A/N: I am more sorry than I can ever say. I promised this chapter would come a lot faster than it did. Suffice it to say, final lair has been as much a nightmare to me as to the characters involved. It took me one week just to write three paragraphs, arrgh. That said, it's done, and I feel as if I've just given birth to something way beyond my original aspirations. Also, I have uploaded a revised version of chapter 1. Nothing plot-wise has changed but hopefully the writing quality is better.
Many thanks to Narsil for kindly beta-reading the chapter. Although she insists she did nothing, she managed to ease my natural hyper-paranoia when it comes to my own work. Thanks, dear. :)
Disclaimer: One line in this chapter is taken from an amazing Harry Potter fic on this site called "Summon the Lambs to Slaughter", I highly recommend it.
Chapter 12Twisted Every Way: Counterpoint II
One foot in front of the other…through darkness, over tripwires. Clarice had picked the shortest path to the fifth cellar that she knew, which also happened to be one of the most heavily booby-trapped.
She forced her feet to slow and wrestled her impatience into submission. It wouldn't do to make a mistake. Not now…
The image of Raoul's garroted body, his dead eyes staring from a mask of terror, flashed before her vision with disturbing frequency. He stood no chance against the Phantom. Like Buquet and Piangi had stood no chance.
And yet…a distant memory was returning: Buquet impersonating the Phantom on that morning when she had seen the dark creature for the first time. Buquet demonstrating how to escape the noose – his hand upthrust between his neck and the rope. Yes, that was it.
Clarice lifted her lantern higher, until it was hovering right before her face at the level of her eyes. She proceeded even more cautiously, starting at every flickering shadow.
The boy never even had a chance.
It was rather disappointing, really, but the look in his eyes when the rope hung taut in midair delighted Erik far more than a fair fight would have. He heard Christine scream and watched impassively as she rushed towards him, hesitated and then ran to the boy to tug vainly at the deadly noose.
The scene looked like a well-choreographed dance. If the dancers' shoes had been replaced with skates and the dance floor with the thawing surface of a frozen lake. Erik felt the ice shudder beneath his feet and laughed.
"It seems as if you are the only guest, dear monsieur. Still, no matter." He stretched languidly and Christine flinched as if she expected him to pounce. "I could ask for no better witness to the ceremony. After all, you were more than willing to send her to me." He smiled without humor. "Shall I reject such a gift? Especially one given with such honorable intentions?"
Sweat was beginning to pour from the vicomte's face from the effort of standing upon his toes to prevent strangulation. But the hatred was clearly visible in his flashing eyes.
"Monster…I was not the one who threw fire in the direction of the woman I supposedly loved—"
Erik rounded upon him, seizing the boy's hair in one hand and jerking his head up roughly. "Never speak to me like that, monsieur… Raoul, if I may." He hissed angrily. "You are the last person to accuse someone else of acting in 'bad faith'. Tell me, what possessed you to entrust her life to a man like that? I, at least, never fail to hurt those I intend. Pain is an art that I have mastered, while you still know nothing of the love you claim to possess. Shall I demonstrate?"
He let go of Raoul and inclined the palm of his hand upward. Immediately, the noose rose higher into the air. The unfortunate man strained to stand up taller, gasping and choking.
"Leave him alone!" Christine rushed forward, finally daring to touch him, she tugged vainly at his arm. "Please…stop. Please, I'll do anything…"
He turned around so quickly that she jumped back, startled. His voice was deathly quiet. "More lies, Christine? More tricks?"
"No." Her hands grasped at his coat sleeve again, like a drowning person clutching at a tattered sail. "No…please, I promise, I promise…"
Erik laughed. "Very well then, Christine. We shall see how good your word is." He advanced on her until she was forced to take a step back, the back of her leg bumping into a couch. "Stay…stay with me forever. Refuse…and you send your lover to his death."
He saw her eyes, frozen in disbelief, before the dawning realization crept over her face like a cancerous mass. She swayed, gripping the edge of the couch for support, free hand rising to cover her face, and he knew that his strange passion play had come to an end at last and that it would destroy them all.
It was finished. Christine would choose what she must, and the boy would die before this night was over. With maddened glee he entertained the thought of the tears spilling down her cheeks when she saw her beloved dead. She had such skill for crying. He didn't bother to think of what would happen afterwards or what he would do. It was her fault, after all, and she must pay the price.
The tears were already starting to appear. Yes, there they were – sparkling hot diamonds falling from the eyes of his fallen angel – her radiance flickering like a morning star sinking into the prison of his dark mind.
He watched without emotion as her shoulders began to shake, her mouth moving in a helpless curse.
"I…hate you." The words were soft but confident. Christine's head came up and she stamped her foot like a child. "I hate you!" she shrieked. She whirled around without waiting to see his reaction, covering her face with her hands. Tears leaked through her fingers as she crumbled like a paper doll whose edges had been burnt. "I hate you…" she whimpered, sitting down heavily upon the carpeted stone.
A sudden movement in the darkness. Clarice whirled, her hand up in front of her face, in time to see the naked gray tail of a rat moving out from the glow of the lantern to vanish into the blackness.
Taking a deep breath, she chided herself for panicking so easily. She was out of practice already.
The reality of what she was doing hit her then and her body froze. She was descending into darkness to confront a phantasm who had strangled a man onstage in less than half a minute, in complete silence. A pair of cold-blooded amber eyes flashed before her and she shook her head fiercely. She shifted her leg and calmed as she felt the familiar weight on her thigh.
Clarice turned, lifting the lantern. Before her, where there had once been a path, she now saw a blank gray wall.
It hit him like a wave, rolling over him, wrenching his feet out from under him and spitting him out only after he had lost all sense of direction.
It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. It was inevitable in the end that she would despise him. His master – burning, seething madness flowing through his veins like sweet morphine – commanded it. And like his precious toxin, its intoxication didn't last very long.
He could feel its cool embrace pulling away and he cried out to it, reaching out beseechingly. He opened his eyes to see Christine standing protectively before the boy, toward whom he was extending a trembling, skeletal hand.
He recoiled, his fingers curling into his fist. He looked into Christine's terrified, indignant eyes. Let me in, child. I will not harm thee. I carry only death in my arms. His lips twisted into a grimace and, feeling rather like he was beating his head against an unyielding wall, resigned himself to his fate.
Too late, too late now, and no way to go but forward.
Intent on continuing forward in the direction that she told herself had to be unobstructed, Clarice pounded upon the wall with her fist. The wall had not been there two seconds ago. It stood to reason that it should not be there now. This was no maze of mirrors. The path was known to her. She had trod it countless times in the past. She must take the same path now, if she even dared to still hope to save them.
She saw Raoul's horrorstruck eyes, realizing how he had almost killed his love, Christine closing her eyes against the cruel world, the dark Phantom menacing with his voice while cringing from her touch…
She heard her angry scream echo through the narrow space like a gunshot, and as she continued to beat upon the unyielding wall, she felt dampness on her cheeks and recognized them as tears.
In some cold, isolated portion of her mind, Christine could hear the sounds of Raoul's pleading, the distant shouts of an angry mob, maybe even her own sobs wracking her slight frame. Yet this assault on her auditory sense paled in comparison to the sight before her eyes.
Wearing the mask all his life had conditioned the Phantom to the knowledge that his facial expressions always remained concealed from ignorant eyes. And now with this protection gone, the stark emotion upon his visage overwhelmed her.
Fear! She recognized it now despite never having seen it before. Beneath the twisted scowl, the molten eyes, and the ragged lump of flesh that passed for a nose was a terrible emptiness deep within his skull. As she watched, her Angel shuddered violently and seemed to shrink within his own body. He turned away from her.
"Make your choice!" he snarled.
She looked and a layer of something seemed to fall away from him and shatter. Christine felt the shards pierce her heart and then she saw the man before her, the trembling grief-stricken man, his face turned away from her eyes.
Something stirred within her and came to life, battering the walls of her chest in a flurry of wings. Clinging to the arm of the sofa for support, she drew herself to her feet, standing up entirely only when she trusted the strength of her limbs.
Clarice forced her bruised fists away from the wall and ran, blindly, in the opposite direction. She would find her way again, this all had to make sense…somehow.
She stopped suddenly when she saw a section of rock jutting out from the wall at a familiar angle. Breathing a sigh of relief, she continued deeper into the labyrinth.
Erik could hear the sounds of Raoul struggling with the noose in the background and felt a sudden flash of pity for him. The unfortunate man never meant for this to happen. Much like he himself had never intended for any of—this—to occur. He smiled grimly, the road to hell, monsieur, the road to hell…
He could hear Christine's sobs behind him and allowed himself the smallest burden of regret. He could not blame her in the end. The pulsating sensation behind his eyes every time he drew near her was not, and could never be, hatred.
He felt himself slipping, and the blackness over the edge smiled a terrible smile as it opened its gaping mouth to welcome him.
He should have never risked opening his soul to her, never desired more than to admire her from the safety of darkness, never desired her touch like a normal man…He heard her moving behind him and half-turned to face their inevitable fate.
And then her lips had closed over his, her hands pressing against his sunken cheeks. Warmth radiated from her touch onto his death-cold skin and Erik nearly gasped with pain. And then he could think no more.
The path turned upon itself and Clarice stopped before a dead end. She turned around slowly, lifting the lantern, searching for any indication of where she was, refusing to acknowledge what her heart already knew.
She was utterly lost.
Her world had turned upon its axis and she gasped as the blood rushed to her head, dizzying and intoxicating. She felt something fluttering inside her like a caged bird, colliding against the walls of her chest in its effort to escape.
Erik's twisted lips trembled upon hers and her mind was overwhelmed by the taste of him. There were cobwebs, clinging to dark corners like ghostly shadows of memories. She savored the flavor of his genius, cool and fierce at the same time like dark, rich wine. She tasted the thousand tears shed for his dark fate – like fireflies descending into a yawning cave mouth –she felt them swell from inside his heart. And everywhere, everywhere was the coppery, greasy taste of despair.
The bile rose in her throat at the thought of the anguish slowly killing her Angel and tears fell from her own eyes as she pressed her lips more firmly against his.
Retracing her footsteps proved no easy feat. Every gray wall, every identical stone mocked her with their presence until she finally closed her eyes, abandoning her trust in sight. She let her feet guide her in a direction she knew was forward. She walked towards what her mind screamed at her was nothing but a wall and she kept walking.
His hands were trembling, his arms hovering by her sides, fingers curling around empty air. He had no idea what to do with them. He didn't dare to touch her. He thought only that he had fooled his angel into believing that she loved him, and the self-disgust rose in his soul to overwhelm his mind.
But then her lips that had touched his with trembling trepidation had turned warm and demanding against his mouth and he felt himself drowning in her touch. He hung upon each passing second, committing it to memory. Because he knew then what he had to do.
She was his now. All his plotting, his sins, his selfish desires had done nothing in the end. They had fallen like a house of cards at her touch.
He had her love in the palm of his hand, and he realized now the terrible price he must pay. Having tasted the fruit of Eden he was banished from paradise forevermore.
Take your revenge, dear, merciful God. I must commend you…you are crueler than my master ever was…
She pulled away from him and the look in her eyes nearly undid him. The stunned revelation and the longing as she reached for him again. But he placed a finger against her lips, begging her to stop, to stop this before he lost his resolve and destroyed them both.
He staggered back from her, feeling as if something essential had drained from his body. Across the room, he saw a young man hanging from a rope by his neck and he idly wondered how that had happened. A flaming candle made short work of the rope, and the man collapsed upon the floor, gasping and choking. He saw Christine run over to him and wrap her arms around his shaking body. He must have been somebody important to her.
Insane with grief, he turned away. "Go…go now. Leave me!" He turned back, saw them still there and something snapped inside him. "GET OUT OF HERE! Leave me!" he screamed as he heard glass shattering beneath his hands, dimly feeling the pain as unseen shards bit into his flesh.
He ran at them, waving his arms and shouting like a child having a temper tantrum, and then they were gone and the world whirled before his eyes.
Get out of my house…I don't want you here anymore, you demon child – Erik staggered back across the empty room, pressing his fingers against his lips – all fire burns, little one, you'll learn –He whimpered and a low keening wail escaped his throat. He sat down heavily upon the carpeted stone floor and when he opened his eyes again he saw the bulbous beady eyes of the Persian monkey staring back at him.
Reaching toward the music box he took one of the brown-furred hands between finger and thumb and laughed carelessly, using the other hand to cover its features.
"Come…you and I…and let us go to the masquerade. No one will ever know…"
His hands dropped and his head dipped until it rested in his palms. Then and only then did he allow himself to weep.
Clarice opened her eyes and found herself upon a path that dipped to the right at a familiar angle. Breathing a sigh of relief, she felt her way along it, recalling the recognizable feel of the uneven stones against her feet.
He was pushing her away, his skeletal fingers that had come alive with warmth, touching her sides with the faintest caress that throbbed with restrained passion, were cold as ice. They pushed away her hands that clutched at the lapels of his coat. She could see his mouth moving, he was screaming something at her, she couldn't hear. She couldn't feel Raoul's hand that grasped hers. Her Angel, her teacher, her – she didn't know what anymore! – pushed her away.
She had given him her soul in that instant, she could never have given anything greater and he did not want what she had – she realized now – freely, given.
Bit by bit, her vision cleared to reveal her dark angel, his hands clenching into trembling fists, an expression upon his face she could not understand. With an animal scream, he brought his fists crashing into the glass face of a bookshelf, the closest thing in his lair to a mirror that he could find. She saw the blood run down his hands, heard his choking, pained sob, and she did the only thing she could have done.
She ran…
For minutes, hours, lifetimes, she didn't know…as Raoul led her, tripping and stumbling, through dark hallways that felt utterly foreign to her.
The feel of his twisted, trembling lips on hers…the look in his eyes as she pulled away, the sight blurred by her own tears…she stumbled upon an invisible fault on the path, and Raoul looked back, his eyes pleading…they were not safe, not yet…
A hand materialized out of the darkness and she shrieked as it descended upon her arm.
"Christine!" Clarice shook the terrified woman none too gently, taking in her tears and Raoul's unharmed appearance with disbelief. "What happened? Christine!" The young woman wilted in her grasp, sobbing with renewed fervor. Clarice supported her with her other arm to keep her from falling to the floor. "Raoul?" she asked, looking into his grim face.
The young man relieved her of her burden and cradled Christine's trembling form in his arms. "He let us go." His voice was measured and hushed, as if he did not believe them himself. "She promised herself to him, and…he let us go."
Clarice stepped back a pace, her mind helplessly attempting to comprehend the torrent of emotions festering within the two people standing before her. Her lips felt unnaturally dry as she opened her mouth. The words died in her throat. There was nothing she could have said.
"Raoul," she managed at last in a strangled tone. "Go. Go quickly. There is a mob coming into the cellars, you mustn't let them find you."
Christine stirred, lifting her head at her words. Her eyes were shining with tears even as they filled with fear. "Madam, they mustn't find him. Cassandra, please…they'll kill him…"
Clarice stared hard at her and then turned to Raoul. "Take her away from here." And then she pushed past them, running down the dark hallway as Christine's sobs echoed around her like the sound of breaking glass.
She had killed him, oh God she had killed him…Raoul's hand pulled her forward and she resisted, panicking from the thought.
Raoul's voice reached her ears faintly, as if echoing across a wide chasm. "Christine…listen to me. They'll never find him, Cassandra will see to that. He let you go to ensure your safety, don't let his sacrifice go to waste."
She looked up, color beginning to creep back into her cheeks and she considered his words. Her resolve faltered underneath his concerned gaze, and she hesitated only briefly before nodding.
Fumbling for a handkerchief in her dress, Christine brought her hand to her tear-streaked face. She stopped as she saw the gleam of gold upon her thumb. The Phantom's ring. Surely she could not keep it. But to go back…
Christine removed the golden ring from her finger and put it safely out of sight in her dress pocket, wrapped up in her tear-soaked handkerchief. Then, grabbing Raoul's hand, she ran once more, up and up…back to the surface.
The cellars below the Opera Garnier were privy to a musical performance never before heard in its short life. The murmuring grumble of an approaching mob saturated with bloodlust provided a steady bass line to the discordant melody of shattered, broken sobs. The dark hallways held their breath – all was silence but for the steady drip-drip of water – in contemplation of this strange new music.
With a growl, the murky labyrinth expressed its disappointment over the performance. The sound of the mob swelled and the sounds of despair were deafened by its approach.
Clarice could hear it all as she furiously poled across the lake in the abandoned boat, her lack of skill apparent in the crooked path the craft cut across the dark waters. The lead she had gained from her knowledge of the cellars would not last long; she heard the mob descending ever closer. The boat ran aground into the dock far sooner then she had dared to hope. She leapt onto land and ran towards the door that lay open in the rock wall.
She stopped dead at the scene of utter devastation that met her eyes. Candelabras lay fallen on the floor and broken black candles were strewn across the carpet. The shattered glass face of a bookshelf could be seen in the corner, crimson droplets of blood still clinging to the jagged shards. The only thing that looked relatively undisturbed was the great black piano and some stacks of parchment with music written on them in red ink. Almost mechanically, Clarice grabbed a handful of the loose leaves, knowing already that the composer was long gone.
She nearly jumped out of her skin as a few tinny notes played from a music box on the floor. Moving closer, she saw that it was shaped like a monkey dressed in strange robes holding a pair of cymbals in its hands. As she turned away, something white glistened upon the piano bench.
She picked up the porcelain half-mask in her hand; it was cool to her touch. Feeling suddenly nervous, she held the mask close to her chest, glancing around the empty room, looking for moving shadows.
The music box played one last distorted note before falling silent.
Slowly, thoughts began to move through her sluggish brain. The Phantom would never dare appear in public without his mask. He was still here…somewhere in the labyrinth.
Clarice's mind was made up before she even began to consider her options.
However…first things first. Choosing a likely door, she strode through it, finding herself in what could only be the Phantom's bedroom. She glanced briefly at the "Dies Irae" scrawled across the black tapestries, her eyes skimming over the magnificent organ and the open coffin standing in the middle of room before she turned away to throw open the doors of the wardrobe.
Christine's tear-streaked face flashed before her eyes as she stripped out of her dress, exchanging her finery for the first shirt and pair of pants she found.
That fool! Air rushed into her lungs as she unfastened her corset before tossing it aside. The black pants permitted full range of motion but were hopelessly long. She rolled up the legs and tied them firmly before tucking the music sheets into the waistband. That idiotic, noble…fool!
The golden casings of six bullets clattered to the carpeted floor as they spilled out from the bodice of the discarded dress.
She slipped the mask inside the voluminous shirtfront.
After rowing back across the lake, she stepped out of the boat onto shore. With a mighty shove, she pushed the craft away into the middle of lake and watched until it disappeared from sight.
Then and only then, for the first time since she had come to Paris, Clarice Starling released the pistol strapped to her thigh and held it firmly with both hands. Her palms tingled from the feel of the familiar weapon, her breaths shallow with anticipation.
She had abandoned the Agency after they had abandoned her, but one thing they taught her she would never forget: the thrill of the chase. She paused to lift one hand from the pistol to grasp the lantern. Slipping into a side passageway with an assured gait, she moved ever deeper into the twisted labyrinth of the underground kingdom, seeking its master.
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THE END
Just kidding. ;)
No, I am not quite as cruel as Andrew Lloyd Webber. No…this story is far from over.
A/N: To Siyrean and Narsil, Hannibal is still sulking in his study and will be back either in the next chapter or the one after that. Depending on what sort of reaction Erik has on finding a woman with a gun prowling through his cellars. Mwhaha, encounter time. Time to refresh your memory of that betting pool. ;)