The tale changes in the telling… I am getting so much fun out of this, it isn't even funny.

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Of Knights and Dragons

Chapter XII :Blue, White, and Gray

"When a happy moment, complete and rounded as a pearl, falls into the tossing ocean of life, it is never wholly lost."

(Agnes Repplier)

The ride to Paris was two and a half hours long, and gave Christine plenty of time and solitude to think. There was certainly a lot for her to think about. In the beginning she remembered England, and the three years she had spent with Raoul there. It had been a marvelous bright light in a life so burdened with darkness. She had only to close her eyes and she could see the sun setting over the countless steeples of Oxford—each college within the town had its own chapel, shrouding the place in a sense of peace, study, and sanctuary. She could hear the English breeze in the English grass, could feel Raoul standing proudly at her shoulder as they watched the English sunsets, could hear little Gerard exclaiming with a child's pure delight over every pretty stone and budding flower. Even in winter the beauty took her breath away: snow covered everything, frosting it with winter's delight, gilding every line of every building sharp as ice constructs wrought against a sweet, clear sky.

Despite it, she had missed France. This was her home, after all; she was tied to the place because of her father's grave and her father's memory. She wouldn't give that up even for Oxford's quaint ringing bells on Sunday afternoons, or the fragrant breeze that swept through the streets of the college town. So they came back; the Vicomte and Vicomtess de Chagny and their three-year-old son, back to France, to Paris, or close nearby.

The happy, fleeting years were over, though, she thought as the coach rattled along the wide road towards the city. What was she doing here? Hadn't she been content only yesterday morning, wandering the grounds with Raoul, drinking up the fullness of summer days? But the City of Lights had once again revealed its darker shade, and like the gallant young man she had fallen in love with, Raoul had rushed off to banish the darkness.

No, that wasn't right. She had asked him to go, to stop this strange Angel of Death. Why had she done that? She had sent him blindly towards death, when they had so much together, so much that would shatter her to lose. Why? For the sake of a dream?

"Why should dreams be so much more powerful than life? Perhaps because we can never have them. They remind us of what we desire but cannot attain. In a dream, anything is possible. A murderer can become the most noble man ever to live. A ghost can regain life. A shadow can become a man. And death… death has no meaning." She laughed softly at her own foolish, childish words. Raoul was right; she was too caught up in fairy-tales.

Yet here she was, on the road to Paris, without any real idea of what she intended to do when she got there. She would only be a hindrance to the Parisian Knights, she knew, not really helpful at all. Uriel might even seek her out; she would certainly be a simple target. She would be only a liability. Yet now that she had started, she found that she could not turn back.

Her mind slid around that track, concentrating on her past, refusing to look forward, refusing to admit that she had come because she needed to find out if it was true. She had no idea whatsoever how she was to find the Persian, but then, more likely he will find me, isn't it? She was being foolish and childish, she knew, but then dreams are the same in adults and in children, and she stubbornly refused to give hers up.

A part of her adamantly denied that, in daylight, dreams scattered to nothing.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The horse's hooves rang steadily on the stones of the street, steady and slow. Christophé kept his hand relaxed on the reins, giving the dependable animal its head—the horse knew the way well enough. The Captain stroked the long elegant neck, and the horse flicked his ears in reply, snorting either with satisfaction or reproach. It amused him that, like with humans, the two were on occasion nearly indistinguishable.

In his striking blue uniform crossed with the gold of a captain, he had no trouble making his way through even the crowded sections of Paris, and now this part of town was nearly empty. An occasional pedestrian passed by, looking up at him, some of the more familiar even waving. On occasion he tipped his hat to some lady walking daintily or borne in a noble's carriage, cold and cordial.

Did he break up this new secretive group that seemed to be coalescing under the leadership of the surviving d'Halier brother? The question nagged him. Little good could come of it; someone was bound to get killed, and he was rather of the opinion that it wouldn't be Uriel who has dead at the end of the day. But how to break it up? There was no justification for it, at least that he could bring into the public eye, which meant that he would have to commission the orders secretly, making it seem as if it were not the police at all. His usual way of doing that would be to send Uriel in directly. Of course, that would only compound the problem.

The real question was, did he sanction the Angel's attacks or not? He began to laugh, somewhat bitterly, when he realized it didn't matter. If he did, Uriel would sweep in and remove the leadership of the cadre, raising the anger of the gentry of Paris, and he and the police would do nothing. If he didn't, Uriel would kill anyways (though without sanction). He would still be able to do nothing, as technically the Angel didn't exist as far as the Parisian government was concerned!

Of course, there was always a third option, which was actually aiding the group, a move that was likely to end up with him dead, and Uriel still at large, except killing without restraint at all. Not a wonderful set of choices. Not for the first time he wished he had been able to discover more about this mysterious figure he had encountered. Of course, regretting it afforded him nothing at all.

What a lovely situation, he thought ironically. Who dies next, Christophé? Raphael? The young Vicomte? You?

The sound of hooves and the grind of wheels brought him out of his reverie just as he was passing the desiccated shell of the Opera House. He looked up to see a young woman, not more than twenty, step out of a carriage and offer thanks to the driver, who tipped his hat and sent the team and vehicle on its way. Christophé slowed his horse unconsciously with a smooth word, watching her.

The sunlight made her beautiful. It gleamed off auburn hair, a sheen that caught the light and captured it prisoner. She had clear, lucid blue eyes, he could see—even from this distance. There was a proud way in which she held herself, upright and perfect, so that he knew she had some station—even without the cream-colored dress that hugged her figure perfectly. There was a grace to the way she had stepped out of the carriage, as well, that made him think of a dancer.

He watched, curious, drawing closer with the slow paces of his horse, as she stared up at the imposing edifice of the Opera Populaire for a long silent moment, oblivious to all else. A pair of magpies, black and white, chattered at her from the golden-gleaming statue of Apollo's Lyre on the peak of the roof. The Captain found himself emulating her, watching with strange fascination the designs the sunlight deigned to pick out on the worn-away exterior, tracing the locking bars of shadow cast from the pillars.

It was only when he looked back at her that he realized with a shock that she was crying, tears streaming unheeded down her face. He started guiltily then, feeling as if he was intruding on a moment he was not meant to have seen. His horse snorted at the movement, and the woman started, turning to look at him, her hand swiftly coming up to wipe away the betraying tears. "I am sorry, I… I didn't realize anyone was watching," she said, and there was a melodious quality to her voice that made him wonder if she sang. Surely her voice would be as beautiful as her figure.

Hurriedly Christophé swung down from his horse. "My apologies… I did not mean to intrude on your grief, mam'selle," he said awkwardly.

"Madame," she corrected gently, and looking down he caught the gleam of a gold ring on her hand.

Apologetically he bowed. "Madame," he corrected. "I was merely wondering… are you all right? I'm Christophé, Captain Christophé Doione, of the Parisian Police," he added quickly.

"Christine de Chagny," she supplied, "and thank you ever so much for your offer. I have just recently come to Paris, you see. Doubtless you know my story—I used to sing here, in this very place," and she gestured at the imposing structure, "but that was before the fire, of course. I merely came back to see if it is as I remembered… but it hasn't changed from the night I left, I'm afraid," she added rather sadly.

"Christine… de Chagny?" the Captain repeated, startled. "I do indeed know of that night—it was just before I became captain of Station 24, in this area. You were singing the lead role that night, were you not?" He read the answer in her lowered eyes. "My condolences, Madame. It must be difficult for you to return."

"Yes," she said softly. "I thought… I thought this place might hold something still for me, something I could find on my return and reclaim… but it appears not…" she gazed up at the lonely statue and sighed.

"Are you staying in the city?" Christophé asked, thinking he could perhaps escort her safely home.

But she shook her head quickly. "No, I—that is, we, my husband and I—have a country estate, some hours out of Paris. To tell the truth," she added with a slight smile, "he came into the city yesterday. I don't think he even knows I am here. I thought of finding him, but I'm afraid I don't know where he is. And I wanted…" she gestured hopelessly at the Opera.

"As chance has it, I met him earlier today," the Captain told her. "He is at the d'Halier estate, or was several hours ago. But—you do know why he is in Paris?" Christine nodded. "Yes, well, I think that particular manor is a dangerous place at this time, Madame Vicomtess. Not that many places in Paris are safe with the Angel of Death loose…" and he started at her sudden reaction, stepping back, her blue eyes wide with fear.

"Madame?" he asked softly. She shook her head, frightened. "I could escort you to the Vicomte, if you desire, or back to your estate," the Captain offered.

"No, I… there is something I want to do here in Paris. An old friend I would like to talk to," she said, unable to come up with anything other than the truth.

"Oh?" Christophé queried. "Perhaps I can help you there, in finding him. In my position I know much about Paris, and seeing as you have only just returned… what is his name? Or hers?"

His name is Erik, and he's the Opera Ghost, and he used to live beneath this very building, and he's supposedly dead. "I'm afraid I don't even know what his proper name is," she admitted. "Back in the Opera we used to call him the Persian, though. I don't even know if he is still in Paris, but I would dearly like to talk to him, if he is." The Captain, to her surprise, nodded. Of course, he thinks I want to remember my days in the theater before the fire, that I'm looking for an old friend of mine, she thought.

"As I said, I came the week after the fire, but many of the officers at the Station were there when the Opera Populaire was still running. Perhaps one of them knows the whereabouts of this Persian," he offered easily. "Until then, you are welcome to stay at the Station, or my home—I'm sure my wife would be delighted to have you—unless, of course, you wish to go to the d'Halier estate." But Christine quickly shook her head at the last, and the Captain nodded accordingly.

"Thank you, Captain," she said softly as he helped her mount, and took up the horse's reins to lead the two of them down towards the station.

"My pleasure, Vicomtess, to help any way I can," he replied politely before turning forward again. Anything I can to do assuage this situation, he was thinking, a part of him squirming guiltily over what would likely be the Vicomte's impending death. Perhaps, he thought, the Vicomtess de Chagny would be able to persuade her husband to abandon the foolhardy search for Uriel, before he got killed.

Christine intended nothing of the sort. Of course, he could not know that.