A/N: I think I should really stop putting deadlines on myself... they're never correct anyways! LOL. Sorry this chapter took so long, guys; real life reared its ugly head and demanded mountains of homework from me. Luckily, I'm now on spring break, so the chapters should be coming about once every other day. -clamps hand over mouth- So much for not setting deadlines for myself... lol!
Disclaimer: Ummm... wow, I really don't know how to tell this to you. -takes a deep breath- See, here's the thing: Erik and Raoul are the property of me and my secret evil twin sister, Noelle. You can't have them. I know this is kinda difficult to hear, but Noelle and I have joint custody over them. I called Fridays, she gets Saturdays (oh wait, is itSunday now?). Anyway. Never fearforour beloved Phantom andVicomte; they enjoy their evenings of Greek pizza and Scrabble, and they've stopped with thehomicide attempts. -winks-
César gave a startled toss of his head and an inquisitive whinny as I burst into his makeshift stall. A piece of hay still clung to his lower lip, and I brushed it away with a deep sigh, moving to stand in front of him.
"Easy, boy," I murmured, bringing a hand up to stroke the tender spot between his ears. His eyelids drooped contentedly, and he blew out his breath, dropping his head to resume his supper. I merely stood there for a moment, my eyes closed, strangely comforted by the gentle munching sound. My hand moved absently over his soft, glossy coat as a thousand thoughts and emotions and memories played through my mind. The muscles around my heart convulsed at the unbidden image of the love-struck vicomte and my frightened student; I shuddered involuntarily, shaking my head to rid myself of the thought. My stinging eyes focused on the magnificent creature which ate contentedly before me. A bitter smile twisted my lips as I patted his neck. "Eat up, old friend. It will be a long night for the both of us."
It was with reluctance that I left César's warm, strangely comforting stall, walking the dark, empty tunnels in solitude once again. My steps were quick and light on the damp stone floor; I had finally managed to gain control of my bodily functions, but it took every last fiber of will power not to sprint down to my lair and back up to my horse's side. I worked stealthily in the dark, if only because I longed desperately to escape it for the first time in my life. Loneliness and betrayal clung to me like shadows, but an inhuman pull and pang within me insisted that I stay close to the source of my agony. I could not abandon Christine after all this time; she needed her angel now more than ever, with the haughty vicomte attempting to rip her from all she knew and loved. She was confused and frightened, but her angel would follow and comfort and forgive her, waiting with open, expectant arms for her return.
I packed a single burlap saddle bag with a change of clothes, a velvet coin bag filled with francs, a wedge of aged cheese, a quill and ink, a slab of red wax, my signature skeletal seal, and paper. My mind played over the night's journey, the possible destinations… it would not be difficult to track Christine and her precious vicomte; Raoul would not be so foolish as to tell anyone where he was taking the young soprano, but if Christine's confessions to Madame Giry were true, the boy did not believe that I would follow them beyond the Opera walls. Christine, however, knew better; she would do whatever she could to try and throw me off course. I swore to myself as I half-ran back to César's stall that no matter what, I would follow and find Christine, and see to it that she returned to the Opera Populaire immediately. This business with the vicomte was merely a test to the strength of our relationship, I convinced myself, and if the boy attempted to get in the way of her career again… well…
A smirk worked its way across my face as I lifted César's tack from its trunk beside his stall.
If, indeed, the arrogant Vicomte de Chagny continued to try my patience and make futile attempts to deter Christine from her lessons or the Opera staff from obeying my commands, it would be my unfortunate duty to unfurl the infamous Punjab lasso once more. It would pain me to see Christine suffer the loss of a childhood friend, so I hoped for her sake that he would begin to pay heed to my instructions. My tolerance wore thin.
César's ears pricked excitedly at the sight of his tack, and he pawed the stone floor impatiently as I entered his stall. I smiled. "That makes two of us, old boy." I heaved the laden saddle onto his back, cinched it tight, and slipped the bit into his mouth. As I adjusted the throat strap on his bridle, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristled, and I whirled around to look Madame Giry square in the eyes.
"I told you never to-" I growled.
"They're going to Perros," she interrupted quickly, her features twisted in remorse. My fists unclenched slightly as I looked deeply into her eyes. We were silent for a moment.
"Why are you telling me this?"
She hesitated, breaking eye contact to stare at her hands. "I…I don't know." My brows knitted as a film of tears gathered in her eyes. "I worry for her, Erik. She is so young, and the vicomte… the vicomte is only a boy himself." Her eyes flashed up to mine. "Do not harm him, Erik. Bring Christine back, but do not harm that boy."
My eyes narrowed. "You are not in a position to tell me what I should and should not do, Madame." I turned back to my horse, but my conscience would not let me be. I sighed heavily. "Thank you," I said without turning to face her. Her hair rustled slightly as she nodded, and after a moment of hesitation, she turned and walked back into the enveloping darkness. When her distinct footsteps dissolved into silence, I sighed again, pressing my forehead against César's face. He, too, sighed deeply, and I couldn't help but laugh at the timing. Perhaps animals understood more of human emotions than I gave them credit for. Or perhaps I was simply a lonely, deformed, heartbroken wretch who had stooped to the level of commiserating with horses, as no human could possibly understand me. That, too, was a possibility.
I patted the stallion's sleek, muscular neck, pulling the reins over his head. "Perros," I echoed under my breath with a shake of my head. The little coastal town was over three hundred miles from Paris; I could not make the trip on horseback alone. I would ride to Gare Montparnasse, catch the first westbound train, and be there by the next afternoon. With a tiny nod to myself, I leapt aboard my horse, settled myself in the saddle, checked my bags one last time, and kicked my heels gently into his side. César tossed his head and broke into a steady canter; we exited out of Rue Scribe and clattered off into the sleepless city, sticking as much to abandoned alleys and lampless streets as possible. I did not fear Paris' vile nightlife, for who could have been more terrifying than the Opera Ghost himself, and an angered Opera Ghost at that? Fortunately for my hypothetical adversaries, I met no bandits, gang members, or drunken Bohemians (I always despised them) along the road, and reached the train station in the better portion of an hour.
The groom at the station's stable eyed my mask and black garb suspiciously as I rode up, glancing with narrowed eyes from me to my sweating, panting horse. "Will you be needing to board the beast overnight, sir?" he inquired as I dismounted in a single, fluid movement. I glared icily at him for the crude reference to my equine friend before turning to dig into my saddle bag. A moment later I produced a ridiculously large sum of cash and dumped it into the incredulous stable boy's hands.
"That should be enough to board César for the week, I take it." It was not a question. I turned to my horse, patting him with one hand as I unlatched my sack with the other. The stable boy, meanwhile, could do nothing but stare at the money, open-mouthed. I rolled my eyes, shoving César's reins into the groom's hand. "I may return as soon as a fortnight, but be prepared to board him longer if necessary. He needs to be fed twice daily, exercised, groomed, and provided with fresh water. His well-being is now your responsibility. Do you understand?" The boy made a small squeaking sound in the back of his throat, his head bobbing vigorously in agreement. I sighed, patted César's steaming neck one last time, and swept off toward the ticket counter.
The queue was reasonably short for that time of night, but I shrank back within my hood to be safe, carefully avoiding eye contact with any of the other customers while I waited. A small child lay sleeping on the broad shoulder of the man ahead of me, and I studied her tiny, delicate features as the line slowly inched forward. A halo of soft brown curls accented her smooth, pale forehead, chubby cheeks, small pink lips and large eyes with curled brown lashes. The tension in my drumming chest softened a bit in the wake of this small beauty; she reminded me vividly of a young Christine. A tender smile tugged at my lips as I watched her sleep; my heart flooded with peaceful memories of candlelit sonatas, of a dark chapel made warm and comforting by my little Christine's sweet voice.
Lost in those precious memories, I did not notice the man and child depart, and was startled from my reverie with an embarrassing jolt.
"You, Monsieur! Are you going to stand there all night, or do you wish to make a purchase?" the aggravated ticket vendor demanded, tapping his fingers against the countertop impatiently. I blushed severely at the unwanted attention, clearing my throat to rid myself of the lump which seemed to have taken up a permanent residence there. In two long strides I was at the counter, my back turned on the dozens of eyes which now stared at me curiously.
"I need a first class ticket on the next westbound train," I told the vendor quietly, pulling the money pouch from my cloak. "My own car, if it's possible."
The vendor's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Monsieur, anything is possible, but I'm afraid to rent your own compartment, the price would be—"
I dumped the contents of the pouch onto the counter, and the vendor's eyes bulged greedily, darting from the money to me and back again. "Ah… yes, well, ahem—" He shook his head slightly in disbelief, swiping the money quickly off of the counter. "I think I might be able to arrange it for you, Monsieur." He opened a drawer, produced a sheet of paper, and began to scribble something on it. When he was finished, he tucked his quill away and handed the paper to me with a grin. "Excellent doing business with you, good Monsieur. Just hand this to the conductor, and he will show you to your room." I nodded curtly, tucked the note into my pocket with the empty coin purse and the ticket he handed me, and strode briskly toward the platform, avoiding the burning eyes of those still in line.
It was not difficult to spot the conductor, who was clad in a crisp navy uniform and matching cap. I waited for him to finish directing an elderly woman to her proper compartment before tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He turned to me smoothly, offering a polite smile. His eyes, however, betrayed him; they flickered to my mask and narrowed almost imperceptibly before I pressed the note into his hand. The conductor read the scrawl quietly for a moment, glanced at me suspiciously, read some more, and then shrugged with a furrowed brow.
"Compartment A12, Monsieur, six cars down." He gestured down the platform, handing the note back to me. "Our best sleeping car, might I add. I trust you will have a pleasant stay." I dipped my head and hurried quickly down to the designated car. Another boy, also wearing navy blue, asked to see my note, and with a nod from the watchful conductor, produced a ring of keys and unlocked the door.
The car was spacious, and luxuriously decorated with velvet drapes and silken sheets on the queen sized bed, all of a deep crimson color. A small closet-like space stood in the opposite corner, and as the boy left with a polite nod and the click of the key in the lock, I removed my cloak with a sigh and hung it on one of the provided hangers.
"All aboard!" the conductor called as the engines began to sputter and whir and grind beneath the floorboards. I collapsed onto my bed with a deep exhale, rubbing my hand over my exposed face. The down mattress was remarkably soft against my tense, sore muscles, and my eyes suddenly burned under the nearly unbearable burden of my eyelids. It occurred to me that I hadn't slept in over twenty four hours, but the image of Christine and the vicomte lingered on the skirts of my consciousness, threatening nightmares should I dare to fall prey to the temptation of sleep. I shook my head, rising to a sitting position with a loud groan. I needed something to do… something to keep my mind occupied.
A polished maple nightstand was bolted to the floor beside my bed, and the top drawer was open a crack. Curious, I opened it fully, just as the train departed the platform with a lurch. A heavy, leather-bound novel thudded to the front of the drawer, and I lifted it delicately, eyeing the embossed title.
"The Collective Works of Edgar Allan Poe," I read aloud, an eyebrow cocked in vague interest. I decided that poring over a book of prose and poetry was better than musing on Christine's betrayal, and settled onto the comfortable bed with the book laid out across my lap. The yellowed pages were extremely fragile, the ink blotched and smeared in some places, but I found myself drawn into the mesmerizing words of the grim poet, overlooking the faults of the antique collection. One story in particular caught my eye… after poring over The Raven for quite some time, my gaze caught on the smudged title at the top of the next page: The Masque of the Red Death. Yes, this Poe fellow was indeed a morose, troubled man… yet somehow, the more I read of his work, the more I found myself empathizing and associating with him. I was enthralled by his description of the dauntless, arrogant Prince of Prospero; the character seemed to fit the exact description of the haughty Vicomte de Chagny himself, and my eyes flashed in diabolical amusement at the story of his demise and the destruction of Poe's world of the elite, so very similar to the one I loathed.
My heart thrilled at the description of the Red Death himself; I brought my face within centimeters of the pages, my eyes dancing excitedly over the black scrawl.
"In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince's indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revelers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in bloodand his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror."
I shuddered in delight, goose bumps running up the length of my limbs. I brought my knees to my chest to better support the heavy volume, my fingers trembling in anticipation as I flipped to the final page…
"It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cryand the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpse-like mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form."
I laughed aloud, a maniacal sound that echoed across the small compartment. I could not suppress the grin which had seized my features; perhaps I could learn something from this Poe fellow… perhaps a poet, of all people, had offered me the answer to all of my troubles.
I closed the thick volume reverently, placing it back in the stand and closing the top drawer securely. With a content sigh, I laid back on the bed, my hands clasped behind my head. Thoroughly amusing images flashed through my mind: of the pale, aghast managers, of Raoul with a dagger through his breast, of shrieking, horrified members of the Parisian aristocracy… it was too good a plan to pass up.
Despite the adrenaline coursing steadily through my veins, my eyelids began to grow heavy again, and a yawn worked its way up from the depths of my powerful lungs. With a lazy swipe of my hand, I removed my mask and wig and tossed them haphazardly onto the bedside stand. The velvet curtains were shut, the door to my compartment locked, and I felt no need to worry about intruders. With a deep, relaxing breath, I pulled the covers out from underneath me and nestled into their comforting warmth.
One final image worked its way to the surface of my mind before I gave in to the overwhelming enticement of sleep: Christine, dressed as Aminta, gazing up at me with passion and desire in her smoldering brown eyes… the sole survivor of the epidemic of the Red Death. A song poured forth from her red lips as she advanced towards me:
When will the blood begin to race?
The sleeping bud burst into bloom?
When will the flames, at last, consume us?
I fell asleep smiling that night.
A/N: Meeeeh... not my best, I must admit. This last bit felt rushed to me... maybe because it was! I wanted to get this chapter up as soon as possible, and I thank you all for your patience.
Opal Phantom: Yes, alright, I admit it: it's fun to tease Raoul (but he's still a cutie!). Wow, you have the same method of therapy as me! Mine, though, involves an additional cup of coffee, just for good measure. -winks- Yes, too many authors forget the wig; it bugs me. There's even a scene in the movie in which we see him putting on his wig, so it's kind of ridiculous that this fact is ignored so much.
Strange Girl: LOL, that's okay! Thank you for not being discouraged; every review is precious to me. Isn't angst great? More to come, I promise! Lots and lots of it! I'm glad you got over the dreaded writer's block, but I'm sure it had absolutely nothing to do with me. -winks-
Green Girl 13: Aww, thank you:) Don't cry; here, all better! -offers cookies-
Orphelia-Rose: I know, I don't like to see him suffer either. -pouts- I tried to lighten the mood a smidgeon in this chapter, because unfortunately it's only going to get worse for our poor Erik from now on. I'm glad the imagery is working; I always worry that I'm not being descriptive enough, or worse, I'm being TOO descriptive, so it's nice to hear that I'm at least doing a decent job.
sakume: Hi there! Whew! Glad to see you got away from the bomb unscathed. -winks- I'm sorry this update took so long; I'll be much faster with the next few, I promise! Have a cookie while you wait!
joanieponytail: OMG... I adore you. -breaks own newbie rule and gives you cyber hugs and cookies- You put me over the 100th review; thank you SO much! Aah! You made up for lost time; you definitely win the title of "Most Enthusiastic and BelovedNew Reviewer"! It's CERTAINLY not as good as the movie, but I must admit, you had me blushing profusely at that comment. Tee hee! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! -huge grin-