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 the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.

Side Notes:

Thank you to Phantomy-Cookies for sub-betaing! You are the dessert in a world full of blah food. Thanks also to The Scorpion for sub-betaing! (bows to the First Lady of Morbidity)

Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)

The Madness of Reason

Twang…twang…

Erik randomly plucked at the strings of Charles Daaé's violin, breaking the silence with the dissonant melody. Leaning into the veranda chair, he settled his feet atop the roof ledge and tried to relax in the warm, April sun. Boredom had begun to settle into his mind. He abhorred boredom; the sheer lack of action was extremely perturbing.

She was late. Jean-Paul's lesson should have commenced a full half-hour ago, yet there was no sign of his young pupil. Christine had taken him to see the Borochovs and their babies in the Jewish Quarter, then to the orphanage; Erik had originally intended to accompany them, but a foul mood and a particular aversion to society that morning had induced the exasperated woman to leave him behind and take old Norry in his place.

At first he had been relieved to be excused from his duties; the prospect of a morning in peaceful solitude was immensely pleasing. With Nadir and Papi away at the orphanage as usual and Henri David keeping to his room, the chances of another human being interrupting his seclusion were slim.

Erik set the violin aside and rose from his chair, peering down upon the street below him. The markets were alive with activity. This was the day before the Christian holy week began, and many of the faithful were crowding into the markets, making their preparations—buying their food staples, candles, and such. If Christine and Jean-Paul were wading through the swarms of people, Erik would not be able to spot them. He sighed and fell back into his chair.

Despite their need for every inch of space to accommodate the worshippers, the sisters of the Ecce Homo managed to leave the occupants' apartments upon the fourth floor untouched, save for the scrubbings and pale pink flowers. This was a concession indeed, especially during the onslaught of the holy week. Erik wondered just how much of his Persian coffer's money the daroga had seen fit to bestow upon the pilgrimage house for their unobtrusiveness. It had to have been an extraordinary amount, and his funds were not bottomless. The last thing he wanted to do was touch a franc of Chagny money—it was out of the question. A withdrawal from Christine's account, even through the Sûreté, would cast unwanted eyes in their direction, and even if that were not the case, Erik would be damned before he would let his wife support him with Raoul's riches.

Raoul de Chagny…

Erik shook the persistent voice from his mind. Chagny was dead—that was the uncluttered truth of it. He had come to this particular conclusion that night in March, and he would reach the same conclusion again; there was no sense in dwelling upon it.

He glanced at his watch again. Christine was now fifteen minutes late. With an exasperated sigh, the man smoothed his hand over the violin one more time, then carefully placed it in its case along with the bow. Pushing himself up from the chair, he circled the wrought iron table, gathering up the sheets of music, notes, memory cards and pictures he had painstakingly created for use in the toddler's lessons. The teacher did not tolerate tardiness, wife or no. Cramming the papers into his satchel, he cautiously made his way to Christine's bedroom, glancing down the breezeway to ensure that no sisters were present on the fourth floor.

It was ridiculous, all of it—pretending to be his wife's uncle. He felt like some petulant schoolboy every morning when he slipped from Christine's side and stealthily returned to his own room, messing the covers on his bed to create the appearance that he had slept there. The sisters usually left him alone; angry stares and sharp words had produced the desired effect from the start, and the nuns no longer bothered with cheeriness and smiles. They simply saw him as M. Nitot's standoffish brother, and left it at that.

The man laid the violin and papers on the shelf, and then settled onto the bed, lost in thought.

How long could they live in the Ecce Homo convent, however, before circumstances called for yet another relocation? Perhaps that time had already arrived. Their patchwork household had been in Jerusalem for nearly four months, and neither had heard nor seen any sign of the men that had hunted them in London. A single correspondence from Murray via the H.M.S. Inflexible assured him that there had been no resurfacing of the Fraternité since the Chagny household's flurried departure in January. Ze'ev and Rivka Borochov had managed to live undetected in the city for several years now—was it not possible that he and Christine could do the same, as well? They could purchase a small residence in one of the quarters and live quietly with their music as husband and wife.

Or perhaps we could move to a different city entirely—start a new life. Venice… Amsterdam…New York, even. Gothenburg or Upsala? Christine might enjoy returning to her childhood Sweden.

Prague?

Erik grimaced at the thought of what—or who, rather—might await them there. Leaping up from the bed, he strode over to the bureau, slid open a drawer, and pulled out the crumpled note that he had carefully tucked under his clothing. He smoothed out the paper and read the words again:

Little Lotte,

Death is but an illusion. When this ordeal is over, come find me. Forgive me for the madness. Ceska Obchodni Banka, Praha, Bohemia. Safe Box number 665.

-R

The note was as much a mystery to him as it had been the first time he read it. Now, at least, he knew where it came from. The night he had found it had been a sleepless one. Christine was deeply entrenched in a dream—thankfully, not one of the nightmares that plagued her so often. Careful not to wake her, he had risen from their bed, lit the oil lamp upon the small table, and made his way back to the bureau. He opened the drawer that contained her personal mementos…

And he had done so many times since, hoping that her possessions would reveal some small detail he had overlooked before. Guilt suffused his conscience as he once more rifled through her things, looking for the brooch she had spoken of to Ze'ev—now a familiar sight to him. He knew it was wrong of him to do so. As her husband, she should be able to trust him not to invade her privacy without permission. Yet every time he went through her belongings, it was because he found himself driven by something greater than the desire to do what was right: self preservation.

The piece of Bohemian jewelry was a rather grandiose affair, just erring on the other side of gaudy. Certainly not anything that Christine would ever wear; she enjoyed her pretty, dainty things, but nothing so bold as this.

The brooch consisted of a large cluster of garnets fashioned into a floral shape, set intricately in gold.

Garnets for eternal love, Erik smirked bitterly, and then flipped back the lid.

Two portraits. On the right was an older gentleman whom Erik presumed to be the elder Daaé. Here was a face worth examining. The portrait itself looked as though it had been done from a carte-de-visite rather than a larger painting. His eyes were like his daughter's, though the rest of him was classic Scandinavian…flaxen hair, pale features…Christine must resemble her mother more than her father, he speculated. World-weary lines were etched upon his face, though he did not look sad. His eyes had an unearthly quality about them—far away and whimsical, as if he were lost in a perpetual state of fancy.

It is no wonder his daughter believed the Angel of Music nonsense for as long as she did, he pondered, touching his finger to the familiar glazed eyes.

Raoul's was on the left, his face set in such utter seriousness, it was almost comical—his boyish features seemed much more suited to laughter than to solemnity. Erik tried to think of the last time he had seen Chagny. It was the day the notice in the Epoque had appeared: "Erik is dead." The Comte had come in Christine's place to consecrate her lunatic teacher to the ground once and for all. Because Erik had dismantled his torture chamber, the boy and his two servants had been allowed to wander the lair and lakeside, searching for his body.

He had clung to the shadows, following Raoul along the water's edge. The boy had been alone—his small entourage was amusing themselves in the strange underground home—and Erik could have easily taken his life. And then Chagny had turned around and stared directly at him. His youthful face had been solemn then, as well.

Erik had retreated into the darkness before he gave in to his black desire to harm the boy...

He slid a fingernail under the portrait's gold setting and pried it from the brooch, once again studying the secret compartment Christine had spoken of. He held it up to the light from the window—it was still there. A telltale red, waxy substance stuck to the gold of the compartment—the same wax that had been used to seal the note. At some point, the note must have escaped the brooch and fallen under the bureau without Christine's knowledge. Thank God she had not seen it…

…And she shall never see it…not until I know for certain whether the boy is alive or dead.

Erik unceremoniously snapped the brooch shut and returned it to the bureau drawer, suppressing the feelings of dread that had taunted him for a month now. Pulling the door open, he glanced over the rooftop veranda and breezeway. Still no sign of Christine or Jean-Paul. Concern began to creep into his mind. Striding to the edge of the roof, he anxiously peered down at the orphanage, his eyes seeking out his wife. He could see children darting back and forth in the courtyard, playing some sort of game. There was the daroga…and Jean-Paul. He breathed a sigh of relief. Christine would be there with her son; she had simply lost track of time.

Mon Dieu, how that woman can exasperate a man, he glowered.

The man stalked back to their room, shut the door, and settled into the chair next to the window. Pushing back the crisp white curtain to watch the comings and goings upon the fourth floor, he took up his newest acquirement from the Ma'ase SheHaya Bookstore: Crime and Punishment. Ze'ev Borochov had an irrepressible sense of irony. The man was intelligent and intuitive as well. He had handed the Russian novel to the masked man with a wry smile, enigmatically suggesting that he might find Dostoyevsky's musings upon "the promise of happiness through suffering" of interest.

Erik smirked as he flipped open the book. He had read Crime and Punishment once, before he had met Christine. There were often days when his music would not come to him and nothing of interest was occurring in the aboveground world of the opera. It was in those times that he turned to his books. Admittedly, he had read the novel as he read the rest of the works of man—with calm detachment, merely as an observer studying the ways of a world that did not include him. Still, Raskolnikov's story had pricked what little conscience he had left; arrogance and scorn for the human race; alienation and insanity; his struggle to justify murder; and subsequent prison sentence. The story's parallels to his own life had been overwhelming at the time. Therefore, he had wholly scoffed at the work, labeling it as pious and not worth his effort.

As he read it again, however, he found himself identifying with the character in a way he had not been able to before. Raskolnikov's salvation came through his love for a good woman; it gave him something to hope for. In the end, that hope could have damned him just as it saved him.

Erik ran his fingers over the Russian words, unable to absorb them at the moment. His thoughts turned back to his wife—his own salvation.

What would happen to our marriage if Raoul de Chagny were truly alive? Erik had thought through every single aspect that contradicted the possibility to the point of obsession. It wasn't the act of faking a death that seemed improbable—the magician of Nijni-Novgorod knew that it could be done. The gypsies had a great many secrets—a potion derived from a flowering plant in northern Africa was one of them. One would appear as though they were dead, their breath and heart slowed to an imperceptible rate. And with the help of a well-paid doctor and undertaker, a person could disappear forever. No, Raoul did not have to be intelligent to fake his death; there were those that could do it for him for the right price.

The greatest contradiction was that it simply wasn't consistent with the boy's character. No matter how much he abhorred Chagny for marrying his angel, Erik knew he was an honorable man. He had loved his wife and son. He was duty-bound to them, just as he was duty-bound to testify at the Trial of the Fourteen. Why would a man who valued honor fake his death and go into hiding, thus abandoning all that made him who he was?

Then again, what if there was no other way? The hated voice of dissention slinked from his subconscious once more. What if he had been forced to abandon his testimony, go into hiding, and had been planning to send for Christine and Jean-Paul all along? Didn't the note say as much? Yet Christine and Jean-Paul have been secreted away since the end of the trial…if Raoul was looking for them, he would not have been able to find them in London or Jerusalem. I have seen to it that they are nearly impossible to discover…

Erik shook his head, chiding himself for the moment of weakness, and desperately clung to his greatest ally: reason. There was the fact that Chagny had sent Christine to his archrival for help, knowing full well that her angel still had a hold over her mind. If he were alive, why would he let her return to her teacher? No husband could ever be so secure in a woman's love as to purposefully drive his wife to the protective arms of another man without worrying that she would remain there permanently. Even the sainted Raoul would not do such a thing.

Isn't it possible that Chagny truly had intended for his clever rival to put together the pieces of this puzzle, never assuming that his beloved wife would marry the monster she had fled those years ago? What if he wanted his wife and child back? What if…

What if Christine chose to return to her son's father?

Sliding thin fingers through his black hair, he sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair to peer out the window. The rooftop was still empty.

The man growled in frustration. Something did not make sense; there was a piece missing to this grand plan of the Comte's that would cause the others to fall into place, he was sure of it. He just couldn't place his finger on it.

There can be no certainty here in Jerusalem. Unfortunately, it looks as though a trip to Prague is required. Erik closed his eyes and sighed, willing away the distasteful thought.

OOOOO

"Albi tlawwa ya wa'di… Baddi tabibi ye dawini…"

The small group of Palestinian children were scattered about the ivy-clad courtyard of the orphanage, their voices rising and falling to the gentle rhythm of the old folk song. Some of them clapped and shook their hands; others were content to sway back and forth to the music, too shy to draw attention to themselves. All glanced at Madame Garnier out of the corners of their eyes, seeking her approval.

"Boset habibi teshfini ya eni…"

Nadir slipped into the courtyard as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the children's performance. He spotted Christine sitting upon the stone bench as the boys and girls merrily sang for her, her eyes shining with delight. It was well past the time for Jean-Paul's music lesson to begin. Her child, however, sat upon her lap with rapt attention, soaking in every detail of the song.

The Persian strode over to the bench and silently nodded to the woman; she smiled up at her friend and slid over to make room for him.

"What are they saying?" Christine quietly asked.

"Wel-bulbul nagha 'ala ghusn el-foll… Ah ya sha'i'an-nu'mani… Asdi ala'i mahbubi… Beyn el-yasmin wer-rehani ya eni beyn…"

Nadir listened to the words, then whispered the translation. "'The nightingale sang on the stem of the double jasmine, O anemones, O anemones. I intend to find my beloved, Between the jasmine and the basil.' It is called 'El Bulbul', or 'The Nightingale.' A man is ill, and no doctor can cure him. Only the kiss of his beloved can heal him." He chuckled softly. "Only it is Friday, the holy day, so he will not kiss his beloved."

Christine laughed lightly with the daroga. Several of the children glanced in their direction and beamed, their spirits caught up in the joy of the song. One bold eight-year-old boy winked at the young woman and trilled an "r" in a birdlike fashion, causing the toddler to squeal and clap with joy. His mother smiled thoughtfully at her son, pressing her lips to the top of his dark head.

"Jean-Paul seems to be enjoying himself," Nadir said. "However, it does not take much to please him, so it seems."

Christine nodded. "He loves music. My greatest regret is not bringing it into his life sooner; an unpardonable crime, as his mother."

"He is only two and a half, Madame. I believe that it is not too late for him to learn. Speaking of learning…"

"His music lesson? Yes, I was just getting ready to take him back to Erik for it. The sisters gave him permission to play the convent's organ for Jean-Paul, and I dare say that my husband has been looking forward to it as much as my son."

The Persian flipped open his watch and held out the face for the woman to see, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "If that is that case, I should say that my friend is rather perturbed by now."

Christine gasped and leapt up from the bench, gathering up her little boy, his dingy white horse, and the sandals he had pulled from his feet. Whirling around to flee the courtyard, she nearly flew into Sister Helena, standing just behind them.

The nun's face was pale white…her eyes wide as saucers…mouth agape as if she wanted to say something, but could not find the words.

In alarm, Nadir realized what had caused the woman's shock, just as Christine did: she had referred to Erik as her husband, and the sister had most certainly overheard it.

The flustered woman did not know what to do. She opened her mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut. Shaking her head, she darted around the old woman before any questions could ensue, sprinting through the courtyard door.

Nadir could feel Sister Helena's eyes upon him. He nonchalantly rose from the bench and followed Christine, dodging the children and their games. After the nun recovered from her shock, she would most certainly demand an explanation, and he did not want to be around for interrogation when that happened.

If they must have answers, let them go after Erik, he grinned, imagining his friend's reaction when he learned that they had been exposed as the imposturous, scheming, married couple that they were. Perhaps it will be for the best, he mused. Now Erik will have no excuse for avoiding the acknowledgment of his stepson.

A hand grasped the sleeve of his abaya, startling him from his musings. Before he knew what had happened, he found himself in possession of the very stepson. Christine pushed her son upon the Persian, along with his white toy horse.

"Thank goodness you were not still in the courtyard; I thought that Sister Helena would faint clean away!" She gave a nervous laugh. "Je suis désoleé, Nadir, but I must hurry. I need to speak with Erik before the rest of the convent discovers what we have been—" she cleared her throat delicately, "—that we are married. Papi should be in the common room with several of the children if you need help with Jean-Paul," she called over her shoulder, hurrying from the orphanage just as the sister emerged from the courtyard.

"Was that Mme. Garnier just leaving?" Sister Helena asked uneasily, her power of speech apparently restored.

The daroga nodded, pursing his lips to squelch the grin threatening to surface. "She had something that needed her attention." Jean-Paul determinedly reached for his keffiyeh; he neatly dodged the toddler's prying fingers, his eyes fixed on nun's wary face.

Sister Helena stared at the man. "The masked man is not really her uncle, is he?"

Nadir shrugged, glancing about for an escape route.

She sighed. "I thought not; I do, however, suspect he is the boy's father. Well, it is a relief to know she is not a widow, although I find it a touch disturbing that this lie has carried on as long as it has—"

"Sister Helena," the daroga interrupted. "I am sure that the lady in question will be happy to discuss this with you. Until then, I beg of you, breathe not a word of it." Before the flushed nun could respond, Nadir patted her shoulders and flew down the hallway, just as eager to evade the sister as Christine had been.

The Persian moved through the orphanage, glancing about for any sign of the maid or caretaker. For a moment, he considered returning to the convent. Knowing Erik and Christine, however, he thought it best to wait an hour or so.

"Khan!" Jean-Paul batted at the daroga's face again, demanding his attention. The man chuckled, grasped the toddler's little fist and shook it playfully. The boy squealed and squirmed in the man's arms until he was finally set upon the ground, and he scampered off towards the common room.

Nadir followed in his wake, forming "pinchers" with his hands to tease the boy. He strode into the common room, and stopped dead in his tracks.

A boy sat upon the ground, his knees tucked up to his chest. Tears streamed down his face as he bravely tried to stifle his sobs before they escaped from his lips. He could not be more than ten or eleven. Black hair, dark watery eyes and a thin frame—and he was the very image of his Reza.

Nadir Khan's breath caught in this throat. He watched as the boy bravely choked back his tears while a Palestinian woman knelt before him, carefully bandaging his foot. The child winced in pain. The Persian winced with him, pressing a hand to his heart as it ached for his lost son.

The woman murmured something to the child. Suddenly a smile spread across his face and he nodded, temporarily forgetting his throbbing ankle. She said something again, and the boy threw back his head and laughed, wiping away the tears that had spilled down his cheeks just moments ago. She laughed with him—a rich, beautiful sound that tugged at something buried deep inside the Persian. She had a lovely laugh.

Jean-Paul toddled over to the woman and pulled at her clothing. She reached out a pale hand, tenderly brushing the black curls from his forehead. Nadir started in realization; she was not Palestinian. She was Papillon Nitot.

Papi grasped the young Comte's hand and turned to face the Persian, her merry eyes peering at him from under her mendil. Blonde wisps framed her face; she pushed the strands away from her flushed cheeks and tucked them under her headscarf. Gone was the icy mask that had infused every action, every word since he had known her. She was warm, loving…a different creature from the miserable one of the fourth floor.

"Fouad was playing in the courtyard and twisted his ankle. He has been very brave, though." She nodded to the injured boy; he beamed under her praise. "I told him that he looks like a monkey when his face is scrunched up."

The daroga managed to recover from his shock, at last finding his voice. "I did not know you spoke Arabic," he said softly.

Papi laughed again. Nadir could not remember hearing her laughter before. She was very pretty when she laughed; he hoped she would do it more often, and it surprised him that he should feel so. Why had he never noticed how changed she was at the orphanage?

"Not very well at all! Fouad was probably giggling at my attempt to speak it. Father Jakob has been teaching me while the children are in their classes after you and Papa return to the convent. I wanted to be able to speak with the boys and girls because…" She glanced nervously at her feet, unsure of how to brooch the subject. "Because when the others return to Paris, I intend to stay here—at the Notre Dame de Sion."

Nadir started. "Why?" he whispered incredulously.

"Do you really need to ask why?" She raised her dark eyes to meet the Persian's. "I miss my son, M. Khan. The pain has become unbearable for me. I hear his laughter in my head; when I dream, it is of his arms about my neck, his tiny hands pressed to my face—" Her voice broke. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. "I am happy here, Monsieur, for the first time since Perri's death. At times, the children are the only thing that stands between me and madness." The woman held out her hand. "Please understand…"

He took her hand in empathy. "I understand better than you think, Mademoiselle," the man said quietly, his jade eyes reflecting her pain. "Does Christine know?"

She shook her head.

Nadir studied her face, watching as an embarrassed blush crept up her white neck and into her cheeks. At last, he released her hand. "I only ask one thing of you," he murmured.

"Yes?"

"Try to mend your friendship with Christine before you part, and put your bitter words to each other to rest. 'Write kindness in marble and write injuries in the dust.'"

Papi nodded, smiling warmly at her friend. "I shall miss your proverbs when you leave."

"Let us not talk of leaving then, Mlle. Nitot. Tell me, what other Arabic words have you learned?"

She laughed again. Nadir swore that jasmine tinged the air.

OOOOO

"Christine—"

The woman pressed her mouth to his, silencing his protest. She pulled the book from his hands and laid it aside, then settled into his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Erik shook his head and reached behind him to disentangle her hands from his hair. "You are late. Your son's music lesson was supposed to begin an hour ago."

She shrugged. "We shall simply have to reschedule it for this afternoon. Do not be sour." Burying her hands in his hair, she leaned forward and softly touched his lips again, carefully drawing him into the kiss.

Erik sighed into her mouth. I'll be damned if she knows every single one of my vulnerabilities, he wondered, understanding that he was fighting a lost battle.

"I am sorry to have worried you," she murmured, pressing her forehead to his.

He sighed again and admitted defeat. "Where is that little minion of yours?"

"I left him at the orphanage."

"Across the street?" Erik smirked. "Poor choice, my dear; they know you there, and he will be returned to you in no time, I am sure. It would have been better to have left him at the orphanage next to the Jaffa Gate."

Christine slapped him playfully. "Cruel man! I left him with Nadir. I knew that no one would be here now…"

"And finding me weak and armed merely with a book, you decided to attack me."

She grinned and leaned into him, her curls spilling about his face. "I missed my opera ghost," she murmured warmly. "Kiss me."

Erik was happy to oblige.

OOOOO

"I am afraid that I have done something rather bad." Christine pulled the blanket up over them and gazed at her husband's face, gauging his reaction to her declaration.

Erik glanced down at the woman sprawled across his chest, then let his head fall back against the pillow in laughter. "Ah! So you chose to waylay me with a preemptive strike. Brava, my angel. What have you done?"

"Sister Helena knows that you are my husband."

The man sat up abruptly, sending the woman tumbling to his side. He leapt from the bed and searched for his discarded clothing.

Christine rushed on. "It was an accident—I was speaking with Nadir, and I…I spoke before I thought. She was standing right behind us." The frazzled woman clutched at Erik's arm, her eyes pleading with his. "I know that I have put us in a dangerous position—you need not tell me so."

"Merde," Erik breathed, shaking his head. At last his shoulders slumped in resignation. "Do you wish to speak to her, or should I?"

His wife breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled. "If your idea of 'speaking with her' includes threats or lassos, then I shall deal with her. It is my mess—I can clean it up this evening."

Erik grimaced at her attempted humor and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back to their bed. At least that is one less nun we must play to, he thought begrudgingly. He ran a finger along his errant angel's spine, feeling her relax against him. He would let Christine speak with Sister Helena about keeping the marriage secret; if that did not work, there were always other methods of persuasion, though Erik was loath to frighten the poor old woman. However, he could not take any chances with their safety—not when it was their aliases that had kept them hidden so well for so long. Hidden from the Narodnaya Volya, the Fraternité…

From Raoul de Chagny?

Another wave of dejection swept through him. How could he stomach it if that boy once more snatched away everything that was dear to him? He needed reassurance…needed to know once and for all that she was his and no other's, or it would torment him until he was mad. He needed to be the only one.

"Christine…Christine…do you love me?"

His wife smiled against his chest. "Oh my angel, I do."

"Do you love me more than him?"

"More than whom?" She peered up at her husband, puzzled by his odd behavior.

"Raoul. Do you love me more than Raoul de Chagny?"

Her eyes glazed over with some unreadable expression. "Yes. I love you more than I loved Raoul, so much more. Now, no more questions please. You are frightening me."

He breathed a sigh of relief and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Do you love me more than your father?"

Christine abruptly pulled away and stared at him, trying to read his face. "Erik, why are you doing this? I do not understand—"

"Answer the question, Christine!"

"Yes, I do!" she cried, covering her face with her hands. "Please do not ask me again."

Yet Erik pressed on, ignoring her pleas for compassion. He wrapped strong, possessive fingers around her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face. She was crying. Stop…stop now, before you do something you will regret, the small voice of reason cried inside of him. You know what her answer will be…

He could not.

"And Jean-Paul…tell me that you love me more than your son."

The woman shuddered and squeezed her lids shut, several tears spilling from her lashes. The soft lines of her face deepened in pain; she turned away from his cold, driven expression.

"Christine—"

"Stop!" she shrieked, her eyes suddenly wild and angry. "Stop! No more. This is cruel, Erik. Never ask me to choose between you and my son again. I love you both."

"Christine—"

She violently pushed him away and leapt up from the bed, scooped up her dressing gown, and wrapped it around her body. Gathering up her clothing, she stared lividly at the man.

"I do not know what has been troubling you these weeks, Erik; however, you have chosen not to tell me. So tonight, I choose my son instead of you."

And with one final bruising glare, she swept from their room to that of her child's.

OOOOO

Erik flipped onto his side in aggravation, the bedding tangling about his legs. The heat of the day had long ago receded with the sun, yet he could not sleep. With the bed entirely to himself for once, he should have had no trouble finding slumber. He had slept alone all of his life; if anything, he should be restless when she was next to him.

On the nights when sleep had evaded him, he would take to roaming the streets like the ghost that he was. Perhaps he would do so now.

Pushing back the blankets once and for all, he slipped on his dark thob and abaya, carefully concealing the white of his face under his hood. Taking Christine's lasso from its hiding spot on the top of the shelves, he coiled it at his waist under his cloak, just in case it was needed. Just in case…

His heart clenched at the outside chance of using it once more. Drive the restlessness from your limbs…feel the night air against your skin and the smell of death upon the breeze…

His fingers itched for blood tonight. The fierce man strode to the door and wrenched it open, anxious to give his dangerous energy wings.

A soft moan sounded from the room next to his—Jean-Paul's room. He paused for a moment, waiting for it to come again. Nothing. With a shake of his head, he once more started into the dark.

There it was again…Christine was slipping into one of her nightmares.

"Merde. Damn!" Erik cursed quietly, his desires warring with one another. The night called to him; it pulled at his senses, breathing power and life. The need to bask in its blackness rose up in him like a wicked addiction. He would quench his demons on the streets of Jerusalem—Christine would be fine for one evening.

Another hushed sob...

Erik pressed his forehead to the cool wood of the door, listening to her voice. Her cries echoed in his mind, along with his promises.

Never leave me alone! I shall die if you do…

"Then I shall die with you," he murmured, and stepped away from the door. Wrenching the lasso from his waist, he tossed it back onto the shelf. He swung his cape from his shoulders and carelessly laid it over the chair, loosened his sandals and kicked them away, and quietly crept into Jean-Paul's room.

His wife lay on her side next to her little son, an arm draped protectively over his body. Her lips rested against his soft curls; one of his fists innocently clenched and unclenched the white cotton of her nightgown. She whimpered again and the boy stirred, hovering on the edge of consciousness.

Erik knelt next to the bed.

"Christine…Christine…"

"Mmmm."

He reached out a long finger and traced her jaw line, tugging at a wayward curl. Christine's restless body went lax at the gentle caress, and slowly, her sleepy eyes opened.

"Angel, forgive me," he murmured. "I was selfish. I swear that I shall never force you to choose between us again."

She smiled at her husband. Erik picked up her hand, entwining his fingers through hers. His eyes fell upon her sleeping boy. The child's small chest rose and fell gently as he slipped into oblivious dreams. A child…simply a little boy, innocent and artless, completely dependent upon his mother. He shook his head at the edacity of his prior actions.

"I will try to do better by your son." He thought for a moment. "Would he like to see the camels upon the Mount of Olives, do you think?" His eyes sought hers in the darkness.

Christine abruptly sat up from the bed and wrapped her arms around the man's neck, burying her face in the warmth there. At length, she pulled back.

"Yes, very much." She kissed his cheek. "Maybe you could take him tomorrow morning, while the Nitots, Henri and I attend mass. It is Palm Sunday, you know, and I would rather not have to carry Jean-Paul through the crowds of people. Unless…" She glanced up at him through lowered lashes. "…you wanted to come with us?"

Erik stared at her as if she were mad.

She shook her head, hiding her disappointment. "I thought not. It couldn't hurt to ask," she quipped, and shrugged prettily. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere. Back to bed."

Christine tensed under his hands and anxiously sucked in her lower lip, pondering some great thing. At last she whispered low words into his ear.

"Let me come to bed with you, Erik."

Her pleading eyes met his. The man sighed and pushed a dark curl behind her ear, a smile playing upon his lips.

"Of course."

He did not deserve such happiness.

OOOOO

The gatekeeper leered at the three cloaked men before him, his eyes snapping with avarice. It was a moonless night—a night that sheltered cutthroats and criminals. These foreigners would not want to wander about Suleiman's massive stone wall for too long. The Lion's Gate was the safest place to enter the city—much safer than Herod's Gate or the Damascus Gate, which were eternally haunted by the poor of Jerusalem. The strangers' expensive clothing and obvious unfamiliarity with the land would make them easy targets.

"Matha tureed?" he hissed, his gold teeth glinting in the torchlight.

The man on the right cleared his throat authoritatively and stepped forward to deal with the gatekeeper. A stream of some strange language erupted from his mouth—French, he thought. The Arab sat back and sneered at the man, shaking his head.

The thin person in the middle spat harsh words to the rambling man. He turned cold eyes upon the gatekeeper, his lips twisting malevolently, and spoke in slow, perfect Arabic.

"What the Marquis de Bourges was struggling to explain was that his brother has been kidnapped, and the perpetrators are believed to be hiding in the city. We request that you either send for, or take us to the proper Ottoman authorities at once."

"Well now," the gatekeeper smirked, "there is a price for my help. How much do you think would compensate a man for leaving his post and risking his job?"

The thin man grasped the gatekeeper by the throat before he could react. "You fool!" he growled. "This kidnapper is a dangerous killer! He has assassinated many important Turkish men in service to Persia, and he may do so again. If nothing else, tell us where to find him. He should not be difficult to find—he wears a mask."

The gatekeeper's face drained of all color. Yes, he remembered this particular man who had nearly slit his throat four months ago. How could he forget the cruel, hateful glare…cold eyes. A hand involuntarily went to his neck at the memory of the icy blade. The masked man had sliced his cheek in warning…

"Very well, Sadik," he said resolutely. For 20 liras, I shall take you to the Turks."