Today's senior prom… aren't I dedicated? (grins and rolls eyes). My friend and I are of the opinion that, if you can't bring the Phantom to prom, bring the prom to the Phantom, right? Which would explain why they're all piling over here to watch the DVD afterwards. I think I need help. Do I need help?

Disclaimer: In no way, shape, or form do I claim to have rights to the Phantom. Well, in one way I do; the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind… but then again, we all feel that way, don't we? In chorus now, peoples… "T'ank you Leroux and ALW."

Of Knights and Dragons

Chapter IX: To Draw First Blood

"Thus in the beginning the world was made so that certain signs come before certain events."

(Cicero)

Raphael stepped out of the carriage, letting the driver close the door behind him. The latch clicked shut. If only all life was like doors; you could leave one place or memory behind, lock away everything you hated, and keep it behind you for eternity, never to have to relive it. This morning had been one of those days where he wished memory could be set under lock and key. Three and a half years ago had been another. He had only been fifteen the night of the infamous fire, but fifteen was not all that long ago, really… he hadn't been a child.

No, from that day onward, he had left childhood behind him. Maybe it was his father's and Pierre's hurried return home, clothing blackened with soot and torn, lucky to escape the disaster with his life. Others had not been so lucky. One of those others had been Jiara. Twenty-three, and a jewel to Monsieur d'Halier, and his only daughter… Raphael's older sister, Pierre's younger. Of the three, only Raphael now survived. One was slain, if the rumors were true, by the machinations of the Opera Ghost; the other by a new and dark evil, this strange Angel of Death.

Yes, how he wished the doors behind him would stay closed. Perhaps, today, he might bar them shut forever.

The home he walked up to was rather modest concerning it was the residence of a Captain, Raphael mused, as he knocked surely on the door, listening for a reply. The latch rattled back and the door swung inwards—and into what new set of memories do I venture?—revealing the surprised but nonetheless pleasant features of one Diana Doione. "May I help you, monsieur?" she said cordially.

"I'm looking for Christophé Doione," Raphael said quickly. "I was told down at the Station that he took Sundays off, and thought he might be here…"

"Yes, of course. He just stepped out to run down and pick up some things for me for around the house, but he should be back directly, if you want to wait." She swung the door open, inviting him in.

"Thank you… if you don't mind, yes, I'd very much like…" Raphael was saying, walking in. It was pleasantly cool inside the shadows of the house. Like an overgrown hen Diana flitted here and there, chattering away in an attempt to make her obviously nervous guest comfortable, moving little items about, rattling on about local gossip and goings-on.

"Care for tea?" and she was offering him some, practically before the 'yes' was even out of his mouth.

He settled at the table, tea cooling beside his elbow, eyes wandering across the spare but homey room, as Diana chattered blithely on about everything of precisely no importance whatsoever. Raphael politely pretended to pay attention, fingers drumming a soft tappity-tap-taptap-tap, a solid tattoo on the wooden tabletop.

"Excuse me," Raphael said after a few minutes, "but could you direct me to the restroom…?"

"Oh! Of course, just that way, up the stairs to your left."

"Thanks," he said, rising and turning towards the indicated stairs. One flight above the ground he turned towards the left, and then paused. He was never sure why he paused that day above the stairs… such a simple action, to change so many lives. For, in that moment of hesitation, he saw the door across the hall was open.

Naturally, he walked over to it. Some kind of guest room, apparently, and recently occupied at that. He remembered Diana mentioning something about a Christine… Christine de Chagny? What had she been doing here? The shadowy edges of a plot involving the two Chagnys, the Captain, and the Angel of Death began to coalesce in Raphael's mind.

Ridiculous. But the thought would not, could not, be driven away. More was known by those three about Uriel than they said, he was certain.

His feet inexorably drew him closer in, until he was actually crossing the room. It wasn't until he was standing beside the bed itself that he saw the rose. The rose, and a slip of paper carefully folded, addressed Christien Daaé.

Daaé? Wasn't that her maiden name, before she married into the Chagny family? Who would call her by her old name, would be able to deposit this note by her bedside, unnoticed?

It twisted this way and that in his mind like one of those infuriating tavern puzzles, all the little bits clinking about, twisting without a hope of a solution. Then, simply, inexplicably, it clicked apart, the separate pieces obvious in his hands.

Raoul's hesitance to join the Parisian Knights, followed by his sudden compliance. Christine's shock at the annunciation of the Angel of Death. Why Uriel had addressed the Vicomte, not Raphael, the night Charles was killed. Christophé's stubborn refusal to reveal anything. Were they all working in concert against him!

The wax seal crumbled between his fingers before he even saw what it was. He smoothed the letter flat, eyes dropping to the page. The writing was odd, malformed, as if a child had scripted it, stubbornly forcing the letters to some semblance of readability. Even so he had no difficulty in deciphering what it said.

The parchment crumpled in his hands. How very intriguing, dearest Christine. So the tensions in the newlyweds is not all imagined, is it? No wonder you and Raoul walk a fine line. But his thoughts were merely tangents, futile frequent sidetracks, attempts to keep his mind away from what he had seen at the end. For the letter was signed.

O.G.

Erik, your Angel

The name meant nothing to him, but the double-honorific changed the world. Angel. Opera Ghost. So he did exist. He had survived. They were the same.

And Christine knew where he was; he loved her; Christine, that sweet innocent unprotected girl, was the key.

Christine.

A few moments later Raphael reemerged from the upstairs. Christophé had not yet returned. "I'm sorry, I really must be going," he said quickly to Diana. "I just realized I have an appointment with one of my lawyers—dreadful people, those law officials, but it really wouldn't do to miss it. I'll have to stop by the Station tomorrow to talk to the Captain. Give him my regrets, will you please?"

"Of course, but I—" Diana stuttered, too late; Raphael was already out the door in a whirlwind of motion, calling for his carriage. "What ever has gotten into him?" she wondered, staring out the open front door as he leapt up and bid the driver all speed. "Men these days," she muttered with a little smile, shaking her head.

Minutes later Raphael burst in through the front doors of his manor. Excited by the commotion, several members of the Parisian Knights and his household staff came running, walking, or otherwise bustling in. "Where are the de Chagnys?" Raphael practically shouted, frantic. "Are they here?"

His butler held up a slowing hand. "They left, not ten minutes ago, mentioning something about attending the Sunday afternoon service, and returning to their country estate afterwards," the man began, but Raphael imperiously quieted him.

"What church, man?" he exclaimed.

"Saint Mariam's," one of the Knights said. "Why, what is it?"

Raphael couldn't prevent the smile. "Rouse up the rest of the Knights… I know how to capture Uriel. Come on, we haven't much time!"