Author's note: Yay, Nadir's back! Oh, but he's got some rather unpleasant questions for Erik – perhaps this will not be such an amiable meeting after all. Read to see…
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Phantom, although if I could, I would. Again, as in Act I, there are bits and pieces of Kay's Phantom in here, which are denoted by ' marks and italics. Enjoy!
Chapter Fifteen –
Questions for which you have no answer
Erik's point of view: two weeks after the masquerade, at the lake beneath the opera house…
'Nadir was waiting for me on the far bank, and long before I disembarked I could see his face was very grim. He waited only for me to set foot on the bank beside him before launching into his attack.
"Christine Daae!" he said severely and without civilized preamble. "Christine Daae, Erik?"
I had been afraid of this!
"What are you accusing me of now, Daroga?" I demanded guardedly. "Surely not murder?"
"I know that the girl has not been seen for the last two weeks. I also know that if anyone disappears unexpectedly around here, you're usually to blame for it." '
Usually! Now that was a pathetic attack, Daroga, and quite unworthy of your old stellar wit. You had best make a better effort before I become annoyed with you.
' "This is a theater." I shrugged. "Girls run off with their lovers all the time."
"Well, in this case it appears the lover has been left behind! You must know that the child is virtually engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny. Are you intending to send him a ransom note, too?"
I caught hold of Nadir's arm with a grip that made him gasp.
"She is not engaged to him!' I spat furiously.'
Nadir stepped back, his dark eyes suddenly alight with some barely guarded emotion – fear, of course. I was glad! No one in his right mind would spread lies of my beloved Angel in my presence. No one except for the drastically foolhardy and stubborn, that is.
But he was my friend, even if I did have to constantly remind myself of that fact, especially in moments such as this one.
I released his arm and took a step backwards as well, further into the shadows, where I was better concealed. The less he could see of my facial expressions, which could all-too-well betray my emotions, the better! I folded my arms across my chest, wrapping myself more closely in my black cloak, and let my head drop until my chin was just barely touching the starched white collar of my silken shirt; I then eyed him from beneath the dark cover of my hat, warily.
"How do you know this…for certain?" he asked, cautiously.
I shrugged again, nonchalantly, completely careless.
"I checked for an ad in the Époque – come along now, Daroga, how else do you think I know? Didn't you yourself just state that the child hasn't been seen for two weeks and that I am usually responsible for such disappearances?"
He paled a bit, and looked over my shoulder, as if he was trying to see my lair beyond the lake: the palace where my princess, Christine, was sheltered – awaiting my return.
"Then…she really is there." He sighed, seeming to grow old and weary, and said tiredly, "Erik, I was hoping that…my conjecture…wasn't true."
I made a light scoffing noise, a sound that had sent many souls in the past fleeing for safety. When the Angel of Doom mocks, disaster is ahead.
"Of course you were, my dear Daroga! And now I suppose that you will tell me that the local Parisian gendarme forces do not believe me to be the murderer of Joseph Buquet as well?" I stepped forward, my eyes sparking with barely controlled anger and spat viciously, "Please, spare me your artificial pity!"
"Erik, you know that I would not present an false act to you – not ever! But please, think before you dismiss my words as nonsense that you should not deign to heed: the girl has a life! She has friends…a home somewhere…a young man who deeply loves her—"
My reserve snapped and I felt all of my rage come pouring into me, flooding my entire being with a black, violent explosion.
"A life! Friends! A home? And a—Daroga, I should find it entirely within all reason and justice to wring your neck right now!"
My mind was thudding with the force of my anger, and I knew that in such a terrible mood, I would not know whom or what I was dealing with. I took several deep breaths, letting the silence settle in between us, and then I spoke to him, the darkness of my thoughts and emotions reflected in the sound of my voice and in the light of my eyes.
"Nadir, do you have any idea of where she came from before this – do you know why she came here, to be with me, in spite of the fact that she knows what I am? She has no family…no real home…no life, other than the drudgery that she was imprisoned into at the Opéra. Her parents are both dead – her mother has been so from the poor child's birth, and her father was taken from her when she was no more than a little girl. She has no family to go home to, no home to call her own, in fact…and…"
I trailed off, turning away to hide my emotions. I would never be able to make him believe the things that Christine had told me. Glancing back at him over my shoulder, carefully, I knew that he wouldn't ever believe anything that I told him flat.
Well, he didn't have to believe me. He didn't matter. Christine was here of her own free will…she had told me…I trusted her…I believed her, and she…she believed in me.
I turned back to my companion, cold and reserved once more. I spoke, coolly and formally, but my words – as I said them – grew ever more dark and threatening, like black lightning that flashed across the night sky.
"Nadir, listen to me and listen to me well, for I will not repeat the words that I am about to say – ever…and if you do not heed them, I will not be held responsible for the consequences that result of your disobedience to my commands."
I narrowed my eyes, watching him and refusing to release him from the power of my voice and gaze.
"Stay away from my house. Stay away from Christine Daae. What happens to her is not your concern, nor is it anyone else's, save hers and mine. You are not to interfere. This is above and beyond your comprehension, and if I find that you are meddling in my affairs once more, ten times the years we spent in Mazanderan together will not save you! I will hunt you down, like an animal, wherever you are, however you get there. And I will find you."
I paused and stepped closer to him, my hand moving to grip his arm, quietly but firmly, as I breathed my next words, punctuating them each with a deadly emphasis.
"And if you ever come here again, I swear on everything that is holy…I will kill you."
With that, I left him standing there on the banks of the underground lake, and poled the boat back over the lake, my thoughts descending rapidly into a black ether that I could not see an escape from.
* * * * * *
When I reached the house once more, I quickly and silently tied the boat to the dock and then stepped into the room beyond. The door that led into my house was closed, which told me that Christine was waiting within for me. Good, I thought, darkly.
It's best that she isn't here to see me like this.
Suddenly feeling very worn-out, very melancholy, and very old, I undid the clasp that fastened my cloak about me and swung it off of my shoulders, hanging it quietly on the hook on the wall nearby, and then crossed the room to the throne that waited for me.
My throne – the throne of the omnipotent, all-powerful Angel of Doom.
The Phantom of the Opera.
I sat down in it slowly, painfully, seized by a deep ache that pained me with every move I made. Closing my eyes, I tried to clear the memories of my conversation with Nadir from my mind. But it is hard to forget such insinuations…such accusations…those kind of things were what had made my life miserable for many, many long, black years…
Why was it so hard for him to believe that a woman – a girl, a beauty like Christine – would want to spend her time at my side, to share a home with me? Why was it so incredible to him that I could have feelings like…love? Did I really seem like that much of a monster to him?
Of course, I knew why. He had seen me at my worst; he had been there in my blackest moments. Persia had not been a good time in my life, although I had achieved many wonders of my arts: architecture, magic, music, in that place. Too vivid to me were the memories of what I had been in those days – the khanum's appointed Angel of Doom, a cold-blooded, merciless demon of an assassin who held no respect, no love, for the human race. How many thousands of people, even innocent people, had I been forced to send to their deaths as the shah's executioner? If I couldn't be blamed for killing people directly, then many of my creations – the maze of mirrors, and other devices like it – could most certainly be held responsible for such atrocities!
I had truly been the mortal embodiment of my given title. I had truly been the Angel of Doom.
But I hadn't wanted to do some of the things that I had been told to. It hadn't been my choice – I hadn't wanted to do it! My only thought had been of eventual escape…and that indomitable desire, along with the countless threats against my friend's life, had been what forced my hand: my unwilling hand.
How could fate be so cruel – how could someone be compelled to live as I did, and for what means? I couldn't see it. I didn't think I ever would, in that moment.
Money, power, influence, even freedom…were these worth being branded as a monster for all time?
And now here I was: haunted by my inescapable past, my present guilt, and the looming morbidity that was known as my future. Because of what I was – because of my face, really – I could never be anything but a horrible beast to the world. It didn't matter if I was the most intelligent being ever to walk the earth, or the most talented or sensitive or sweet-voiced…the world would always see me as a monster not fit to walk in the daylight.
I only hoped that, in the future, things would change for others who had the ill fortune to be born, or to become, like me – should there be any such people.
As for me, I could never hope to have the woman that I loved as my wife, and no one would ever believe that she had chosen me of her own free will because I was ugly as sin…as death.
I felt my lips begin to tremble, and, since Christine was not about to see me in this moment of self-pitying weakness, I let my head drop to rest in my hand: the elbow of which I was resting on the arm of my chair.
"Christine…" I whispered, and it came out like the whimper of a small child.
One tear was all I allowed myself – one tear, and no more. Quickly then I stood bolt upright, shoving my emotions back under the mental shell that I always wore.
Nadir had reduced me to this.
Oh, you would just love to see that, now wouldn't you, Daroga? I sneered inwardly.
I glanced back towards the lake, my gaze penetrating clear to the opposite shore where we had stood and argued on whom should be responsible for Christine's fate.
You would like to see me like this – groveling under the weight of the numerous sins of my past, under your righteous lecturing. I know you would, and you know it as well.
But I'll never let you see it!
I slowly walked across the room and into the house then, closing the doors softly behind myself. Candles were lit everywhere. Christine and I had taken to lighting them all together in the evenings during the past two weeks that she had been in the lair with me; we would bring the soft, wavering, ambient light into the place together, and then she would join me in the drawing room for talk or story-telling, or in the organ room for music.
We had led such a pleasant life in those times…each night I could almost forget that anything else in the world existed, I could almost forget my pain, guilt, and hopeless despair in the sparkling glow, the effervescence of her smiles, her words, her movements and beauty.
In those times, we were simply Erik and Christine.
And I would fall even more deeply in love with her.
Just then, my train of thought was broken by the realization that there was noise coming from the kitchen. Pushing the remembrance of my conversation with Nadir out of my mind, I went towards the source of those sounds – the kitchen. I paused before the doors, listening. Someone was within the room beyond, moving about and softly singing underneath her breath. Gently, I placed one palm flat on the door and pushed it open, and then I saw into the room.
Christine, gowned in one of the many dresses that I had provided for her in her room with a large white linen towel pinned to the front of the gown, stood before the wood-burning stove, her face flushed a beautiful, velvety rose with the heat. She turned around, hearing me clear my throat softly, and a smile instantly curved her sweet lips.
"Mon ange!" she exclaimed, setting down the spoon that she had been stirring something on the stovetop with and coming across the room to meet me: her slender, white little hands extended to me. "I'm so glad you've returned – I was beginning to worry that all my efforts were to pay off for nothing!"
Slightly bemused by this, I too distracted to shy away when she took both of my hands in hers and pulled me gently across the room with her, into the dining room.
There, I saw that the long cherrywood table had been covered with a starched, snowy, laced-edged white cloth, with places laid for two. I turned to Christine, baffled as to what she meant by this, although it was painfully obvious.
I must be more senile than I thought! I remarked to myself in my mind as I ruefully ran one hand through my hair.
"Christine…what is this?"
She shot me a mock-reproachful look, her beautiful, wide blue eyes sparkling: making a vibrant contrast against her dark, full lashes.
"Dinner," she replied, matter-of-factly. "Now go wash up, M. le Fantôme, and then perhaps you would like to help me bring in the food from the kitchen?"
I could only obey, so surprised had I been by this. My black mood instantly disappeared and I went for my room, to wash up as she had told me; and before I left it, I hastily reached into my closet and retrieved a new shirt and vest to wear over it. The shirt was full-cut white silk, its flowing cravat and sleeves edged with foamy white lace, and the vest was made of a stiff, fine blood-red brocade with glittering gold threads making up its pattern.
I put my hat away and then left the room, going into the kitchen to join Christine, who promptly handed me a basket of bread when I asked her what I could do to help. I watched her disappear into the dining room, my eyes never leaving the delicate, unknowingly sensual swaying of her slender figure, the dark, rich fall of her silky, raven-like hair. She was so lovely. I knew why the Vicomte had fallen in love with her.
And I knew even more so why I had fallen in love with her.
On a whim of the moment thought, I went into the pantry where I kept at least a hundred bottles of vintage wines. This was a special night – it was obvious, and I would do my part to make it as lovely and unique as she had. Kneeling down, keeping the basket of bread perched carefully in the crook of my arm, I scanned the rows of corks and finally selected an old, dark Merlot. Then I left and joined her in the dining room.
Christine was a surpassingly good cook, and we spent dinner very pleasantly, talking and even laughing as we ate, enjoying ourselves very thoroughly.
Oh, Christine, Christine…
What will I do when you can no longer be here with me like this?
I had best enjoy it while I can.
* * * * * *