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 Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic".

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:)

Moments of Peace

Papi pressed her back to the rough wall, her eyes squeezed shut, fingers clinging to the cracks between the stones as she believed she would tumble to her death were she to let go. It was difficult to say how long she had stood there on the ledge of the orphanage, muscles rigid and unmoving. For a good while after the masked man's arrest, Turkish voices had sounded through the hallways, still in pursuit of the missing Persian and French woman. Gradually, however, the voiced faded into nothing as the guards moved from the building, and into other parts of the city.

And still they waited, holding their breath and praying the men were truly gone—for a good ten minutes at least—until they emerged from their perch on the ledge.

"Mlle. Nitot, may I have your headscarf?" Nadir whispered.

Papi nodded and unwound the long striped cloth from her head and neck, handing it to the man. He wrapped it around his hand and with a quick, solid punch, broke through a pane of glass and unlatched the window. Muttering an oath under his breath, the daroga slid the window open and pulled himself through, then reached out to help the woman.

"Mind the glass," he said, nodding to the floor.

Papi carefully stepped around the shards and glanced about the room, wary of any soldiers that might still be lingering in corners. They made their way through the hallways as quietly as possible—silence had descended upon the orphanage, and the slightest footfall could be heard. Laughter and squeals that normally echoed through the building were missing; Papi hoped with all of her might that this meant the children were safely tucked away.

As they crept through the courtyard, Nadir took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "They are gone," he whispered, his sad jade eyes catching hers. He smiled a weak smile, though his hunched shoulders and sagging features told her he was not necessarily pleased by it. For while the soldiers' retreat meant they were no longer in immediate danger, it also meant that Erik was now out of their reach.

Shaking out the borrowed headscarf, the Persian handed it back and told her to put it on—they were taking to the streets.

While the Via Dolorosa was always a bustling thoroughfare of the old city, as it happened to be the very path the Christ had taken to enter Jerusalem, and it was Palm Sunday—today the street was more than likely the busiest street in the entire world.

And it worked overwhelmingly to their advantage.

Though Turkish soldiers hovered in balconies, scanning the swarms of people and palm fronds, Papi and Nadir moved unnoticed through the crowds, making their way to the safest place they could think of—the Church of the Flagellation. She fervently prayed that the sanctuary was untouched.

As they neared the Franciscan courtyard, however, raised voices coming from the very sanctuary told her that her prayer was in vain. The persons were French…and one of the voices she recognized all too well. Her face contorting in fear, she turned to Nadir to warn him that they had fled straight into Mas Quennell's arms.

The Persian, however, was one step ahead of her. Grabbing her elbow, he pulled her into the narrow gap between the church and the monastery, under the cover of shadow. Silently, they listened to the cool voices floating through the open doors of the church.

"…for one who has just learned that the murderer of your predecessor has been apprehended, Father, you seem startlingly forlorn."

"…no, no…what you see is weariness, Monsieur. It has been a rather long several days, with the Holy Week upon us…"

"I was told by several that you had developed something of a friendship with the Comtesse de Chagny and her household. You are not saddened by their flight? Surely you must desire to protect them…keep their confidences?"

"…neither the Comtesse nor her household confided in me; nothing of their plight is known..."

"Do you know what I believe?" The voice changed tactics, becoming cruel, snide. "I believe that you know much more than you are letting on. You would not wish to go the way of Father Cyril, I imagine…"

Papi started at the threat, stepping out as if she meant to intervene in some way. The Persian's hand closed tightly over her shoulder and he pulled her back, breathing a quiet "shhhh" into her ear.

Silence…and at length, a quiet, sure voice. "I am not afraid to die. 'For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also aboundeth by Christ.'"

The words hung in the air, daring Mas Quennell to act upon his threat. And then there was an angry growl…the sound of a struggle…the clattering of metal upon the floor…

Papi's hand flew to her mouth, stifling the cry that rose up. A shout in the sanctuary, this time belonging to Michel David.

"Quennell, deign to control yourself, for Christ's sake! Do you want the wrath of the Sepulchre tumbling upon your head as it did the masked man's? If you kill the priest, the Christian Quarter will scream until the Turks chain you next to him!"

Another tense silence descended; the maid held her breath, waiting for the serpent to strike. Instead, the men turned on their heels and strode out of the old chapel, their boots pounding upon the stones in their anger.

"Remember, priest," Quennell called over his shoulder, his voice tinged with hatred. "One false move, and we will be there, ready to send you to your God!"

Mas and Michel stormed through the courtyard, the former savagely lashing the drapes of ivy as he passed. And then they faded away, allowing peace to once more settle upon the monastery.

Ever so cautiously, Papi inched her way through the gap towards the light, clinging to the daroga's robes, all propriety cast aside. We shall make it, yet!, she thought with relief. Just a few more steps, and sanctuary shall be ours…With a hurried glance into the courtyard, the hunted pair stumbled into the tiny church and closed the door behind them.

The German priest leapt up from the altar at the front of the chapel, his old knees nearly giving way beneath him.

"Father!" the woman cried, and rushed to the old man's side.

Nadir swiftly grasped Father Jakob's arm and helped him into the pew.

Nodding his thanks to the daroga, the priest took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his beaded forehead.

The man's face was white. It was not fear that was etched in the wizened lines, though; rather, the steadfastness with which he held to his faith while death hovered above had left him drained, weary.

Papi slid into the pew next to him, her dark eyes filled with concern. "Father, are you hurt?"

"No, my daughter. You need not worry about this old man." He patted her hand and smiled sadly. "I am simply relieved to see that they have not found you or Madame Reinard. That man—Quennell, his name was—it was as if he had no soul. I know it is wrong for one of the clergy to say so, but I truly believe he hasn't. His eyes…they were cold, blank. No anger, no frustration. Just…nothing." Father Jakob shuddered.

"Madame Reinard and the others—are they here?" the Persian asked, his eyes full of worry.

The priest shook his head. "No. I pray that wherever they are, they have left this city far behind them." He paused in thought, his eyes shifting from Papi to Nadir. "Which you must do, as soon as possible. Not now, of course. The Turks are watching every gate of the old city, as well as the underground roads. There will be no escape for you tonight."

"We cannot go back to the Ecce Homo, Father," Papi murmured.

"No, no, it is being guarded, as well. You must take refuge in the monastery, I insist upon it." The old man held up his hand, silencing the woman's protest. "Our protection is always there for those who would claim its sanctuary. Should the authorities find you in our midst, they cannot pass through our doors without breaking their understanding with the Sepulchre, I assure you. You must simply wait until the Turks draw away their guard."

Papi knew that what the priest said was true. Though she hated to bring danger upon the small Franciscan order, there was nothing to be done but to claim sanctuary with the friars. So she and the Persian were both given the rooms within the monastery, prisoners until the opportunity came for them to slip away from old Jerusalem.

Life within the monastery, though confining, was not stodgy and grave as the woman had thought it would be. Like Father Jakob, the Brothers of Penance were of a genial nature, and Papi found them to be pleasant company. The order made certain their guests wanted for nothing. Under cover of transferring laundry from the Notre Dame de Sion, the holy fathers were able to return many of the possessions left behind in the Chagny household's rooms after their flight. The maid carefully sorted through the things: clothing, books, toys, mementos, and (she trembled as she held them) several masks, deciding what should be kept and what would go to the church. Father Jakob even spoke with Sister Helena about returning to M. Khan a substantial portion of the money paid to the pilgrimage house, since the Turks had confiscated whatever money had been left in the rooms. The pair would need some sort of financial assistance once they fled Jerusalem, if they were to survive.

Yes, the brothers and sisters were generous, indeed. If it were not for the circumstances that had led them to seek refuge within the monastery, Papi would have been happy enough. So many questions weighed heavily upon her mind, however, that she was not quite able to enjoy her peaceful surroundings.

It was in just such a peaceful surrounding—the enclosed garden with the lovely fountain—that the maid sorted through her confusion. Spreading her shawl, she settled herself upon the ground and leaned against the wrought iron bars surrounding a flowerbed filled with Rose of Sharon. The gentle splash of the water lulled her jittery senses, and she closed her eyes in reflection.

The chance that the Turks might discover them was always foremost in her mind, of course. So far, they had been extremely fortunate in their escape. Papi knew full well that they might be dead now, had her mistress' Erik not returned for them.

His sacrifice baffled her, through and through. His actions that day confounded everything she had believed about this person. She simply could not understand why a man who gave the appearance of being driven entirely by selfish motives would allow himself to be captured, in order to save two people he could not have cared less about. After all, he had the woman he loved. He had his freedom. Why would he sacrifice it? How could his character change so drastically?

Papi knew the answer, and she hung her head in shame. The truth was that her perception had simply been wrong to begin with. This man was, without a doubt, a killer. From what she knew of his affairs in Paris and in London, he was also manipulative, threatening, exacting, and entirely criminal. However, there was more to this masked man than his crimes. Just as he had a great capacity for hate, he had just as great a capacity for love. Christine de Chagny had seen it; so had Nadir Khan. Even her father had sensed it. And yet she had been so filled with her own thoughts of jealousy, hatred, and bitter sorrow, she couldn't see the same pain reflected in another soul.

The woman buried her face in her hands and wept. Nadir had come to her this morning, steeped in sadness after quietly moving about the city amongst the Palestinians, unearthing what information he could. He had tirelessly searched for his friend's whereabouts, only to discover that Erik had been held in the Citadel less than two hours before being transported out of Jerusalem. From there, no one could tell him where the prisoner had been taken. Hundreds of Ottoman prisons stretched from there to Ankara, and the man could be on the road to any one of them.

Nadir had informed her that once the Turkish guard began to dissipate from the city gates, he would see her safely to Europe before returning to Palestine to hunt for his friend. The Sûreté, he told her, would take care of her until she found her father.

The Persian's plan was logical. She could not stay in Jerusalem, now; her presence would only bring trouble to the orphanage and convent. And if she went with him to find Erik, she would only be a hindrance to the man. It could be weeks, months before Nadir discovered which prison his friend had been taken to, and the last thing that he wanted was to be responsible for another human being.

Why, then, did her heart ache at the thought of being left in Europe?

The woman plucked one of the fragrant pink blossoms and absently brushed it along her cheek. How many times had she lingered in her Papa's gardens, picking flowers and listening to fountains?

The old Chagny estate had a reputation for beautiful gardens—her father had always been proud of them. Trimmed trees and topiaries…stone paths weaving through elaborate parterres...water lilies drifting in the ponds…thousands upon thousands of flowers. Peonies and violets in the spring; sunflowers, nasturtium, and roses in autumn. She could smell them, see them now, spilling over the alleés— a riot of color!

Beyond the gardens rose the Chagny home, rows of windows gleaming in the morning light, its white stones and chimneys a testimony to the legacy of those who had lived there. Trees, fountains, home…all woven together to create a perfect life.

And amidst all of the finery and color, there is a man…handsome and kind, with the bluest of eyes and a warm smile…

A wave of homesickness washed over Papi. How she longed for her dear home, so far away in France. She yearned for the days that had been, now gone; and she yearned for the days that had never been at all. Sometimes when she slept, she was in her little cottage again, seated at the plain wooden table and sharing a bowl of red apples with the young Vicomte. And Perri…always her little child, darting around the table legs, tugging at Raoul's sleeve, gazing up at him with adoring eyes. Or she was welcoming the new Comtesse, feeling a pang of pity for the wide-eyed, trembling girl before her. Oh, she had been jealous of Raoul's new bride—she could admit it now. Yet her heart had gone out to the lonely creature, so out-of-place, unaccepted by all of the aristocracy save for M. David. She had befriended the woman in spite of herself. The friendship, though, had somehow fallen by the wayside.

No, the woman silently corrected, not 'somehow.' It fell apart because neither of us took the first step towards mending it…

Papi stared at the pitiful blossom in the palm of her hand, now crushed by her restless fingers. Sighing, she tossed the petals into the flowerbed. There would be no more such days at Chagny—not for her. They belonged to the past, with the rest of her memories. Her friendship with Madame Reinard, however…perhaps it was not too late to salvage it.

With a heart of conviction, she pulled herself up from the ground, smoothed her skirts and gathered her shawl, and made her way through the monastery.

She would not be returning to Europe—she knew that, now. There was a man who had given everything to save her life—she could not turn her back on him. Somehow, she would convince Nadir to take her with him. There had to be a way she could help, if only to be a companion to the daroga when the days grew long.

And, perhaps, she could find her way back into her dear friend's heart, as well.

OOOOO

Christine tugged at the belt about her waist as discreetly as possible, desperately trying to keep her oversized libas from from falling down. They were the smallest size they had been able find in the tiny coastal town of Acre. Thus far, the strip of cloth holding them up had done its duty, and she had been saved the embarrassment of losing her clothing in public. As she and Henri trod street after street, however, the knot had begun to work loose and therefore, so had her libas.

"Really Christine, you must stop fidgeting so," M. David simpered. "Everyone will know that you are a woman despite the keffiyeh, with the way you fuss about your clothing."

The woman sniffed indignantly and tightened the belt, doing her best to ignore the avocat's chortling at his jest. Glancing up and down the oceanfront street, she looked for any sign of Erik, Nadir, or Papi. They were not there. Her face fell in disappointment; she had scoured the entire port city the past two days in search of their missing party, and had come up empty-handed.

Ze'ev had told her that they could wait no longer in Acre, and would leave Palestine first thing in the morning. Erik and the others would simply have to meet them in Prague, as planned. He had assured her that her husband would move mountains to find her. Christine tried not to remember the flicker of concern that had passed across his eyes. She knew what he had been thinking. Three days was plenty of time for a person to travel from Jerusalem to Acre—they had hidden in a slow-moving, steamy merchant's wagon the entire trip, and had still arrived at the northern city in little more than a day. The only reason Erik would not have arrived was if his travel had been interrupted, somehow…

Christine shook away the thought. She did not want to begin imagining the numerous manners in which Erik could have been waylaid.

"It is getting late, Madame," said the low voice at her side, breaking into her thoughts. "I think that we should give up the search and return before darkness falls."

Christine followed M. David up the slope, towards the small stone inn. The salty Mediterranean air whipped about her face as they climbed higher along the coastal wall, sending a shiver of familiarity up her spine. She had felt such a breeze before…

"Henri, I do not think I will go in, just yet," she said, gesturing to the sea wall that ran beside the inn. "I would like a bit of time to myself, if you don't mind."

The man nodded. "I would not stay out past dark. Port cities are not the safest of places, even for women who are dressed as men." M. David gave her a teasing wink. She turned away from him and settled onto the wall, her feet dangling over the edge.

"I can take care of myself, Henri. You need not concern yourself with my welfare—it isn't your place to do so."

The avocat blinked in surprised hurt. "I do not doubt that you can take care of yourself—I was there with you in Jerusalem, at the end of the tunnel. However, is it wrong to be concerned for a friend, Christine?"

"No," she replied, feeling a pang of guilt at her sharp words. She spoke more gently. "Forgive me—I am rather uneasy today. Thank you for your concern, Henri. I will be in before the sun sets, I promise you." Offering him a half-hearted smile, she turned back to the ocean, vaguely aware of the inn door opening and closing as the man retreated. At last, she had bit of peace to sort through her troubled thoughts.

The sea air cooled her flushed cheeks, its freshness a welcome respite to the stale, stifling confines of the merchant's wagon. The trip had been horrendous; it was difficult enough to crouch next to seven other people for such a long length of time, but when three of them were squirming, hungry babies…

At one point, the wagon had been stopped by a regiment of Turkish soldiers on the road from Jerusalem to Acre. They had asked the Jewish merchant if he had observed a small party of Europeans traveling north. Christine had thought they most certainly would be discovered, and prayed that none of the children would choose to make their presence known. The merchant wisely replied that he had seen no one, except for a caravan of Bedouins moving south towards Mediggo. Thankfully, the Turks chose to ride on instead of searching the wagon.

The trip had not allowed her any time to ruminate over what had happened during their escape from Jerusalem. In her stunned state, it had been easy to push the murder from her mind—just as Ze'ev had told her to do. But now…

Christine saw the man's bloated, ugly face before her again…eyes bulging, lips blue. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, willing away the gruesome vision seared in her mind. Yet it grew stronger, gained life with every second she thought upon it. The smell of blood, feel of the rope under her palms…she gazed at her hands and saw the thick lines burned into them where she had gripped the Punjab lasso, wrenching life from another human being.

Tears slid down her cheeks. Did the gatekeeper have a wife who had waited for him to return home that night? Children who had cried when the body was brought home to them, a lifeless corpse in place of a father? Nausea again swept over her at the thought, and she wrapped an arm about her midsection, hunching over until the sensation passed. She did not want to know—not ever. To her, he was simply the Lion's Gate keeper—a greedy, sneering little man who she had murdered to save her child. This was all he could be to her—no name, no family—if she knew more, she would go mad.

If only Erik was here! she wished, the terror of her first kill seeping into her veins. Never had she longed for his guidance as much as she did now. He would know how to make the blackness in her mind go away; help her to find peace in the darkness. What was it he had told her, so long ago?

"Find beauty in the darkness, Christine. The light can be harsh, cold. But darkness…the dark is much sweeter."

She had looked at him in confusion. "If there is no light, Angel, we cannot know what is real and what is not. Do you not desire truth?"

Her teacher had gazed at her, his golden eyes strange and unfathomable. "In darkness, truth is whatever you choose for it to be, child. Rest in its oblivion as long as you can; reality will come soon enough..."

Yes, she mused, rest in the darkness. Embrace its sweet oblivion. Forget that you have killed, and you forever have blood on your hands. She stared at her palm, at the tell-tale brand of the lasso…at her wedding band. Was she now a creature of darkness, just like her husband? Her heart ached at the thought of her poor, unhappy Erik.

What a little fool I was, those years ago, she reflected. I could not see that my teacher was simply a man who used the darkness to hide from himself. A man so rejected by others, that the only way he could live a normal life was to pretend.

Christine twisted the small gold band around her finger. How many times had he turned to the dark to forget the bodies that had fallen at his feet, their blank eyes open, as if staring into his soul? How could one forget such a thing, except to pretend it hadn't happened at all?

She shook her head, tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. If this dreadful feeling…this despair was the same punishment he had carried with him for so many years, then she could at last understand his madness. She could understand his need for escape. She could understand his fanatical yearning for a normal life…for beauty…for someone to share it with.

Christine's eyes fell shut as she listened to the gentle roar of the waves crashing upon the sand below her. Yes, it was familiar now, with her eyes closed. The sound of the water…the feel of the sea breeze upon her face…tang of the salt upon the air…

It had not been a dream; whatever it was that night, it was not a dream. The night she had lain strangled upon the floor of her bedroom, her life ebbing from her body…she had spoken with Raoul, she was sure of it! A soft sigh escaped her lips as she thought about the bit of paper tucked away in Erik's satchel, hidden among the bank notes and sheets of music. She had read it once more, just to be certain of its contents:

Little Lotte,

Death is but an illusion. When this ordeal is over, come find me. Forgive me for the madness…

No. She shook her head with conviction, refusing to believe what Erik obviously did. I saw him, there on the Brittany shore. I spoke with him, and he gave me a choice. I chose Erik. I chose life.

She stared across the harbor and into the ocean, watching the boats coming in for the evening. She remembered the boat…the little boat of death that traveled neither here nor there.

The child with the grown-up eyes, on the Brittany shore—he was real. He was Raoul through and through, down to the very depths of him. The Raoul in my nightmares—the corpse in the coffin, whispering those very words: 'Death is but an illusion'—he was not real. Merely a frightful specter—

Christine's eyes flew open as clarity rung through her. Why on earth had she not recognized those words before? Raoul's words, etched in his own hand upon the note…murmured from a grave in her nightmares…

…and spoken to her on a stormy, grey beach.

"Death is not real, you know—it is merely an illusion, a transition. There is nothing to fear in it, for one never truly dies…"

Raoul was dead. He was. She had truly spoken with him the night she was dying. There was no other explanation for the words.

Was there? Christine sighed, uncertainty weighing upon her heart. She could never know for certain—not until she reached Prague. Then Erik would be there, and he would tell her she had done the right thing by killing the gatekeeper. Strike first, before you are struck…There had been no other choice. No option, but to take the man's life. Yes, she knew it was true—and as long as she kept believing it to be true, she would be fine. She would be absolved.

Christine glanced down at the mark of death upon her palm, and found that she could barely see it; the sky had grown dark. She had promised Henri David that she would come inside before darkness fell. Her lips twisted into an ironic smile. "I believe it is too late for that," she whispered. Erik would appreciate the humor of it.

OOOOO

Erik loosed a short, bitter laugh as he took in his surroundings. What a twist of events, he mused. After all these years and everything that I have done—here I am, once more—

Locked in a cage.

The morning was already hot. The sun beat down mercilessly upon the small caravan of wagons as they wound its way into the city. The air inside was putrid; a man would rather cease to breathe than inhale such filth. There was no breeze to speak of, save for an occasional gust that made its way through the single barred window, bringing with it a hint of the outside world.

Sea air, Erik thought as he pushed himself up against the wall towards the window, inhaling the bit of freshness. We are in Acre. And Christine…she could be here, somewhere. He tried to stretch his torso a bit further, to peer out the little square. If only they had not chained his feet so close to the wall, he might be able to turn better. He cursed himself for his rashness.

Last night had not been the best of nights. The past two days, his mind had churned, searching for a way to escape his fate. He should have been thinking more clearly—should have planned his escape with more care than he had. The opportunity, however, had presented itself in the form of a stopped caravan, an open wagon door, and one guard relieving himself as the other kept watch over the prisoners. Or rather, leaning against the doorframe, puffing on a pipe filled with foul-smelling, cheap tobacco.

Erik had sneered at the man. Did they not know who they held in their prison? Was this man so foolish as to turn his back, even for the briefest of moments, upon the most deadly assassin in all of Persia? Before he gave the situation any more thought, he whipped his heavy chain around the Turk's neck and yanked it back, instantly snapping his neck. The body fell to the floor with a thud—and the jangle of keys. Erik turned the guard over and pulled the keys from his belt, putting the first to the lock at his wrist. It did not open.

Cries had begun to sound outside; the second guard was calling for assistance from the other wagons. The other prisoners around him started to shout, either in encouragement or in a panicked plea for assistance.

He tried another key, and a third. "Merde!" he breathed, fiddling with the keys. Of all the things! Every detail had been perfectly planned, except for one thing: he hadn't paid attention to the guards, and had failed to discover which key unlocked his shackles. The fourth key—the lock sprang open and the chains fell away. With a cry of relief, he launched himself through the door and into the night air. Sprinting around the side of the wagon, Erik ran headlong into two guards, their weapons raised. Ducking down, he effortlessly avoided the onslaught as the men tumbled over his back and to the ground. He reached down and snatched up one of the guards pistols then whirled around, ready to escape to freedom.

Four more guards rounded the corner. Erik spun around and ran the other way, only to find another three rapidly closing in, trapping him. He fired the pistol randomly about him, felling another guard before five barrels pointed directly at his chest, ending his dash to freedom.

"If you move, we will fire!" cried one of the Turks, his eyes daring the prisoner to do just that.

For a moment, Erik had been tempted to sneer at the man and wildly lash out like a cornered beast. And then he heard Christine's voice in his head…saw her weeping over what he had done. His wife…his beautiful wife. Damn it, he could never cause her such pain. Without moving a muscle, he had dropped the pistol.

When he awoke, he had found his legs chained to the wall. And his mask…they had taken his mask. He had stared angrily about him, watching as the other prisoners shrank from him in fear. He called to the guard; the guard would not look at him…

So this is the way it shall be. Christine would be happy, the prisoner mused bitterly. I have at last been stripped of my mask.

Erik twisted his torso, at last reaching the window. They were indeed moving along the seacoast. Ships were moving in and out of the harbor, laden with their crops from the sea, bound for such far away places as London and Paris. Paris…Erik smirked. If he had never left Paris, he would not have been captured. Only a fool would have gone back to a land in which he was a well-recognized, wanted, murderer. He would not be chained to a wall, heading to an Ottoman prison where the worst of horrors awaited him. Some of the horrors had more than likely been invented by him. If he had never left Paris—

—If I had never left Paris, Christine would have died in London. And I would then be dead, as well.

He was a dead man, to be sure. They would most certainly kill him in prison before he ever saw the inside of a court room—there was no question about it. His face would make him a target for cruelty behind bars, just as it always had; people were afraid of things they could not know, could not understand. They would try to break him and turn him into an animal, because they would not see him as human. He'd resist, of course, but it would only anger them further.

So what was left to him, but to turn his mind to greater things? There was his music; he could spend days and days composing it in his head, not forgetting a single note. And when he found himself growing desperate, he would replay it in its entirety, a complete symphony for his enjoyment.

When the nights became especially weary, thoughts of his angel peacefully sleeping beside him would bring him relief. No more would he have to conjure such a vision from his imagination—he already knew the feel of her. He would remember her pressed against him, warm and soft against his corpse of a body, her slow breath against his neck.

Was it worth it? The brief time he had spent as her husband—was it worth his freedom, his life? Erik did not even have to ponder the question. Yes! his mind cried. Yes, it was worth every hour, every minute. Knowing that he had her love…he had always sworn that he would die just to hear such words from her mouth. Well, it now seems that God has chosen to collect, he smirked. A resentful smile played upon his lips at the remembered prayer.

If God were truly God, he would allow me to see her just once more, he thought with conviction. Then, at least, I can be content with whatever fate awaits me.

Erik's eyes swept the seaport again, studying the sailors loading and unloading their cargo…the crowds of people that moved along the walkways…hoping…

And then, as if he had conjured the very image himself, his wife was there, standing at the pier. She was dressed as a young Arab man, but it was her, to be sure. Erik recognized every curve of her frame, the soft lilt of her chin, the way she moved as if lost in a dream. She was beautiful in the morning sun, an angel with her little son tucked safely in her arms. He did not see the others—he was sure they were there, but they did not matter at the moment. Only his wife, bathed in light…

Christine suddenly turned and gazed behind her, as if she had felt his eyes upon her. She scanned the bustling road, searching for him, her face alight with surprise. For one brief moment, her eyes fell upon the wagon…the little barred window…and then they passed by, continuing through the crowds of people.

Erik watched her as she gravely turned back to the pier and moved up the slick wooden ramp, boarding a boat that would take her far away from Palestine…far away from him. His angel walked along the deck of the ship and then slipped around the corner, out-of-sight. And he saw his life slip away, as well.

His head fell against his chest, too heavy to hold up. Had he not prayed to see her once again? That if God granted him such a small kindness, he could endure whatever horrors awaited him on the long road to…where were they going?

"Sadik," the man croaked, beckoning the guard. "Where are you taking me?"

The guard gazed at the chained prisoner, his eyes gleaming with some dark secret. His lips curled into a sneer.

"To hell," he murmured.

A/N: I'll post some of my notes from the plot book to my website in the next couple of days, for your further reading pleasure. Speaking of reading,

Story Recommendation: A Solo for the Living, by Tango1

This fiction is based on the movie's story line. It picks up not long after the "disaster", and follows Erik's and Christine's lives (and interactions) after their parting. A Solo for the Living is historically accurate, full of wonderful, researched detail and rich atmosphere, right down to the streets of 1870s Paris. Not only has Tango done an excellent job with her POTO characterizations, her original characters are incredible, as well. The story isn't completed, but the author updates regularly and seems determined to finish. It is beautifully-written, and well worth the read. Enjoy!