I am honored by your confidence that this story will turn out well… I certainly hope so! If there's one thing I'm very pleased about, it's that my reason for writing this phic is the next three chapters, that is, 21, 22, 23. I hope you end up liking them as much as I've dreamed and re-written them over and over in my head. Thanks for your support… there is little so gratifying as getting the e-mail that states "Review Alert!" It really keeps me going, guys. : )
Disclaimer: After I've hacked, blazed, and bushwhacked my way cross-wise the Phantom's world… I still got nuttin to show for it. Thank you, ALW and Leroux, and anyone else I'm forgetting, because there's bound to be something else. Um, someone else, that's right, someone, not something…
Of Knights and Dragons
Chapter XX: A Sprig of Thyme
"The innermost meaning of sacrifice is the annihilation of the finite just because it is finite."
(Friedrich von Schlegel)
She tried to let the familiar hymns sooth her into tranquility, let the solemn and unchanging Latin words ease her mind. But every stroke of the organ keys reminded her of a man who had so masterfully wielded the instrument; the ceremonial glitter of candles recalled the same flares on the candelabras above the lake; the statues and gilding of saints and martyrs recalled similar, but far more arcane, forms that graced the darkness beneath the Opera House. At least the tears she wept were genuine. "Deus mea lux est," the celebrant recited during the homily, and to the God is my light she added he was my darkness.
It wasn't in anger or in sorrow, not really, that she prayed. Christine didn't know if there was a word for it, but she supposed it could have been called pity. "May you find your way out of that darkness," she prayed. "May you find something that your life was worth living for, something far away from me. I have been only pain in your life. Let me go. Let me be at peace, for your sake as well as mine."
If there was a God, maybe he had mercy enough to hear her, and from the dark shroud of Uriel to draw Erik out. Then again, most likely not.
When the final recessional hymn was sung, she really didn't pay attention to where she was going, confident that Raoul was beside her, gently guiding her. He knew she was distracted, and could understand why. He was always so understanding, Raoul, even when he had every right to be angry… how long until they could leave this all behind them? How far away was England? As if that country was some kind of paradise, a return to Eden, for which she longed.
Raoul watched his young wife with worried, silent eyes, carefully guiding her through the throngs of people leaving the church. It was a small place, Saint Miriam's, by the wayside, but Christine had wanted somewhere small, somewhere quiet, somewhere she could go celebrate her last Parisian Mass in peace. "Come on, Christine," he offered with a small smile, as the two of them turned down a small side street, deserted at this evening hour except for a few passers-by.
He leaned down to say something softly to Christine, which he would afterwards never remember, and looked up just as a very familiar voice said, "I trust you enjoyed the service, Vicomte."
He looked up to find himself staring down the length of a pistol. The wrong end of the length.
His first instinct was to shout, "She chose me, Erik!" but the man holding the gun wasn't the infamous Phantom, but rather the set, youthful features of the d'Halier heir. So, instead, "What is going on, Raphael?" tumbled out.
Raphael's mouth twisted into what might have been called a smile. "Ever clueless, are you, Chagny?" he said smoothly. "I wonder how you managed to escape the night of that fire, where so many others more deserving did not."
So it is about Erik! The Vicomte thought, tensing. "Something tells me you're here for more than trading insults, Raphael," Raoul said, slowly raising one hand. "Calm down and we'll get to the bottom of this—"
Raphael hurriedly stepped back, which thankfully brought the tip of the gun farther away, but not very much at all. "Oh, but I already am at the bottom of this, Chagny," the young man said with another strange smile. "I know all about your plot, so don't play innocent." He jerked his head, and rough hands seized Raoul's arms at his sides, pulling him away from Christine.
"Raoul!" she cried out, taking a step forward, but Raphael's aim shifted unerringly towards the Vicomtess.
"Don't worry about your precious love, dear," he cooed. "Nothing at all will happen to the Vicomte de Chagny." A pair of Knight closed in on Christine, restraining her. "I'd worry rather for yourself, dearest."
"Christine," Raoul began raggedly, then turned violently on Raphael. "What is this all about, Halier? I have no idea what you're talking about?"
"Ah, I think you do, Raoul," Raphael went on. "See, I happened to stop by the residence of one Christophé Doione, and found this intriguing little item…" and from his vest pocket he extracted a carefully folded note. Raoul didn't need to see the handwriting to know whose it was.
"I thought you said it was all a dream," he said to Christine. She almost couldn't look at him, couldn't meet his gaze; his soul had been ripped open in that look. "I thought it was over, that you loved me…"
"I do!" Christine screamed brokenly, ineffectually attempting to wrest free of her captors. "It was a dream, Raoul, I swear I thought it was. I don't want this—I want to go back to England, oh God, why did this ever happen to me? I should have just accepted that he was dead…"
"So you do know of him, then?" Raphael said coyly, looking between the two. "How convenient. You never really wanted to destroy Uriel at all, did you, Vicomte? The little game of deception is up, Chagny. Now. Where is he?"
Raoul felt as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of dust. "I don't know who you're talking about," he ground out.
Raphael's smile hardened. "Don't play innocent on me, Chagny. Where is Uriel?"
"I don't know."
Raphael sighed. "You're making this harder on Christine, you realize. I can't just… let the two of you go. Perhaps if I keep her for a while, you might be… inclined… to tell me what you know, Chagny?"
The two of them were wrenched in opposite directions across the street. Raoul watched, helpless, as Christine vanished into a narrow alley opposite, her eyes pleading with him. How often do I have to lose you, Christine? he wanted to scream after her, but that would be useless.
"You have until tomorrow morning, Chagny, until Uriel gets written up as having another victim. A sad story, wouldn't it make, to have the girl who escaped the Opera Ghost killed by the Angel of Death? I shall be sure to wear black at the funeral. Oh, and Raoul…? Go to the police, and you'll never see the dear Vicomtess again. I can promise you that."
And they left him standing there, staring after the way she had gone, not daring to follow them, with nothing to give that could bring her back. He turned away, started trudging down the street. If he went to Christophé, or anywhere near a Station, he would never see her again. If he did nothing, she would end up being killed anyways. He didn't have what they wanted.
There was, of course, only one man who did.
And so it was that with great reluctance, but no choice really, that he began—for the second time in two days—the descent into Hell. He was fairly certain that this time he wouldn't be walking out again. Corpses don't walk, you see.
If Christine was dead, there was not point in living anyways. His only hope was that he was not the only man who felt that way.
Or perhaps he was the only man, and that was his one hope. He smiled bitterly as he walked along, trying to follow his own convoluted reasoning. But his mind kept returning to the way motion had been entirely arrested when the Angel of Death entered the room.
Angels couldn't be killed any more than ghosts, could they? They were immortal, unlike the very true and very certain mortality of man. Raoul found himself suddenly, desperately wishing that whatever fragment of mankind Christine had managed to resurrect in Erik, the sight of Raoul would immediately submerge again, leaving only the cold and merciless killer.
He needn't have worried.