Author's Notes: So, not as late as I feared. It doesn't flow perfectly, but this is just pretty much a building chapter. I haven't written the next one yet, so I'm not sure how long it will take me, but I'll aim for next weekend. So, hang in there and I'll put everything back together!

Chapter 10 – The Play Begun

Erik sighed as he pulled his cloak around his shoulders. The days were surely getting warmer, but he knew that as he traveled farther northeast winter would reign a little longer. The fair waited a night's ride away, already waiting to move on into Belgium. He had spent the better part of a week in Luxembourg, instructing the handful of performances of Don Juan Triumphant at the capitol's opera house. It wasn't much compared to his Paris Grand Opera, but it was still a house of music.

He was loathing the return to the fair, though. Therese and Claude had been unbelievably kind to him, more than he had thought still existed for him in the world. They treated him like an equal, like the mask he wore wasn't separating them anymore than a normal person's independence would. But he couldn't stand passing Mariana. The sight of her, the ring of her bangles, the mere mention of her name, sent a shiver of tension through him.

The woman was a Gypsy.

She was the only one at the fair, her and a trio of men that trailed her like vicious hounds on a leash tied to her wrist. She acted as a treasurer, her men guards over the cash box, and every once in a while danced to keep the men at the fair entertained. Her dark eyes were cunning, her red lips always pursed in a controlled, brooding smile. Whenever she looked at him, he could see the wheels turning ominously in her mind.

It made him want to throw himself against a cage door, forcing it open before it could lock him inside.

His hand brushed the black mask he wore in frustration, turning from future problems to more recent ones. He had told the girl not to. Apparently his unease and lack of trust towards most of humanity was not unsoundly based. The chorus girl he had chosen to sing Aminta's part was nothing compared to Danielle. The part was nothing unless it was played by her, now. But the girl had been able to sing, and she was quite pretty. At the first three performances he had stayed her hand in the end, stopped her from taking off the mask. But last night…He hadn't been fast enough. The girl's curiosity had overcome her, the need to see the face that sang to her so alluringly…

But he hadn't been singing to her. Erik had sung for Danielle, to Danielle, and oh, how he wished, with her. That was why Giselle had managed to take it off. The poor girl had been so frightened she hadn't even cried out, only backed away until she fell into the arms of her friend. Erik had been gone before either girl had been able to look back up.

That one stupid girl could have ruined everything for Erik that early morning as he stalked down the road with growing frustration. The old hatred that he had tamped down and put out was beginning to smolder, and it would have burst into indelible flame if he hadn't looked up and seen her.

She stood on the steps of the opera house, looking up at it thoughtfully, studying it in comparison to the Paris Grande the same way he had. He could even see Danielle pick out the same differences, the masonry, the style, the difference in the grand doors and the façade. She turned her head to glance down the street where Erik stood frozen, drinking her in with his eyes.

A part of him had feared that he would never see her again, never have a chance to clutch her to him, hold her close where she belonged, where he could feel her sweet gentle breath on his cheek, the feel of her silky hair against his palm…He longed for it so deeply that he could practically see her stretching out her slender hand as if she was only waiting for him to come. He took a step forward, her name gathering itself sweetly on his tongue…

And that was when he saw the flash of blue behind her. Standing disarmingly at an intersection was a boy with a shock of blonde hair that would have fit in anywhere in Europe if it hadn't been for the blue uniform he wore. He looked inconspicuously around the street, but Erik could see the way he scrutinized Danielle and her surroundings. The woman herself seemed vaguely conscious of him, if not completely aware, her back tensing when his gaze fell on her. It took Erik a long moment to feel himself falling, realize that the boy was the same from the cellars. His breath caught in a venomous hiss as he drew back into the shadows.

He had followed her.

Any hope Erik had had of catching her up in his arms vanished like smoke on the wind. He couldn't be caught, not when she had risked her life to let him escape, and he wasn't willing to jeopardize her. He held his breath as Danielle cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder, a momentary weariness crossing her face, passing over the boy. She watched him for a minute, the way he casually leaned on the brick wall with his back turned to her, trying to think of where she might have seen him before.

When she turned back, Erik was gone.

What are you looking for? She thought to herself. She didn't know why she felt vaguely disappointed as she looked over the shadows of Luxembourg. Her hand paused as she raised it to the carved doors, taking one last fleeting look over the city. Her knock when unheard, so she opened the door and let herself in. Her hands clasped her suitcase in front of her as she tilted her head back to take in the theater, so unused to any but her own. The house was filled with shouts and instructions, singing and rehearsing, contrasting painfully with the calm morning breaking outside.

From the stage, someone shouted at her without missing a beat. "What do you want? The performance doesn't start until seven." The familiar roar of the rehearsal died down as everyone turned to look at the stranger standing in the doorway.

"Forgive me, monsieur," she said, walking forward down the carpeted aisle. "I was wondering if I might join the production for tonight." She hefted her suitcase behind her. Someone sneered.

"We don't take in traveling bards here." The flyman looked down his nose at her rather insultingly, but another man, she guessed he was the director, suddenly shushed him.

"Ignore him, mademoiselle. We are rather busy and don't have time to take on new artists at the moment. So unless you happen to know the score for this Don Juan Triumphant, I'm afraid we don't have anything for you to do here." With a suitably apologetic smile, he turned back to the stage.

"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur." Everyone fell silent again as the director impatiently looked back at her. "I am actually familiar with the entire score. Perhaps I could be of assistance to you after all?" She allowed a fraction of the elated smile she was feeling slip onto her face. She had gone in the right direction! Maybe whatever that feeling of disappointment had been was just a figment of her imagination. She swung her bag and walked briskly down the aisle, barely able to suppress her expectation. "Who is playing Don Juan and Aminta?"

The director assessed her with a new eye, sizing her up and down. "Pierre is our Don Juan," he said, jerking his thumb at a middle aged man done up in Spanish garb with a mask in his hand. Pierre smiled at her briefly.

Danielle's hopes vanished like a ball of paper thrown into the fire. One brief, blazing moment of hope, and then all that was left was falling ash. Her smile fell.

The director didn't seem to notice as he went on. "Aminta is actually our problem. Our leading diva retired a few weeks ago, and we have yet to find a new one. And now the chorus girl that sang it before claims she can't do it again. It's really more than I ever signed up for in this job!" He trailed off muttering to himself in French. Pierre glanced back to Danielle, who was still standing rather stiffly in the middle of the aisle.

"Mademoiselle?" Danielle blinked and looked back up at him. You're still in the right direction, she said to herself. That was something Right?

"Monsieur," she called, finally reaching the stage. "Might I sing Aminta's part for tonight?" The director looked at his nerve's end with trying to pull this opera together.

"You see," he said, sighing wearily, "the first few performances, Don Juan took charge of the whole thing. Whipped it together in two days, he did. I think he was helping Giselle with her lines during the actual performance." He huffed a deep breath and shook his head before waving her up to the stage. "Well, then, let's hear you sing. I can't just take in anyone off the street on their word." Danielle dropped her bags in a seat and pulled off her coat.

"From where, monsieur?" He sighed and waved to the maestro. The mousy little man scurried through his papers for a moment before looking up at her.

"The aria, mademoiselle, in the third scene of the first act?" She nodded and took her place on the stage, shutting her eyes. She took a few deep breaths.

Tangled in the winding sheets, such night has set my soul aflame.

He whispered in my ear such words I could not say my name.

Yet he tore my heart from within my breast

And laced it with such tender words that cherished each caress.

I can no longer claim my soul my own, he haunts me so.

With her eyes shut, she could almost pretend that she was back in Paris on that night Erik had first given her the whole score. The folder it had been in had carried such a magnificent weight when he had laid it in her hands, as if the paper itself carried the hardships of its first performance. When she opened her eyes, everyone was staring at her. The director reached out a hand and shook hers.

"Pendeaut. David Pendeaut." Danielle smiled.

She had her part. She had her trail.

Pierre came and shook her hand in turn, smiling gently. Danielle turned to go down into the orchestral pit and speak with the maestro when a girl suddenly appeared before her. She was delicately built, rich strawberry blonde curls hanging around her shoulders, but her pretty green eyes were wide as if she were deathly afraid of something. She rang her hands anxiously as she stared at Danielle.

"That's how he sang," she said softly, as if she didn't want anyone else to hear. Danielle frowned at her in confusion. "That's how Don Juan sang. That's how he wanted me to sing."

"Giselle?" Danielle asked gently, realizing who the girl must be. The girl stared past her, not really seeing Danielle standing before her.

"I don't see how. How could he sing of such love, such emotion, when he was such a—"

Danielle's hands suddenly clutched the girl's shoulders, and Giselle's gaze snapped back to reality. She yelped as the woman's fingers dug into her skin with unrealized emotion, and Danielle forcefully, almost fiercely, turned the girl to face her. "What did you do?" she demanded in a cold voice. Giselle looked up at her with wide, fearful eyes.

"I…I had to know. I just had to see…"

"And you did," Danielle said in a horrified whisper. Giselle had taken off Erik's mask. She wasn't aware of how hard she was holding the girl as a cold fear washed over her. "Who saw him? Where is he?"

"I don't know," the girl stammered, whimpering against Danielle's grip. "It was dark, and only I saw him. It was after the curtain had dropped. Even Lisa didn't see him, and when we both looked up…He was just gone."

Danielle finally let go of Giselle. He was gone. He had escaped. That was a good thing, wasn't it? But that means that he escaped me, too.

"You've seen him, haven't you?" the girl's unabashed voice said. "He's horrible, isn't he? He looks like a—"

"Don't," Danielle cut in, her voice stronger than she expected. Giselle's words dropped off as Danielle raised a hand. "Don't ever speak of what you don't know, girl." Pendeaut appeared at her elbow then, shooing Giselle away. It took Danielle a long minute until she could turn and face him.

The rehearsal ran on smoothly, Danielle helping to orchestrate the whole performance from heart. In between songs, she learned that the opera had been given to Pendeaut by a strange man that arrived with a traveling fair that had left just yesterday night. He never took his mask off throughout the entire rehearsal or performance, but he sang with such a voice that no one cared. Giselle had never had such a role before, and everyone said she had only gotten through it because Don Juan was so captivating.

As night began to fall, Pendeaut approached Danielle again. She was standing in the orchestral pit with Toulin, the maestro, giving him pointers on the score. The director waited a moment and then cleared his throat. "Mademoiselle," he said, "we need a costume for you. I'm afraid that it'll be a tight squeeze if you try to fit in Giselle's dress; she's a tiny little thing. If you wouldn't mind being measured."

Danielle waved it off as she underlined a handful of measures and highlighted the crescendo beneath them. "I have a dress, M Pendeaut. It's in the bottom of my suitcase; I can have it on in ten minutes." When she glanced up, he looked like he might have kissed her in relief.

"Wonderful, mademoiselle."

"There is one other thing, though, monsieur," she said, finally stepping back from the score. "I will need a place to stay tonight."

"Oh, of course, mademoiselle. We have people come in for one or two nights more often than you think. You will stay in the theater tonight, and be paid what any leading diva would for one performance." Danielle smiled and bowed her head.

"Merci, monsieur, merci beaucoup." And she went to go and change.

It felt strange singing with anyone but Erik as Don Juan, but at the end of the performance, the applause was uproarious. When Pierre dragged her out for their curtain call, the entire house stood. It all felt strangely distant to Danielle, though, as if she were watching it from afar. She hadn't come here looking for applause. Without Erik there, without feeling his proud gaze on her from high in the theater like it had been back in Paris, it all felt so…meaningless. There wasn't even a familiar Box Five to look to. Her eyes fixed on the man's standing in the middle of the theater, drawn by some fluke of fate, watching her with an avid light in his eyes beneath his blond hair. He smiled at her shyly when she stared at him, nodding his head as if acknowledging something. Where had she seen him before?

Everything slowly calmed down as the cast fell backstage to greet the finery of Luxembourg. Danielle slipped back out of her dressing room discreetly, winding her way through the people back to the theater. The house was practically deserted as she padded quietly across the stage and dropped into the orchestral pit. She carefully set Fenris' Cry on the top of the piano. As she sat, arranging the long skirts of her dressing gown, she turned to the first page of the embossed gold folder. Her hand brushed the card, still tucked into the front pocket, before she gently laid her hands on the ivory keys.

It started with a mournful chord that echoed like a wolf's howl through the house. The people scattered through the lobby and backstage fell quiet and perked their ears. Danielle lost herself in the music. With her fingers on the piano keys, she could almost pretend that Erik was there behind her, just out of sight. His phantom hand hovered over her shoulder in her mind, guiding her own. The music went on and on, and the young woman failed to notice the people slipping back into the theater, standing silently in the aisles. It was almost as if they were together, her wish for it to be real a tangible note that no key could play. She turned to the last page. The final line was so solemn, a sorrowful howl to the empty skies above that faded into the thick silence of the night itself. It was a call, a sound that echoed from her very soul.

Danielle took a tremulous breath as the music faded. She had never heard the last line. She and Erik had been about to write it when Raoul and Christine stumbled upon them. He had finished it himself.

It was a long moment before she could gather up the pages and shut the folder. She tucked it carefully under her arm before she stood and straightened her skirt. The whole theater waited with bated breath, most of the audience back in the aisles or dropped into the seats. Danielle started when she saw them all. The light tap on her shoulder made her turn her head. Pierre leaned back onto the stage where most of the cast had gathered as well. "Mademoiselle," he said respectfully, "that was…magnifique. Why was it not played the first night we gave this opera?"

They were meant to be together, she realized at that moment. She and Erik had written the epilogue to Don Juan Triumphant. Danielle turned and looked over the audience. The silence was greater than the loudest applause had ever been.

She was still wondering at this later that night as she sat by the candle in her dressing room. Without even realizing it, before she had ever heard Don Juan, she had started writing its ending. Don Juan Triumphant was a tale that started out as savage lust, a desire that every creature harbors deep within itself and hides in the darkness of midnight and bedrooms. But the story slowly dissolved—or did it culminate?—into a longing for something more, something deeper than the lusts of the flesh. A tale of redemption. Fenris' Cry was just the final, passionate cry to the one that could soothe that longing, to the one that could soothe such a tormented and incomplete soul…

Danielle's hand had crept to her breast unnoticed as she stared blindly at the dancing flame. Was it his soul that was incomplete? Or was it hers?

I knew it would be long until I saw his face again. She had known it, in the palace of illusions. She had feared that she would never see his face again. She could barely remember after that. A frantic race, and then he had been beside her, but she only recalled the feel of his arms around her, his face turned up to hers as she pushed herself up to turn and face…

"Oh my God," she whispered, her eyes grown wide in the dark. Her hand moved from her breast to encircle her arm as she leapt up from the dresser's bench. The gendarme. Francois Nereaux. He had followed her. He was trying to find Erik. She could only imagine what his mind had managed to concoct. A young woman running through the cellars and a monster of a man, a murderer, catching her in his arms. The guard probably thought she was deranged.

Or maybe he thought that Erik had seduced her, bewitched her into following his voice no matter where it led.

She had her bag packed in moments. Danielle snatched the plain white envelope with her pay off the desk and shoved it into the shoulder bag, pausing to place the embossed folder beside it more carefully. The cool air outside smacked her awake pitilessly, and she was grateful for it. She wasn't quite sure where to go, but a desperate need to get away from Luxembourg, from the gendarme, drove her steps onward towards the train station.

Athena whickered as Erik coaxed her to a stop, snorting in the cool night air. Her black mane and tail gleamed red and orange in the firelight of campfires as he swung out of the saddle and began to walk her into the fair.

Wind gusted through the camp, catching him and the mare, fluttering through dancing flames and brightly colored tents. He sighed into it, wondering if it would carry such strength all the way to the city behind him. He would go to Sheba's cage and let her out; the tiger would be upset at him for being gone nearly a week. Glancing up, Erik caught sight of Therese, walking around a campfire to bat Claude playfully with her apron. The strongman looked up, smiling in the firelight, and caught the end of the apron to pull her into his lap, planting a wet kiss on her brow. Their son, sitting and throwing stones into the fire, pulled a face. Erik nearly laughed.

"Reminiscing about past loves, Don Juan?" The silky, poisonous voice caught him off guard, and Erik's entire body tensed. Athena whickered nervously and yanked her head up, hitting his hand as he attempted to soothe her. Mariana sat on a crate, her ankles crossed with a gold anklet latched around one. Her eyes gleamed like coals in the dark, fixed on him portentously.

She rose with fluid grace, like a viper uncoiling, if it could move with such sumptuousness. Her dark silks swayed around her as she drew near, and Athena laid her ears back against her skull. Erik felt his blood begin to freeze as she slid around him. "Past lives?" she offered. Her olive-skinned hand brushed his cheek fleetingly, but it left a terrible lasting sting, like a nettle's touch. He jerked away from it, and Mariana froze, poised like a cobra. The cold wheels behind her eyes were turning.

"Go back to counting your coins," he said, as coldly as he could manage, but the heat that seeped into it only made it sound more enraged. Closer to how he felt. Vicious, biting insults crawled into his mind, but he kept a reign on them. Avoiding her feral eyes, Erik pushed roughly past her and walked off towards the tiger's cage.

He could feel that merciless, emotionless gaze on his back as he walked away, and it gave him an awful sense of having felt it before.