Violet and the Phantom part 2

She stared in to the shadows before her eyes following the sound of his footsteps as he moved away and finally was gone. She exhaled and listened harder.
Silence... there were no sounds at all. It was a few moments before Violet realised how unusual this was. There was no one else near by, no noise from the street, no noise from other rooms, her sensitive hearing could discern no signs of life anywhere near by. Did he live alone? And where! The clothes she wore she knew were of fine make, she could feel it in the fabric, so whose were they? What kind of person would have fine woman's clothing lying around but live alone. He used a foil, so he was obviously trained in fencing, a gentleman's pursuit, and yet though he exuded wealth and standing, he had no attendants or servants, had bathed and fed her himself. She blushed as she remembered his hands on her almost bare skin. He had been so delicate, the way he moved her hair from her neck, his fingertips caressing softly, by accident of course, but it had felt like fire trailing across her skin. She lost a few moments in that memory and found herself smiling as she remembered his amused tone when she had accused him of peeking.
The smile faded as she remembered the feel of his face under her fingertips.
How uncouth he must think her, to be so forward when he had neither invited nor encouraged her. No wonder he had grabbed her wrist. Her acute embarrassment caused her to flush and she pressed her free cold palm to her burning cheeks. She closed her eyes then and rested back on the chaise as per his instructions. She was so tired. And it had been so long since she was so comfortable so safe. She hadn't felt this at peace since before her accident. She quickly shut down that train of thought, it didn't do to remember what had been and what might have been, these were the cards she had been dealt. Besides they had led her to this mysterious man, a solitary proud gentleman who had rescued her when others would have turned away... so he was caring, and controlled.
She had discerned a depth of humour that she longed to explore but also there was an air of pain, a sense of self loathing that seemed to hang over him. He had asked her if she feared to look on him... how could she? And why would she? Her breathing deepened as her exhausted body neared sleep.
Why a mask? what was the benefit to him, perhaps he had been injured rescuing her. So many mysteries. Yet his voice, a smile brushed across her lips, he had soothed her, his voice caressed her name, so familiar to her, something beautiful, it made her ache, his voice was like distilled music given voice... so familiar if only she could remember...
Sleep found her then.

Erik walked in the shadows once more, Violet would need medicine, there was a risk of infection, she was vastly under nourished. Her skin was dull and grey, though the warmth and a bath had helped. A bath... that had to have been the most exquisite form torture he had ever devised for himself. Her threadbare shift once soaked through had barely hidden her glories from him, though he had tried his best to keep his eyes on the task, but despite his best efforts he had peeked. He had worked her hair till it felt like silk in his fingers as it had once before, he had brushed the back of her neck briefly with his fingers and nearly jumped in shock at how a simple glancing touch could move him so deeply.
She was nothing like anyone he had ever observed before, the women in the theatre had been vapid princesses or ridiculous diva's. There was no way they could have undergone such a life altering set of circumstances with the strength of character she was showing, had shown. He knew this because though Violet didn't know it, saving her from those foul creatures was not the first time he had seen her, it wasn't even the 10th time he'd seen her.
The rage he had felt at Christine's betrayal had imploded on him when he saw the horror of his actions reflected in her brown eyes. She had been willing to give herself over to someone who she obviously despised and in that action she had broken through his overwhelming insanity. His depression had been complete when he had slipped back through the smouldering theatre and discovered a crumpled form unconscious on the floor. His actions were instinctive, he had carried her limp form to the hospital. He had believed she would be cared for, be found by her family, be much better off that if he tried to look after her himself. He was wrong. He could never have known that she was alone in the world. That once she was patched up, the hospital had sent her packing and no one  had taken care of her. He had watched in varying states of horror and guilt as she had been cut out of her old life. The realisation that his madness had cost her her sight had sent him in to a flat spin of terror and self loathing.
It was days before he could bring himself around. Some how the anger he felt towards himself had brought his past actions in to focus. The transition that started with Christine leaving him for Raoul was completed by the overwhelming guilt he felt over the maiming of an innocent girl. He had made a promise then on the ruins of that chandelier, he would make it right, he would find a way to earn forgiveness. He saw his actions suddenly in the harsh light of reality. Christine had said he killed without conscience, and she had been right. He had used his haunted childhood to haunt others. He had had a chance with Christine, to let his present define him, not his past. He had failed. He had fancied himself in love with her, because she valued his talent, because she was innocent of the manipulation he had brought about. He had wanted her, but he had realised he didn't love her. Not in the way she loved Raoul. He had wanted her because society said he couldn't have her. A hideous creature didn't have the right to claim the beautiful damsel.
Sanity restored for better or worse, he had ventured out in to the world once more, from the shadows of course, the disaster at the opera, the phantom, were on everyone's lips. And it was from these shadows he had found a new torment.
There she was, sitting on a wooden crate, the scars around her eyes were still red and raw, her eyes bound with a filthy cloth. Her hair was ragged and her clothes mismatched. He had barely recognised her, and had felt fury once more. How was this possible? What in all hell could have lead her to being cast out.
Then she had raised her bow and played. And played and played and played.
He must have stood for hours. Tears fell freely as he watched. This incredible woman had so much talent. His heart bled for her, if he could have sacrificed his voice there and then to return her sight to her, he would have. He wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg forgiveness for his foolish pride. But guilt held his feet welded to the floor. He watched people pass her unmoved by the aching music produced by the young blind woman. He didn't move for hours. He couldn't even move when she finally lowered her bow and made to leave. He watched her leave, slowly making her way back to the dirty part of town back to her inn. When she was finally out of sight he slipped back in to the dark tunnels that led to his home. He fell to his knees there in the dark dank tunnels and sobbed like a broken hearted child.
Remembering the pain he had felt then, stabbed him afresh now. He had returned to watch her play many times since, trying to work out how to do right by her, what could he give her that would even begin to make up for the pain he had caused her? Yet in watching her so calm so resigned to her fate, a part of his tortured soul had healed, and something else had begun to grow in it's place. He gave her money though he knew hardly any of it made it in to her pockets. He bought a wool pashmina and gave it to her landlady with strict instructions to give it to her. It had pleased him to see her wearing it. His fear of discovery and rejection had held him back from doing more for her, The rumours that no body had been found in the theatre, nor had Christine commented on his disappearance had left Paris police looking for Phantoms in every shadow. They needed an arrest, a public execution was mooted should the murderer ever be brought to justice. This aside he was her near constant audience, no risk was too great to keep him from her music, he watched and listened and paid and watched. He saw her figure melt away, her bandages gone, but her eyes unfocused, her skin lose it's brilliancy and yet through his frustration at being unable to see a way to help her more than he did, she became more beautiful to him, more vital and necessary as if her music carved her in to his soul.
Then just before autumn had waned, he had received an urgent summons from Madam Giry. He owed her too much to refuse and his assistance kept him from town for 2 whole months. By the time he returned to Paris, he was frantic. Something had changed within him, something so monumental that even Madam Giry who knew him better than most, but understood him not at all, commented that she would barely recognise him. He rode through the night back to Paris and climbed the wall of the inn where he knew her to be staying just to see her face. But she was not there. The room was occupied by a withered old writer who did not look up to even see his horrified face briefly visible at the window.
Days he searched for her, even returning to the music school in the hope that some how the fates had been kind to her. Then the weather turned and the temperature had plummeted. He searched now out of desperation rather than hope, each night returning to shadier and shadier establishments with fear clawing at his heart.
Was it luck or blind chance that drew him to her that night? He didn't care to contemplate what might have happened if he had been a moment later. He had killed again as Christine would have said, without conscience, but this time without pleasure. Those creatures had not deserved to live, but he hadn't killed them because of that, he saw the pleasure they took in harming her, and knew in that instant they would hurt again, woman who weren't lucky enough to have a guardian angel, even one as damned as himself. Paris was swarming with filth of this calibre, so it would not miss two more. But for the first time in his memory, he felt sorrow at ending a life, even one this wretched.

He reached the apothecary and purchased the items he would need, then to the baker and the grocer and then the dress maker. He ordered a range of items, 'for my master and his guests' he repeated. Wealthy merchants would pay attention to a wealthy gentleman entering their shop, remember every detail to recount to their friends. They would not however remember a crippled serving man wrapped up against the cold. So the goods were wrapped and packaged and purchased.
Erik knew he couldn't keep his identity from her for ever, nor his guilt. But the truth was he was afraid. So long alone, so long enraged, and her simple acceptance of fate had all but destroyed him. Looking at Violet was like looking in to a mirror and seeing himself as he should have been. But more than that, he saw the other side of his coin. His pair. And that frightened him more than anything. Could he ever earn her forgiveness for stealing her life away. More than that could he ever earn her love?