Thanks to all my lovely reviewers—those who have been there from the beginning and the new ones. I hope that where this goes lives up to where you would imagine it could go. What was it Einstein said? Imagination is more important than knowledge…

All the credit to ALW and Leroux for the knowledge of Erik and his world, but the imagination… well, that belongs to us.

All of us.

Of Knights and Dragons

Chapter XV: An Unexpected Guest

"I don't think anything happens in this universe except by some power—or individual—making it happen. Nothing happens of itself. I believe all events are produced by will."

(William Burroughs)

Whoever said emotion was a purely physical thing was a fool. Anger, excitement, fascination—these things drove themselves through the human system hungrily, jerking the arms and legs and eyes about roughly like an unskilled puppeteer. They sent fingers tapping, men pacing, eyes roving, fixing on only one object with tenacious certainty: the clock.

Unheeding of these bodily manifestations, the needle-thin hand swept along the face of the clock at its own pace, totally oblivious of the fact that life, death, and various intermediate stages hinged on its precise but arbitrary motion. It was thoughts like these that drove Raoul to complete stillness as he watched Raphael pace the study, around and around, going nowhere.

The youngest d'Halier paused to glance at the clock, which (with customary stubbornness) had only moved the fraction of a sliver towards the looming 9. At that moment that slight motion was tantamount in Raphael's mind, Raoul knew.

At nine, the twelve knights would be returning. "Wishing does not hasten the hour," Raoul reminded his impatient friend.

"I can wish it would."

Raoul didn't bother to reply. His thoughts were with Christine. He had expected her to write to him in return of his letter, and was worried at the unexpected silence. Surely all was well, or the servants at the estate would have sent word to the contrary. Still he feared for her… he had lived in quiet denial of a great truth for three years, but he was awake to it now, knew how much her peculiar angel had been for her, if only in dreams.

Dear God, he hoped it had only been that!

He pushed the betraying thought away. How was she taking this new news? She had chosen him, hadn't she? Somehow, somehow, she had thought him worthy. He had been born in that moment…

…had almost died in that moment, either way she chose. He couldn't let himself forget that it had been Erik in the end who saved him. It was for her, and therefore for him, that he was here: here to avenge something he had secretly longed had come to pass. Yes, Christine, I love you enough for this one gift… even against my greatest enemy of all. And if I die in this giving…

…if I die…

"They are here," Raphael said from the window, looking out. The clock hummed as it struck nine. Now that the time had come, the d'Halier seemed reluctant to move into action—his energy silent, spent, hesitant—

"Come," Raoul prompted, and with a start Raphael turned away from the window. He looked at the Vicomte—and what fear was in those eyes, like a deer before the hunt!—and nodded, his gaze hardening.

The two of them met the others in the entrance. Raoul's gaze passed over them—they were all there. He wasn't really listening as Raphael ushered them into the library, quietly reminding the servants that they were not to be disturbed. The knights filed in to their places, many the same that they had taken the night before. Conversation was low and brief as they sat, most covered over by the scrape of chair on wood and the rustle of cloth.

Raphael rose, and the conversations quieted as the other members turned to look at him. The fear was gone from his eyes, Raoul noted, somewhat surprised and privately pleased. The d'Halier paused to look around the room and said—

But the door opened. His eyes shifted to it. "I thought I said we were not to be disturbed," he began, and the words trailed away.

A man stood framed in the doorway. "Apologies, monsieur," said a slightly sardonic voice, "but I was under the impression that this meeting concerned me. Please, correct me if I am mistaken."

Raoul had never before seen any man gather such immediate attention with so few words. The minds of every man in that room were seized in that one moment, held captive to a will far more dominating than any of them could claim to possess. The room was bright with the light of many lamps, a truth that made the contrast all the more poignant, all the more powerful. The difference between the bright room and the darkness that so casually walked into it only emphasized the control of the man who now, unequivocally, dominated the room.

Was that amusement that danced elegantly in those golden eyes, Raoul wondered, or was it anger?

The Angel of Death walked to the far end of the table and ever so casually leaned his gloved fists on its long, polished length. "Raphael d'Halier," he said, and Raoul felt the vibrations of the spat words run through the length of the table, up from the floor through his legs, seizing his motion and arresting any move he might make without a second thought. He felt, more than saw, the young leader of the group stiffen. "I don't believe we have had the honor of meeting," Uriel went on, so very nonchalant, so very smooth. "I have had acquaintance with your brother, however." Something like fire ran through Raphael's eyes.

The Angel smiled.

Oh God, Raoul never wanted to see him smile again. He would take Hell first.

"Why this silence, messieurs? Surely I am not an unexpected guest to this little… coalition." He was enjoying this, Raoul thought numbly. He was glorying in the way he held them all captive, chained to their chairs by bonds of will. God, how were they supposed to kill someone who did this to them?

"Perhaps you are startled at my appearance?" As if on cue Raoul's eyes dropped to the elegantly cut figure, in black of course, a living fragment of night walking among them. The only bit of relief was a gleam of silver from his belt and the hilt of his sword. His sword.

Of course, he meant to kill.

"Vicomte, what a surprise. I did not truly expect to find you here," and Raoul flinched at the edge of the words, the cutting line of a fierce ray of light, his brown eyes sliding upwards to meet those of his captor's. What was holding him prisoner? His fear, his wonder, his awe, his terror, his own weakness of will and heart? Why could he not rise, draw his own blade, and face this thing that looked at him with the faintest curl of a sneer and a light in those peculiar golden eyes, a light that spoke of…

…of…

Familiarity?

God in Heaven. He isn't dead. He isn't dead.

Christine would be overjoyed. Why wasn't he surprised that it provided him no consolation? Those golden Angels' eyes saw something in his that he did not even know he had revealed, and the familiarity changed to triumph. Raoul felt his own gaze dropping away, flat on the tabletop. As if a spell was broken he raised one shaken hand to his eyes.

He isn't dead.

Water, when it falls to the ground, winds its way down slowly, finding the simplest route. It often clings to its source, unwilling to leave it, a lost and wandering child. So Raoul's tears slid down onto the palm of his hand, curling about his arm, trails of sorrow in a barren wasteland of memory. Time slid by him, pure crystalline droplets on a greased string, slipping through his fingers even as he grasped at them, elusive.

At last he tore his riveted gaze away from that far-off space which all men seek sometimes, a place just beyond the realm of sight, in a direction never noticed otherwise. His face lifted from his hand, his eyes finding themselves once again captive to the aura that had so quickly defeated all others within this small closed room.

The air hissed with power.

"I see my arrival has put a damper on the proceedings," the dragon continued, arcing a long, scaled neck, regarding the silent camaraderie of knights with those terrible eyes. Almost idly the vast pinions extended, stretching skyward, effectively seducing and dispelling the lingering light of the sun. The only light came from those eyes, now, and the twelve knights found they could not look away, could not move, could only watch.

One clawed hand closed with lightning swiftness and as quickly withdrew, leaving one of the knights no more than a lifeless pile, its breath stolen away like a summer wind. The dragon stared at them all for a moment longer, spread its wings, and leapt into the night, leaving them in darkness.

Slowly, the sun returned, fearful that its captor might extinguish it forever.

The Parisian Knights stirred from the enrapturing spell, as if they were men awakening from a strange and foreign nightmare. It is known, however, that from some nightmares, men will never wake.

So it was that Charles did not stir, but sat completely still, as if frozen. Is that not what death is? Frozen in time? On the immaculate white of his shirt was a single, clean strike. The Angel of Death, after all, killed with only one stroke.

Raoul's head dropped to his hand again and he slowly, painfully, closed his eyes.