Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera, Susan Kay's Phantom, or Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical.

Turn of the Tide: Screams

Raoul:

I was utterly unable to speak after the confrontation with Erik. We remained sitting there, staring warily at each other for a time. He was exhausted from his injuries and undoubtedly in a great deal of pain, while I – I was shattered by another sort of pain.

I was not unaccustomed to loss. My parents died when I was a young man, leaving my brother to look after me. Losing family at such a vulnerable age was difficult to manage indeed, but my choice of profession itself provided more exposure to death and trying times than most would care to think about. Life on the sea was full of treasures. But with every treasure came a trial, and it was not uncommon to lose a trusted friend in battle. My naval career, compared to others, was still quite young with only nine or so years. I accepted my commission when I turned 18 years of age, and spent the majority of my career aboard a 32-gun frigate named Riene. A small, agile ship-of-the-line, she at one time saw many skirmishes and had her own scars to bear.

I lost many crewmates aboard that vessel. While few of the exchanges were anything notable, it only took one man to perish to send the whole lot into mourning. A small gunship such Riene only possessed a hundred men or so, and thus the crew was close either through friendship or mere acquaintance. I made it my effort to be a respected officer amongst the crew, and so I learned to cope with the loss of friends, whether fellow officers or seamen. The looks on the faces of the crew when we committed a friend to the sea would be forever etched in my memory.

That evening, as Erik and I sat there in the silent darkness licking our wounds, as it were, I found it strangely easy to believe him. My rage had been quickly replaced by grief, and I sank against the wall, my face pressed to my hands. Poor Philippe.

What I had long feared had become truth. My brother had died a horrible death in the darkest, loneliest place I could think of. The wretchedness of the situation made my stomach turn. While I wanted to blame Erik, I knew I could not. Sense told me that had the man been guilty, he'd have long since killed me as well and fled. Instead, Erik sat there calmly without making a move.

Suddenly I heard a large thud as Erik dashed his left fist against the wall. I looked up and found him hanging his head looking especially tense. He drew a slow breath and held it for a moment, and I suspected that he must be in some intolerable pain.

Moments later Nadir rushed into the room, his necktie hanging loosely from his neck and his wrinkled shirt tucked untidily into his trousers. He wore a horrified expression on his face and stopped as soon as he stepped in the door to look repeatedly from Erik to me. Erik was still crumpled closest to Nadir and was holding his shoulder as if it were about to fall off, and I appeared as if I just had the life throttled out of me. Which, of course, took no acting on my part.

The Persian was speechless for several moments as he tried to take in the scene. "What on earth has happened here?" he demanded in his heavily accented French.

"Having a damn tea party, Nadir, what does it look like we are doing?" Erik spat. Despite what had just occurred and my grieved state of mind, I found myself quite amused at his annoyed humor. Having only ever thought of Erik as the Opera Ghost and Christine's Angel of Doom, I cannot say I ever expected a sharp wit.

"Allah," Nadir whispered as he stepped quickly toward us. He seemed to be assuring himself that I had not come to harm before turning his attention to Erik. "The two of you look wretched," he muttered with a tinge of disgust.

"And you look as radiant as ever, dearest," Erik mocked.

Nadir fixed his eyes on Erik and scoffed. "I should have known you were in poor condition. You always become intolerably boorish when you're ill."

Erik made what appeared to be a grimace before he retorted. "Yes well, I suppose I have my injuries to thank for that. I was actually about to lose consciousness…again…when you burst in and lit up my life." He gave a sarcastic smile that quickly fled from his expression. I slowly came to my feet and assured Nadir that nothing of consequence had occurred. Moments of silenced passed between the three of us as Erik slowly sank further against the wall. I lit the nearest lantern and came to find that what was visible of Erik's face as white as the mask he wore.

Nadir knelt by his side and place a hand on Erik's shoulder. "You're looking more horrific than usual," the Persian gently mocked. When he received no response from his masked acquaintance, Nadir moved to face him with concern. "Erik."

Still no response. Erik only looked blankly away from the two of us to the blank wall before him and more or less collapsed against Nadir. He was still clutching at his injured shoulder and appeared to be just as troubled by the knife wound to his side. It was becoming painfully clear that the few days gone by had not given him back his strength.

I took a knee off to Nadir's left and observed. They remained still for a moment, Erik's increasingly ragged breaths becoming more evident as the seconds passed. The air in the room was terribly still and excerpted a sort of dead weight that was choking to those who paid it any heed. "Perhaps we should fetch the doctor," I said quietly.

"I have no need for a doctor," Erik hissed.

"Yes you do," Nadir assured, looking to me.

"I rather think not."

"Then stand up," demanded Nadir, his patience evaporating quickly. "If you insist that you are in no need of a physician then stand up." Erik looked up to Nadir with pure contempt. He lay there, unwilling to admit to either of us or himself that he was incapable of moving.

Finally Nadir took pity as he knelt to assist. He muttered something in Persian and Erik responded in the foreign tongue. Seconds of silence passed between the two, and Nadir shook his head. "Leave me be," Erik whispered.

"Fine, you incorrigible miscreant, suffer then. I shall be in the adjoining room sleeping, though I do not expect you will be calling for me," Nadir spat as he stood and made for the door. "You are content to believe you never require anyone's help, but if were not for the Vicomte and I, you would be lying dead in some blackened hole."

"Perhaps that was the point," Erik said. His words hit Nadir and I like bricks and I hung my head.

Nadir paused for a moment before speaking quietly with great disappointment, "You truly wish you died down there…"

Erik, sprawled on his back and still clutching at his right shoulder, hesitated. "I wish he were a better shot."

Throughout the next morning and rest of the following day the house was intolerably quiet. Erik was quite unconscious and failed to wake despite several of Nadir's attempts and Doctor De Lorme's presence.

After her morning vigil at Erik's bedside, Christine left to eat lunch with Mamma Valérius. She offered to stay with me in my grief, but I insisted that she take a few hours to herself and assured her I would manage. I was managing with my loss, and did not want to see Christine dragged down by it. I admit I missed seeing her in my home, for she lit the walls with her face. I knew eventually she would have to return to Mamma Valérius for the wedding was not for several weeks. While I desperately wanted her to remain with me, I knew it was beyond all boundaries of "acceptable." She had stayed in her own room and it was all very respectable, but the fact of the matter remained. Most importantly, Christine feared that Mamma Valérius would worry if she remained away too long.

"I am here, Raoul, if you need me. I do not want you to feel alone during this time," she said before she departed. "I cannot possibly thank you enough for what you have done." I kissed her and squeezed her hands.

"I will manage for the afternoon. I need some time to myself, as do you. Please think nothing of it. I would go to the end of the earth for you if you so desired. I only hope it turns out well in the end," I replied.

Christine looked down to her skirts for a moment and looked as if she were choosing her words wisely. "I know this is putting you in a terrible position," she began quietly, looking up to meet my eyes. "Taking him into your home as you have done…I know that you want him dead for the things he has done, but Raoul, you must understand…"

"I do," I soothed as I cupped her cheek with my left hand. She returned the favor.

She looked up at me and gazed into my eyes. "This will all turn out well. I promise." And with that, she kissed me and she was off. May society be damned, I thought to myself with a smile spread across my face. I am going to marry that girl. All of the good Parisian society would be up in arms with such a union – a singer marrying a Comte – but I never cared. I turned a blind eye and deaf ear to the critics and focused on our future.

When I returned inside the air in the house was still heavy. The smile faded from my face as soon as I stepped in the door. I paused in the hallway before turning right back around to return outside. The sun was shining, the air was warm and welcoming for that time of year, and the horses were turned out in the paddocks. I indulged myself and went for a walk.

Horses were a pleasure and a hobby for me, as they were for many gentlefolk. I found them majestic and sporting at the same time. A good horse meant a great deal to me. My brother had owned a small string of racehorses that we stabled on the estate during the off-season. In addition, we had an assortment of carriage horses as well as field hunters and hacks for riding purposes. As I passed by the paddocks I stopped to say hello to my favorite mount, Monsieur. He was a big, dark bay gelding with flashy markings and impressive movement. He was a magnificent creature and at 16.3 hands high at the wither, possessed a commanding presence. I greeted him with a smile and stroked his intelligent head as he searched me for treats. Casually I retrieved a mint from my pocket and offered it to him. Dutifully Monsieur took it and made the most bewildered of faces as he tasted the mint. I laughed at his display – this was my companion of many years and I very much enjoyed his company. After stroking his ears once more, I moved on to the next paddock as Monsieur turned his attention back to harassing the younger geldings.

Two big, matching grey geldings gazed at me over the fence as I approached. Samson and Salomon they were named. They were my favorite driving team by far. I offered them each a mint from my pocket and a pat and continued my walk. In the next paddock was a trio of young mares, all part of our racing stock. The eldest was a blood bay mare I called Ariel. She was fine boned with a refined head and elegant, lady-like appearance. For some time she had been retired from the races and while I always thought she'd make a lovely hack for Christine with some patience, I lacked the time in the past month or so to dedicate to her training. I easily could have had one of the stable boys work with her, but I wanted a personal touch for this mare. She was excitable and flighty at times, but oh so magnificent. I wanted desperately to present her to Christine, but I dared not until I was sure of her trustworthiness. Someday, I thought as I gazed out upon her.

I heard screaming coming from the barn, and as I turned I saw one of the stable hands leading a horse down the lane to the empty paddock awaiting him. I immediately recognized the animal as Giovanni, a black gelding that was part of one of my driving teams. The horse was terribly upset and I couldn't help staring as he was lead toward me. His head was up as far as he could carry it and his feet hardly touched the ground. Incessantly he screamed and tried turning to look back to the stable, but his handler repeatedly corrected him with a yank of the lead. Odd, I thought. Normally this horse was especially quiet, perhaps even aloof. In three years of service to me I had never seen him this worked up.

The hand turned Giovanni out and I approached to inquire what was going on. "Commodore colicked again last night, Monsieur," the young man, Frederic, explained. Commodore was Giovanni's teammate, the one who was acting ill three days ago. Frederic paused. "I am very sorry to hear about Monsieur Philippe. That is why we did not seek you out last night sir. The horse was destroyed this morning sir. He was in a lot of pain and was not resolving," he explained. "And now this one's all worked up. He's been kicking down the walls all mornin'. Maurice wanted him out of the barn." I nodded sadly and Frederic made his way down the lane. What bright mood I may have been in was quickly dragged back down into the blackness of the night before. Philippe. My heart and stomach sank. Once again I felt lost as I spread my arms along the fence and gazed out on the crazed maniac now running back and forth along the fence line.

"It seems as if you and I have a lot in common," I muttered, addressing the upset horse. As he passed by I reached out and touched his ebony face. As I did so I thought of Philippe. I crossed my arms on the fence and rested my head as I watched Giovanni pace back and forth, his shrill cries never to be heard again by his lost teammate. Slowly I shook my head and returned indoors, followed by the calls of the black horse.

For the rest of the afternoon the horse cried. One could nearly set a watch to his desperate pleading. With every scream I was reminded painfully of Philippe's loss, and more than one time that afternoon I found myself near breakdown. At one point I recounted the evening before and the sight of my dead brother, and was so disturbed that turned into a vomiting wretch. Desperately I needed something to occupy my mind, but my ambition had disappeared. In Christine's absence and my own grief, I found myself staring often out the window to the paddocks where the imposing black figure still paced the fence.

Even when Christine returned my spirits were still dark, for the horse's calls did not cease. He had calmed some, most likely due to exhaustion, but he still cried without fail. Horses know when they lose a one of their own. I am convinced that they can sense it. It is as if they can smell death. The hands returned all the horses to the stable for the evening and I could still hear Giovanni screaming from his stall on occasion.

I did not sleep well that evening at all. In fact, I woke from a light sleep near midnight. Something was amiss, and I could not quite decipher what was the problem. Several moments passed before I discovered the fact that it was quiet. Dead quiet outside. The horse was not calling. For no reason whatsoever I threw on the closest available trousers, shoes, shirt, and coat, and made my way outside. It was a warm evening for the time of year. Quickly I went to the stable, but found Giovanni's stall empty. My curiosity now turned to suspicion. I turned to go wake the grooms when out of the corner of my eye I saw a black figure moving in the distance. There was the horse in question, alone in a small paddock with another shadow. I approached slowly. The shadow was tall and appeared to be working the horse in some fashion. It was only when the figure turned to the right that I caught a glimpse of the white mask did I know who it was.

Immediately I shrank behind one of the tall bushes. Indeed it was Erik, with his right arm in a crude sling. Despite his injuries he appeared to move very gracefully, and he and the tall black horse were involved in a strange exchange of sorts. Erik would shoo the horse away with a quick gesture, and then turn away after the horse circled him at a walk or trot several times, and the horse would simply walk up to him. I watched as Giovanni followed Erik about the paddock like a dog, starting and stopping calmly with him, turning, all with no halter or restraint.

I must have sat there for a half an hour observing this dance, which of course was only the beginning. Erik stroked the horse from head to tail, lifted the feet, and coaxed him to lower his head to the ground in submission. Moments later he sent the horse away again. Giovanni pawed the ground and lowered himself to the ground for a good roll, but before he was finished Erik was at his side. Normally horses would hop right up to their feet, but no, Giovanni stayed down. Erik once again ran his free hand down the horse's face, neck, and barrel. The scene was utterly peaceful. I was in awe. And before I knew it, I was making my way toward the pair.

Author's Notes:

And so comes to an end the memoirs of our darling Vicomte, at least for the time being. Expect Erik's POV for some time to come.

If you have any questions on the horse lingo, do give me a shout! There will be plenty more of it in the upcoming chapters anyway.

Pertie- I simply adore "Rosy Hours!" I began reading that fic earlier this summer, but put it off. I'll definitely have to start back up on it. Thank you for the comparison, what an honor!

Thank you all once again for the amazing reviews! They all make me smile and keep me writing.