VI. Man and Mystery

She let me kiss her.

There was only one thought on the Phantom's mind as he strode towards the place where he knew Créon was awaiting him. He did not see the dust, the cobwebs and the puddles of water on his way anymore, for to him his path became the corridors of a palace, and there was golden light instead of lingering shadows.

She let me kiss her.

It had only been a very brief kiss, but still, it had been a kiss, and she had even answered it. And how she had pulled him to her suddenly, so close it was intoxicating, and how tenderly she had spoken to him…

Hell, how he loved her.

She had pledged her love to him as well, and it had filled him with incredible joy at the same time as it had given him a sharp stab through the heart, because he knew that she did not love him in the way he loved her, and he feared that she never would. But still, she loved him. She loved him. There was nothing in the world of any importance beside this glorious thought.

But there should be. Créon, he reminded himself. He was about to finish Créon for once and for all.

And how could he not, when Christine loved him, when she had kissed him? There was nothing he could not do. Every obstacle, every barrier must fall away, he felt, at the mere memory of her sweet, beloved voice, this memory which washed away all the pain and darkness: I love you, Erik.

No, Erik was not dead yet. Not yet. So do I, Christine. I truly, deeply love you.

He could feel her presence in his head, radiant as the sun. I love you, he murmured to her, and he knew he would never grow tired of repeating it for her, thousands, millions of times.

Her answer was a wave of gentle warmth washing through all his limbs. I know, she whispered to him simply, for the first time caressing his awareness as she said so, and for the first time he felt her mental touch pass over him, through his hair, then down along the sides of his neck, and over his chest and shoulders. Never before had he realized that it practically was a physical sensation. Never before had anyone touched him in the way she just had.

I love you, Christine. I love you.

There was something else, though, filling his consciousness more with every step he took: The threads of darkness were there still, a web of shadows enshrouding him. Yet he was not afraid. He would never be afraid again. The threads touched him, brushed over him, tried to attach themselves to him and wriggle their way into his mind, yet without a conscious thought he let every single one that tried burn, a brief glow in the shadows, swiftly fading into darkness again as the threads dissolved into ashes.

He would never be afraid again.

Because there was Christine, and there was him. There were the two of them, just the two of them. And nobody, not even Créon, could get between them anymore.

With wonder, he felt a smooth, sheer wall erect itself in his mind, a wall surrounding it, encircling it, and yet again not. It was hard to say where it really was, and what it was; all he knew was that it was around Christine and him, encompassing them and their love.

Their love. It seemed to him that his heart missed a beat. Their love…

No, Créon would never again succeed in getting between them. Never again.

Créon would never be in his way again.

Without thinking, he briefly closed his eyes, extending his mental feelers, and then sending them on, out into the darkness. He felt how they travelled and explored, how they crisscrossed and entwined, how they came alive and filled him with sensations. At once he was aware of the entire cellar level, and he knew that he could extend his range to the entire Opera House if he only wanted to. He could feel Créon and his servants, concentrated in one spot, though part of them seemed to be somewhere nearby, in small groups going about their business. He could feel his own companions, every single one of them, back at the place which had been his home for many, many years. And he could even feel the tiny specks of life which were rats and other creatures of his dark dungeons. He could feel everything.

And above the threads of darkness, there lay a new web now, woven of thin tongues of fire.

He almost stumbled as he realized what he had done. Had he just…? No, he could not have! Or could he? Hell, he could do it! He knew Créon's own trick now! These were his very own threads of darkness.

I challenge you, Créon. He felt his chest practically swell with pride. And I'll send you to Hell.

As he continued on his way to the large underground hall, Créon's presence growing stronger with every step he took, he felt the trumpets wake in his head.

No, this Requiem will not be my own. Not yet.

When he reached the entrance to the hall at last, he was almost surprised to find everything as he had left it three days ago. Still the strange lantern's eerie red light spilled out into the corridor, casting an unearthly sheen over the pair of sculpted angels on the archway. Yet he only glanced at them as he passed beneath it, and he hardly paid any attention to the small flocks of servants scattering as he appeared beneath it. There were fewer than he remembered, he noticed, clearly fewer. Very dimly he was aware that he must look impressive in the red light, and garbed all in red as well. Maybe he truly seemed like Death taking visible shape to them. Yet all he really saw was Créon.

They faced each other across the hall, standing in solemn silence. It had begun now, the Phantom knew. This was the end. This was the final confrontation.

Somehow he wished Christine were there to watch, but then again, it was better when she stayed where she was currently. She was safer where she was.

Anyway, she was with him wherever he went, in his mind and heart.

And when she was with him, he could drain the deepest oceans and move the highest mountains.

It was Créon who spoke first, his deep voice resounding eerily through the hall, and it seemed that the flames on the braziers danced to its sound. "So you have come at last."

The Phantom regarded him calmly, his left hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, like Death himself who had come like a thief in the night to begin his final reign. As he answered, his voice filled the hall completely, coming from everywhere at once. "It is over, Créon."

"No," Créon replied, and suddenly it seemed that he was smiling. "It has just begun." Slowly, very slowly, he started towards the centre of the hall, and all of their own accord, the Phantom's feet began to move as well, carrying him towards the mightiest enemy he had ever faced, the heels of his high boots stirring up dust as he went. "And it always will. Once more the circle of ages is completed. Once more the light faces the darkness. And it will face it again and again as ages come and pass, until the circle is full-wrought for the last time, to whatever end." He laughed, a cold, cruel laugh. "And what a defender the light chose! The very man who cast the world of yore into the shadow! The very man who traded his fealty and loyalty for something he could never have! The oath-breaker, the traitor of his own blood!" Again his cold laughter rang through the twilit hall, washing over the cowering servants. "I bid you welcome, Lord Keeper of the Gates! You have grown strong in those few days. You are now ready to enter eternal night."

And this time, the Phantom found that Créon could taunt him as much as wanted with his mad stories, and he did not care. Not when there was Christine at the back of his head, watching over him. "You cannot write out my fate for me," he told him calmly. "I am not fateless." No, because he had his love. And because his love was a beacon that shone to him in his darkness. When Christine was with him, the shadow could not hold sway over him.

They were very close to each other now; mere feet separated them as they both came to a halt. Créon's one cold, bright eye met his, and there was fog swirling at the edge of his consciousness as his enemy spoke again. "You speak of what you do not know, for you do not yet remember. And yet something has come back to you, has it not? Or maybe more than something?" His elegant black eyebrows shifted briefly, wandering slightly upwards in mock astonishment. "Oh, so you have never wondered where all your skills and talents came from? The power of your mind, the sweet enchantment of your voice, the knowledge of many things you were never taught? You are not of the earthling kind, and you must know this."

"I know I'm different," the Phantom replied, meeting his gaze evenly. Créon would see the swirling mists just as well now. "And this is quite enough for me."

Again Créon's eyebrows shifted slightly. "And how do you feel about the markings you bear?"

The Phantom's gaze fell on the scar on Créon's features, across his bandage-covered right eye socket. Maybe Créon's disfigurement was a little worse than his. True, it seemed to be just one single blow with a sword that had caused it, but he missed an eye, whereas the Phantom still had both of those. "They are only scars," he said.

"So you do not crave to know the truth?"

"Sometimes it is better when the truth remains hidden." No, Créon's tales would have no power over him this way.

"Oh, how interesting," said Créon derisively, one corner of his mouth twitching into a grimace of disdain. "So you claim you do not even want to know that it was you who gave me that wound?" And he pointed out the scar across the place where his eye should have been.

"No," the Phantom answered calmly. This was getting more ridiculous with every time Créon told him something! "I have not met you before."

"Say whatever you like, young Erik." Créon waved it all away with an impatient gesture of his long-fingered hand. "It will not change what was, and what will be."

"Our encounter is in the present, Créon," the Phantom reminded him. "There is no past and no future."

Instead of a reply, Créon laughed once again, despite the Phantom's glare, which could usually silence anyone. "Your denial will change nothing in the end. As well as it cannot change what you once did, millennia ago. Do you then think a man's old sins are forgiven when they are forgotten? Not everybody has forgotten them yet, and even if we all had, they would still be engraved deeply into the memory of the Eldest King on his throne beyond space and time. And you will never be redeemed, young Erik. Especially not you."

"I've heard enough of your stories," the Phantom interjected angrily.

"Oh, but perhaps you haven't. Some you might even appreciate. For example the one of how you defeated the Dragon-tamer once before." Créon gestured towards something in the proximity of his belt, yet the Phantom refused to break the eye contact. "You shot him out of the sky the last time, and his scaly mount smashed the Silver Fountain in the Garden of Blessing, I'm afraid to say. You always were good with your bow."

The dagger, it occurred to him suddenly. The serpent-engraved dagger.

Adhemar.

"And your adventures with many a woman. You were never short of those who would readily share your lair, back in those days. Or all your adventures with that loyal handful who seemed to accompany you everywhere, your servants. Some of them were renowned heroes in their own right, only that they were of the mortal kind and nothing more. Your lieutenant – Tricur, wasn't it? – was a personal friend, it was said. Sadly, this did not keep you from murdering him in the end, because he knew too much about your dark machinations."

"This is not true!" the Phantom burst out, unable to control himself any longer. "Nothing of it is!" While Créon spoke, his voice had a certain attraction to it, making him listen even when he did not want to. But he did not believe any of this! Especially not the last, that he would kill a friend just because that friend knew too much…

Oh, really?, asked a nasty little voice in his head. You never had too many scruples about killing people, now had you? You sometimes killed men you hardly even knew, and who would not have harmed you, come to that, don't you remember?

No, he had to admit, he had certainly killed before, and sometimes when there was no need to exactly, yet that had nothing to do with Créon's story. Because Créon's stories were all filthy lies anyway, every single one of them.

Créon's cold eye glittered in the dim, unsteady light. "And maybe you would appreciate to remember our final confrontation, at the moment when your treason to both sides – to all the world – became clear. You won, then, and you extinguished the Eye of the Shadow at the moment you gave me this scar I shall forever be branded with, and you even cast me down over the ramparts you yourself had built, the mighty, glorious Pillars of Heaven. But of what use was it to you in the end? You had lost everything already. So even our duel was lost for you before it even began. And in the end, you cast yourself into the Ever-Burning Flame, thus becoming the first of our blood to die." He spoke in a whisper now, and the Phantom could easily have spoken over him, silencing him, but a strange spell claimed his tongue as he listened with something close to horrid fascination. "Yet of what use was that act of despair? For your spirit was still exiled with the rest of us, banished forever and with no hope of return to Heaven."

A fallen angel, and far from Heaven.

No. No, Claire, no. You were wrong. Just wrong.

An angel cast into Hell…

Biting his lower lip fiercely, the Phantom forced himself to abandon this train of thought. "So you mean to tell me that you lost against me once before?" he sneered. "That does not prove too much confidence."

"Oh no, you foolish boy, you do not understand. Because the circumstances are different this time. The girl is still there, for example, not dead, as the last time. It was a mistake to listen to Niobe back in those days, I readily admit it. She was only jealous because she wanted you to love her, not petty little Aminta."

The Phantom had been preparing a sharp retort, yet his breath caught in his throat as he heard this. Aminta. A name which meant very much to him. How could Créon know, how could he possibly?

He must have been there, at the Opera House, on that fateful night. He must have seen Don Juan, or at least the little part of it that had been performed before Christine had taken his mask away – his chest still constricted at the memory. Créon must have been there. There was no other possible explanation.

Of course, impossible explanations could be found quite easily, and there were quite enough of them, all matching the stories Créon told him. All easily matching the stories, as if they were part of them…

"Oh, you know the name?" Créon asked. "Don't deny it; it's obvious enough. You do know the name."

"You were at the Opera on that night," the Phantom said, yet his voice sounded strained to his own ears.

"Was I? No, I wasn't. But Niobe was, and so was Aeternus, and all they told me was that it was very clearly you they had seen. The rest is of no interest to me."

It was a lie, curse the man! Nothing but a lie! "I don't care what you say," the Phantom snarled, determined now not to listen to Créon once again, not ever. "You can't prove any of it, anyway."

"Is that so, young Erik?" And suddenly Créon smiled again. "Well, maybe then I should let you see…" And with this, he reached up and slowly began to untie the knot at the back of his head holding the black piece of cloth in place over his empty eye socket, and he was still smiling as he lowered it, a cold and cruel smile. "You see, young Erik, in the end it was all in vain. For you never truly managed to extinguish the Eye of the Shadow."

The Phantom never turned his head away, though once Créon reached for the bandage to remove it, he felt as if a cold hand were gripping his heart, the hand of a dead man, and about to still his heart and take him on that final journey into the darkness, the journey from which there was no return. But he forced himself not to move, not to even blink. Créon had lowered his head slightly while uncovering the hidden part of his face, and now he raised it again, slowly and majestically, and the cold hand's pressure increased.

The Eye of the Shadow.

While Créon's left eye was of a pale blue, the right was black completely; there was no single spot of white in it, and the only colour was the pupil, a slit of bright, blazing yellow. His mismatched eyes bored into the Phantom's, and at that moment the Phantom believed that that invisible dead man had indeed succeeded.

"Can you see it now?" asked Créon gently, almost tenderly. "In the end, nothing truly mattered. Because whatever you could have done, you lost." He regarded the Phantom with a mixture of wariness and contempt. "Maybe it is the same this time, young Erik."

As he drew a deep breath, the Phantom was surprised that he was still breathing at all. Icy cold was filling his chest, and icy cold was in his lungs. For a moment his surroundings swam in and out of focus, then his vision reasserted itself. It seemed to him that inside that radiant pupil, a fire was burning, vast as the fires of Hell.

This is the end, a voice murmured in his head as mists were drifting past him, filling him with dizziness. You have reached the end of your journey. It is time to face your greatest fear now. It is time to look Satan in the eye…

Drawing another mouthful of air, he felt how heat and cold battled inside him. And there was something else, like a knife boring into the edge of his awareness… trying to invade his mind…

Strangely, it was this sensation that brought him out of his state of shock. Satan, eh? No, absolutely. As he found his voice again, he felt at least part of his courage return. "You'll have to try a bit harder, Créon."

There was a little jolt as Créon's attack on his mind rebounded, making the Phantom stagger slightly, and with astonishment he found that he was still on his feet. How long had that moment taken to pass? Minutes? Hours? Or only seconds? He did not know. Still the cold was there, but the dead man's hand had been pushed away. Oh no, he was not going to die just yet.

"Do not feel too smug, young man," Créon grated. He had expected him to be scared, probably, to faint maybe, or whatever, at least to be easy prey. Really, what was the madman thinking, if he was thinking at all? That he could scare the infamous Phantom of the Opera with an odd eye? Yes, well, the Phantom had to admit that he still did not like looking at it at all, to say the very least, that that accursed cold still had control over his chest, but he would not allow himself to be intimidated.

At the back of his head, there was a trembling knot of… pain? No. Fear? Yes, fear it might be, but somehow he was not quite sure. Christine. Despite Créon's presence, he reached out to her, stroked her awareness lightly, murmuring soothing words to her, imagining to whisper them into her hair as she trustingly snuggled into his arms. Don't be afraid. I love you. Just don't be afraid.

I'm fine, Erik. Still his awareness of her was oddly uncertain, and suddenly it occurred to him that this might be because she was feeling faint, but it was getting stronger. She was recovering. I'm really fine.

No, you're not, he thought grimly, his gaze once again boring into Créon's, who was watching him with a most peculiar expression. Still that accursed eye made him shiver, and still the cold had hardly diminished, but at least he could think clearly now. And Créon was going to pay for scaring Christine.

"Your attachment to weak little earthlings is your weakness," Créon stated.

"Your madness is yours," the Phantom retorted.

"Once before you were brought down by love."

This time, his heart constricted painfully with a very clear memory from a few days ago. Through clenched teeth, the Phantom hissed, "You have no idea."

"No, my young friend, it is you who do not know what is really happening." Créon's lips twisted into a cool little smile, and his eyes, one cold, one burning, still rested on the Phantom, and he never blinked. "But let us come to that later. Now, it is time to discuss your allegiances."

"There is nothing to discuss," the Phantom replied coldly. "But you… when I first met you, you wanted me not to cover my scars." Strangely, it hardly hurt at all, speaking of them so openly. For this question, he tried to give his voice a derisive tone. "So why do you cover that pretty thing, then?"

Créon regarded him with an expression that might be called indignant, the Phantom was not quite sure, and his thin, elegant eyebrows shifted down to the base of his nose, making his brow furrow impressively. "Truly you do not know what you speak of. This is the Eye of the Shadow."

The Phantom was rather pleased with himself to manage a smirk again. "Yes, I heard that. How very impressive. But I would have expected you to show it off a bit – or do you just like the dramatic moments when you take that scrap away so people can get a look at it?"

"You do not understand," Créon cut him off coldly before he could say anything further. "The Eye of the Light sees this world, whereas the Eye of the Shadow gazes into the Twilight."

For a moment the Phantom's breath caught at the very idea – and it made perfect sense, damn that foul bastard! – but then he forced the feeling of growing dread down and instead made his features shift into a broad sneer. Now he had control over them again, it seemed much easier. "Surely you don't mean to say that you live in two worlds at once? But Hell be confounded, surely that would explain why you are, you know, not quite right in the head." All he needed was an opening, curse the man, a moment when Créon paid no attention, and provoking him seemed a promising way to make him lose control.

And indeed, when this time Créon's brows moved towards each other, it was in an expression of fury. "So you do not believe me, ignorant young fool? Then I shall make you see. Look me in the eyes, if you dare."

"I am doing so, in case you have not quite –" Here the Phantom broke off, staring in disbelief at something swirling inside Créon's radiant yellow pupil. Could it be? What the Hell –

And then he suddenly felt as if a huge hand were picking him up and lifting him into the air; it seemed to him that he rapidly lost the ground under the soles of his high boots, and everything was blurring around him, turning into a storm of colours –

And then the world reasserted itself, and he was no longer where he had been before. Instead of in a dusty underground hall lit by flames crackling on lines of braziers, he suddenly found himself in what appeared to be a courtyard right beneath the battlements of what might be a fortress, under the open sky, which was hung with the darkest of storm clouds he had ever seen. It would have been too dark for day, had it not been for the many fires burning everywhere, on the roofs of the turrets as well as on those of other buildings encircled by the strong defences. Wherever this place was, it was burning down to its foundations of stone, and even the sheer white walls of one of the towers rising up into the clouds seemed to be on fire, flames licking at the smooth surface, blackening it despite all the Phantom's experience to the contrary. There were shouts and screams all around him, and the sound of steel clashing with steel echoed manifold from the battlements. But it was not this that scared him. It was not even the sudden, but very distinct feeling that he knew those once white towers exactly. It was the man he was facing with a sword in his hand.

I'm going mad, he thought. I'm going goddamn mad! No, there was no doubt of it, his opponent, armed with a bloodied blade just as well, was none other than himself. Of course, the scars were not there; the other's features – his own features – were smooth and even, and his hair was rather longer than he used to wear it, but apart from that, it was clearly him.

Despite the situation, he could not quite suppress a little smirk as it occurred to him that shoulder-length hair worn open suited him much better than Raoul.

The man who was resembling him so much launched into an attack, blade swirling, and he was too late to parry it. The cold steel bit into his left arm painfully. "Hold your filthy tongue, or I will cut it out and feed it to the crows!" his twin snarled at him, his teeth bared, and they seemed strangely white in a face darkened with soot and blood. Satan strangle him, it even was his voice!

"You may try, my foolish friend," he heard himself answer, but in a deeper voice than his own. "You may try."

And then he understood. He was seeing this through Créon's eyes.

"I will, curse you!" His own sharp blow made him – no, not himself, Créon! – stumble backwards, though he parried it just in time, and the man who was the Phantom leapt after his enemy, aiming for his chest, and once again Créon could only stumble backwards. He was already bleeding from a wound in the thigh, as well as from a few others, the Phantom suddenly noticed, while himself he was not hurt at all, or at least not visibly; the blood on his face and clothes did not necessarily have to be his own. Créon was losing.

And he used his chances well. It was strange to watch himself attack, driving Créon backwards, and the idea of seeing through Créon's eyes was even stranger, but he could not suppress a triumphant feeling spreading in his stomach, despite Créon's pain he was experiencing.

"Give her back," he snarled at Créon, his features contorted with rage and utmost loathing, but as well with great pain. Watching himself with horrid fascination, he realized he had never thought himself capable of such a grimace.

"I told you, she is dead, you fool! Dead, beyond recall!" The force of the next two blows was tremendous, making Créon stagger backwards, towards the wall rising up to a height of fifteen feet above the courtyard. Yet nonetheless he continued in the same derisive tone, "Yet you can still speak to her, if you only join me. I am your only link to the Twilight."

"You're a liar and nothing more!" the Phantom, or whoever he was to Créon, snarled. His fierce blows left no time for Créon to attack himself, and he was not able to block all of them.

"You know the powers of the Herald of Fate." Even as Créon said so, the Phantom felt that now he was with his back against the wall. Another of his own strikes, led sideways and upwards and missing Créon's face very barely, forced his enemy to side-step, and Créon found his foot on a step, on the bottommost step of a stair leading up onto the battlement. With the Phantom's own vicious attacks to counter, Créon had no choice but to retreat upwards. It was odd to feel himself stumbling upwards while at the same time knowing that this was someone else through whose eyes he saw – and what made it even stranger, through whose eyes he saw himself.

Yes, if this was him at all. The man looked like him, moved like him, talked like him, but was it not just an illusion made up by Créon?

Niobe had seen him the same way, he recalled, with shoulder-length hair and his features unmarred.

And this was the very same place which had also played a part in Niobe's memory, or whatever it had been.

At once Créon's words from a little earlier, words he had hardly paid attention to, came back to him. You won, then, and you extinguished the Eye of the Shadow at the moment you gave me this scar I shall forever be branded with, and you even cast me down over the ramparts you yourself had built, the mighty, glorious Pillars of Heaven.

The Pillars of Heaven. This was where they were, and this was their last confrontation, their final duel. He was going to inflict this wound upon Créon now, and then to throw him down over the parapets, down into the endless abyss waiting beyond the ramparts.

This, he thought, looking into his own face, was the Keeper of the Gates, whoever he might be.

A fallen angel, and far from Heaven…

Oh, curse you, Claire! Did you really have to say that?

"You know that it lies in my power to speak to your lost love, even where she is now," Créon began again, though his voice sounded pressed and he was breathing hard, and a frantic edge had entered his voice, something that had not been there before.

"And you think you can manipulate me with that?" he roared, his features a mask of fury. "You think you can make me serve you?" The Phantom saw his own eyes gleam with the fire of hatred; just as bright as all the fires around them they seemed. "Your clever plan has failed, Herald," he snarled as he advanced further, driving Créon back up the stairs. "You're wrong this time."

"And maybe we can find a way to bring her back." Créon's voice was definitely frantic now; the concept of his plan failing was what he feared, the Phantom assumed, more than physical injury. "If you agree to… help me."

"Help you?" the Phantom cried. Créon very barely blocked one of his ferocious thrusts, but he turned and kicked him in the chest hard; the Phantom could feel the air being forced out of his lungs as his very own boot collided with his chest, throwing him backwards – Hell consume itself, this perspective was driving him mad! "Save your breath, for I'm not going to believe one damn word you're saying to me!" As Créon fell, landing on his back at the top of the stairs, where they opened onto the broad walkway on the rampart – the pain in Créon's memory filled the Phantom with grim satisfaction, even though it was he himself who was experiencing it now – his opponent stepped over him, the Keeper of the Gates, Erik, he himself, whoever it was – and what did it matter, anyway? – his sword pointed at Créon's chest, while a smirk appeared on his features, made even grimmer by the stains of soot and blood on his face, crusted with sweat in places, and the wild, tangled hair, flying in a sudden gust of cold wind blowing up here. It was a fresh breeze, but still it carried the smell of burning timber, and veils of smoke were dancing on the air like wisps of fog. Blood was running down along the lowered blade, dripping onto Créon's dark coat. Créon's blood. "Now what can you offer me? What bargain comes to your twisted mind? What hope still remains to you, now you have lost?"

"If I have lost or not, who can say?" Créon spoke as if there were no blade aimed at him, as if he were standing before his opponent, not lying on his back. Had he regained his composure? And if he had, why? What did he still have in store? "But it is certain that you have. What have you become? Behold the Keeper of the Gates, the slayer of his own men, the destroyer of his own fortress, the traitor of his own blood! Of what use is your glory now, your cunning, your voice, your pretty face? And all your valiant deeds, what good are they to you anymore, now everyone knows you have turned to the Shadow?"

"And yet I stand in the Shadow's way." There were… things dangling from the belt of the figure representing him, the Phantom noticed, a whole cluster at his right side, opposite to the place where his sword straps were hooked into his belt, holding the now empty scabbard in place. What were they? A small stone ring, a strand of hair, what suspiciously looked like a fell beast's fang, and quite a few more, most of which he could not identify, all fixed to thin leather cords. Were they trophies of some kind, trophies from past duels? Yes, he did keep things as trophies sometimes, but the only ones he used wear on his belt were the daggers. Had he ever decorated himself with such things, as he was seeing it now?

No, it was needless to ponder this question, as what he was seeing was nothing more than a figment of Créon's imagination, anyway.

And suddenly laughter shook Créon, a cold, mirthless, cruel kind of laughter. "But of what use is it now?"

"The world is not lost yet."

"That's what you think."

"Except from your perspective, perhaps." The tip of his sword drew a threatening semicircle in midair, ending it much closer to Créon's throat than before. Had he ever owned a real sword, he wondered, one of those archaic, but so perfectly elegant weapons? "For I will cut you to a million pieces now." The little smirk had turned into a sneer now. "Then deathless you may be, but also very much in pieces. We'll see how long it will take you to regenerate from that state."

"It is your last chance," Créon insisted, and now the frantic undertone had returned to his voice. "I am the only one who can offer you contact to your beloved –"

"As I have told you before, I'm not believing you anymore. Don't you even dare mention her!" His expression was frozen to a mask as he spoke, yet the Phantom knew those features only too well, and he could read the pain in them, the immeasurable pain for the loss of his love. "Your reign ends right here, before it has even begun." And he raised the sword as if for a fatal blow –

And then, very suddenly, Créon took away his eye patch. The Phantom had not realized he was wearing one, probably because Créon was so used to it that he did not feel it anymore, and because the Phantom was seeing this through him, after all. But now, as he took it off, it became clear at once that he had worn one… and why.

At the moment the eye patch was lowered, his vision changed. The image of himself standing over the fallen figure was still there, though he staggered backwards now, his eyes fixed on Créon's face. But there was another image, too, laid atop the first, a strange picture drawn from constantly flaring light and shadows, all black and white as it seemed, flickering, shifting and changing continually. It was still him standing there, but then again, it was not. It was a shadow, no, a reflection, no, he had no idea what it really was, an image of some kind, blurred at the edges and not clear at all, and dragged at by some kind of invisible wind, its howling filling his ears, rising and falling, from a low hissing changing to a vast crescendo of an unearthly wind blowing where none could feel it.

Time.

He had no idea how he had come up with that; all of a sudden it had appeared in his head. And maybe he was right, because there were more shapes around them, not only the distant shapes of other fighters, just as blurred as the strange reflection of himself, but also figures that weren't there in the other world, dark, lingering shapes, and they were still, pale as smoke, maybe, but not blurred. The eerie wind did not touch them.

The dead. Their place is beyond time.

As he stared at the shape before him, and at the fleeting images dancing around it, Créon's voice still filled his consciousness as he slowly rose to his feet again while his enemy stood frozen. "Do not underestimate the power of the Eye of the Shadow." There was a sword, appearing beside him in midair along with several other such things and then winking out again, much paler than all the figures he saw, but still outlined clearly. "For it pierces the veil of mists and glimpses a realm you others will never see." A severed head. A lantern. A length of rope, tied into a noose. In his ears, the wind of time screamed. "I will be able to perceive her. Only I can still see Aminta." A galloping horse. A star. And then his breath caught, the moment he saw the white half-mask. "I am your only link to her now." A rolling dice cube with seven sides. A ring set with a pale stone. A rose tied with a black ribbon.

And even as this image appeared, one of the dark, pale shapes seemed to float towards them, becoming clearer as it did. The image of the rose seemed to linger, and the shadowy figure stopped right below it, holding out its arms for the shape that was him. And Hell devour him, that face, those features so well known to him, and dearer than anything in the world…

And then the sword descended on him at last, and Créon was too late to duck or parry, and the blade ate its way into his head through the right eye, destroying the picture of light and shadows dancing, and there was pain, mad, searing pain, and the world turned black…

And then, very suddenly, he was back where he had been before, though he had no idea how much time had elapsed. He still stood facing Créon; apparently they had not moved since.

That spectre… His heart ached at the memory of it. Had it truly been…?

No. No. It had been an illusion, nothing but a lie! All of this!

"You are remarkably strong, young Erik," Créon said softly. "You saw it all, all the Eye of the Shadow chose to show you, and you saw through it yourself, but still you kept your consciousness."

"You can't manipulate me anymore," the Phantom answered just as quietly. No, he could not be made to have visions any longer. All the time he had been aware of who he really was, and that he was seeing an illusion and nothing more.

"You sound just like you did millennia ago, boy. You heard it yourself." Créon was wearing his thin, cruel smile again. "Yes, this was our final confrontation at the end of a dying age. What you saw were its death throes, caused by your treason. After this battle was over, the world was changed forever. It was the end of the days of old, of a better age, and it made way for others to come and pass, and slowly the Age of Gold was forgotten. It is said that it will come again with the ever-circling years, but who can tell? All I can assure you of, young Erik, is that the reign of darkness will come, sooner or later, and it does not matter what you do, however you try to stand in my way. For in the end it all will be in vain." Carelessly he reached up to brush a strand of long dark hair out of his sight. "Yes, Erik. All you did then was in vain, even though you believed you had destroyed me for good after that blow which gave me that scar forever, and after casting me down over the parapets. But here I am again, and I will not be stopped. And once more all your efforts will be in vain."

"Is this what you think?" Hell, the man was stupid, downright stupid! And Christine's touch on his mind, gently, questioningly, made the Phantom bold. With his demonstration from just a moment ago, lie or not, Créon had accidentally given him the perfect idea. Swiftly he drew his sabre, the hissing of metal over metal as it came out of its sheath filling him with mad delight. "For I will now do what you have just shown me, I think. And I'm afraid that once again you will not be able to stop me."

But why was Créon not backing away, curse him? Why was he just watching the Phantom calmly as he advanced on him with his weapon drawn? Hell swallow him, why was that damn bastard not afraid?

Créon answered this question quickly enough, just as the point of the sabre almost touched his chest. "You make one mistake there, young Erik," he told him calmly. "Because a change of weapons means a change for me, as well. Time for a weapon I did not find any use for until now, then."

The Phantom did not have to turn to realize the gypsies were advancing on him. He could feel them coming, from behind him, from both sides, also from ahead. Even as they did, he took a swift step towards Créon, the sabre raised, but Créon was deftly retreating now, side-stepping the attack, and then his servants were there, forming a silent circle around him.

Inwardly cursing himself and his own folly to completely forget them, the Phantom took a full turn, regarding them. He counted twelve, ten men and two women, all except three with the gypsies' swarthy complexion, all grim-faced and carrying axes and cudgels, or at least a knife. They were not advancing on him now, but he was sure they would, once he stabbed the first of their number. And there were more waiting outside the circle, watching them warily.

Taking a deep, calming breath, the Phantom lowered his sabre and closed his eyes, not bothering at all with what they were going to think. This called for a special trick.

There was something else he was aware of, too, and he did not quite know if he should be pleased or not with what he felt. What exactly was that Chagny boy up to? Well, he would find out soon enough.

But until then, he would be done here.

With his usual quiet efficiency, the Phantom set to work.