A/N: Here is a relatively lengthy chapter (my longest yet) for my patient Readers! I have included a slightly larger (though still not original) cast of characters here; the appearance of Madame Giry and Raoul are drawn from the 2004 film, as well the name of the Genoese trading ship (probably the only aspects of the movie I will use--see my profile for my reasons). For those of you wondering why a ship would be called "The Mute," my justification is that the builder meant for it to travel very smoothly and silently in the water, all right? I also have an announcement to make: this is the last chapter of PART ONE. PART TWO will will start by skipping forward quite a few years, so that little Christine will be a lovely young woman rather than just, to quote myself, "a darling little lass".

Disclaimer: I do not own anything original to Phantom of the Opera. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's Phantom.

HISTORICAL NOTE: Various historical events come into play in the year in which this installment is set. The first known European outbreak of the bubonic plague occurred in 1347 on trading ships heading for Italy. By the following year, the plague had spread to the rest of Northwest Europe (including France). It struck Russia in 1351, several years after our protagonist was found by Nadir. The setting of PART TWO, the town of Rattenberg, though at the time part of Germany, is present-day territory of Austria, which did not encounter the Black Death until the 1700s.

France was experiencing other problems besides the epidemic. At this time it was in the first decade or so of Guerre de Cent Ans, or the Hundred Years' War. This conflict was between two royal parties: the House of Valois, a family of Frenchmen who claimed the French throne; and the House of Plantagenet, most notably Edward III of England, who claimed the throne of England and France. Not to mention there were many peasant revolts and uprisings fighting for more rights for the commoners (they actually succeeded to an extent due to labor shortage during/after the Black Death). All in all, there was a lot of violence and chaos going on.

Meanwhile, in Persia, the Ilkhanate Dynasty (a line of Khan rulers) was falling apart after the recent death of the ruler Abu Sa'id in 1335. At this juncture, various states in the region tried to claim the throne, resulting in several brief dynasties. I think it is safe to assume, in light of such turmoil, that there were plenty of conspiracies, bribing, blackmailing, and assassinations going on to occupy an experienced criminal.

VI. Death

In which our cadaverous hero has (other) corpses for company

1348 – Paris, France

Parisian pedestrians slowed their bustling pace as they neared the pair of minstrels. One, a fiddler, was a middle-aged man with thinning blonde hair and misty blue eyes that were now shut as he poured his heart and soul into his music. Though no doubt very talented, the man was merely an accompanist to the darling little lass who vocalized sweet ditties in Swedish or accented French. She possessed a voice of such pure, unaffected beauty that listeners thought her an angel blessing their mortal souls with song.

Gustav—or Monsieur Gustave Daaé, as he was called in this country—listened to his daughter with rightful pride. The little girl's high voice was still untrained—there would be time for that later—but she sang with youthful exultation and vigor that compensated for lack of refinement. Daily, Gustave would thank the Lord for giving him this child as an anchor against the seas of despair that had threatened to drown him five years ago.

It had started with a day to both rejoice and mourn—the day he had gained a daughter, but had lost a son.

Erik had left without so much as a parting word or a note of explanation—nothing! To this day, Gustave did not know what had compelled the masked man to leave so suddenly. As his daughter grew into a merry little toddler, Gustave found himself weaving the memory of his first child into his storytelling.

"Only the most hard-working musicians ever hear the Angel of Music, my dear girl. It is my wish that one day you will be blessed enough to hear his heavenly voice. But be warned, child, for he may not appear in a way you expect. There are many kinds of beauty, and the kind Heaven makes cannot be understood by us on earth. Indeed, I would think the Angel of Music would wear a mask, so that those who do see him are not blinded by his divine face."

But Fate had not planned for Erik to be the last loss Gustave would suffer. Not long after his daughter's birth, gentle Hanna had passed away, her delicate constitution unable to handle the strain of childbirth. If it had not been for the blue-eyed infant she had left behind, Gustave would have been tempted to follow his dear wife into the next world. Instead, he enlisted the help of his friend, "Mama" Valerius, to nurse the baby until she could be weaned.

By the time his daughter was three, Gustave liked to think that she had "charmed all of Sweden" with her sky blue eyes, ready smile, and willingness to please everyone. In fact, when two French aristocrats—of the de Chagny family, they had said—had visited Marstrand while touring Sweden, it seemed his daughter had found a sweetheart in Ra—

"Papa!" a sweet voice trilled, tugging on Gustave's sleeve. Their performance was over, the tips collected, and the young lass was hungry for attention from any quarter. "Papa, when can we see Raoul? He hasn't visited us in the longest time!"

It was true; Raoul de Chagny's visits had been becoming less frequent ever since Gustave and his daughter had come to Paris. In Sweden, the lad and "his lassie" had been inseparable; at the end of his stay, the former had begged the Daaés to return to France with him. After Hanna's death, Gustave had accepted the idea, having no reason left to remain in his homeland. Likewise, Mama Valerius—now a widow—bought a domicile in Paris with the money her late husband, an Italian professor, had left her.

Since then, they had only seen Raoul or his brother (when the latter condescended to meet them) a few times, and even then, they could only spare a couple minutes. Gustave surmised that the recent politics agitating all of Paris had also disturbed the ménage of de Chagny.

"I don't know, dear," replied Gustave at another insistent pull on his sleeve. "Raoul's brother—remember Philippe?—is very busy nowadays, and probably doesn't have time to bring the boy to visit." The girl sighed, tossed her golden hair, and skipped off to a booth to examine its wares. Gustave began meandering about the busy street, whistling an old Swedish tune and periodically checking on his mischievous daughter.

He abruptly ceased whistling when he felt a presence behind him. But no matter how quickly he whirled around, there was never anyone there that would arouse suspicion. Uneasy, he took a few steps forward—until black leather formed a savage necklace around his neck. I can't breathe! he thought in a panic. I can't bre—

"If I release you, you must not utter a single sound. Is that clear? You do not want to know the consequences if you disobey."

Those words...that voice... The recollection of a strikingly similar situation to the one he was in now served to quell Gustave's initial terror and recover some of his rationality. He realized that the gloved hand about his throat was exerting barely any pressure; it was only his overactive imagination that had led him to believe he was being strangled. Also, he now noticed that the familiar, glorious tenor—which had sounded tense and angry while voicing the threat—was merely strained with barely suppressed amusement. Gustave stepped easily out of the leather vise to face a pair of golden eyes that twinkled with mirth. "Erik!"

The masked man made a courtly bow. "Monsieur Daaé." Still incredulous, Gustave scrutinized Erik from head to toe.

"You haven't changed a bit." Erik's eyes darkened.

"On the contrary, Monsieur. I have changed a great deal—and not necessarily for the better." An awkward pause followed this rebuttal. Suddenly, Erik's eyes flashed with urgency, and his black glove shot out to grab Gustave's shirt collar.

"What are you doing here, Gustave?" he asked hoarsely, abandoning all formal pretense. "Why now, of all times? Is your stay temporary? Why are you here?" Stupefied by the barrage of questions, Gustave could only choke out an irrelevant reply:

"Hanna's dead." The grip on his shirt collar loosened, and golden eyes softened.

"I'm sorry." Gustave felt a lump form in his throat, and he tried to articulate his words.

"Don't be. I—she—" But Erik cut him off with a graceful gesture of his hand. His next words were voiced in a gentler tone, though it was no less earnest.

"No time for that. I take it that you are living here?" Gustave nodded and promptly recited the name of the inn at which he was staying. Erik continued, in a somewhat pained voice, "Don't ask me how I know, but a pestilence is spreading throughout Europe, and it will reach France very soon. There is nothing here for you—why did you come in the first place?" Gustave mentioned something about the de Chagny family.

"De Chagny?" Erik mused. "Would you happen to be referring to Philippe Georges Marie de Chagny, the nobleman?"

"That was the one," Gustave affirmed. "It was his little brother's idea for us to come to Paris. The lad suggested that we become minstrels, and that's what we did." He tried to chuckle lightly.

Erik did not look amused. "The fool. His brother is a supporter of the Valois, and with the country at war, the noble Philippe de Chagny will likely become just another victim to political violence. As for Raoul, I couldn't care less about him. You must leave Paris."

Gustave protested, "But we are making a decent living through music." He was answered by a bitter laugh.

"Who will be listening to minstrels when everyone is bedridden from sickness?" Erik's wondrous voice rose to a frantic pitch. "Your only audience will be the corpses that litter the streets!" Shuddering at the ghastly picture the masked man painted, Gustave looked around for his daughter. Spying her at a stall chatting happily with a grocer selling produce, he called, "Christine!"

Gustave felt Erik shift beside him and speak. "Christine?" said he with a note of approval, apparently diverted from his rant. A pause, and then, "A follower of Christ. A befitting name for an angel." The father heard a note in Erik's voice that could only be described as longing. Christine was approaching them with a radiant smile on her face, a little white hand raised in greeting.

But when Gustave turned to introduce his masked friend, Erik was gone.

--

In another, darker district of Paris (with a rather dubious reputation), there is quaint, dimly lit dwelling situated at the corner of a street. The house is out of place there among all the clubs, bars and salons—not due to its exterior appearance, but because of the door's copper nameplate, which read, "DR. NADIR KHAN, PHYSICIAN." Indeed, passerby would wonder, what would a respectable physician be doing in this part of town?

By the time Erik reached his designated room in that dwelling, he was as high-strung as his bowstrings, which produced unpleasant cracks as he slashed them across his fiddle. The sound was akin to that of chalk scratching harshly on a block of slate. His sawing apparently woke up "Doctor" Khan (an alias, of course), who soon appeared at Erik's door.

"Erik, please stop that infernal noise! If you're going to play all night, at least play something easy to hear!" The musician absently mumbled something about the strings being too taut, and in his distraction, twisted the bow so that they became even tighter. Dr. Khan rolled his eyes and retreated to his bedroom.

"I have seen him!" the musician said to no one in particular. "Erik has seen Gustave and his little girl! Erik has seen an angel today!" Oh, the turbulence of emotions he had felt, the floods of speech that had nearly been released! Erik had forced himself to curtail the encounter, before he had said something he knew he would regret. Of his face, for example. Of his past. Of the downhill trend his life had taken since his departure from Sweden.

Of how he had been seduced by Death.

Life had been particularly unkind to him these past five years, while Death had been far too solicitous. In the month after leaving Sweden, Erik had roamed Europe as a traveling magician and entertainer, so few questions had been asked about the mask. In his wanderings about Russia, Erik had met Nadir Khan, a Persian searching in vain for a skilled foreign assassin to bring home to the head of his state. Erik, who had been suffering from ennui, had accepted the interesting proposal.

The years that followed were blurred in his memory. All he remembered with clarity was that with each assassination had come unadulterated pleasure.

Yes, as monstrous as it sounded, Erik had derived a sort of aesthetic appreciation for death in Persia that mirrored the one he had felt on the day of his mother's passing. He had had no interest in political intrigue or the pathetic lives of his victims. Nadir—that softhearted, scrupulous fool who clearly had to find another job—had never understood this. The conscientious Persian had misconstrued Erik's fascination as a carnal hunger to kill. Erik, perceiving this, had once attempted to demonstrate to Nadir the "beauty of bloodshed" on a mannequin, hoping to give his friend a valuable vicarious experience.

"Erik, I don't think this is a good idea."

"Imagine his eyes, Nadir—have you ever seen a sunset? It is very much like a magnificent sunset…a momentary flare of brilliance as his life flashes before his eyes, before everything fades into darkness…"

"Erik, what are you doing?"

"Relax, Nadir, it is only a mannequin. Imagine the blood spreading out over the paling flesh. It is like a making a Persian carpet, is it not? Rich, crimson dye coloring fading fabric…"

"That is a rather realistic mannequin…"

"Work with me here, Nadir."

Needless to say, the lesson had not gone well.

But that is merely one scene in Erik's colorful history. He had developed a queer relationship with Nadir Khan. The two were impossibly different, and the less scrupulous one had been inclined to make quite a few murder threats to the other. After all, it was Erik who had actually carried out the assassinations; Nadir had been gifted in extracting valuable information, so aided in locating their targets. They had maintained this strange partnership for about four years, until both had agreed that the current ruler was insane and that they could not continue such an unfulfilling life.

It was probably the only thing they had ever agreed on.

The friends had parted ways. Nadir, true to his compassionate soul, had gone to study medicine. Erik, ever the restless ghost, had secured "free and private passage" on a Genoese trading ship, Il Muto. He had thought that perhaps in Italy, in that wondrous place famed for its art and architecture, he would be able to abandon his strange fixation with death for an interest in more intellectual subjects.

Fate, apparently, did not intend for that to happen.

Erik had not been infected with the mysterious illness when it struck the other passengers. With "private" quarters, he had been exempt from any contact whatsoever with the crewmates. Do not fear that he had been lonely, my dear Reader—that circumstance had saved his life.

As a matter of fact, Erik had been the only one left alive by the time Il Muto had been found grounded on the shores of Italy.

The disease was a terrible one indeed! What was this malady that made one delirious with fever, speckled with red and black, wild with pain? that caused one to spout flames of blood? And worst of all, that raised wicked buboes on the very organ Man used to procreate?

The perverse irony of the situation had not escaped Erik as he had gazed upon the wasted faces of the bodies unceremoniously dumped into ditches. Why, they had borne a striking resemblance to…him! The (living) Italians who remaining in the city had scurried a little faster past the insane masked man who laughed demonically in the streets. So, he had thought, I finally have company in which I belong; a pity that my new friends cannot speak!

The masked man had traveled all throughout Italy, only to have the Black Death follow him like the hound of the Devil himself. Focused on its prey, the hound pursued Erik indefatigably. He had temporarily escaped from Death's ravenous jaws by fleeing to Paris.

But Erik knew that the hound of Hell would catch up to him soon.

--

"I'll be paying a visit to Chorine today," said Erik to Nadir over a small morning repast. The friends had met coincidentally in Paris some months ago—"A most unfortunate happenstance," Erik had remarked, "to meet up with my irksome conscience while I have been thriving on my criminal ways." It was true; the ingenious criminal had discovered a way to profit financially from the war. "Careful neutrality" was Erik's euphemism for what Nadir denounced as double-dealing.

"Are Madame and Mademoiselle Giry almost ready to leave?" asked the good doctor, nibbling on his breakfast.

"I believe so. I just wanted to stop by to make sure they have everything prepared."

The tall, intimidating figure made its way briskly through the street to a rundown shack near his own lodgings. Knocking on the door—to warn its occupants rather than to request permission to enter—Erik let himself in and called, "Madame Giry?"

Large, hazel eyes peeked out fearfully from the corner of a wall. It was little Meg Giry, Chorine's daughter. Meg had never warmed up to Erik—understandable, really, since Erik was always a glacier in her presence. He reserved his kindness for Meg's mother.

Said lady soon appeared in the narrow corridor, carrying herself with dignity despite her dismal surroundings. Chorine Giry, now a middle-aged woman, constantly exuded elegance, grace, and sophistication not unlike Erik himself. The austerity of her brow and tightness about her lips, while not conforming to the standards of prettiness, gave her a sort of statuesque beauty.

"Erik," she greeted the intruder with a small smile. "How kind of you to check up on us." Erik grunted in reply and glanced back at the corner; the hazel eyes had disappeared.

"Do you have everything packed?"

"Yes. Most of our possessions I have put into bags. The most precious valuables I have sewn into our garments." They continued in this fashion for a while, with Mme. Giry giving a general inventory of things while Erik made comments or suggestions. When this was done, Mme. Giry took Erik's long, thin hands in her own.

"Erik," she began with uncharacteristic emotion, "I—I must thank you for all you have done for me and my daughter." The masked man looked like he was about to say something, but she cut him off. "I have never questioned your past or your actions. The fact that you have been our benefactor is enough for me to know that you are a good man. If we ever meet again, know that you have my loyalty if you need it."

Erik looked with admiration on this hardy little woman who had weathered through many a misfortune. Once the wife of a noble, she had been accustomed to a carefree life of luxury. When she was mistreated, however, she left of her own accord and vowed never to remarry. For several years, she had made a living as a dancer in public houses, until she became pregnant with Meg. The penniless woman had met Erik in an alleyway, and the latter had agreed to help her financially, on the condition that she resumed dancing as soon as possible.

"I would not want to see your talent wasted. I am," he had explained with a dry laugh, "a patron of the arts, if you will." She had assented to his condition immediately.

Now, Erik looked the woman in the eye. "Do you have enough money to get by?"

Mme. Giry laughed good-naturedly. "With my thrifty ways, the sum you gave us should last for years."

So, once again, Erik parted ways with a rare friend. Just as with Nadir, however, the two were bound to meet again.

--

When Erik returned from Mme. Giry's, he was instantly met by the frowning, dark-skinned face of Nadir. The normally composed Persian had a concerned expression that disconcerted Erik, and the latter worriedly asked what was the matter.

The Persian swallowed. The masked man was not going to like the news. "Remember the two people you told me to keep an eye on?"

Erik wanted to throttle his friend for such evasiveness. "The Daaés? What about them? Be straightforward, man!"

"It seems they still have not left Paris. And I have been informed that they're not going anywhere soon."

"Why? Get to the point!"

"M. Gustave Daaé has been visited by the Black Death."

--

Erik released a string of curses as he entered the inn, but halted when he opened the door to Gustave's room. None of the gruesome scenes he had witnessed in the past could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes.

Death had never looked so ugly.

It seems you've got yet another corpse for company, his mind taunted, and this one can even stop for a little chat! Erik tried not to gag, blocking out the sight of vicious, black buboes on Gustave's pale skin. Look, Erik, it's a Persian carpet! Is it not a creative design?

Erik staggered and attempted to keep his growing insanity under control. Gustave's cloudy blue eyes opened to take in the sight of the interloper. The dying man cracked a smile.

"Erik," he greeted in a trembling, hoarse voice, "it's good to see you."

At this, Erik broke down. In a storm of tears and anger, he yelled, "Why didn't you leave when I told you to! This is all your fault!" With the placidity of one approaching death, Gustave opened up his emaciated arms. Not caring if he caught the disease, Erik sunk into his surrogate father's embrace, still crying fitfully.

"It can't be helped," Gustave soothed. "But I am glad you came. I have some matters to discuss with you. You've seen my daughter, Christine?" Erik nodded. How could he forget the sight of an angel? "Well, as you know, I've been quarantined in here so that she isn't infected." Now, Gustave grabbed Erik's hand urgently. "She needs protection, Erik. A guardian angel. I told her that once I died, I would send her the Angel of Music."

Erik scoffed despite his tears. "Why would you feed her such lies if they'll only end in disappointment? You're not dead quite yet, old man. Don't assume you already know the secrets of Heaven, if such a place exists."

Gustave shook his head with a knowing look that Erik despised. "I'm asking you to be that Angel of Music, Erik." Silence greeted this statement. Suddenly, Erik stood up, pushing Gustave forcefully away.

Pointing to his mask, he roared, "You fool! What makes you think that I can be an angel? No! Not with—with—this—"

Still with that imperturbable calm, Gustave said, "Let me be the judge of that, Erik. I think it is time that you show me what's behind the mask."

"Never!"

"In all the time I've known you, I've never asked questions. But now I want to see your true face, Erik. Can you not do me this one favor before my final hour arrives?"

The masked man laughed bitterly. "Seeing my face will probably bring you closer to that hour."

But Gustave persisted, and at last, Erik's long fingers reached up to untie the black ribbons.

"Oh, Erik," sighed Gustave when he saw the death's head. Erik trembled like a leaf at the tone of overwhelming love and acceptance in the sick man's voice. The moment was so intense that it became difficult to breathe.

"Do you hate me?" Erik wondered what had made him say something so childish.

"Oh, Erik," Gustave repeated, drawing a wasted hand over Erik's skeletal one. "I feel closer to you than ever." At this, Erik felt some of the tension leave his body as he gave a lighthearted rejoinder.

"That doesn't come as a surprise to me, you know. You are approaching death quite rapidly, so it makes perfect sense for you to relate to a corpse." Thus, Gustave's final moments were spent as all the other times he had been with Erik: witty banter; a few subtle, heartfelt sentiments; and of course, music.

Any qualms Gustave had harbored about entrusting Christine into this man's care vanished when, for the first time, he heard Erik sing. It was a requiem, and the otherworldly voice sang with an exultation that seemed to lift Gustave's soul out of his earthly body.

Perhaps that is what actually happened.

Erik pulled a white bed sheet over the body before exiting the room. He entered another, smaller bedroom, where Gustave's daughter slept in a small cot. Grateful for the darkness, the masked man gently took the angel in his arms. Christine stirred and opened her eyes, still half-asleep. "Daddy?"

Softening his voice as much as possible, Erik answered, "Your Daddy is gone, Christine." Naturally, the poor little girl began to cry.

Unable to stand her tears, Erik softly sang, "Don't cry, my angel…" At the last word, Christine abruptly stopped crying. Clutching the folds of his black clothes, she timidly called, "Angel? Are you my Angel of Music?" It must be him, she thought desperately. Papa promised! And that voice…

The Voice seemed even more angelic than before when it answered her plea. "Yes, child. I am your Angel of Music. I am here to take you out of danger, and then I will return to your father in Heaven. Now sleep, little one." Almost against her will, Christine closed her eyes and succumbed to slumber.

Erik sighed in relief. He knocked on the door of a house Gustave had said belonged to "Mama Valerius." A sleepy old woman answered; without a word, Erik deposited the sleeping angel in her arms and handed her an explanatory note written in his crude hand. And before the old woman could even blink, he blended back into the shadows.

--

For a long time afterwards, life for Erik was hell. He had returned safely from his nighttime rendezvous, only to be afflicted with the same sickness that had ravaged Gustave. Nadir seldom abandoned his vigil by his friend's bedside. The two endured several grueling months before Erik fully recovered.

On the eve of this anticipated phenomenon, Erik's last fever broke, but the aftermath left him in a mild state of delirium. He dimly heard someone—was that Nadir? it must be—telling him, "You're going to be all right, Erik. You're very lucky; victims rarely survive an attack of the Black Death."

Erik's mind was in a haze. The last thing he remembered was taking care of an angel—but why did he feel so awful? It was because he was sick—yes, the Black Death!—wait, what of the angel?—What angel…wasn't he the angel? But angels didn't get sick—that meant he wasn't an angel. But Christine! Was she sick? The Black Death would kill a little girl, even an angel like her—oh no, he had failed Gustave! He had killed an angel. What did that make him? He was already a thief and a murderer, but the latter only killed humans.

Although he was delirious, somehow his mind conjured up an unusually clear image. It was a picture of the streets of Italy—oh, so many dead bodies! Why wasn't he as lifeless as they were? How could he have survived, despite being practically born as a corpse? Once again, Erik thought of his uncanny resemblance to the dead…

It hit him.

He was laughing, cackling like lunatic while Nadir's distressed inquiries fell on deaf ears. Erik hardly noticed, so caught up was he in his epiphany.

He didn't just look like the victims of the Black Death.

He was the Black Death.

-- END OF PART ONE --