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 Father Jakob. Although, he is named after Chat beta's grandfather, so I really don't own him, either.

Side Notes:

Thank you to Chat and barefoot for your feedback and plot suggestions. Y'all are incredible!

Jerusalem picture album is up on my website. See my profile for my web page address.

I tried to put up pics of all the sites mentioned so far.

Fair Game

The Church of the Flagellation was not the assignment that most priests would wish for, unless they desired to live a life of humble penitence. At one time, the Byzantine structure had been sturdy and regal, with its peach marble and bronze censers. Now it was a rather small, dreary chapel with crumbling ornamentation and age-blackened stones, which, over the course of 700 years, had served as a stable, weaver's shop, a mosque, even a refuse dump. The sadly neglected sanctuary, however, did not detour centuries' worth of the faithful: they continued to fall on their knees before the closed doors of the church.

Since its acquisition from the Turks in 1838, the Franciscans had struggled to fund the renovation of the near ruins. They had not yet given up on the holy site with such a sordid past, but after the Holy Sepulchre's central dome had to be torn down following the 1867 earthquake, every available cent went to fund the work at the Crusader church.

That was the rule of bureaucratic games in Jerusalem's Christian Quarter—give to the Sepulchre first, then disperse whatever was leftover among the other various religious sites. Any priest that disagreed with this particular distribution of moneys was politely waved away. And while most of the Franciscans would rather have seen resources go to the orphanage, hospitals, and other Christian charities, maintaining their status within the Sepulchre required that they assist in its preservation.

Father Jakob Haar had been one of the few to openly protest the dispensation of money. Before the earthquake, his good works with Notre Dame de Sion's orphanage and his careful smoothing over of Father Cyril's dealings with the Turks had set him on a swift course to a position at the Sepulchre. Once the priest chose to stand against his brothers on the funding matter, however, his prospects were immediately extinguished.

So he had served at the small, dingy Church of the Flagellation for twenty years in quiet humility, giving guidance to the world-weary and help to those who could not help themselves. He was a favorite among the children at the orphanage and a blessing to the sisters of the neighboring convent. And while his small chapel was too remote to be of much interest to the multitudes of foreign pilgrims following the Way of the Cross, the German priest was never in want of company. The holy site was always alive with the comings and goings of local city dwellers, many of whom assisted with the children at the orphanage.

Therefore, it was no surprise to see a Palestinian woman and her small child wander through the heavy wooden doors that afternoon, her face shrouded by a lightweight mendil.

"What may I do for you, my child?" Father Jakob asked, his Arabic nearly flawless.

The woman merely shook her head and pulled away the scarf from her face. "I am afraid I only speak a little of that language, Father," she answered, her French words catching him off guard.

The priest stared at the woman with curiosity. Indeed, upon a closer look, he found that she was not Palestinian at all, but European of some sort; her fine blue eyes betrayed her descent. Her skin, however, was not the usual pasty color typical of the northerners that came to Jerusalem, but lightly tanned, leading him to believe that she had been in the city for several weeks.

"May I help you, Madame?" the priest repeated, his French highly accented and guttural.

She smiled gracefully. The man could not help but notice the sadness that played upon her lips and red-rimmed eyes, which told of an afternoon spent in tears.

"You are Father Jakob?"

"Yes," he nodded.

"I am Madame de—" she cleared her throat, "Madame Garnier. And this is my son, Jean-Paul. Sister Helena said that we should meet you."

"Ah! Sister Helena, of course. She is a kind woman, as I am sure you have discovered. You must be one of the convent's guests. And how do you like our city?"

"Very much, Father. It was overwhelming at first, but now it is a welcome reprise to a life that has been rather chaotic." The lady smiled again, the joy in her face not quite reaching her eyes.

Father Jakob turned to the small boy hiding his face on his mother's shoulder. "And what of you, Monsieur? Do you like our fair Jerusalem?"

The child peered up at the man through drooping lids, his thumb firmly ensconced in his mouth. He once again buried his face in his mother's clothing.

Madame Garnier laughed softly. "He enjoys it very much, Father. So much so, that he has run himself to the point of exhaustion today…which isn't necessarily a bad thing," she added quietly.

The priest joined her laughter. "Yes, Jerusalem does tend to overexcite the minds of our young ones. Have you taken him to see the camels at the Mount? Most children enjoy them."

The woman's smiled faltered. "A friend from home suggested that Jean-Paul would like to see the camels," she said, "but we have not found our way there. Perhaps one of these days…"

Father Jakob studied the woman's suddenly crestfallen face. She watched him from under dark lashes, as if she were waiting for him to say something in particular. What it was, he could not guess.

If she is the eccentric widow that Sister Helena has spoken of, then her recent loss would explain the sadness, he thought, wisely deciding not to press the issue.

"Perhaps you would like to hear something of the Church's history, Madame?" he ventured, gesturing to the crumbling structure around him. "It is not much to see, but has a fascinating past."

"I would like that very much, Father." She fairly pounced on his offer, as if he had voiced the very words she had been hoping to hear. Setting her small child upon the ground, she handed him a small paper bag with two candied figs and pointed to the closest pew.

"Maman would like to speak with Father Jakob for a bit. Be a good boy, and we shall see the musicians again when we leave." She watched the child haphazardly toddle towards the dark pew, and sighed in relief.

The priest held out his hand and motioned through the carved wood pews of the chapel. "The Church of the Flagellation has a rather dark history. You have been told that it stands upon the very place where Jesus Christ was lashed, then given his cross to bear?"

His story continued as he took her through the hazy past. The priest told of how the Crusaders had built churches on every holy site in Jerusalem, including the now dilapidated structure they stood in. He described how city dwellers—Christian, Jew, and Muslim alike—possessed a morbid fascination with the tiny church. According to a sinister legend circulating in the 16th century, the dark interior echoed with the crack of whips, by which, in a sordid cell, those who had whipped Jesus were themselves whipped. The holy men were quick to discourage such talk, but it continued, nevertheless.

"Of course, such a thing is nonsense," the priest quickly assured the woman. "The church's doors had been closed for so long, anything could have caused the sounds from within: the settling of stones, wild creatures who had taken residence, even the trees of the courtyard shuddering in the wind."

Mme. Garnier silently nodded along while he spoke. Her face paled as she peered through the dark recesses of the chapel, searching for the specters of the past.

"Father Jakob, Sister Helena mentioned a murder in the church that took place twenty years ago…"

Was it his imagination, or had he heard a slight tremor in her words?

"Yes, a very sad ordeal. Most do not tell of it, but over the years many legends have been woven into facts until they distorted the truth– just like the legend of the cracking whips. Therefore, I tell the story to keep the truth alive."

"I was but a friar in the monastery at the time of Father Cyril's murder. An assassin had been sent by the shah of Persia, the Turks later discovered. Many claimed that the murderer was a sorcerer who slipped through walls and whispered poison into Father Cyril's mind, until the priest no longer knew what he was doing. Others say that he wore a mask to hide the fact that he was the devil himself, come to claim the holy man's soul for his own.

"Unfortunately, all men have tendencies toward evil, even holy men. The truth is that Father Cyril gave into avarice by telling secrets. As a missionary priest, he heard an assortment of sordid confessions in Persia, some of them involving the nuances of the shah's court. In turn, he sold the confessions to the Persian court for money, with little care as to what happened to their victims. When he left the country for Jerusalem, the Ottoman Sultan, in turn, paid him for the secrets of Persian court. A dangerous game to play, you would agree—one that caught up with him, unfortunately.

"His body was found just over there, at the altar."

"Strangled…" the woman murmured, her gaze fixed upon the dark, smooth stones of the high place.

Father Jakob started and his eyes suddenly swept over the woman. "How did you know that?"

Mme. Garnier's cheeks paled at her mistake. "One of the sisters mentioned it," she said smoothly, her conscience pricked at the thought of lying to a priest. She glanced up to see whether the father believed her. He did not. With a heaviness of heart beyond her years, she fell into the half-rotted pew across from the altar and let her head fall back.

The priest studied her at length. "My daughter, if you wish to unburden your soul, you may do so. I can hear you in the confessional."

She shook her head, closing her eyes once more.

"My concern is for another, Father, not myself," she whispered tentatively.

"I will listen to your concern, whatever it may be, child," he steadily replied.

The woman stared at his patient face, determining whether she could trust the man. Something about the open honesty and complete lack of self-absorption struck a chord. Her question tumbled forth.

"Suppose a person had done some horrible things in his past. Years later, he wants to live a new life—a good one. However, the wrongs he has committed still haunt him; so much so, that he is unable to see a way to rise above them."

She looked at him intently.

Father Jakob nodded. "And you would like to know how this man can lay the past to rest?"

"Yes."

The priest peered thoughtfully at the stone altar. "I imagine it would be his responsibility to right those wrongs, in one way or another."

"In what way?"

He smiled kindly at the lady. "It would depend on what the wrong was. If a crime was committed, he might consider turning himself in for absolution, both for himself and those wronged."

The woman's eyes clouded with fear and for a moment, it seemed as though she would leap from the pew and run for the door.

"Was that not the answer you wanted to hear, daughter?" he asked quietly.

"That is not the issue," she replied, shaking her head. "What if the wrongs were not necessarily considered crimes? Say a person who had authority over the law ordered some of them. The others were casually overlooked by the Sûreté—" she chided herself softly, "—the authorities, because this person has been useful to them. But the acts were still horrible, nonetheless."

"Crime against the basic laws of man, you mean?"

The woman nodded, her anticipation of his answer palpable in the quiet church.

A movement across the blinding light of the doorway caught his attention, and he peered over the girl's shoulder to see who had entered the church. A man stared back at him, his entire person dressed from head to toe in the Mideastern black of winter. The white of his face was a stark contrast to the dark material covering his head; on second glance, however, the priest saw that it was not a pale face, but a mask…

Father Jakob stared down at the top of the woman's head, at last understanding who she was speaking of. Father Cyril's murderer…the assassin from Persia…this woman knows him…

What could he possibly want, after all these years?

When he looked up again, the man was gone.

Shaken by the ghostly apparition, he forced himself to take several deep breaths and focus on the woman's words. What was it she had just asked?

He patted his forehead, the air in the dark church stiflingly thick. "Madame, if this man you speak of desires to overcome his past, whatever it might be, he must find forgiveness for his crimes. How he is to right each wrong, well, that is for him alone to determine—I cannot answer that."

The priest looked down at the woman's crestfallen face and lifted her chin. "Do not despair, my child. God will help this man through the darkness."

"And if he believes that God has abandoned him?" she whispered.

"Then God will help him, anyway." Father Jakob smiled gently. "I rather think he has already blessed this man an angel."

­

Fury filled the masked man as he rounded the corner into the Franciscan courtyard, his long black abaya catching the wind behind him. The portion of his face not covered was distorted by rage; if one were to remove the mask and reveal the horror beneath it, it would simply complete the demon's visage.

He strode towards the daroga standing guard at the church's entrance and gripped the man by his throat, shoving him roughly against the stone wall.

Nadir gasped at the suddenness of the attack, his eyes widening with fear at the anger exuded by his friend. His hands immediately flew to his neck as he struggled to pry the iron-like fingers away.

"Sad-hezaar La'nat, you fool!" the Persian wheezed. "What in Allah's name—"

"You told her about Persia, didn't you?" the man whispered viciously into the daroga's ear. "About the shah, the killings. That is why she is inside the church—this church, of all places—weeping before a bloody priest! How very clever of you to take her into the hills, where I could not follow."

His fingers tightened as the Persian angrily fought him

"Erik, if you kill me, she will find you with my blood on your hands!"

A spark of remorse flickered in the man's gold eyes. "I have no intention of killing you, daroga," he sighed, his voice breaking with anguish. "Merde, Nadir, what were you thinking? My crimes were for me to tell, not you!"

The daroga felt Erik's grip slacken and he wrenched the hand away. Spinning out from the wall, he turned upon the man.

"How dare you threaten me! A man who has been your only friend through these years! It was out of friendship that I told Christine those things."

"I would hate to be your enemy, daroga," the masked man lifelessly rejoined.

Nadir scoffed at his words. "You left her in my care, while you went to search for Sergei Dagaev! Or perhaps you have forgotten our agreement? And as she was under my care, I chose to tell her of Persia. She has a right to know, Erik; if you had remained in Paris instead of following her to London, it would have been different."

"If I remember correctly, Nadir, it was you who encouraged me to go to her in the first place!"

The Persian huffed in frustration, his patience with the man at last exhausted. "And it was the right thing to do. But now you are a part of her life again…and her son's. I won't have you toy with the child's affections as you did with Reza. The slightest bit of attention from you, and Reza talked of nothing else for hours at a time."

Erik's eyes flashed heatedly, the daroga's words hitting their mark. "Is that what this is about? You still despise me for your son's death, and you have decided to exact your revenge?"

Nadir Khan stared at his friend, his expression one of angry disbelief. He closed his jade eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, cooling his boiling blood. When he opened them again, they were filled only with misery.

Erik immediately regretted his cruel remark.

"You can be heartless, du stæm. And then you can be the best of men. My Reza worshipped you, so I will forgive your thoughtlessness. You only did for my child what I could not bring myself to do." Nadir pressed a hand to his heart as the pain of his loss throbbed in his chest.

The masked man extended a concerned hand, then slowly let it fall to his side. "I am sorry for the pain I have caused you, daroga," he mumbled remorsefully. "I can imagine why you hate me for what I did."

Nadir turned sad eyes to the street just beyond the courtyard, following the movements of the children darting in and out of the stalls, weaving through the legs of the adults. He remembered his own child's bright eyes, and how they had peacefully closed after Erik mixed a drink that would make him sleep...

The older man sighed, shaking his head wearily. "He was dying an agonizing death, Erik, and you lifted the burden of decision from my shoulders. The father in me will always bless and curse you for what you did. Perhaps some day you will understand this…"

"Khan!"

Both men whirled around at the sound of the loud, enthusiastic voice, startled to find that its owner was less than three feet tall. The child thrust his arms into the air, demanding to be picked up like his Maman had instructed.

"I want up!"

The Persian smiled and swung Jean-Paul into his arms, tousling his curls as the boy settled into his robes.

"Did your mother send you to me, little one?"

The child laughed with delight and tried to stick his dusty fingers in the older man's mouth. Nadir clamped his lips shut.

A slight movement over the Persian's shoulder drew the boy's attention away from the game. As he peered past the keffiyeh clothto the masked person underneath it, his face lit with joy and his hands shot out from the daroga's neck, wildly reaching for the newly discovered man. It was all Nadir could do to avoid the swinging fists of the little boy, so frantic was he to escape to a different set of arms.

"I want go—Now!"

Erik quickly stepped forward and lifted the eager child from his friend's embrace.

"Hello Jean-Paul," he murmured. "Your words have improved since the last time I saw you."

The boy happily clung to his neck and for a moment, the man felt his heart tighten within his chest. As the boy continued to hold him for an uncomfortable length of time, however, he found himself suspended between clutching Christine's little son closer and passing him back to the more experienced Persian. It did not take him long to decide.

"Pa-pa!" the toddler cried enthusiastically.

Erik gaped at him in utter shock, unable to put two coherent words together.

Jean-Paul laughed and swatted a baby palm against his white mask, accidentally knocking the cover slightly astray. Erik cursed silently and settled it back into place, relieved that his face had not been exposed to the boy's curious eyes. He held Jean-Paul and his prying fingers as far from his person as possible. The daroga's low chuckle burned his ears.

"Did you teach him to say that?" Erik whispered accusatorily. "Did Christine?"

Nadir held up his hands in innocence. "I can assure you, du stæm, that neither I nor the boy's mother taught him such depravity! I only know that he began to call you by your present title not long after you left London."

Erik glared at him in disbelief. "That cannot be possible. Christine would have corrected his mistake by now! Why the devil would she—"

The Persian motioned for him to lower his voice. "If you do not speak more quietly, she will be able to explain her motives face to face." He paused for a moment in thought, then smiled. "I am inclined, however, to believe that that is exactly what should be done."

Erik stared at the boy in his arms, studying his features with trepidation. Black, wispy hair…delicate nose and forehead…clear blue eyes brimming with innocence, just as his mother's once had.

Just as hers had done, before I destroyed the innocence in them.

A low, serious voice broke into his ruminations. "You need to speak with her, Erik—it is time. This woman and her son care for you—take heed, or you shall lose them."

The masked man pressed his unmarred cheek to the soft curls on the boy's forehead, inhaling the childlike smell of powder mingled with perspiration from an afternoon of play. This child should have been mine, he wistfully pondered, soaking up the indefinable feel of the boy for as long as possible. He sighed heavily and passed Jean-Paul back to the arms of his sober friend, resisting the toddler's protests.

"One cannot lose something one never had, Nadir," the man replied lifelessly. "They deserve more than I can give them."

Nadir stared at the man in disappointment, hovering on disgust. "You are right," he succinctly replied. "They deserve better."

Christine lay awake in her bed, though the hour was well past midnight. Her mind and body were clenched tightly in fear as she listened to the curtains lightly flapping in the night air, waiting for the sound to come again. The rustle of a cloak, quiet footsteps upon the stone floor…

Someone is watching me.

She could feel the eyes upon her, just over her shoulder. What would they do if they knew she was awake? Fisting her fingers underneath the light blanket, she concentrated on steadying her breathing, giving the appearance that she was in the midst of a deep sleep.

The porcelain pitcher, next to the bed.

If she could force herself to spring forward, grasp its handle, and swing it over the head of whoever was standing at her back…

Without pausing for further reflection, she dove for the empty pitcher. She only managed to pick it up, however, before a vice-like grip closed over her wrist. Another strong arm came around her waist from behind and clamped a hand over her mouth. She screamed into the cold fingers, her cries hopelessly muffled as she wildly fought for freedom. Seized with panic, she waited for the inevitable rope to tighten around her neck…

"Angel, don't be frightened," the man whispered fiercely into her ear, his arm tightening around her body. "I did not know that you were awake, or I would have—"

Nightmares of Mas Quennell's brutal lasso were swept away by the beautiful voice.

Christine sobbed in relief and went limp, the porcelain falling from her hand into the folds of the bedding. Twisting around in his embrace, she flung her arms about her angel's neck and buried her face in the rough material of his abaya. He started in surprise. Slowly, cautiously, his arms wrapped around her shoulders; she could feel his heart pounding within his chest.

"You have come back to me," the woman murmured and fell against his thin frame, sinking into the peaceful fold of her angel's wings. Smiling, she pressed her cheek to his, content in the knowledge that at that very moment, Erik was warm and alive…not some specter that would vanish when she woke.

The moment was over too soon; she reluctantly let his warmth pull away from her. Erik strode over to the window and pushed back the white curtain, glancing along the breezeway. Pulling the pane closed, he leaned against the glass for a minute to compose himself. Then he turned to face his glowing protégé, a careful mask of indifference placed upon his features.

"Light the lamp, if you will."

Christine silently rose from the bed and turned to the small table at her side. Striking a match, she lifted the glass globe from the oil lamp and touched the flame to the wick. The light flared, and she quickly adjusted it to a low flicker. She turned back to her angel, her curiosity brimming.

He stood before her, his hands clasped behind his back. The dim light cast dark contrasts across his face, so it was difficult to tell where the shadows ended and his black mask began. He peered about the small room, grimacing at the cracked walls and ancient cast-iron stove. There was no furniture, save for a scratched set of drawers and a single wooden bed; even those two pieces barely fit in the scant space of the bedroom. A cursory glance into the adjoining room revealed a tiny bathroom with a metal tub and chamber pot. He shook his head.

"Nadir could have found something a bit more accommodating," he grumbled.

"Henri said the same thing."

The man's face grew dark and she covered the smile that played upon her lips.

"You look very well, despite fending off daily attacks from that brainless avocat," Erik muttered cynically. "I could effectively put an end to that problem without killing the boy, if you would allow me."

The young woman smiled at her teacher's kind offer. "Thank you, Erik, but I'd rather Henri remain intact. His complaints would only increase ten-fold if you were to …injure him."

Shrugging his shoulders, he smirked at Christine's words. "All the same, you need only ask…"

She shook her head. "Anyway, the convent is fine—whatever it lacks in convenience, it makes up for in atmosphere. And the sisters really are very generous…"

Christine watched as the man inattentively leaned against the bedpost, his intelligent eyes still peering about the dimly-lit room.

"Erik," she whispered nervously, "did you have a specific purpose for coming here, or is this merely a social visit?"

Starting as if she had suggested some shocking thing, he strode forward, took her wrist, and stood her in the center of the shabby area rug.

"As a matter of fact, I did," he replied brusquely. "Sing something for me. Not too loudly—I'd rather not wake that prying maid of yours."

"Sing?" Christine stared at him incredulously. "Erik, it is the middle of the—" A smile slowly spread across her face as she realized what she had been about to declare. Of course it is the middle of the night, she mused. When else would my teacher come to me, asking for my song?

"What would please you, Angel?" she quipped, the laughter in her eyes veiled by the darkness of the hour.

He waved his hand about impatiently. "Nothing too strenuous. Your voice will be too weak for anything of consequence. I only ask, because I have trouble hearing you in my head when I write." He cleared his throat and turned away from her. "You see, I no longer know what your voice sounds like after…"

"After the attack?" Christine offered, her heart flipping as she watched her teacher's back stiffen.

"Yes, after the attack," he replied coolly, the agitation in his voice barely perceptible.

The slight waver, however, was enough to let Christine know that her angel was still greatly shaken by the ordeal. She remembered Nadir's words to her earlier that day… He only sees you, nearly dead with his lasso around your throat. With a soft sigh, she crossed the room to her teacher's side. Placing a hand delicately between his protruding shoulder blades, she waited until the muscles relaxed to her touch.

"Erik, what would you like me to sing?" she again asked quietly.

He deliberated for a moment. "A Fauré, I think. Mid-range, not terribly difficult—nothing above a D for now."

Christine nodded and took a few steps back, her knees quaking at the thought of once more singing under her teacher's scrutinizing gaze. Painfully aware of the fact that she hadn't properly sang in four years, she lifted her chin and tried not to look as ridiculous as she felt. She bit the tip of her tongue to wet her dry mouth.

The first soft strains spun from her throat easily enough, and as she grew more confident, she granted the notes a bit more freedom. On the first simple leap from an E to a high C, however, her voice broke horribly and her hand flew to her throat in embarrassment. She glanced at her teacher in dread, fearful of his reaction to her pathetic instrument.

Erik gave no sign of displeasure—none that she could ascertain in the low light, anyway. He simply circled her still form, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with his thin hands, then motioned for her to start again.

"Begin with 'les lévres effleurent,' a half-step lower this time."

"Down here, lips fade

And leave nothing of their velvet,

I dream of kisses that last forever!

Down here, all men weep

For their friendships or their loves…"

The singer moved through the phrase again, her confidence once again rising as the notes sounded normal upon her ears. As she neared the leap, though, her surety began to wane. Erik must have sensed her fear as well, for his hand suddenly came around her waist and pressed against the muscles under her rib cage.

"Christine, your shoulders are rising! You should be singing from here, not from your chest—Keep going—did I tell you to stop?" he commanded.

With each minor correction, her voice became clearer and richer. When the last phrase of the songs sustained into nothing, the woman relaxed her posture and turned to the masked man, her entire being giddy from the exhilarating music. A silly grin spread across her face as she took in the serious demeanor of her teacher.

"You really have nothing to grin about, Madame," Erik said sharply. "You barely have an upper range left, your tone is rough, your pitch is off, and your breathing is atrocious. It is obvious that your voice has been neglected, even before the required respite after your attack. And you have no muscle strength whatsoever, which leads me to believe that you haven't sang at all since you left the opera."

As he spoke, his voice grew harsher and more irritated.

"When you told me that your song had left you, I thought you were speaking figuratively. Good God, have you really not sung since your performance in Don Juan Triumphant!? Years of training, simply thrown out the window—what the devil are you laughing at?"

The woman's grin widened to ridiculous proportions. If she did not love him so well, she might have been crushed by his criticism. Stepping forward, she placed a finger lightly upon her maestro's lips to silence his tirade.

"I smile because I have missed my Angel of Music…and my friend," she added softly. "Please tell me that you have managed to find something worth salvaging in my voice."

The man sighed deeply. "The rasp seems to be fading. I must say that your throat is in better condition than I dared to hope for; it appears to be healing very well. Perhaps with time and careful practice, you might regain some of what you lost."

"It is healing because I have had no one to argue with these past two months," she laughed, the corners of her mouth dimpling. "Your absence has done a world of good for my poor vocal chords."

Erik's gold eyes flared with amusement. "Insolent child! You dare to abuse me, when I only offer you the very best of guidance?" He lightly smoothed the dimple with his thumb.

"I am hardly a child, Erik," the woman teased.

And then her smile faded as the man's gaze abruptly sobered, fairly crackling in its intensity.

"No," he murmured, "you are not a child, are you Christine?"

Something in the way his beautiful voice whispered her name was disconcerting. Suddenly, she was painfully aware of the tension in the air… the lateness of the hour…weeks with only the ghost of his touch… the firm bed, just feet behind her…

The Comtesse felt her ears burn in embarrassment as he fixed his eyes upon her lips, his hard gaze only straying from their softness to briefly flick over her body. Her angel must have seen something of her distress, for his brow furrowed and he broke the concentrated stare, his hand dropping to his side. Moving towards the bed, he was careful to sidestep her trembling frame as he lifted the light blanket from the top.

"The night air makes you shiver," he said hoarsely, and dropped the blanket over her shoulders. One long finger lightly grazed her arm and she had to clasp her hands together to keep from reaching out and grasping it. She murmured a word of thanks and pulled the quilt about her body, her eyes following the silhouette that moved past her. As he retreated to a chair in the far corner of the room, she couldn't help but notice that he put as much distance between himself and her as possible.

Erik brooded for a good several minutes, his thin fingers thoughtfully steepled under his chin. While the lack of words did not seem to bother him, Christine felt anything but comfortable in the heavy, suffocating silence. At last, she could bear the weight no longer.

"Erik, do you have anything else you would like to discuss with me? Another song, or a ballet, perhaps? If not, I wish to return to bed. My attention will be of no use to you, if you plan to remain silent for the rest of the night."

Her cynical words brought the masked man out of his trance and his eyes snapped to hers.

"Are you aware that your son believes I am his 'Papa'?" he asked coolly, his face betraying no emotion.

The young mother nodded, her lips trembling slightly at the abruptness of his question.

"And you have chosen not to correct him?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders indifferently, struggling to hide her disappointment at his words. This was not the reaction from him she had hoped for.

"Christine, you must do something about your son's misconceptions."

She glanced towards the floor sheepishly, her eyes hidden by dark lashes. "Must something be done about it?"

Erik stared at her incredulously. "Is there any doubt? I am not his father—Raoul de Chagny is! I had no part in your son's creation, and you cannot possibly entertain the idea of letting him believe otherwise."

Christine straightened her spine indignantly. "It really wasn't that unreasonable of an idea, Erik. Perhaps you may have forgotten in your long absence, but my son's father is dead. Jean-Paul will have little to no memory of him—he is too young. But he does have memories of you! Maybe it was foolish of me to do so, but I wanted him to hold on to the thought of a 'Papa' a little longer."

Her breath caught and she swallowed against the lump in her throat.

"I suppose I wanted to hold on to the thought of a 'Papa' for my son, as well," she added quietly.

Her teacher leapt from his chair and paced about the room like a caged animal waiting for his prison door to slide open. When freedom did not present itself, however, he at last turned to the woman silently observing him.

"Christine, I am the last person you should want as a father for Jean-Paul," he said bluntly. "I am a selfish, jealous creature by habit and a murderer many times over, as Nadir so kindly explained to you today. And while I have more patience for children than I do for adults, it is still very little."

He intently studied his hands, willing his voice to remain steady.

"Why you would want me to have anything to do with your son after what you discovered of my past, I cannot say. Perhaps you still hold on to some blissful idea of saving me, when I knowingly threw away redemption long ago. I have nothing to offer him…not even a face…"

Christine gently shook her head, her angel's self-deprecation nothing new to her ears. "I am well aware of your so-called flaws, Erik, and I'm sure Jean-Paul will soon be acquainted with them, before long. That is," she added, "if you choose to be a part of his life."

The Comtesse watched bemusedly as shock suffused his features. Apparently, the last thing her angel had expected her to do was make light of his woes.

If he had said these things before the London attack, perhaps I would have burst into tears, she pondered. However, life is too short to be spent crying over the things we cannot change, when there is the future to look forward to.

She leveled her gaze at the confused man, her demeanor straightforward and no-nonsense. "I have heard all of your objections, Erik. But the fact still remains that you care about my son—that is why you are trying to detach yourself from him. That is why you have detached yourself from me, as well…but that is beside the point."

"Christine, this is hardly—" he cajoled, but she held up her hand.

'Now, please tell me what you can offer my son." She held her breath, her heart pounding as she waited for his response.

He sighed resignedly, the urge to fight the matter giving way to his desire for her happiness. "I can try to see him twice a month at a time and place of my choosing, preferably away from the convent. I want as few people as possible to know I am here in Jerusalem."

He looked at her pointedly.

"And I will only do this on the condition that you tell him I am not his father."

Christine began to protest, but he quickly silenced her.

"This is a fair compromise, Madame. The day may come when my past in Persia or Paris returns to claim me, and I am forced to leave him behind. I'll not have him believe his own father deserted him."

The mother nodded her acceptance. "Very well. I shall tell Jean-Paul the truth."

In good time, she silently added, watching as her angel strode towards the door. She smiled ironically at the man, not quite daring to give voice to her afterthoughts. If she had her way, the entire argument would be moot before long.

"Well, now that this mess is somewhat cleared, I will say goodnight." He nodded to the woman and quickly escaped through the door.

As she watched Erik slip into the night, it struck her that he had not brought up the one thing she had wished him to. Dashing into the breezeway, she followed him to the rooftop terrace and grasped the corners of his black thob, just as he was about to swing over the convent edge.

Thrown off balance, the man's arms flailed about and he was forced to leap down from the ledge. He rounded on the woman, his face furrowing in anger.

"Have you lost your mind, Christine? You nearly sent me flying over the side of the building!"

"You forgot to ask about Persia," she whispered breathlessly, her fingers clinging to the dark wool of his abaya, slowly drawing him closer.

He tried to pry her hands from his clothing. "I have told you time and again, I no longer speak of Persia. If you have any questions, go to your Persian—he seems more than willing to feed your appetite for morbidity."

She searched his eyes, trying to hide her amusement at his irrational jealousy. "You are not in the least bit curious to know my thoughts?" His young protégé smiled and held fast to his cloak, refusing him the quick escape that he desired.

The masked man sighed, his hands dropping to his sides. "Christine, you reacted exactly as I expected. You listened the daroga's tale, packaged in pretty ribbons to appease your delicate sensitivities. Afterwards, you went to the first church you could find, cried at the confessional, and poured out your heart to the priest—"

Erik's words were immediately silenced as his angel's hands pulled his face down and her lips gently brushed the corner of his mouth, just under his mask. His entire being went rigid under the soft burn of her body, the shock of her tauntingly light caress driving all common sense from his mind. As her lips played upon his, fire slowly consumed him until he felt the edge of pain. The flames licking higher, he threaded his fingers in her dark tangles of hair and tried to press his mouth to hers.

Before the fire could be quelled, Christine abruptly pulled away. Her angel frowned in protest and lowered his head again, but she neatly dodged his advance. Laying a palm on his chest, she drew his ear to her lips.

"Are you sorry for the murders, Erik?" she murmured.

The man swallowed, his head pounding from the light scent of lavender. "I am sorry they have hurt you, my angel."

Her demeanor swiftly became icy, causing her spine to chill under his fingertips. Surely he must feel remorse for what he has done, she thought incredulously. Sympathy and fury warred within her, each struggling for its rightful place in her heart. This time, fury won.

"Since you will not ask, I shall tell you what I have learned of your experiences in Persia," she whispered, her words warm and lethal. "You have lived a difficult, tragic life—that is true—I wept when I heard of it. However, you also enjoyed playing games with lives." She turned frosty blue eyes upon the man, their depths sharp and calculating. "You see people as pieces you can move across a board, cornering the pawns one by one, until you have captured the queen. Well, I refuse to be one of your game pieces, Erik."

His face blanched in bewilderment. "Christine, I am not playing games with you," he stated, her words stirring a baffling resentment within him that could find no familiar outlet. The barely visible bruises that still dwelled upon her neck caught his eyes, the light scarring a permanent reminder of what had nearly been destroyed.

Forcing his anger to cool, he spoke again, his timber smooth and low. "The last thing I want is to see you injured again."

She shook her head, her eyes sparking defiantly. "You are playing a game, Erik, though many of your games have become so real, you cannot recognize them for what they are. What else could tonight be? You hide from me for two months, only to secretly follow me about the city every day. On a whim, you manifest like a ghost in my bedroom and demand that I sing for you, all the time fiddling precariously with your own version of seduction."

She lightly traced a finger along the edge of his mask, feeling his heart beat madly under her palm. "You will find, however, that I have become a worthy match since our days at the opera. I believe I know my opponent much better than I did then."

The masked man wrenched away from his angel's intoxicating embrace and glared at her heatedly, the molten gold mingling with his unabashed obsession for her.

"You wish to join me in a game, Christine?" he snarled, his lips curling mockingly. "So be it! You shall be the one to lose, in the end. I have a great deal more experience than you in this type of diversion, my angel, and I highly doubt that you shall see me fall."

And with those parting words, he swept an arm about her waist, forcefully pressing his mouth to hers. She was bruised by his sudden intensity, thrown off-kilter as his cold fingers dug into the small of her back.

One brief, crushing kiss…he branded her with the heat of it, leaving a bold warning upon her lips.

And then he released her, the kiss over before it began. All she could think to do was breathe…breathe, and watch his retreating form as he fled into the night.

An artful smile played upon her tingling lips.

"I would rather not see you lose, Erik," she murmured into the darkness. "Because if you win this game of ours, we both shall win."

Her first move had been to win Erik for her son. She already knew what her second move would be—to wait. Wait until Nadir placed the punjab lasso in her hands. And then her strategy would truly begin.

A/N: Again, thanks for reading and writing such motivating reviews! I listen to all feedback, both good and bad.