And what is your purpose for being here?
Eric sips the chilled wine slowly, letting the cool chablis
linger soothingly on his tongue. The wine, along with the
aged cheese and crisp apples lend themselves well to his current
introspective mood. The rising voices in the living room,
however, do not.
He sighs. Gathering the carafe and cheese tray, he prepares
to seek out quieter surroundings for his thoughts. Until he
hears one voice above the rest. Distinctly southern. Definitely
angry. Punctuated by the sound of a fist thundering onto a
Eric raises an eyebrow, intrigued. One of the few clear memories
he has is of this woman. He recalls her by his side in the
Savage Land, eyes flashing emerald in the sunlight as she
convinced those who had no reason to, to trust him. He remembers,
too, the many fascinating conversations they had then.
In the beginning, he had used their late-night talks merely
as an excuse to delay the inevitable return to sleep. For
with sleep came the ever-present nightmares of his own internment.
Scars? No. Scabs. Wounds that would reopen over and over again
as soon as his body betrayed him by succumbing to the need
He had quickly realized Rogue was more than a simple diversion.
If her words stemmed from heartfelt emotion, still, the reasoning
behind her thoughts was sound. Quite passionately, she had
driven home the point that he could not hope to save an entire
race unless he were willing to commit to the salvation of
a single member. He had remembered her words yesterday when
Charles requested his assistance with the young Acadian.
From the next room, Eric hears his own name mentioned. It
is enough to further pique his interest. Quietly, he moves
the carafe and tray to a counter near the kitchen door and
settles onto a stool. He chuckles quietly to himself as Rogue
responds to a comment from Scott with a particularly valid,
if sarcastic, observation.
Continued in Chapter
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