The gentle slope of the floor beneath them told Erik that they were descending into the cellars, now, in their path hidden beneath the wall. Their voices would sound like faint echoes from the activity above. Still, and again by rote, Erik's steps were silent on the stone. He'd learned long ago to preserve the perfect silence, for it and darkness had as much been his mask as the white leather the City saw fit to divest of him.
"Ah," he said. "But then, you have only ever seen me in the arenas of those things that I love. Only a fool persists in something he hates that has no chance of reward." At the end, there'd been too much blood, too much murder, too many betrayals for Erik to find solace in those things he loved. Even music had turned stale, soured by the poor handling of the opera managers. Architecture... that was still beautiful. But it had not been enough to clear his nostrils of death.
The weariness of the life he'd led... it was nearly as bad as the life itself. "I was not well," he said. "And I knew it. There were no doctors during my time who had enough skill to correct what ailed me. It was an impossibility. I expected another few months at the most."