A/N-Here's a mid-week surprise...the latest addition to the Scrapbook. Please read and review. :)

The Elven King

November 2017, Riene

The stairs descended on and on, downward in straight lines or endless spirals. She knew she was now deep below the Opera House, for some time ago she had passed the fire-rooms where the great furnaces heated the immense building. She had covered the lantern at that point. Even if the mens' eyes were dazzled by the light the tiny spark from the lantern might attract attention, and Christine was not so foolish to think a girl, alone, unaccompanied, in the midst of sullen, lonely men, might escape unscathed.

The flame had snuffled out and proven hard to relight. That should have been her first warning to turn back.

And yet she didn't.

At home in Sweden, years ago, a small girl had crept out of her house at dark, wrapped in her mother's old woven cloak, carrying a candle stolen from the drawer, looking for the Elves. Though frightening and untrustworthy, they were said to possess magic to cure illness, or gold to pay for medicines. Christine was prepared to beg, or to offer to sweep the floor, or whatever else her small skills could offer, if only someone would help her mother. Her pale mother, coughing blood, who no longer sang so sweetly, who now could only lie on the bed while her father wept and prayed.

She had not found the Elves, but instead spent the night beneath a tree, two lanes away in a field, still wrapped in her mother's cloak, where a distraught father found her, sleepy and covered with dew the next morning.

Christine had not ventured out at night after that.

Now the stairs ran downward, not across green fields.

She was a little better prepared. She had spare matches, a second candle, a knife, a small packet of bread and cheese. She wore her own cloak this time, of blue wool. There would be no kobolds down here, no elves or pixies, but rumor had it there were riches hidden below the Opera, treasures hidden here during the years of the Commune.

The dead had no need of money. A dying guardian did. She turned the corner, holding the once-white handkerchief to her face, so as to not breathe in the dust that rose in swirls around her feet.

He studied her from his oubliettes and crevasses, hidden in shadow. The girl raised a lantern, searching for something, walking slowly along the stone passages. No one ventured down here, to the old Communard tunnels, to the filth and dirt and misery of years ago. Curious, he followed.

The back of her neck prickled, prickled with that subconscious knowledge that she was no longer alone. The air currents were disturbed by another breath, taken as she held her own, by the faintest scrape of shoe-leather on stone. The primitive part of the brain, honed by years of being stalked by predators, alerted her, and the girl flung her head up like a deer in the forest, scenting danger. The candle flame flickered in the sudden draft. She had time to see only a great shape, like an immense bat, with glowing golden eyes before it blew out. Her stays were tight; the air thick.

She fainted.

He caught her before she struck the ground, a slight thing, dressed in heavy layers of winter clothing. He did not need light to know it was a young woman. Erik knelt on the ground, one bony knee pressed into the tacky damp floor, the other supporting her slim figure. He passed one gloved hand over her face, then pulled it off impatiently with his teeth, hesitating only a moment. Icy fingers brushed her cheek, trembled in front of her parted lips; she breathed, she was warm, she had not died of fright.

He meant to carry her back up to the surface, despite his annoyance. The girl weighed little, it would be no strain, but a hunger stirred in him, and slowly, his cold fingers traced her face. Oval in shape, long lashes lying against her cheek. His thumb brushed soft, parted lips and a tightness began to grow deep inside his belly. Slowly his hand ran down the length of her body, the tightly-laced curve of her waist and hip, the soft swell of breasts. With a shaking hand he removed the mask and buried his non-existent nose in her hair, smelling the sweetness of the curve of her neck, the softness of curls brushing his face, and the pressure became pain.

No one would know, but she, and it was doubtful she would be believed. She had invaded his desmesne, come to him, an answer to a prayer. His hand caressed her bare arm and he leaned down eagerly to press his thin lips against her soft flesh.

She was dreaming, a handsome prince holding her respectfully, tenderly, his arms around her where she had fainted. Christine smiled and sighed with happiness.

And he froze, the faint sound louder than the blood roaring in his ears, and shaking, pulled back, madness and desire warring with the little decency he had left. He would not, could not, do this thing.

Erik stood, lifting the girl in his arms, cradling her to his bony chest, scooping the small lantern and bundle, pulling his cloak around her for warmth. Swiftly, before he could change his mind, he ascended stairs and passageways, ending behind a mirror in one of the old, unused dressing rooms.

He shifted her in his arms so that he could activate the mechanism, praying it would still work. It had been many years since he had used this particular route. Her hand clung to his jacket, her curls brushing his hands, the soft perfume she wore drifted up to his face. Gritting his teeth once more, Erik stepped across the barrier and laid her gently on the dusty chaise, taking care that she not be placed with discomfort. Here in the dim lightning of the old room he could see her clearly, a pale oval face, brown hair, white skin, lovely.

Desperate now to know her name, he carried her reticule to the dressing table, rapidly delving through its contents. Christine Daae, her cards read. And there were letters, letters demanding money for the treatments and medicines of someone with a different name. He squinted at it, the handwriting appalling. Valerius? And an address. All this he memorized, returning the contents to the small bag and placing it on the floor beside her.

Had she been searching for the rumored treasures of the Communards? If so, a foolish plan, for none existed. He should know, having sought and taken them himself, years ago.

The girl stirred, murmuring, and swiftly he searched his cloak and suit coat, removing a handful of francs and coins, leaving them piled on the floor beside her bag. And then, greatly daring, Erik bent and pressed trembling lips to her bare forehead.

The soft click of the heavy mirror-glass sliding into place woke her from her dream. The handsome prince had almost kissed her, instead respectfully only touching his lips to her forehead, like the gentle benediction of a priest. Her eyes grew wide at finding herself in the strange room, and wider still at the pile of funds lying on the floor. She rose to unsteady feet, spinning around, but all was silence and dust. Grasping the bag and coins, Christine fled the room in confusion and fear. What had happened, below the Opera House?

And deep below, in the very foundations of stone, a man stared brooding into the fire, clutching a small calling card in gloved fingers. Christine Daae.