Rufioh Nitram's husband

Eric doesn't talk about his past. He doesn't talk about it because he doesn't want to think about it, and in fact, he is secretly grateful that there is no one who can really ask about him. At the same time, though, knowing that there is still no one to whom he can give that part of him weighs on him.

It weighs on him and infuriates him.

His life was never easy, or so Daroga told him a couple of times, right after taking him out of that damn place. He would also tell him that he was lucky, that he was lucky he was able to get him out of there, that he was lucky to be able to work as an engineer, that he was lucky to survive as a jester, that he was lucky to be exiled alive.

He wasn't the first one to tell him he was lucky.

He wasn't the last to say it.

It was obnoxious.

His life is not quiet, not as quiet as he would have liked, it is more a mix between acts of created drama and the stillness of the nights that disturb him deeply. He doesn't feel peaceful, he doesn't sleep peacefully, or maybe not as much as he would like to. He doesn't know how he would like to sleep at night either.

No nightmares perhaps, with Christine by his side, or perhaps Daroga? Maybe just alone, alone, alone... just alone, with nothing to torment him, nothing and no one.

Yes, maybe alone would be best.

No hands, no hitting and teasing, no more of that, no more torture, no more harm. No more...

He wakes up choking, the elegant comforter feeling like a suffocating weight crushing him against what he thought was the safety of his bed. His body is bathed in an uncomfortably familiar cold sweat that only makes him feel icier. And he really has to calm himself, because there is no one who can save him, he is all alone.

He climbs out of bed, the plain fabric of his sleeping robe letting the cold air soak into his bones, before taking a staggering step, his mind still engulfed in horror and pain. Cursed then be the nightmares, the memory that something marked him in two dimensions. And also damn them all, just... just by his will.

He breathes once exactly, then two and three, steadies only his own rhythm, at least until his surroundings cease to be white tapestry blurs. How unpleasant.

Maybe he should check to see if Christine is available for....

Ah.

Ah.

Maybe it's not possible.

She, the one who was perhaps the only one in that disgusting and unpleasant place, who could understand him and maybe, just maybe, see him, was possibly busy. Who knows, maybe murmuring words of endearment to that ungrateful, coarse-voiced scoundrel, lacking the elegance that someone of his status would have to have. Just thinking about it, he feels a strange knot twist in the pit of his stomach.

Rage.

He has every right to feel angry, furious, irate even. Why would she, who was the closest thing to an angel, be so uninterested in him? He doesn't understand, really, how it is that someone like that attempted male of good family could have Christine, his Christine, he doesn't deserve her in his opinion.

And if it were up to him, he would never let her out again, even if it meant locking her in a golden cage. What more could she want, anyway.

Erik smacks his lips, as low as he can, before grabbing the clothes he had neatly laid at the foot of the bed. Silently he dresses, leaving little room for his own thoughts at the moment. 

The mask feels comforting, resting against his skin, it gives him a sense of security; as if he is bigger than he really is, more powerful, stronger... less small than that pathetic child who couldn't defend himself.

He ignores that last thought, shoves it to the back of his mind, to the abyss next to Raoul, where all that is useless and despicable belongs.

Whatever.

He needs to walk a bit.

When one has lived so many years in the solitude of the subway paths of the opera he learns to be part of them, dark, cold and unfriendly to strangers, but also gentle when he needs them most as an instrument, just as that, no more.

He assumes it is late already, past closing time to the public; he has not brought his pocket watch and cannot check the time, he assumes it is a slip of his, it matters little at this point. Nor does he need a hand lamp, he knows these corridors like his own palm, why would he depend on anything but his own knowledge? Nonsense he supposes, nonsense. He doesn't need that, not as long as he has an eye to serve him, not as long as he has himself.

His footsteps don't echo this time, maybe they do but not to his ears, just a thud every time his feet connect with the hard floor of those darkened passageways. His own sight adapts to the growing darkness of the place and he moves forward as if walking in the dark was only a dance that served to entertain no one but himself. And who could say it wasn't, after all?

His feet stop when he has reached what he believes to be the door, and in total darkness, his hand tempts his surroundings. It doesn't take long before he touches the cold stone and, later, the wooden door he has hidden in the theater.

The hinges squeak as he pushes it to pass inside in a horrible sound, but that doesn't matter to him right now. Erik takes a silent step, feeling out the solitude backstage in the theater, when his footstep is unheard and no one but him exists, is that he dares to walk with graceful elegance, carefully closing the door behind him.

There is no one, again.

For some reason, that's not the relief he thought it would be.

Perhaps it's due to the turbulence of his thoughts, it's most likely in fact. Though he wishes he could stop, he can't, his mind only thinks of Christine in a compulsive way.

Restless, he begins to take long strides across the stage, and when he least expects it, his voice echoes in the magnificence of the opera. It feels like a play, so why not give a touch of his own feeling to his performance? With the only difference being that he's not really acting.

“And to think that I dared to silently complain when the lover is not capable of being a proper rival.” His voice sounds raspy, it's raspy, how long has it been since he's spoken? How despicable. “That this worm does not reach my heels, despicable because he is the one who takes what belongs to me away from me as if I did not have the right to possess something that was mine from the moment my eyes noticed her.”

No one responds, her voice increases in volume with each word that leaves her lips.

“

That yes, the lightness of her interactions leave much to be desired, but she seems to settle for the absolute mess that he is. Bah, as if I don't have a better bidder in every possible arena, that I've even offered her the major role at the time as a token of my interest.”

Just remembering it, the fire burns inside him, he feels despised, again. It is as humiliating as it is outrageous, how could he fall for something like that? No, he should not have allowed himself that. He was, indeed, far better than that scoundrel and the blonde lady he could little regard with her name.

“Better option, I say. Better in every sphere there is.” A stomp louder, Erik pauses in his walk before frowning beneath the mask. The stage is large, and he soon resumes his movement, hands clasped behind his back. “As if he can't more than get over every damn action that useless fucker has done.”

He sighs heavily, for some reason, that feels like a tug in his gut, down to the hell he's told he once belonged in.

“Or does she plan to abandon me too?” His voice has a hurt tinge to it, he soon rejects it, drowning the thought in disdain. “She would be neither the first nor the last to try, but one of many who has failed. What a regret, just to think that I showed her my interest for her to reject it in this despicable manner, does it not equal anything less than insects?”

What about him?

And isn't he worse than insects too?

Hiswalk increases in speed. Although he doesn't want to, something bitter wells up inside him. From his lips emanates an acidic laugh, utterly unpleasant on his own tongue, it burns.

“Perhaps something inhuman for the inhuman. God always thinks I deserve it, even though he abandoned me from birth. What am I to him if not... a damn joke?” He feels his eyes burning, the tear burning as the indignation in his heart increases. “To everyone, the myth, to God, the joke. And when it comes to me, that I have had inhuman luck, because I am not unworthy of being so in the eyes of others and perhaps unworthy of humanity itself. An insult to life.”

Another laugh, bordering on maniacal, bordering on furious, God knows what it really is.

“And what am I then, God!” Claim at once, with a heavy step that echoes across the wide opera stage. “What am I, what am I if not the hatred of mankind.”

Silence, he supposes he cannot go on, he does not have the energy to continue, at least not for the moment. He is exhausted now, furious but not enough to continue, he has to lean his arm on the nearest wall. He frowns, before taking a seat on one of the wooden steps, looking to resume his previous breathing rhythm.

Perhaps he has become exalted.

Perhaps anger is no longer a motivator.

What is his anger then?

He takes a heavy breath. Once, twice, three times.

“God's anger manifests itself at the father's disobedience.”

Surprised, he looks around, unable to see anyone. However, the voice he hears is feminine and pragmatic, it sounds self-assured, but at the same time... it is surprisingly soft.

“Or the mother's.” The unknown woman adds in a small voice. He still can't see her, doesn't know where it's coming from either, the architecture of the opera making the voice grow wider and he can't locate its origin as quickly as he'd like. 

“Reveal yourself.” He orders, disdainful, howimpertinent, interrupting his solitude with unsolicited presence. “How is he still inside the theater after closing time?”

Silence, two moments, an apocalypse.

“The theater has not yet closed.” The voice comments, and a wave of shame invades his gut, indescribable. “But... I was about to go home, my carriage is taking longer than I expected.”

“I see no reason to believe you.”

“Don't, I won't force you.” The voice continues, and despite the harshness of her words, the sincerity is a welcome relief. “I'm just keeping you company before I retire to my home.”

That makes him laugh, or it would, if he wasn't so disgusted with the intrusion, but it does cause him a bit of amusement. Although, now that he thinks about it, it doesn't feel as gross as he would think such an interruption would at some point.

“I've heard you talk about God.” The voice says, it's funny, all his years inside the opera and he's still not able to distinguish where it comes from, does he never learn? Probably not. “It caught my attention to hear him call himself the mockery of the Most High.” 

He doesn't want her grief, and he tells her so. “Your pity is not welcome”.

Silence, silence and a small laugh, she seems to... enjoy his words, how strange.

“What happens then?” She asks, after an abysmal silence.

“I don't have to tell someone who is no one.” He replies.

The silence stretches, long enough for Erik to think he finally managed to get her to leave him alone. When the voice, which was starting to become customary for him in a strangely quick manner, commented again.

“Woah, well then.” She doesn't seem to take everything seriously, maybe because she's new, maybe she's naive, who knows? No normal person would talk to him like that, without fear, without reverence.

Maybe she just doesn't know who he is, that just adds bitter grace to the situation.

“Maybe I got off on the wrong foot.” Continues the voice, still curious, he can swear he hears her more determined than before, what's wrong with her? “Today's practice left me exhausted, I'm sorry.”

That captures his interest, just a little, he says to himself.

“Do you perform here?”

“Yes, yes, sometimes I'm a background dancer.” She answers him, then, possibly he's seen her once or twice. Interesting, all the dancers he knows would be terrified to talk to him, hilarious. “- Although I did have a minor role in Miss Helyett's opera a few days ago.”

“Norette?” he asks.

“No.” Her voice sounds thoughtful, as if she knows he's looking to find out who she is. “Just another dancer.

He thinks he has her, but if he thinks about the lady's voice, then he assumes she simply wasn't present when he was watching. Too bad, knowing her identity would have been more relaxing for him, knowing who she really is.

His silence is long, and then she seems to take that as permission to continue speaking, though he at no time gave input, he supposes it is his fault. Is there fault also in finding it relaxing? No fear involved...

Nonsense.

“The role was enjoyable, though I'm more used to just dancing in unison with my companions, following the leader.” A pause. “This time Sorelli didn't attend because of a family problem, I had to lead them.”

“That doesn't sound like such a minor role, nor someone else getting lost in the crowd.”

“You told me yourself that I was nobody.” There is not a hint of distaste in her voice, perhaps something unpleasant that is lost in the irony of her words. “Maybe it's true, maybe it's not.”

For some reason, that makes him stir in his seat.

“That's not what I was referring to.”

“Then what?” She asks.

Nothing, maybe, at least not now. He's not going to say that. He doesn't understand why she's not going to say that either, it's strange. Supernatural.

“Do all dancers have that sharp of a tongue?” He asks.

On the other side, he hears a laugh, surprising.

“I assure you it's my doing.” He answers, intriguing.

That intrigue awakens something else, this time it doesn't push him away, because he's curious and cursed he was for a long time, he's not afraid to sin once again.

“The theater closes at eleven.” He comments, after a brief pause. “What do you really do here?”

“Maybe I like to accompany cleaning people in unorthodox conversations.” She answers him, intriguing, although he understands that she doesn't know who he is.

He doesn't know who he is, and he is guilty of wishing he knew what he would do if she knew who he really was. Would she run away? Would she accuse him of being a demon? Or would she, on the other hand, if she were so impertinent, move closer to him? The unseemliness of her thoughts starts there and she tries to cut it off before delving deeper into her selfishness.

Strange, usually he wouldn't mind that.

“Maybe you're a very strange little woman.” He tells her, standing up, still not locating the source of that female voice, he has failed as a ghost this time, maybe direct confrontation is a better solution. “Maybe I need to check that I'm not just another employee.”

What for? He doesn't know yet, he's not sure.

“Or maybe he does, but in a more personal way.”

His hand comes to rest on the nearest wall, his face comes close and presses his ear against the wood, it doesn't take long for it to vibrate when the woman's voice rings out again.

“I'm not a person who leans toward the detective role.” She replies. “But I can't deny that your words make me curious.”

His fingers press against the wood, so hard he feels that with a push he could dent it.

For a second, he hesitates to do so, but his left hand goes to the doorknob, not too far from him, embedded in the wooden wall, conveniently close to both of us.

He could end the anonymity.

He could do it.

He does.

“Oh, my carriage is here.”

Or tries to.

His hand freezes, fingers with a ghostly touch on the metal handle, not really closing his fist over it. But the frustration builds up on him, so damn close....

“- It's been nice chatting with you, Mr. Non-employee.” His voice still sounds as jovial as ever, his heart beating in a frantic rhythm, he can't quite put his finger on why. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

He doesn't respond, she doesn't continue, and what precedes is pure silence.

Will she really see him tomorrow, is there such a thing as the day that follows or is it just another cursed dream of derision?

Be that as it may, he stands there for a good while after she already seems to have left the compound. He is alone again.

　　 　　　 　　　 　　　♠️ 𓂃݊ ֶָㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀