Author's Note: This is inspired and influenced by the story A Shifting Dynamic and written in my own words. This is the only chapter that will be similar to it. The rest will be my own work.
When the vicomte left with Christine, he thought he'd seen the last of them, but Fate it seemed had other plans. He'd fled before the mob and the authorities arrived in his lair, stayed away for weeks until the heat had died down and the authorities gave up waiting for him to reappear. He returned to his home, heartbroken and soul-sick with Christine's departure, and donned a spare mask, opting to leave the one he'd left behind in the hands of Meg Giry. This particular night found him staring forlornly into the flames of a fire burning in his hearth, a glass of wine in one hand, the other resting on the arm of his chair. He had plans in mind, plans he had yet to put into action, the only question was when to put them in place and whether to return to his public appearances as the Opera Ghost. It hardly seemed wise, the world now knew that the infamous Opera Ghost was nothing but a man and the Surete would come swooping back down upon him and his home were he to make his presence known once more. He had enough of a fortune squirreled away to keep him and his beloved feline, a Siamese named Ayesha, comfortable for the rest of his life. He only wondered how much longer he had yet to live, the attacks he'd endured for the last year or so had not increased in frequency, but each left him weaker and weaker. Curse his luck that his wretched good health should begin to fail him now.
Raoul de Chagny was the last person he expected, the last person he wanted, to set foot in his lair, eyes wild, panting and breathless, yet there the boy stood. Furious at the intrusion, by his former rival no less, Erik set down his glass of wine and rose to his full, imposing height menacingly.
"Are you so willing to die, Vicomte," he hissed, "that you would fly with eyes wide open into the waiting jaws of the Angel of Death? Are you so eager to again feel the caress of my lasso?"
That wild gaze stared at him, through him, filled with terror, though it seemed the infamous Phantom was not the source of that terror and the boy nodded. The boy had come seeking death? Why? Erik changed tactic, his desire to kill this boy fading, and his voice became soft and soothing.
"Why, dear child?" he asked, the hand that had been reaching for his lasso coming out to stretch towards the viscount, "Why would you seek out the Angel of Death?"
Those eyes, once full of light and life, were now so empty and lost, Erik almost wanted to ask who needed to die to rid the boy of such an awful expression. He almost gave a visible start at that train of thought; what did he care for the boy's misfortunes? This fop had stolen Christine from him, why did his fate matter a whit to the Opera Ghost? Furious at these stirrings of pity for his once-rival, furious with the boy's presence and silence, Erik could feel his temper rising to the surface.
"What is the meaning of your presence here, fop?" he demanded.
The reaction to his demand was unexpected: the boy recoiled involuntarily at the volume of the Ghost's voice, arms coming up to shield his face, cowering before him, his young body wracked with shivers of fear. Erik calmed and returned to his previous tactic, his voice lowering to a soothing, comforting tone in an effort to make himself as non-threatening as possible. Only weeks ago, this man had ventured to this same lair and faced the infamous Phantom head-on without fear. This frightened child before him was not the same man that had left with Christine.
"Raoul," he softly uttered the boy's given name, "What has become of you, child?"
Finally, Raoul opened his mouth as though to answer, but seemed to give up and instead slowly unbuttoned the filthy, torn shirt Erik now saw he wore and removed it, wincing as he did. An involuntary gasp escaped Erik as numerous wounds of varying depths were revealed, some were clearly knife wounds, but the worst seemed more animal in nature.
"I must be dreadful to look at," Raoul got out with a hollow laugh, "if even the Phantom of the Opera is disgusted."
"My God," Erik muttered, "Were you thrown to a pack of starving wolves, man?"
"That is not so far from the truth," the vicomte conceded, Erik staring at him in confusion, and the boy grew serious, "Phantom, I…. I cannot see Christine again. Not ever again. It is simply too dangerous to be around her, near her, any longer."
The words pained him to get out for, though Erik hated the boy for taking his love from him, he truly loved Christine and only wished the best for her. Seeing how weak and stressed he was, wobbling on his feet and ready to collapse, Erik guided Raoul to an armchair and let him settle himself.
"Why?" he asked once the boy seemed to have calmed, "Do you fear that those that attacked you would return and do her harm? I will find and kill them myself if such is the case."
Raoul held up a hand and shook his head, "I know you mean to try, but have no fear of them."
There was a deadly glare in his eyes that Erik knew well enough to know his meaning without more being said. His visible brow raised; so the boy had it in him to kill. Interesting.
"I must apologize, monsieur," Raoul said, "In the past I have called you 'monster', but that title was mistakenly laid upon you."
Raoul shifted in his seat, wincing in pain as he did so, Erik staring mutely at him and grimacing at the sight of the boy's pain.
"Have you gone mad? What is it you're trying to say, boy?" he demanded.
Erik lifted Raoul's head to look in his eyes, disliking what he found there; such a look did not suit this boy, it was as though he was on the brink of madness.
"I have not gone mad, Opera Ghost," Raoul sighed, "Merely stating that such a title as monster better suits me."
Empathy, so that's what that feeling was, but Erik still struggled to understand why; the boy was making no sense.
"You're making little sense, vicomte," he said.
Raoul sighed and leaned against the back of the chair, grimacing as he did, Erik's sharp eyes seeing that and guessing that the boy had more injuries than what he had seen.
"Anyone else would think me mad," Raoul muttered, "But you, I think, will not immediately decry me as such."
"Go on," Erik prompted gently.
He reached out a hand to rest gently on the viscount's shoulder in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture, but the boy winced. Erik withdrew his hand, but through the brief contact he had felt a welt on Raoul's back; the boy had been whipped.
"You lived among traveling folk for a time, did you not?" Raoul asked, recalling what Madame Giry had told him, "Did they never speak of legends of men who transform into beasts upon the full moon? Like wolves, but worse… so much worse."
The last part was uttered in a terrified whisper and Erik nodded, recalling twice in his life that he had encountered such creatures, once as a child among the Gypsies and again as an adult in a traveling fair.
"I saw one killed once when I was a child," he replied and realization dawned on him, "Are you saying that… the ones who attacked you were…?"
Raoul didn't answer, but buried his face in his hands and wept, Erik wanting to comfort him somehow but unable to.
"There were so many," the vicomte continued, "Five of them, I think. They pinned me down, it felt like they were going to tear me limb from limb. Eat me, perhaps."
Erik shivered slightly, trying to imagine what it might be like to be eaten alive, the terror the boy must have felt.
"But they didn't, they stopped and sat in a circle, watching. Waiting. The moon got higher in the sky and suddenly everything burned. Like molten lead in my veins, claws tearing me apart, pulling in every direction."
Erik put a hand to the boy's lips and watched as Raoul again buried his face in his hands and wept, letting the heaving sobs overtake him as Erik watched helplessly. He had no idea when the boy had earned the Opera Ghost's pity, but those pitiful sobs would've convinced him if nothing else did.
"Why? Why me?" the boy mumbled to himself, "What could I have done to deserve this fate?"
Previously, Erik would've rejoiced in the boy's misfortune, but how could he now with this shivering child before him? He could not even muster any of the anger he had previously felt at the mere mention of the boy's name, he simply could not do as the boy asked.
"Why come to me, vicomte?" Erik asked, "Knowing what I do now, how could you think I would kill you?"
That I could murder an innocent child, was his unspoken thought. Raoul looked up at him briefly before again burying his face in his hands.
"I've no idea," he muttered, "I wish you'd killed me the night of Don Juan, then I could've died a man, a tragic hero perhaps, but it would have been better than… than this!"
"Enough of this," Erik hushed him, putting a finger to the boy's lips, "No more of this talk."
He ran a hand through the boy's hair in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture and Raoul seemed to relax a little, but nonetheless Erik cursed himself for not being able to better comfort the boy. It was not one of his more finely honed skills as none had ever sought comfort from him and few had ever comforted him in his own hours of need.
"How can you even look at me any longer?" the boy asked, "You've even touched me, why? Why do you stay? Why do you not send me away, rage at me?"
Raoul gazed up at him with those crystal blue eyes, pleading and pathetic, leaving Erik horrified that one such as the vicomte should have to feel this way. This was Erik's own lot in life, it was not a fate meant for the boy before him.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice taking on a melodic tone to put Raoul at ease, "You are not at fault, you are not to blame. God, you're not even truly a man yet, are you? Just a frightened child. Put Christine from your mind for now, we will deal with that problem when we come to it. What you need now is rest. No harm will come to you with the Opera Ghost as your guardian, I will not allow it."
Raoul stared at him, not understanding where this kindness, this compassion, was coming from, he had once been certain the Phantom was incapable of such things.
"Monsieur," he uttered, "I would have thought simply appearing here would be enough for you to kill me, this I was not prepared for. Such kindness, why should a monster expect kindness?"
He gave a hollow laugh, Erik allowing himself a wry smile at that for his life had long ago taught him that there was no kindness for monsters, but the vicomte grew serious and morose again.
"It is too dangerous for me to be alive," he said, "I could even kill you. Please, monsieur, it is for the best if you just kill me."
Erik did not know what to do with the boy in this state and tried to recall how the Daroga had helped him when he himself no longer wished to live. He couldn't remember so he would simply have to do the best he could manage on his own, so he slowly and hesitantly wrapped his arms around the boy's shivering frame. Raoul tensed before relaxing into the embrace, though he still shook terribly, and took a deep breath, feeling safe here in his former enemy's home and arms.
"You had to have been terrified, child," Erik whispered.
Raoul nodded, "Quite, I fear I still am. Every time, there they are, taunting and laughing. I felt such terrible when I… Oh God, I tore out their throats! With my teeth! I just wanted them to stop!"
Raoul nearly broke down again as Erik hushed him and gently stroked his hair in an effort to calm him.
"I wanted to go to her you know," Erik pulled away to look at him, "Some instinct telling me to go home, but I did not listen. Imagine if I'd gone to her in that God-awful form! What if I'd harmed her? But I can never return to her, she'll have nothing to do with monsters. Do you think she would do me one last kindness, a parting kiss?"
He began laughing, one tainted with insanity, but it did not suit one such as the vicomte, Erik desperate to stop this before it tore out the last of Raoul's innocence as he hushed him until the boy grew quiet.
"This is not a fate you deserve," Erik muttered, "This should not be your burden."
Raoul reached out a hand and touched the Phantom, a small, sad smile on his face, Erik calming at that touch and turned to face the boy.
"Alas, but it is," he said sadly, "And there is little more we can do about it than can be done about your face. Though I do believe mine is the greater burden."
"It is a great shock to suddenly become this," Erik replied, "I was born as I am. I understand your meaning."
He carefully brushed a hand against the boy's cheek, wiping away tears that continued to mar a perfect visage. Perfect? Where had that thought come from? When did he ever think of boy in such terms? Shaking his head, Erik pushed it to the back of his mind; it did not matter at present, there were more pressing issues at hand. He could not allow further harm to come to the boy, he nodded to himself as he made his choice with confidence.
"I will protect you from now on, vicomte," he said, "From yourself and from others. You belong to me."
To Raoul's tired, strained mind, that didn't sound half bad and he allowed himself to sink back against the chair, wincing when his back came in contact with it. He'd forgotten about the lashings maring his back. Erik looked up sharply and rose to his feet.
"I should tend to your wounds," he stated, "My words will do no good if you die of infection or blood loss."
Raoul mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "I don't care," but Erik chose to ignore that even as his heart broke inside. This man, this boy, was as naive and innocent as Erik himself had once been so it was startling to hear such disregard for his life from one so young. Somehow, Erik felt that there was more to the story than what Raoul had so far divulged, but he did not want to press the issue until the boy was well on the mend. Pressing him for more information could easily tip the balance of an already unsteady mind. He watched as the vicomte's eyes drooped and finally closed, his breathing evening out as he dozed off.
With Raoul sleeping for the moment, Erik took the opportunity to assess the damage done to him by his attackers. There were deep claw marks that looked as though one of them might have dug claws in and slowly raked them along the boy's chest. Erik winced at the thought of it, trying to imagine what horrible pain it must have been to endure. Knife wounds of varying depths and lengths littered the vicomte's torso; whoever had done this had had fun toying with the boy. Erik himself had always preferred to inflict a quick, painless death, but this was torture, pure and simple, meant to inflict pain, not kill. There were bite marks on his arms, perhaps from them holding him down, and numerous superficial scrapes and cuts. Erik frowned deeply as he spied the blood-stained cravat the boy had tied around his neck as some sort of makeshift bandage. He untied it, hissing as he did so and the wound was revealed: a deep bite mark that had nearly torn the flesh from his neck. Clearly, Raoul hadn't been the only one going for the throat, he was lucky the bite had missed his jugular, otherwise he'd have drowned in his own blood.
Erik set about gathering his medical supplies, making sure to grab some morphine for the pain the boy was no doubt in. Years of being on his own had made him skilled at caring for and treating wounds, being aide to a Gypsy medicine woman hadn't hurt either. He could hardly tend to the wounds with the boy sitting in the position he was, so he opted to move him to the couch that sat against a wall. Once that was done, he grimly set to work, cleaning the wounds and stitching those that required it, carefully watching the boy for signs of waking. Once he was done, he sat back and pondered what his next course of action was or should be. The only wounds he hadn't tended were the welts on Raoul's back, it was best done when the boy was awake. Erik decided those could wait, that he would keep watch over the boy through the night to make sure he lived through his ordeal, though he wondered where this compassion for the vicomte, his former rival and enemy, was coming from. He heaved a sigh as he pondered over the turn of events, the creature that lay before him, injured and afraid, begging for death. Why had he spared him when previously he would have gladly granted the boy's wish? Why had he taken pity on the creature Raoul had become for surely killing him would have been best? Erik had no idea why he had decided the boy was worthy of his compassion and pity and his protection.