A/N: Sorry about the wait.school started up again. You know how it is.
The best way to get to the Vicomte, I decided, was through Christine. I had often heard Christine telling stories from Sweden to the youngest members of the ballet troupe, involving the old Viking Gods, and other old Scandinavian legends, heroes and villains. Using this as my guide, I began researching. I soon found the perfect deity for my purpose. It was the Goddess Hel, keeper of the underworld. Her hall, (the place in which she dwelt) was called Elvidnir, or misery. There was nothing more perfect.
Unfortunately, I could not be a goddess for the masquerade. It wouldn't be very scary, and it just was not the way I operated. I would have to find a different costume. But that was not a main concern at the moment. Revenge had seeped through my veins, and drove at my mind and soul. The only way to rid myself of it would be to act on it. Immediately.
I slipped the note under the door ten minutes before rehearsal was scheduled to end. The Vicomte had been coming back to Christine's room with her after rehearsals, and I knew he would today. His life was all routine. It never seemed to change.
I had just gotten in place behind the mirror when the walked in. Christine picked up the envelope, and silently handed it to the Vicomte. He ripped it open and begun reading it. He finished, and looked at Christine questioningly.
"I thought you said this phantom was a genius."
"Oh, he is," she replied nodding.
"Well obviously not. Listen to this:
Sir,
Please make no further attempts on my life. I assure you, you shall rest with Hel before I do if you try again.
I had not signed the letter, but obviously they both knew it was from me. Christine snatched the letter out of his hands and began to read it.
"For a genius he cannot spell very well. Everyone can spell Hell, and speaking of which, how the devil can I rest with hell? I know I can rest in it, but." He was cut short as Christine grabbed his arm.
"You do not know what this means Raoul. Hel is the Viking goddess of the underworld, her home is called "Misery". Oh Raoul, Erik is saying he shall kill you if you do not stop plotting to kill him!"
"Of course that's what he's saying. That's the only hard part about trying to kill someone, they are probably also trying to kill you."
"But Raoul, he actually can kill you! I can't have you risking your life over something this stupid." I laughed to myself. Even now Christine still admitted that the boy could not kill me.
"Are you saying I could not kill the phantom?" Raoul had straightened, and stared at her.
"I do not mean to offend you Raoul, but yes. He has outsmarted you before, and you know how dangerous he is. You were lucky to escape that encounter with him alive. Now he is angry with you. Be careful Raoul. Once he has said you are to die, you might as well begin picking out your casket." Raoul turned and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind me. Suddenly ideas began formulating in my head. The way Christine had declared it, she made it sound as though my will brought on some sort of fatal disease. A disease that ensured death almost immediately. It came to me at once.
In my younger days when I had more time on my hands, I occasionally read books. One such book was by an American named Edgar Allen Poe. I was especially drawn to his work by the morbidity of all of his stories and poems. One of my favorites had been "The Masque of Red Death." It was about a young Prince who thought he could avoid the Red Death epidemic by staying in his castle with all of his friends until the epidemic ended or everyone died basically. One night he had a grand masquerade, with so many people invited they took up seven of the rooms in the Prince's palace. Everyone was having a jolly time until the clock struck midnight. A figure shrouded in red appeared, with blood on his vest and on his brow. His face looked like a corpse. To make the rest of the story shorter, the Red Death killed the Prince, and within half an hour all the rest of the guests had died also. It proved that you cannot hide from death.
It would be the perfect guise. I would not have to wear my mask, and only Christine really knew what my face looked like. I of course meant to make my identity known, but perhaps temporary anonymity would serve me for my purpose. I set out at once to get things arranged. Though the specter in the story was only ".shrouded in head to foot with the habiliments of the grave," I would need something a bit more magnificent. After all, I needed to make an impression. I needed to scare them. It would be my night. My Opera.
The best way to get to the Vicomte, I decided, was through Christine. I had often heard Christine telling stories from Sweden to the youngest members of the ballet troupe, involving the old Viking Gods, and other old Scandinavian legends, heroes and villains. Using this as my guide, I began researching. I soon found the perfect deity for my purpose. It was the Goddess Hel, keeper of the underworld. Her hall, (the place in which she dwelt) was called Elvidnir, or misery. There was nothing more perfect.
Unfortunately, I could not be a goddess for the masquerade. It wouldn't be very scary, and it just was not the way I operated. I would have to find a different costume. But that was not a main concern at the moment. Revenge had seeped through my veins, and drove at my mind and soul. The only way to rid myself of it would be to act on it. Immediately.
I slipped the note under the door ten minutes before rehearsal was scheduled to end. The Vicomte had been coming back to Christine's room with her after rehearsals, and I knew he would today. His life was all routine. It never seemed to change.
I had just gotten in place behind the mirror when the walked in. Christine picked up the envelope, and silently handed it to the Vicomte. He ripped it open and begun reading it. He finished, and looked at Christine questioningly.
"I thought you said this phantom was a genius."
"Oh, he is," she replied nodding.
"Well obviously not. Listen to this:
Sir,
Please make no further attempts on my life. I assure you, you shall rest with Hel before I do if you try again.
I had not signed the letter, but obviously they both knew it was from me. Christine snatched the letter out of his hands and began to read it.
"For a genius he cannot spell very well. Everyone can spell Hell, and speaking of which, how the devil can I rest with hell? I know I can rest in it, but." He was cut short as Christine grabbed his arm.
"You do not know what this means Raoul. Hel is the Viking goddess of the underworld, her home is called "Misery". Oh Raoul, Erik is saying he shall kill you if you do not stop plotting to kill him!"
"Of course that's what he's saying. That's the only hard part about trying to kill someone, they are probably also trying to kill you."
"But Raoul, he actually can kill you! I can't have you risking your life over something this stupid." I laughed to myself. Even now Christine still admitted that the boy could not kill me.
"Are you saying I could not kill the phantom?" Raoul had straightened, and stared at her.
"I do not mean to offend you Raoul, but yes. He has outsmarted you before, and you know how dangerous he is. You were lucky to escape that encounter with him alive. Now he is angry with you. Be careful Raoul. Once he has said you are to die, you might as well begin picking out your casket." Raoul turned and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind me. Suddenly ideas began formulating in my head. The way Christine had declared it, she made it sound as though my will brought on some sort of fatal disease. A disease that ensured death almost immediately. It came to me at once.
In my younger days when I had more time on my hands, I occasionally read books. One such book was by an American named Edgar Allen Poe. I was especially drawn to his work by the morbidity of all of his stories and poems. One of my favorites had been "The Masque of Red Death." It was about a young Prince who thought he could avoid the Red Death epidemic by staying in his castle with all of his friends until the epidemic ended or everyone died basically. One night he had a grand masquerade, with so many people invited they took up seven of the rooms in the Prince's palace. Everyone was having a jolly time until the clock struck midnight. A figure shrouded in red appeared, with blood on his vest and on his brow. His face looked like a corpse. To make the rest of the story shorter, the Red Death killed the Prince, and within half an hour all the rest of the guests had died also. It proved that you cannot hide from death.
It would be the perfect guise. I would not have to wear my mask, and only Christine really knew what my face looked like. I of course meant to make my identity known, but perhaps temporary anonymity would serve me for my purpose. I set out at once to get things arranged. Though the specter in the story was only ".shrouded in head to foot with the habiliments of the grave," I would need something a bit more magnificent. After all, I needed to make an impression. I needed to scare them. It would be my night. My Opera.
