To None But Me

Warnings

Erik trudged home, heavy pack slung across his sore shoulders. The hour was late—or early—whichever way you stood on the clock's hands. This evening had been disastrous, but it was a welcome bit of drama to his rather dull life. He spent his days apprenticing at the blacksmith shop with Firenze, a man he'd grown to respect and admire over the course of his time in Paris. Firenze had even been so kind as to let Erik and Anna stay in the apartment above the shop for a small fee. It wasn't much, but it was a roof over their heads and a warm fireplace, which was more than he could say for the beggars who crouched in doorways, shying away as he stalked past.

He hadn't run into much trouble in Paris, for which he was grateful. He knew his looks had something to do with it. Most were just fascinated that a Norwegian had ventured so far south and so far inland; Erik belonged to the fjords, the midnight sun and the sea. Not in some overflowing city. He'd often wondered when he could convince Anna they should return home. Not to father's, of course, but at least the next town over, so they could be surrounded by their own people, and their own food.

His stomach have a hearty growl as he turned onto their street, and he prayed that Anna had made lefse. The lutefisk, though, he could do without. It just didn't taste the same here.

His mind exhausted and wandering as it was, it returned like a scampering rabbit to the Irish woman, her ocean blue eyes so very entrancing to Erik. If she hadn't been a prostitute, she may have been the type of woman he chose to court and marry. She was stunning, with her pale skin and dark hair, her features all petite, but her tongue fiery and strong. He smirked to himself as he recalled her vehement words, so unladylike. His smile fell, though, when he realized he'd never be graced with her beauty again.

As he'd left the brothel, he could hear her angry, muffled screams from the back of the barred carriage as a few laughing men stood about, poking sticks through the window to antagonize her as though she were nothing but a beast. His English was decent, his French bit worse, but he'd known the name that was painted in black across the grainy wood: Pitié-Salpêtrière. The infamous asylum in the heart of Paris.

He was close now, the shop within sight, and his fatigued mind had been too distracted to hear the quiet, tiny footsteps behind him along the wet cobblestone. He stopped a few paces from the shop, standing straight and rolling his shoulders out, readying himself. He whirled, reaching into his belt, the hilt of his dagger a familiar, comforting feeling in his grasp.

The boy jumped back, a coward to his core. Erik snorted, turning away from his annoying face, hatred pulsing through his veins at the torture he'd caused the poor young woman tonight. He deserved a trip to the asylum, not her.

"What do you want?" Erik asked, voice deep and grating in his drained demeanor.

"I wanted to give you a warning, Norsky," the boy spat. So, he'd followed Erik home, only to berate him and challenge him. It was comical to Erik, too, the name he'd thrown at him, meant to be an insult. However, it reminded Erik of home, brought a small smile to his face when he heard it. He sighed and turned to glance at the boy over his robust shoulder. What could this child do to him besides throw idle threats his way? Erik had feared losing his job for the Duke after the mess this evening, but the man had been more preoccupied with his meeting and had told him to return to his home the following night as scheduled.

"And what would that be?" he chuckled, dropping his heavy pack. The Duke's wife had given him a slab of meat, always showering him with gifts. He knew what she desired for her perceived selflessness. Erik, though, would never give her that satisfaction.

"I'll come for you, when you least expect it. You will pay, chien, for the pain you've caused me."

Erik snorted again, sizing up the small lad. He could crush him in a second, if he wanted to. He doubted the Duke would mind. But he was a young boy, one who's ego was larger than his capabilities, and Erik felt some pity for him. He jerked his chin down the deserted, misty street.