consuelo that she had picked up from her favorite used book seller earlier in the day. While she doubted the Persian gentleman would have commented upon it or found her reading odd, the thing was a focus of some amount of guilt for the girl, seeing how she had spent even a tiny bit of the money they didn’t have to spare upon the beat-up secondhand tome when she had led her mother to believe she had gone to the morning prayer. Even if the guilt showed itself more in skittishness than shame, she had not felt capable of cracking the worn spine until she was alone… Or at least as alone as she could expect to be. For the last week had seen her privacy completely dry up, lost to the need to share the small space with a mother near always home after days spent in the company of her corps. She had not really felt the sting of it, too distracted by the mystery of ‘Erik’ and the new company to be found in his odd entourage… And if anything, the lack of quiet time had saved her from unnecessary troubles.

The questioning of the Persian, the efforts to distract served herself as well as her company, keeping her mind away from the grimmer realities bearing down on her… The face that continued to haunt her. It did not plague her as something to shudder over in the day or suffer nightmares over at night, but as… As something lacking, unsolved, unfinished like the start of some story she had seen in a serial publication only for the author to die before producing the rest, leaving her hanging on an unresolved note forevermore. And what was she to do with that? What was she to think of a secret that fit so well with the dying man’s goings on in the opera house and veiled existence, yet explained none of it? The whole thing bounced about in her head like a jumping bean, weighing so heavy on her tongue that she feared she might ended up impulsively spitting out a million incriminating questions the moment the man opened his eyes! …if he opened his eyes again. For, Marguerite did not share her mother’s go-to conviction that it would be so. She certainly hoped so, but… When she lay at night upon the sofa, hearing him hack and cough and wheeze for air, sometimes mumbling or raving things she usually couldn’t even make out, it was not the noise that kept her awake but the memory of seeing such things before, weighing in her stomach like lead. It was that, the effort to avoid touching on that memory that kept her from broaching the concern with her mother, but the fact remained… When she looked down at the man, as she did then in the growing shadows of the room upon retaking her seat, she could not fight the regretful thought that he might well take any other secret or answer with him to the grave. An idea that hung heavy in the wake of Nadir Khan, stealing her ability to turn to her book in favor of eying the man in question, once she was settled in her seat once more. But – while the stillness of him had her moving closer once or two to listen carefully and confirm that he was indeed still breathing, and now white from a lack of oxygen and remaining life – there was little to observe about him that wasn’t familiar by then… Not anything that wasn’t covered up.

But just as she had finally successfully embraced her novel in place of fretting or recalling her own actions, he moved. Jolted. Heaved. The sudden movement and loud effort to breathe made the girl mimic the movement and stare numbly at the man until reason broke through the shock and she moved, set the book aside in favor of reaching for a cup of water that had been prepared for him, even if he had rarely seemed of need that day. She wasn’t certain what luck she would have – she had seen her mother struggle to get him to drink, but never tried herself – but when she settled fully back into her chair and looked to him again… She found him looking right back at her. The bright, bright yellow eyes fixed on her caused her to go as still as if she had been caught in a search light, her own orbs blinking through a mix of surprise and apprehension and wonder before she even realized that they were just, staring at each other, for what must have been seconds by then. Realizing it just made the silence more deafening until she felt like she had no choice but to break it, even with something as simple as “Ah… Hello.” Really, she should have just been satisfied that despite clear hesitation her voice didn’t crack or shake any, nor sound any higher than it usually did. In fact she managed to come off quite rosy in the shock of his awakening. And eventually the weight of the cup drew her eyes down to it, cupped in her small hands, but it felt counter intuitive to look away from the man so she just as quickly looked up again whilst tipping the drink up in his sight. “Well! I suppose you don’t need this just yet, then.” He certainly seemed to not be coughing at the moment, at least, but as she sat aside the cup she began to doubt, did he even understand her? Was he really as coherent as he seemed, or had he woken enough to look but not hear or understand. The thought anchored her nervous airs down with uncertainty, and as her expression shifted from pleasant to doubting, gaze scrutinizing perhaps even as much as his own… She slid her hands under her thighs between her skirt and the edges of her seat, implying her intention to not touch, even as she used the support to lean forward, closer, to better meet his eye as she searched for reaction to her move, or words. “…do you know where you are?”

Cello Theme {{Armstrong}} to Juliet's Dream {{Korzeniowski}} || ❖
well hi there || ❖
-
Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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The young woman's greetings were really very nearly lost to him for a moment, little more than a distant, fleeting motion in his gaze, word in his ear, not necessarily because he could not see, understand, so much as he could not quite fathom... Why. Though he ached, he continued to breathe. Though the fever remained, he continued to see... Not as a ghost of the literal sense, not as a transcended being of consciousness as so many petty religions so often hoped, but all the same as he had always been before... The same sight, the same skin, the same mind. He had been so certain this time, so very resigned... Even welcoming to that definitive end of anything and everything that was this wretched "Erik." And yet...

Nothing he had ever set his mind to was beyond his grasp-- why, he could practically snatch the very stars from the sky if he so pleased-- so why should that final breath be the only true exception? Admittedly-- He was no fool. Even such a feat as plucking diamonds from a nighttime canopy would be little more than an illusion, no matter how fine, how elaborately convincing it may be. Perhaps, he began to think bitterly, he was no more capable of death... Little more than a walking illusion of it. So very palpable and yet unreal, so fraudulent, all at once.

"Ah… Hello."

At the shortest of syllables from her lips, that bright, golden gaze shifted abruptly toward Marguerite. Or, rather, it focused upon the woman through which it had momentarily before stared blindly in a keen, unusual sort of intensity that suggested a whirlwind of thoughts and considerations in the mind beyond them. Yes, he saw her then, and just where he had been fuming quietly in his attempt to comprehend his own continued existence, he was met with a new kind of shock in the form of a familiar and yet distantly foreign face staring back at him. He knew this girl-- And though it should have come as no surprise, given idle memories of beseeching Persians and stern, lady concierges which crept back to the forefront of acute memory, Erik could not quite find any complacency in being face to face with 'Little Meg Giry' herself... Without walls, without shadows, without ways with which he could obscure his true nature or provoke wildly excited terror or thrilled panic. He said nothing at first-- simply studied her features with a cold, wary vigilance, like a feral tiger carefully identifying another creature as threat, nuisance or perhaps even prey. Indeed, there was little conversion from ill-fated 'slumber' to a suddenly poised, tense scrutiny where the man had since sat upright, somehow deceptively languid over a distant thrumming of sharp attentiveness.

Any variety of returned greeting was lost in his peering severity, as if forgotten or otherwise further compounding her suspicion that-- perhaps-- he could not understand her at all, be it for language or some other variety of impediment that rendered him deaf or dumb. But any such misconception would be difficult to hold to for the profound sort of grasp that shone in those peculiar eyes... Something about that gaze suggesting, instead, that he failed to respond simply because he could not understand why she would be behaving so calmly, so pleasantly... To such a degree it must have been absurd! And yes, it was only when she chirped on, setting aside the little cup that he could not have brought himself to care less for at that moment, that this odd man known only as 'Erik' or the 'phantom', the 'ghost', began to ease back vaguely, as if her cheerfully hurried attempts to spur the conversation, however one-sided it had so far proven to be, along was enough to at the very least confirm and remind him of her indisputable benevolence. Yet still-- a puzzled, bordering on mildly irked, expression rang clear 'round the cold edges of that mask, in the shadowed creases of contemplative yellow eyes, that only intensified into a dubious glower as she attempted to lean closer... His own, wiry form-- relaxed by then, at least in comparison to the tautness of before-- instinctively inclining backwards if only on a knee-jerk reaction to maintain distance.

By the time she had decided to truly inquire to his coherency, however, the heat in those peculiar eyes had ebbed into a slow burn of tentative consideration, lined with a sort of guff that seemed only natural to his person... A tepid indignation pulling at the corners of thin, scarred lips as yellow eyes narrowed vaguely on her before relaxing again. "Yes. Of course I know where I am." The response was bordering on the terse, as if he'd little patience for such rudimentary questions as to the base 'where' they were. But that same flare of indignation soon burnt itself out all over again, receding once more into a dull ponder of a glance that soon drifted, flitting cautiously about the room as if he sought something else among its quaint decor and dim lighting, long skeletal digits twining and flexing stiffly among the bed sheets as if he were either testing the appendages or considering moving. "What I do not know is why I am here... Outside of the daroga's pointless fretting... Nor do I know how long it has effectively been." That yellow gaze, glinting in whatever light it could find there in the little room with an oddly incandescent quality, soon settled upon the cracked doorway, as if watching-- or listening-- for something that never quite came before promptly shifting once more to the girl with a slight unease that was undermined significantly by a poised inquiry. "Should you feel compelled to explain what you know, mademoiselle Giry, then I would be inclined to listen..."

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Juliet's Dream :: Korzeniowski
❖ || Ever the ray of sunshine.

[Without Knowledge]

Any lingering doubt that the suddenly risen ghost remained half-caught in sleep or some daze or something else dwindled away even as Marguerite asked, the tip of her own body matched almost point-by-point by the man who… somehow, without being capable of really moving, withdrawal further across the bed. The registration of distance untouched fell upon her in utter tandem with the hostility that suddenly came into focus… As though he had been staring at her, sizing her up and apparently not satisfied by what he saw. Her awareness of it, coming into sharp focus, left the girl to come up short and carefully retreat back into a ramrod straight posture in her chair, hands slowly sliding up and around her legs to clasp her knees, tucked together beneath the cover of her skirts. She wasn’t, put off exactly, but simply recognized something of her approach – if not what – had bothered him. And while she surveyed the man with a more distant, if ever-constantly-intent curiosity, she could not even be certain it was something she had actually done, or if it was his state of illness to blame, or something of his character… Nadir Khan’s comments about the man and her own experience painted him as an eccentric person, to put it far too lightly, but nothing had been said of how he actually acted between running Persians on a merry chase out of Russia, or putting pretentious old opera divas in their place… And that remaining mystery had been one of the most compelling in her eye, as mundane as it might be.

Yet it seemed she was to be left in at least partial suspense, the clear confusion in the man’s countenance clouding any perception gained and leaving her to simply muddle through her own mental ‘hmms’ and ‘haws’ until the infamous ghost saw fit to speak… And in doing so smacking the girl with a sound that hit her with much more impact than the actual tones of his words, or even the reply they added up to. No, it took a little catch of a breath and a rapid couple blinks to clear the impression, as if she had too wave off a fog that had taken her own brain with a reminder that of course, she knew that voice… That discovery was old hat, known to near everyone back in the opera house— Even those who knew perhaps the least about the ghost. (And everyone knew about the ghost.) While another check on the list of reasons for being such a curious figure, it did not baffle her or take her so off guard that his answer was completely missed, and a shot of something irritated, yet tickled when through her face in the second before it steeled over and he went on, regaled her with snippets of the real breath and limits of what he knew.

“What I do not know is why I am here... Outside of the daroga's pointless fretting... Nor do I know how long it has effectively been… Should you feel compelled to explain what you know, Mademoiselle Giry, then I would be inclined to listen...”

“Well, that’s certainly generous of you,” she answered, that same two-sided note in her voice, as if she was somehow both vaguely affronted by his behavior with her and meant to mirror it back to a point… And yet light, pleasant, genuinely happy to offer her what help she could. And even she herself didn’t know where the gall came from, given all she knew! No, it seemed that all of the knowledge and counter-knowledge and counter-counter-knowledge she had managed to gather on the man and colored her impression had mirrored back in a presentation as dichotomous as her own impression, swimming about beneath her uncertain smiles in a giddy, anxious mess. And her anchor in it all was his words, and her observations of his movements, grey eyes skirting down to those distractingly unique hands and back up again, breaking the short silence with a spiel of tumbling, unabashed answers just as an impatient listener might have snapped. “I don’t know how they went about planning this, either… But it looks like Monsieur Khan – if that’s who you meant – was set on helping you survive your illness, and Ma was set on helping him with it. There was something about authorities and not being safe at the gentleman’s flat.” She gave a shrug that oversold its own ambivalence with the answer, looking down at her hands as the moved fully together and she began to fidget, suppressing a natural want to gesture with her quick speech by turning her pale fingers about each other as her eyes couldn’t seem to decide whether to watch them in a play of some demure front or keep looking up at the man she spoke to, rather reluctant to miss any glance or reaction about her more polite impulses. “So when I came home and found you tucked into my bed, it was as much a surprise for you as I… Well, at the time, that is. It’s been over a week, you know… Actually, it’s Easter Sunday.” And the self-reminder finally prompted the girl’s wide, rarely blinking eyes to move up to the window beyond him, passed the wisps of hair that stubbornly escaped her bun to note the near complete disappearance of the sun beyond the open curtains. “And mass should be over by now… So if you want to ask Ma more about it, she should be back soon.”

Juliet's Dream :: Abel Korzeniowski || ❖
y so srs || ❖
-
Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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Her reactions were of little note to him at first, even for all the wild ranges through which they spanned in a matter of mere moments. From mildly concerned, second-guessing of her own approach to a breeze of offense, irritation, question, all briefly falling to the wayside in the dazed, trance-like fogging of her comprehension at the impact of his voice, uninterrupted. Yet no matter how drastic that shifting between reverie to offense, near delight, suspicion, may have been, it was none of that which struck Erik as at all unusual or otherwise unanticipated. He was rather acclimated to such interactions-- the way his person seemed to inspire curiosity in others, the overwhelming front of his unreal timbre, all finally leading to the expected distaste which would follow suit of his own long-since exhausted patience for mortal niceties or care. No, none of which would have normally drawn great worry from any other man was enough to spark his interest or deter his line of thought, but it was instead the the smug contentment which took to her delicate features on the lasting draw of his final bid for explanation that resonated strangely in his bones. For a moment, in fact, it sent a subtle, albeit bristling, irritation through him, the annoyance sparking for but a blink of an eye in his regard before it promptly tempered itself once more to a wary, knowing glance. No matter his initial thought, after all, he could not help but find some amount of idle appreciation in the simple fact that this girl was daring enough to look upon that which she knew, but he did not, as something she could very well hold over this peculiar stranger's head. It had been some time since someone had been so very brave, or otherwise impertinently stupid, as to approach this living carcass of a man with such lively spirit.

And so, despite what little flare of anger it may have at first incited-- He was true to his word in that he did quite evidently listen. Where the wiry tension of his composure had eased away from the dangerously inclined to something of a more... natural? comfortable?... intensity, he no longer seemed quite as keen to pin his grievances as directly, as suspiciously pointed, on Marguerite herself. Instead, he had turned his mind on that information she presented to him, her every word corroborating safely with the very details he had assumed to be true from the first moment of sentient thought moments before. But that did not quite stifle the indignation which continued to brim just below the surface of his being, yellow eyes turned away to stare deliberately into nothing as he thought of self-righteous Persians and their colluding accomplices... This girl among that very number, though likely not by her own right or choice, but by her simple proximity to those responsible, those orchestrating the entire fiasco to 'save' a man simply not worth saving. He felt no appreciation for that man or the concierge's efforts, no gratitude, not as so many would likely scold him for lacking. Pity perhaps. Pity that their perceptions should be so clouded, their actions so predetermined, by an environmentally grounded sense of morality that they were not capable of seeing the sheer absurdity of wasting their generous efforts upon a man already well beyond the damned.

"So when I came home and found you tucked into my bed, it was as much a surprise for you as I… Well, at the time, that is. It’s been over a week, you know… Actually, it’s Easter Sunday."

Now, that was enough to drag a wandering mind once more from the depths of a black gloom which had threatened to settle over him. If it had only been but the notion that this was her bed, Erik may have simply blinked-- his thoughts stalling to a complete halt for such unfamiliar implications-- but what she had to say after, in regards to the time passed, quickly allowed his thoughts to drive forward, through a fog of stumbling shock. The date was both a distraction from more bewildering considerations but also a balm in the flicker of amusement it had to offer. Yes, it sparked a slight twitch of a smirk to thin, pale lips, his gaze humoring a sort of dark, jaded mirth in his demeanor. "Of course it would be.. Easter Sunday.." The murmur came on a distracted timbre, quiet and sighed as little more than wry observation before, finally, Erik turned his full gaze upon her once more, just as she had averted her own attention to the window.

He studied her for a beat, what fragmented amusement to be had there melting away beneath a morose sobriety as she mentioned her mother. He could not even begin to fathom what this imposition had meant to the little family-- However generous their efforts had been, he of all people knew just how very misguided they were. And for a beat of a moment, he could only wonder, considering her offer to allow Antoinette the majority of further explanation, until... It was as if it were out of the question. Unthinkable. "That... Will not be necessary." He breathed the words first, averting his gaze as he soon moved out to the edge of the bed and promptly stood. The effort only warranted a brief wavering on his feet, surely to be expected after having been struck completely immobile for near a week. Yet despite a cloud of disorientation to his senses at the change of position, the sudden pain which shook through his lungs, his every joint, Erik was successful in steeling himself against it-- far more successful than most men, at any rate. He still no less staggered one or two steps before righting himself once more as if it had been little more than a slight stumble. He was dressed, at the very least, in a simple pair of his black slacks, a loose shirt... And in his earlier observation of that little room, he had successfully identified the cloak which Nadir had evidently acquired for the journey folded and stashed away in the nook of a nearby shelving. "I will not burden your home any longer-- And certainly not when it was unnecessary to start... Nadir Khan is an idealistic fool-- A romantic-- I should not be surprised he would take it upon himself to play hero to the aberrant.." As he spoke, he'd begun to move, sliding across that space with far too much grace for a man who had only just woke from such incapacity. Yet-- A few little staggers here or there began to immediately indicate to that same ailment, becoming more pronounced despite his best, admittedly unthinkable, efforts to disregard it. No less, he made to snatch up the garb, preparing to make his leave.

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Juliet's Dream :: Korzeniowski
❖ || He can't quite decide whether he's going to be a jerk or self-depreciating. (Solution: Both!)

[Without Knowledge]

“That... Will not be necessary.”

“Oh?” The note of answer was little more than a hum, an acknowledgement of his answer in the breath as Marguerite struggled to drag her mind’s eye off of the vision of her mother, stiff and defiant in a way she herself could only dream of as the woman listened to the sermon, went through the motions of the mass and turned her prayers to whatever she turned them to in those long silences before leaving the church and coming back down the long streets without a whiff of acknowledgement to any looking to trouble her… Not unless she herself accosted someone with that direct air she used only when she was actually wished to speak to someone outside of work about something aside from the pleasantries and the necessities of her daily life. But it was unlikely that her mother would seek such contact with their guest there, waiting at home… A point that vaguely drew the girl to fully blink her attention back on the man in question… Only to all but jerk out of her seat to see him up, slipping out of the bed! He had been so quiet about it, she hadn’t even noticed the movements in her distraction, leaving her to strive to catch up to events with a helpful wordless mouthing for words, perplexion and wonder warring on her face to see him actually managing to get up on his own!

“I will not burden your home any longer-- And certainly not when it was unnecessary to start... Nadir Khan is an idealistic fool-- A romantic-- I should not be surprised he would take it upon himself to play hero to the aberrant..”

Both feelings finally took a backseat to indignation when he actually tried to step away, proving his intent and frail struggle to see it through in one breath and prompting the girl to scramble up to her feet in a rush to beat him to the door— A feat that, despite his state, took enough effort to make her gasp out her words from the sudden spike and fall of activity. “You can’t leave!” The movement, the words had tumbled out of her before she had even had time to contemplate them, or what might happen, leaving the aftershock to flutter through her in a ripple of realization, a numb sort of shock shining in her face for a brief blink that might well have turned to dread had she allowed it… That she had just yelled at the Ghost. But she cut the would-be fear off before it should ever reach her face, not stepping away or apologizing or pushing her protest further home, but simply straightening her spine and folding her hands in front of her in a relaxed, settled stance in the door. “At least, not until she’s home, right? If Ma comes back and finds you gone, what am I to say to her?” The girl had asked as if the very idea was a joke, an absurdity to giggle over with him as she met her own uncertainty over her actions by denying it, by acting like and telling herself that there was nothing to doubt. Because he wouldn’t… He wouldn’t actually just run off after the days and days of watching her Ma worry over him and cut her sleep down to a fraction to adjust to the new sleeping arrangements and the need to watch over him. But even the idea of it pressed on her alongside the image of her mother, the concern and worry she had so adamantly yet fruitlessly veiled beneath her composure like she did everything else that Marguerite knew was left unsaid on the tongue of one Antoinette Giry…

“She has been slaving away day and night to keep you breathing, and it was certainly not so that you could go and run off when she wasn’t looking, disappear and—” And, what, she could not quite shape out or bring herself to say, but the stumble gave her a chance to catch herself, recognize how scorn had begun to thrum through the edges of her pleasant, friendly front and open cracks in her carefully controlled presentation. It prompted her to snap her mouth shut, to turn her eyes off of him and glower to the window, the dim light beyond as if the key to getting out what she had to say, of stopping this sudden topple from the high his awakening had brought on… But in the end it was his own words echoing back at her in the fine length of a second she allowed herself that gave her more length to, quite possibly, hang herself with. And when she turned her eyes back on him, let her tongue run loose once more in that tripping, rushing way that she used so often and made her look a dramatic twit but was clearly unleashed in this case with intent. “And I don’t know what you mean about Monsieur Khan, but he has certainly not been looking at you like a blind fool! Ma might have been set, against her better judgment, on you rising up again – likely just hope talking – but anytime he has come by, he’s looked at you like your death was as certain as if we had already brought in some priest to say last rites! …not that we would.”

The correction made her blink, turn a frown back on the bed as if his body was still there among the crumpled sheets and the image of him there was the deciding factor in whether or not someone – that is, her mother – would have insisted on such a thing had there been time. “Probably not… But— Never mind the shock that you’ve actually gotten out of bed!” And suddenly the girl who had been bouncing from one expression, one thought or feeling or focus to another for at least a good minute honed completely on the man himself, as he stood before her… And however his startling, towering height above her might make her stomach make a few curious flip-flops, given the circumstances, it was with a grin… A full, unfurling thing that formed at the mention of the unexpected feat and swept up to the eyes on the sudden, belated realization that, even with him trying to walk out of the door, this strange, strange man was not about to really disappear… Not in the permanent, unfixable way he almost had! “A miracle unto itself! I mean, really. It looked like you were at death’s door! And, Monsieur Khan? He looked practically older than Ma, the way it weighed on him!” And the girl actually shook her head at the thought, pity shading over her face as her eyes dropped with the memory, leading into a real moment of silence as if in some sign of respect… And in the wake her expression was much more somber, much more uncertain as she raised her eyes again, seeking out those glaringly yellow ones with her own orbs clouded over with sudden, deep doubt… A want of reassurance. “Would you really just… Spit on their efforts like that? You wouldn’t, right?”

Anna and Elsa :: Christopher Beck || ❖
…I’m not sure even she knows how much of this is sincere. || ❖
-
Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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"You can’t leave!"

The sheer insipidity of the declaration clearly struck the man as significantly as it did she, a prompt twitch of a masked face toward her alighting an affronted bewilderment as he stared at her... Something about the expression-- guarded as it were by its hard, spurious façade-- reflecting that silent realization in regards to who she had just had the wildly inappropriate gall to yell at or otherwise issue such furious orders right back at her with glowering indignation. Within moments however, that disgruntled bafflement made way for a boldly impertinent sneer of thin lips and narrowed eyes, as if to challenge her instruction-- plain as day-- with an unspoken but no less deafening "Oh, can't I?" that needed no voice to be interpreted. Yet-- that same blaze of defiance which brought his head higher, his shoulders and back straighter to somehow manage an additional few inches to his already considerable height, had no foundation on which to remain strong when her demands gave way to a giggling fit of exasperation, as if somehow he too should find some great humor in the sheer absurdity of his own endeavor to leave. That, at least, doused the ever rising spite to falter, stumble over itself as much as his own feet had as they ached and screamed to remember themselves, effectively compromising his usual, thoughtless dexterity. Erik was left to a flattened expression, yellow eyes no longer narrowed in unbridled challenge as much as in sheer, wanting perplexity for everything which they were witnessing unfurling before him... Everything his ears heard presented, over and over as if her every word was something of a growing mystery to him.

Yet, by the time Little Meg Giry had reached a full on narration of the more emotional goings on among his own death-like sleep, the reality of it all offered no condolences in their brutal swipe of fretting old concierges or his own, old friend being so resigned as to assume him done for, already well into the stages of mourning... Though Erik could find no logic in it all, no good reason as to why the two would meet the ghost's demise with anything short of indifferent melancholy or regret for his own, unfulfilled promises, the sterile analytics did nothing to soothe the growing pit of self-condemnation it left in his gut... What little sparked curiosity which had colored his expression before-- what little challenge remained-- melted away to a bleak gloom to settle over him, those yellow eyes trailing away with a contrite numbing of reflection and thought as he listened to this odd girl ramble on in her bid to halt his escape. For several long breaths, the only thing to which that attention seemed to tic was her sudden whirlwind of a turn onto gallantly wondrous subjects-- Such as his very standing. In drew his gaze back to her, those odd golden orbs sliding back to the girl from their corners where his stature had turned to a vaguely feral, slouching turn.

"A miracle unto itself! I mean, really. It looked like you were at death’s door! And, Monsieur Khan? He looked practically older than Ma, the way it weighed on him!"

A derisive sniff and a vague sneer grimaced at the man's expression, something of a dark irony motioning at a brief snerk at the words 'it looked like you were at death's door!' If he had not found himself subject to the girl's sudden turn of awe followed by the wave of sheer melancholy his proposed escape had inspired in her, he may have very well found it within himself to snidely remark upon how little appearances could truly count in that regard... But instead, any such cruel, self-defacing humor was lost and forgotten the moment clouded, searching silver eyes were turned up on him in an imploringly pitiful question. "Would you really just… Spit on their efforts like that? You wouldn’t, right?"

Did this girl know just how pointless those very efforts had been? How... Admittedly wrong they were? But-- Even so. It didn't truly have an impact upon her perception of it or, more specifically, those she described as having martyred themselves upon his care, his very survival and comfort on what they had all assumed would be... What could still be his death bed-- judging by the slight dizzying of his gaze, the fire in his lungs, the searing pain in his throat and head. Yes, it took everything he could muster if to only stay standing, much less tall and strong in front of this pleading girl... But by the time several beats of silence fell on the punctuation of her inquiry, the effort was wearing on him-- the intensity in that gaze dulling, fading into fatigue... That exhaustion playing itself so clearly across his demeanor then, as much among his physical ailment as it did his mind, his emotion. Erik wanted nothing more than to lash out, to justify her hatred with cruel, cold words and assertions that he very well would spit on their efforts! -- If only that would mean that generous, well-meaning trio could then finally bring themselves to look upon him with all the same distaste as the rest of their world... if only that would inspire in them the enthusiasm, the resignation to simply let him disappear... But his body was bruised, broken and well beyond its threshold of capacity-- and where his physical self had reached its limit to such a degree it very nearly realized the death's door she so concernedly referred to, his mind was miles further into the grave... For a brief moment, he was nothing more than a man who wished for nothing more than an eternal sleep... Peace... Silence... An end to this.

Long, skeletal digits rose with a hand then to briefly graze over the mask, his eyes, smoothing back wildly disheveled black hair as a coarse, growling sigh escaped him and he moved again, as if wishing to pace but too exhausted to do so. Instead, he slid his way toward the window. "Very well." was all that he could manage for a time, breaking the terse silence as he had turned his back to the girl, half in an attempt to skirt her ability to see a pained contorting of his expression and half to reign in the misguided fury which hoped to find release somewhere, anywhere, but he could not allow to surface then... Could not physically allow, even with a complete disregard to his own survival... For all which he had was long since spent on the act of standing, moving, feigning vigor to such a degree that he soon found the wall and sill with a narrow shoulder to support his sparse weight, yellow eyes gazing through a crack of the curtains to the darkening streets beyond. Right or wrong, he owed too much to those two individuals than to spit so brazenly on their work... And he simply could not merit the necessary energy which it would take to fuel the dramatics to fool or convince even himself of his own commitment to such an illusion, much less this young girl. "... Regardless... I should like to ensure that my debts are paid in full, before taking my leave." It was the only justification he could find that would not betray his folding to her will... A justification that was punctuated by another moment of silence before he added on a slow, sighing breath, "... It is the least I can do."

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ || ^ Wants to flip a table. Would probably pass out before he reached the table. Eventually settles for sullenly brooding at a window sill.

[Without Knowledge]

For the first breaths after her last words, Marguerite just, waited, the adrenaline running loud in her own ears and blocking out the sense that there even could be a break in the rush of words and exchange, even as she was the one who had paused for answer. No, the question that she let hang in the air… She had been certain that at least a sign of his answer would show in his face. Instead, the derision and brittle looks that had only sped her efforts along faster were slow to break, leaving him, her, them staring in a standoff of gloomy regard and hopeful dismay, and none of the quiet, slow tension chained how her heart beat overtime. It was a gamble, after all… She had dived into the spew of emotional appeals and guilty pinning without a plan, the words tumbling out of her mouth as they occurred to her via an open link to her mind, the only thing giving what she had to say any credit or weight a quick wit, the only thing layering it in sincere, real feeling being how the comments had been tugged out raw, occurring to her and affecting her right before her eyes. It was the best… The only weapon she really head.

For she knew, if he really pushed or ignored her, she couldn’t stop him. Oh yes, she would almost certainly keep him from leaving the house if she pushed it – the pain coating the edges of his glance and the feebleness of the very real threat that was the man made that clear enough – but likely not without having to fight him with all of her strength and strain them both in the process, and then who knew how far that would set back the possibly dying man’s recovery… Perhaps it would even kill him on the spot! No, a girl tiny in stature and so slight that it wouldn’t be wrong to say she might well dance far better if she had more muscle on her bones? Who would look at least her bare sixteen and some years with a little extra flesh? She could never overpower him without harm… She did not have any real means to threaten by force, or resources to offer, or even much information to reason with. All she had were her words and a quick tongue… And while she had managed to use it to spin successful tales and arguments before, it was always a gamble… Given what might come flying out of her mouth, or how it might fall in any ear… Much less these ears. And to think, just weeks ago she was shushing her friends against the foolish carelessness of speaking where the Ghost might hear!

But, however caution and reason might have snuffed out her efforts before she ever even spoke those first, sharp words? Sometimes the impulsive, reckless move truly was the best one.

Granted, the more she stared the clearer it became that exhaustion… The pain of what it must have cost him to move, to endure what she said and however those words bounced around that inscrutable head of his was certainly owed a great deal of credit. But the fact remained that, she had convinced him. He did not look any happier nor lighter from what she brought to his attention and the girl winced in the face of it, the sudden collapse in of intensity there in his face into something bleak and tired, as if the fall from one state to the other had echoed in her ear as the loud crumbling of some great tower. It had threatened her, intimidated her, and she herself had at least a small bit of the blame for knocking it down… But still, the impact was undeniable, painting a distracted furrow over her expression as if she had tasted something sour… A look that only broke when the man turned away, and acquiesced. The urge to jolt and stop him from moving stilled in a moment as she stared at him, shocked, silent for a breath before mumbling a quiet “Truly?” to the back of the man folded in her window.

“... Regardless... I should like to ensure that my debts are paid in full, before taking my leave. ... It is the least I can do.”

A hard breath Marguerite didn’t even realize she was holding huffed out of her in one, sharp release strung through with open relieve, only further established in the reaction when she gasped once more on the regaining of her breath and the uncurl of an unsteady smile that leaked signs of how taken aback she truly was by his acceptance. “Thank you!” She didn’t even realize how truly grateful the words were until they were out, a hand pressed to her chest as if she were recovering from some fright before she finally thought to straighten up fully. Only then did the actual air about the man strike her over the raw emotion, prompting her to compose herself and fold away the more honest feelings beneath a far more self-assured front, folding her hands together in front of her stomach as she eyed the man from still in the doorway, the foot of the bed between them as she stared, observed, noted the signs of how truly under the spell of that illness he remained… Really, even with the few minutes that might be left before her mother showed up, the young dancer would have bet a good few francs that he might collapse right there by the window before she even made it back, if he kept on his feet like that. “Though… If you are, going to wait for her… Much less Monsieur Khan…” she began, sliding slowly through the words as one might edge closer to a feral, cornered beast in need of freeing from some trap, like to bite rather than thank.

But, the more she actually took the time to consider how likely her suggestion to rest again might fall on the man, given all she had heard… All he himself had said or done, the more she thought better of it. Oh, she did think it necessary, but, looking from that man’s back to the bed and back, she chewed over how to phrase it to the point of throwing out the idea of such direct means in the end and replacing it with a brisk, friendly question that all but poked for attention by the mere tones of her voice, all the assertive hostess. “Would you like anything while you wait? Tea, perhaps? Or, something to read? I think we might still have something still hot to eat, if you would like… Or some fresh bread, we have a ready supply of that.” Or, perhaps he might like a chair, or some company or information… But those options remained strictly on her tongue and communicated only be look, turned slowly up from the chair she herself had vacated and back up to the figure by the window, lips pursed against further words and eyes wide and unblinking.

Christopher Beck :: Anna and Elsa || ❖
/flail || ❖
-
Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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Where the shocked, reeling gratitude the girl went on to express-- yet unbridled by any greater sense of logic-- would have normally proven a boon to most men in his situation, Erik could not help but feel her words, her alleviated glances, send a bristling of prickling agitation over his back and narrow shoulders, oddly draped with the stretched, disheveled fabric of his shirt. It was not the girl in herself which struck him so unpleasantly-- in fact, she herself was perhaps the least troublesome subject presenting itself to him in that moment outside of her words, an individual who may have proven quite curious to him should he have been in a better mind-- but the notion of this entire fiasco, his own insufferably fragile state in one fashion or another, the sheer obligation in which it all left him to see through coming face to covered, shameful face with the very people who he held in something of high regard, or at least the closest thing to 'respect' this creature of a man was capable of... However pitiful it was to think their numbers so sparse they could be easily surmised in two. For all his haughty words and sour, glaring glances, he was not proud for the exchanges which were sure to unfurl, should he be tied to a room-- conscious, sentient-- with either of those two souls. But-- He had no choice. He did not have the necessary wherewithal to feign any further indifference, to meet this girl's dismay with outright nonchalance or disdain, for he barely had the capacity to maintain what little dignity he had in remaining on his own, bloody feet. If he could do nothing else than endure friend and confidant's prudence, then perhaps it was the least he could afford them and their mindless humanitarianism... Despite how very fruitless their endeavors to preserve this specter's existence was. Perhaps he could, at the very least, enlighten them to the flaw in their great schemes, prior to vanishing from the face of this planet-- like some wounded, once-fearful predator limping off to a dark niche of its habitat to hide and die in something reflective of peace.

Yet still-- Even with his tired acquiesce, this foolish, well-meaning girl continued to pepper his back with undesired attention and inquiries. For all her benevolence, he could do little more at first but attempt to smother the rising tics of discomposure in his appearance-- the furrowed scowl of an expression that stared daggers on the darkened city beyond the window, tired yet no less piercing eyes closing in a brace against that upheaval as he attempted to breathe and remind himself that-- if he were truly cornered within that house-- the girl was only acting on innocuous hospitality and care for her evident 'charge.' ... However such a word, in relevance to himself, felt demeaning on his tongue and near threatened to stoke the flames back into a blaze that would likely see him collapsing in the great burst of energy it would take but his body simply could not humor. No, if he were to preserve any shred of his stature, then it was imperative that he remain... calm...

"Would you like anything while you wait? Tea, perhaps? Or, something to read? I think we might still have something still hot to eat, if you would like… Or some fresh bread, we have a ready supply of that."

The mere idea of food threatened to send his stomach into a nauseous lurch-- Perhaps even more so in his post-comatose state than usual! The shocking discomfort of it alongside her continued, prodding inquiries prompted a tensing of those wiry shoulders and a grating of a lithe hand along the upper side of the window sill where it had rested moments before. "No." The word was a knee-jerk reaction, a veritable snap of his patience as a masked face jerked to the side in order to eye her over a mussed shoulder-- Only to seemingly catch itself upon the sight of her. The fervor reigned itself in once more in a continued display of that peculiar rise and fall of his demeanor, the scowling quality of the singular eye visible to her abruptly soothing into a calmer, gentler regard, as if he'd reminded himself of some sort of civility... Though it no less drew a gathered breath and a straighter demeanor, his hands raising to meticulously busy themselves in straightening the crumpled sleeves and wayward collar of his shirt. "-- I've no appetite with which I could rightfully justify food.. Thank you, mademoiselle.." A mild but glaringly polite correction, the sheer propriety of it presenting a stark contrast to everything about this man who was proving to so easily sway between belligerent lout to the utmost gentleman and back again within a matter of moments. But his mind continued to work, the brief glance cast her way needing to only linger but a moment before turning its attention to attempting something even vaguely like neatened character.

He needn't have look upon her long to realize what she was doing... What she was refraining from doing... She sought to busy herself, to make herself useful, to feel as though she were doing something-- anything-- to better care for the outrageous, stubborn charge most likely left to her in her mother's wake. Perhaps providing her with that sought after distraction would in turn afford him a moment of privacy in which he could recompose himself, gather his wits about him with which he could best go about approaching the rest of this debacle and effectively buy him some additional time in avoiding any further attempts on her behalf to see him likely rest. And so for however unappetizing as it truly sounded, Erik eventually paused in his endeavors-- having successfully gathered himself in a way that he had begun to even slightly resemble his usually groomed self-- and turned a slow, considering glance back upon the girl, his pale hands lingering briefly at the cuffs of his wrists. "But-- Perhaps, tea would be appreciated."

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Ah, Putrefaction :: Zimmer
❖ || Make up your mind.

[Without Knowledge]

The weak, fluttering impression of the strain marring the focus of her attention suddenly burst into a distinct, undeniable frost, a flick of ice in the face that made the girl jolt at the simple one-word denial as one might at a face full of chilled water. And Marguerite blinked through the blow as one truly shocked, taken off guard, perhaps even asleep whenever the veritable attack came at her on the break of one syllable smacking her with the loosed temper running like blood through that voice… That came via the glance turned back her way, earning a beyond incredulous scowl back… For a breath. For as the man – Erik – softened upon direct sight, so did the young lady’s own discontentment fall upon its hastily raised foundations, tumbling into the rubble of confusion that the whirlwind of feelings flying at the speed of a finger snap inflicted upon her. And that… The uncertainty, unnerved her far more than anything else that evening, prompting a skirting of her eyes to the bed and release and re-clutch of hands as she visibly attempted to compose herself, cast off the wordless exchange as she did everything else she wished to only to find it a struggle.

One would think the entire thing, given her reaction, would prompt her to disengage as quickly as possible… Interact minimally and slip away as quickly as possible. Instead, those swimming grey eyes were back on him as soon as he began to speak again, tones tepid and demeanor suddenly more than a little like the one she had attempted to take on, polite and accommodating but direct. He was… Attempting, to keep civil with her? It was something to say that it need take such effort, but still the shift itself was something of grand note, prompting her to distantly wonder if these were the proper manners her mother always insisted he showed when they spoke, he sight unseen, within his opera box. But she said nothing in answer… Not at first, as she instead allowed her acceptance to show in her attention that had calmed, honed tightly in on him as she openly stared where he only skirted visual acknowledgement of her. It just would not deter, the girl seemingly finding quite the delight in watching him straighten himself up.

No, it took him retracting his apparent refusal of all of her offers, as of yet unreplaced by any alternative ideas, by seeking tea from her, if not food. At first the suggestion of such a task blinded her, and she broke out in a smile that looked as dazed as it was pleased. “Of course! It shouldn’t take but a minute to reheat the pot… Assuming most of the water wasn’t used up earlier.” The drink was a common one in the household, after all, and if she had to replace most of the still warm liquid in the pot with fresh water, pumped from the outside pump, before she could even mix the tea and let it seep, it would take a while. But as she turned and considered the possibility, the mere passing thought of making him wait stalled her thoughts, her step just a couple inches out the door before she whipped back, suspicion in her eye turning to a convinced annoyance. For, she realized that this meant she would almost certainly miss her chance to ask him anything else, seek to convince him to rest again or just… Anything, before her mother made it home for certain. She did not know for certain if it was on purpose, but the fact remained that she recognized the ‘move’ intentional or not for what it was before she even fully left his space. And the way she pinned it on him… The vexation was a passing, vague thing turned in his direction but not focus on him, and when she did clearly look at him for a single beat it was more disappointment in her eye, faint and passing and apparently meant for little as she said nothing… Simply turned her back again, slipping away as the angle from window to open bedroom door cut off the fireplace from sight.

_________________________________________________________________________

Even if no one had been listening for Antoinette Giry to appear, the hard thuds upon the old wood of the stairs leading up to the house would have been difficult to miss.

She made no announcement or call as she came through the door, but neither was much of one needed as half of the house was right there in view. And thus it did not take her more than a moment to suddenly be thrown out of the musings that had haunted her on the path up – the strange grey area between the convictions reestablished in her attendance at mass in faith and her own, personal path… and a vague dread of what she might return to at home that might well have caused her to dawdle if not for a revulsion of even considering the worst, much less putting her daughter through witnessing it alone. No, as on topic as the thoughts might have been, her mind hiccuped a moment to find that the front room was not empty, but was occupied by Marguerite, fighting with their packet of tea leaves by the fire range, pausing as she expectantly did upon her entrance. “—certainly you could have brewed that after I was home, Meg?” Phrased as a reasonable question as it was, the threat was there beneath her even inquiry that warned the knowing girl that she was being checked… Did she have some reasonable explanation for abandoning her post at the bedside of a dying man, or had she simply been restless and impatient and thus do for a much more proper, direct lecture.

“Certainly, but the uh… our guest asked for some, and it didn’t seem right to deny him.” The even, reasonable reply back only drew an uncomprehending pause for a breath, prickling on Marguerite’s mind as amusement to see that her mother was simply struggling to process what she said because she was so focused on peeling out whether or not she had behaved properly, she was mentally stumbling backwards to comprehend the much more important point of the girl’s words. None of it showed easily in the pale, sparsely lined face, though, and without some real reaction to enjoy and awareness of how it might come back to bite her, Marguerite pulled her along to the point with a pointedly bright smile and pep up of the news. “He’s awake, you see! Even moving about!” The news, though, drew a mesh of comprehension and confusion from Antoinette, and clearly the old madame wanted to counter that no, that was impossible, he had been all but comatose not three hours ago… And yet, the distaste of jumping so quickly on board with the improbable, the shear hope of such an outcome all along thread her along, and the older woman looked about, made doubly certain that the figure had not somehow blended into the shadows of the room, still as a statue, before focusing on the half-open door of the bedroom… Dismissing her daughter and her very interested side-eying for the moment in her quest to see the proof of the claim herself.

Hans Zimmer :: If it is God's Will... || ❖
Horribly rushed, buuuut yeah. || ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite

[Arsenic-S]

• ѡ h e ɴ . ι . α м . s τ α ɴ ם ι n g . ι n . τ н e . ғ ι ʀ e , . ι . ѡ i ℓ ℓ . ℓ σ σ к . н ι м . ι ɴ . τ н e . e ʏ e •
• α ɴ ם . ι . ѡ ι ℓ ℓ . ℓ e τ . τ н e . ם e ѵ ι ℓ . к n σ ѡ . τ н α τ , . ι . ѡ a s . в ʀ α ѵ e . e ɴ σ υ ɢ h . τ σ . ם ι e •

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It was only when the girl had gone that Erik truly realized the tension such company, of any sort, had wrought on his already addled nerves. He had been well aware what years of complete isolation beneath the Opera's cellars had done to his already intrinsically reclusive tendencies, but it had been too long since he had found himself in an essential 'stranger's' home or openly accompanied by equally foreign faces for him to know just how very much he could no longer tolerate it. For as soon as he found himself alone, the ache of his joints lessened to some degree, leaving only the mild throbbing of lingering illness and the other pains, discomforts, it wrought, no longer affected by the tenuous strain of his strangled nerves. While it was hardly the girl in and of herself he found to be so unsettling, her absence-- however close she remained in proximity beyond that little room-- no less afforded him some time with which he could focus solely upon recomposing himself, gathering his strength and otherwise rearranging himself to some measure of familiar self. No longer did he feel compelled to hide each and every grimace, cough, sneer or stumble, free to move about that space as he gathered bits of himself up once more, his mind quick to levy itself strictly to the tasks and the discussions likely ahead.

Where the girl's initial claim that the tea would be rather prompt, she could not have known how very relieved he had been to find himself still alone after several long minutes. In that time, he had straightened his attire to the best of its capacity outside of an entire change of wardrobe, smoothed back dark hair with little more than thin, skeletal digits for a comb, and otherwise re-attained some level of his usual persona save for a missing vest or proper jacket. But it had not been long until he had afforded himself the opportunity to rest-- To take to that chair since abandoned by the young Giry girl who had been so astute in her watch over him earlier that night and... Who knew for how long prior to that. His mind wandered in that time, as if the days comatose had left it as anxious for movement as entrapment by a snowstorm may to a singular man in the alps. He thought of the two souls who had wasted their days in ensuring his wellness, the words they would surely have in store for him, however biased toward the cruel and uncharacteristic as his mind would so naturally color them. He thought of the Opera and all of which had likely fallen into madness, disarray, without his acute watch-- of what stupidity the Management had accomplished for themselves. And yet where it may have once sparked a furious need to investigate and quite literally address the doubtless problems as quickly as possible, the notion came and went as briefly as any other dream with little more care or regard... Making way for colder thoughts of a wayward soprano and her beau... No. He could not dwell on that-- For just as much as his mind could not survive the labor of his moods, it would surely decompose within seconds should he think too heavily upon.. Christine..

With each passing moment, he became more aware of the anxiety such thoughts brought, alerting and shifting his focus to something which his thoughts' restlessness paled in comparison to in his body-- albeit stiff, sore and desirous of rest-- which felt just as intensely for the hope to move, to pace... The contradictory impulses did little to soothe themselves, and had often proved to be perhaps the most abhorred factor within any illness for as long as he could recall. However, just as Erik found himself no longer able to so idly, broodingly maintain focus on this thoughts alone and felt as though he would very well stand and pace or wander no matter its risks, the sound of a door and the ever familiar thunk of a narrow cane on wooden floor caught his ear, and Erik knew that the time had indeed come for one of his most dreaded encounters.

No, he'd little idea what to expect of the aging concierge or her reception to this debacle... Not for a woman who had been struck so convinced, so willing to accept him as a creature of supernatural origin and capacity. Why, the simple fact that she had been receptive to Nadir's requests was well enough to astound-- as his first and only assumption for her would have been disgrace and deception, perhaps even hatred for a man who had brazenly lied and affronted her intelligence. Why would she have acquiesced? And now-- Now what would she have to say? To think? The sternly old matron could not have possibly bewildered him more in this peculiar arrangement-- and for a brief moment, he could do little more than peer blindly on to that half-closed door, as if falling into a dazed state of perception would prove this all to be wild dream. But he could hear the two women's voices-- the resounding absence of the older of the two, well after the ballerina had proven herself once more to dominate near any conversation she held. And finally, he could not bear it any longer-- Could not wait to see and have her approach should she do so.. Or at least prove to himself that this was simply a great figment of his imagination. Before he knew it, he had stood and slid across that space, soundless and momentarily strong in his endeavors where the illness would likely rear its ugly head some time later.

But as he slipped through that door frame, 'round the shortened corner to the main space of that house, Erik came to an abrupt halt for having found himself standing face to face with Antoinette Giry herself... The doubtful indignation, the want for investigation, clear on the aging lines of her face.

And yet-- All the ghost could do was stare, peer down on her from where he stood a few feet away and just within sight of the main room and the girl who was evidently still struggling to meet his earlier, empty request for a drink... Only to finally twitch that odd, yellow gaze back to the woman most in question before him... Before offering a wry greeting. "... I was beginning to wonder if you had lost your way home. Given the mademoiselle's claim to your short return. I trust mass was... Splendid?"

Erik • Nadir
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❖ || Awaken :: Marianelli
❖ || "Well, hi there."

[Without Knowledge]

In the breath before anyone appeared Madame Giry simply continued to stare, listening for any ‘moving about’ as Meg put it, the fine edges of irritation spinning in her mind that her daughter had left him alone all the same given what little even she had gleaned from overhearing Nadir Khan’s tales to the girl about disappearing acts and their own shared, recent experience. If asked, and feeling safe to counter, Marguerite would have gladly defended herself by pointing out that would be unavoidable no matter how much she hovered if those tales were anything to go by… But before Antoinette could even decide to say anything on the matter over the more front and center concerns over what she would find if the room was not empty, the entire contemplation was made completely moot by the appearance of a figure suddenly there, in the door, not a slip of noise to warn anyone without of the approach.

The suddenness of it— The reality of the announced news bearing down on her before she even had time to properly process it— Madame Giry went instantly straighter, taller at the appearance, all but screaming what she saw by expression alone when her face all but screamed ‘Well!’ and urged her daughter, ever paying more mind to the people in the room than the teapot, to crane her head around and offer her own silent, more subtle rendition, focused on assessment as she followed the line of his body in a second-look acknowledgement of that sheer height and a clear curiosity in how he at least looked far more put together than minutes before. But Antoinette… She had half-way reared back in her jolt to a ramrod stance, but the move was paired with a sharp furrow of her brow and the tight squint of eyes… As if she had trouble seeing things properly up-close and was naturally drawing away from him in an effort to better look at him. It was only half of the truth, as far as her eyesight went, but she found she could not quite believe what she saw even then, and it took taking a nice, hard look at the thin-cut figure to accept that, yes, it was him… And he was standing in her doorway. Had abandoned his bed… Figurative as ‘his’ was in that sense.

“... I was beginning to wonder if you had lost your way home. Given the mademoiselle's claim to your short return. I trust mass was... Splendid?”

“It served its purpose, as it always should, and offered its comforts… The sort that can never be rushed if one is serious.” The vague, offhand explanation uttered more by necessity than focus around her continuing need to process drew far more reaction from the other lady in the room than likely intended, the young dancer flinching out of her own stare at the unusual house guest to look tensely at her mother’s profile, wondering if she knew that Marguerite had skipped certain activities that morning due to how quickly she came home… That comment could easily be one of her mother’s far more subtle digs at her, the sort that she could slide so easily into conversations, even with other people, before managing into sidelining into a direct lecture with her built off of the context of what she had had to say to someone completely uninvolved, completely seemingly innocent at the start.

But, as it happened, the suspicion was completely lost from Madame Giry’s focus, her attention pinned quite soundly on the gentlemen before her, all manners and seemingly back to the airs she truly knew him for, as she had only been given a few occasions to observe any other moods from him… The collapse in that very room a week before the most recent example. But the sudden splash of familiarity in those tones and words only threw her further, forcing something of a merger of her image of this man before her with the unseen Ghost she had known for years. Oh, she had known and believed that he was he since it was said to her, but… There were certain things that were difficult to accept on a real, gut level until it was spread out right before her eyes. And the idea of it... Of him being that same man no matter how she had to fight the urge to shut her eyes to block out a sight she did not yet fully associate with the voice, eased into her bones enough for her to fold her hands over the top of her cane in a more natural stance, remaining where she was near the door... Even as her insistence to stay on her feet began to draw even Meg's attention, curiosity and uncertainty mixing in her young eye where the elder remained fixated upon their guest, eyes that of a judge not looking for guilt... But yet awaiting a defendant to explain himself. “And I saw no reason to rush myself unnecessary… As I thought you in adequate enough hands, given I did not expect you to be out of bed before I returned- Much less looking ready to walk away.”

Dario Marianelli :: Awalen || ❖
Meg's like 'oh s**t, I'm in trouble' and Mme. G's too busy just at Erik to notice. || ❖
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Antoinette · Marguerite