A/N: Can it be?


Can it be KT's update?


Bra-va!

And you think you see the silhouette…
A dream that you can't quite remember,
But a face you can't forget…

Woman in White by Andrew Lloyd Webber

A WINGED SHADOW

The blackness that so easily pervaded his sight now acted as a blinder as he stumbled away from the building on the hill. His cape was wrapped tightly around his torso, his chest bare but his mind completely oblivious. The shadows enveloped him in the embrace for which he had longed throughout his childhood…his entire life, in fact, until…

Biting wind nipped at his uncovered face, but in the darkness, exposure mattered little to him. The coldness was multiplied a hundredfold when the breeze hit the soft trails of tears that spilt down his gaunt cheeks. His steps were long and unsteady, and his raven hair blew aimlessly across his brilliantly glowing golden eyes shining like pinpricks in the night. His gaze was vague and unfocused, the world around him fading into oblivion…

His mind failed to react even as the large, iron-like arms closed around his body, the butt of a revolver swinging down from out of nowhere and colliding with the back of his skull.

Christine awoke with a start, her body drawing into an upright position as she blinked her eyes rapidly, squinting through the thin gauze of the bed curtains. She glanced to her right, her gaze falling upon the empty space beside her. A gentle indentation on the mattress was all that was left of her husband's time spent in their divan.

The thick oak door of the master bedroom opened, and Sabine stepped inside, her skirts gathered in her arms as she tiptoed over to the Vicomtesse. Peering inside anxiously, the maid's face brightened when she saw Christine had already awake on her own accord.

"Good day to you, Madame la Vicomtesse," Sabine said, pulling back the curtains of the bed widely. "The Vicomte left a few minutes before you awoke…business, it seems." She bustled around the room, tucking various garments into drawers and straightening picture frames on the walls. "He said he would be back this evening…around suppertime."

Christine nodded mutely, arching her back like a cat and stifling a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Nearly noontime, Madame," the chambermaid replied, bustling over to the door. She paused, her body positioned only half within the bedroom, before turning and calling softly, "It appears it was a long night all around; the Vicomte woke only an hour ago, and he's normally up at the crack of dawn!" Christine turned to Sabine sharply, only to find the door swinging shut.

Untangling herself from the sheets, Christine dangled her legs over the side of the mattress for a moment before standing and heading for her closet. She removed a cream-colored housecoat from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, her bare feet slapping the cold wooden floor with hollow sounds as she proceeded for the door. Her hand rested on the bronze doorknob, but she paused.

Christine glanced out the large bay window, a single branch of the cherry tree rubbing gently against the pane. A tiny bird hopped sporadically along the limb, its head moving from side to side as it peered through the glass. Rays of light danced across its glossy brown feathers, its beetle black eyes sparkling. It plucked a berry from its stem and fluttered away suddenly, its silhouette illuminated against the sun. Pressing her hand to the window, Christine's gaze fell upon the people that roamed the streets of Lyons, the women carrying parasols and clinging to the arms of their husbands as they browsed the small shops.

Hesitating for only a moment, she flung off her housecoat, the soft lace landing in a heap on the hardwood floor. She opened her wardrobe and removed a bright white outing gown, a pair of sturdy, comfortable shoes, and a wide-brimmed sun-hat with a single red ribbon hanging loosely in the back. Holding the dress up to herself, she gazed into her mirror.

Perhaps the day would not be a waste after all.

Christine looked up just in time to see a round, fat raindrop land with a soft plop on the tip of her nose. Pursing her lips, she glared up at the thick gray clouds that coated the once-cerulean sky, eyes narrowed angrily. The air was dense and heavy, hanging over her like an impenetrable fog and causing her meticulously arranged hair to stick to her forehead and temples.

Blinking away the beads of sweat that dripped into her eyes, she hoisted her bags higher from the ground and continued down the cobblestone sidewalk, her heels clicking against the walkway. Christine glanced across the street and watched as a man hurried alongside his wife who, in turn, smiled graciously up at him, his umbrella held above her head as they strode along.

Stopping beneath the porch of a flower shop, Christine set her belongings down on an empty table and collapsed into a small chair that stood outside the door. Resting her elbows on her knees in a very unladylike manner, she pulled off her long white gloves and began to massage her throbbing temples. Thunder sounded suddenly from the horizon, and she flinched at the noise, looking up just in time to see a streak of light momentarily illuminate the sky. The heavens erupted into a flash of white and yellow before dimming back to their blackish tides, and she felt another drop of water fall onto her shoulder.

Looking up at the roof that sheltered the front of the store, she saw a tiny hole positioned directly above her head. Sighing, Christine moved her chair a few inches to the right. She gazed out into the streets swarming with carriages and pedestrians fleeing towards the nearest refuge in fear of the approaching storm as the sunlight faded as if night was dawning.

The clock tower chimed the five o'clock hour, and Christine's eyes drifted towards the rolling countryside visible through the narrow gateway of Lyons. The grass rustled against the humid breeze, and another clap of thunder ripped through the skies. Absently she bit her fingernails, her glance vague and unfocused. Raoul would be arriving home soon; he would expect her to be there upon his return. As the thought passed through her mind, she found herself remaining in her seat, motionless. She sighed quietly.

Her gaze fell upon the window of the flower shop, the only source of color in a scene whose brightness was rapidly melting from view. The wind whipped her long chocolate curls against her face, and she clutched her hat to her head as she stared through the glass. She felt her heart skip a beat when she noticed a single red rose lying off to the side of the arrangement…a rose with an ebony ribbon tied delicately around its twisted green stem. The breath caught in her throat, and Christine rose quickly from her seat and gathered her packages into her arms. Without looking back, she started off down the road.

A raindrop fell into her eye, and she blinked it away as her pace quickened. Somewhere close by, a horse whinnied fretfully. Her strides grew longer as yet another peal of thunder shook her surroundings, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Within a few moments, she found herself practically running down the sidewalk, hurrying past the people of Lyons and clutching her bags to her chest. Peering out from beneath her eyelids, she watched as a large, burly man as if in slow motion walked directly into her path.

Her hands flew out to catch her fall, her belongings scattering across the cobblestone. The wide brimmed hat was whisked away in a gust of wind, and she watched helplessly as it was carried away into the approaching darkness. Muttering curses to herself, she began to gather her things into her arms, watching as the large man disappeared into the crowd. A carriage flew by her, mere inches from her face, and a moment later she was drenched by a wave of water that exploded from beneath its wheels as it passed over a large puddle. Furiously she looked up at the buggy as it drove by her…

…And froze.

The face behind the glass was unmistakable… No one in the world had such a face…

The burning yellow eyes were strangely dull and lifeless; they stared past her and into infinity. His long black hair, matted and dirty, hung over the marred flesh of the right half of his face. The moment took a lifetime…she watched mutely as he disappeared into the darkness. In the last instant before he was gone, she saw his gaze flicker back upon her, his eyes illuminated with an unreadable expression as the recognition became apparent.

The connection of their stares was broken by a flash of brilliance that ignited the sky. The carriage vanished into the shadows, and Christine was left on her knees on the corner of the sidewalk, her shaking white hand caught around the base of her pale throat. A booming echo resonated through the streets, and a moment later, a sheet of rain engulfed her.

He had been abandoned on the vague emptiness between lifeless oblivion and reality. A steady throbbing reverberated through him, and he realized it was his own heartbeat. The pain had taken on a steady rhythm as well, pulsing through his limbs and in his chest.

His mind was hazy, as if he were living in a dream…perhaps a nightmare. Blackness surrounded him, and when he tried to take comfort within it, he found himself yearning for the light.

Strange.

Sometimes he heard music…both sweet and demonic. When he felt a disruption from the pain that coursed through him, he could almost distinguish the crystalline sound of a familiar voice, gentle and soothing to both his ears and the rest of his body. The dreams were then interrupted by screams of the past, writhing and twisting from his memory into his consciousness. If he had been able, he would have lifted his trembling hands to his head and clawed ferociously, desperately at the sides of his face… But even if he had had the strength to do so, his arms were chained to his sides with heavy manacles.

The visions were something else entirely… While the sounds were obviously either heaven-sent or spawn of the Devil, the images that flooded his mind were contorted into apparitions that left him weak with longing and tear-stricken with disillusionment. Porcelain faces with wide honey brown eyes…perfect lips painted in crimson…

And one that was more prominent than all the rest: A figure kneeling on the ground, flawlessness radiating from its mere presence… She watched him in mute astonishment as shadows crowded around her, the sudden rain framing her innocence…a vision of an angel.

"Wake up!"

He was jolted by a sharp pain that met the center of his chest. Ignoring the fire that licked his skin, he turned his face to the side, allowing his hair to cover his face. He blinked rapidly, forcing his muddled mind into reality. The men had drugged him using some remedy with which he was unfamiliar. His inexperience with such a concoction surprised him; his knowledge of medicinal tonics was quite extensive…

The thought was interrupted by a fist as it crashed into his jaw. His face was whipped to the side, and the metallic taste of blood met his tongue. Swallowing, he looked up expressionlessly at his assailant for a moment before glancing around at his surroundings.

He was sitting in an old wooden chair in the middle of a small, dank room. There was a circular window to his right, and a glowing orange moon glimmered at him from behind thick storm clouds. His hands had been tied behind his back, and his shirt had been ripped from his body. Chest heaving, he returned his gaze to his captor. The shadows hid the man's face, but the moon illuminated his wide shoulders, lean chest, and thick legs.

Erik allowed his head to hang so his chin rested on his chest. A moment of tense stillness passed between them before the man grabbed him roughly by the hair and forced his face up. They stared at each other, grim disgust lining his countenance while Erik remained stoically unresponsive and impassive. His eyes were dark and faded, his eyelids half closed.

"So you're the man?" the man asked, his deep voice rich with a thick foreign accent.

Erik said nothing.

"You're wondering why you're here?"

Silence.

The man seemed to be irritated by his lack of a reaction. Reaching into his back pocket, he removed a small blade and held it to a point directly beneath Erik's jaw line. "Someone has quite the grudge against you, my friend. Perhaps it has something to do with your face…" He traced a thin line along the grooves of the deformity with his knife. "But I know not." Smirking, he watched the small stream of crimson flow through the cracks of Erik's skin.

Erik remained motionless.

"I'd ask what you did to this man, but I think it is safe to say I will receive no answer." He pursed his lips. "My orders were strict…I will not kill you. I have nothing against you, my friend…although your face is truly…unique." A drop of blood fell from Erik's chin onto his chest. The man poked it with the tip of his blade, and another bubble of scarlet formed on his skin. It broke and trickled down between the hardened lines of his torso.

"Perhaps you would appreciate it if I made you more symmetrical." He grinned beneath a thick beard of curly black hair. "Would you like that?" Erik's eyes were locked on a point somewhere over the man's back. He didn't flinch when he felt the edge of the knife glide gracefully along the left side of his face. The cuts were not very deep…on the contrary, they were mere scratches.

"I heard of a man in Paris who had a face much like yours," the man murmured, returning the knife to its sheath and stepping back, much like an artist admiring his work. "He killed some people, kidnapped a girl… Could you be one in the same, my friend?" He arched an eyebrow. "In my business, I have encountered much worse crimes than yours. And yet your case caused so much commotion…it confuses me still. Only four or so were killed in your…what was it, a chandelier crashing?" The man threw his head back and let out a loud, barking laugh. "In all my years, I have never heard of such a thing."

Erik looked away.

His tormentor pretended not to notice. "And the kidnapping… I saw a picture of the girl in the newspaper, my friend, and I will be the first to tell you, I can hardly blame you." A muscle in Erik's neck tightened. "I would have dropped a chandelier on my own brother to get her out of her dress and into my…"

With a furious growl, Erik ripped his wrists from their restraints and snapped the ropes from his body as easily as if they were threads. His captor stumbled backwards in surprise as Erik rose to his full height. He was easily three or four inches taller, and he watched as the man's eyes grew wide. In just two strides, Erik caught him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. "Do not…speak of her that way!" he hissed.

It took a few moments to notice the sharp pain that radiated from his thigh. Looking down, he saw the small blade sticking out of his upper leg. He looked up just in time to see the butt of a revolver once again swinging down from above him and crashing into his skull.

Darkness met him, and he greeted it warmly.