AUTHOR'S NOTE: Bloody messed up that last chapter's layout. grumbles Well, there's nothing I can do about it, I'm afraid.
Bea: Oh, you're obsessed. Go paw Creedy, why don't you? lol Yes, that's indeed a Tolkienistic alliteration thingy. g
Ashley: Well, my odd kind of kidding. Yes, I do fancy meeting you here. :) No, I'm not teasing you. I'm merely being a general nuisance. sweetly Patience is a viiir-tuuuuee… :P
Hotaru: Chinese water torture? Oh my… Thanks for cleverly gluing my Erik's jaw's together, I do appreciate that. runs to devour the muffins Yessss! At last! pokes tongue out at Erik
The Musician of the Night: Oh, that's going to be difficult… It's kind of "Lodo", only that you pinch your nose hard for the first "o" so it sounds muffled. Yes, well… that's French to you. lol And it was me who wrote The Lay of the Shadow, not Tolkien. smug Well, in the story… you'll see. ;)
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I. Watch it burn
The Pillars of Heaven were burning. Smoke and tongues of flame shot up from the crowns of the towers towards the darkened, lightning-torn sky, and where they had touched the stone, its white sheen was gone, turned to black, a black that swallowed all light.
This was the end. At the last moment he had turned back, and he had tried to prevent what he had once wanted to happen, tried to stand in doom's way. But he had failed.
How long he had fought here he did not know, only that all his limbs were aching, and that he could hardly keep himself upright anymore. Sweat and blood was soaking his clothing and running over his face, in places already drying, mingled with smears of soot.
Was it still night? Was it day already? Or was it night again?
Or would there never be another day?
This was the end. The end.
And he was glad it was. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he was glad. At last an end. At last.
The end of pain.
Roaring dire fury, a lizard half-breed, one of the Dragon-tamer's creatures, came charging towards him, its claws whipping through the air, its mad little eyes gleaming in the firelight. Without a thought, his sword-hand drew an arc at the height of his shoulder, and the creature's ugly head flew through the air, then fell into one of the dried-out fountains while its body slumped to the ground, whirling up ashes, and he stepped over it, already banishing it from his mind.
There was only one thought, one desire, one obsession.
Aminta, Aminta! Is this what I traded the world for, my honour, my duty? Is this the price for my treason? My love, my one and only... Is there no place in all worlds where you can be mine?
You betrayed me, Herald of Fate. All of you betrayed me. And even if they cast us into the Abyss, like they did with the Bearer of Light, even if we are never to see the light of the world again, even then I will never cease to pursue you. I will extinguish your Eye and spill your blood time and time again, for all of eternity, until my grief is quenched or you are truly dead. Or until the world ends completely, until the Bearer of Light returns to begin his reign of shadow.
Blood for blood. Nought for nought.
Just like it always was. Like it should have been.
Curse the world! Curse all of it! All of it but her! Oh, Aminta...
And curse immortality, most of all!
Oh, how he hated this all, everything, the entire word! How he hated himself, more than anything else! There was a mad, raging fire inside him, a fire slowly consuming him, devouring him inside out, and still it could not destroy him. Nothing could.
Destruction! Devastation! Complete annihilation! Everything was better than this eternal damnation he had to face. Pain, endless pain forever, and no end to it, no end! The world of the Divine was ending here, drowning in blood and fire and darkness, but not him. The Abyss consume him, not him! Not him!
Death! Forgetfulness, darkness over his senses forever! Deep, dreamless sleep for all of eternity! How he wished he could just cease to exist and never be again!
Around him there was death, nothing but death; servants' and creature's mangled bodies were strewn everywhere. But no death for an immortal, no death. Only the fire inside him, brighter, madder than the fire outside, but no death. No death for all of eternity.
There was only one fire brighter than the one slowly and painfully eating his insides. Beneath the Dome of Eternity, in the halls of the Eldest King...
And at once there was hope, a desperate last hope. Maybe there was a way to pass into the Realm of Twilight, to be reunited with Aminta once more.
With a thundering crash, a smouldering turret came tumbling down into the courtyard, scattering burning debris everywhere, but he hardly noticed it. The walls and parapets around him were crumbling, but he hardly saw them. And he did not care anymore. The entire world could burn down, for he did not want to see it any longer. There was only one thing he wanted to see, only her beloved face.
Ducking under a crumbling archway, he began to run, past fallen bodies and smoking carcasses of beasts, past ruins, past fire and ashes. Few fighters were left, but he hastened past them without a second glance, paused only once for how long it took him to sever another lizard-man's head. So used he was to hunting and killing them, it had become second nature to him after all those long years of war, an entire age of the world outside. Out there, none remembered the days of old, the days of peace and blessing.
As he beheld the ruins of his home now, he wondered if he truly did. It was so long ago…
At last he reached his destination, the great doors ajar and one half torn from its hinges, and as he entered the shadows of the building, he had to step over a mound of fallen bodies. The marble floor was slippery with blood, blood spilled in the halls of the Eldest King.
Where fires should have been burning in braziers, he passed through shadows. Darkness had fallen in the very halls of the Eldest King.
What would the halls of the Lord of the Shadows be like now? Had they dared to desecrate them as well?
His sword raised, though he knew this was blasphemy in itself, he at last entered the place once crowned by the Dome of Eternity, now lit by the raging flames from outside, just as if the sky above were burning, as well as a gentle golden glow, which still was there and always would, and as he stepped out into what seemingly had become a courtyard, towards the dais in its centre, he staggered, feeling how the flames inside him were enshrouding his heart.
And then he realized that he was not alone.
Before the dais, with his bow raised and an arrow already nocked, stood the Hunter, his tall, lean frame looming up eerily in the glow behind him, his lean features ghostly illuminated by the firelight crackling on the jagged remainders of the broken dome. "We meet again," he said quietly.
He halted, and though his heart was withering away in his chest, he did not move, and their eyes met, their gazes locked. "Go away," he replied softly, and wrath was swirling up in him, making the storm inside him even wilder. "Go away." His voice was nothing but a hiss now. "I've told you before, you have your own quest, and I have mine."
"But where is your army?" The Hunter's sunken eyes gleamed in the flickering light of the flames above. "Where is it now? Have you sold it along with your loyalty?" The point of the arrow never moved. "Blood for blood. Nought for nought."
"How dare you speak those words?" he snarled, taking a few quick paces towards him. "Repeat them, and I will cut your tongue out!"
The Hunter's stare was cold. "How dare you still claim them, traitor? Come one step closer and I'll shoot you!"
"You think that frightens me?" No, nothing frightened him anymore. Nothing. This was over, forever over. Soon it would be. Very soon. If only that mindless fool stepped out of his way!
The Hunter's eyes gleamed, a deluding surface not revealing what lay beneath. He knew well how to bar the easiest way to his mind. "My arrows pierce everything, traitor. Armour as well as flesh. And soon one of them will pierce your heart."
To this, he only answered with a laugh, a cold, mirthless laugh that almost made himself shudder. He reached up to unbuckle his sword belt and breastplate and threw them to the ground with a derisive sneer. "This is how much your arrows scare me," he hissed. "Is there no other weapon you might employ? Or have you never learned to use another?"
"You leave me no choice." The Hunter's eyes narrowed as he loosed the arrow, and he felt it pierce his chest with a force that made him stagger backwards, yet he caught himself quickly enough. What did he care about that bit of pain? It was nothing compared to the one raging inside him. Breaking off the shaft right above the wound, and not even wincing at the sharp twinge of pain caused by moving the arrow, he threw it at the Hunter's feet and kept coming. His own blood was now soaking his shirt, and a warm, sticky rivulet was running down along his stomach, but he did not care. It did not matter. The wound was going to drain his energy quickly, but he did not need much time. Not anymore.
A second arrow hit him, then a third, but each time he simply broke off the shaft to throw it towards the Hunter and did not allow them to stop him.
Nothing could.
And then he had reached the Hunter. Knocking the bow aside with ease so that the fourth arrow clattered to the ground uselessly, he gripped him by the collar and forced him aside. The Hunter was less tall than he appeared; only that he was lean made him seem so. "Out of my way," he snarled at him. "Or I will show you the meaning of true harm!"
"What do you intend to do with me?" The Hunter's fingers were searching for his throat, trying to close around it, but he pushed them aside. "You can't inflict any lasting harm upon me."
"Oh, but I can." Dragging him forward, he made him stumble up the steps leading onto the dais, poking him sharply in the side with his sword as he resisted. "What gives life can take life. Do you have any idea what you are facing?" And then the Hunter must have understood, for at once his smoky grey eyes widened with terror. "Yes," he hissed, grim satisfaction filling him at giving his old enemy so much fear. "The Ever-Burning Flame. Only what we came from can truly destroy us. Complete annihilation. Savour the sound of it."
"No!" The Hunter was thrashing around madly now, but his grip on his collar was firm, and still the tip of his sword rested against the Hunter's side. "You are mad! You are totally mad! You can't do this!"
"Don't tell me what I can and cannot!" he roared, sudden fury consuming him, made so much stronger by the torment raging inside him. "I've had enough of it! I can do as I please, curse you!"
"Not when you are dragged to justice first!"
"Ah, and you want to drag me to justice?" Again laughter shook him, a mad laughter he did not recognize as his own anymore. "You? You who failed in every aspect possible to defeat me? No, you're not good enough to accompany me where I'm going now. I'll leave you here, and with something to remember me by." Throwing him down, he thrust his sword into the Hunter's chest until he felt the resistance of the dais, and then, leaning onto the hilt as hard as he could, he forced it deeper, so that the blade ate its way into the stone beneath. "Stay here and watch how I pass into eternal glory."
And then he raised his head and savoured the golden glow he was bathed in. The Ever-Burning Flame. Never could it be extinguished until the end of the world, until the end of time, until the reign of the Eldest King ended. At his feet, the Hunter gurgled and cursed him, but he did not heed him anymore. He had dealt with that one.
Grabbing hold of one of the chains holding what looked like a huge torch of gold in place, he pulled himself up. Already his strength was giving out, but it would last for that final step. Reaching the plate on which the most sacred of all fires burned, he was surprised that he felt no heat, no heat at all. Strange. But what did it matter? It would destroy him anyway; it would serve his purpose.
Just one step, and it was over. Just one step.
Drawing a deep breath – his last in this world, and so full of smoke and soot – he leaped.
Aminta, I'm coming for you.
And then the golden flames consumed him.
And at once there was pain, pain beyond pain, a pain he had never felt before and none could endure, and he was burned, ripped, torn apart all at once, destroyed utterly –
Aminta! Aminta!
He jerked awake, gasping for breath, and for a moment he had no idea where he was. Then he saw the weak sheen of candlelight coming in through the crude doorway of stone, shimmering through the hair-thin black curtains of his bed. Propped up on his elbows, his gaze turned up to the dark ceiling, he slowly regained his breath as the pain subsided, fading away with the fleeing dream. Slumping back into the pillows, he slowly, carefully raised a hand to his chest, searching for any arrow heads still embedded in his flesh, but there were none; he was unharmed. But his bare chest and shoulders were slick with sweat.
Sitting up again, he used the blanket he had just thrown back to rub himself dry, then wrapped his arms around his knees and closed his eyes for a moment. Immediately his vision filled with images of ruins and fire, and he hastily opened them again.
It was just a dream. Just a damn nightmare. Nothing more.
But it had felt so real. And it had felt so every time he had had it, every single night during those past ten days.
Curse those dreams. Why did his imagination have to run wild just now? He had dealt with those so-called Lost Ones months ago. It was over, and they would not come back. Yes, how could they, if practically all of them were dead?
But those stories... those accursed fairy-tales of Créon's! The leader of the Lost Ones had told him all those things, those filthy lies about them all being some kind of fallen angels who had tried to usurp the light and begin a reign of darkness or similar, and how they had been exiled from Heaven for punishment, cast out into the world to be reborn again and again, always outcasts among mankind, and branded with horrible scars to mark them as what they were.
Lies. Nothing but lies.
His fingers trembled as he raised his hand to the right side of his face, tracing the outlines of the scars marring his features. They all had had those scars, every single one of them, though not all had had them on their faces. But all of the Lost Ones had been scarred. And all on the right side.
No. He was not one of the Lost Ones, not one of the Fateless. It was by chance that he was scarred, by a cruel chance. He was just... just ugly, that was all. Just some ugly creature. Just some animal who shied away from the light.
And those dreams were nothing but figments of his imagination. Nothing more.
But Aminta...
No, he would not think about that now. Not again. Créon had been a sly and evil man to use just that name, to torment him so! And the face Créon had shown him, the face he had desired to see in his dream...
Slowly, involuntarily he turned his head towards the other side of the bed, where a blanket-covered mound lay, heaving slightly with soft breaths. Even without taking a closer look, he knew that she was fast asleep. He felt it. She was calm, sleeping dreamlessly, though a hint of unease, like a tiny buzzing fly in the back of his head, marred her slumber. Reaching out towards her with his mind alone, he passed his feelers over her gently, soothing her with his mental touch. Soon the fly-like feeling disappeared, and she slept quietly, as quietly as anyone could.
Softly, careful not to make a sound, he climbed out of the bed, slipping under the curtain and then rising to his feet. He shivered in the damp cold suddenly enveloping him, but everything was better than the heat from the fires in his dream, especially from those raging inside him.
Picking up the peculiar white half-mask from the floor beside the bed, he quickly covered the deformed side of his face with it, and he felt his features contort as he did so. How he hated himself, the repulsive monster that he was!
She would never love him.
Once again he turned to regard the peacefully sleeping mound on the other side of his bed. She was almost completely hidden beneath a pile of blankets, but a few dark, curled tresses lay spread over the pillow. He smiled as he regarded her, his heart filled with warm tenderness, but at the same time there was bitterness. She would never love him, whatever she said. She kept him company in the solitude of his dark dungeons, she showed him understanding and affection, she even slept beside him, but she never let him touch her, or at least not for long.
With an inaudible sigh, he scanned the dark room for the shirt he must have left somewhere here as he had prepared for bed – before inspiration had struck and he had picked up his robe and returned to the candlelight of the main room to write something down, that was – but he could not find it. Not that it really mattered. His robe, then. Where was his robe? Damn the thing, it could not just have disappeared together with his shirt! No, of course, he had spread it over his beloved as he had crawled back into bed, and she had woken up, smiled and wrapped herself in it before she had fallen asleep again. No chance of retrieving it now.
A fresh shirt then, perhaps? No, it was of no importance. He did not need one. The cold would do him some good, after that accursed nightmare.
Right now, he was ready to bet anything little Meg Giry had run off with his shirt.
Where was she, anyway? Upstairs already, no doubt. It must be morning already.
But that she had managed to sneak out without him noticing... It must have been the exhaustion; he had barely gotten a few hours' sleep all through those previous nights. When he had not been sitting at his organ composing, he had stalked the dark corridors of the Opera House upstairs, watching over its sleeping inhabitants.
The truth was, he was growing afraid of falling asleep. Of course, this was a foolish sentiment, but every night when he at last closed his eyes, he knew what dream was awaiting him, and he did not want to go through it all, not again.
Kneeling down where dark water licked the stone floor of the grotto that had been his home for many years now, he moistened his hands and face with it, then washed away the last traces of sweat. The sudden cold stung him like sharp icicles, yet compared to the heat from his dream, it was a welcome relief.
If it would only fade away completely, like the memory of most dreams did! But all details were as clearly before his eyes as those of a waking memory.
All those dreams were the same, exactly the same, and they never faded.
Hell devour him, it was not true! He was no angel, and he had never been one! Those crazy stories of Créon's had made his imagination run wild, that was all. And those names had just turned up in his nightmares because he had heard them from Créon – the Eldest King and the Lord of Shadows, whoever they were exactly, the Herald of Fate, which was the name Créon had given to himself, and the Dragon-tamer, who was Adhemar, another of the Lost Ones he had faced and defeated. But the Hunter... he did not remember that one, neither the name nor the face. Just some mad little figure sprung from his twisted fantasies, probably.
Again dipping his hands into the water, he used them to brush his tangled dark hair out of his face. It had grown long over the last months; he would have to cut it again one of these days.
Just as long as it was in those dreams.
Getting to his feet again, he shivered in the cold, and he hastened to step back onto the carpet, so that at least his bare feet were warm. No towels anywhere? Had the girls tidied up his home again, then? Oh, women and their obsession with neatness! How was he supposed to find anything in his own home when they thought they could tidy up everything?
Sighing, but not truly angry with those two – how could he? – he searched his lair for any suitable piece of garment. They couldn't have brought them all to the bedroom, could they? He always left something lying around, so there was some chance that... Yes, a sock. One single sock. Not of much use.
After another little bit of searching, he found the other sock of the pair beneath the organ bench, and with a slightly bad conscience towards the girls he placed both of them on the organ, where he would surely find them when he got dressed.
A movement at the edge of his vision suddenly caught his eyes, and his hand darted out to the dagger lying on a table nearby before he saw that it had only been his own reflection in one of the tall mirrors on the wall. Blowing out a breath he had not realized he had been holding, he dropped the dagger back onto the table again. Why did the girls always uncover those mirrors? What did they do it for? He did not like to see himself in them. Why he had those mirrors at all he did not quite know; probably just to torment himself.
He loathed himself just as much as he loathed the rest of the world.
No, there were exceptions. He loved Christine, more than anything else. And he felt affection towards Meg and her mother. And there were some others he accepted, women mostly, pretty young women. He liked pretty young women.
Just like some of those pretty young women seemed to like him.
Sauntering towards the uncovered mirror lazily, automatically acquiring just the kind of walk he used when he knew those girls were watching him, he regarded his own reflection critically. In his own opinion he was a tall, crude brute, a beast and nothing more, especially in this considerable state of undress, and wet as he was. The mask gave him an air of mystery, but without it... He did not want to think about it. Without it, he was disgustingly ugly. A monster. As long as he wore the mask, he could see to a certain extent why those girls liked him; the left side of his face was pleasant enough, if he shaved properly and brushed his hair back. And once he wore his black cloak... He ceased to be a mere man then. He became a mystery... a legend.
He was the infamous Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera.
But in his current state, despite the mask, he was nothing but a man. And once he took off the mask, he was a beast.
He felt her before her reflection appeared in the mirror behind him. He always felt her, he always knew where she was. There was a bond connecting them, a tender, but unbreakable bond. And just as he was always aware of her, of her presence as well as of her thoughts and feelings, she was always aware of him. As she approached him, she let his robe glide off her shoulders, revealing a white nightdress, and gently put it around his own. "You're cold, Erik," she said.
"Don't," he answered, though he was glad for his soft robe's warmth. "Better me than you."
"I'm wearing more than you," she said reasonably. "And I'm not wet."
"It's nothing. Really."
"Oh, don't be stubborn. You were so cold it woke me up."
"I'm sorry, Christine," he murmured, ashamed of only thinking of himself and his own concerns, not of her. And the poor girl had enough worries of her own already without him adding to it all!
Smiling, she waved it away. "No need to be. Now back to bed you go."
"Back to bed? It must be morning already. Meg is somewhere upstairs by now."
"She is? Then she has surely left us a message." Christine scanned the room, then picked up a scrap of paper from the table holding the large stage model. "There. Listen. Good morning, you lazy bums. Ah, that's nice." She laughed, and he savoured the sound of it, like a clear spring on a mountainside, but warmer, so much warmer. "I've gone to see my mother and then attend the rehearsal, and I've taken the dog out. Expect Gaston to bring her back when he comes down with your breakfast. Which reminds me: Mind you leave over a croissant for me, I'm sick of baguette for breakfast. Woe betide you if you don't. Yours always, Meg. Now what do you say to this? Shall we leave her something?"
"She can have all of my breakfast if she wants. I'm not hungry." No, he did not feel like eating at all.
"Oh, Erik, that's very unreasonable of you," Christine protested. "You must eat something. There's not as much as there used to be, I know, but there's enough still. You must eat as long as there's still enough."
"I'm fine," he muttered, waving her protests away. She should not worry about him. She should not worry at all.
The poor girl. If there just were any message, any message at all!
"And you're not sleeping enough," she continued, taking him by the arm and trying to steer him towards the bedchamber. "All the time you're down here, you're up and composing. Working at your Requiem, I suspect." As he did not let himself be just pulled away, she gave up and let him go, but still she stood before him and held his gaze firmly, her hands on her slender hips. "You shouldn't. It always leaves you in such a morbid mood. You had better work at your new opera instead."
"But I did," he protested, though he was slightly amused about Christine accusing him of morbid moods. At first, when he had taken her down here, she had been genuinely shocked as he had suggested to let her sleep in his bed and move back into his old coffin himself, the very same coffin which had served him as his bed many years ago, when he hadn't yet had his comfortable swan-shaped bed. Now that had been quite a complaint about morbidity!
"You did?" She seemed delighted, for a moment apparently forgetting the worst of her worries. "Will you let me see?"
He nodded in the direction of the organ, which was covered in hand-written sheets of music, just as usual. "Feel free. I just finished the final scene."
"You did?" she said again, clearly pleased, and hurried over to the organ, which took up the middle of the grotto. Following her, he wrapped the robe around himself more closely, though he immediately let go of it as she turned around to him again. No, he would not admit he was cold. There were certain principles he could not just ignore. "You don't mind if I take a look, do you?" she asked.
"As I said, feel free." Ever since she had come down here to live with him – a full fortnight it was now – she had been very careful to respect his privacy. After all, she knew only too well what effect taking his mask away from him produced, and she did not want to repeat it with any other kind of thing. She did not want to hurt him, he knew, and she still was rather awkward around him sometimes when they were alone together, just as he tended to be somewhat awkward in her presence himself, though he hated to admit it. He knew she felt attracted to him, and very much so, but she could not just allow herself to show it, not in this situation. Especially not in this situation.
Oh, curse the boy, that silly little fop, for stealing her love from him! And curse him for being in danger and giving her constant worries! Curse him for having to go to war and leaving his young bride dreading to receive the message of his death every moment!
Of course it was not the boy's fault. He and Christine had been planning their wedding for August, actually – the Phantom still ground his teeth at the concept –, but then war had broken out in July, that accursed war against Prussia, and they had not seen the boy again since then. After all, he was a soldier, a lieutenant of the navy. At the call of the fatherland, he had no choice but to go.
Christine had continued living in the house of the boy's parents at first. Until a fortnight ago, that was. Until September 4th, to be exact, the day of the revolution. For even as the armies of Prussia and the other German states were approaching Paris, war had broken out among the city's own inhabitants. The old oaths to the emperor had been abjured, a new republic proclaimed, and immediately several parties among the Republicans had begun a struggle for supremacy, a bloody struggle carried out on the street, and before the German armies even reached the city, civilians had already died, men, women and children. At the moment it seemed that the Communards were gaining the upper hand, radicals who hated nobility and called all possession theft – which was an illogical statement in itself, but since when had the rabble ever known anything about logic? Since when did the scum of society possess brains? Anarchy and chaos reigned in the streets of Paris, and nobody was safe any longer, for those who managed to escape from that struggle for power over the city could easily be accused to be spies for the German army. And even as the city turned on itself, its battlements against the approaching enemy were still being erected, strong bastions and trenches ten feet deep. It seemed that everybody was fighting everybody, that the end of the world was there.
Known as royalists, the boy's parents had had to hide from the grasp of the bloodthirsty Communards by seeking shelter in the house of a faithful friend able to protect them, and Christine had come down here to live with him, to be protected by him, just as he had promised the boy he would. As long as she was down here with him, she was safe. And he would not allow any harm to come to her.
"You let it end with a duet between Oberon and Titania?" In the soft glow of all the many candles, Christine studied the pages she had picked up from the organ with interest. "I like the idea. And I must say I like your lyrics. Especially immortally beloved. It's beautiful."
The Phantom smiled at the compliment. Coming from her, it meant very much to him. "I'm not quite happy with them yet myself." And he had spent two hours at the very least poring over them last night, even though he felt that there was no need for hurry anymore now, not with the current situation. When the managers had asked for a new opera, they had not expected that there would be a war before the next opera season. The season had begun nonetheless, though they would not continue very long probably. Still the Opéra Populaire was more or less frequented, probably by those who tried to forget what was going on around them, but for how long still? This was a question he could not answer. But all the same, he was spending lots of time with working on what the managers had asked him to adapt: A Midsummer Night's Dream. They had wanted it to be romantic as well as comical, just what the public would surely appreciate, and he was doing his best to achieve this, especially since now his salary depended on what work he did. The jolly times when he had just had to blackmail the managers to receive all the money he needed and much more were over. Now he had the police keeping an eye on him and his activities, and he had to work like everybody else.
He wondered if he would have done it at all, if not for Christine, who was so pleased with him. And proud of him.
The only thing he truly regretted was that she was not singing anymore. After all, she was about to marry a vicomte. And the boy's parents had made it quite clear that while accepting their son's choice for a bride – which not all the relatives did by far – they would very much disapprove of her pursuing a career at the opera any further. It was just not considered proper.
Proper! Proper and decent! Just the usual brainless idiocies of a brainless society! How he hated them, hated all of it! He was not a proper person, either. He was not even fit to be considered human.
But Christine still sang for him, which offered him at least some comfort. They usually went through his newest instalments for his Midsummer Night's Dream together, and this way he could even continue her lessons, though no longer as the invisible Angel of Music.
No. He was no angel.
"Shall we try it out later today?" she asked, putting down the papers again. She did not only do it to please him, he knew it, and he was glad she didn't. He would not have wanted her to otherwise.
Yes, he truly knew how she felt about it. After all, their minds shared the most remarkable connection, and he was not only teaching her about music, but about mind-reading as well, about how to analyze and interpret what of his thoughts and feelings arrived in her head, as well as how to find in his head what she wanted to find, how to employ a skill she had inherited from him in some strange way he did not understand until now, a skill which only worked on himself and no one else. He was making himself vulnerable to her, but he trusted her. And she was just as vulnerable to him, after all. Those moments searching each other's head were very intimate ones, but so was their connection in itself, very subtle and tender, and very intricate.
After all, he loved her.
He had only truly learned how to employ those particular skills he possessed when facing Créon and his minions. At first Créon had rendered him helpless using just the same methods, but then he had learned to master them, and he had fought back. And he had won. And not a small part of his success he owed to Christine, who had supported him in every way possible and given him the strength and courage he needed.
Raising his gaze to hers, he smiled. Their eyes did not have to meet to allow them access to each other's mind, especially not because of their connection, but it was much easier. Just barely touching her awareness with his mental feelers, he let her presence wash over him, the most intoxicating of drugs he could possibly imagine. The feelings arriving in his head uncalled for were much clearer now, curiosity and affection – actual affection! – as well as a little awkwardness, and behind it all the constant worry, the grief for not having seen her fiancé in considerable time, the fear of never seeing him again. Oh, and her presence alone, her adorable presence… He could forget everything else around him when he felt her near him, and her touch sent him to paradise.
How much he wanted her, how much he desired her…
As he came towards her, her mind was open to him, as it usually was, and he could practically see himself, with moist, tangled long hair and his robe hanging open to reveal a rather alluring physique; he felt that at precisely this moment he was sending gentle tingles through her body by his physical presence alone. His eyes gleamed oddly in the twilight as he lazily walked around her, studying her with his greedy gaze. Was this how she saw him? "So you will be my Elven-queen, and I will be your King?" he purred.
Christine nervously moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Yes…" Her voice was barely a whisper, and he could feel the awkward feeling increase at the back of his head, where he always felt her. "But only for now, do you hear? Only for now!"
"Oh, but you want it. You want it very much. I know you do." Hell, how he wanted her!
As he grasped her shoulders, she turned her head away, so she would not have to look him in the eyes, to face those hungry flames. "Don't say that, Erik."
"Why not? Why not admit it?" Her obvious attraction to him thrilled him, filled him with an exhilarating joy.
"Please, Erik. Not now. If it truly is morning, Gaston will be there with the papers any moment. I can't just now."
The papers. He let go of her shoulders and bit his tongue, letting go of her mind as well. Every morning's loathsome procedure. Watching Christine tormented by anguish as she searched the names of the dead and wounded and of those whose whereabouts were unknown came so close to physical pain, and the knowledge that there was nothing, nothing at all he could do for her filled him with helpless rage at being so powerless, so unable to protect her against that kind of harm.
And surely enough, even as she said so, he felt Gaston approaching. By now he knew the man's presence well enough to recognize it easily at some distance, and his skills with recognizing presences at distances seemed to increase more and more altogether. After all, he had learned a useful little trick from Créon, a way to lay a web of mental feelers, of thin tendrils of his awareness, throughout the lowest cellar level. He did not shudder at the memory of the threads of darkness anymore, but still he felt very proud of his own threads of fire.
It did not take long for Gaston to reach them, and he brought the dog back down. Senta had grown considerably during the summer, and she was going to grow still, a large animal with shaggy black fur, flecked with white and a little bit of brown at head and chest and the tip of her tail, and with floppy ears flying in the air as she raced towards them, greeting them with merry barks and prancing up and down happily. She had gotten used to the gloom of the cellars soon enough, and though she clearly seemed to miss her master, she had made friends with the Phantom long before already, and the possibility of chasing rats always cheered her up.
Gaston came behind her, carrying a tray. Whatever the Phantom did, Gaston just could not be dissuaded from the concept that he was his servant. "Good morning, my Lord Phantom," he greeted him – yet another thing he stuck with stubbornly. "My Lady," he added with a bow towards Christine, and the Phantom was glad he did not refer to her as "Lady Phantom" yet; the poor girl would be so embarrassed. "Here's your breakfast."
"Just put it down on the table," the Phantom answered. As usual, he did not feel hungry. He just lacked the appetite.
Gaston did as he was told. He was a slim, dark-haired man and rather tall, with a pale, open face and thoughtful dark eyes. Once a servant boy in the house of a nobleman, he had long been working as a stagehand at the Opera House, yet as soon as he had gotten the opportunity, he had taken up his former occupation again, and he seemed as happy with it as a man could be. Strange, the Phantom found, for he was busy enough with his stage work, and who would ever desire to simply serve somebody? Yet Gaston did, and with a devotion that was truly surprising, given that he served a man hated and feared by most others. But ever since they had met face to face first, Gaston had been loyal to him, following him into darkness and battle even, and he had never stopped trusting him, not even when one of his friends had died down here, in this very place. Jean Hulot. The name was still branded painfully in the Phantom's memory. A man who had offered him his service and loyalty, and a man he had sworn to protect in turn. A man he had failed to protect.
"And the paper, my Lord." Gaston pulled a newspaper from the pocket of his jacket, unrolling it in the light of one of the many candelabras, and immediately Christine was with him, her features taut and pale. The Phantom hurried to follow, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Please don't let his name be on the list. Please let him be alive.
But deep down inside him, there was a painful struggle going on. A dark, hate-filled part of him pushed away into the dark recesses of his mind longed very much to find the name Raoul de Chagny among those of the soldiers reported dead. If the boy died, Christine would be his, and nothing would keep him from making her his any longer. Nothing would keep her from loving him instead of the boy, then.
Yet if Raoul died, it would cause her so much pain, and the Phantom wanted nothing less than seeing her in pain. Damn you, you little idiot, be alive!
And moreover, no enemy soldier had a right to harm the lad. If there was anyone who could mistreat Raoul in any way, then it was himself, and none other. He could kick him and push him around as much as he wanted, but nobody else was allowed to do so. Nobody else.
The boy was his –
No, not friend. Certainly not friend. Not that little idiot.
But perhaps… perhaps…
Oh, what did it matter, for Hell's sake? That annoying fop was not even worth the trouble to be pondered that way. He needed someone to keep an eye on him, that was all. Someone to keep him out of harm's way. Because Christine would be so sad if anything happened to the boy. For no other reason.
Letting the paper sink back down to the table, Christine let out a small sigh of relief, and slowly a smile returned to her pale face. As their eyes met, he saw new hope in hers. "Nothing," she said softly. "He's alive."
Another day won. Another day during which the boy could die any moment. She knew that as well as he did.
Blowing his breath out in frustration, he wrapped the robe around himself tighter. Not because he was cold, certainly not, just because of… style, yes. For reasons of style. "What news of the world outside?"
"Nothing truly new, my Lord Phantom. They say part of the army from Sedan is in retreat, coming back to the city to protect it. And Metz still stands."
Yes, that was Gaston, always the optimist. "You realize that the armies at Sedan capitulated almost twenty days ago? That thousands and thousands were made prisoners, together with the emperor? Gaston, those armies were destroyed. Perhaps a few individuals escaped, but never enough to get in the way of the battalions coming to take the city. And it's a long way from Sedan."
"But Metz has not fallen yet," Gaston insisted, and the Phantom caught a flicker of fear in his eyes, of despair. "Metz still stands!"
It was cruel, but it had to be said. "For how long still? They are completely cut off from the world outside. Even if they are ready for a long siege, there's nothing we can expect from them. And certainly not in time. They can keep some German contingents busy, but that's about all. How long still until we are cut off from the rest of the country ourselves?"
Gaston bit his lower lip, his gaze cast down to the ground. "I spoke to a man of the National Guard," he answered tonelessly. "The siege ring will close today."
"What of Raoul?" Christine suddenly interjected, agitated. "If the ring around Paris closes…"
"Damn it, my Lord, it can't just close like that!" Gaston cried. "There are still enough able-bodied men in the city! A number large enough to hold them off! And even as we speak, Léon Gambetta is mustering new armies in the west –"
Didn't he understand? "You forget the current situation," the Phantom cut him off, and Gaston fell silent without any further protest. "There are still enough to defend the city for some time, but they lack the morale."
Gaston's eyes widened in disbelief. "My Lord… you don't mean to say that they're afraid, or that they're traitors? No, you can't mean that!"
To Hell with it, why did he have to explain everything? "What is your own political belief, Gaston? Where does your loyalty lie?"
"With my fatherland, my Lord Phantom."
Too promptly a reply to be a good one. "Specify."
"I…" For a moment Gaston's gaze flickered towards Christine uncertainly. "I'm a royalist, my Lord. With your permission, my Lord."
"Good. I expected nothing else." What did the foolish man fear? There was no reason to care for his political opinion, as long as he was no Communard. "Now think of all the soldiers still in the city, waiting for their orders. Who is authorized to give them? Gambetta, who is a Republican? Delannay and the others of the Commune? Is it not to the emperor that they swore their oath? You speak of treason, but what is treason in this situation? Who are the traitors? The republicans, the royalists, or rather the Communards?" As understanding began to dawn on Gaston's face, he knew that what he was trying to make clear to him was not in vain. This was something Gaston would remember. "There is no good and evil in this world, Gaston, not like it is in the stories. There are only various different sides. There is no black and white. There are only shades of grey." As Gaston nodded slowly, he continued, "And this is the choice those soldiers have to make, with nobody who can answer that question truthfully for them, nobody but themselves. Perhaps the Communards can force them to fight for them. But for those who have made a different choice, will fighting for them not be fighting their own ideals at the same time? Fighting themselves? Could you imagine giving your blood and life for the Communards?"
"I would be giving it for the fatherland." Yet in his dark eyes, there was no resolution left, no gleam. They were just dull and dark now. Even hope seemed to be gone from then.
"Is this still your fatherland, Gaston?"
Gaston opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again, and at once his lower lip trembled slightly.
Sometimes it hurt to realize the truth.
"I wish this all were over," Christine said quietly. "Even if this means that the Prussians take the city. I wish there were no more war."
The Phantom nodded. "Many think that way. Does that make them traitors, Gaston?"
"I don't know, my Lord. I don't know anymore." Never had he seen Gaston so downcast. But what else should he expect, after shattering the man's entire world before his very eyes?
No, not his entire world. There was still something left for Gaston to believe in. There was that picture in his head, that idolized figure of a near-messiah the Phantom did not quite understand. There was still the Lord Phantom.
I'm not your saviour, Gaston, he thought. Not yours and not anyone's. But he could not just take from him all that was left to cling to. He could not be that cruel.
How should he teach Gaston he was no angel?
Senta chose precisely that moment to come bounding back towards them out of the darkness, wagging madly and carrying a dead rat between her teeth, apparently very pleased with herself. She skidded to a halt right before him and placed the mangled little cadaver directly in front of his feet, then sat back on her haunches and looked up at him expectantly, her white-tipped tail still swishing over the floor.
The Phantom almost rolled his eyes. Yes, exactly what he had needed right now. Not only was she molesting him with a not exactly appetizing dead thing, but also drawing attention to the fact that he was still walking around barefoot.
But the dog meant well. Very far from trying to annoy him, she was trying to please him.
With a sigh, he reached down to pat her head. Once Gaston was gone, he would need to have a little conversation with Senta, a conversation of the kind only he could have with animals. But not now. If Gaston realized he could communicate with animals, he might well erect an altar for him or similar.
"If the ring closes now," Christine began again persistently, "what happens to Raoul?"
There was no answer but the truth. "He will be cut off, I expect. For however long the siege lasts." It was not what she wanted to hear, but there was nothing else he could tell her. "Maybe it will comfort you a little when I tell you now that he might be better off than we are."
"What if he's a prisoner?" Even without being able to feel what she felt, he would have heard the welling-up tears in her voice.
"There are many things you may call the Prussians and their king, Christine. Hungry for power they may be, and ruthless in achieving what they are striving for, but never honourless. If he is a prisoner, Raoul will be treated well."
"If I only knew where he is!"
Reaching out towards her, the Phantom comfortingly stroked her dark locks. "Wherever he is, he's alive. And he can take care of himself. He's not that stupid." Though he would much rather have him somewhere near to keep an eye on him, because he did not trust the boy's mental capacity too far.
Christine nodded bravely, though she still was at the brink of tears. No, this was truly not the time for him to trouble himself and her with nightmares. She needed him, and she needed him to be strong. And so did Gaston, come to think of it. He could not afford to be weak now, to have his own fears and doubts. For their sakes, he had to be strong.
"Eat something," he told her gently. "I'll prepare a hot bath for you, then join you." Heating the water for the tub down here was troublesome, but since Christine very much enjoyed soaking in hot water, he took care of it without protest, rather dissuading her from telling him not to trouble himself too much for her sake. As long as she was happy, he would put up with any kind of toil gladly. Even with that silly boy who was her fiancé. "I'd give you the robe back, only I'm afraid it's a bit wet by now."
Smiling despite the glitter in her eyes, Christine reached up to stroke his unmasked cheek briefly, and the light touch of her fingertips filled him with a warm, gentle kind of joy. "Don't worry, I've got one of my own." And with this she headed off towards the bedchamber, carrying the breakfast tray, with Senta trudging after her wagging lazily.
The poor girl. She was so desperate with worry for her fiancé. Curse it all, if he only knew where the boy was! If he only knew! He could not watch Christine tormenting herself any longer.
"Listen," he told Gaston, suddenly decided, "prepare my horse for after today's rehearsal. I'm going out."
Gaston regarded him with surprise, yet nodded in obedience. He would still have done so if the Phantom had told him to empty a vat of paint over the managers for the greater good, the Phantom suspected. "Yes, my Lord. César will be ready for you. May I inquire where you are going, in case there is anything else I need to prepare?"
"Out," the Phantom replied firmly. "As long as the ring is still open, I'll use the opportunity. I have no idea when I'll be back, but I'll locate Raoul, and drag him back here by his silly sailor's collar if need be."
"But my Lord," Gaston protested, "what if you're not back in time? It's going to close today! And besides, begging your pardon, my Lord, but how will you ever find him?"
"If anyone can find him, I can." Yes, and even if he had to ride for days and days. He would not watch Christine suffer any longer; he would not return without at least a message from her fiancé. Just anything to make her happy – and to once again prove his undying love to her. "And let me worry about that siege ring."
Gaston bowed his head. "As my Lord Phantom commands."
Watching Gaston's retreating back, the Phantom briefly wondered whether he was doing the right thing, keeping the man as a servant. It was what Gaston wanted, though, as foolish as that might seem. It was Gaston's own private kind of happiness.
Spirit of a slave, curse him.
No. Not a slave. Gaston was a free man, but he had made a choice, and he had sworn to follow the Phantom.
A vassal.
With a twitch of his lips, he banished the thought from his head. It sounded good, but it sounded too much like the world of his nightmare.
He would go and join Christine now. She needed him with her, he was certain. He could feel she did, and he did not like to let her alone with her own dark thoughts, gnawing at her like cruel little rodents, and a kind of rodents which could not just be swatted off.
After all, he knew this kind of thoughts. And he was no stranger to darkness.
No, not indeed.
But even as he turned to go, his own reflection caught his eye once again. Long strands of hair were framing his face, hanging down to his shoulders. Automatically he brushed them back behind his ears, but this moment had been enough to bring back to him an image seen several times in visions and similar. An image Créon and his men had shown him. Himself, as he had been in the nightmare.
No, not me. Not me. I'm no angel.
But as he looked at his own face now, there were other names coming to his mind, apart from his own. Keeper of the Gates. Wraith.
Traitor.