A/N: Yay! New chapter!
This is the longest chapter I have written for this story. In this chapter Philippe is back and we have Erik and the kids arrive in Persia. There's also a bit of fluff at the end because Erik/Christine/Raoul!fluff is the best thing to write in the world.
I would like to thank the reviewers from the previous chapter: Everyonedeserveslove, helikesitheymikey, PhantomFan01, Ailovec, StarCatcher1858, Phanatic01, Toriana, Angel's wings, Phantom Phan Phorever, newbornphanatic, megumisakura, and FantomPhan33
Also I would like to thank everyone who followed and favorited! You guys are great!
Here is the new chapter!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera
The young Comte knocked on the splintered door of what he had suspected to be Monsieur Daaé's bedroom. The housekeeper had let him in the cottage only moments ago, for he had told her who he was.
It had been a little over a year since he last saw the violinist. He had been absolutely heartbroken by the loss of his only child, just as how Philippe had been about Raoul. The two of them did not stop looking for the children, but they were not successful.
From what Philippe had heard, the man had become very sick. The Comte felt obligated to see the musician, for he had been there for Philippe when no one else was.
He knocked on the door again and waited for an answer.
A weak and raspy whisper was heard from inside the room, "Come in."
Philippe slowly pushed the door, it creaked and it squealed. He spoke very softly, "Monsieur Daaé?"
The man looked absolutely dreadful. He lay in his bed with his blanket up to his neck. His lips were dry and cracked, and his eyes looked so sunken in. He was so very pale, a ghostly white.
"Monsieur Daaé?"
"Who is there?" he spoke with his thick accent. He looked at the ceiling.
"It is I," Philippe told him, "Philippe de Chagny," he approached the man's bed, "I heard that you were not well."
Monsieur Daaé let out a feeble chuckle, "I have told you many times to call me Gustave, my boy. You cannot seem to get that through you head."
Philippe showed a small smile, "No, I cannot."
"How old are you now?" he asked, "My, you sound so grown up."
"Nineteen," Philippe answered, "It has only been a year, Monsieur."
"Gustave."
"Gustave," Philippe corrected himself, "I have searched all over the country, and I am so sorry. I have not been able to find Raoul or your daughter. I am afraid they might be-"
Monsieur Daaé cut off Philippe, "They are not dead, and they will soon be alright."
"And how is that?" asked the Comte.
"I shall soon send the Angel of Music to watch over my daughter, as I have promised her."
Philippe had always found Monsieur Daaé to be a bit loopy. What was the 'Angel of Music'? What on earth was he even talking about?
"What are you saying?" questioned Philippe.
"I am saying that I will be reunited with my Charlotta very soon," Monsieur Daaé was smiling, "Oh, my darling Charlotta…"
"Charlotta?"
"My beloved wife, we shall be together again at last," Monsieur Daaé said, "Together we can fill the heavens with beautiful music that even the angels would envy!"
Philippe's eyes were now wide, "No!" he protested, "No, you mustn't think like that! You will live, for it is not your time!"
"I am not well, as you can see," the musician sighed, "It is clear that I am dying."
"I will call for the best doctors…the best treatments…I will not just watch you die!" there were tears in the teenager's eyes, "I refuse to just watch you die."
"Then simply shut your eyes."
"I will not."
"Take my hand, my boy," Monsieur Daaé told Philippe.
Philippe nodded and place his hand in Monsieur Daaé's. It was so very cold.
"I will soon be able to send the Angel of Music to guide my daughter," he was smiling.
Philippe then asked, "Who is this strange angel?"
"Every great artist receives a visit from the Angel at least once in their life," Monsieur Daaé enlightened Philippe, "No one ever sees the Angel; but he is heard by those who are meant to hear him. He often comes when they least expect him, when they are sad and disheartened. Then their ears suddenly perceive celestial harmonies, a divine voice, which they remember all their lives!"
The man was sweating and convulsing.
"Monsieur Daaé," Philippe sounded frightened, "I mean Gustave, you are shaking!"
Monsieur Daaé paid no attention and he continued preaching, "My Christine shall hear him soon. She will become very great and the world will know her. That is how she will be found, my boy."
This was complete nonsense, but Philippe said nothing. The man was delirious.
"I can hear her!" the man exclaimed.
"Hear who?"
"My Lotta," his eyes were teary, "Her voice is of the angels! I hear her calling!"
"No," Philippe shook his head, "You hear nothing, I swear to you."
Monsieur Daaé's eyelids grew heavy, "Philippe?"
"What is it, Monsieur?" he sounded alarmed.
"May I ask you a favor?"
"Of course, Monsieur, anything!" Philippe held his hand tight, trying to hold back tears.
"Stay until I am sleeping."
"Monsieur-"
"Can you promise me?"
"I promise."
"Thank you," he sighed, "It is very cold in here."
"There is a mountain of blankets upon you, you cannot possibly be cold."
"I am dying, remember?"
Philippe choked, "I will refuse to believe that, no matter what you tell me."
"You Frenchmen are a very stubborn bunch," Monsieur Daaé smirked, "And you have to be the most stubborn."
"My father always told me that," Philippe was crying, "He said I was worse than an old mule, and that I still am."
Monsieur Daaé started to cough.
"Do you need anything?" Philippe sounded worried, "Do you need water? I shall get you water! I shall get you anything you need!"
"No," he was choking, "I can get the housekeeper to get it for me."
"No, Monsieur, I insist."
"You are much worse than an old mule, my boy."
Philippe stood up and let go of Monsieur Daaé's hand, "I will be right back with your glass of water."
He approached the opened door and left the room. He walked down the narrow hall and into the small kitchen where he found a pitcher of water on the old wood table. He walked over to the cupboard and opened it, taking out a small cup. He went back over to the table and poured some water into the cup. After that, he started down the hall again, making his way back into the bedroom of Monsieur Daaé.
"Monsieur Daaé," said Philippe, "I have your water."
No answer.
"Monsieur Daaé?"
No answer.
Philippe dropped the cup of water, it splattered across the floor. He ran over to the bed.
There, Monsieur Daaé laid motionless. His eyes were wide open and he had a grin on his face.
"Monsiuer Daaé?"
No answer.
Philippe began to shake the man, "Monsieur Daaé! If this is a joke then it is not funny!" he was screaming, "Monsieur Daaé! Gustave! Please!"
There was nothing.
The scared Comte laid his head on the man's chest. He heard no heartbeat.
"No!" Philippe screamed, "No! No! No!" he pulled at his hair, "You can't do this to me! You can't!"
"Monsieur le Comte?" a soft feminine voice was heard. The housekeeper stood at the doorway.
"You can't leave me!" he hugged the dead man's chest, "You can't leave me! Please!"
"Monsieur le Comte," the housekeeper grabbed Philippe's shoulder, "I think it's time for you to leave. Your sisters must be-"
"I won't!" he snapped at her, "Madame, don't make me go!"
"Monsieur le Comte, I am very sorry," she told him, "But I find that it would be best for you if you did."
"Will I be able to wear lovely dresses?" Christine asked Nadir as they rode in the carriage, "Everyday?"
"Yes, child," Nadir smiled, "In any color you want."
Christine gasped, "Any color?"
"He said any color, Christine," Erik rolled his eyes. Christine and Raoul had been poking the Persian with their silly questions nonstop. Erik loved the children to death, but all of this was giving him a headache. He adjusted his new porcelain mask that Nadir had gotten for him, as promised. It started from the middle of his forehead and down to his upper lip, complete with a false nose.
"Does everyone in Persia wear those silly hats?" asked Raoul, who pointed to the short astrakhan cap on Nadir's head.
Nadir chuckled, "No, not everyone wears hats like this."
"He probably wears it to cover his bald spot," Erik whispered to Raoul, which made them both giggle.
"Erik," Nadir asked, "May I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"How did you three get in your situation…become a traveling act?"
"It is a very long story that I prefer not to tell or think about," Erik answered, "Can you respect my privacy?"
"I can," said Nadir.
Christine laid her head on Erik's arm, "Monsieur Khan?"
"Yes, Christine?"
"Do you have any children of your own?" the girl wondered.
"That I do," he replied, "A son a few years younger than yourself."
"Where is he?"
"At my home," he told her.
Raoul then asked, "What's his name?"
"Reza."
"Do you have a wife?" asked Christine, "Oh, I bet she's lovely!"
"She was," Nadir spoke softly, "She died in childbirth."
"I am sorry, Monsieur. I understand," she was quiet, "My mother died when I was six, I understand how you must feel."
"I am sorry about your mother, Christine."
"It's okay," she smiled. She lifted Erik's arm and put it over her, nestling her head on his chest.
Erik stroked the girl's back and kissed the top of her head. He then asked Nadir, "How much longer until we reach your Shah?"
"Not too long," Nadir answered, "Should be only an hour."
Raoul groaned, "An hour?"
Erik messed up the boy's hair, "Yes, an hour."
"Ack! Erik! My hair!" Raoul squealed.
"I like it better this way," Erik laughed, "Looks like you got out of a bar fight with barely a scratch."
Raoul crossed his arms and stuck out his tongue.
Erik did the same.
Christine giggled, "You two are such babies."
"Are we now, Mademoiselle?" Erik asked playfully.
"Yes," she poked his ribs, "You are."
Erik noticed Nadir stare at him and the children, "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," said Nadir, "You and these children have such a complex relationship. And you told me that you three are not related?"
Erik shook his head, "No relation whatsoever, but we are a family, isn't that right?"
The children both nodded.
"Christine is my angel and Raoul…he is my Raoul."
Raoul pouted, "You can't find an analogy for me?"
"Oh look at you with your extensive vocabulary," Erik teased, "There is no other word to describe you."
"Should I take that as a compliment?"
"You should."
Erik held the children's hands tightly as he followed Nadir into the palace of the Shah. Christine and Raoul were awestruck, while Erik was a bit unimpressed.
A man with a feathered cap approached the four. He wore a highly decorated uniform and had a dark mustache. He appeared to be in his thirties.
"Daroga!" he snapped, "Who are these Europeans?"
"I have brought you the Masked Magician, just as you had asked, Imperial Majesty," Nadir bowed.
"I am the Masked Magician," Erik piped, approaching the Shah, "Imperial Majesty."
"You are quite young," the Shah had his finger on his chin, "Much younger than I expected."
"I am nineteen."
The Shah tilted his head and glared at Christine and Raoul, "Who are these children? I did not ask you to bring along children, Daroga."
"Forgive me," Erik tried to play innocent, "They are my brother and sister, and I insisted your daroga that I bring them along. You see, our parents perished in a terrible accident, and I am their only guardian."
"I am a compassionate man," said the Shah, "I shall let them stay with you. I have heard many tales about your extraordinary talents, what is it that you can do?"
"Many things," Erik responded, "I have quite a knack for music. Also architecture, as well as some complex sleight of hand. I have trained with a master magician in my youth."
"Why is it you wear that mask?"
"Well," said Erik, hoping to get a laugh out of the Shah, "If I didn't wear it then I wouldn't be the Masked Magician now, would I?"
The Shah did not even crack a smile, "Very well. Send them up to their room, Daroga," he looked at Erik, "I expect you to be down here tomorrow at supper, in the dining hall. We are having a gala and you are perfect for entertainment. Just make sure to change out of those ratty garments."
Erik scoffed, "Excuse me?"
"You heard what I said, Magician, did you not?"
Erik clenched his fists, but Nadir pushed him back and mouthed, "No."
"I'll have a servant draw a bath in your room," the Shah started to walk away, "The daroga can show you around."
"Well, isn't he just a ball of sunshine?" Raoul muttered under his breath.
"Come Erik, children," Nadir said to them, "I will take you to your room."
"These sheets are so soft!" Christine buried her face into the blankets, "I feel like I'm on a cloud!" She slipped and slid in her silky pajamas, "Everything smells like roses!"
Erik giggled at the sight of the child. The silky pajamas felt very odd on his skin. His dark hair was still wet from his bath. He carefully took off his mask and laid it on the bedside table. The air felt nice on his face. It felt so good to have his mask off. He had to keep it on nonstop when they lived on the streets, in fear of someone seeing his face. He was very happy that the children did not mind his deformity, they never minded it.
Raoul then dove onto the bed. He rolled in the soft red blankets, "This bed is like heaven!"
"You two are so strange," Erik smiled.
"The strangest!" Christine exclaimed, wrapping herself in the blanket.
Raoul sat up, "Erik, feel the blankets!" he wagged the end of the blanket with his foot.
Erik fell back onto the bed. The children were right; Erik had never felt anything so soft.
The teenager let out a sigh, "This is the bed of the gods."
Christine and Raoul both burst into a fit of giggles.
"Tonight," Erik proclaimed, "We sleep like kings."
"I don't think I'll be able to sleep!" Christine exclaimed, "I'm not tired at all!"
"How are you not tired, Christine?" asked Raoul, "We spent the entire day traveling."
Christine shrugged, "I'm just not tired."
"I'm not tired either, Christine," said Erik, "And I'm the one that needs to sleep. I have to entertain at that pompous Shah's gala tomorrow evening," he sat up.
"What are you going to do?" wondered Raoul.
"Woo them with my violin," Erik grinned.
"Oh, I love it when you play the violin!" Christine beamed, "And when you sing along."
"Then I shall sing."
"You must have been visited by the Angel of Music, Erik," Christine stated, she laid her head on his chest.
Erik sounded confused, "Angel of Music?"
"Yes," said Christine, "He visits every great musician at least once in their lives."
"Maybe you are my Angel, Christine," Erik ran his skeletal fingers through her hair.
Raoul scooted next to Erik and laid down, "Does that make me your Raoul?"
Erik messed up the boy's hair, "Yes, you are my Raoul," he then said, "How about we try to go to sleep now, okay? I have to get ready for tomorrow and I do not want you two to be sleep deprived." Erik pulled the blanket over them.
"Fine," Christine groaned, "But I'm not tired."
"You will be," Erik kissed her forehead, he then turned and kissed Raoul's, "I love you two very much."
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