How long has it been? Two years or so? Finally an update! I'm so sorry for the hiatus.
Disclaimer: I don't own POTO
The boy stiffened. Raoul held his breath impatiently- his world was a mess as it was, and all he needed was a simple sight to confirm his madness. He could still remember the man's face in his mind. Oh, Erik had a horrid visage: parchment skin, thinly stretched over a pale skull, veins obvious, and a black hole for a nose.
Was he prepared to face that sight again? If luck was on his side, he wouldn't have to.
"Monseiur," Erik, no, the boy, started, "I'd rather not scare you."
"I beg you," Raoul implored, "Please, I beg you, Erik- corpse, whatever you're called, please, I must see. I must."
The boy regarded him warily and the young man must have bore the eyes of a madman, that much Raoul was certain. Reluctantly, the child's thin fingers crawled towards the mask's strings. They moved with a speed so slow Raoul was almost pained.
The mask came down. Raoul's world prompty stopped moving. He wanted to break down and cry, from rage, grief, it mattered not. He wanted to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Amazing Madame indeed!
The horror of a face was exactly as he remembered. Raoul felt the blood leave his head. His lower lip trembled and he struggled not to tear his eyes away and dash from that tent.
He must stare hard at that face and let every detail etch into his mind's eye.
"I told you so," the boy said coldly, shielding his face once more with the mask, "You'll most certainly have nightmares tonight, Monsieur le comte."
Raoul put a hand to his temple. "I'm living in a nightmare!" He snapped.
He laughed, guffawing until his insides hurt. Perhaps he drank something the night before. Perhaps he had gone too many nights without sleeping, what with Christine's illness and Phillipe's death. Yes, he had gone mad. He would go to sleep and wake up and all would be as it was before.
The boy, Erik, yes, Erik, stayed in his own little corner, staring at Raoul in much the same way the gypsies had.
"Tell me, boy, what year is it?"
"I don't know."
"Come, Erik- tell me! What harm can it do!"
He doubled over with laughter, slapping his thighs and pounding on the bench. He was a raving drunk, that must have been it- he was a poor poisoned wretch. The Madame had poisoned him and now his mind was slipping. He must have been dying. Such a marvelous end for a pathetic nobleman!
"I believe it is 1842."
Raoul closed his eyes. "1842, you say?" He chuckled again. "I was not even born. Phillipe would barely be a boy. And you Erik? Pray tell, how old are you, my ghost?"
"Monsieur, you're not well."
"Tell me!"
"Please-"
"Damn you, you wretched corpse! Tell me!"
"Twelve."
When the young man opened his eyes again, he could not distinguish a thing. The light had been put out.
"Good night, comte," Erik said softly.
Raoul did not reply. And for the first time that horrible night, he recognized the boy's voice- yes, the grim melodious tone of his darling's teacher. It was the year 1842 and he was in the tent of the Living Corpse.
The young man awoke to a thin filter of light coming in through the tent's flaps. He was sore and stiff. With disgust, Raoul stared at his wrinkled clothing and the damp sweat sticking to his shirt. He had a nightmare.
A preposterous nightmare was all it was. Sighing, Raoul surveyed his surroundings. He was in an adequately sized tent, the only furniture present being the bench he rested on and a small table at the other end. A pile of blankets lay neatly folded on the ground.
Where was he? The Amazing Madame was all he could recall.
It had been too long and Christine must have been worried sick. It was terrible of him to worry her so. Taking a moment to stretch his limbs, Raoul prepared to leave the tent when the flaps moved.
A masked head poked its way in.
He remembered everything: the gypsies, the coins, the badly timed brawl, and the child's demonic face.
Good heavens! The nightmare was still playing out.
"What year is it?" He rasped.
"1842," the boy replied stoically.
Erik (good grief, he remembered the boy's name!) stepped into the tent with a clay bowl. "It's water, Monsieur. You must be thirsty."
The year was 1842. Raoul took the bowl without a second thought and poured its contents down his throat- the reality was as obvious as the stinging bruise on his cheek and the lukewarm liquid in his mouth. He had just accepted water from his worst enemy.
And with horror, the comte realized he would have to depend on the boy from that point forward.
He was as helpless as a blind child and his mind was still in shambles.
"Come with me, Monsieur. My master has orders for you."
Calling a gypsy master? Would Raoul be expected to do the same? Oh, the indignity!
"What kind of orders?"
"He wants you to clean his shoes. He only has two pairs."
Raoul could only stare at the boy's annoyingly familiar eyes. Clean shoes? He had not done such demeaning work since his days in the navy and even that did not come close to the degradation of what was asked, especially for a man who he was now beginning to loathe.
"I am le comte De Chagny," was all he could say.
"I know, Monsieur."
Again, I'm horribly sorry for the long update. But this fic has come back to life! To be honest, I thought I'd give up on it for good but it's back now, and for everyone following, I owe you 10 more chapters. For everyone who reviewed, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart. Forgive me?
And I hope this was entertaining enough for you to read. Feel free to review.