Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for the plushie Cesar horse. I love the plushie Cesar horse!
Side Notes:
Thanks Juni and Chat for all of your help with this chapter! I really appreciate the time you took to help make Frat a better story :)
A Maid, a Mother, and a Queen
"Watch whar yer goin' ol' man!"
Nadir Khan leapt away as the coster pushed past him on the footwalk, disheveling his hat. With a grunt, he backed into his shadowed corner next to the door once more, straightening the bowler on top of his head. The Persian scanned the grimy Billingsgate fish market, searching for a familiar face among the masses of the dirty, evil-smelling precinct.
While the rest of London slept between the hours of five and seven in the morning, the great building along the Thames thrived with people carrying fish on their heads, street dealers wandering between fish-shops and fish-stalls, and fishmongers picking the best of the daily catches to grace the tables of the city's residents. The noise of the auction was a sharp contrast to the sleepy quiet beyond the red brick walls; all about him, the bells of bargains rang and the cries of hagglers threatened to overwhelm his ears. "A 'eavy 'aul today, indeed!...This cotch whar a beauty…the finest crop o' crabs ye hever ded see!"
Another dockworker passed through the door with a basket full of cod, pervading the daroga's nostrils with a fishy odor. He grimaced, thinking of how the foul stench would not likely leave his skin for a good many days.
Foolishness, to meet in such a place, at such an hour! His irritation growing by the minute,he glanced at his pocketwatch then quickly tucked it away. An unsavory character—a red-faced, bloated woman with matted hair and a tucked-up strong stuff gown—stared at the timepiece, and him, with greedy curiosity. Eyeing the daroga, she ever-so-carefully pulled up her skirt to reveal a large quilted petticoat and brawny limbs. Clearing his throat politely, he turned away from the woman and glanced through the narrow doorway into the black, wintry dockyards. He heard an angry huff behind him, and hoped that the lady had taken the gentle hint by hastily retreating.
Nadir gazed at the bustling scene upon the Thames. Gaslights lining the shore of the river cast a dull light over the early morning activity, throwing strange shadows upon the frost-covered planks. Hundreds of dockworkers moved up and down the slippery ramps of fishing boat upon fishing boat, unloading crates of iced lobsters, oysters, mackerel, shrimp, cockles and winkles—all sorts of staples and delicacies from the sea. He peered at each boat, searching for the same vessel that had carried him across the English Channel from Calais.
While the brief journey across the waters was by no means a comfortable one, it had been practical; the Narodnaya Volya was most certainly watching the incoming and outgoing ferries that traveled along the river Thames. They more than likely had an eye on the dockyards as well, but in the midst of the flurry during the morning fish auctions, anybody could slip off of, or onto, a boat without being spotted.
It was easy for him to simply disappear into the controlled chaos of docks—an invisibility that would be useful when he returned in several days with four passengers in tow. Five passengers, if he successfully reasoned with his headstrong friend. The Persian could be just as determined as the masked man, for he had fought long and hard to push Erik out of his early grave—that abyss under the opera house—and he'd be damned if the man was going to slip back into the darkness after coming so far.
"Look lively boys, Crushers abroad!" The cry of the fishmonger drew Nadir's attention, and he glanced about to find its source. Two Royal Navy officers in tailored double-breasted wool coats, gold-trimmed cuffs, and white peak caps strolled down the walkway towards him, repelling middlemen and mongers alike. One had the easy, confident gait of a man familiar with the pungent market; the other was obviously less comfortable, having pulled his dark collar up to shadow his face. The daroga peered more intently at the seaman and saw that he, in fact, wore a mask.
The corners of Nadir's mouth twitched in amusement as he watched his friend's unease. Never, in all the days Allah had granted, had he expected to see Persia's lethal trapdoor lover in the uniform of a naval policeman. He extended a hand to his friend in greeting.
"As-Salaam Alaikum, du stæm! It is good to see—" The daroga's words died on his lips as the two men flanked either side of him and roughly grasped his elbows, pushing him through the door and into the dockyard.
"Right!" exclaimed the other man, his brogue thick as he rolled his "r". "We doon' tolerate petty thieves and stowaways in Her Majesty's shipyards. Come along quietly, sir, and this'll be easy for you. Just a quick jaunt to the Yard, a night in a cell, then off ye go, back to the docks and across the Channel."
The men led the "stowaway" through the Billingsgate exit just to the left. Weaving through the bustling Thames dock, they successfully blended into the background, unnoticed by the heavily-clad dockworkers unloading fish from crates of ice. After all, it was not uncommon to see some shady character escorted out by the Royal Navy police that made rounds through the stinking, grimy market.
The Persian allowed the officers to guide him towards a waiting carriage marked with the royal insignia. Silently wondering how they had been able to obtain the carriage, he asked no questions until he was settled into the seat and Murray had closed the door.
"As I was saying, du stæm, it is a pleasure to see you again." He held out his hand for the masked man to shake. Erik stared at it for a moment, then quickly grasped the proffered hand and released it.
The daroga chuckled softly. "I see that not much as changed, my friend; still as distrusting as ever." He tossed his hat onto the seat, opened his small satchel, and pulled out his preferred astrakhan cap to replace the bowler. Then he turned back to his friend, his face once again solemn.
"I received word in Calais from Hale, just as I was about to board a ferry, regarding the events several nights ago and the subsequent change of plans."
"I assumed as much, since you did indeed meet us at Billingsgate," Erik snapped, his gaze riveted to the London streets coming to life under the orange light of dawn. "The market was more convenient, anyway. Murray, believe it or not, really is a member of Her Majesty's Royal Navy, as well as the French Sûreté. Fortunately, his loyalties lie more with the Sûreté and Hale, which is why he allowed me to accompany him on his morning round through the fish auction. That answers your next question, does it not?"
The daroga calmly nodded, his astute eyes taking in the man's impatient demeanor and short temper.
"I am sorry about your singer, Erik," he said quietly. "Had I suspected that Henri David was capable of playing both sides against the other, I would have asked the Sûreté to secrete him away in some northern country a long time ago." Silence met his words, yet he continued to speak, sensing his friend's need for distraction. "Do we know anything else about this Fraternité and Mas Quennell, other than the fact that he is a Frenchman who grew up a Russian exile?"
Erik cleared his throat and turned back to the daroga, sighing heavily. "From the little that Christine was able to communicate, the People's Will is apparently sponsored by this group. M. David's eldest brother also appears to be a member of Fraternité, and one could assume the avocat was approached about recovering this oath through the Marquis. As for the extent of M. David's knowledge about the group—it is unknown. The bastard refuses to open his mouth about them, even after they attacked Christine." Erik grimaced, staring out the window as if his source of disgust lay somewhere along the middle-class row of town homes.
Nadir had to give the avocat credit for standing firm in his resolution, no matter how flawed and deadly it proved to be. He would never have pinned M. David as someone with the ability to withhold information when faced with violent coercion, and he had no doubt that Hale and Erik had made many such threats over the past two days. Glancing towards the masked man, he observed that he had twisted his peak cap in his strong grip, bending the brim past repair.
"You are anxious for the Comtesse, my friend?" he said quietly. "You need not be. She will have the best of care in Jerusalem, I promise you. You will be coming with us, I assume, after the latest incident?"
To his surprise, the masked man shook his head. "I plan to stay until Christine is well enough to travel, another two weeks or so. Then I shall continue on to Paris as planned." Erik held up a gloved hand to silence the daroga's protest. "Please do not argue over this, Nadir; I have already made up my mind. I'll not have her feel responsible for me—it will ruin her life, and her son's in the process."
The Persian studied his friend and smiled. "I was merely going to say that we leave in three days, as originally intended. There is a small window of opportunity for escape, as all the plans have been laid. It would take another month to arrange for a new fishing boat, a residence in Jerusalem, etcetera, and we don't have the luxury of time. We must leave on schedule; there is no other way."
Erik twisted the cap again, his eyes dark and foreboding. "It is not enough time."
"For whom, du stæm?" Nadir quietly questioned. "Her? Or you?"
Papi knelt next to the child and pried the bottle of lavender scent from his tiny fingers.
"Jean-Paul, if the stopper comes off and all the perfume spills out, you shall regret it, little man." The maid dove for his wrists again as the boy twisted away from her indignantly, not in the least bit threatened by her warning. She firmly gathered him up in her arms and began to carry him from his mother's suite.
With a small cry of protest, the child immediately let go of the glass bottle and it fell to the floor, its contents spilling across the hard wood and rug.
Papi gasped as the sound of breaking glass disturbed the quiet of the room. She quickly glanced over to where her mistress was once again sleeping, and saw, to her relief, that the woman did not stir. Wrapping an arm firmly about the child's middle, she fairly strode from the room and went in search of someone—anyone—to keep an eye on the unruly boy while she cleared away the shards of glass. As she paced from room to room, however, she found to her dismay that her father was busy at some project in the frozen garden—mending a fence, and Hale was no where to be found.
As she rounded the corner past the pantry, she paused for a moment at the cellar door, deliberating whether to take some food or drink down to M. David. Two days had passed since the masked man—Erik, she silently called him now—had thrown the avocat into the darkness, forbidding Papi and Norry to assist the prisoner in any way. The maid hadn't questioned his orders, her guilty conscience now the dictator of all her decisions. After all, she was fully aware of the part she had played in the near tragedy two nights ago, and thought it best to obey orders without protest for the time being, lest she make some grave error again.
A man's voice floated up to her from the cellar, and she recognized it to be Hale's, shouting something at the imprisoned lawyer. Determined not to interfere, Papi swallowed back the lump in her throat and swept into the kitchen. Setting the toddler down upon a kitchen chair, she grabbed up several wash rags and a basin of soapy water to scrub the floor. For all the good it will do, she sighed, knowing that the strong lavender scent had, most likely, permeated the entire room by now. Tucking the basin under her arm, she managed to brace it on her hip. Thankfully, Jean-Paul had stopped wailing in protest; so when Papi snapped and held out her hand for the boy, he willingly grasped hold of her fingers and followed her up the stairs again, carefully navigating them one-by-one.
Leaving the boy in the opposite corner of the room with his stuffed white horse, she tucked up her skirts and knelt next to the broken glass. Gingerly, she picked up the shards and laid them in one of the wash rags, her mind detached from the task at hand. Thoughts of the past two nights whirled about in her head, demanding all of her attention…
After the doctor had left and Jean-Paul was put to bed, Papi had returned to her own room, anxious to let sleep drive away her wretchedness.
But oblivion had refused to claim her that night, instead leaving her to be consumed by the guilt of her foolish actions. Her hands still trembled with the anger she had felt when she secretly listened to Mas Quennell's hate-filled words to the Comtesse:
"Did it never occur to you that the viper that terrorized you nested in your very household?"
And she became ill.
She felt the agony of betrayal. Everything that she had placed her faith in, the wall that had shielded her heart after her son's death, crumbled to the ground.
Mas had killed Perri. A man that had laughed with her, shared meals with her…a man that she had trusted. He had taken her son from her. Plundered her very soul and stolen any remaining joy that had rested there, then went to work as Henri David's valet right after he had murdered her child…as if nothing had happened. He had even come to the small funeral at the Chagny estate's chapel…
It had not been hard to fire the gun. Papi did not think twice before she pulled the trigger—she had aimed straight for his head, and shot. She missed, of course. And then he dove for her and she had screamed; not in fear, but in rage. She saw his face above her, and she wanted nothing more than to claw his eyes, rip his heart out as he had done to hers.
The maid scrubbed at the floor even harder, gasping as a small sliver of glass worked its way into the pad of her index finger. She struggled to extricate the stinging shard from her flesh, but only pushed it in further. With a huff of frustration, she returned to washing the rug.
Back and forth…keep cleaning…scrubbing. Wash away the perfume—the sickly-sweet smell of lavender. Don't think, just focus on the task at hand. Ignore the sharp sting in your hand, the blood soaking into the wash rag. Shut the pain out of your heart, Papi. Turn the sad, pleading eyes away from your mind. Don't allow his laughter to filter into your brain and stream into your spirit…the feel of his arms around your neck…his soft voice whispering "Maman" into your ear…breath warm against your cheek…
"Perri!"
The woman tossed the lavender-soaked rag away and put a fist to her mouth, stifling the sob that welled up within her breast. A torrent of emotion flooded into her body, mingling with the overpowering smell of the perfume and causing a wave of nausea to overcome her. She jumped up from the floor and stumbled to the small bathroom, her head reeling. Lowering herself into the corner, she pressed her tear streaked face to the cold tiles of the walls, gasping for air through her sobs.
She rocked back and forth, clutching at a plain silver locket around her neck. With trembling fingers, she opened the clasp and removed a small tuft of hair—fine and blonde, like hers. Gently, she ran the tress along her cheek, indulging in the one small link to her lost child.
And she wept bitterly.
She cried until the bit of hair was soaked with salty tears. She cried until there was no wetness about her eyes, and she was devoid of emotion…completely empty.
Papillon wanted to die…there was nothing left for her. She had betrayed her only friend, destroyed the one thing that had given her a shred of sanity—her loyalty to the remnants of the proud Chagny family. If the Phantom had not come to London, they would surely be dead by now—the Comtesse and her little boy. Dead because of her own foolish pride; her blind faith in an illusion. All of those long days after her son's murder, she had carefully built a barricade around her heart—created from the stones of duty, loyalty, and pride. Loyalty to the Chagny family and its household. Pride in the all of the good it represented—the heritage, the lineage. She had wrapped these things about her to protect against the glaring pain that had threatened to overwhelm her.
Now every time she spoke to the Comtesse, she no longer spoke to a friend, but to her mistress. When she rocked Jean-Paul to sleep in the nursery, she no longer held a little boy—Perri's little playmate—but the heir to the Chagny estate.
So it was no wonder that yesterday morning, when Christine de Chagny had stumbled from her bed and collapsed in front of the mirror, she had rejected the maid's help in favor of Erik's.
Papi had been in Jean-Paul's room, tucking him into his own bed after lifting him from that of his mother's, where he had curled up at some point during the night. A strangled cry caught her attention, and she rushed back to the room to find the Comtesse upon her knees in front of her large gilded mirror, trembling with fright at her ghastly appearance. The servant had quickly fallen to embrace her friend, but the woman had pushed her hands away, frantically trying to call for the masked man. No sound came from her poor, strained voice, yet he had bolted awake at her silent cries and stumbled from the chair, gathering her in his arms. Papi had quietly stepped aside as he soothed the woman's fears, stroked her hair, and whispered words for her ears only.
All the evidence was laid before her—this Erik, whatever his past crimes, loved Raoul de Chagny's widow; selflessly and completely. And the Comtesse loved him in return. He was the one she had turned to, time and again since that October day; not Raoul's sister, not M. David, not even Papi and her father.
In spite of this realization, the sad maid found her spirit still edged with bitterness. Try as she might, she could not push away the jealousy…the distrust…the anger that boiled just under the surface.
And she loathed herself for what she had become.
Another sob shuddered through her body, and she let her head fall back against the wall, utterly spent. How long she had sat there, huddled in the cold corner? From somewhere far away, she could hear Jean-Paul softly singing to himself, tripping over the bigger words. It was a song she had taught to Perri, and Perri had then taught it to the boy. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine the soft voice of her own little boy…
Un, deux, trois,
Allons dans les bois,
Quatre, cinq, six,
Cueillir des cerises…
Slowly, the singing faded into the background, and then stopped altogether. An exclamation brought her head up again, and she glanced at the door to find the very man she had been pondering over standing there. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut in quickly.
"One of Madame de Chagny's perfumes was spilt—that is why it smells so strongly." Her weary eyes met the man's, but she made no move from the corner; she cared not whether it angered him. Twirling the silky lock of hair about in her fingers, she coiled it and replaced it in her locket, then snapped the small piece shut.
The man said nothing, continuing to study her with slit eyes as he would a statue or a painting; with a trifle of curiosity. She turned her face away from the cold gaze and stared at the wall, following the tile patterns absently.
The masked man eventually left the room. Papi exhaled, only then realizing that she had been holding her breath the entire time he had stood in the doorway. He soon returned, however, bringing a small glass of wine with him. Silently, he held it in front of the woman's face, waiting for her to take it.
She stared at the man's hand, nervously pushing a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. At last, she slowly reached up and accepted the glass. Warily holding it between her fingers, she wavered at length before putting it to her lips, sipping a bit of the warm liquid.
The masked man smirked at the woman's suspicion. "I assure you, Mlle. Nitot, that the wine is not poisoned. It is perfectly safe to drink."
Papi's nodded, her eyes fixed upon the man's face. "Yes," she murmured softly, "I suppose it was only a matter of time before you found out. I knew that the goblets were poisoned when I gave them to you and the Comtesse. How did you discover it? Did Henri—"
"Really Mademoiselle, it was not difficult to put two and two together," Erik interjected, in no mood to humor the sniveling woman. "You need not blame that fool of an avocat for betraying you; he already has more than enough reason to fear for his precious neck. You betrayed yourself. Your nervousness when you left the glasses, that remorseful look you have been exhibiting since yesterday morning. It would not take a genius to see it."
"And yet you are a genius, Monsieur, so the Comtesse has told me." The woman tried to meet the challenge in the man's sparking gold eyes, but didn't have the stamina for it. Instead, she gazed at one of the brass buttons on his jacket, studying the anchor embossment on the metal.
"Why am I not locked in the cellar with M. David? I have been just as deceitful as he."
Erik folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe, quietly relishing his triumph over the woman's will. "I am not capable of compassion, Mlle. Nitot. The only reason you have not been thrown into the cellar and interrogated along with the avocat is because you are useful to me. Christine is not able to look after her child at the moment. Someone must also help to care for her, since I cannot be there at all times. Like today."
Papi glanced over to the man and noticed for the first time that he was dressed as a sailor; an officer, to be precise. And he reeked of fish. Suddenly, she wondered what he had been about all morning, and began to ask. The masked man spoke before she had the chance, though, indicating that their brief conversation was at an end.
"There are three men downstairs in the library; they have not eaten today. Would you see to them?"
She nodded in assent and cautiously pushed herself up from the floor, her feet numb after crouching in the corner for so long. Smoothing her skirts, the woman followed the man from the room. She turned to make her way to the kitchen, but on impulse, spun around and grabbed Erik's arm. Catching him by surprise, he tried to pull it away, but she held firm to his shirtsleeve. Her words were low and grave.
"Monsieur, this man—Mas Quennell—he murdered my son. I want him dead." She caught her trembling lower lip between her teeth as her glittering brown eyes held his.
The man pulled his arm from her grip, studying her face. At last he nodded in response. "It would seem that we have one thing in common, Mlle. Nitot. You desire him dead, and I want to kill him." And with those parting words, he turned away from the woman to retreat to the cream armchair next to the Comtesse's sleeping form.
"Christine…"
The woman felt a hand upon her shoulder, gently rousing her from her restless dreams. Through a haze, she saw her angel's face above her, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly in what could almost be construed as a smile. The contours of his eyes and brow were a bit clearer than they had been yesterday, and she felt reassured that her sight would, indeed, return to normal before long.
"I apologize for waking you; I know that you slept fitfully last night, and could probably do with more sleep."
She opened her mouth to speak, but the man put a finger to her lips to silence her.
"Christine," her teacher reproached, the familiar, tenacious voice striking a chord of penitence within her. "You must try to remember not to use your voice—not yet, anyway. If there is the slightest chance that it can be salvaged…" He glanced away, the worry in his eyes betraying his thoughts.
His anxiety, however, did not cause her grief. Instead, it gave her comfort to know that the man next to her felt the loss of her voice as keenly as she did; as if it were his own that had been stolen from his throat. After all, hadn't they been brought together all those years ago by her voice and his music? Like a key to a lock, the two merged and opened the door to an entirely new realm of song; a place in which only the composer and his muse could roam.
No one understands the secret language as we do, she reflected. The power my voice holds over him…the trance his notes weave upon me.
But to lose this power…this passion…
It was not the fright of the attack that had haunted her dreams these past two days, but her angel's words afterwards, explaining the damage done to her vocal chords. And she had felt such anger, such guilt. Anger at what had been taken away…guilt for squandering her gift the past four years, ever since she had fled the opera house.
How selfish I was to take it all for granted…and now it is gone…
"Christine, did you hear anything at all?"
The woman glanced up at her teacher, her mind still foggy from sleep. She shook her head, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment at her flightiness.
Erik sighed, and repeated his words. "I said that Nadir Khan—the man who will stay with you and your family in Jerusalem—is here, and would like to meet you. May I bring him in?"
The Comtesse nodded and pushed herself into a sitting position, smoothing her wild curls back from her face. She accepted her wrap from her teacher's proffered hand and placed it over her shoulders, situating it to ensure that she was at least decent for company, if not presentable. A random vision of Raoul's prudish sister came to mind; the woman's thin lips and pale face tight in disapproval. Christine smirked at what the social-conscious aristocrat would say if she could observe Raoul's widow at the moment, corsetless, admitting strange men to her bedroom.
A solid rap sounded upon the door announcing their presence, and Christine straightened her back, waiting for them to enter. At the last minute, she remembered the ugly bandages and bruises at her neck, and pulled her shawl up, clutching the thick material just under her chin to hide them from the eyes of the Persian.
A solemn-faced man of average height and a square build strode through the doors behind Erik. He wore a long overcoat and clutched an astrakhan cap in his hands, his white knuckles the only sign that he was nervous in the slightest. He was older than Erik, but she could not determine his approximate age, for his coffee-colored skin was still smooth and his thick black hair was streaked with very little silver. His eyes, however, betrayed his years; the Persian's clear, jade eyes belied a wealth of wisdom and knowledge that could only be obtained over time.
He strode over to the foot of her bed and bowed in greeting, his eyes never leaving her face. Christine half expected him to flinch at the sight of her frightful appearance, but his gaze was steady.
"Madame, it is a great honor to meet you at last," he spoke warmly in slightly accented French, and pressed her hand in his. "Truly, I feel as if I already know you, my friend speaks of you so; for years, he was quite lost without you—"
"Daroga, that is not necessary," Erik cut in, his voice edged with warning. "You have been introduced to her; now perhaps your maddening interference into my dealings will cease."
Nadir's calm gaze met that of the masked man's, and the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. "Du stæm, the day I cease to take an interest in your affairs will be the day that one of us dies."
The masked man glared at him for a moment; his skillful intimidation that had often been used with her was now turned upon the Persian. M. Khan, however, seemed completely unruffled by the imposing person and met the glare with a cool expression. Waving his hand in mute dismissal, Erik relinquished the game.
"Bah! Really, Nadir, you can be utterly vexing. There is much to be done, and we are wasting time here when the cellar awaits."
The Comtesse watched the two friends' exchange in quiet wonder. Never had she seen her maestro let down his guard with another human being, other than herself. She felt an instant liking for the man who had apparently been a friend to her unhappy Erik after she had left him alone and desolate. She felt gratitude as well, because he did not seem to blame her for her actions those years ago.
She was so lost in her musings that she almost missed her angel's last remark about the cellar. Slowly, it dawned on her what they were about to do. Before he could turn away, the woman grasped her angel's hand, pulling him down to his knees.
"Erik," she whispered hoarsely, ignoring the man's protests. "I want to be there."
The man inhaled sharply and shook his head in disbelief. "Don't be foolish, child. There is nothing there for you, even if you were strong enough to make it down the stairs without falling. The fact is, however,that you are too fragile right now, Christine, both physically and mentally."
Incensed at his words, she glared at the man icily. "I have a right to be there," she rasped, fighting back the tears caused by the sharp sting of her throat.
The man sighed and touched his fingertip to her cheek, switching to a smoother, velvety tone. "Christine, please believe me when I tell you that you should not be present for this. The fool of a man has to be dealt with at some point, for Jean-Paul's sake as well as your own. We must find out what he knows, using whatever means necessary; try to consider why I do not desire your presence." His sad eyes pleaded with her for understanding, and at last she nodded in resignation, shuddering at the implications of his words.
He held her gaze for a moment longer, then rose to leave, motioning for the daroga to follow. Christine waited for several minutes until she was sure they were out of hearing. Taking a slow, rough breath, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and pushed herself up onto wobbly legs. Putting a hand on the bedpost to steady herself, she carefully made her way over to the large gilded mirror.
Her breath caught when she beheld the image before her, her stomach flipping as an unfamiliar, frightful face stared back.
This cannot be me…
Reaching out to touch the mirror, the woman traced her features in the glass, desperately trying to accustom herself to the deathlike face that had haunted her dreams last night. Yesterday morning, she had fallen to her knees in fear when she caught a glimpse of the red-eyed thing for the first time. Covering her face with her hands, she had frantically sobbed, pushing away Papi's attempts to comfort her. She hadn't realized how horrid she looked. How could she bear to look upon her child, knowing that he would cry in fright when he saw her?
And then her angel's arms were around her, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, whispering words of comfort into her ear…
"Angel, all shall be well…the shock will fade with time, as will the bruises…remember to see beyond the face in the mirror, Christine. If you have learned nothing else from me, hold onto this. I beg of you…"
Beyond the face in the mirror…The woman pressed her hand to the cool glass, as if testing its solidity. Her gaze skimmed along the ugly black bruises that covered her neck, up her jawline, the bluish splotches about her cheeks. She stared into her eyes, looking past the surface redness of them and into their depths. What answers did they hold?
Sadness gazed back at her…knowledge…a touch of wisdom…
Ever so slowly, a new person was emerging. No longer did her eyes reflect the innocence of her mind, the naivety of her soul. She had experienced too much horror in the world, felt the beauty of death wrap blissful arms around her.
Death… Images of a storm flashed through her mind. A sea…and the breeze…and Raoul…
She had been there at the edge of existence, and had returned…Returned to save her son. Returned to save her angel's soul. And she could do both with one deft stroke, if she had the strength…
Her hand caressed her swollen throat, gently running her nails along the curve of her shoulder. Fingertips dug underneath the bandages covering the black band around her neck. She tried to rip them away, but they held firm.
With a cry of frustration, she frantically rummaged through her armoire until she came to a little sewing box pushed to the back. Flipping the lid open, she dug through the colored spools of thread, needles, thimbles, until she found a small pair of scissors. The woman scooped them up and returned to the mirror, slipping the cold blade under the white bandages. Carefully, she snipped away the layers until they fell to the ground, leaving her neck now bare and exposed. She smiled in triumph as she beheld the mark of death in all its glory.
Hiding no longer suited her.
Erik sneered at the trembling, bound avocat and grasped his matted hair, forcing him to look at his face. Madness loomed just beyond the edge, and he knew that one foolish utterance on the lawyer's part was all it would take to snap his tight reins of control.
"I assure you that my face is a sight you would not easily erase from your mind, boy. Men have died after catching a mere glimpse of it." The man smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Died because I killed them. Now M. David, I ask you one more time—what is the Fraternité?"
The avocat wildly glanced about the dark cellar for Nadir, hoping beyond hope that the Persian would step forward and put an end to the madness. When he spotted him in the corner, just beyond the weak circle of light from the oil lamp, he tried to meet his eyes to beg for release.
The daroga simply shook his head at the man's feeble attempts. "I am afraid that I can no longer offer you any assistance, Monsieur. You were given several chances in Paris to cooperate, and you chose to play a game of roulette instead. Now you must face the consequences. Answer my friend's question, if you please."
Mouth hanging open in disbelief, the avocat sputtered some incomprehensible, sniveling words. "Please, Messieurs, if you kill me, you will discover nothing at all. I can tell you what you'd like to know, but you must release me first!"
Finally the masked man's control reached its limits, and his hand flew to his waist to whip out the punjab lasso. When his fingers came up empty, though, he remembered with a start that he was no longer in possession of the deadly weapon. He paused in consideration, then stalked towards the shrinking lawyer, snarling in anger. Bare hands would have to do.
Light unexpectedly flooded into the room as the cellar door was flung open, and the silhouette of a woman stood above them at the top of the stairs. The men put their hands to their eyes to shield them from the sudden burst, struggling to see who stood before them. Grasping hold of the railing, she slowly made her way down the narrow staircase, descending into the darkness. Then the light pouring down into the cellar washed over her features, and a collective intake of breath rose up from her male companions.
"Allah be merciful," the Persian murmured, his eyes fixed upon the woman before him. Gone was the shy creature he had met only moments before—the child that had smiled up at him apologetically, cowering under her wrap. Gone was the girl that his friend had described to him time and again—an angel, radiant and lovely in her innocence. The woman that stood before him was beautiful, to be sure. Beautiful and terrible, as if she possessed the very spirit of Hades' queen.
She moved gracefully across the floor towards the avocat, her back straight and her head high and proud. Standing before the wide-eyed Henri, her eyes never leaving his terrified face, she whispered hoarsely to the men behind her.
"What has he told you?"
Erik gaped at the fury before him, his reason clouded with the potent spell this creature had cast. Shaking himself out of the trance, he took a hesitant step towards his angel, speaking her name to reassure himself that it was, indeed, she.
"Christine," he said tentatively, "I asked you not to come down here. You have been hurt, and you are ruining your voice—"
"What has he told you?" she repeated firmly, the rasp of her voice intensifying with her impatience.
The masked man stared at his beloved angel in astonishment. All at once, the haziness of her actions began to crystallize, and he understood what she was about. How could he, darkness itself, not help but recognize the same resentment, same bitterness of betrayal when it was reflected in another? His own angel now wielded the very weapons that had driven him all his life, and he was powerless to stop her.
"He has imparted nothing, Madame."
The Comtesse nodded and turned cold, glistening eyes upon the lawyer. Drawing back her hand, she struck her traitorous friend across the face. The sound of the blow echoed through the near empty cellar and startled the two men looking on in mute incredulity. Lowering herself to her knees, she leaned into the sputtering M. David and grasped his hand, deliberately pulling his fingertips to her wounded neck.
"Do you see this black ribbon, this ornamentation about my throat, Henri?" she breathed into his ear, her words dripping with derision. "It is a present from Death, gifted to me by the very people that you seek to protect; the people who murdered my husband, your friend. They shall murder Jean-Paul as well, if you stay silent." She ran a finger along the man's face and he turned away from her in shame.
"Christine, please," he whispered. "I did not mean for this to happen to you—any of it. I only wanted to protect you, to end all of this!"
"Then end it now, Henri," she spat, her eyes flashing in anger. "Tell us what Fraternité is, and I swear that you will leave this cellar alive. If you stay silent, then I wash my hands of you. My angel is not as forgiving…" She peered back at Erik, his arms folded across his chest, teeth grinding in frustration. For a brief moment, her strength began to waver; then the masked man nodded, and she grew confident once more.
The lawyer squirmed uneasily, her words striking home. Suddenly, his face lit with an idea and he turned towards the Comtesse, weighing his words carefully.
"I shall tell you all that I know, if you promise me one thing."
The woman searched his eyes. "What would that be, Henri?" she murmured cautiously, her voice low and hoarse.
"Take me to Jerusalem with you. If you leave me behind in London, even locked away in Scotland Yard, they will find me and murder me! But not before they discovered your location…"
A movement in the corner of the room caught her attention, and she turned to see Erik striding forward, dark and murderous, his face ashen. He caught M. David by the throat.
"How did you find out about Jerusalem?" he whispered fiercely, his fingers tightening about the man's windpipe.
Christine's hand flew up and grasped his; slowly, deliberately, she eased it from its vice-like grip on the sputtering lawyer's throat. "That may be my fault, Erik," she said inaudibly. "I had to tell Papi and Norry, so one of them might have revealed it."
The masked man shook his head in aggravation, his eyes mere slits of color. Twisting his wrist around, he clutched the woman's fingers in his. She did not flinch.
"Christine," he murmured, "you exasperate me to all ends." He gently pressed her hand to his lips and released it, then stepped away from the avocat. "You must know, however that there are only two choices left to us. He is right—they will find him no matter where he goes, and he will give you and your son up to them. We already know that he is capable of it. Your avocat must either go to Jerusalem as well, or die in this cellar."
Christine stared at her sniveling, filthy friend, vehemently gazing upon his wide eyes, his gaping mouth. She despised the look of him—hated as she had never hated before. Betrayal truly was a bitter poison—a substance that could seep through the skin and into the heart, flow throughout the bloodstream. It could cause one to rot from the inside out and yet they would embrace the slow death, for their body would sing with the desire for revenge during the process.
Nadir, who had chosen to observe the entire exchange in silence, solemnly stepped forward. "The decision is yours to make, not ours, Madame de Chagny; you are the one that has been wronged."
Her blood fairly sang with it now. With one word…a simple "yes"…she could have her revenge on this man who dared to put her child in danger, and no one need find out. She could go to Jerusalem and live in peace with her son, at least for awhile, without having to fret over loose ends. No one would know... Only the Persian. God. Her angel…
"Erik, who would kill him?" she questioned suddenly.
Silence met her words for an irreverent length of time. At long last, a soft reply. "I would, if that is what you wish, my angel."
At that moment, all desire for revenge drained from her blood as a greater emotion filtered into her being, settling into the pit of her stomach. The Comtesse slowly rose and turned to face the masked man. She caught his gold eyes with hers, expressing with a single glance all the love she felt in her soul.
"Then he shall go to Jerusalem."
A jovial cry caused her to spin around in surprise, and she found her shoulders grasped firmly by two strong hands. Nadir Khan pulled her to him and firmly kissed both of her cheeks.
"Madame de Chagny," he exclaimed, his voice breaking, "let me say again what a pleasure it is to at last make your acquaintance."
Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad.
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