I have always loved Raoul—not in the way I do the Phantom, but in his own sense. I just became tired with seeing him torn apart ruthlessly in one story after another. Why not a sympathetic, kind, caring, intelligent Raoul? Christine would not settle for anything less, I don't think. And, if Raoul is to truly be all these things, he would have to accept that Christine will never entirely be his. Of course, there's a difference between a dream-Erik and a real one. For one, the first does nothing, while the second…
Thanks for pointing out the correct spelling (as you can probably tell, I do most of my writing between-classes! Hopefully I won't to anything dumb like add on e's in the future; I did go back and fix that).
If everything keeps going well, I should be able to continue to update daily. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I, own this? As my cousin said, "Possession kills desire." Ok, so that was Dr. Stekhel, but the idea is the same.
Of Knights and Dragons
Chapter V: Cold Comfort
"In the act of destruction, man sets himself above life; he transcends himself as a creature. Thus, the ultimate choice for man, inasmuch as he is driven to transcend himself, is to create or to destroy, to love or to hate."
(Erick Fromm)
"Pierre! Raphael!"
"Welcome home, Raoul," Pierre, the older of the two d'Haliers, said, turning when the young Chagny couple walked into the parlor. His younger brother Raphael stood hesitantly off to one side, a glass of icewater in his hand.
"Thanks for the welcome, it was unexpected," Raoul said with a genuine smile, which Pierre depreciated with a wave before they clasped hands heartily. The two of them were nearly of an age, old counterparts in much of the Paris business, fellows who had often gone side-by-side to the Opera Populaire in its glory days. "And—by France, Raphael, you've changed!" the Vicomte remarked in genuine amazement, stepping back to look the younger Halier brother closely from head to foot. The last he had seen of Raphael had been three years previous, before he and Christine had retreated to Oxford. Raphael had both grown and filled out, turning into a sturdy, dashing young man, with brown curls and curious gray eyes. He looked much like Pierre had at eighteen, Raoul realized, and by the proud gleam in Pierre's eyes the man knew it.
"Come, both of you, sit," Christine offered into the brief silence, gesturing to the array of comfortably padded chairs. "It must have been several hours' drive from Paris. Would you care for anything? Tea, or…?"
"Tea would be wonderful, dear," Raoul said, and Christine flashed him a beautiful smile—the kind he had so desperately fallen in love with—as she left. "Let's take my lovely wife's advice," Raoul said, and the three of them settled themselves amiably.
"Was it an English wedding, then?" Pierre asked curiously, noticing the golden band on Raoul's finger.
"Yes—what Christine wanted. Sublimely perfect," Raoul said, leaning back comfortably. "England… truly is a charming place. It could never replace our dear France, of course, but there is a sweet tranquility to it—and any place with Christine is paradise."
"My dear Vicomte, I truly believe you are actually in love," Pierre marveled.
"It is a magnificent sensation, Pierre, you should try it someday," Raoul replied flippantly, making Raphael muffle his snort in his icewater, and setting them all to laughing.
Christine returned a moment later with a tray, a steaming pot of water, and several cups. Raoul hurriedly rose to take it from her and set it on the table, his hand lingering on hers. There was a sprig of thyme and amaranth entwined set on the tray, adding a sweet scent to the air. Christine looked away, mouth curving faintly, at his expression.
"Tell me of Paris," Raoul said as he poured. "How fairs the City of Lights?"
"Well and not well," Pierre said cryptically, accepting a mug of the steaming tea and sipping it cautiously. He raised his eyebrows and looked down, surprised. "An English brew?" he asked.
"Quite." Raoul sat, his own cup to hand. "Christine and I grew quite fond of it." He held out a cup to her as well. "What is this of 'not well' you say?" he queried.
Pierre sighed and swirled the tea idly in his cup. "Now you ask much," he commented. "You recall that fiasco at the Opera—of course," the elder d'Halier went on, remembering the past history of this particular couple. "Well, after you left for England… you stayed in Oxford, with Lord Derek, wasn't it? A second cousin of the family, right?... well, Paris was quiet. As quiet as a place like this can be." Raphael laughed at his brother's words, and the Chagnys smiled.
"That's changed." Pierre's voice frosted over slightly; the tea sat unnoticed in his hand. "It began… how long ago, Raphael?"
"Three years and some."
"Yes. Men started dying. And not only men." Raoul's head jerked up. The tea, still hot, sloshed out of the cup, spilling on his hand; he hissed in pain and hurriedly set it aside. "I know," Pierre went on. "Men of business and substance and status… the Comte de Chateau, Monsieur Aderre, Madame Diré…" Raoul whistled softly, and Pierre paused. "Precisely," the older brother went on. "All high-ranking, all well-known and well-respected. All dead."
"Do they know who?" Christine asked. "Surely, the police—"
"—know no more than the rest of us, apparently," Pierre said, leaning forward, tea forgotten. "Not that they admit, anyways. I'm beginning to expect they're entirely useless, at least with anything important. First the Opera, now Uriel…"
"Uriel?" Raoul asked, recognizing the Biblical allusion.
"The 'Angel of Death', yes, and a fitting name it is too. One stroke." He held up a single finger abruptly for emphasis. "One, to the heart or throat. No one has seen him. No one knows what he looks like or where he is from. He just comes, and leaves them dead."
"How often, and how many?" Raoul asked crisply.
The younger of the brothers shrugged. "Every month or so. I've lost count of the number."
"Raoul," Pierre began, carefully setting his tea aside and folding his hands, leaning forward. "This reign of terror has gone on long enough. The police are idle and useless. Raphael and I have been talking. We want to take this into our own hands."
The Vicomte rose to his feet, pacing across the length of the room. He paused at the window to pull back the curtain slightly. "And I suppose you want me in on this… this nonsense, do you?" he said.
Pierre rose slowly to his feet. "It isn't nonsense, Raoul," he said suddenly, intensely. "There's no pattern to this random destruction—murder—that we have seen. But there must be! Paris is sitting prey to a deranged madman while we sit by, Vicomte!"
"And that in itself tells you something about our precious city," Raoul said with a snort. "I've long ago given up on murder mysteries, Pierre. They have a way of turning deadly. I promised myself it was over when I went to England. Paris and Uriel suit each other, and I'm perfectly content with leaving them to each other."
"And if he comes here?" Raphael suggested quietly, rising to his feet. "If it is you or I he seeks next… or Christine?"
Raoul stiffened against the window. "Never threaten my wife," he said evenly. "I am not joining you," he said flatly. "I am not." He turned, his face expressionless. "Gentlemen, you should leave if you wish to return to Paris by dusk," he said harshly.
"Raoul," Christine remonstrated, but Pierre quieted her with a soothing gesture as he rose to his feet.
"As you wish," d'Halier said without a hint of inflection, and like that walked out.
His brother paused at the door. "If you should reconsider, Vicomte, be sure to call on us," he offered. At Raoul's flat look he shrugged and donned his had, following his brother through the door. A few moments later there came the sound of hooves and the grind of wood on stone as the d'Halier carriage pulled away from the Chagny estate. Raoul watched them go, then let fall the curtain.
"They're going to get themselves killed," he muttered, turning away. He looked at Christine, to find her trembling, staring at nothing. "Christine!" he called, racing to her side, relieving her hand of the rapidly cooling tea before it spilled. "What is it? What is wrong?" he pleaded.
She looked up at him, her wide blue eyes frightened. "I just remembered the dream I had last night, Raoul," she said. "My dream."