Chess Is A Game Of Strategy, a phantom of the opera fanfic

A/N--This short story is the final one of the Night Encounters series, but is not the last one I shall post. I'm afraid these are not being uploaded to FFN in order! It is set immediately before Act 1, Scene 10 in the ALW musical, or immediately before the Il Muto and chandelier scene. Please read and review.

Summary—A game of chess leads to an intense conversation.

Disclaimer—All characters used in the Night Encounters series belong to either Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, or Andrew Lloyd Webber. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, and the Opera Charles Garnier, all errors and liberties taken are mine. The slightly changed semi-quote is of course from Susan Kay…it is too good a line to ignore.

--Riene

Chess is a Game of Strategy

The lesson concluded for the evening, she wandered slowly about the library music room, possessed tonight of some restless spirit, caused perhaps by the lonely strains of his violin. Shivering, Christine wrapped her arms tightly about her body, lest she flee from those subtly veiled threats, or respond to the inarticulate pleadings which fell in haunting appeals from the amber-dark tones of his violin. Erik played tonight as if his own restless energy were transmuted to sound.

She trailed her hand along the bookshelves, along smooth leather bindings and gold-tooled titles, marveling again at the wealth of knowledge contained on these shelves, many written in other languages. The books were worn from handling. He had told her once he treasured the knowledge of these tomes, had sought the rare volumes, having little else to do with his time. Other objects rested in the deep shadows of these recesses, gathered from his years of travel or purchased in the markets of Paris. A Persian miniature painted on ivory, brush strokes so delicate they could only have been made with a single hair, a fragile porcelain vase filled with dried rose petals from her first concert performance. Idly, she stirred a hand through the withered, brittle petals the color of old blood, the faint attar of roses briefly filling the air. A box of complex inlay work, a small portrait in blurred soft pastels of a young woman with long dark curls wearing a white dress. Christine remembered the many days the funny little man had come to sit in the wings of the theatre, to sketch the dancers and divas, principals and technicians. She had had no idea the portrait existed until it appeared one day on Erik's shelves, framed and set at eye level, where he could see it easily from his deep armchair near the fireplace.

On the shelves to the right of the hearth lay a long flat box. Curious, Christine lifted it into the golden light of the fire and slowly lifted the worn cover. A game board was revealed; inlaid squares of some gleaming smooth dark and ash-pale woods surrounded by a burled amber border, the whole of it smooth to the touch in oiled, intricate perfection. Tiny concealed hinges connected the wooden sections, enabling the board to be folded in half for storage.

Under the board, in time-stained fragile silk, lay ranks of delicately carved ivory and ebony-wood chessmen. Entranced, Christine lifted a knight in her small white hand, marveling at the tiny flaring nostrils of the horse, tracing the curve of its flowing mane with her fingernail. Carefully, she replaced it, noting the ivory pieces were yellowed with age, the ebony wood worn smooth in spots.

"I have had that set since Persia," Erik said behind her, and she started, having not heard his soundless tread as he approached from behind.

"Erik," Christine said softly, "these are beautiful. I didn't know you played chess."

He reached around her, lifting a piece into the light. "I've had no one to play chess with in years," he said quietly. "A pity; these were made by a master artisan." Erik replaced the piece gently in the box and bent as if to place it on the shelf, then turned to her suddenly. "Do you play chess, Christine?" The undertone of hope in his voice belied the casual inquiry.

"No, I never learned," she replied simply. Does he want a chess partner? "But you could teach me, Erik," she offered hesitantly. "I'm not clever, I don't know that I would make you a very good partner."

He shut his eyes as if in a brief spasm of pain, as unbidden images rose behind his eyelids, in his imagination. His partner. "You are wrong, there, Christine. I think we would be very well matched indeed, were you to only believe in yourself," he said quietly, but with an intensity that caused her to flush and turn away.

She shivered, the simple words fraught with meaning, as so many of his gestures, his words, were layered with meaning these days.

"Come then," he said, extending one hand commandingly. After a moment's pause, she took it, feeling the delicate brush of his fingers slowly closing over her own, holding them in a cold caress. Erik seated her before the board with the reverence due a princess and quickly set up the pieces. He turned his chair at a subtle angle so that his face lay in shadow and sat across from her, demonstrating the movements of each piece.

Her tutor proved a patient, thorough teacher in this game, as he had in music. By the end of the hour she felt reasonably competent to move the chessmen about the board, and she raised a shy smile to him.

"You have done well, learning the rules and movements of the pieces," Erik said quietly. "Perhaps the next time you come here for a lesson, we might end the evening with a game."

Pleased, she nodded. "If only you will promise to be kind to me, on the first few games!" Christine answered, smiling. "It would not be fair if you did not at least give me a chance!"

His face closed in an inscrutable mask. "I have always given you a chance, Christine," he murmured cryptically. "But the choices have been, and will always be, yours to make. Come," he rose abruptly, extending his hand to her, "I must return you to the Opera, before those fools shall decide you are missing again."

Erik pulled her to her feet and stood, his long cold fingers holding hers tightly, his gaze intense, searching. After a moment, Christine grew uncomfortable, brilliant carnation color staining her cheeks, and she looked away. "Erik?" she questioned softly.

He shook his head and loosed her hand. "Ce n'est rien, Christine. Nothing."

Erik came for her the next afternoon, waiting soundlessly, patiently behind the mirror in the secret, dusty stone corridor until rehearsal of Il Muto was over. He had told Christine that she would rest this afternoon before her performance, and he intended she should stay with him. His angel was tired, tired from her rehearsals, tired from hiding the encounters with the young Vicomte she thought he knew nothing of, tired from his insistence that she practice both roles on the chance the management might yet regain their senses and cast her in the role her talent demanded. His black eyes narrowed in swift anger. As of yet, they had not acceded to his demands, and La Carlotta was still scheduled for this night and the following night's performance.

Christine hurried in, tossing a handful of music pages down onto the chaise and sat at the dressing table, muttering swiftly under her breath, her midnight blue eyes snapping with indignation. Carlotta had been insufferably rude again this afternoon, dropping sly comments and hints about her purported rival, and her rival's unseen tutor. Her innuendos were not lost on the others; and more than once the young singer found herself the object of unwanted attention and speculation. She rubbed her knuckles into her eyes briefly, wondering what else could possibly add to the stress of the day. Raoul had been insistent that she dine with him this evening, and they had parted on less than amicable terms. Truthfully, she had no desire to retreat to the heavy silence of the underground house, but Erik had been adamant that she rest before the performance.

Rising, Christine paced the narrow confines of her dressing room, arms crossed and rubbing her hands along her upper arms. Of late her tutor had been mercurial, and his shifting moods had been more than disconcerting. The constant undercurrent of tension, of pressure bearing down upon her to keep promises made in ignorance, was increasingly unbearable. Each time she descended below the Opera, it was in fear that she would not return, as he had threatened once before.

From behind the mirrored wall his voice called to her then, and Christine shivered. How often he stood behind the mirror, watching her, his possessive eyes on her every move, every word, she could not bear to think of.

"I am ready, master," she murmured, schooling her face into a mask as emotionless as his own, before turning to rise. There was a subtle click, and the heavy glass dropped backwards slightly, pivoting on its unseen hinges. From behind, a damp current of chill air reached toward her. The dim light of the dressing room revealed the eerie sharpness of his mask, of the formal pleated shirt, seemingly disembodied in the darkness beyond, the edges of his heavy cloak blurring into the shadows of the corridor.

Erik extended the tips of his gloved fingers to her, commanding, compelling. "Come to your angel of music, Christine." She took his hand with a barely suppressed shiver and stepped over the threshold into darkness, aware of his searching glance.

He turned from her abruptly, lighting the small brass lantern. "Come," Erik said tightly. "Tonight is the performance, and you will remain with me until then. Your room is prepared; you will rest."

"As you wish." Christine bit back more words; the twisting narrow passages behind the walls and through empty corridors were not the place to anger him. They walked in silence, his hand occasionally touching her arm, guiding her at the junction of a passage, down endless stairs. Soon, the arched vaults and flooded vast rooms with their echoes of lapping water were revealed. He stepped onto a low bridge, drawing her after him swiftly. The sconces with their flickering gas flames ended here, only darkness was beyond, and she shuddered involuntarily.

Erik turned away, his swiftly rising anger concealed, revealed only in the thin set of compressed lips. She dared defy him, to turn from him! After the months of work, after the countless hours of lessons, listening to her despair that she would never sing in the way she could make her lost father proud, could make him proud.... She would throw this all away for that stupid boy! And as she threw away her glory, her triumph, so too she cast aside the heart he offered....

He leaned down, untying the lines that held the small gondola boat in place, and helped her down into it, attaching the small lantern to the front. In silence, he poled the black boat across the underground lake. Christine sat in front, turned away, her fingers tracing the gothic carvings of the prow.

Once inside the underground house, she seemed to relax somewhat. The hours spent here had forced a certainly familiarity and degree of comfort. She turned, hesitating at the door of the Louis-Philippe room.

"Erik? What do you plan to do this afternoon?"

The Opera Ghost turned his head, glancing at her swiftly. "Do? I shall go out. The sound of the organ would disturb your slumber, and there are details I need to see to." He did not trust himself to remain so close. Without a backwards glance, the Phantom of the Opera strode from the sanctuary that had become a prison, and to the streets beyond.

He tried without success to not subject her to his constant scrutiny, for he knew it made her uncomfortable. That he, who so hated to be stared at, could not take his eyes off another struck him as ironic. And yet, here he stood, hidden in the shadows, watching her, committing her voice, her gestures, her unconscious grace to indelible memory.

Noiselessly, Erik retreated to the vestibule and stepped from the shadows, removing his cloak and slowly stripping the gloves from his long hands. Christine sat by the fire, a novel face down beside her, her fine brows drawn together in a frown. The chessboard, set up for their nightly game, lay on the low table. At his footsteps, she turned, eyes flashing.

Erik raised an eyebrow in response before sitting across from her. "Have you rested sufficiently?"

Yes," she replied tightly, one hand gripping the arm of the chair, then forced her fingers to loosen. Erik seemed distant, preoccupied, and though his face was averted, staring into the fire, his black eyes gleamed with subtle malice. She feared him most in this mood. Hoping to distract her tutor, she leaned forward, and seeing the tremor in her own hand, reached quickly for a pawn.

The next few moves were made in tense silence, as each assessed the opening gambit of the other. Christine was silent, selecting and discarding choices, both of words, and of chess, hesitating, not knowing tonight whether to attack or retreat.

Erik watched her, accurately discerning her thoughts, then inclined his head, templing his fingers. "You seem angry with me."

The young singer looked up, eyes narrowing. "You left me alone here, all afternoon," she accused.

He raised disdainful eyes. "I do have…business to attend to, Christine. I cannot spend every moment with you." Though I would give all I possess to do so, he added silently. Erik gestured at the board. "What piece would you chose, Christine? You are in command here, you may choose what you wish," he said coldly.

A sliver of ice penetrated her soul as she looked into his intense, burning eyes, knowing there was no answer she could make. It was so hard to think in his presence; when he was nearby, she so often became a creature of feeling. "I…I do not know, Erik," she whispered, unable to look away. The eyes of a waiting predator could have held no more power than did his.

His compelling voice held her in thrall. "The knight? Always riding out to rescue the queen, perhaps, Christine?" he said softy. "Or perhaps a pawn, used, then cast aside. Of no importance, once it is no longer needed, and never mourned." He touched each piece on the board in turn. "Right now you hold the queen; the queen, with her freedom to move anywhere on the board." His long, elegant fingers caressed the ivory piece, and she shivered, thinking of those deft hands' touch on her own skin. "But remember there is always the castle, the tower of stone to protect you, or the king, limited in his response, but not his desire."

"The time is coming soon when you must choose, Christine. Chess is more than a game, Christine. To some, it is a metaphor of life. It does not do to make reckless moves."

His voice was bitter, angry, his expression remote. She shivered, despite the pleasantly warm temperature of the room and the presence of the low amber flames in the hearth and made no reply.

"Black and white. How simple. So many never move beyond that, into the world of shadow, wouldn't you say?" he taunted.

"I don't know, Erik," Christine whispered unhappily. They were no longer speaking of chess. Was he angered at her scarcely hidden, continuing involvement with Raoul? Did her own inability to choose between them rouse this formidable, cold anger?

Desperate, she looked up at him. "Erik, don't speak so, you frighten me. You mustn't talk like this, I'm not worthy of you, of your…love."

There. She had said it. The words were out in the open, to fall like brittle shards of glass between them.

If possible, his expression tightened even more, his shoulders stiffening against the denial. "We cannot choose where we will love, Christine. The gods choose for us."

Stubbornly, desperately, she shook her head. How often had he hoped for a woman's love--perhaps never? "No. I cannot believe that. I…I cannot be the only one for you, Erik."

Those hooded dark eyes blazed with sudden wrath. "How do you know this, Christine? How can you say there is someone else for me? What do you know of the years I've spent, waiting, yearning to live as a normal man? In all that time I have loved only one woman, have wanted only one woman. Was I a fool to think she could accept me as I am?"

"No, no…" she stuttered.

He looked at her, intense, commanding, a hint of dark pleading in those hooded eyes. "Would you willingly remove my mask now, Christine, knowing what you know now?" he asked softly, and read her answer in widened midnight-blue eyes, the involuntary shudder that escaped her tense shoulders.

"It…it's not that bad…Erik."

"Spare me your platitudes, your words of 'comfort'," he sneered. "I know how you feel; you have made it all too clear."

Flushing, she turned away. "But Erik…"

His eyes blazed into hers, alight with inner torment. "I asked if you would still remove my mask, Christine. Would you touch this ruin of my face in love? Of course you would not. No woman would, not even my own mother. For who could spend an eternity looking at this face, save only the man behind it?" His voice was raw with pain. "I resigned myself to a life without companionship, without love. Fifty years, Christine, to have never known the touch of a hand in friendship, the comfort of a caress. I will never know the pleasures of a woman's love." His mouth tightened. "Do not throw me your words of false hope," he sneered. "Respect me at least that much. I have tried to bury the longings and passions, the desires of a man deep under this building. I have endured a lifetime of deprivation until now," he said bitterly. "I will continue to endure."

They faced each other in silence so intense that the deep sonorous ticking of the great clock in the vestibule seemed to echo through the underground house like a heartbeat.

"Yet, it might not be as terrible as you fear, Christine." Erik's voice was low, hypnotic, the Opera Ghost's veiled, commanding presence. His hand reached out, the delicate almost-touch caressing, warming the air by her face. She shivered involuntarily, pulled by the urge to lean into that gesture, resisting the need to do so, his beautiful, inhuman hands stating so eloquently what was in his heart, his soul, the words he could not speak.

"In the dark, would you turn from this haunted face in horror, in fear, Christine? Would my touch be as loathsome as my distorted face?" His hand curved along the air by her face, the fingertips almost stroking her jaw, the sweep of falling nut-brown curls. A glossy tendril of her hair caught on his graceful hand, twining around a long, elegant finger. Mesmerized, she watched as he caressed the curl, stroking it, the feel of it smoother than the finest satin under his sensitive musician's fingertips. She was so close, now…he could smell the faint sweet scent of her skin, feel the warmth emanating from her ivory flesh. Erik reached out, sweeping her to him suddenly, imprisoning her slender form against his. In his powerful embrace she felt the heat and hard solid strength of his long body. Black eyes, dilated with longing and some darker emotion bore down in hers. "You know it would not," he whispered with certainty.

Shuddering, she twisted out of his embrace and retreated back of the chair, her thoughts whirling, spinning. Why did his touch incite this core of liquid heat inside her, even through her fear? Was this desire?

Blue eyes, wide with fear and uncertainty stared helplessly into his and Erik spun away, unable to bear her indecision. His shaking fists clenched tightly along the edge of the mantle. "Oh, Christine," he said, stark longing no longer hidden in his beautiful, sorrowful voice, "you once loved your Angel of Music. Can you not love me as well? Child, I do not ask you for an answer tonight. But I must have one soon. I cannot continue to exist in this half-hell of need."

"Choose your boy, or choose your angel who will never love another. I must know soon." The great surge of raw emotion threatened to overwhelm his precarious control, and whirling, Erik strode rapidly from the room, unable to remain in her presence.

The young singer stared after her mentor, tears flooding her eyes, before she sank, trembling, down on the settee. He asked only the only thing she could not give.

Please review…and thank you for reading.