To Those Without Pity

"What is this life? A frenzy, an illusion, a shadow, a delirium, a fiction. The greatest good's but little, and this life is but a dream, and dreams are only dreams." -Pedro Calderon de la Barca, "Life is a Dream"

I couldn't say what drove me to blatantly ignore Philippe's threat, but a peculiar instinct told me not to listen. Perhaps it was because I had little to lose should he decide to fire me—I wasn't a Parisian by any standard, and while I could not return to Persia, I had few qualms about moving somewhere else. The only thing hindering me was Erik. Something inside told me that I had no choice but to follow these chaotic events to the end. But whether that was under Prideux and Philippe or not, I wasn't sure I quite minded.

While I didn't read the rest of the journals on my own, when I came in the next day I found that I simply had to tackle them. There was no way around it—I had to find out what occurred in Erik's mind in those last few days. What I had read thusfar was nothing short of painful, but I knew it was necessary if I were to confront him. If I ever found him, that is.

Sitting myself down in that chair across the room from the mirror, I pulled out the papers with shaky hands and forced my eyes to take in the messy scrawl that filled the final pages.

There's something truly poetic about a masked ball. Perhaps I am biased, but I find immense satisfaction as I watch people prance around in false faces. But what's far more convenient is the fact that I will be able to walk amongst them, and not one soul will believe that the Opera Ghost stands before them. They will think me a rich aristocrat, or a well-meaning patron. Which I suppose I am, in all reality.

What pleases me the most is that I hadn't even suggested this masquerade! Of course, after the chandelier, I all but disappeared from the managers' world. And as if by fate, they chose this to celebrate my disappearance. Naturally, I will make a tragically eloquent appearance, and all will be chaos, just as I prefer it.

And dear Christine will think she has fooled me and will try to hide her engagement. And yet, she will still steal furtive glances at Raoul and exchange hushed whispers, as if no one would witness their unusual behavior. But I will see it, as I see everything, and I will find utter elation as I also see her searching the corners of the room for any signs of my presence. For she will know that I will come.

Who could ever resist a masquerade?

I knew precisely what was to come after this entry, for soon after this very incident, Christine and Raoul came forward to the police. My heart deadened to think of the poor Viscount who, at the time of these entries, hadn't the slightest clue that his life was coming to a rapid close.

Impetus. This is the stage we have arrived at, and I find more satisfaction from it than I should. Christine believes I know nothing of her plans, but I know everything. I remind myself vigilantly that she is under the control of the Viscount, and I will forgive her when the time comes. But as every day passes and she continues to lie to me as we rehearse for Don Juan, I find myself slipping farther and farther from this absolution. Even now, as I write this, her mind burns riotously in my mind. She is a vixen, and yet I must find the power to exonerate her. She doesn't know what she is doing.

The Viscount de Chagny does, though. Or if he doesn't, I mark him as too self-absorbed and ignorant to live with my Christine. After tonight, things will be different, though.

"Khan." It wasn't said with the unrestrained venom of Philippe, but I still looked up quickly to see who was addressing me. There in the cracked doorframe stood Prideux, arms crossed as he surveyed me. I looked down at my papers—perhaps Philippe had told him and threatened him as well. Perhaps he was to cut me off from the investigation at this very moment.

"She was spotted," was all he said, and every one of those thoughts that had raced through my mind disappeared. I set the papers down on the table next to me and stood up slowly, waiting for him to continue.

"Near Rouen. They were seen in a park. Some man contacted us raving about the reward and how they were right there in front of them."

In a park… What could they possibly be doing out in the daylight, unless Erik hadn't thought that people would be looking for them. "What happened?" was all I asked, barely able to come out of my stunned silence to speak.

"The man saw her looking at a rosebush. He hasn't a clue who the man is, but he recognized the girl and showed them the newspaper and told them they had to stay." Prideux chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Naturally, they didn't stay. Seeing a reward underneath her picture may have hurt his case, but nevertheless, we know where they are."

"How do we know they weren't on the move?" I asked slowly, crossing my arms as well. "And if they weren't, what's to say they won't fly now, particularly since they know we are searching for them?"

Prideux shrugged and continued speaking gruffly. "Well, we know they weren't on the move before, because they would be much farther from Paris given how much time has elapsed. But you're right—there's no evidence to suggest that they won't pack up and leave." He took a few steps towards me, and I could feel him weighing his words before he spoke. "I've told the Count that they've most likely left so that he won't send all of his resources there to search and give everything away. I have also told him that I'm sending you to go investigate, and insisted adamantly that you are, indeed, trustworthy."

"I am," I said immediately, for I knew that he was juggling him doubts about me and his understandable concern about Erik's control. "When do I leave?"

"We will talk about that later tonight. Chagny wants to brief me on how this investigation should be proceeding before we make any more decisions," he said, and I could hear the wry tone in his voice. "I'm sure I'll learn a thing or two." With a smirk, he turned and left the room without a word regarding the papers.

With shaky hands, I felt myself drawn back to them, as if magnetically. I would be going to Rouen to find them… And Prideux was allowing me to report whatever I chose, and withhold what I didn't want Chagny to know. I'm sure Prideux already knew this, but he was giving me the opportunity to help them escape and claim that I never saw them. I allowed myself to be deluded, though, into thinking that I would make choices for the greater good and not for my sake or Erik's sake. Or Christine's sake, for that matter.

With these thoughts swimming through my mind, I looked back down at the papers and swallowed hard. It took me a few moments to refocus on the red ink, but I eventually began to take in the words once again.

After tonight, things will be different, though. The fanciful side of me (and yes, such a side, however guarded and cold, does exist) thinks that Christine will willingly leave with me and forget about her boy. But the realistic side, forever gnawing at my brain, knows that things will not go so simply. If she doesn't do something reckless, then Chagny certainly will.

And ever one to follow the crowd, I will invariably commit some reckless act as well.

They were on the steps of the Boscherville house and the night sky hung above them, moonless and starless. It was a black void looming over their figures, hinting at the eternity that always resided over their heads. It was not Erik who sat beside her this time, but Raoul—a woundless and intact Raoul.

"I wanted to show you a constellation, but they're not out tonight," she said, as if this was a reasonable explanation for the inky sky. Turning her gaze towards him, she took in his features as he turned to look up at the heavens. Yes, this was the Raoul she knew, precisely as she remembered him on that night.

"I thought you had forgotten me," he said, as if he could read her very thoughts. Her jaw slackened in surprise at this, and she looked down at her hands immediately, not wanting to meet his embittered gaze. "You told him that you couldn't remember what I looked like."

It bordered on accusation, and she looked back at up at him curiously. "I couldn't," she replied plainly.

"And you can now?" he asked, his eyebrows rising challengingly as he stood up, pride swelling through his body.

"Well…Yes," she said slowly, also rising from the steps. Suddenly, she found that he was much taller than she remembered, and he was looking down at her sternly, as a father looks down on a child he is reprimanding. "You are not yourself," she insisted, forcing a smile on her face that she could not maintain.

"Of course I'm not—I'm dead," he snapped, turning and beginning to walk down the drive. She had no impulse to follow him, but she did listen as he turned around and shouted back at her. "I suggest you decide where your loyalty lies, because you will not be alone for much longer. They're coming."

She barely took in these words before the sky lit up with stars and she was blinded into consciousness.

Sunlight hit her eyes and they flickered open, the dream still fresh in her mind. Somehow her heart was beating at a comfortable pace and she felt no disquiet as she sat up in bed and glanced out the window. It had snowed the night before, yet the sun was shining full force this morning, as if it wasn't aware that winter had arrived.

Erik was nowhere to be found when she had dressed and went down to the kitchen to have breakfast. The solitude was something of a relief, though, and she cherished the moments lost in thought as she ate.

Her mind went to Raoul without trouble, and she immediately began to recall the dream. It was foggier than it had been earlier, and fragments seemed to be missing. But what still rang clearly in her memory was this new Raoul… He looked just as he had on the night he had died, and even now she could make out more of her features in her mind's eye than she could a few nights ago. And yet, his voice held a sharp quality that wasn't characteristic of her former fiancée. All kindness gone, he seemed nothing short of cruel. And yet, as she finished her breakfast, she had to remind herself that this was not reality—that this was a dream, and nothing more.

Erik seemed to appear just as she finished, and she wondered faintly if he had left her alone intentionally. Nevertheless, she bid him a good morning as he entered the room and asked him how his night was. How very mundane such a question seemed—how very ordinary.

"Adequate," he said, pausing for a moment before continuing on. "I would like to sing once again today. Would that be acceptable?" he asked with stiffness evident in his voice.

"I would love that," she said, a genuine smile appearing on her lips. Music always had such an effect on her, and he knew that. "May we sing now?" she asked, standing up eagerly as she watched him hopefully.

"As you wish," he said, turning and leading her through the house to the same music room they had resided in previously. "Rigoletto today," he told her simply as they settled into the room. He handed her the music and she looked down at it in interest as he pulled out his violin. "Don't be fooled by the sixteenths—it's not a swift song by any means."

This afforded her some relief, and she felt her breathing quicken as he began to play the introduction. Naturally he would have her sing without warming up—despite so much diligent practice and his insistence that patience was central to singing, he still had a need for immediacy when they began lessons. As if he could not wait to hear her sing a moment longer than necessary.

Sight-reading the piece was difficult, but she found herself immersed in the elegant lines and soaring notes that seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Caro nome che il mio cor festi primo palpitar, le delizie dell'amor mi dêi sempre rammentar!"

The words took her breath away—dear name, which first made my heart throb, you must always recall to me the delights of love! And somehow they did not bring her the same ache the previous aria had. Rather, these words were a triumph to her ears! As she finished, she couldn't wait to begin again, but was unsurprised as he began to specify various phrases and clean the lines she had fumbled.

The ending was where it began. With a nearly incomprehensible set of measures full of vocal tricks at the top of her range, she found herself struggling. She was not deterred, though, for she knew that such pieces took time and patience, just as he had always taught her. No aria would become second nature until she had sung it more times than she could count. Even so, Erik seemed dissatisfied at best.

"The melismas are messy," he told her at one point, playing the array of notes for her once more before looking back at her expectantly. Despite being disarmed by this criticism, she tried once again, but she knew it was not up to his standards. And yet, she couldn't help but feel he was being unreasonable—he had never wanted her to accelerate so quickly in a piece. If anything, rushing the process of learning only solidified bad habits—another thing he had taught her at the Opera House.

"We have neglected your studies too long. We must be more diligent," he told her stonily, and she frowned instinctively as he glared in her direction.

"I've just gotten this piece, Erik… We will make it perfection incarnate!" She smiled at the words—perfection incarnate—he had always used that phrase to describe pieces at the height of their precision. And yet, he didn't seem to hear this. Instead, he brought his bow back up and began the introduction once more, indicating that she should begin. Instead, she abandoned the music and took a step towards him cautiously. "What's troubling you?" she questioned earnestly, trying to meet his eyes.

"That man!" he burst out, nearly throwing his violin to the ground in his explosion of rage. Knowing better, though, he placed it on the table and set off in a pace across the room, running a hand through his hair. "That man will ruin everything, and all because I allowed you to go outside." The words were nearly under his breath, but she still heard them clear as day.

"We went outside," she corrected, quelling the desire to grow frustrated. "And I was quite grateful to go out to the park. I enjoyed myself very much…" The words were tentative, and as he looked back at her in silence she felt all of the gnawing irritation bubbling within her dissipate.

"I didn't run away, Erik," she told him, and the realization hit her once again. She hadn't tried to escape, and while she still couldn't fathom why, she knew there must be some significance. The look in his eyes indicated that he understood this, and yet he didn't respond. Rather, he picked up his violin and bow once again, rage gone, and began the piece with newfound serenity.

"E pur l'ultimo sospir, caro nome, tuo sarà!"

And even my last breath, dear name, will be yours.

It's astonishing to think that it's already the 10th chapter, but here it is! I hope you all enjoyed it—thank you dearly for all of the reviews, and I hope to hear from even more of you! Thanks for reading, as always.

Until next time,

Christine