Part 12 is up!

I opened up my inbox one day and there were all these kind reviews! Wow. So this is why writing fanfiction – or phanphiction as we call it – is so addictive.

Misty B: Ah! What an honour, to have one of my favourite authors on my review alerts list.

Mominator: More you want, and more you shall have!

Rose & Nightingale: No, keep dreaming. Dreaming is healthy and makes one happy.

moderndaybattosai: The fever is merely a catalyst to bring out her hidden desire. Capische? 

tink20: So if you do something drastic, it'll be my fault:-0

Faust: Interesting trivia! Thanks for sharing.

jtbwriter: To tell you the truth, I dunno. But that's the interesting part… 

katakechicken: Interesting pen name. Oh, I can, and I did. And there will be more. Mwahaha!

Jjah-jjah: No relation to jjah-jjah binks? And you don't need to thank me for doing something that makes me happy…which is writing fanfic! I'd continue writing even if you hated it, and that's a promise.

Lotte Rose 37: Mucho thanks, love! I'm drowning in your flattery. I haven't blushed so much since my dancing instructor told me my zip was down while I did the cha cha.

So... on to business!

Chapter 12

After the Nightmare

The emaciated panther prowled back and forth in its filthy cage, watched by the hooded boy in the corner-most tent – a gaudy orange affair atop which was emblazoned the words 'Freaks of Nature', and below in smaller lettering: '4 francs per show'. All around, dizzying carnival music wove an eerie distorted rhythm that added to the surreal atmosphere. Faces passed by, meaningless faces connected to hands that might toss a coin or two, the intentions in their eyes shaded by the dark of night.

Sometimes the boy would throw scraps to the animal, but tonight he had none to spare. His master, Armand had given him the most meagre of rations for a poor performance yesterday. Instead of leering like a goblin at the eager public, he had crouched in the shadows like a moody beast, only moving a few inches when the whip rained down upon his hardened back. At times like these he dreamt of becoming a panther himself, to maul with his claws anyone who stood in his way of escape. To break free of this cage and bound off with powerful legs into the night.

A soft hand laid itself upon his shoulder, interrupting his reverie. It was Elissa, the mute bearded girl with arms that were hairy like an ape. Erik secretly fancied her for her beautiful sad eyes. Despite her hirsuteness she had the most feminine sloping shoulders and walked with the grace of a ballet dancer. Occasionally he found himself thinking of ways to make her smile – her whole face lit up when she smiled – but it was difficult; she was the most reserved of beings, although there was a special look she reserved for Erik alone that went beyond words. In a world without love, they had formed a tight unspoken bond of friendship.

It's time, her eyes said. Erik nodded, yet one hand tightened on his hood involuntarily.

The onlookers crowded around the chest-high fence as one by one the monstrosities showed themselves beneath the spotlight. There were people of all ages – a paunchy gentleman jingling loose change in his pocket which he threw at the feet of the performers in a parody of generosity; a group of children, freckle-faced and gap-toothed and poking their fingers unabashedly at the curiosities before them; a bawdy-looking bunch who looked like they were fresh from a few rounds at the nearest tavern. How ugly they were with their mouths twisted in disgust and delight, their eyes gleaming and oily beneath the uneven gas lights, an eager gluttonous cacophony of jeering voices. As he performed the usual deed of whipping off his hood and pulling a face that heightened his ghastliness, he cast a sidelong glance at Elissa, who held her head high despite the trashy shouts of the crowd, whose bearded face held such quiet dignity that there were those among the audience who were touched with awe and guilt; they were the ones who slipped away shame-faced while others continued to cling on to the fence until their four francs' worth of time was up.

Erik reached out to hold her hand, but the whip on his back stopped him. From its rusty cage, the panther roared. It had never growled so ferociously before.

Suddenly incensed, he snatched the whip from his ringmaster's hand and threw it down: the crowd gasped. Then shock turned to delight as the youth attacked the man, his ugly face twisted in hatred. Now this was what they called a show! Armand managed to overpower Erik for an instant and bashed the side of his head. Elissa cried out.

He whipped his head around. The mute girl had called his name! Taking advantage of his surprise, Armand kicked the boy in the stomach, and Erik fell down groaning. But as the burly, filthy-haired man towered over him, he shot out a hand and stabbed two fingers into the glowering eyes. Armand screamed in pain; the audience cheered. They were like a pack of wolves who had turned against their leader.

Erik leaped over the rickety fence, then turned back and held out a hand. "Elissa! Come!"

She hesitated for the briefest instant, then clambered over the bars, her hand safely in his. Oh, how often had he had dreamed of this moment! Most of the people let them weave their way out; those who would stand in their way were met with Erik's hissing grotesque grin.

He thought they had made it. He thought they were free.

He was wrong.

A rough hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around, and he was staring into Armand's half-mad swollen eyes. Too late he realized he had chosen the wrong day to pick a fight: the man had been indulging his drinking habit especially heavily, and there was the drunken fire of liquor in him.

"Leave us alone!" growled Erik.

"You think I'll let you go…for humiliating me like that?" He pulled out a slim wicked knife that glinted in the moonlight. "Let's duel for your freedom then."

Elissa gasped. "Take me, Armand, let Erik go!" Her voice was awkward and half-swallowed from lack of use, but to the boy's ears it was beautiful. Armand pushed her aside inconsequentially, as if she was a ghost.

"I have no weapon; put away your knife. Let us fight fairly."

Armand gave a harsh laugh. "You must be of nobleman's blood, to have such high ideals!" Without warning, he struck. Erik was forced to duck, to swerve around the onslaught of blows, and each fall of the blade was like the reaper's breath on his mortal thread of life. As the boy began to falter, Armand grew sneakier, and eventually his knife found an undefended spot: Elissa saw with horror-stricken eyes the final thrust that would end her friend's life.

"Nooo!"

She threw herself at Erik, and at the same time the long blade pierced clean through her back and into her heart.

He would never forget the pained, shocked look on her face as she died in his arms. Vaguely he heard his own cries of despair. Then they turned into one sharp howl of vengeance. He looked up at her murderer, and there was a cold fire in the amber eyes. Armand tried to run. Too late, the same knife that had fell the gentle girl came for its owner, and with a strangled choke he died on the cobblestones.

An uncertain period of time later, he was wandering down a grimy alleyway, Armand's money pouch tied to his waist and Elissa in his arms. A faint drizzle chilled his scantily-clad frame, and as the cold numbed his shoulders he thought he must be dead. As lonely as he was, it was better to be dead.

Then he saw the light at the end of the narrow street, and a glimmer of life seeped back into his veins. Faster and faster his feet brought him closer to that merry throng of light and laughter. Finally he stood before the sprawling, magnificent white-and-gold building. The Palais Garnier, the largest opera house in Paris.

Young Erik did not know it yet, but his journey to the pinnacle of greatness and the descents of despair, and the disastrous obsession that came with it, would begin here.

"Elissa!" He jerked awake, expecting it to be pitch black but was greeted with the light of day.

Snug against the curve of his chest, Christine was rudely awakened by Erik's python grip on her arm. "Wh – what is it…?"

"Oh…nothing." He felt drained from the traumatic dream, and very foolish.

"Goodness, it's cold." She sat up on the floor, and it was then that Erik saw her smallish teardrop breasts, firm but with a delicious weight that was lightly shadowed by the weak winter light. He threw a sheet from the bed at her. "Put some clothes on," he said, his face a deep shade of red.

She was taken aback at his brusqueness. "What is it?"

"What is what?" He was being cold, diffident, despite the rush of blood that went all the way down to his well-formed shoulders.

She recalled something, and frowned. "Who is Elissa?"

"Nothi – nobody. Just someone I used to know."

"And why…what happened between…between us?"

"Nothing you'd care to hear of."

"Nothing, nobody, what is it?" She felt the old fire coming back, and she couldn't help it. "Look, if I did something foolish I want to know about it. You don't need to – "

"Be quiet – "

" – protect me into believing I'm still a sweet innocent virgin –"

"I said be quiet!"

"What right have you to tell me to be quiet!" Her voice was still slightly weak from the fever from which she had just recovered, but she let it go as loud as she could.

Like the arguments of old, they glowered at each other until their eyes hurt from glaring so much.

"You don't have to protect me," she repeated quietly.

"Don't I?" He smiled grimly. "What do you think I've been doing these past few days?" Instantly he regretted saying that.

"Oh! Then I suppose I am much obliged to you for taking care of me. As for saving my life...goodness, how long it will be before I pay off such a huge debt?"

"When have I demanded payment for anything?"

"If I had money, I would pay you. I detest being beholden to someone…"

"What? Go on, say it. Someone like me?" he growled. "Somehow I did not expect something as warm as gratitude from your catty little heart."

She crossed her arms over her chest, now draped in the cream-white bed sheet, but then grudgingly gave in. "I am grateful."

"Prove it," he sneered.

The smirk on his face disappeared as she pulled his head towards hers to land her lips on his. Her kiss was as strong as a current, as gentle as a butterfly. With one touch she stung his lips like a bee, so sweet was the pain that thundered in his heart. This was mindlessness: this was ecstasy.

Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly towards him. "How dare y –!" Her protest was cut short as he did the same to her, only harder, more intense, his lips devouring, almost raping hers. They wrested for control; she struggled in his grip even as her mouth responded readily to his passion. As soft muffled groans escaped their locked lips they fought and writhed until she tore herself, finally, out of his hold.

"Most gentlemanly of you, to accost me like that!" she thundered.

"I suppose you taking the first advantage doesn't count."

"You spied on me in my room!"

"And yet you fell asleep willingly with the man who so molested you!" His voice was soft, sardonic, yet pained. "My God, Christine, there is not a waking moment when some thought of you does not cross my mind. You haunt me with your stubborn gaze, you are an unwitting temptress that pulls me from the peaceful depths of sleep at night; even when I am at the organ, you come uninvited into my music and change it with your fire and dew and spirit! Is it not enough without you letting me in, then pushing me out like this? Say you loathe me, say you think me a monster and not a man, leave me if you must! I will prepare you a coach, enough clothing and food to last you your journey back to your beloved family. I will do what I must to rid you from my mind…if you really hate me that much, I will do it." He seemed to collapse then, to fold into himself, defeated, all the force of his towering form gone.

"Do you still think I hate you?" she asked. "Why did I kiss this deformed monster, as you call yourself, this cursed figure who is no wealthier or kinder than any other man? Why did I trust my safety to his embrace? Why do I look at the fresh flowers on my bedside table – yes, don't think I don't notice – and smile, and think of you?"

All he could do was glare at her, wanting to hate her, but knowing he couldn't if his life depended on it.

"Damn you," he whispered finally.

"It's strange," she said, as if she had not heard him. "I've changed so much since I've met you. Never before have I been so intensely angry, then so deeply…in love… I have never been filled with such passion and such sadness and happiness before you came into my life." Her eyes grew distant. "And then I heard your music…like angels making love grandly before an open fire." She laughed softly, then grew serious. "Erik, will you play for me?"

He tilted his head at her, and his mouth changed from its stormy scowl to stop at the threshold of a smile. "Only if you sing for me."

Winter icicles quivered in the stiff biting wind, and the frozen lake had never seemed so still. In less than a month the chill would be over and the spring would melt the kingdom of ice into gentle green once more, though in these parts the sun was slower to arrive. On the outside, Candlemere Castle was as cold and brooding as ever. But from its windows an invisible warmth glowed, stoked by the sounds of music and contentment and – perhaps – even happiness.