AN: I hope you remain sufficiently entertained to continue reading this I own nothing, of course, except the way the words have just happened to fall on the page in this particular order.

Of Knights and Dragons

Chapter XVI: Terminus Scaccairum

(the edge of the gameboard)

"Resist him, steadfast in faith, knowing that your fellows throughout the word undergo the same sufferings…"

(1 Peter 5:9)

It could be considered highly ironic that they were going to kill him by hanging.

Of course, they hardly would think so. After all, it was likely that the death of Buquet was indeed entirely accidental, and they had little reason to associate the notorious Phantom of the Opera with rope of any kind. There was even less of a reason to connect such an instrument to the infamous Angel of Death, Uriel; a sword would have been more appropriate, if they meant to drive the irony home.

But, for Erik, it was terribly ironic. For perhaps the first time in his life, though, it completely escaped him. It might have had something to do with the fact that he was currently engaged with a heated debate concerning the nature of virtue with several people who seemed to be both extremely knowledgeable on the topic, and extremely tenacious—they would not let him be, no matter how he ordered them off. So he suffered their company.

The square was packed—executions always drew crowds. Despite it all, the sound of chanting could clearly be heard cutting through the excited babble. A second irony; the square fronted one of the numerous small churches in the city; a parish that served as a chapel for a monastery of Dominican nuns. The vague time 'afternoon' had been pinned down to '4:30', which planted the deed exactly in the midst of the recitation of Evening Prayer.

It was in Latin, but Erik understood it anyways; or he would have, if he were listening.

He rescued us

From the power of darkness

And brought us

Into the kingdom of his beloved Son.

Through him we have redemption,

The forgiveness of our sins.

It went on, rising and falling in the background, as the guards took up positions around the platform and endeavored to press the crowds back. The people, in turn, pressed forward with macabre desire to see the spectacle about to unfold before their eyes. The love of death crossed their faces and haunted about their eyes, a pale specter done up in glittering array that flitted from person to person, glorying in the personal attention as it displayed its ghastly virtues.

The yelling and pushing increased when there was a stir from the Station entrance itself.

All were created through him;

All were created for him…

The man was escorted out, his arms bound behind his back, clearly suffering from both his imprisonment and his previous treatment, which had gone untended. Despite the obvious pain and the soldiers on his arms he managed to walk upright with a fluid, panther-like gait; his golden eyes burned into the crowds that had gathered to see him die.

But they did not shy back from his dangerous walk, befitting the Angel of Death, nor from the golden glare that had turned men's moving wills to simple stone. It was the face that greeted them that spurred them to yell louder, made women blanch white and hurriedly redirect their gaze to a safer subject, made some scream, others' faces distort in disgust.

None of it made the man stumble a single step; instead, his mouth curled into a bitterly ironic smile. What else did he expect from the flawed mess of humanity? He was the devil's child, the living corpse.

The chanting went on.

…he who is the beginning,

the first-born of the dead…

To the roar of the angry crowds he was propelled up onto the platform. He went without resisting. There were those who thought this a pathetic end. He; the Opera Ghost; Uriel himself; the Phantom; he, going without a struggle to the noose? But whatever their thoughts, it did not quell the reality of his certain draconic presence upon that platform. It could not have been more apparent than if, like a Hemming, he shifted shapes, and lashed a coiled serpentine tail; if a powerfully muscled lizardlike body contorted itself, claws like knives driving through the solid planking of the platform; if with a snap that made thunder of the air vast leathery wings extended, casting all the onlookers into shadow.

None of these happened.

The dragon remained, glaring out with terrible golden eyes, full of condemnation. Full of justice.

Tell me, Erik; is justice truly the very health of the soul?...

"It is you who says so," he replied dutifully, taking up Socrates's role. They didn't hear it, though, too lost in their rambling mockery of a man condemned to die. No. Of a thing already dead, consigned to the grave.

…he who is the beginning,

the first-born of the dead

so that primacy may be his in everything…

Christine, watching, deliberately turned her back from the crowds and began to walk away. She had been on the edge, where the press was thin, so she had little trouble. As she walked she kept desperately hoping, desperately fearing, that she would feel that amber, accusative, horrifyingly direct luminescent gaze burning into her from behind.

She didn't.

She did, though, hear the sudden quiet of the crowd.

There was a sudden terrible sound.

The clack of wood, the thrum of rope, that made her think of the string of a violin, lightly plucked, humming with innate musicality.

There was a sudden terrible silence.

Silence bowed to sound once more as it slammed down, a heavy rising crescendo full of triumph; the roar of the crowd, more hideous than the scream of beasts begging for blood, for it was tainted with reason.

Her eyes slid shut, determined to keep out tears, but determination is futile against the greater virtues of the soul, and she cried anyway even as her steps quickened to take her away from that place, even as she thought she could faintly here the Dominicans singing the ending hymn to their Evening Prayer.

Those cursed tears prevented, likewise, her from joining into the ending hymn. Not that she wanted to. Not that she could believe in God, not after this, not after He killed an Angel in front of her eyes.

Though, granted, she had looked away.

But the dragon was gone. She could feel it. Which meant… no, he had died before she had seen him in the chapel. Firmly shooing thoughts of him from her mind, she found her carriage waiting where she had left it, and got aboard, folding her hands like a proper lady, eyes fixed on some unseen distant point. She gave it a name.

England.

Only one other thing of note to this tale happened that day.

L'Epoque

15 July 1874

Erik is dead.