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 for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement! Grad school apps are in, tests are being taken, and Frat is still being written ;)
A Man Worthy
"Maman…" Christine stirred uncomfortably at the sound of the urgent, childish voice echoing through the dark room.
"Maman…"
"Mmm. I am here, little man." A weight pressed upon her foggy, subconscious mind, and she vaguely realized that her eyes were closed. She struggled to open them against the exhaustion plaguing her weary body. Yes, the room was indeed dark; the sliver of light seeping in beneath the door was the only illumination, but in it, she made out the slight figure of her maid, already moving towards the cries of her son.
"Oh, thank you Papi," she said drowsily. "You will let me know if Jean-Paul needs me?"
The silent woman turned and nodded, her eyes shadowed behind the pale, blonde hair that hung over loosely over her face. "Of course," she murmured.
"Maman!" came the cry again. The maid turned back to her small charge…
"Madame!"
"Madame!" Christine buried her face in her pillow.
"Madame!" Bolting out of her bed, she glanced about, struggling to make sense of her surroundings. It was not her Paris home, but a Turkish inn. Not Jean-Paul's cries—her boy was far away in the Tatras, under the care of the Borochovs. A man…old Norry.
"Norry, what on earth—" She cracked the door open and squinted at her tousled caretaker.
"A brawl downstairs—a lot o' shoutin' and tossin' your name about. Someone is looking for you, Madame, an' they're not happy—givin' the inn people hell. I think it best we try to slip out of this place."
Christine leaned into the dimly-lit hallway and listened; sure enough, several Turkish voices echoed through the inn, obviously bewildered by whatever was taking place. One of the voices, though speaking Turkish, was distinctly rich and sardonic—a voice she would know anywhere.
"Erik," she breathed. Grabbing up her shawl and slippers, she hurried down the hall and flight of stairs towards the commotion, ignoring old Norry's warnings of danger. The stairway opened into the inn's wide entryway, and the scene unfolded before her. Two porters cowered behind a large desk, crouching low lest they be seen. Another porter stood with his back to the desk, wide-eyed and trembling, a pistol in his quaking hand. And at the center of the tableau was one man, cloaked and also armed, clutching a lasso in his hand and looking entirely the worse for wear in the harsh lamplight.
"Mall!" Erik cried, throwing his hand towards the stairs. "Bakmak dolayi onlari ust katlar—Madame Reinard. Now!"
The Turkish porter shook his head and stammered in broken French, "No one, Effendi. There is no one—called that! Please—I beg you. Go!"
The tall man growled and stepped forward.
"Erik!"
Erik started at the sound of his name and glanced up at the woman upon the stairs, his hood falling away from his unmasked, macabre face. The Turks gasped in horror and instantly pointed their pistols at her husband.
"Blessed Virgin protect us," Norry stammered behind her, clutching at her arms. "What is he? Don't go down there, Madame!" Ignoring his plea, Christine pushed his hands away and flew down the stairs, flinging herself in front of the targeted man.
"Do not shoot, please! He is my husband!" She held out her hands to stop them, as if her palms would shield her and Erik from any bullets whizzing in their direction. Stunned, the porters slowly lowered their pistols as the woman turned and wrapped her arms around the monster's neck, pressing her lips to his face again and again. "Thank God!" she sobbed into his neck. "You are alive, and you are safe. I waited for you all day in the spice market, and when you didn't come, I was afraid that—"
Erik's mouth quickly came down upon hers, silencing her words with a hard kiss that had behind it all of his own fear and fury he had suffered in their time apart.
"Christine…Christine," he sighed into her hair, "are you mad? Never presume to so foolishly take a bullet for me, do you understand? I'll not have you lying dead at my feet after so long without you."
Christine mutely nodded into his shoulder, understanding that he was not only speaking of the several months he had spent in the Turkish prison.
"Come along," he choked out, pulling from her embrace. "We haven't much time before the guards are upon us, and I'd prefer not to spend another day in the Rumeli Hisari." His piercing eyes traveled past the gaping porters to old Norry—pale and clinging to the stair banister. "Father Jakob is waiting outside with two horses; we leave Istanbul tonight, with the daroga and your daughter."
The caretaker suddenly leapt to his feet. "My girl—she is here?"
"Yes, waiting for us at the docks. We must go!"
Christine grabbed his arm. "Erik, I have a few possessions upstairs in my room: my brooch, and the bracelet from Jerusalem—"
"Be quick."
She dashed up the stairs and to her room, nearly tumbling to the ground as she flung open the door. Tossing Erik's music-filled satchel onto her bed, she stuffed her gray dress, brooch and bracelet, lasso, liras, and a few other items inside before belting it. She then turned to her dresser and pulled out her Turkish cotton kaftan and yelek vest and smoothed the cloth over her growing middle, discarding her nightgown for them. Tying back her hair with her unwrapped turban and lacing her shoes, she swung the satchel over her shoulder and left the Yesil Ev Inn behind.
Only Erik was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, his hood once more shadowing his features as he leered at the still-astonished Turkish innkeepers. Hearing Christine, he bounded halfway up the steps and grasped her hand, pulling her along behind him.
"Norry is outside with the horses," he called over his shoulder. Casting one more black warning the porters' way, he swept out of the inn and around the back to where their companions waited, already upon one of the animals. He took Christine's satchel and he lifted her onto the second horse, then leapt up into the saddle behind her, wrapped an arm securely around her waist, and stirred the horse into a sudden gallop.
Buildings rushed past them as the horses tore through the streets, dodging columns and courtyard fountains. Just above them, the Blue Mosque with its towers and tiles lorded over the ancient city, its domes flickering ominous and holy in its torchlight as if flames engulfed its stones behind the walls. Rounding a corner, the riders ducked under an archway and fled down the narrow street, the Blue Mosque now obscured from sight. Hooves pounded the ground as the horses wound their way towards the Bosphorus, carrying their passengers from the heart of Istanbul. The riders did not slow their pace until the smell of fish and salt greeted them, signaling the onslaught of murky waters if they failed to halt.
"Which is it, Father?" Erik asked, his eyes sweeping over the hundreds of fishing boats docked along the shore.
"The Kairos," thepriest answered. "It is a smaller vessel with cramped quarters, but will serve its purpose for the short trip to the Aegean island of Limnos, where we will find beds, baths, and warm food waiting. The crew is a somewhat surly lot of sailors who are used to cargos of questionable nature, and your friend had to pay handsomely for the ship's use. It should be farther south, towards the place where the Bosphorus meets the Sea of Marmara."
Erik nodded and turned the horse south along the shore, this time riding slowly enough to blend in with the surrounding homes and cypress and cause as little disturbance as possible. The night was still, and thankfully, gendarme-free; it was not long before they came upon their fishing boat, its blue and white bow emblazoned with the Greek "Kairos". The weary four slid down from their rented mounts and slapped animals' rumps to send them home to their stable, then stumbled towards freedom.
"My friends," Father Jakob called out to the boat's hidden men, "it is time to sail." One of the crew—an older, grizzled gentleman—poked his head out from beneath the deck and waived a woolen fisherman's cap, signaling them aboard. One by one, the four climbed into the Kairos, their eyes searching for the others of their party.
The area below deck was small and crammed with bunks, chairs, nets and ropes, pots and pans, storage crates, and other necessities. To the left was a captain's cabin and to the right, a makeshift washroom and another cabin. The crew swarmed around each the new arrivals, climbing up and down the ladder, getting ready to sail.
It was the daroga who met them below, stunned as he suddenly found himself being shuffled between a grateful Christine and an anxious Norry.
"M. Khan!" The aged servant grabbed the Persian's shoulder, forgetting formal greetings and demanding his attention. "Where is Papi? Her old papa would like to see her."
Nadir stared at the caretaker for a full minute as if he did not see the man before him, did not even understand what he had asked. He studied Norry's face, trying to make sense of his words.
An uncomfortable silence settled over all aboard the Kairos. The crew hurriedly glanced away and retreated above deck, busying themselves with preparations for the short journey to Limnos. Erik stepped towards his friend, grasping the Persian's other shoulder to shake him out of his trance.
"Daroga, what is the matter?" he asked apprehensively. "Tell the man where his daughter is."
The Persian blinked and slowly scanned the other confused faces, his jade eyes glazed and dull, before finally resting upon Erik's unmasked face.
"She is in the next room. Come M. Nitot, I will take you to her," he absently replied. Shaking his head, he struggled to focus on the person before him, taking in his now fear-filled eyes.
"Your daughter is dead."
ooOOoo
Christine weaved through the below deck area and rapped on the washroom's door, waiting for a reply.
"Enter."
A rush of hot air and steam flooded out when she opened the door and she squinted, peering into the fog. Erik was there in a makeshift bath, head tilted and eyes closed, his arms resting on the metal sides. His bony shoulders and back were spattered with ugly bruises and cuts, some of them red and angry from neglect. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she hugged the towels to her and stepped into the room, pushing the shock of her friend's death from her mind.
"You found the items?"
Christine nodded, and then replied "Yes" when he did not open his eyes. "Scissors, razor, shaving cream, mirror, and anything else we might need to make you presentable again."
Erik snorted. "One could hardly call me presentable, unshorn or shaven."
"You do look cleaner, though."
"Yes. After having one of the crew assist me in drawing three baths, I finally have managed not to immediately turn this one to filth. However, I doubt the young man will return—he accidentally caught a glimpse of my face despite my best efforts to keep it turned from him, and seemed most, ah, startled. Perhaps you might try to convince him later that what he saw was a combination of shadow and imagination? The prospect of being hurled overboard is not a pleasant one."
"I shall try." Kneeling next to the bath, Christine handed the scissors to her husband and held the mirror, watching as the somnolent man struggled to hold them. His left hand shook as he tried to put the blades to his unruly hair, and it was then that she noticed his other hand, cradled at his side. Her fingers gently wrapped around his broken ones and she lifted them to her lips.
"What did they do to you, Erik?" she whispered sorrowfully into his raw hand.
He carefully extracted it from her grasp and turned from her, his mouth pursing thinly. "Nothing that should concern you, my angel," he snapped. When her fingers traveled up his arm and took the scissors from his hand, however, he did not protest; instead, he leaned back and allowed her to do what he obviously could not.
"Nadir and Papi managed to carry some of our things with them from Jerusalem," she explained, filling the heavy silence as she cut. "They found a few of Jean-Paul's toys, books, clothing, and—oh! They recovered my father's violin." She smiled softly. "Your violin. And several other items you might wish to have, as well."
"My masks?"
"Yes."
The man froze beneath her hands. "Do you wish me to wear one?"
"No! I mean, I do not wish it," she replied, one small finger tracing his jaw line. "It doesn't matter to me. There are others, though…"
"I understand."
"Erik, please—"
He brushed her hand away. "No really, Christine, I do understand. I have lived with this corpse-of-a-face since before you were born, believe me, and if I have not realized its effect upon others by now, then I am a hopeless cause. Of course you would not want to be seen in public with one such as I."
Christine caught her lip between her teeth, mentally chiding herself for her blunder. "I do not mind it at all," she replied quietly.
Erik sighed and patted her hand. "I know you do not, Christine. Forgive my boorishness; magnanimity is sadly lacking this morning."
Another long lapse in conversation descended between them as she snipped away the wildness, smoothing her fingers through his wet hair and sleeking it back against his scalp. He exhaled slowly and let his head fall back against her shoulder, reveling in his wife's feathery touch upon his face. Christine smiled, humming as she studied the strong, angular lines of his jaw, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, and breathed, and spoke.
"You know where I have been these past months," Erik mumbled, his eyes still closed. "Tell me what you have done with yourself."
"I hardly know where to begin."
"Why not tell me how you escaped Jerusalem?"
"Ah, well. Hmm." Christine's face flushed scarlet. "I killed a man."
Erik's bolted out of the water, his eyes flying open. "Good God—who? How?"
"The Lion's Gate guard—the one with the wayward hands? I used the lasso, and you did not ask this, but I did it because he would have turned us over to Mas. I didn't think; I just grabbed the rope, threw it around his neck, and pulled and pulled until he was dead. I had to, Erik," she said emphatically.
"My dear child, you need not explain your motives to me. I am simply relieved you made it out of the city alive." His worried gaze swept over her face and hair. Long, thin fingers reached out and took one of the brown curls, toying with it. "And have you made your peace with it?"
Christine nodded. "My son was in danger; there was no other way."
Erik exhaled in relief. "I am glad to hear it." He settled back into the water, allowing his head to once more rest on the metal rim. Christine held up the razor and shaving cream in silent question. "I suppose so," he replied, "although, try to refrain from rendering the left side of my face as hideous as the right." He waved his hand. "Please continue. From Jerusalem, you traveled to…"
"Prague."
"Ah. And what did you find there? Or rather, who?" Although his tone was disinterested and the request was framed innocently enough, Christine sensed an underlying tension, near frantic quality to the calm possessing her husband.
"You would never believe me if I told you."
"We shall see." His eyebrow quirked up in challenge.
The razor paused just above his face as Christine's eyes met his, unwavering. "Raoul is dead, Erik. Someone else, however, is very much alive. That is what you wanted to know?"
"Hmmm. I thought he must be dead," he smoothly lied, turning his face away so she could not see the smile playing upon his lips. "Well, I am sorry to hear it."
She carefully ran the razor blade along his cheek, shaking her head. "I doubt you are sorry; not in the least. They are very sad, very horrible—the circumstances which brought about his death."
"My dear, you can hardly fault a man for being relieved to hear his wife's first husband is truly deceased."
Christine sighed in exasperation. "Oh Erik, you have to know that if Raoul were alive, I would still remain with you. I made a promise to you—"
"But you also promised that boy," he retorted.
"And that boy—Raoul," she corrected, "is gone. It is time to put him behind us, once and for all. Agreed?" She set the razor down and held out her hand as if striking a bargain.
Erik clasped it, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Agreed. Now, who is still alive?"
Christine shook her head in refusal, and lifted the blade to his chin. "Let me finish this, and then we will discuss it. After all, I have strict instructions not to inflict any more damage upon your person." Erik "hmphed" at her cheekiness but did as she asked, uttering not a word until he was smooth-faced. Being sent off on a mission for bandages, she tracked down the young man who had been assisting with bath water, and after somehow convincing him through wild hand gestures that yes, Erik was her husband and no, he would not harm her or any of the crew, acquired several rolls of soft white material. By the time she returned, she found that her husband had wandered to their cramped cabin. He had also already discovered the set of clothing and masks retrieved from Jerusalem, and was busy struggling through a row of buttons on his crisp, white shirt.
"Damned things," he muttered in frustration, forgoing the top two collar buttons and folding up the cuffs over his slender wrists.
Christine's eyes swept over his ill-fitted clothing with concern. "I did not think it was possible for you to be any thinner, Erik. You've lost nearly two stone."
He waved away the remark. "I have been thinner, angel." Smoothing his hair into place, he pulled a small table and chair away from the wall and sat down, resting his right arm upon its surface. Taking one of the rolls from Christine, he began the arduous task of bandaging his much-abused hand. "Very well," he hissed through clenched teeth, patience running thin, "you have had your way. Tell me about this person who has risen from the dead."
"Philippe de Chagny. He faked his death."
Erik blanched for a moment, the hand clutching the bandages stilling. "Go on."
So Christine settled onto the bed as Erik finished with the bandages, telling him of the secrets Prague had revealed to her: of her visit to the Ceska Obchodni Banka, finding the incriminating papers and a letter from Raoul in box six-six-five, along with an address in Prague. She explained how she had found not Raoul but Philippe, now a shell of a man who had been betrayed by his beloved Fraternité, only to then secretly betray his own flesh and blood for them.
"I did not think it possible for me to loathe and pity another as much as I did you, when you abducted me after Don Juan Triumphant," Christine confessed. "But after seeing Philippe and hearing what he did to Raoul, I find I still have much more hatred left to give."
"Then it is a good thing your pity outweighs your hatred," Erik said pointedly.
"Yes, I suppose so," she answered, not entirely sure of the fact. "However, one good thing has come out of this: you did not murder the Comte after all."
Erik thoughtfully ran a finger along his chin, studying some faraway speck across the room. "How very curious," he said at last.
Christine frowned, her lips slipping into a disappointed pout. "That is all you are going to say: 'How curious'? Aren't you pleased?"
"Honestly Christine, it is by chance that his life was spared. If you had not been crying and pounding upon the walls of the Louis-Philippe room at the time, I more than likely would have known that he was on the shores of Averne and made a swift end of him."
"Then why—that morning in London—did you tell me you had killed him?"
"Because I actually believed I had. Christine, I was insane; fixated on the one thing I wanted, and hell-bent to destroy anyone who got in my way. His 'death' certainly wasn't an accident, so who else could have murdered him? My stay in the Rumeli Hisari, however, afforded me quite a lot time for rumination, and I began to realize the events of that night hardly allowed me time to drown the Comte de Chagny. I don't mean to say I knew he was actually alive," he rushed on, soothing his wife's ruffled spirit. "That, I admit, is quite a shock."
"Yes," Christine murmured, somewhat placated. Rising from the bed, she knelt next to Erik and rested her head upon his knee, sighing contentedly as his familiar fingers weaved their way into her curls. "There is still one thing that I did not find in Prague: the oath of Fraternité. I went through Raoul's stack of papers again and again, but there was no list of names, no old parchments, nothing."
"Ah. I believe that your husband can be of some assistance here. The oath is almost certainly still in Paris. In fact, I think it very likely that the young Comte de Chagny hid it in the most unlikely of places: beneath the Paris Opera house."
It was Christine's turn to be astonished as Erik, in turn, told of how he believed Raoul had descended into the fifth cellar expecting to bury the oath along with body of an enemy, but found, to his horror, that the opera ghost was alive and well. "I didn't actually see him put the thing in the trap door," he said with dismay. "Two of his gardeners were gallivanting through my labyrinth, and I very well couldn't let them have the run of the place without supervision. When I returned, I found the boy frantic to replace the trap door and escape aboveground. It never occurred to me that he might have hidden something there until now."
"I suppose it is to Paris then," Christine murmured.
"I think not. Once we reach Limnos, we should separate; I will return to Paris, and you will go to the Borochovs and Jean-Paul in Bohemia."
Christine sat up, pulling her head away from his hand. "Erik, no!"
"Paris will be dangerous, Christine—"
"I'll not leave you again."
"You must listen to reason!" he growled.
"I am being reasonable!" she retorted with equal ferocity. "You know just as I do that Mas will track me anywhere, whether to Paris or to the Tatras. And as my son resides in the Tatras, I'll not lead the monster there. I have to stop running at some point, Erik."
Erik sighed and let his head fall back, too exhausted to deal with his wife's stubborn qualities. "Fine, Christine," he said at last, defeated. "You know I cannot refuse you anything. Now if you will excuse me, I would like to rest these poor old bones before we throw ourselves to the lions."
Christine willed her pulsing blood to slow. She watched in hurt confusion her husband lower his weary body into their bed, remove his mask, and pull the blanket over his shoulders.
"Don't you want to know about Papi?" she asked softly.
"No, I do not."
"But…we have not seen each other in nearly four months. I thought that…maybe…"
He abruptly turned his back upon her, signaling an end to the matter.
"Sleep well, then," she said and slipped from the room in dejection. Yes, he was exhausted and yes, Papi's death was overwhelming. Something more foreboding, however, more far-reaching troubled her than his refusal to acknowledge the tragedy which had befallen them; something that wrenched her heart cruelly within her chest...
Erik had not noticed their child.
ooOOoo
And so another game began in the small port city of Myrina on the island of Limnos, a bit of lush earth at the heart of a land war between Greece, the Ottomans, and even Russia. The harbor town was tucked away between rolling hills and gleamed white in the afternoon sun, beckoning to them with the promise of soft beds and fresh foods.
For Christine, though, sleep seemed ever elusive when much heavier matters pressed upon her mind. Erik, so it seemed, was once again embracing death like a lover, madly shutting away the light and all who lived in it as if they threatened his very existence. In short, Erik was slowly dying.
After bathing and putting on the one gray dress she had managed to grab in Constantinople, she watched her sleeping husband for a moment. His eyes fluttered almost imperceptibly and she thought that maybe he was awake, but did not to press the matter. Instead, she knelt next to him and kissed him softly, murmured a quick "I'll return soon," and took herself downstairs in search of nourishment.
Her quest was not a long one. As she rounded a corner, she saw Nadir and Father Jakob seated in an open-air nook framed by some sort of vine dotted with pink flowers, overlooking the town's red roofs and beyond them, blue waters. A long table spread with an assortment of breads, meats, feta, tomatoes, olives, and other morsels caught her eye and she immediately filled a plate and joined the two men. Father Jakob jumped up and slid out a chair for her.
"Thank you," Christine said gratefully and proceeded to make a large dent in her food.
"How is Erik?" Nadir asked.
"He is sleeping, but I am sure he will find his way downstairs for food before he withers away completely."
The Persian nodded, his irritation obvious. "M. Reinard has alternated between brooding and sleep these past two days. I had hoped to speak with him about several urgent matters in arranging for the trip back to France, but he seems to be in no hurry to leave."
Christine's eyes clouded tellingly. "The Rumeli Hisari depleted his strength, Monsieur. Perhaps he just needs more time…"
"I was the daroga of Mazenderan, Madame," he grimaced, "and spent another five years as its prisoner. I know exactly what Erik endured in the Rumeli Hisari. Unfortunately, we need to leave Myrina as soon as possible. Though the Ottomans tend to overlook the island, it is still under their rule."
"One more day, and he will be better," Christine begged, though she knew just as well as Nadir that once Erik descended into the darker regions of his mind, he was often there for weeks. But time was not a luxury they could afford, and at last she sighed and gave in, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I shall speak to him, Nadir."
Speaking to Erik, of course, proved to be useless; she just as well could have spoken to an empty room, for all the good it did. Night and day, the man scribbled music on paper, the notes penned by his left hand crooked and wobbly. For three days he continued in such a manner—composing and staring, staring and composing, brushing away her attempts to persuade him to eat, or sleep, or even speak. At last, she had had enough.
"Very well, let yourself go," she cried. "Hide away. Drive yourself into your grave, after all that we have done to keep you from it! You have always told me it was where you belonged."
He merely glanced up from his work uncomprehendingly, as if he had been aware she was speaking to him but had not thought it to be of any great importance.
"What was that?"
With an angry stamp of her foot, she tore from the room and slammed the door behind her, running down the hall. Tears blurring her vision and stinging her eyes, she did not stop until she flew headlong into Norris Nitot.
Norry smiled feebly as he helped the woman to her feet. 'Being a bully now, is he?"
Christine sniffed. "Insufferably apathetic is closer to it. Sometimes I truly wonder if he has any notion of others outside of himself; it's as if I'm shouting at the dead." The old caretaker winced, and Christine immediately realized her blunder. She clasped his arm. "Oh Norry, I am sorry, how incredibly insensitive. Please forgive me. How are you doing?"
The man swallowed and averted his eyes, struggling to steady his voice. "Don't fret yourself over it, Madame," he mumbled. "I'd rather not have anyone making a fuss. She wouldn't want it."
"No."
"I just hope that devil of a man realizes what my girlie did for him," he continued, his words edged with bitterness.
"I know he does, Norry."
"He has an odd way of showin' it."
"Yes…" Christine lifted her hands helplessly. "Really, Norry, this whole thing is my fault; if I hadn't gone to London, had stayed in France—"
The old man held up a hand. "If you don't mind, Ma'am, I'd rather not get into this discussion just now. The truth of it is that Papillon made her choice, and I'll not have anyone take it from her. She would have done anything for Raoul de Chagny, and for you…" He blinked several times, his wizened eyes glistening. Muttering a quiet "excuse me," he brushed past the woman and ducked into his room.
Lowering her head in shame, Christine continued through the hallway and down the stairs for her evening walk. She wanted to forget, just for a moment, the overwhelming sadness making a permanent home in her soul. When she opened the inn door, however, a surprisingly cool gust of wind hit her and she dashed back up the stairs to fetch her wrap.
She had hardly entered the room before Erik's voice greeted her.
"How is Monsieur Nitot?"
Startled, Christine's hand flew to her heart. "As well as can be expected. Sleeping, of course. I believe he is still in shock, but once it settles in…who can say?" She gazed up at her emaciated husband, taking in his ink-stained hands and dozens of sheets of music scattered across the floor. "The crew of the Kairos agreed to…to make arrangements to…prepare her for travel back to France. They found a suitable coffin yesterday, and Father Jakob is consulting Norry on what should be done." She twirled a bit of skirt around her little finger. "Did Nadir tell you how it happened?"
He nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes closing. "I knew that a bullet had grazed Mlle. Nitot's leg during our escape from the Hisari. According to Nadir, though, she was shot more than once." He paused for a moment to clear his throat. "We could not do anything, you see, because we didn't know. Even if we had known, there was nothing to be done. It is an utter waste of humanity."
"Papi did not think so."
"Papillon Nitot was a fool," he hissed, his gold eyes flying open. "I cannot begin to guess why she wanted to throw her life away in such a useless manner, but it can't be helped now. In the end, she got what she wanted: triumph over me and your gratitude, two birds with one stone."
"Do not say such things, please."
"And why should I not speak the truth, Christine? Your friend was never one to be indebted to anybody, least of all, me. It probably rankled her to know that she left Jerusalem alive because I literally threw myself to the Turks."
"That is beside the point—"
"Can you deny it?"
"No! I mean, yes!" Christine's brow furrowed. "Yes, Papi did not like to be indebted to others. That does not mean her sacrifice was baseless."
"How, Christine?" Erik fixed fierce eyes upon the woman. "How is her death justified? Tell me, why should Papillon Nitot die and Erik live?"
She shook her head. "Erik, please—"
"It is a legitimate question."
"Because—" Christine searched for some answer, any answer, but found she had none. Pressing her palms to her eyes, she cast about for some reason. "I don't know," she at last answered honestly, "but as I have said before: something good must come from the bad."
Erik turned his face away, disgusted. "You are parroting someone, Christine; your father, probably. What good can possibly come from this…obscenity?"
Christine jumped to her feet and strode over to the small, barred window to hide angry tears. The window overlooked the harbor; she glared at the rosy expanse of water reflecting the sun's fading rays as it set over the sea, its light fragmented into a thousand little pieces. Fishing boats were just now coming in, the crews anxious to be home for their suppers. Back and forth they leisurely sailed, almost as if they had no destination.
Erik pressed on. "You think she gave her life for me out of love, or compassion, or whatever sentiments drive other, more worthy, people? Very well, believe that if it brings you comfort. Merde, I certainly did not ask for such generosity from your friend, and therefore, have absolutely no desire to dwell upon the enormity of her sacrifice. However, my little wife, you are the one who has broached the subject."
She had not, but held her tongue and observed another little boat sailing into the harbor, its blue letters bounding in and out of the sea…the Kairos. Suddenly she was struck with incredulity as she realized she had seen this boat long before she boarded it in Constantinople. What had been said to her?
If you truly desire to save him, you must help your angel to face himself; there is no other way…
Just off of a stormy beach in Brittany—the Kairos. And she knew that now she had to grasp the moment or it, and he, would be gone forever.
"Answer me. Why her life for mine? Why am I the more worthy to live?" Erik's quiet words were more of a plea than a command. Christine studied the harbor for several minutes, searching her mind for the right words, then turned away from the window and the little boat to kneel next to him.
"Truthfully, I cannot say what Papi was thinking, Erik, or why she did what she did. However, I believe you are asking the wrong question," she said cautiously. "It isn't a question of whether you have been or are worthy, but rather, if you can be worthy." Christine placed her trembling hand over the top of his, trying desperately to see the face he carefully averted from hers. "Can you be, Erik? Is there a greater good that might justify Papi's death? Or maybe you are afraid of me, of our child—"
"Leave."
She blinked in surprise. "I…beg your pardon?"
Erik turned slowly, deliberately, his cold eyes sending chills through her heart. "I asked you to leave."
"But—"
"Good God, which word do you not understand? I. Want. You. To. Leave."
Christine stared at him, open-mouthed, at a loss for words. His abruptness left her numb, his sudden hatred, cold. And then she realized that she had hit the nail squarely on the head. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed she was carrying his child. Oh, he had noticed, most certainly; he noticed everything about her. Erik was afraid. Afraid he could not be worthy of the life growing inside of her, and of Papi's death.
And there was not a single thing she could say to change his mind.
Steeling her shoulders, Christine rose from the floor and quietly slipped from the room. She flew through the inn doors and stumbled down to the beach, heedless of the ruin the seawater and sand would make of her shoes. Picking up a thin piece of driftwood, she swept along the shore, swiping at the delicate clusters of reeds growing there. Overhead, the evening sky was filling with thick, grey pillars of clouds, which blotted out the sinking sun and cast the world in early darkness. Running the piece of driftwood through the sand, she scrawled several letters—R…E…I…N—before red anger consumed her and she hurled the stick into the sea.
"Is this what I have fought so long for?" Christine whispered fiercely to the sky. "Risked my son, my friends, my very life…for this? A husband who is no better off now than when he was alone and unloved, dying in his cellar beneath the opera." Overwhelmed by grief, she collapsed on the ground and buried her face in her hands, tears of fury spilled down her cheeks. She wept until great, shuddery breaths shook her shoulders.
It was not an easy thing, to love a man who could look upon her with complete adoration, then flip and freeze her with his coldness. Truly, she did not believe she could survive in such a way for the rest of her life. And if she could not, how could her little children?
Christine pressed her fingertips to her lips and smoothed them over her rounded abdomen, a feeling of intense desire to protect her baby surging through her. Resting her palm over her child, she vowed to do everything she could to give her little one the best life possible, with or without Erik.
Some minutes later, peace settled through her as she watched the waves grow stronger and clouds darken, until the storm drove her indoors. If she had glanced up towards her bedroom window at any time during her walk along the beach, she would have glimpsed golden eyes peering at her from behind a curtain, watching her every move, burning behind the white of a mask.
ooOOoo
"Christine said you wished to speak with me," Erik said as he strode into the inn's parlor that night, where the Persian held court with his hookah pipe.
"I did, two days ago."
Erik sighed and fell into the chair across from his friend. "Is that the same kind of narghile you were smoking in Jerusalem?"
Nadir merely grunted in response, his jade eyes fixed upon the oil lamp's dull, flickering flame.
"That poison will kill you, daroga."
"You are doing a much better job of it."
The masked man took in the Persian's stretched features and hard eyes, thinking that he somewhat resembled a squat cat whose patience had worn thin, ready to strike at the source of his annoyance. Clearing his throat, he tried a different approach.
"I feel I need to apologize to you. I have yet to properly thank you for tracking me down in Istanbul, and helping me to escape. The lengths you must have gone to—"
"We leave for France tomorrow," Nadir cut in, his words cool and clipped. "After Papillon's funeral, I will return to Paris with you, and then we go our separate ways."
"Very well."
"Permanently."
Erik shot out of his chair, his eyes growing wide. "Nadir, you cannot possibly…"
"I assure you I am sincere, du stæm. I am old and tired. I know longer wish to play your games, but as long as I remain in your company, they will never end."
The masked man stared at his friend in shock, then began to pace about the room, back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. At last he turned around and stared down at the seated Persian, his gold eyes glittering dangerously. "Games?" he hissed. "Tell me, my friend, which of my games do you tire of: the one in which I am thrown into prison for you, or in which I snap another man's neck before he slices you through? Perhaps you are referring to the time years ago, when I helped your son—"
"When is your child to be born?"
Erik paused in his diatribe.
"You know you are to be a father, correct?"
"I fail to see how this is any of your concern."
Nadir continued. "You have always wanted a normal life, have you not? I know you have; you have mentioned it in several of your blasphemies. A wife…a child…a home above the ground… For one who has prayed so fervently for these things to a God one claims not to believe in, I am amazed you cannot recognize what is now before you." Nadir set aside the hookah pipe and rose from his chair, standing face to face with his friend. "This is why I want no part of you, Erik—Papillon Nitot died so you could live a life that has, until now, been denied you. Your ungrateful games insult her very memory."
"Christine said something similar."
"You might listen to her, you know. Do not cut down the tree that gives you shade."
"Another proverb, Daroga?" Something in the way Nadir had spoken of the maid struck a familiar chord with Erik. And then his eyes opened; how could he have not seen it, before? In Jerusalem, he had been so wrapped up in his music, and the sun, and the world he and Christine created, he hadn't perceived something so important about his friend. He smiled sadly.
"You loved Mlle. Nitot."
"Yes."
"And yet you let her go into the Rumeli Hisari for me, knowing what might happen. What did happen."
The Persian nodded. "She was a force to be reckoned with."
Erik sighed and turned to study a vase upon the mantle, tracing the delicate mythological paintings with his fingertip. "I tried to protect her, Nadir—just as you asked me to."
"I know," he answered, his voice breaking. "I was there. So did I. In the end, though, she protected me."
Erik turned away from the Persian and returned to the armchair. Burying his face in his hands, he sat in quiet contemplation for such a long time, Nadir thought that perhaps his mind had retreated from the waking world. After awhile, he spoke, his words muffled.
"I am going to be a father, daroga; I cannot think of a greater travesty to inflict upon a child than for me to be his father."
Nadir, drained, slumped into the opposite chair. "Why?"
The other man's face came up from his hands, frozen in mute astonishment. "You cannot be serious."
"Have you not listened to anything I have said?"
"Daroga. I am a deformed murderer, a madman, a social phobic, and entirely selfish in regards to my music and my wife. I have little patience, or time, for children. Aristotle and Wagner will be better fathers to this poor child than I will ever be."
"Praise Allah for the mother," Nadir muttered. "Perhaps you should have thought of this beforehand."
Erik groaned, his head falling into his hand again.
"All of this may be true, Erik, but here is the trouble—if it remains true, you will lose your young family. Be careful."
It was many hours later, after the Persian had retired for the night, that Erik, like a shadow, slipped through the dark hallways and into the room where Christine slept. Peeling away his clothing, his bandages, and lastly his mask, he knelt before his wife and watched her for some minutes with ineffable awe.
"Christine, wake up," he whispered, brushing one long finger along her cheek.
Her eyes languidly opened and then, all of a sudden, widened in fright. She gasped and sat up, her entire body going rigid in fear. "Erik, for God's sake—what is the matter? Is everything alright?"
Ignoring her confusion, he threaded his fingers into her hair, pulled her mouth to his and kissed her so deeply, every nerve in his body trembled with energy. Finally, he felt her relax against him and sigh, her lips moving against his neck.
"I have missed you," she murmured.
"And I you." He buried his face in her brown curls and rested there, knowing there would never be another peace as complete as this. It was with great reluctance that he pulled away, silencing her protests with a firm look. "Please, I must say this to you," he said calmly.
Christine quieted and watched him, waiting.
"I come to you tonight as a monster—no, let me finish. I said a monster, and I meant it. Twisted, deformed, broken and beaten... I have been so before, many times. Each time, however, you have made me human again—given me a soul."
"Erik," his wife breathed.
He kissed her forehead tenderly, clasped her hands in his, and continued. "I am asking you to make me human again, Christine. Remind me that I am a man, not a monster. If you could accomplish this one thing, then I swear that I will live every day of my life for you…and our children." Erik's eyes met hers, apprehensive and entreating her to answer.
Christine found that she could not speak, for she was certain that if she opened her mouth, she would weep and never cease. Instead, she took her husband's face in her hands and kissed it over and over…his sunken cheeks, twisting flesh and half-nose…until love gave way to longings so furious, they could only glory in their joys and sorrows. And when the fires abated and blood once more stilled, Erik wrapped his arms around his wife and rested his cheek upon her midsection, just above their unborn child.
Silently, fervently, he swore that he would be worthy of them.
A/N: I'll put something up on my Web site. I don't know what yet. Lets call it a surprise.
(sings) Where have all the squee-ers gone? (whispers) To phansonline . net
Story Recommendation: Twisted, Every Sue by Deep RollerNostalgia, ahoy! Yes, folks, lets go back to when the POTO movie was still playing in the theatres and the POTO fanfiction archive was only several pages long. Back to the births of many a ne'er-finished sequel story featuring our favorite heroine, Mary Sue.
This is one of the original Sue humor phics (aka the "Angel of Pudding" one), which was a predecessor to a plethora of other Sue humor phics. Twisted, Every Sue is worth a read, not only for its rampant use of clichés, but also for the mental image of the Sues binding and gagging Christine, and sticking her in a closet (hugs poor Christine).
Enjoy!