Chapter Text
It was late in the afternoon, the sun just starting to sink low in the cloud covered sky, it had been two weeks since he’d escaped, and it was raining.
Erik had a complicated relationship with the rain—Erik had complicated relationships with very many things—but at the moment it was raining.
Erik loved the rain. It was melodious as it dripped down the tree boughs and leaves and made the flowers bob their heads, as it struck the surface of the lake and poured down the rocks onto the forest floor. It reminded him he was free—and in a cage no longer. He had never experienced the rain before, when he was a child in the circus. He hadn’t experienced very many things at all in his life, not when he was a child, and later as a young man kept locked in a dungeon, not experiences like these, at least. The rain was glorious and profound and all consuming and he loved it.
Erik hated the rain because there was no getting away from it once it was there. It seeped into every crevice and soaked his clothes and chilled him. Why should something so wonderful hurt so much? Was this what freedom felt like?
It was the rain that had driven Erik into the cave near the creek. The cave was damp and cold and sharp, but it offered a little respite from the pervasive wetness all around him.
He huddled by the mouth of the cave, watching the rain fall and wishing he could be like the birds, who didn’t even seem to notice that it was raining on them. The raindrops fell on their backs and rolled off, their feathers still soft and untouched by the bitterness that sank into Erik and lingered on him, chilling him.
The birds swooped down from trees and hid in bushes before alighting on the grass, pulling up buts to eat before darting away. Their songs filled the woods with a sweet harmony that brought a smile to Erik’s lips. It was so joyful, and natural, and for the first time since escaping it made him want to sing too.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the rock of the cave, letting their music wash over him and take his mind to someplace more pleasant. After a few moments, he too joined in.
It was, as far as he could remember, the first time he had sung for himself and himself alone, no one to prompt him with the threat of a whip or skipping a meal or some other pain. Singing was how he had insured his survival for so long, being the only thing of him that had been of any value to others, and singing was a comfort to him, and he hoped that one day, when he sang, it would bring him only comfort without being haunted by the ghost of what others had done to him. One day, perhaps, his voice would belong entirely to him.
But the birds were so kind to share their music with him that he felt he must return the favor. So he sang. His voice soared with an old piece from an opera, and halfway through his voice faltered and he fell silent once more. Perhaps the birds didn’t like that song. Perhaps they hadn’t been inviting him to sing at all. Perhaps some things were better appreciated in others than attempting to replicate it in oneself.
“Please, why did you stop?” A woman’s voice asked.
Erik tensed immediately, a rush of shame and self loathing coming over him. He had betrayed his hiding spot, given away his location. His captors would surely find and kill him now. Why had he been so stupid as to think it was worth it to sing?
“Why did you stop singing?” The woman asked again, her voice coming from downstream of the creek. “Your voice was so beautiful. Please don’t stop.”
Erik dared to look cautiously out from the cave. Sure enough there was a woman there on the bank of the creek, a wide brimmed hat keeping the rain away from her. Her long silver hair was piled in a loose bun at the back of her head, and she was wrapped in a thick coat. Heavy boots protected her feet from the mud, and in one hand she held a bucket and the other a cane.
She was looking up to towards the branches of the trees, but her eyes did not scan her surroundings, nor did she move her head to look around the area.
“Who is there?” She asked to the now silent voice. “I know I heard you. Don’t be shy, please. Are you a wood sprite?” She smiled, the lines on her face crinkling in a way that showed this was a familiar expression for her. “Perhaps some kind of fairy, or a spirit. That voice was too beautiful to be human.”
Erik put a hand over his throat and swallowed hard, pondering his humanity or lack thereof.
“Or an angel, I should think,” she continued to herself. “That must have been the voice of an angel. I would dearly love to hear you again.”
Erik kept silent, and her smile turned more wistful at the prolonged quiet.
“My dear husband had a student once,” she said, the tone and volume of her voice suggesting that she was giving up on there actually being another person in the woods with her, and was talking mostly to herself now. “And that student would often say that the Angel of Music would visit those who were pure of heart. I had always hoped—“
There was no reply, and at last she hung her head, looking disappointed. She poked with her cane towards the creek, taking slow and careful steps towards it before leaning down to fill her bucket with fresh water.
She straightened up, then adjusted her hat, giving one last smile to whatever or whoever might around her.
“I wish you a good day, whoever you might be,” she addressed the empty air. “Thank you again.”
And she started off on her way, but something about how she moved struck Erik with curiosity, and as he watched her leave he suddenly realized—the old woman was blind.
He hesitated only a moment before leaving his hiding place in the cave and quietly beginning to follow her.
He knew from the books that were smuggled to him that winter was almost upon them, and it would only be getting colder. Perhaps it would even snow. He was not dressed enough to handle the snow, he could barely handle the rain as it was, and he needed someplace warm to stay and food to eat. This woman who could not see—she seemed kind enough, though Erik knew not to trust every person who appeared kind on the surface. But she could not see, so she would not see him, would not be horrified at what he looked like. Obviously she longed to hear an angel, which could, in her mind, only be done by those pure of heart—so surely she must consider herself at least somewhat pure of heart. Surely she would not turn away a beggar who asked so nicely for the scraps that fell from her table.
With all this in mind, he followed behind her at a distance until she unknowingly led him out of the woods and to a large clearing where there was a small log cabin.