Author's Note: Another hard one to write. Have fun with this, I'm off to read Chicken Soup for the Tortured Soul. Sheesh.

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XIV : Anvil Hands

"Go," Erik breathed to Christine, taking a bold stride forward and completely ignoring the falter of his step. He seemed almost taller now, brimming with audacity absent only moments before, and powerful as he approached the little man with the gun. Maurice's excitement was shaky, and warily did his courage waver as he held the gun level with the Phantom's chest, and seemed incapable of pulling the trigger again. "Let me handle him," The Phantom's voice changed, almost more to the monster than the man. He said over his shoulder, without looking at Raoul, "Don't stay, and witness this."

"Monsieur," Raoul watched Maurice carefully, an arm shielding Christine in vain. "I think it is too late for any sort of exit, graceful or otherwise." He stepped up, almost beside Erik with body language far more willing to reason, and reached out a hand, palm to the sky as a signal of peace. "Come now," he said. "We are all sensible people here. Put down your weapon. Let the law deal with whatever conflict you and this man have had."

"I'll let the people," Maurice barked, foaming. He waved the gun at Erik, who was unfazed by the sight. "Do you hear them? They're on their way, and they won't be near as forgiving as you," he threw the comment casually at Raoul, but in the same instance did a double take, and stared at the young man incredulously, and irrational. With the back of his hand he wiped the dribble from his chin. "He killed Thomas," Maurice said softly. "You should have seen it. He ripped his throat apart when he should not have been able to even think of his own name. You want him alive?" The gun turned to Raoul. "He is a monster."

Raoul's hands slowly raised to the level of his eyes. "Be reasonable," he bit out. "You do not want to kill anyone, Monsieur."

Erik's mind was elsewhere. His initial nerve had been a front; without their big protectors like Thomas, Maurice's kind were nothing and easy to frighten down into their rightful place, but so far the little man seemed far too disoriented to think clearly. The voices were getting closer, like the licking of flames at his flight instincts, and Erik knew the people would hang him for certain if they saw him this time. He refused to face the justice of the people, to let them take his life on the false beds of bible-cushioned conscience. Erik would have preferred to take his own life, then fall into their hands again.

Briefly he scanned the surrounding area for an out – Maurice had come from around the corner, behind the Opera Populaire. Aside from the three hidden entrances behind Maurice's back, there was only open city, and no place to hide. A few meters, a quick dash perhaps, and Erik could slip into the darkness of his tunnels and disappear forever.

Erik glanced at the Vicomte beside him, and swore softly. Surely Maurice lacked the grit to shoot a man of title, and a lady. Especially with a number of people tromping on their way to investigate, Maurice would have every element churning against him if he harmed one of them. He would not shoot Christine, would not dare, and so it became one of Erik's lesser concerns. He had to make it past the revolver, and the speed of a bullet.

He would have to make a rush, despite the injuries he bore, and if he should fail it would mean his life.

Raoul was still murmuring pleas of reason to the disgruntled cart-thief, and Erik kept one eye on them, and one of the freedom that lay beyond Maurice and his weapon. Such an ironic term for his aim, freedom. Erik knew as long as he was forced to hide he would never know freedom, but solitude, even in his own impenetrable darkness, was a better place to be than in the midst of unreasonable hate.

He calculated his exit. He would have to move swiftly past Maurice, and if by chance he avoided the bullet he would round the corner, vanish into an unrecognizable door in the back wall, climb down the West tunnel, and drop into the safety of a somber, empty Opera House. When time allowed, and all rumors of the Phantom of the Opera died, he would perhaps leave his prison. He would not be able to take Christine with him, and would be alone in his escape.

He closed his eyes, hard, and readied himself. It seemed like all the pain he had endured over the last five hours made a sudden comeback, and his bruises bore into him, his wrappings shifted against the abrasions. His breath rattled in his chest. Erik drew in a slow breath, and looked back past Raoul, and to Christine. Her eyes were fixed wide and terrified on Maurice, but when she felt his gaze on her she returned it.

It was only a moment, perhaps a half second of time that moved between them, but undeniable comprehension dawned on Christine's face. She nodded, ever so slightly, and mouthed a silent 'goodbye' with trembling lips. Erik closed his eyes and turned away. Cutting off Raoul in mid-sentence, with a burst of strength and not a second thought he threw himself into the ruthless stride of a desperate run. With a cry of terror Maurice fired, but the only pain Erik felt was the agony of his straining, battered muscles burn like fire from his feet to the back of his scalp. It was a tearing pain, but he kept going, and with a falter, a new pain, he vanished into the darkness.

Christine screamed, a sorrowful, afflicted breaking of her voice as she watched him fall behind the corner. Maurice shakily pointed the weapon at her when she tried to follow, and she stayed her feet, turning on him with wretched tears.

"You shot him," she heaved, hardly able to form words. "You shot him – because he was something evil? Without a soul?" Maurice stared at her, jolted with his own fear, white faced and shaking. Christine took another step toward him, and was once again at bay by the end of his revolver. "Didn't you see!" she cried. "How could something so soulless shed tears like he did!" He stared at her. "Answer me!"

She flattened a hand to her breast in a feeble attempt to calm her pounding heart, it felt like it would explode inside her, as she waited for Maurice to say something, do something. He shook his head, numbly, and Christine followed his eyes. His gazed traveled past her face, staring fixedly on something behind her. Irritated, Christine turned sharp, and Raoul frowned at her, mutely. He glanced down, to where his hand had instinctively flown to his torso.

Christine's inside froze over, and something within her sank despairingly. Raoul pulled his hand away, and fresh blood stained his bare fingers.