To Those Without Pity

"Only the phoenix arises and does not descend. And everything changes. And nothing is truly lost." -Neil Gaiman

It wasn't until the next day when I was pulled into Philippe's makeshift office—it was Madame Giry's domain, in truth, but she had disappeared shortly after I saw her on the night of Don Juan. He had made it his own, with men standing stiff-backed at the corners of the room, perpetually waiting to do his bidding. He was sitting at the desk, hunched over a stack of papers, when Prideux led me into the office and sat me down in one of two chairs that faced Philippe before taking the adjacent one. We sat in silence for several moments until Philippe finally looked up, a stern and reproachful look on his face.

"Hello again, Monsieur Khan," he said, his lips tightening in unrestrained distrust as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Let me first say that you are lucky to be here. If the gentleman next to you wasn't so sure of your incomprehensible worth, you would be out on the streets." I didn't say anything to this, nor did I look to Prideux. I could tell that Philippe was frustrated by his lack of control in the situation, for he knew that if he severed me from this case, he would have no case.

Still, part of me questioned if Prideux truly had that much faith in me. It was blatantly evident that he deeply resented Philippe. Everyone seemed to know that Prideux had been involved with the Préfecture de Police longer than anyone else in the case, but as always, money trumped wisdom. Yes, part of me was quite aware of the fact that Prideux was using me to aggravate Chagny as much as possible—and frankly, I didn't mind one bit.

"As you know, we will remain in Paris to continue the investigation," Philippe continued, and I was pulled back into reality. "I expect full daily reports when you arrive in Rouen. If I do not receive regular updates, I will send officers to arrest you on the spot for duplicity."

"Yes, sir," I replied judicially, nodding my head in understanding. I had to capture his entire trust—precisely why, I wasn't sure. But I knew that things could not remain the way they were; I could not deal with the tyrant Philippe had become, nor could I abide by his constant meddling.

"I gave the order for either assailant to be shot on the spot should they be found," Philippe began, his eyes drifting to Prideux for a moment. "But I was told that this was barbaric. Somehow people seem to forget that my brother's death was barbaric, and we Chagny's firmly believe in the notion of an eye for an eye." The venom laced in his words was unmistakable, yet I couldn't stop my thoughts from leaving my mouth.

"We aren't certain of anyone's guilt." The Count's eyes flew to me, flashing with a sharp warning. "For all we know, Christine may be a hostage," I tried, but all I received was a sneer from Philippe. I could see the insults playing on his tongue, but he somehow managed to restrain them. Quickly, I changed the subject, hoping that these impulsive words weren't enough to make Philippe change his mind about Rouen. "Are there any leads as to where they might be living?"

"That's why you are going there," Philippe snapped in a cold tone, narrowing his eyes as he surveyed me. "But if you insist on proving yourself incompetent, perhaps I will send someone else."

"He is beyond capable." It was the first time Prideux had spoken, and I turned to look at him in unmasked surprise. He was returning Chagny's glare with cool indifference while somehow maintaining a base level of esteem. "If he proves otherwise, you can personally place blame on me," he said offhandedly, clearly aching to leave the room, utterly overwhelmed by his own exasperation.

"Believe me, I will." With this, Philippe looked back at his papers, which was more than enough of a signal for us to leave. We had barely closed the door before Prideux began to mutter curses under his breath, marching away with newfound alacrity. As I followed him, he began to speak to me openly with little apprehension of who might overhear.

"You can't make any errors on this one," he told me, and I nodded once, though I wasn't quite sure what an error truly entailed. Perhaps he read this uncertainty as he looked at me sideways, and he stopped us immediately. His eyes met mine firmly, and I did not avert my gaze.

"He will crush you if you are not careful." I did not respond, and he let out a reluctant breath, shaking his head. "He isn't dim—he knows you have some connection to his brother's killer, and he knows that you do not share his animosity for him. He is waiting for you to make a mistake so that he can knock you aside while still benefiting from your expertise."

"Why doesn't he simply do it then?" I spit out, my jaw setting in vexation, but I knew the answer before Prideux replied.

"He resents your association to this murderer, but all hope of success rides on it." Something akin to a smile played on his lips as he continued one. "You already knew that. You're not dim either." He paused for a moment, and the smile faded as his eyes hardened. "Just don't do something reckless."

And as he said this, I couldn't shake Erik's words from my mind—words that seemed burned in my retinas: And ever one to follow the crowd, I will invariably commit some reckless act as well.

There were masks everywhere. She knew precisely where she was the moment her dream stabilized, and yet the painted faces still brought a jolt of fear through her. Every person she saw was costumed in an ornate fashion, and as she looked down at her own dress, she saw that she too was clad in a long white gown. Hindsight hit her, and she knew what would occur as the night wore on—this was the infamous Masquerade, and soon Red Death would appear to reveal his plans for Don Juan. For a moment she stood paralyzed in horror amongst the dancing bodies, but realization jerked her back to the scene before her. She had to find Raoul.

She tore apart her mind to remember what Raoul had worn to the masquerade as she scanned the crowd, hoping to be prompted by one of the costumes. It was only a few moments before she remembered the black and white domino combination, and she rushed off in order to find him. Only seconds later, she saw him mingling with a group of decorated guests, laughing as he sipped champagne from a gilded flute.

"Raoul!" she cried out, yet nobody seemed to hear but him. He turned around in surprise, his eyes meeting hers before he turned back away nonchalantly. Her feet instinctively carried her to him and she grabbed his shoulder firmly in a panic. "Raoul, we must leave!"

Raoul looked rather disturbed by her intrusion and he looked back at his friends, who were watching her warily, and excused himself inaudibly. She took his hand and rushed him to a corner of the room, her heart racing painfully against her chest.

"What do you want?" he demanded, pulling his hand from hers as a frown set on his features.

"Erik is going to come, and if we are still here when he does, the outcome will be disastrous," she implored to him, reaching for his hand once more.

He pulled his hand away deftly before she could grasp it, and he studied her with calm detachment. "Isn't that what you want?" His voice wasn't accusing this time, but it still stung. She felt her mouth hang open for a few moments as she searched for words before she finally replied.

"No, of course I don't want that! You will die if we don't do something!" He did not have to respond for understanding to get a hold of her. "You are not here…" she said slowly, her hands dropping slowly to her sides as she looked at his numb face.

"You don't want me anymore. You don't need me. And if you do… Well, there's nothing to be done about it, is there?" He had the objectivity of a parent telling a child about the loss of a pet—detached, caring, and yet not mired by the declaration.

"No…" she murmured after a moment. It was at this instant when she realized that the sound of the masquerade had faded. Indeed, as she looked past him, she saw that the room was now empty.

"Life is a heartless thing. And yet it must be faced with courage and shameless audacity day in and day out." Her eyes darted back to him, and she felt her breathing become shallow as her eyes filled with tears. "You will be crushed if you do not find your bravery, Christine. And it cannot be bravery for the sake of me."

"Because you are dead…" she finished for him, and excruciating awareness flooded her senses. Just as the words left her mouth, she saw Erik standing in the empty room behind Raoul, watching them. Not Red Death—just Erik, with no theatrics shrouding his figure.

"Because I am dead," Raoul repeated, turning to look at Erik in what seemed to be welcoming recognition. He looked back at Christine for a moment, and gentle acknowledgment passed across his eyes.

And then, with throbbing clarity, Raoul smiled encouragingly, his eyes following her as her feet carried her away. Erik was there, his hand reaching out towards her, and their eyes met daringly as she interlaced her fingers with his. They held each other's gaze for a moment, before Erik's eyes shifted past her towards Raoul as he nodded kindly to his adversary. She turned to look at her former fiancée once more, still unable to quell the heart-wrenching sensation that was pervading her senses.

It was only when she saw Raoul's eyes light up, just as they had on that day at the sea, or when he first saw her at the opera, or when she accepted his proposal, that she finally felt the weight lift off of her. The grief still encompassed both their smiles, and yet it did not devastate them. The sorrow was merely there, inherent in their hearts. And somehow that was alright.

It was still the dead of night when her eyes opened and she felt the burden of her dreams wash over her. Tentatively, she sat up and brought her hands to her mouth as her mind recalled the dream that was already slipping away from her. She clawed at it, though, and pulled it back into her consciousness, willing it not to ebb away.

She couldn't say how long she sat there, silent and still, remembering what her mind had just conjured. When she couldn't contain herself any longer, though, she pulled herself out of bed and wrapped a thin robe around her shoulders and left her room. Automatically, she found herself walking towards the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, but found a kettle already on the stove with wisps of steam curling out of it. The stray remnants of sleep told her that this was likely from earlier in the evening, and she did not question it as she poured the water into a teacup.

Perhaps she should have known that Erik would be out on the doorstep, his own cup of tea in hand, and yet she was still taken aback when she opened the door. He seemed caught off guard as well, and he stood up quickly as he eyed her with a measure of concern.

"Is something wrong?" he asked automatically, but when he saw the teacup in her hand, his alarm faded away. Nothing else needed to be said, and they both sank back down on the steps, ignoring the ever-present winter air that enveloped them. Gripping the teacup with a bit more force, Christine fixed her gaze on the drive as words emerged in her mind. Despite the valor she tried to invoke, she found herself unable to voice her thoughts, which didn't escape Erik's notice.

"You have been dreaming of him," he said candidly, and she could not restrain her intake of breath. How inexplicable that he always seemed to be able to read her very thoughts. It was a comfort and a nuisance all at once.

"Why do you say that?" she asked, doing all she could to mask her expression, her eyes not moving from the distant trees.

"You call out his name in your sleep," he told her, and this didn't seem to surprise her. His preternatural hearing had been off-putting when she first knew him, but now it was simply an attribute that she had come to accept. "And I can see it in your eyes."

As he said this, she turned and met his gaze. His recognition brought something between sorrow and relief to her features, and she swallowed hard to restrain any threatening tears.

"He tells me things in my dreams… And I don't know what's real," she murmured, despising the unmistakable weakness that tinged her tone. "I can't discern the man who is in all of my dreams from the man whom I loved."

She thought at first that this would spark antipathy within him, but he merely observed her with an expression that revealed nothing.

"I've had nightmares about him that frighten me to death, and then tonight—…" She broke off for a fleeting moment, looking back out ahead of her, no longer able to meet his gaze. "He told me that I had to be courageous, yet not courageous for him… Because he was dead." The tears that had been pressing on her eyelids were gone, replaced by cool curiosity as she continued.

"He gave me to you." Christine turned back, and she even caught the split-second of astonishment that his eyes betrayed. "And you nodded to each other, and you understood each other, and all was well." The words were coming out of her mouth, and yet she still couldn't comprehend why she was telling him. Perhaps she simply needed the words to be said aloud for her to believe she had truly dreamed such a thing.

"It's astonishing. It's as if he's really there," she breathed, and he broke in without missing a beat.

"He's not." The words weren't cruel, but they wounded her nonetheless. "He's not ever returning, except to your dreams." Her instinct was to stand up and leave, to lash out, to accuse, and yet she sat silently and merely listened, too fascinated to move. "You should feel fortunate, though."

When he did not continue, her eyebrows furrowed and her bitterness mounted. "Why in heaven's name should I feel fortunate?" she asked, the acidity in her tone evident.

"Because dreams are as real as anything else," he replied easily, as if such a remark was to be expected. "They are in our minds, after all, and all that we know is that which we think. Who is to say that anything outside the confines of our minds is truly real?"

All that we know is that which we think. This didn't solve any problems, and she shook her head in unrepressed doubt. "But you're real. And you're not in my head," she argued, setting her teacup down next to her on the cold stone as she eyed him.

"I'm not?" he asked, and she knew that he was testing the boundaries of her mind, willing her to expand her perspective. "What makes me any more real than any of your dreams?"

Rather than answer, she felt her eyes narrow slightly, unable to quell her suspicion. These were not the words she had expected. He wasn't hurling insults at Raoul or mocking her grief or speaking to her with unemotional condescension. He wasn't even convincing her of his own worth. No, these were words uncharacteristic of Erik, and they only brought about more bewilderment. "Am I dreaming right now?" she challenged, truly unsure of the answer. The world around her seemed tangible enough, and yet the world she inhabited in her dreams always seemed genuine in the moment as well.

"Who knows?" She had never heard him speak in such a prophetic way, which made her question the reality encircling her even more. This bothered her initially, but after several moments of reading his expression, she let out a sigh of acceptance and looked up at the stars, her eyes catching Virgo automatically.

Slowly, her eyes drifted between the stars as she recalled the tale, with all of its tragedies and triumphs. And while she couldn't quite discern if she was being hit by reality or a dream, she felt her hand reach over and deftly grasp his. In her peripheries, she saw him glance down at their joined hands before he followed her gaze, taking in the stars with deference. When she felt his hand tighten its hold on hers almost imperceptibly, she felt herself hoping this was not a dream. And it was desperate and inexplicable and grand all at the same time.

I adore writing, particularly in moments like this. When I began this chapter, I did not anticipate that it would end like this, or that any of these events would occur. But somehow the things I had planned seemed to give way to this, and I find such beauty in this facet of writing. Forever malleable, forever changing. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! Thank you so much for all of the reviews, particularly Nade-Naberrie and Kittie Darkhart, whose reviews incited a lot of inspiration. I hope to hear from all of you, and thank you once again for reading!

Until next time,

Christine