I get to be evil this chapter… laughs to self. I'm glad some of you are still reading this, after its hiatus in the void…

Of Knights and Dragons

Chapter XXIII: Condemnation in the Eyes of Men

"For my soul is filled with evils;

my life is on the brink of the grave.

I am reckoned as one in the tomb:

I have reached the end of my strength,

Like one alone among the dead;

Like the slain lying in their graves…"

(Friday, night prayer: Liturgy of the Hours)

Somehow she knew where to find him. Perhaps it was the R de C she glimpsed shining silver on the pistol, or the fact that Erik had known where to find her, where to… No! She drove the thought screaming from her mind with vicious pleasure, and bent her will on each step as she took it, a running ghost in white before the dawn struck the city.

She tried not to imagine what they were doing to him, to her precious self-sacrificing angel who had thrown himself in among the demons to let her escape. She tried not to picture the mocking contempt, the torment, the physical blows, everything he had given his entire life to avoid, the very reason he had loved her, because she had endowed him with a chance to rise up above all that… except she had spurned him, and now he suffered on her account… on her account alone…

With fumbling fingers she tried to find the latch on the Rue Scribe door, but it was locked. The key… where was the key? There, on a little necklace… she broke the chain in her haste, and it took her four tries before she could jam the little brass thing into the lock and shove the hidden door back, stumbling into darkness. She caught herself, barely, and saw that in fact the oil lamp here was lit, though burning low. She picked it up, peering ahead into the gloom, hoping she could remember the way.

His first warning was the slosh of footsteps in water and a faint cry as whoever it was stumbled over something. Apparently they caught themselves, because the sound of wading through the water returned a moment later. Whoever it was, it wasn't Erik, because the Phantom moved soundlessly, and besides he knew his way about the lair so perfectly he would never stumble over anything…

Then she appeared, an angel out of the gloom, one hand clutching at her wet skirts, the other holding high a lantern. "Christine!" Raoul called out to her, and she jumped, then she saw him, against the grate… for an instant, bile rose in her throat, and her memory flitted back to those years before, this very situation, but Erik had been there then, and now Erik…

"Raoul!" she gasped, setting the lantern down and rushing to his side. Her nervous fingers fumbled several minutes at the ropes before she managed to ease the tight, wet chords, and it fell in shambles about his form. He shrugged them away, and suddenly he was catching her in his arms, unable to believe that she was here, that she was safe.

She melted into his arms, and for one blissful moment found Heaven on Earth. How easy it would be, just to lean against his strong figure, his arms wrapped around her, his head bent into her hair, given strength by joy and gladness and the mere thought of her being here again, his rescuer for a second time in this dank and dismal place. "Christine," he murmured into her hair. "Christine, you're alright, you're safe."

Safe from…

The thought made his fervent hug soften, made him look up, his dark eyes searching the shadowed confines of this, the Phantom's home. He relaxed somewhat in the confidence, however, that the man was not here. He knew it by the sheer echoing emptiness of the space, for when the dark angel entered, it became filled and dominated by the sheer power of his presence. Christine had returned, but he had not. The Vicomte's hands found their way to her shoulders, and he gently pushed her away from him enough to realize that not all the tears on her face were from joy.

He hated the words that left his lips. "Where is Erik?" he asked, and no acid had ever stung so much as that question. Looking up to meet his concerned eyes, she told him.

Somehow, when he had first come to elicit the elusive Phantom's aid, he had never thought that it would work out so brilliantly for him. He had never thought that it would end with him and Christine together again, together and safe, and what was more with that dangerous monster conveniently out of the picture. He knew exactly what Erik had known, had been thinking. To 'rescue' Christine from Raphael would be to ensure she would be hunted her entire life by the boy's pet 'Knights'; that she would never have a moment's true peace. But Raphael used her as bait for a bigger catch. If he landed the fish, the bait could be let free without trepidation.

Erik was the catch, of course—or rather, Uriel was, him and the Phantom. Erik just happened to be a convenient host for both of them. Hosts tended to share the fate of those that lived within them. And while the Vicomte was privately overjoyed at having that thing out of his life at last, guilt twisted into him, sharper than a knife or the edge of the Phantom's deadly Punjab lasso.

He put his arm around Christine's waist and began to carefully guide her towards the door she had first entered through… towards the door and up towards the surface, where the light of dawn would be kindling the sky above the city. "Where are we going, Raoul?" she asked him in a small voice, such a little voice, trembling like an autumn leaf as the wind flies by it.

Home, Christine. We are going to the estate, for a few days, then as swift as we can after that to England. We are going to take our son to the hills of Oxford, and sit in the English sunrise and forget the past. We are going to read to him by the light of warm oil lanterns, and tell him ghost stories, laughing and smiling and driving away this past of ours. Maybe someday we will tell him a make-believe tale of a Phantom who haunted a theater once, and he will watch us with wide eyes, and his younger sisters will whisper to each other… We are going to England…

"We are going to Station Twenty-Four," he said, and the words burned his throat. "That is where Raphael would take him, when the Knights are… done with him. He'll be tried by the Parisian courts…" his arm on her tightened at her little gasp, "…and sentenced from there. Unless we do something about it, which is what I mean to do." For your sake. Because I know you love him, if only as something he never was, and I will not let that part of you die on my account.

The next hour or so was a blur to the both of them; hailing a carriage, the ride to the Estate, the flurry of maids and butlers gasping at their condition. It was all the Vicomte could do to insist that they did not have time to relax and have breakfast, that they must go back into Paris immediately. Somehow, he did not know how, dawn found him and Christine side-by-side in a private Chagny coach rattling in the direction of Paris as quickly as the driver could trot the horses.

It was a deathly silent ride for the young married couple, but each took comfort in the other as they sat side-by-side, their fingers gently interlaced, held together more by the presence of the other than anything else. Through the thin walls, they could hear Paris come to life around them, but neither moved, just sat together, waiting… waiting…

The carriage rumbled to a halt and Raoul was on his feet, swinging the door open before the driver even dismounted, helping Christine down after him. The familiar professional façade of Station Twenty-Four greeted the two, but they barely glanced at it before making for the door.

Inside it was all brusque business, but the heightened activity was clear. Men of the law moved about purposefully, brandishing papers and arguing with animation. Officers paced to and fro, or joined the discussions; people seemed to be rushing everywhere. The Vicomte and Vicomtess stood hesitantly in the doorway, uncertain how to proceed.

Then they seized upon a familiar face; Christophé, as professional as ever, deep in conversation with a dark-skinned, almond-eyed man whom Christine thought she recognized. "…am sorry, Daroga," the Captain was saying wearily, "but he is simply too dangerous. I cannot allow you to speak with him. He is, you realized, charge with the murder of well over a dozen men…"

Whatever the Persian said in reply was lost amidst the general uproar, but nonetheless Raoul fought his way across the room, Christine at his side. "Pardon, m'seiu," he said, coming upon the pair. "But I believe it would be in the best interests of all of us to see him."

The Captain turned, his brown eyes carefully neutral, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Vicomte, but I'm afraid I cannot do that. If something were to happen…"

"You have him behind bars, under guard, and chained to the wall, what do you think could possibly happen?" Despite his heavy accent, the Persian's words were dry and clear. "We aren't asking for a release warrant. We just want to be certain that you have the right man. After all, if he is the Opera Ghost…"

The words were lies, or half-lies; the Persian knew as well as the Vicomte that it was Erik. But Christophé would not know that; in fact, the only one who would be able to confirm it was actually him and not some unfortunate was none other than Christine herself. "Very well," he said after a moment, something like relief flickering in his eyes. "Come, I will take you to him." Raoul realized, then, that the Captain was simply a man caught behind the law. He had to do what he had to do… but surely, he wanted the monster dead? All Paris knew of the Opera scandal. There was reluctance, though, behind his eyes, that suggested his connection to Erik went further than prisoner and Captain.

The suspicion snagged at Raoul as the man led them away from the furor in the front lobby and towards the quieter back of the Station. They passed by several guards and descended a short flight of stairs into some place that must have been the cellars, before it was converted into a prison. Lamps were placed unevenly here. Thank God, Christine thought, that he likes the darkness… she herself felt that she would have gone insane in an hour in this place as she followed the other men down the row, past empty cell after empty cell.

The last one, though, was occupied.

Before she could stop herself, her face was pressed up against the bars, her breath was choking out of her, and it was all she could do not to cry out. She could tell he was alive only by the slow gentle heave of his shoulders. She could tell it was Erik when his head jerked up slightly at some sound only he could hear, and the light from Christophé's lantern gleamed off white leather. Then her eyes dropped to the rest of his body, and her hand rose to her mouth to choke back any sound.

Oh God…

"…has already been condemned," reached her ears. The men were talking in low voices.

"When?"

"This very afternoon."

"I want to go to him." She recognized, hazily, that last voice as her own. "Let me go to him."

"Madame, I am afraid I cannot—"

"Open the door and let her go, Captain." Raoul. That was Raoul she heard, though she could not turn to be certain it was him. "Give her one last chance to say goodbye."

Pause. "Very well."

The clank of chains, and the door swung back.

Christine imagined he looked up when she walked into the darkness of the cell, imagined he whispered her name. But he didn't. She stopped some feet away from him, and tentatively reached out her hand, stretching it towards his face.

He surged forward, his head snapped up, eyes blazing gold and boring into hers. He strained at the edge of the chains, but they would not relent, cutting into his wrists, and new blood trickled down his arms to join the old. She met his gaze, fearfully, and to her horror discovered there was no recognition in them. She stared into the soul of a stranger.

She took one backward step, steadied herself, and then gently pressed her fingertips to his face.

The shudder passed all the way through him, and his muscles eased, and he slumped against the wall, pressing his torn body to the cold stone, his eyes dropping closed, hiding the gleam of gold.

"…Erik?..." she whispered, wondering if he would hear and remember her. Almost praying he wouldn't. That he wouldn't die knowing it had been her fault.

She moved a step closer. "Erik?"

His eyes opened again, gaze lifting to meet hers. Words failed.