The Living Bride

Chapter Seven

The next few moments were spent in silence, Erik's golden eyes carefully taking in the damage he'd done to her frail wrist. The skin was already bruising with an unpleasant assortment of yellows and red-tinted purples, displaying the actual shape that his fingers had taken hold on her.

The sight was awful, and made Erik feel nothing but shame and absolute misery. He'd done this to her. He could not even meet her eyes, which watched him just as closely as he'd observed the injury. She could tell that he felt bad about what he'd done. Good. Perhaps it would serve as an example to keep him from doing so ever again.

Christine lay her hand, facing upward, atop his knee while he rummaged through his medical supplies. He pulled out a dark vile of some sort of oily substance with bits of herbs floating around the top. Reading the childishly scribbled label, Christine could make out the words "Parsley and Lavender." He uncorked the top and turned back to her wrist, placing a few drops of the substance on her skin and tenderly rubbing it in with his ungloved fingers. His hands were cold, and yet they warmed as they smoothed over her skin.

The aroma was rather pleasant, and it was apparent that the extracted oil of these herbs held some sort of medicinal value to them as well. It was nice, especially considering the fact that most ointments, such as the ones concocted by doctors she'd seen in the past, truly smelled quite awful.

After several moments, Erik nodded his head, mostly to himself, and began to bandage her wrist to keep the swelling down. She stayed perfectly still and dared not to say a word, blue eyes continuing to observe the man before her.

It seemed as though he was finished tending to her wrist, as he hastily began putting his medical supplies back into the tin box he'd brought in with him. His gaze settled on her face for a few flittering seconds, searching for any expressions of pain, and, after seeing none, made his move to stand. Christine did not stop him.

***

The following day, Erik checked her wrist once again, and briskly claimed it needed a few more days before it would be completely healed. There was a tense air that fell over them; they did not know where to go from where they'd gotten themselves. Only time could tell how things would pan out for the two of them.

The day after that, Erik spent most of his time within the confines of his bedroom. Nothing but silence could be heard from outside the door, and Christine could not bring herself to knock, the memories of what had happened too fresh within her mind. Somehow, he still managed to take care of her. She awoke to a silver platter of food - breakfast - sitting at the foot of her bed, covered by a cheese cloth. He made coffee as well as tea, offering her both options as opposed to simply asking her.

Christine saw Erik only once, when she was half-asleep and dozing off on the chaise. He came by and lifted her gingerly into his arms, then brought her to her own bed. She vaguely remembered stopping him before he left, wishing to say something. He was rather alarmed to see that she was conscious enough to know he was with her.

"Erik," she'd said, slowly, "please do not hide in your room tomorrow."

***

And so now it was the third day since the incident, rather late in the evening, and Christine sat in the parlor on the chaise, content to simply read to pass the time. It was a rather interesting book; she'd read it once before, but it was intriguing nonetheless. Wuthering Heights. A story composed almost entirely of terrible people, with conflicting personalities and inflated egos. Christine had to admit that the character Heathcliff reminded her of Erik, even if it was in the slightest and most mundane of ways.