IV. Make your Choice

Slowly, very slowly, the mist before his eyes cleared, and the Phantom's consciousness returned. He was almost surprised that he did not find himself in the place which had been his first home, that place he only vaguely remembered, with his mother, a careless, cruel voice which he could hardly put a face to. Instead, he was in an underground hall lit by two blazing lines of braziers, and his hands were tied behind his back, as well as to something hard and smooth behind him. He could move his hands up and down, which led him to the assumption that it was a pole, and that the same cords tying his hands together were also slung around this pole in a loop before they had again been tied around his wrists.

His memories returned quickly, partly hazy, yet clear enough.

Créon. He would kill him, destroy him, extinct every hint of his very existence!

That was, if he ever found a way to get away from here, he thought bitterly. He had been far too reckless, coming down here to face the intruders unprepared and unarmed. In his foolish pride, he had believed that he was the only one, even though he had heard them call him their flesh and blood, even though he had seen evidence when dealing with Lionel that there were others out there, others with… singular gifts. Even though he had briefly struggled with their Master's mind, before he had killed Lionel.

His cloak and mask were gone, lying just out of his reach on the dusty floor. Just out of reach. They had done so on purpose, placing them so close that he could almost touch them and pull them towards him with his foot, but only almost. He knew they had. This was just another kind of torture they were subjecting him to, a very subtle one, taunting him with what he had once been.

The heat from the braziers seemed to have intensified, or maybe this was what Créon made him believe. He was not certain, could not be, not with his head throbbing as if with the direst of headaches. Yet there was no physical pain in his head. It was his mind that hurt him, that felt as if cracked open and shaken and finally ripped apart. And worst of all, Créon's touch was still on it, like a thin, oily layer of filth covering everything. He felt dirty, as dirty as he had never felt before.

Moreover, he felt stiff and sore, and he suspected that he had recently received quite a few bruises, yet he could not clearly recall how. What he dimly remembered, before that fog had covered his awareness, was that those giant brutes, Ferox and Atrox, had strode towards him, and then, as the oceans of mist were already enveloping him, that he had struggled against them, but that they had forced him down… And then the memories had returned, strong and clear.

A handful of swarthy men stood around him, watching him lazily, but several of them were fingering the knives they had tucked into their belts with an air of unease about them. Gypsies. Gypsy scum. How he longed to plunge their own knives into their throats and listen to their gurgling until they expired their miserable little souls!

"If you behave yourself, I might even let you. Those servants are worth nothing." Very suddenly Créon had appeared at his side, and the gypsies retreated, eyeing their Master with awe and fear, and as if they expected a sudden blow, yet still their gazes occasionally flickered towards the Phantom. But Créon ignored them completely. His hand shot out, grabbing the Phantom's chin, and he turned his head towards him forcefully, studying the scarred side of his face. Forgetting about his pride completely, the Phantom pressed his eyes shut firmly, so he would not have to look into the one staring at him from much too close a distance, that hateful patch of cold, empty sky. Still he thought to feel its stare graze his skin, scorch it, burn it, turn all of it into a mass of fire scars, just like those marring part of his face.

"Fire", Créon said gently. "The records tell us that fire is a sign of strength, but also of madness."

"Of course, you would know all about madness", the Phantom snarled, trying to jerk his chin free. He had expected Créon's fingers to feel cold, yet they didn't. They felt like anyone else's would – except that their grip was like that of clutches of steel.

"There is much hate in you. Much pain. The time will come when it will tear you apart, unless you learn how to contain it." Although it sounded as if he were speaking to the Phantom, the tone of his voice, that cold and distant, so very distant tone, suggested that he was in truth speaking to himself, voicing his thoughts aloud while studying a rare and very interesting specimen of animal.

"Are you aiming to increase it?"

Créon chuckled, a sound like bones gently ground to dust. "Too long you have been alone, young Erik. Too long you have taught yourself, instead of obeying a master's teachings and biddings. What you have built up must be broken, so you can be created anew."

"What do you want with me?" the Phantom demanded defiantly.

"You are a Lost One, young Erik, although you do not truly realize what this means. You are an angel cast out from Heaven."

The Phantom winced as he once again heard Christine's voice in his head, calling for her Angel, and Claire's… A fallen angel, and far from Heaven… Was Créon mocking him once more, taunting him with his own painful memories?

"Tell me, boy", Créon asked softly, his breath touching the Phantom's blemished cheek, "have you never wondered about the gifts you have received at your birth, the gifts denied to many a man who has spent long years in their pursuit? Have you never asked yourself who you are? How many years have you lived down here, alone with your thoughts? All those hours you could have spent pondering your origin, and how many more minutes, and all the innumerable seconds of your awareness! You have received the gift of time, of a lifespan far beyond that of mortal men, and yet you never noticed? You are yet young, Erik, so I will not blame you. It only proves that you need guidance. But was that really all your ambition drove you to claim, a guardian angel for a foolish little girl you lost your romantic young heart to? You, who are so proud, and so hungry for power? It is indeed surprising, young Erik. Why would someone like you not claim to be God?"

Willing himself to open his eyes at last, with whatever consequences, the Phantom fixated Créon with a hard, flat stare. Normally, when he put such an effort into it, he would send everybody scattering while screaming at the top of their lungs, but now, it was just enough not to shudder at Créon's gaze. Just barely. "What do you mean?" His voice was not as firm as it should have been, but not overly trembling, either. "What is a Lost One?" And then, softer, and almost against his will, as if compelled to do so by that one single terrible eye, he added, "What am I?"

"So you accept the truth." The Phantom did not answer to this; he was not giving Créon too simple a triumph. Yet to Créon, an answer was not necessary. "This is the legend of the Lost Ones. After Lucifer's rebellion, those who had chosen to stand on his side were cast out of Heaven. While the leaders of his rebellion were banished to Hell, others among them were cast out into the world, to live and be reborn ceaselessly among the mortal kind, scattered among their inferiors, shorn of their memories and glory, sentenced to find their way in darkness over and over again, with greater gifts still than humanity possessed, yet marked for what they were, bearing the touch of evil upon their faces or bodies, where everyone could see, thus sentenced to be outcasts even among a lesser kind. Yet should one of them regain all his former powers and be strong enough to claim his place in Heaven once more, then he shall purge the world in fire and blood and at last knock at Heaven's gates at the head of the army of Hell, and the gates shall fall away before him when the time has come to challenge God."

Never before had the silence been heavier, although there still was the murmuring of voices throughout the hall and the merry crackling of flames in the braziers. This was madness, complete madness! The Phantom did not doubt for a moment that Créon deemed himself worthy of challenging God, and he refused to be part of a madman's followers, however powerful Créon might be.

Besides, he did not even believe in God, let alone in fallen angels.

For a moment, Adhemar's face turned up among the features of servants going about their chores, his stare baleful, and he whispered to Bertrand, the old man so hideously disfigured. Then they were gone, and almost immediately, Aeternus turned up instead, ponderously stroking his short-trimmed goatee with his black-gloved hand, his expression thoughtful. Did Aeternus know what Créon was telling him? Could he even hear? And did he believe in those tales?

"This is another truth you will come to accept soon", Créon said coolly, at last releasing his chin, and automatically the Phantom turned his head away from him, staring into the fire of one of the braziers hard, the dancing flames reflecting his own disordered, uneasy mind. "And if not… When I will ask you, you will have to make your choice, whether you follow me or rather die. I am sure you will learn to cooperate until then, young Erik. And I strongly advise you to do so, in your very own interest." This last threat spoken, he turned and walked away, lazily waving the gypsy guards back to their posts, and soon was swallowed by the milling mass of his followers.

Already the Phantom felt his gaze become clouded again, and though he struggled to keep his consciousness, he felt how the mists of forgetfulness enshrouded him, once more taking him back into times long past. His last clear thought, before he drifted away into oblivion, was: So did the Angel of Music choose darkness, a long time ago?