A/N: Two chapters! One night! What insanity! I've got the next few chapters written, and I'm really eager to get them out there. But please review, or I'll be forced to keep second guessing myself and withhold publication until Kaylyn (beta), my sister, my friends, my cats, etc., all get a chance to read and give me feedback (:

Thanks as usual, as always, to betas Kaylyn and LadyKatana. You guys rock!


Chapter 7: The Phantom

Amelie heard Feste singing in the darkness but as she rushed towards the song, she could not see him. What a fickle friend! It was the same thing every time. She could hear him, but the song remained just out of reach, available but unattainable. How could he always be just out of her sight and just out of her grasp? Why did he fear her so?

Amelie returned to the house on the lake only to find the Phantom had retired to his room once again. This night, she did not make him tea. Why would she? His declarations of her value as a human being scorned the most prideful portion of her soul, and Amelie found herself fuming at the thought of it. How could a man who lived underground, hidden behind a mask, deem her "pathetic"? The thought made her blood boil. Men were always so quick to judge a woman; by her appearance, by her clothes, and by her family, but never by her words or the content of her character! But this man… he had listened to Amelie's passionate declarations, only to degrade her for her ability to take satisfaction from her own values!

Despite her refusal to provide the Phantom with her evening offering, Amelie still found herself eager to provide Feste with his nightly rations. As she returned to the ledge on the lake to fetch his plate, Amelie contemplated how she wanted to capture his nature in the Song of the Ephemeron; his beauty, the beauty of the hope he provided to her while she lived in this forsaken tomb, was ethereal and fleeting, just like Eleonora's. Available, but attainable, as Poe would realize and lament.

In a strange twist of fate, however, it was Feste that brought the reality of Amelie's situation to mind. As part of her evening custom, Amelie usually prepared tea for herself and Monsieur, then she took a plate of torn bread pieces out to Feste. Though on that evening, her hand fell empty and Amelie realized they had no more bread. How long had it been since she consumed anything of substance? She had nibbled at a piece of stale bread the previous day, or maybe it was the day before that?, but apart from those few morsels, Amelie felt a sickening jab in her stomach that betrayed her hunger.

And now that she had realized her imminent starvation, the cupboards were empty. Monsieur had made it clear he did not take meals, which explained the sharp, bony joints and his thin, stiff, wiry frame. Perhaps he could subsist on tea and wine and whatever it was that seeped smoke into her living room through the shared ventilation system, but she certainly could not! This was one confrontation on which Amelie could not compromise. So that same evening, Amelie's pride gave way so that she could bring the Phantom a small offering of tea… heavens knows she would do anything she could to put him in the best spirits possible before making her proposal. She curled her small hands into a fist, tensed her shoulders, and took a deep breath. Then, she knocked.

In an instant, in the moment she had made contact with the door and before she could even muster a second rap, the Phantom met her at the door. The gold, glowing eyes gave way to the same glaze and for the first time, Amelie was close enough to see more details around his mask. The skin around his jaw and hairline was little more than a paper-thin veil covering veins and sinew that pumped and tensed as he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could form the words, a small gasp of horror escaped her lips, and she could see the eyes beyond the mask narrow in anger.

"I apologize, Monsieur, you frightened me. I hadn't even knocked a second time and then-"

"Do not lie, woman, you're an abysmal liar. The Phantom has heard worse than gasps at the prospect of his face," She could smell the sweet, spicy aroma of the smoke on his breath and clothes again.

"I do apologize for that, as well, Monsieur," She replied softly with as much courage as she could muster. "I've never… it just startled me."

"Luckily for you I am too intoxicated for rage," the Phantom said with strange, silky, song-like tones. He backed away from the door opening his chamber to her. A desk covered in parchment scribbled with notes lay before her in one corner of the room while a black, beckoning and ominous, coffin lay in the center of the room.

"You… do not sleep in a bed?" Amelie inquired with significant hesitation. It felt wrong to pry so much. Their entire coexistence had flourished only because she did not pry. Hostility was a defense mechanism, the same way a dog bites when it is cornered or a horse kicks when it is startled. In a similar fashion, monsieur's disposition was thorny at best and violent when agitated even the slightest but Amelie found it only another mask to disguise his fear. Amelie's wrist bore bruises from the first time he found her rearranging objects Christine had left strewn about the home; a pair of shoes here, a glove there… Amelie could infer that the prima donna was not the tidiest or most stringent of women. So Amelie did her best to never approach him at all and this safe distance had permitted her a certain degree of security. But, in this case, the curiosity of the coffin was simply too much to bear.

"Death's bed for a "death's head"," the Phantom replied. "That's what they used to say around the Opera House, before my untimely demise so many months ago. It's part of the despicable, pathetic nature of humans. You all scorn so viciously that which you do not understand…"

Amelie blinked. And how was she supposed to respond to such a comment? Instinctively, she could only apologize.

"Pardon me, Monsieur… I truly did not intend to-"

"Enough of your contritious apologies. You cannot atone for the human race or a lifetime of gasps and jabs and tortures. But you came here. What do you want?"

"I must tell you, I have recently taken an inventory… we will need more food soon. I use the word "inventory" quite unceremoniously… it was not so much a task seeing as we have no food. I have not eaten in days."

"In days?" Amelie frowned, confused by the worry in his voice. "Ah… of course...and you have realized you cannot leave but I cannot simply roam the streets during the day either. So what is to be done?"

Amelie could not decipher his tone. The question seemed genuine enough and certainly merited an answer, but a dark humor pervaded his diction and made her hesitant to reply.

"It was not rhetorical," said the Phantom. They still stood uncomfortably in the doorway. The hazy room was open to Amelie, but like his question, she could not decide whether it was intentional or by some sort of cynical design. Whatever the case, he had demanded that she never enter his chamber… and Amelie was not foolish enough fall prey to any of his traps so easily.

"Well, how had you acquired provisions previously?" She asked instead, crossing her arms defiantly.

"An intelligent approach..." He replied musingly with a divinely soft sigh. Amelie felt a small swell of pride at his approval, but quickly scolded herself for such childishness. "During my years managing the Opera, I had unfettered access to the kitchens at night and before that I paid for the convenience of someone else shopping for me. Since the rather unfortunate events preceding your arrival, Madame Giry would provide me with items I requested."

"Cognac and bread and cheese, Monsieur?" She offered with a wary smile.

"Indeed," He nodded. "And yet, since leaving you down here across the lake, Madame Giry has made no attempt to return to or contact either of us."

The thought angered Amelie. It was one thing to bring an unsuspecting, desperate girl down into the bowels of the old opera house and abandon her to the whims of the Phantom (and quite an evil thing at that), but to leave her forever without so much as inquiring to whether she were alive or dead escalated the Madame to a new stratosphere of wretched in her mind. For pity's sake, the woman could have at least left some food!

"Perhaps you have means of writing her?" Amelie offered.

"Do not say stupid things. It doesn't suit you, mademoiselle," the Phantom replied sternly. Though seemingly somewhat sedated, the Phantom had lost none of the ominous threatening tones in his voice. "How do you expect I receive mail here? Do you believe la poste ventures from their well-trodden streets to my depths to deliver letters? No, Madame Giry and the trap doors were my post service before."

"Then if it is to be just you and I, Monsieur, perhaps we must come to an arrangement of our own."

"How very astute of you," The response was sarcastic and Amelie could sense him grow weary of their exchange. He moved away from her to take a long pipe made from a dark, engraved jade into his skeletal hands. He held it over a small oil lamp until it began to smoke, then the Phantom inhaled deeply for what seemed like a full minute at least. In only moments, she saw his body relax and she knew the reason for his sudden patience. The Phantom, Monsieur, drowned himself in alcohol and burned himself numb in succession with opium.

"Monsieur, the only arrangements possible are as follows: you venture out at night and steal provisions for the rest of our days or we go to the markets during the day in disguise." Amelie did her best to push the revelation from her mind. He is just a man.

"Disguise?" Poison in his words. "As if I do not wear a mask all my days anyway, you recommend a disguise? A mask for a mask?"

"No, Monsieur, please you asked for my suggestion and I ask in return that you listen to it in its entirety," She replied hotly. "All of Paris has heard of the porcelain mask that covers the Phantom. Your mask is no disguise. Sometimes the best way to hide is to make oneself manifest. To hide in plain sight, as they say."

"Continue," the Phantom urged ominously as he set the pipe carefully in a velvet box. His glowing, hazy eyes stared never left Amelie as he did so and her quivering hands betrayed her nerves.

"I read once of the leper colonies throughout Europe. Though secluded, the poor souls would sometimes still go into the streets and markets. They would walk near the gutters, hooded and covered in cloaks with gloved hands and wrapped faces, ringing a small bell as they walked to warn others that an infected person approached. I have heard them occasionally in the streets of Paris. As you may know, the disease has become much less common and so some of the younger children do not know the meaning of the bell. Nonetheless, when the sound fills the street the warning spreads like wildfire."

"You reduce the Phantom to a disease! Demand he carry a bell to warn the world of his wretchedness!" the Phantom began pacing the floor clenching his fists in unconscious repetition. Amelie's mouth gaped. His mood had changed so quickly; irritation turned to wild anger, even in spite of the fresh dose of opium coursing through his body.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur!" Amelie cried in dismay. "But please, understand, I know no other way. I do not wish to degrade or insult you, but if you will not show your face then we must find a way to avoid curious eyes or we will surely starve down here!"

"You snake, you claim you would not degrade "Monsieur", but you would lure him out into the streets and escape!" The Phantom snapped. Amelie could make out his eyes widening behind the mask as he continued in bewilderment. "That's all this is! A cruel charade! You thought you could live with the Opera Ghost, learn his secrets, and gain his trust then leave the Phantom to tell the world what you have learned! You treacherous little spy!"

"Gain his trust? What version of trust do you exercise, Monsieur?" Amelie retorted, determined to counter his volley at every strike. "You speak of a version of me that simply does not exist. I have shown no interest in your secrets, we barely exchange words and what little we do speak truly only amounts to insults and abuses you jubilantly hurl at me. And you speak of escape! Escape! As if I have anywhere to go! Haven't we already discussed my lack of fortune and prospects? I chose this fate. It is of my own will, my own volition."

"And who would chose such a fate!" The Phantom paced wildly before her. His hands with their long, bony fingers shook violently and his breath grew frantic and ragged. "Who would choose the Devil's Child?"

"I did! I would rather be here than destitute, and so I would always make the same choice. But all you have given me in exchange for my companionship is death threats and bruises!" Amelie held her bruised wrists up defiantly.

"Enough of this!" he bellowed with a menacing finger pointed in Amelie's direction. The beautifully threatening song of the Phantom's voice no longer existed. In its place was a guttural shout, a horrible pained sound that would ring in Amelie's ears for months to come. "I will not allow you to parade me through the streets like a monster-come see the Devil's Child, he carries a bell- whispering to the shop keepers as you pass-The Angel of Death, behold his illusions-tell them of my cave and my prison and how I hold you here-The monstrous Opera Ghost! behold his tortured face. Bring the mob, and tie him up to hang, hear the bell ring as his neck snaps! Behold the Devil's Child!"

His words of madness echoed through the caverns as he overturned the desk's layers of sheet music, spilling ink and ruining the notes and arrangements for Eleonora. Drunk and inebriated on his own rage, the Phantom smashed a liquor bottle against the cold stone walls as he shouted his morbid narrative. Finally, Amelie felt hot tears force their way free from her eyes, blurring her vision as she watched the Phantom's fuming, furious figure retreat across the room from her. She fell to her knees in exhaustion and sadness.

"No, Monsieur," she whispered softly from the frame of the doorway. "I could never do such a thing. What a cruel vision of the world––of me––you must hold."

Amelie thought she heard him whimper in the shadows.

"I will retire now, if it pleases you," She rose carefully as his back was turned to her and she wished not to startle him.

He uttered no words to her as she moved to return to her rooms, but through the silence Amelie thought she could hear the Feste's sad chorus off in the distance. Or perhaps she was simply growing mad.