Thanks for the reviews, guys! It means a lot to see that some of you have still stuck with me after so long; I love you so much! And I'm excited to see some new readers, too. Thank you, thank you!
This is a chapter I like a lot, merely for what I added with how Ria discovers Erik was the Phantom of the Opera. I don't know why I like it so much; it was just a lot of fun to write. So, I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Chapter Four: Reunion
I knew this man.
The thought rang through my mind as if an echo, as if rather stupidly it was all I could manage to think as I stared at him, transfixed…frozen in place by both fear and awe.
Perhaps it was the fact that the man standing in front of me was truly Erik, the first and only man I'd ever come to respect despite his terrible coldness and murderous horrors, and also the father of my child. Perhaps that was why my legs were trembling and my head spinning, and why I was praying to Allah to keep myself from fainting. Or perhaps there was another reason entirely. A reason that I dared not embellish on, least of all to myself.
Lowering my eyes, I smoothed my fingers over the drab skirts that I wore, trying to act calmly, indifferently, as if I had not a care in the world. But deep down I was anything but calm. My heart had taken to hammering painfully against my chest, and my stomach churned as if I might any moment loose my meager breakfast, just as I had seemed to momentarily loose my wits.
And for those first few moments, with the most dreadful silence I had ever experienced hanging down upon us, I thought I had also lost my voice. I opened my mouth to speak, and the words would not come…I choked.
My mouth immediately clamped shut and, unsure of what else I could do, I raised my eyes to his, tilting my chin up with a braveness that I certainly did not feel, and felt even less so as I was reintroduced to just how tall he was. I'd almost forgotten the looming shadow he seemed to be, towering above my rather unimpressive stature.
I had not, however, forgotten his eyes. Their hopeless golden gaze was forever ingrained in my memory, and they were the same as ever in their brilliance; two amber-bright pools gleaming from the shadow that seemed to hover around him, a gaze that was both beautiful and shrewd in its intensity. And yet…they were not the same. For in his eyes I saw new tragedy…a sadness that could not even compare to the way he had looked at me that first night, and no matter how much coldness filled his eyes, no matter the way they narrowed and intimidated, he could not quite hide such a powerful emotion.
Not from me, at least. For I knew that very same look; knew it by heart; knew it by my own reflection.
Nonetheless, he still seemed rather unchanged. His face seemed to have aged a bit prematurely, with deep frown lines between his brow and mask, and he seemed even paler then when I'd first met him. But the same little scar stretched over his temple, and the same raven hair lay atop his head, thick and slightly wavy. The glare of sunlight and snow that seemed to festoon around us could not quite lessen the darkness that so utterly enveloped him, as if that darkness were indeed always a part of him; but I fancied his hair looked as if it had auburn streaks through it in the golden light.
The white half-mask, a rather striking difference from the usual black mask he had worn when I first met him, was perhaps the most prominent thing about him. Enshrouded in shadows as he was, the mask seemed to strike out from all that darkness, arching above his eye to resemble a brow just as permanently haughty as his other, and its whiteness only slightly paler than his face, making his thin lips look almost blood red.
Not for the first time, I wondered what lay beneath that mask. And, not for the first time, I almost felt relief upon the fact that I did not have to know.
What horror did he hide…
"Ria."
I swallowed thickly as he said my name…said it with such coldness I would have been afraid had I not already known him from before. And maybe I was a little afraid.
But despite the nervousness I felt and the step backwards that I took, a small part of me felt almost pleased. He remembered me…
"Erik," I said back, and was proud to hear how steady my voice sounded. "Do you come here often?"
He laughed then. But when I say laughed, I did not mean to imply that it was a joyous or an altogether pleasing sound, because it was not. It was cold, just as everything else about him seemed to be. Cold and menacing. More of a monstrous chuckle than a laugh.
But then he stopped just as abruptly as he had started. "Perhaps I use to. But…not anymore."
I nodded as if what he said made a lot of sense…but I had not really understood. Then again, I doubted I could have understood anything he'd said to me, for in that one sentence his voice had lacked the coldness that had embraced his laugh. His voice had been so very beautiful just then…oh, how I had missed that voice.
He could have told me he wished to kill me by long, protracted torture, and still I would have nodded with a smile!
"Been in Paris long, my dear?"
At that I smiled. "Oh, yes," I said, all the while with my hands behind my back, my fingers twisting round and round. "Six years."
"How very pleasant for you," the sarcasm in his voice was dully noted. "But what are you doing here?"
I tried to get an answer from what I was starting to think of as a rather useless mind, but I could not seem to pull a single coherent thought. What was this man doing to me? Why had I sought out that passionate voice? With the spell of its beauty quite gone from me, I could see now how foolish I had been.
"I…I do not exactly know…" I smiled foolishly, as if trying to apologize for my useless answer; how idiotic I sounded! The corner of his mouth twitched upwards just slightly, but that was the only reaction he gave. He only continued to stare at me, silent as corpse, and as terrifying as one, as well! That man, and after what I had done for him; he was rude and absolutely infuriating! I wished he would say something more; I wished he would be less cold towards me; I wished…oh, how I wished he would-
"I…" my voice trembled just slightly from embarrassment, and I could feel heat flaming upon my cheeks. "I heard someone singing. My curiosity got the better of me, I suppose." I should have realized it had been his voice! How could I have not matched the beauty of that sound?
"Ah. I see." He leaned casually against the side of the building, next to a rusted gate wrought with the ivy that clung its way up the bars. He crossed his arms eloquently, in a manner I thought far too arrogant. The devilish man!
My brows furrowed to match the sudden frown on my lips. "Well, it would appear you do not much like company. Perhaps I will just take my leave."
And with that I moved to walk past him, my eyes staring straight forward, expressing how firm I was in my resolute to move on and make my way home. I was starting shiver rather badly after all. I needed warmth desperately. I needed my daughter's comfort.
But just as I moved past him, his hand shot out and grasped my wrist tightly.
I bit my lip to keep from crying out, and my eyes dropped to where his hand held my wrist. His fingers clutched so tightly I could see my skin growing a bit red. But despite the slight pain I felt in my wrist, the only thing I could truly decipher was the coldness of his hand, ever colder than the snow that brushed against my cheeks and clung to my lashes, and the paleness of it compared to mine…the paleness of those long, cold fingers, so slender despite their strength.
Do not dare think of it, Ria…
But it was too late. Already the image of his hand, trembling a mere inch above my throat, formed in my mind. The feeling of his fingers spread across my skin. The sound of our intake of breath, and the way we stared at each other as I slowly rose up on my toes and his head dipped down with hesitance…
With a shiver, my eyes hesitantly found their way to his. He was so close I could see the little bits of snow that clung to his own lashes despite how he tried to blink them away. Such a sight had me biting my lip so hard it stung.
And then he quickly dropped my wrist, and as I watched, the redness to my skin started to fade away. I couldn't help but wonder if he had remembered the very thing that I had.
I had to leave; I had to get away from him, right away, as soon as possible. I couldn't bear to stand so close to him, I could hardly stand the torment of it all! This was wrong, all wrong! And yet…I couldn't force myself to move. I wanted to know…wanted to hear what he seemed he so badly wanted to say to me.
My breath was shaky when I finally looked up again, straight into his narrowed eyes. We both stood, our faces turned slightly to stare at one another, our arms almost touching, him hardly daring to breath and myself hardly able to control my own breathing. We stared at each other for the longest moment. And then I spoke:
"Was there something else you wanted to say…Erik?"
He said nothing. Only stared at me for what seemed forever, something buried deep in the gaze of his eyes, an emotion only the most foolish would seek to find. And then he looked away, with only the barest shake of his head to dismiss me. I swallowed my disappointment. Told myself that leaving here was what I wanted to do, needed to do.
"Then I must go. I have errands to run for my Lady. Madame Laroche will be expecting me back soon. Good bye, Erik." It was odd, really, that those three words of farewell that I should have said to him so long ago were only just now being whispered; and yet they now seemed so inadequate, when there was something else entirely that I longed so much to say.
I'd barely made it three paces when he called out to me.
"Ria,"
I could have sobbed at the sound of that voice, saying my name as if…as if…
His voice was doing odd things to me, affecting me in a way that made my stomach churn in fear of what that could mean. I felt feverish at the way his eyes regarded me, felt as if I was drowning in hot water from the intensity of his stare. And like the coward I was, I fled. Turned my back on him and almost ran in my haste to get away, to escape that look in his eyes, that unknown feeling I heard in his voice.
I was almost around the corner of the building when I turned to look back upon him one last time, to store up more memories that would never be forgotten.
But he was already gone.
I was several blocks away from that wretched opera house when my anguish finally grew so unbearable it had me collapsing on a stone bench. My hands were shaking; my whole body was shaking. I buried my face in those hands as I took in great, gulping breaths, as if I had truly just been drowning in the wake of his stare, and only just now broke free of the surface to take my first breath of sweet, sweet air.
I sat there, trying to stop the mounting panic that had grabbed hold of my senses, trying to slow the racing of my wicked heart, trying and trying so hard to forget! How I longed to just erase my memory, to forget this intolerable burden that seemed to press upon my being with a fierce intensity. But with my eyes closed and my palms pressed tightly to the lids, the blackness of my vision was forced away with the image of him…Erik.
He was actually here! I had actually spoken with the father of my child. He had remembered me, placed his hand upon my arm as if deep down he had not wanted me to leave.
The father of my child…By Allah, why had I not told him? What was wrong with me? How could I have forgotten everything being in the mere presence of him? He deserved to know. Mina deserved a father.
As I sat there, cursing myself for stupidity, for my utter cowardice, the urge to get up from where I sat and march back to the Palais Garnier was so strong I almost gave in. I would find Erik, wherever he had disappeared to, and tell him the truth.
But I can't.
The little voice rang out in my mind pitifully. And I suddenly felt sickened with myself. My hands slid into my hair, rubbing my scalp to rid myself of the sudden headache I felt, my eyes narrowed as they looked down at my feet.
A Coward. That was exactly what I was.
I felt torn. A part of me wanted to tell him about his daughter so badly, and I hoped with all my heart that one day I would see him again. The yearning to be a good mother to my daughter, to do right by Mina, was a deep and strong emotion, something that constantly preyed upon me. But another part, the part that I had pushed aside ever since I had left Persia, the part of me that I refused to let surface upon the fact that I had a daughter and that my daughter needed my strength, that part was scared. I did not want to face him. I did not want to admit the truth. Who knew how he would react?
My head started to pound with ever more brutality. These past six years I had faced some of the most difficult decisions of my life. I had faced them and pushed through them even when I had lost all faith in mankind…had lost all faith in myself. I had done so for my daughter. She had been my strength through it all, and even in my darkest and most despairing of moments, at a time when I had almost given up; I had refused to do so -- for her.
And now, when my strength mattered the most, I did not know what to do. And I suddenly felt so tired; vulnerable and alone. Where had my strength gone?
I'm tired of being strong.
But who was I without my strength? Where would Mina be without my strength? I could not afford to give up!
Taking a deep breath, I lifted my head from my hands, my expression emotionless as I surveyed my surroundings.
And slowly…I found my courage. I straightened my shoulders as I got to my feet and started the long trek back to the Laroche estate. I would not give up. I would not give in to weakness, not now after I had made it so far.
And oddly enough, a strange sort of giddiness seemed to brighten my heart and make my steps grow light with a happiness I could in no way explain. Maybe I would see him again…
A smile, the first true smile I had ever had in the absence of my daughter, who until now had been my only reason for gladness and smiles, spread across my lips.
It had been a long and tiresome day for me, and as the end of the evening ticked closer and closer on the grandfather clock in the entrance hall, my relief was certainly growing more obvious by the tick. I was very much looking forward to crawling into bed, to fall into such a deep sleep that I need not have dreams; that I need not remember
Brushing a sweaty strand of hair from my eyes, I headed down one of the halls, making my way to the library. Mina would no doubt be lurking among all the books, reading up on another foreign country or practicing her music on the piano that was kept in the library; she'd been learning to play from books, of course, teaching herself something that came as naturally to her as breathing.
The door eased open quietly, and I slipped inside looking for any sign of my studious daughter. The room, indeed a grand room with floors and high walls made of white marble, and with gleaming wooden bookshelves that rose up perilously, was silent but for the slight noise of my steps. I saw no sign of Mina, but to the left, between two shelves, light from an oil lamp shone out.
But when I peered between the shelves, Mina was not there. Instead there was only a stack of newspapers, slightly dusty with age, though apparently not too terribly old, for the dates I saw lining the tops of a few of them dated back to only a year ago. Beside them sat the oil lamp.
With a heavy sigh, I retrieved the oil lamp and started to leave in continuation of my search for the wayward child. As I walked past the newspapers, however, my hip brushed their edges, causing the tall pile to teeter dramatically before crashing to the floor. With a frustrated groan I set the oil lamp back down and bent to pile the papers back up, glancing at their front pages as I did so; one in particular caught my eye upon first glance, the picture glaring up at me from the front page attracting all of my attention at once.
I was staring at a picture of the Opera Garnier, and above it a headline blazing the words: 'Two Hundred Thousand Kilos on a Concierge's Head!' My interest was instantly piqued. With widening eyes, I skimmed the article:
…after the mysterious mishap with the Opera's diva, La Carlotta…chandelier swung violently before finally crashing, killing only one…husband devastated…many injured…members of the cast insist that the House that night was cursed…
I read on, feeling dreadful for the dead concierge and her poor husband, and indignation that whoever built the blasted chandelier couldn't have made it more stable.
I was going to stack the paper with the rest when my eyes caught an odd statement.
…several dancers joked in nervous tones that it must have been the Ghost…
My breath caught as a mindless dread came over me, and I read more, my eyes skimming through only the bits and pieces that pieced together an all too horrifying truth…
…Upon further investigation of this so called 'Ghost', rumors have been discovered of the Palais Garnier being haunted by a man as thin as a skeleton, with pits for eyes and a head of fire…a man who wanders the halls and disappears as quickly as he appears…a man whom, by the claim of the dancers, allegedly murdered Joseph Buquet, former chief stagehand…Buquet was said to of hung himself with a rope…
A single hand rose to cover my lips on that word.
A rope.
Allah.
My gaze went to the picture again, riveted upon the black and white picture of the Palais Garnier, my mind full of memories from that morning.
"Do you come here often?"
"Perhaps I use to. But…not anymore."
The voices echoed through my mind, as if the day was now on replay. And through it all I heard that laugh, that horrible laugh that so chilled my flesh. Perhaps now I knew what was so amusing to him. Perhaps he had not changed at all.
I glanced down, and another newspaper, half covered, caught my eye. It bore the headline: 'Chagny Married And On The Run From A Ghost!' My eyes were immediately attracted to the middle of the article.
…Following the disappearance of Daae was a hasty marriage between herself and the Vicomte de Chagny, wasting no time with the death of his brother, the esteemed Comte de Chagny. Scandal and deceit will surely follow this new family, no matter the fact they the couple seem to have disappeared to another country…sources say the couple is running from the rumored Opera Ghost of the Palais Garnier, the demon the corps de ballet condemn for the new Viscomtess de Chagny's kidnapping on the night of her Faust debut, the very same night that the Comte de Chagny drowned. One such dancer claims to have seen the alleged Phantom of the Opera that night, just moments before Christine Daae's kidnapping, saying the ghost simply wore a mask that covered half of his face…
I didn't need to read any further. The paper fell from my fingers just as my knees grew weak. I slid to the floor with wide eyes, not able to make even the smallest of noises.
"He hasn't changed one bit."
My words seemed to hang in the air as I hugged my knees to my chest, bringing my blanket closer under my chin. The giddiness I had felt earlier, those moments when I first laid my eyes on Erik again, had depleted, had left me feeling a strange emptiness. It had been an hour after I'd found Mina and put her to bed. An hour since I'd come to my own bed, despite its uselessness tonight.
I doubted I'd be getting any sleep. For it had also only been an hour since I'd realized that Erik was still a murderer.
Falling back onto my bed, I burrowed my face in my pillow, curled into a small ball. Through all of my melodrama, one thought ceaselessly echoed.
Erik was the infamous Phantom of the Opera. There was no point in denying such a fact. There was no point deluding myself into thinking that maybe it wasn't him. That maybe he had changed. That maybe there was another masked man running around the city of Paris.
I snorted, rolling my eyes and smiling despite myself.
My thoughts turned to the girl he had kidnapped in his apparent desperation to have her, this Daae singer. I tried to deny it, tried to ignore it, but deep down I felt something that I had never felt before.
Jealousy.
It was strange to be feeling such a thing. I'd never been jealous of the other harem girls, for they had been in my very same circumstance. I'd never been jealous of the men, what with their freedom, for I figured to be a man would be a pity, for after all they were such beasts, men.
But now, irrevocably, I felt a simmering anger at this Christine Daae girl. I was jealous, I knew, of the attention Erik had no doubt given her.
Laughing dryly, I turned to my side. What did I need with his attention? He'd kidnapped her, had he not? Doubtful anyone should want such negative attention like that from a man like him. Least of all myself.
And with that, I fell asleep. But my dreams were haunted by a flock of dancing girls, each pointing behind me and screaming, "The Phantom! He has Christine!" and when I turned to look, I only saw his shadow, laughing in its infinite cruelty.
I found myself walking from Madame Rousseau's dress shop two weeks later, my hands crossed over my belly where I hid my Lady's wrapped dress inside my cloak. As I walked my eyes reverently gazed upon the sky, where the sun disappeared behind the array of buildings. The dying light sent a vast amount of fiery hues across the sky, the reds and oranges piercing through the clouds and sweeping the sky with curling shapes.
The dusky view was a glorious one, but one that nonetheless made my heart ache. For no matter the beauty of France, it could not compare to a land of exotic proportion. My homeland.
How I missed it sometimes.
I tried to push those thoughts away, tried to forget the past that so haunted me but, alas, some memories are better thought of than others. It was best to just think on something as innocent and breathtaking as a sunset, rather than the cringe-worthy memories that still pressed themselves upon me, in the back on my mind, hidden away where only the most foolhardy would seek to go.
A sigh escaped my lips, and a cloud of white mist puffed up in front of my face. I smiled in childish joy, breathing out against my hands and watching the white puffs form with delight. In Persia, we'd never had snow, never had whether so cold you could see testament of your breath before your very eyes. I looked ahead to see if anyone had caught sight of my foolish antics.
And almost froze at what I saw. A tall shadow, making its way around the corner of a building, down a dark and unfamiliar street. Suddenly I had forgotten that he still murdered and destroyed; I forgot that I should be truly afraid of him more than anything else I might have felt. But the only thing I felt was a strong and urgent wish to see him, to speak to him, to hear that godly voice. I didn't even think, such a fool I was, didn't even question.
I followed.
Turning the corner, I saw him a little ways ahead of me. I dearly wanted to call out, tell him to wait, but fear, it seemed, is an ever present emotion I had with each time I saw him. And so I stayed silent, trying to keep him in sight and follow him to wherever he was going. I didn't know why I suddenly insisted on following him, didn't know what I would do once I got there, or how I would get home from the unknown streets. I just could not stop myself!
It seemed we walked forever, making turns and winding through streets growing slummier by the minute, until I was so lost I would never find my way back. And still we walked.
A shiver ran through my already trembling body, the bite of the chill air turning my cheeks pink and my nose frozen. The path was lit by a few luminescent street lights, the sun having long since disappeared, and snow was starting to fall from above, clouding my vision until I could hardly see Erik in front of me. The snow was so deep that my feet were starting to sink down into it, lagging my steps until Erik was so far ahead of me I feared I would loose him. I tried to call out, but the air froze my throat, and with the gasp of breath I took to speak out with I gave a deep, aching cough instead.
I could hardly feel my numbing toes as melting snow leaked into my shoes. The pain had been so much, more of an awful, searing burning rather than freezing, that the numbness was entirely welcome. And so still I trudged on, pain creeping over my whole body, my dress getting wet from snow, my breath coming in great gasps until I had to bend over from the hacking coughs that rose from my throat. There was a terrible ache in my chest.
When I straightened back up, he was gone.
My look about the streets was terrified. It was almost completely deserted at this hour, and anyone that was about was certainly no one I would want to ask directions from. There were only a few haggard and dirtied beggars, and a few eyes that peeked out from darkened alleyways. I saw the glint of a knife in a man's belt as he walked past me with a great sneering look upon his face.
I couldn't hold back the sob that rose from my throat as I hurried down the street in the direction Erik had last been going. I tried to run, but I could hardly move I was so frozen.
"Erik," I whispered in a wretched little voice, for a whisper was all I could seem to utter as another bout of hacking overcame me.
And there, with my hand braced against a wall near the start of an alley, suddenly another hand reached out past the darkness, and pulled me into the shadows. The last thing I screamed, as loud as I possibly could before the hand clamped over my parted lips, was Erik's name.