A/N: My apologies for the delay! We were without electricity for 48 hours due to very bad storm and lightning hit a transformer in our backyard- & knocked down one of the power lines there. (We were one of 250, 000 homes to get hit "powerless")- I'm behind in a lot of things, but am getting caught up- somewhat- enough to give you a dose of Treasure. :) For those reading the other story, I'll have more of that one soon too…
On to the main event ...
**Chapter XXV**
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Music is an outburst of the soul.
~Frederick Delius
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Raoul awoke, his mind drifting in a fog. His wrists throbbed with fire, his arms aching as if they'd hung in the same position for an extended period – bound together, pulled out and up at an angle. He turned his head, noting with some confusion he lay on sand, which had found its way into his mouth. He spit out granules and tried to sit up, but couldn't use his arms to aid him. Craning his head to look, he blinked in confusion. He had been trussed up like an animal, tied to a center post of a small tent.
What the hell had happened to him?
Memories, vague but insistent, hammered at his mind ... finding the camp ... locating the largest of tents, the sole one bearing both colors predominant in the opera house ... seeing Christine's silhouette through the striped canvas wall as she finished undressing ... calling out to her before she did whatever she was undressing for ...
He grimaced with disappointment as more memories rushed in on a fresh wave of pain. His futile talk with her in an attempt to persuade her ... her earnest oath that the Phantom had changed ... the beast's sudden arrival proving he had not. Forced to drink the foul-tasting potion – which must be why his head still spun, though his mind was beginning to clear.
Regardless of her avowal of love for her monstrous Angel and her threat of eternal hatred for Raoul if he pursued in his mission, he must try to save her. He failed those at the opera house when the war he waged upon his arrival became personal after seeing Christine again, and Raoul had exerted all efforts in his pursuit of one fiend, desperate to end his reign, even putting her in danger to do so.
His eyes closed in shame. This time, he would not fail in his true assignment. It had become his sole purpose, what kept him from falling into an abyss of self-loathing and despair.
From outside the tent wall near his head, Raoul heard low murmuring, a man and a woman. The woman softly giggled, innocent, endearing, and his heart almost stopped at hearing her blithe laugh, so familiar. The man responded, deep and low, and she let out a sigh of contentment.
"Aimez-moi, mon Ange. Ne me laissez jamais vont." Her faint words in French asking her Angel to love her and never let her go proved the identity of the couple. Cloth walls made poor chambers for privacy, and Raoul grimaced, wondering just how close the tent that held him prisoner stood to theirs.
"Little Lotte, how could you turn from the life you once held dear and embrace the darkness so completely?" Raoul whispered, his heart splintering.
But had she held that world dear? his mind taunted. Or had she been lost from the beginning, too long confined in her Machiavellian teacher's melodious trap?
Always, she had wanted her Angel of Music to come to her; her desire the reason Raoul had hailed her with the childish nickname from the fairy tale her Papa told them, one of many. Her life had been filled with such stories, her mind and heart obsessed with fantasies and pretenses long before she ever stepped foot inside the opera house and found her "Angel of Music."
Raoul's mind went to those three months when he assumed she was his and had severed all bonds to her despicable teacher from hell. Upon looking back, Raoul remembered her hesitance to show her affection or spend time alone with him, veiled with many excuses – "They'll see", "We must return," "They'll wonder where I am" – among countless others. Her secrecy had been the kindling that fueled the majority of their arguments. Each time she begged him to cease his endless questions of what she was hiding and just to "pretend." With a tight, false smile she'd told him one day he would understand, and in frustration he had wondered what on earth they should pretend about and why he must wait until "one day" to understand.
At the elaborate balls and gala parties to which he'd escorted her, she often seemed tense, at last relaxing once she immersed herself in the festivities. But always, always he caught her looking wistfully up high stairwells or staring at hidden alcoves of the room, adequate areas of concealment. Her bewildering change of heart to stay at the opera house instead of allowing Raoul to find safe haven for her made no sense whatsoever after her urgent request on the rooftop to take her far from there. Nor had her excuse held substance that she was part of the chorus and must remain, since he'd told her that once they married she could no longer partake in such activities, which were unsuitable for a nobleman's wife. And the many occasions he'd found her in the chapel, alone, he couldn't begin to recount. Raoul had silently made excuses for her lack of sound reasoning, believing that her conflicted soul yearned for spiritual comfort. But he'd thought it odd that for someone who professed to fear the Phantom's hold she'd sought refuge in the very place that they often met for her lessons.
Raoul, don't do this. He'll take me, I know. We'll be parted forever ...
He had once thought her urgent plea stemmed from her fear of the Phantom. But in the same breath she pleaded just as fervently that he not force her to undertake an Ordeal by Fire, the test upon which the managers insisted, leery of her allegiance and to whom it belonged. With them. Or with the Phantom.
Raoul, of course, had tried to soothe her fears, encouraging her she must do as expected, thinking her love for him alone – until he saw her onstage that same evening once she became aware the Phantom had come for her. In one breath of time, Raoul watched Christine come to life, her passion for the masked tenor burning for all to see – no longer caring who DID see – and he realized her plea in the chapel stemmed from her knowledge that she would go to him and forever be lost because, though she once fought it, she desired her fallen Angel.
Raoul had not been the susceptible fool everyone thought. His heart had wanted to deny what he'd long suspected but feared to believe; even to this day he would prefer to just "pretend," now that it was no longer an option. But even then, as their shocking reunion took place before his eyes, he could no longer make weak excuses for her bizarre behavior.
Only those who'd read the Phantom's script and watched the dress rehearsal knew her passion far exceeded any performance she'd given with Señor Piangi. Those nearby had seen the sincerity shine in her eyes. Heard as she spoke of her love for her king. Watched as she accused Raoul of bringing her to the stage as bait, to betray her king in the conspiracy to overthrow him. The masked Phantom then looked at Raoul with grave regard, the threat of judgment burning in his feral eyes – then all stared, stunned, as she turned with her next breath and gave herself to the fiend, heart, body and soul, in her song to him. A song unrehearsed, coming from her alone, one that made even the Phantom stop twice and stare at her in awe, almost forgetting his opera when he realized hers was no learned performance.
Her song made Raoul slowly rise from his seat in horrified realization as he witnessed Christine plead guilty to all who understood – the managers, the soldiers. The audience remained blissfully unaware and on the edge of their seats, thinking only that they witnessed a superlative musical presentation that was in fact an avowal of everlasting love before a death sentence, and brought tears to Raoul's eyes. Both for the plight into which he forced Christine and in watching her melt beneath the Phantom's touch, something she'd never done when Raoul shared his affection.
The passion he witnessed between the two onstage had strangled his breath, the manner in which she responded to the Phantom's proposal as he, too, broke from the opera, heartrending. Raoul had no need for Christine to tell him of her strong desire for the masked miscreant; he had witnessed it, as many in Paris had that night. And he'd been given a private showing a second time when she walked into the water in the wedding gown, sharing with her king kisses so intense and soulful, Raoul could no longer bear to look.
Her king ... or more to the point –
HER DAMNED KING, WHO WAS NO KING!
He is a king, Raoul ...
He groaned at the persistent voices.
You must go to the opera house; there, also, you will find a lost soul in desperate need of your aid ...
He's here - the Phantom of the opera! ...
This is the mission to which you have been called; do you choose to accept it? ...
There are two and not one, Raoul...
Secrecy is vital to succeed – none must ever know – he is but a man – I have been visited by an angel, an Angel of Music – He is a king, Raoul ... a king ... a king – do you choose to accept it?
He shut his eyes, wishing to drown the memories and voices that crackled through his mind with the intensity of a brush fire. They swung, relentless, around and around and around, until he wanted to scream for silence. A merry-go-round of questions and claims circling faster and faster inside his mind.
Her voice.
Their voices.
Distant.
Near.
Ever circling ...
Again, and again ...
Murmurs of pleasure suddenly eclipsed his tortured recollections. Her moans, coming with more frequency, then his. The unmistakable sounds of a man and woman in the throes of passion.
Mon Dieu! Was he to be made an unwilling audience to this again? Would he be forced to recognize their hunger for one another play out a third time? Only on this occasion there would be no sudden unmasking, no angry mob's distant cries of revenge to break them away from their shared desire. This time the fiendish beast from hell would take his ready victim far past the point of no return, as he'd surely done numerous times before today ...
The terrible words he refused to let surface for months burst from a trapdoor in his mind and soared with malicious intent, buoyed by her firm avowal:
He is my husband, Raoul. I am not his whore. He is my husband and I am his wife ...
his wife ...
HIS WIFE!
They were MARRIED!
It wasn't possible ... and yet, he had no reason to disbelieve her after all he had seen, and heard, and experienced ...
She was his wife. His sweet Little Lotte had wed the Angel from Hell and become the Bride of Beelzebub.
God, why would she do it?
He could no longer endure this agonizing litany of questions devoid of answers. He struggled against the tight ropes; they chafed into his wrists and made his hand sting, though it was well on its way to healing. His heart, however, felt broken.
Before coming to Spain, he accepted that Christine would never again be his, if she truly ever was; though he had hoped ... but of supreme consequence had been his mission, to steer her back to the Light from which she had strayed and offer her his protection after nine years trapped inside a world of Darkness.
The PHANTOM'S darkness.
There are two and not one, Raoul ... he is nothing but a man ...
To try to quash the low sounds of pleasure coming from without, he managed to sit up and focus within, on his memories of how it all began.
His first years at University ... days of mischief and nights of revelry spent with his schoolmates, at local taverns indulging in ale and wine, gambling at the tables and the races, bedding the willing young maids, one of whom he had sneaked into his dormitory room ... his resulting suspension, his father's denunciation, his mother's grief ... his later return to the ivy league halls with the knowledge that he must change his reasoning and confine himself to his studies, which he had done with a vengeance. Not for his father, who never ceased to deplore him, nor for his mother, whose lack of attention throughout his life gave him deep regret. But for one wizened professor, a quiet little man, who visited with Raoul upon his return the following semester as he'd sat on a bench in the courtyard, indulging in self-pity over his lot in life.
"Tsk, tsk. It is indeed a shame," the man had greeted as he came to stand beside Raoul, breaking into his misery.
"What?" He blinked up in confusion, trying to place the newcomer, not one of his assigned professors and clearly too old to be a student. Raoul remembered seeing him walk through the corridors once before and assumed he must teach there.
The little man stared into the distance at a line of boxwood along a high wall of red brick. Raoul wondered what he found so interesting there, to stare as if the greenery held the key answers involving the great mysteries of life.
"To be gifted with a mind of supreme intelligence only to squander it," the man answered him, "never to realize its full potential, instead choosing to seek out pleasures that never fully satisfy." He shook his head. "Knowledge is a gift too often unrecognized and wisdom the key to finding it. It is indeed a shame," he repeated and walked away.
Those profound words haunted Raoul, mystified him, and strangely encouraged his pursuit of his studies, as he spent every available moment in his books. His friends taunted him when he declined to join in their usual tomfoolery and regarded him with confusion when they could no longer persuade his involvement. Likewise, his professors treated him differently – no longer as a chief troublemaker failing in his grades, but as one who excelled and desired to learn. Then one night, five weeks after his return, he received an unexpected summons from the man who deserved all the credit. Raoul entered his office, bemused but grateful.
Professor Portier, as the little man introduced himself, waved aside Raoul's expression of gratitude, coming straight to the point. "We have watched you, Raoul de Chagny, and wish to extend to you an invitation."
He didn't think it incongruous not to be addressed with regard to his station, as his other teachers always did. Had the professor shown any form of deference due to Raoul's surname, the respect would have felt awkward coming from him.
"An invitation, sir?"
"To join us as a possible recruit to our ..." the professor had folded his hands and smiled, "shall we say, secret society?"
Raoul had heard of private organizations among university students but never realized teachers were involved. "What sort of society, and who belongs to it?"
"Ah, sadly I cannot tell you the latter. Many are called but few are chosen, and of those selected, their identities must remain secret for the safety of all concerned. However, I can satisfy your curiosity regarding your first question. Our society is based on all precepts noble and befitting to mankind. Upon that foundation we depend, to aid us in our missions."
"Missions?" The professor's ambiguous explanation puzzled him though he felt intrigued. "Do you refer to missionaries? Is that who you are?" But that made no sense; he'd heard of such men, of course, but they traveled to places such as the untamed wilds of Africa, not the hallowed halls of Academia.
The professor chuckled. "Not exactly, no. Before you can be accepted, you must undergo a period of stringent instruction. Seven weeks to be precise. It should not affect your current studies, though you'll need to devote all of your additional time in preparation, even some nights, if you are to succeed ..."
Raoul listened, fascinated, at last agreeing to the professor's terms.
Through the next seven weeks, he learned of the Light and its mystery, of the Darkness and its adversity. He endured lessons pertaining to strength of mind, self-discipline and discernment, and underwent fearsome tests to bolster his courage and reflexes – as well as sharpening his skills in weaponry with a master of swordplay, and a better one Raoul had never observed or sparred with. At the end of seven weeks, he again was summoned to the professor's office and nervously entered.
Six men, strangers Raoul had never seen on campus, gathered with the professor. All agreed he excelled in all but one area – discernment. His major flaw being that he had trouble listening and was apt to react in a fury rather than to wait and to reason.
"However," Professor Portier concluded, "We have taken into account your youth and that some traits must be learned only through experience and with time. Therefore, we have agreed to award you an opportunity to prove your mettle. You are strong and courageous, well-skilled with weaponry – a true warrior. Likewise you are intelligent and bear what all who belong to this society must possess – a benevolent heart that understands mercy. The seven of us agree on one matter: you have the savoir faire to become a true champion and leader." He nodded to a bespectacled man to take the floor.
Tense, Raoul stood in the middle of the room and shifted his attention down the semicircle to the newcomer, who stared at Raoul with grave regard. "There exists in Paris an opera house, whose people are in great distress. For some time, those who dwell within have known extreme darkness, and blinders cover their eyes concerning truth. They speak in silence or they do not speak at all. You must go to the opera house; there, too, you will find a lost soul in desperate need of your aid. Though bear in mind, all within need to hear the message you will bring. Secrecy is vital to succeed; you must reveal to no one your true purpose for being there. No one must know. Nor must you forget. Many lives are at stake." He sat forward, his steady blue eyes burning into Raoul. "This is the mission to which you have been called; do you choose to accept it?"
Moved by the gravity of the situation, Raoul responded in kind. "Yes, sir. I will do what I must."
The seven men exchanged furtive glances that Raoul didn't understand. Another man spoke, gaining his attention. "This opera house is your mother's latest artistic endeavor, now run by two managers who had a stint in the junk business." One of the men gave a grumbling snort. "She has persuaded your father to finance it."
How could they know ...
"We make it our business to know all that concerns you and ... others," the third man responded, as though reading Raoul's mind. "Two weeks after commencement and the conclusion of your studies here you will arrive as the new investor and acquaint yourself with all that goes on inside the opera house walls. No one should suspect your true purpose for being there. If you are cautious, no one will know. Be silent, be wise and ever vigilant. You must be on your guard at all times. The mission is a dangerous one, but we have confidence that you can complete it with all diligence, that none may perish."
A fourth man rose from his chair and extended to Raoul a black onyx cross on a chain. "Wear this at all times to remind you of who you are and why you are there. It is a symbol of both the Light we serve and the Darkness we must obliterate. The darkness inhabits the minds of credulous men, either unaware of its destructive power or hungry for control. The darkness feeds on deception, as you have learned, and has misled one individual in particular –" At the second man's swift shake of his head, the current speaker abruptly ended his explanation, giving his colleague a penitent glance then again focused on Raoul. "Some things you must learn for yourself."
"Have you any questions?" Professor Portier asked quickly.
A number of them agitated within his mind, but Raoul couldn't pull even one free of the whirlpool. He shook his head.
"Godspeed, then. We have faith that you can do this."
Raoul shook the professor's hand, determined not to let him down. No one had ever told him those words or praised his abilities – no one. Not his father, not his mother. That these men should believe in him had pushed Raoul to want to succeed with every breath in his body ...
Christine's husky cry of rapture broke through his recollections. A tear slid from his eye as he closed them both.
He had failed.
The tent stirred, and he became alert and wary as a young woman in colorful gypsy garb ducked through the opening. The evening sun behind wavered on the horizon. He wondered if it was the day following his arrival, or later than that. She stood at the entrance, looked back over her shoulder, then let the tent flap drop and approached.
"You are the Frenchman who wishes to take Música de la Reina far from here."
"Música ..."
"The king's juvali – his wife. Queen Music."
Good God! Was everyone on this earth mad?
"How is it you speak French?"
"Several in my band do. Those privileged. I am Nadya; I will help you. You must take her far from here. Oui?"
He warily studied her severe expression. Her black eyes burned with intense dislike.
"How do I know this isn't another elaborate scheme of the Phantom's?"
She drew her brows together. "Who?"
Raoul grimaced, letting loose an irritated breath. "Never mind. Why should I trust you?"
"I hate the gadjo with everything I am, and I hate her most of all. I want her gone from our camp. Is that answer enough for you?" She set a dagger with a flint blade beside him. "It is the best I could find for you to cut through your ropes. All of our good weapons lie in readiness for tonight, with Stefan to guard them."
"Can you not cut through the ropes for me?"
She shook her head. "I dare no longer stay!" Even as she spoke, she rose from her crouch and backed up in apprehension.
Raoul looked with disdain at the poor blade, certain once he figured out a way to hold it steady, perhaps between his knees, he would have to saw through the binds for some time. "My pistols? And my sword?"
"I know where they are. I will get them and bring them to you." She turned her head sharply at the rustle in the grass behind the tent. "I must go! Hurry! I never saw you; I will swear to it. If caught – you must tell no one I helped you escape. No one. Oui?"
He gave a tight nod, but before he could question her further, she darted away and through the tent opening.
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A/N: Well, now you know a little more about why Raoul is so adamant in his pursuit … (I told you I'm no Raoul hater. :) I've got big plans for him coming up, though not saying what … you'll see soon enough …) Sorry no E/C this chapter- well, except in a backhanded sort of way- lol. More of them to come in next chapter … oh, yeah (*smiles angelically) … enjoy drawing this last quiet breath before the mayhem begins … 0-:-)
A HUGE thank you to all who have reviewed and/or encouraged me – and to the new guys reading this too! You're all the bestest!
Please keep the responses coming!