Chapter 15: Sweet Success

-Erik POV:-

He watched her quizzically. Their short conversation had drifted through almost every emotion: fear, anxiety, sadness, empathy, and bravery. At first, he was baffled at the soprano's self doubt, though expected her trepidation. He noticed the constant tremble in her fingers and the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her uneasiness changed to grief, when he noticed a small tear drip down her red cheeks. Now, that image of a broken woman was fading away before him. Her shoulders were relaxed and she stood straighter. It left him undoubtedly perplexed. He fully expected her to be terrified, especially considering the bloody disaster she had witnessed earlier that day. But he did not expect her to stand so boldly before him. Internally, he felt himself slightly shrink at her determined gaze. Who the hell was this woman in his domain?

However, her change in demeanour was by far the the least confusing aspect of their conversation. He had learned two new facts that completly baffled him: Gustave Daaé was dead and Christine had refused Raoul de Chagny's hand in marriage.

He simply could not wrap his mind around her bittersweet revelations. Gustave Daaé was, without a doubt, one of the most remarkable men he had ever met. Most of the men Erik had encountered throughout his life where greedy, abusive, and prideful. Yet Monsieur Daaé misconstrued all he knew about the male species. His nurturing gentleness with his daughter was completely foreign to him. Even when Christine had done something wrong, he never rose his voice nor struck her down. Erik remembered watching them from the rafters after Christine had accidentally broken a stage prop. The worst thing her father did was tell her he was disappointed in her, but then continued to console her and wipe away her tears. Erik remembered waiting for her father to strike her or scream at her for her negligence, but it never came. Looking back, Erik wasn't surprised. He radiated calmness, treating everyone with unconditional kindness, even those Erik knew Monsieur Daaé disliked. He possessed immense talent, but never boasted his skill. It was a shame, Erik had later learned, that his wife, Christine's mother, had needed expensive medical procedures to stay alive during her pregnancy with Christine. In the end, Monsieur Daaé had lost the love of his life, gained an baby girl, and was buried in medical debt. It took him years to pay it of. Regardless of his circumstances, Monsieur Daaé had been able to do so without falling into despair. In a way, Erik could say he admired him as a young man.

He was too young to die, though death was always inevitable. He wanted to know more, but could see how difficult it was for Christine to talk about it. He internally pocketed his questions for later and instead focused on the best news he had heard in a long time.

I refused him.

She refused that brat? Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that those sweet words would dance off her lips. At first, he was certain he had misheard her, but her downcast eyes confirmed her statement. She refused Raoul de Chagny. She refused him. Did that mean that she was still the little girl he had known so long ago? Had he not completely taken his Christine away?

As much as the news pleased him, it also worried him. Her father was dead, the opera in shambles, and it was very unlikely that anyone else would survive this ordeal. Where the hell would she go after this was over? Would that boy accept her into his care even though she denied his offer? His plan depended on the idea that there would be someone to retrieve her when he returned her to France. But now, he was unsure of how to proceed. On top of this, if she refused him, why did she keep his proposal ring? This worried him the most, but he brushed his thoughts aside. He would have to worry about them later. Besides, he would be lying if he said he wasn't elated.

"If I sing, will my friends live?"

Her question brought him back to reality. The Shah was difficult to pin down. He could be reasonable, on good days. But his stubbornness and pride made it difficult to steer him away from the path he was headed. The truth was Erik had a plan, but it was risky. A plan the Shah would need to agree to, which was also unlikely. And now, there was an aspect of his plan that was, unfortunately, no longer alive.

In other words, his plan was more of an idea.

"Their chances are much higher." He responded flippantly. The truth was he didn't really care about anyone else's survival, he just cared about hers.

The girl rubbed her neck and he clenched his hands into fists. He had noticed the bruises he had left in his anger. On that fateful night, he had thought she was merely hiding in one of the wagons. But then he saw it. That damned bird soaring through the air, tarnishing his near flawless plan. Underneath he saw his sweet angel. His sweet angel who had betrayed him again. She was the one who had released it. It was her who reached out for that arrogant fop.

Yes, he had lied to her. As much as he hated lies, it was necessary. He knew exactly where that hawk was going and knew she was not some sort of spy. Yet it was imperative that she didn't realize his identify. Regardless, these were no excuses for his actions. His anger had gotten the better of him that night and he hated himself for it, that much was true. But he shouldn't have been surprised. His brutish hands tarnished everything they touched.

"Then let's begin." She said boldly.

The corner of his mouth curled upward. Small victories were sometimes the sweetest.

"I presume you have a warm up routine?" He asked. His mind wanted to focus on how the hell he was going to clean up this mess, but decided to instead enjoy the moment. He leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms across his chest. The woman nodded. She cleared her throat and began to sing a few scales. The shadow forgot to breathe.

Yes, she was too quiet, clearing embarrassed singing in front of him. Her voice was dry and cracked, her posture poor, and her song void of emotion. Yet, it was still the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. To the untrained ear, it would be flawless, but he knew she could do better.

He closed his eyes. He had not heard his angel's voice in years. Even at this state, it was hypnotizing. He let her continue, noticing some improvement. She was getting a little louder, at least.

"Stop." He instructed, against his personal wishes. "Do them again, this time with a bit more power behind your voice. There is no need to be shy."

She fidgeted. "I haven't sung in a while."

"That's why we are warming up. Continue, but this time, push yourself."

She looked to the ground. He internally chided himself. Again, he had hurt her. Why did he ruin everything? Was he that much of a beast? He wanted to apologize but instead stared at her, rooting himself in his chair. If he stood, there was no saying what he would do. Would he flee? Would he hurt her again? Would he dare to touch her? He took a deep breath and instead waited for her to continue. She regained her composure and completed her warm ups. Once she had finished, he instructed her to do them again. Then again, then again. But his frustration grew with every new attempt.

"Stop!" He ordered. Christine was heaving, coughing, and trembling in front of him. She was not invested in the music like she used to be. Was she not trying hard enough? She wasn't even utilizing anything he had taught her years ago! He struggled to pin down the source of her fragility.

"You are breathing in between lines. Try to finish them before taking a breath."

Christine began again. He could see her face grow red as she pushed the notes out before erupting into a fit of coughs. She grabbed her throat and turned away from him. Every time her bony shoulders shook with each ragged cough was like a needle to his heart. Why was she like this? It dawned on him. He was an idiot. She was malnourished, probably not fed as much as she should have been on their long travels on top of not being fed for the entire day in the cage. She was dehydrated, exhausted, and had been subjected to the cruelty of her maestro and his soldiers. How the hell was she supposed to sing to his standards? He internally growled as he thought of how damaged her vocal cords must be from his negligence.

"I apologize." He muttered. "I have neglected to account for your basic necessities and that you've had a tiring day."

The woman didn't say anything. She just turned back to him quizzically. Damn those enchanting eyes. He thought.

"You must be hungry, exhausted, thirsty. It seems in my rush to reach the city I have been careless. I will bring you some food."

He turned towards the tent opening when he heard her delicate voice call out to him, stopping him in his tracks. "Wait. What about my friends?"

He clenched his jaw. "What about them?" He snarled.

"I-I cannot accept your offer if they don't-"

"Yes, you can accept my offer. You will accept my offer."

"Please."

He tensed. How was she able to bewitch him with such a simple word? He was the most feared assassin in the entire Persian Empire, having killed hundreds of rebels and traitors. Soldiers cowered when he walked by. Generals stumbled when he addressed them. He had tortured men who had merely looked in his direction. Yet, now, he barely had the strength to keep his composure against one little word that escaped the delicate mouth of a young woman.

"None of us will be able to perform if we aren't fed."

Her logic was sound. He knew there was enough food in the wagons to feed them for one night. There was no point in trying to save Christine when her fate also rested on the performance of her peers. It was a reality he did not want to admit.

"Very well." He outstretched his hand again, trying to ignore how she twitched at his movement. He growled as he remembered his promise to her and instead turned to open the tent flap. Timidly, she walked through the door. As she passed, he could barely catch the scent of roses.

The moonlight lit her unkempt hair like a halo, her loose strands curling above her head in the humidity. He studied her intently, his eyes finally sinking down to the bandages around her arm. They seemed to be holding up well.

"How is your arm?" He asked. He closed the tent flap and began to walk in front of her. He heard her scurry to walk near him, though she kept her distance.

"It feels fine. Was it you who bandaged it?"

"Yes...I did." he faltered. Damn this woman! Why did he turn to an incompetent fool around her? He was never like this before. Why was it so different now?

He couldn't bring himself to look at her, nor wait for a response. Instead, they walked towards the camp and found a group of men by the fire. In Farsi, he ordered them to prepare some food for the prisoners and to give them water. The men, dumbstruck, nodded and hustled to the supply wagons. He grabbed one soldier and asked him to bring fresh bandages.

"Thank you." She finally whispered when she saw the men pull out boxes of food. He kept his back to her. What was this foreign heat he felt in his cheeks?

"Don't thank me. Though I sympathize with you and your friends, remember I am the one bringing you to your possible demise." He turned to face her. "You have no reason to thank me."

Her eyes widened and she gulped. One of the soldiers returned with the bandages, holding them out to him. He hesitated. "If you would prefer, I can have this soldier re-bandage your arm. The wounds will need a new one if they want to heal."

Christine looked over at the soldier and fidgeted. "You can if you'd like. You did such a good job on this one." She held out her arm and he gently took it. He chided himself.

So much for never touching her again. Your promises mean nothing.

Quickly, he dismissed the soldier and began to work on Christine's arm. He untied the bandage, doing his best to avoid touching her soft skin. This made it difficult to bandage it as well as he would have liked, but would stop the wound from getting infected nonetheless.

"Was this from the messenger hawk?" He asked, eager to fill the awkward silence.

"Yes. He was scared. My presence probably frightened him."

"It isn't your fault when someone cannot control their emotions, little song-bird. Don't forget that."

He hoped she understood the double meaning to his response. He grabbed a nearby water ladle and poured some water over her arm and instructed her to shake it dry. She did, her eyes staring at the bucket like it was a fresh piece of meat. He sighed and held a ladle up for her to drink, which she took eagerly. His eyes were entranced by a droplet that trickled down the marble column of her slender neck. They followed it downwards to her jarring collarbone and chest…

He snapped out of his trance and continued to wrap her arm, careful not to wrap it too tightly. What the hell was wrong with him? This was his student, his former childhood friend. Why was he acting like this?

"May I ask you something?"

His heart clenched. What she had asked was a dangerous question, one that could lead down many unwanted avenues. He would not reveal his identity, nor would he explain his past. Though a part of him was certain he knew her question: why did he wear a mask? He glanced up at her, ready to see those damned words escape her rosy lips.

"Could it be possible that I walk with the men tomorrow and let one of them take my place in the wagon?"

He sighed with relief, though felt perplexed by her strange request.

"No. You need to preserve your strength for your performance."

"But my performance will mean nothing if everyone else is exhausted. Ignacio was dragged behind the carriage because he was too exhausted and-and Reiner won't survive for much longer-"

He raised his hand, cutting off her babbling. He saw the redness of her eyes and the small droplet of tears forming there. Her tears could be the ultimate attack on his crumbling defence. If he faltered now, it wouldn't be difficult for her to pick up the pieces of who he was. He stood back, finishing his work on her arm. She clasped her hands together and stared down at the floor, mumbling a weak thank you as she waited for his response.

"I don't want anyone to suffer because of me." She whispered. If she wasn't near the point of tears, he would have laughed. Oh, how ironic.

"I will see what I can do, but you will remain in the cage. Come." He instructed gruffly. "Tell your friends that tomorrow we will stop to allow them time to rehearse. I encourage you to practice your lines with that toad while we travel and to warm up your voice. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She responded, shuffling to keep up with his long strides. He ignored her as she wiped away her tears. He had to, lest he break his resolve and crumble at her feet. He unlocked the back door of the cage, aware of the many large eyes staring at him. He held open the door for Christine and she muttered a thank you as she climbed in. His eyes locked with Madame Giry. Damn that intelligent woman. He saw the resolve in her eyes. She knew exactly who he was. But it didn't bother him, as behind that resolve was a gleam of fear.

"If you want your daughter to survive this, I encourage you to remain silent." Erik had once met a ventriloquist who could, in a way, master the direction and intensity of his voice with very little movement of his lips. It was a skill Erik had found to be incredibly useful as he was able to speak to one person across a room without anyone else hearing him. This would allow him to remain hidden while still able to terrify them with his voice. This was exactly what he did to Madame Giry and he enjoyed watching the resolve in her eyes shatter. Her slight nod confirmed that she had heard him.

"Until tomorrow." He said to Christine, locking the cage behind her. For a moment, their eyes locked again. He tried to interpret what he saw in those eyes. It wasn't entirely fear, but it wasn't the same look of joy she used to have during their old lessons. It stung to think he would never see that look in her eyes again. Briskly, he turned and walked towards the campsite, not expecting her to reply.

"Until tomorrow, maestro."

He paused. He noted the fear in her voice, but she responded to him nonetheless. He wordlessly crept back into the shadows. Sometimes the small victories were the sweetest.

Lucyole: Thanks for the cookies for inspiration! He is an emotional roller coaster and hopefully this chapter kind of highlighted that as well. Love to read your reviews!

Phantomgirl24: Things are getting tense! Christine definitely has a lot on her plate, but she has a lot more support behind her than she realizes. Thank you SO much for the review!