Raoul cursed violently as he mounted his bay gelding once more, biting down on his urge to run the horse at full gallop somewhere, anywhere, away from all this trouble. But he didn't. He could not abandon Christine. Nudging the fiery mount into a brisk walk, he buried himself deep in thought.
There were only a certain amount of things that could have happened to Christine. And thousands of people that could do them. It was a nauseating predicament when he thought about trying to sift through the number of people that could have done this. Only one man stood out in his thoughts prominently, away from the rest of the world. But he was dead. Perhaps not, a voice whispered sickeningly in the back of his mind. Christine wouldn't tell me where she had been…surly she would hide none but the Phantom of the Opera from me. But why hide it, if it had been the Phantom? Raoul frowned sharply as he thought. If he could wrap her in a spell once, he could do it once again. Raoul shook his head to himself. No. He's dead. Surly. But doubt knawed at insides, picking at him resolve.
His horse shied slightly when a csarragie hurried by at an alarming speed, and his thoughts were forced to calming the beast. After soothing the gelding to a stand still, Raoul looked up, surprised when he found himself before the Opera Populair. His muscles tensed and his breath hitched, Majestic Brook tossing his head as he felt his rider's tention. Raoul reigned him in sharply to a unmoving stance, grinding his teeth painfully.
If it was indeed the Phantom of the Opera that had stolen Christine away, as highly unlikely as it was, then, begrudged as he may be to do it, he should look into it.
Erik's soul swept to the music that his organ emitted as he teased the keys with his fingers, they're smooth surface lovely pearls beneath them. This was a new compostion, one he had written in Margareite's name. The music played out the love and harmony that the two held comfortably, flashes of memory skittering through his mind as he played out the piece.
Margareite sat composing her own music, a melody to parallel with Erik's to be played in harmoby with his own, to bring out more then just his side of the close relationship they held. She smiled as memories of her own played out in her thoughts, and wrote in her smile with three happy notes. Sighing, she put down her quill. Her hand ached from hours of writing long before erik had begun to play his organ, and put down the feather.
"I'm going to stretch my legs,Erik, " she said simply, walking twords the gondola. Erik nodded silently as she went. He had taught her how to use the gonaola properly some time ago, and she did enjoy walking about the cellars from time to time. He went on playing.
Raoul scurried down to the cellars without a word t befumbled employees wondering where they're absent patron now so suddenly rushed through the opera house. Though he had only been down to the cellars the night of the fire, he remembered the way well. His feet echoed against the stone stairs and floor with sharp scuffling noises. It was not until he came to the head of the stairs that held the trap door did he balk. Surly there was some other way then to nearly drown…but he knew no other way. Hoping and praying that he could get the old wheel to turn the grate once again, that it had not rusted in the six months since that night, he decended the wide stone steps.
His heart beat frantically as he continued down the stairs. He did not remember the exact step that had fall out from under him, but surley he had passed it by-
Hisstomach flew up to his throat as he fell into ice-cold enveloping water. It bit into his skin, the taste of a mouthful that he made it's way into his mouth caused him to retch beneath the water, threatening to allow in more of the desguisting liquid. Pushing all this from his thoats, he searched for the wheel. There, a vauge form of a round opbject extended from the shadows. He stroked towards it, placing his fingers over the moss-covered metal and tugged at it violently. His breath was becoming harder to hold now, his lungs stinging slightly. Nothing but moss that broke of in his hand reacted to his pul. Repostioning his hands, he bore down with all the strength he could, wishing that he could use his body weight that the surrounding water now render useless. The wheel creaked and turned a notch but otherwise barley moved. The burning sensation in his lungs turned to a constant tinglng that demanded fresh air. Re-postioning his hands once again, Raoul willed all of his strength to his arms, valiantly fighting to keep his hands from slipping and he fought to turn the wheel. His lungs screamed for air now, threatening to burst with need-
The wheel broke past whatever barrier had stopped it from turning and turned fairly easily now with a deafening squeak, even under the surface of the bacterial water. Turning the metal wheel a bit farther, for a good measure of reassurance, he pushed off the wall and swam desperately to he serface,breaking it like a new-born fresh from the womb, breathing heavily. The grate above him that rose with agonizing slowness, dripping water on him begrudgingly at having lost its prey, finally reached a high enough level that Raoul managed to slip through underneath and to dry surface. He relaxed for a moment, allowing himself time to gasp for air and fill his tired lungs. All was silent around him but the creaking of the grate and the water that dropped from the metal and into the trap below. Closing his eyes, Raoul now focused on slowing his quickened heart, but in vain, for the grate startled him when it hit the closed trap door-step with a crack, and with a deafening squeal, released itself back into the water at a sickening speed, spattering Raoul with water as it hit the pool below. So that was how it worked.
"Who are you?" a small voice startled Raoul even farther, and he twisted clumsily to find a small girl, no older then nine, scarred some across the face and a pearl necklace of smooth skin glistening in the reflected torchlight, staring at him incredulously. Those eyes. A perfect Oak brown, deep and rich in color and soul. Eyes so very like Christine's, and yet held a slightly darker tint to Christine's chocolate ones. And they were wider, more knowing, as though she could look into your eyes and stare straight into your soul. "Who are you?" she asked again. Patience. Deadly patience; not hurried or worried in the slightest. But there was distrust there. Her eyes spoke plainly of suspecting him of horrendous crimes. What crimes she thought he might have comitted Raoul hadn't a clue, but her eyes made the accusation all the same. He cleared his throat before speaking uncomfortably. Who on earth was this child? Where had she come from?
"I…who are you?" he asked, turning her own question against her. The girl's eyes narrowed sharply and cold anger began to sparkle in them. He was taken aback slightly not only at the sharp spears that she held in her gaze, but also at the deadly hate that rang at him so quickly. Was it such an insult to ask who she was?
"Who I am is of no concern to you or yours," she answered sharply. Me or mine? Who is mine? Others like me… but who? "I requested your name first. It is only polite to answer properly." Raoul frowned. What child could possibly speak with such a confident grip upon language at her tender age?
"I am Raoul DeChaney," he answer, deciding that perhaps he should simply follow by her rules; she had the upper-hand. He offered his hand hesitantly. The girl jumped sharply, backing away in a scuttling motion, glaring at his hand untrustingly, angrily. He brought his hand back, frowning deeply, baffled by her reaction to his movement. She stared at him now from a good length away, warily keeping those amazing eyes focusing coldly upon him, they're color cooling to a slightly lighter shade, almost Christine's color, reflecting a cold hatred that was rimmed with confustion.
So this was Raoul DeChaney. Christine's lover and fiancé, and Erik's archrival. EHe was a confusing man in her book. He was handsome enough, as Christine had described him, his strawberry-blond hair, slightly darkened for it's soaked aspect, was tied back, one wet lock hanging in his face; his shirt clinging to a narrow, well formed torso, his skin's light color shining through the thin material, his chest dusted slightly with hair showing as his shirt stuck to him in weird angles. Her eyes focused upon the spot for a moment in distaste. She did not enjoy the sight of male skin. She allowed for Erik's shirtless sleep, not for any enjoyment in the slightest, but for the want for him to feel comfortable.
As Christine described him, he was a kind, caring male, sensitive and loving. Never had laid an uncaring hand for her. He had risked his life for her. But he was also the man that had stolen away Erik's first chance at happiness. He had torn Erik's heart apart when he escaped with Christine. He was also male. Any male that was not Erik, was untrustworthy in her mind. Unfair it may have been, but it would take more then just Erik to make her more comfortable around other men. Kind. Erik's eternal hate embodied. Male. Two slashed to his name so far as she was concerned.
"What do you want here, Raoul DeChangey?" she asked venomously. "You are not welcome here." Raoul bit his toung at retorting that no child could stop him if he wanted past her. What did she mean, that he was not welcome here? Unless….
"The Phantom is down here, isn't he?" he blurted out, then wished he had not been so plain when her eyes flamed with hate and protective heat, her body stiffening.
"What do you want with him, male?" she asked, ice coating her voice. Male? He was not sure why she had addressed him so, but payed it no mind.
"I need to know if he has Christine," Raoul answer slowly. His own voice was becoming hateful, but not for the girl. He was utterly confused at the child's immediate hate of him, and her protected venom that was spitting from her for Erik.
"No," she answered, her face a mask of deadly protection. "Christine left long ago. She is no longer with us. Erik sent her away." Raoul's eyes widened.
"So she was with that beast when she was missing three months ago?" Raoul asked savagely. The girl startled at the anger in his voice and backed up another step, but her hate still rang true.
"She didn't tell you," she observed, her voice dark as midnight, now threatening an insane tone in reaction of Raoul's insult to Erik. "And just as well. You males are simple creatures of rape and hate aren't you? Well you won't touch Erik. You will leave. Now."
Raoul glared at the child. A little thing such as herself ordering him to go? When that monster surly had Christine? The girl was lying for the creature. He had Christine, he knew it.
"You lie you little viper," he said bitterly. "He has Christine and I will save her if it's the last thing I do." He stood, using his height against her own for intimidation. He didn't want to hurt this girl, just frighten her into letting him alone. The scars across her face contorted momentarily as her face expelled pure fear when he stood. His heart wrung. That Thing must have laid those murdering hands upon her. He willed his voice strong again. He hated to stir such fear in the child, but he needed past without disturbance. "Now let me past."
Margareite's heart raced when he stood, leaping in her chest violently. His eyes were savagely protective, determined. She could not let him pass and reach Erik, not with the anger at him that eminated strongly, focused upon Erik. But what would he do to her if she tried to stop him? Biting her lip, Margareite said with a shaking voice,
"I will go get Erik. Please stay here and I will retrieve him. This is not my battle."
With that, she scurried off.
"Erik!"
Erik started sharply at the desperate tone of Margareite's approaching voice and she slid the gondola through the water. He put down his wine glass htta he had been savoring as he studied his sheet of music, changing notes here and there. He stood when he saw the fearing mask that she wore.
"What is it, Margareite?" he asked, approaching the shore-line of the lake.
"Raoul DeChangey," she said, her voice sparking an cold fire in his gut. "He's here. He thinks you still have Christine. I tried to make him leave but.." her voice failed due to her short breath. Erik shook his head.
"No," he said. "It is fine. You did the best thing." He had to deal with this himself. Something was desperately wrong if Raoul thought he still had Christine. Last he knew of, Christine had returned to her fiancé. A cold voice whispered of his dream a week ago, but he showed it to the back of his mind.