The Mask and Mirror

I've been watching me fall for it seems like years
Watching me grow small, I watch me disappear
Slipping out my ordinary world, out my ordinary life
Yeah, slipping out the ordinary me into someone else's life

(The Cure, Watching Me Fall)

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

(Proverb)

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?

(Macbeth, Act II, Scene I)

Chapter 23

Days blurred together now. Time had lost all meaning as something of linear progression. He didn't think about the future, because to think of the future meant having to acknowledge the past. And he couldn't do that, he wouldn't.

Sometimes, he felt in control. On those days he visited inns, spoke politely with people, knowing just who to talk to, exchanged money for information and returned to his companions with the illusion of something having been achieved. Philippe had once said to him that money could buy anything and people who disagreed were either lying, or had never had enough of it. And it was true.

When he was out of control, he stared at himself in the mirror, not recognising the haunted, intense stranger that gazed back at him. Or he would lie on the hard, uncomfortable bed, his body numb and he was grateful for the numbness. Then it was the world that was wrong, not his fault, he wasn't to blame.

He wasn't the one that was wicked, degraded, wrong.

And so it went on. Day in, day out. Sunrise to sunset gone backwards. In Paris, Raoul had always been awoken by his valet at half past nine exactly, with a tray balancing coffee and the morning's paper. Now his days tended to start when the sun went down; he discovered more in those shadowy, elusive after-hours than he ever did in the glaring heat of the Mustapha day.

At least, that was what he half-heartedly told himself.

He had given up a long time ago, if he was honest with himself. He knew that he would never see Christine again. He was simply enacting the motions, because there was nothing else left. Something in him had broken. He was hollowed out. An empty shell. Filled with nothing.

No. If there was nothing, there would be no pain.

He didn't want to care any more. Not when it made no difference. Not when morals and good intentions meant nothing in this cold, dark world. A world he had had no wish to become a part of, a world that had been forced upon him.

This - this mission… It was deadening - killing him. Raoul closed his eyes. He wanted to escape the burdens of his life. There was no peace to be found in this bleak world. Were it not for Christine, he would not need to live at all. It would be a relief now, to end it all. She was the only thing keeping him here, chaining him to existence.

Did he want to die?

No, but he would if he had to. The idea just didn't bother him as much as it used to. Just being awake hurt. Breathing hurt. The future was long, and endless. And he was lost. Lost in a way that had nothing to do with the winding, labyrinthine streets of Alger, where he found himself one evening, for once, accompanied by his companions. They had insisted on coming, knowing that today was different, that there was a chance, a possibility of something. It hung in the air, potent and unspoken. The streets seemed to lure them, heavy with promise. All except for Raoul. He was not so foolish as to give himself false hope.

He was coming to know the town better than he ever would have imagined, long hours spent familiarising himself with the backstreets and alleys, following a trail long dead and gone. It was that between-hours twilight time of evening; the noontide markets had packed up for the day and the nightlife of Mustapha was beginning to unfold around them. Overripe fruits and dead flowers littered the dust-covered ground, crushed underfoot. The musicians were just starting to come out, striking out a beat of drums, the entertainment of an evening. So, so different from Paris, with its operas and concert halls…

Then all the old pain surged through him. Blackness came over his vision as the memories clamoured to destroy him.

A chilly autumn night, the frost crystalline upon the pavement as the carriage drew up to the concert hall. Stars glinting in the icy November sky, almost as bright as the diamonds around Christine's slender throat. Her muffled hands holding his tightly while a flush of anticipation coloured her cheeks. Through the open doors drifted the haunting melody of strings, the notes lingering in the clear, cold air. The scent of perfume and twilight.

He remembered Christine's rapt face as she listened to the melancholic strains of music.

"It's wonderful," she said. "It makes me feel sad."

Raoul laughed. "Why on earth would you want to feel sad?"

But she only motioned him to be silent, her attention already absorbed once more by the music.

"Schubert," he murmured. "I remember now. I took her to see Schubert. The string quartet in D Minor." Raoul smiled grimly. "She always preferred the Minors."

He breathed deeply, fighting down the unwelcome emotions. The memories haunted him and he hated them. It was a past life to him now. Bitter mockeries, reminding him of an innocence that could never be regained. There was only this blank despair.

He opened his eyes, faced once again by the darkened, rust-coloured town. The heavy scents surrounded him, sweet and sickly, assaulting his senses. Air that was foul and poisonous. Yet part of him wanted to sink into that enveloping decadence, to succumb, to forget -

Even as the thought crossed his mind, a small hand had closed around his wrist, pulling him towards a shadowed shelter beneath one of the stalls. Raoul caught his breath. It was dusky, secret, smoky. A lamp was swinging somewhere above his head. Throbbing music reached his ears, muffled behind walls. Luring, enticing perfume clung to the shadows, most potent around the form of the figure who had caught hold of him. He caught a flash of dark eyes, dark hair -

His heart lurched.

"Christine?" he whispered.

A sweet, velvety laugh.

"What's that, love?"

He looked closer, squinting in the dim confines of the shelter. Not Christine. But a girl still, around the same age. Her hair, unbound, fell beneath the folds of her cloak like hidden promises. Gold glittered around her neck and wrists. Her eyes were like smudges of charcoal in her dark, coquettish little face. They ran admiringly over his body.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, starting to move away, "I thought -"

"Not so fast, handsome," she chided in caressing tones. Her fingers ran along the collar of his shirt, before dipping beneath, brushing against bare skin. Raoul's hands flew up instantly, catching her wrists, halting her mid-motion. Full, sensual lips dipped into a long-practised pout.

"You look tense, sweet," she crooned. "I'll help you relax." Her body pressed against his, backing him up against wood, fabric, something -

He pushed her away from him in disgust. Nothing more than a common whore. In Paris, these kinds of women were not nearly so brazen. Indeed, he had been shocked at some of his brother's mistresses that had been stylish and refined, almost elegant. They had always made him awkward; he did not know how to reconcile their seeming respectability with the knowledge of what they did for a living. Philippe had laughed and said he'd learn soon enough…

"Playing hard to get?" The girl was insistent. "We rarely get them as good-looking as you. And by the sounds of your voice, you're better born than these tattered clothes would suggest, so I doubt money's the issue…" Her hands were once more on his body, this time moving downwards. Heat flooded through him. For a moment there was nothing but blurring, sensual darkness and a pretty girl who wanted him. It would be so easy to drag her face to his, kiss her hard and briefly relieve some of this tension and longing -

No -

He pulled back at once. Something metallic fell to the ground behind him with a dull clang. A brass pot, left over from the market earlier.

"I'm not interested," he said firmly.

Her face hardened, an expression older than it should have been marring its prettiness. She said something in Arabic, Manyak. Raoul didn't know what it meant, but could tell by the tone it was something derogatory. "Come back when you've decided to become a real man," she said derisively.

She walked away in a sway of hips and swirl of silks, coquettish once more, seeking more willing customers. Raoul remained still, breathing hard with part anger. A real man. Oh, he had certainly become a real man over the last few months. Yes, thanks to Erik, he had done a lot of growing up. He truly was a worldly individual. Clenching his jaw, he left the dim shelter of the canvas and stepped back out into the cloying warmth of the street. Extravagant colour and noise and madness greeted him; he felt he had plunged into the bowels of the earth to Hell itself.

"You disappeared," said Nadir coolly, when he had weaved his way past the musicians and the girls who danced for money. "We wondered where you had gone."

"Nowhere of importance," said Raoul, a little bitterly. He began to walk ahead quickly, not wanting to talk to Nadir, not wanting to talk to anyone. The encounter had left a sour taste in his mouth. He felt nothing but distaste. It was not the first time he had been approached in such a manner, but he was not yet willing to degrade himself so utterly. For him there was Christine, only Christine. But he could not deny it had ignited the first spark of sensation he had experienced in months.

Lust.

Almost involuntarily, he glanced behind at Meg, who was walking with her mother, the two conversing in low voices. Meg. No, he hadn't quite forgotten her. She was the closest thing to purity in this dark existence, the last shred of his sanity. She wasn't dark. She was bright, and warm and vivid.

Strangely enough, her brightness didn't hurt his eyes.

Part of him wanted to reach out to that brightness, touch it. The other part of him thought it might be safer in the dark.

She was different from Christine. Christine's innocence had been that of gentle naivety, of spiritual conviction and hope, and the heartfelt belief that there was good in everyone if only they looked hard enough. It wasn't innocence he saw in Meg, not exactly. Incorruptibility was perhaps the better word. Her unflinching ability to look harsh realities in the face and accept them without being dragged down into darkness. It was inevitable he was drawn to her, that she was the one he confided in, when he felt like confiding in anyone at all.

And why should she not be? She was brilliant, magnetic, passionate. He wasn't in love with her. But sometimes, in his bleaker moods, he could not help but wonder whether it would be worth going to her, purging his inner darkness and burying himself in -

But he always halted that thought before it could reach its conclusion. She was the only thing left standing between him and utter darkness, but it still wasn't enough. They were all too far removed from him now. The breach between them was too great to cross. He didn't even want to try any more.

If they knew just how hard the very act of living was, just getting through each moment. Their smiles were as blinding as the violent sun that seared his eyes his every waking moment. He stared at them blankly. How was it they could be so real, so vividly alive? How was it that this sun did not char and bleach them to bone? He resented them a little for that.

Why did they bother with it? Why were they accompanying him on this hopeless mission, continuing only because of a bleak sense of duty? Surely they didn't believe it had any chance of succeeding?

He envied them and pitied them as much he resented them. How much easier life would be if there were no feelings. No pain.

He had separated himself from them, just like he had separated himself from everything that had been his former life. Except her, of course.

Christine.

Overwhelming sadness passed through him. Sometimes, he had to focus hard to remember her face. At other times, it was the only thing he could see.

They had entered a smaller street, darker, narrow. A street of closed shutters and near-blackness, a heavy, smokier scent than the exotic tang of spices and amber in the Mustapha markets. And it was empty, something almost unheard of in this place, lost and hidden. The atmosphere was dense, forbidding. Raoul seemed to sense it too, Meg realised, as her mother's hand caught hold of hers. Something had changed, drawing him out of his state of emotionless apathy. There was a hard, defiant, reckless look about him that indicated he did not unduly care what became of him. His dark blue eyes glittered, and his body was tense as thought preparing for a fight.

"This is it."

The Persian stopped up beside him. "You're sure?"

Raoul nodded. Although, with his wind-tanned skin and dun-coloured shirt, he blended into the shadowy background of the alley, he was still the only thing her eyes could focus on.

He looked at Madame Giry and her daughter. "You two should stay here."

Meg's mouth fell open. "We're not just going to -"

"Do as he says, Meg," said her mother. Raoul gave her a brief, grateful nod.

"We shouldn't be long."

"Careful," said Nadir, his slow, grave voice undercut with a thread of anxiety. "We need to approach this with some caution."

"I'm through with being cautious," said Raoul. He looked, thought Meg, rather like a snake about to strike. Those changeable eyes that alternated between grey and blue were now jewel-like: hard and ruthless. His sun-bleached hair burned gold in contrast. The effect was rather dizzying. She was reminded of stories she'd heard of avenging angels. She watched the two men walk away; one slow and slightly stooped, the other upright with a languorous sort of grace belied by the set tension of his shoulders. Meg sighed and leaned back against a wall still warm from having been exposed to the midday sun. There was nothing more she could do than wait.

"Here."

Raoul had stopped outside a house with shuttered windows, its formerly whitewashed walls faded into taupe. Unhesitatingly, he pounded on the door until it opened a crack. Nadir caught an indistinct glimpse of a dark, heavy featured, very masculine face that could have been anywhere between thirty five and fifty. Men aged quickly in this country. The sunken-in eyes took in the sight of them suspiciously.

"Ahmed Azra, I presume?" said Raoul.

"We've no more bookings," came the curt dismissal.

"We're not here for a room."

The man immediately began trying to close the door, but Raoul had wedged his elbow between door and frame, forcing it open. He was - Nadir could scarcely believe it - smiling.

"Told I was coming, were you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Azra said immediately, and without a trace of fear.

Raoul was no longer smiling. Through the growing shadows, Nadir could see the furrows in his brow. "I'll make it simple," he was saying quietly. "You rented this property to two tenants approximately seven weeks ago. Perhaps you were told they were a married couple. Perhaps you didn't care enough to ask. I can imagine though, that there was some substantial payment for your silence. Rumours of a murder not too many streets away, a few bloodstains on your floor, you were prepared to let slide. Such easy money doesn't often make it's way to you, I'll wager. A final payment before they left - I don't know how recently - and a warning not to go prattling to any inquirers. How close am I getting?"

"You've been misinformed. This property has been empty for weeks -"

"Nadir," said Raoul, calmly. "Go to the end of the alley and keep watch. I don't want anyone to interrupt us."

Nadir hesitated.

"Now," said Raoul, warningly.

With a look of deep misgiving, the Persian obeyed.

Raoul turned back to the man glaring at him from the other side of the door. "You see, I rather think you're lying to me. And if there's one thing I loathe, it's being lied to. Now, I'm not fully familiar with customs here, but surely it's politeness to invite a guest inside?"

"You're not a guest," Ahmed retorted sharply. "You're trespassing on my property."

"Yes," said Raoul, "And I'm also growing impatient." Without waiting for further invitation, he wrenched the door open fully and stepped inside. The abrupt intrusion caused Ahmed to stagger back a couple of steps. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off much of the copper-coloured light filtering in from outside. The hall was empty save for a couple of unused packing crates that had begun to gather dust. The air was still and dry.

The two men faced each other warily, neither fully prepared to be the first to resort to violence. Raoul's eyes did not miss the gleam of metal emanating from Ahmed's belt, and began to talk with a casualness that belied the note of danger beneath the surface.

"You're here alone, Azra? That's very foolish of you. Or maybe you just don't have many people who are willing to call you a friend -"

The rest of his utterance was broken off by a horrible sound; a sort of guttural gasping, wheezing - it was only then he realised the older man was laughing at him. Raoul remained still and silent, refusing to be riled, to let anger lead him into doing anything rash.

"You're just a boy," said Ahmed contemptuously. "What can you do?"

Raoul regarded him consideringly. "You're right. I was, once." His voice lowered to barely more than a whisper, but every word was enunciated like the cold edge of a knife's blade. "But then a man like you - a lying, murderous villain - tore my life apart. My boyhood died the day he entered my existence and took everything from me that mattered. Peace, security, justice, the last of my family… the only woman I ever loved. I have nothing left to lose. So if you think for one moment that I will hesitate in taking you out for standing between myself and him… then you are a greater fool than you think me."

The dim, heavy silence of the room was broken by the faint click of a pistol. Azra's eyes widened in harsh understanding. Raoul's expression didn't waver for a moment.

"Good. Now I seem to have your attention."

Ahmed shook his head. His heavily ringed dark hand slid halfway to his belt before appearing to think better of it. "There's nothing I can tell you. They've gone."

"When did they leave?" asked Raoul.

"Yesterday."

Aside from an involuntary sharp exhalation of breath, the hand on the pistol tightening imperceptibly, Raoul didn't move. "Yesterday?" he repeated. One day. He had missed her by one day…

Ahmed was watching him narrowly, his eyes like those of a hunted cat. "It's nothing to do with me now."

"Ah, but it is. You can tell me where they were planning on going."

"No. I couldn't."

"I'm trying to be reasonable, Azra," Raoul said softly. "I'm not asking for a specific lodging. Just whether they are still in Alger, where they might have gone… a rough location."

"I'm sorry," said Ahmed flatly. "But you're out of your depth. I'm more afraid of him than I am of you."

"I understand," said Raoul coolly.

And raising his pistol, shot him in the chest.

"How very foolish of you."

His life seemed to be one of darkened rooms and shuttered windows. At first, Raoul had thought it was to keep the world out. Now he realised it was to keep him in.

He wanted to sit in this darkness forever, to hide away from what he had done. He wanted that oblivion. Oh, how he wanted it. He was so tired… he longed only to sleep, but he couldn't. He couldn't ever sleep again.

Everything was different now. Before, he had persuaded himself that he could change, that there was time yet to make amends, to become again the man he had once been. Now - in a single moment - that man was gone forever. One moment was all it had taken. Now the world was forever changed.

Had there been blood? Had the man cried out? Had he felt pain? Raoul couldn't even remember his face.

He hadn't even looked. Had just let Nadir pull him away, he could remember nothing more… except finding himself back at their lodgings, in this room, in this darkness. There was only this interminable present. His very own dark night of the soul.

Yet no saviour is coming for me.

He felt sick. Dirty. Violated.

Unclean.

He glanced down at his hands. They were not the hands of Raoul de Chagny. These hands were coarse and rough, the skin hardened and calloused, not fair but burned bronze. The hands of a stranger. Of a murderer.

No. My hands. Mine. I did this.

I killed a man.

And it was easy. It shouldn't have been that easy… You didn't even need to do it, that man probably hates Erik as much as you do, he was merely posturing…

Erik. It all came back to Erik in the end. He was still unmarried because of Erik. He was in Algeria because of Erik.

He was a murderer because of Erik.

No.

You didn't have to kill him. There was a choice. No matter how limited your options were, there was still a choice.

It would be easy to blame Erik. He wanted to blame Erik. But -

It's me. I'm what's wrong.

Raoul shuddered. His hands were pressing against his temples, wanting to purge away the memory of what he had done. He was hurting so much he wanted to die.

The fear of getting caught was nothing. It would be a relief, even. Perhaps he should get caught. He deserved to be put away. How did they punish criminals here? Did they even care?

I truly am one of them now. Corrupt to the core.

Funny how when he had first come here, he had needed to try so hard to conceal his true identity.

Now look at me. I've blended in so well, I've turned into my disguise.

This was who he was now. A man who bribed and used people. A man who ignored his companions. A man who killed those who stood in his way. How could he hope to escape the person he had become? When had the wrong thing had started to seem right?

He had always said he would do anything for Christine. Raoul smiled, ironically. Well, he had lived up to his word. Now he realised there was nothing holding him back from his goal. He had murdered a man and gotten away with it. He could do anything now to aid him in finding Christine. There was nothing stopping him -

Then he stopped, horrified at himself.

Sickness rose up inside him, but nothing in this world could purge the hatred and disgust he felt towards himself. At last he had truly come to loathe himself and his behaviour. He didn't know what was right or wrong any more.

Raoul de Chagny. He remembered that man. Raoul de Chagny had been a younger brother. Raoul de Chagny had been an ardent suitor.

Raoul de Chagny had been a good man.

"How long has he been in there?"

"Two and a half hours now. He's not spoken a word to anyone since… well, you know."

Meg swung her legs impatiently beneath the table. "Have you tried talking to him?"

Nadir met her impertinent tone with a look of such solemn gravity, she stopped fidgeting at once. "I was rather hoping you would," he said quietly.

"Me?" She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or nervous.

The Persian leaned forward, almost appealingly. His exotic robes faintly gave off that very foreign scent of Middle Eastern incense and musk. "He'll talk to you, I think. He likes you."

"Maybe," Meg said. "But he would leave me, along with everyone else, if he had to." She bit her lip. "Still, if you think it will help…"

"I do."

She pushed her chair back and stood up. Her back felt stiff from its prolonged position against the hard wood.

"Well, I'm not making any promises," she said. Her head was swimming slightly from the mugginess of the air that drifted in through the open window. Alger might be a town that did not sleep, but she certainly needed to. And preferably in a bed that wasn't hard and narrow with only thin sheets of crisp cotton.

Pushing aside the longing thoughts of her bed back in Paris, she made her way up the stairs, her light, dancer's feet barely making a sound on the floorboards that were normally prone to creaking. She could feel the music outside, mysterious and alive, vibrating through the walls. Sometimes, she heard it in her dreams.

Raoul's door was closed, and there was no light coming from beneath. Meg refused to let it act as a deterrent. She somehow doubted he was asleep in there. And if he didn't want to see her… well, that was too bad. He was going to have to.

Lifting her chin in a characteristic gesture of stubbornness, she turned the handle and walked in without knocking.

The first thing to greet her eyes was darkness, deeper than the shadowy half-light of the hall. She stood still as her vision began to allow objects to materialise: a chair, a bed, a window framed with a line of amber light from the streets outside. A pistol lay on the floor as though Raoul had flung it away from him. A lamp stood on the bedside table. She moved towards it.

"Don't." His voice, spoken from the shadows, made her jump.

"But -"

"I prefer it in the dark."

Meg shuddered. God, had he just been sitting there in the blackness, in complete silence? At the sight of him, something tugged at her heart. She was remembering the very first time she had seen him at the rehearsal of Hannibal: the handsome, warm-hearted nobleman whose movements conveyed grace and surety and strength with just a touch of arrogance. She had barely given him a thought. But now… he looked so different. Dangerous. It went beyond the tense set of his shoulders or the stubble on his chin or the burnished unruly hair that fell past his collar. No, it was in the hollowed cheeks, the haunted expression, the eyes that were far too old for his young face… there was a world of misery in those eyes. The kind of misery that could only come from losing everything that mattered. He would never be the same person again.

A chill ran through her. She felt suddenly hopelessly small and out of place. This was not usual for her. In Paris, she had been the most popular girl in the Ballet Corps, always in the middle of a crowd of giggling girls or the first to be admired by the noble patrons who followed her with their eyes. Bright, funny, fierce Meg Giry with her warm heart and sharp tongue had formerly been the centre of her small universe. Now she was no one, as woefully insignificant in this hard and violent land as the smallest grain of sand.

Raoul stretched out a long leg, staring down at his hands that were open on his lap. "You came alone then," he remarked dispassionately. "I suppose the others couldn't face the thought of being near me."

"No, they're –"

"They're avoiding me," he said, coolly. "There's no need to deny it."

"Can you blame them?" The question left her before she could prevent it. She cringed at her lack of tact.

"No," he said. There was a hard edge to his voice that made her wince. He was still refusing to look at her. "No. I've killed a man. Everything's changed."

"If you want me to go -" she began, a little uncertainly.

"I don't." His calm voice cut through her doubts. "God knows, you're the one person I do want around."

"You're lucky," she said. "In a way." Lucky? He's just killed a man, and you're calling him lucky? "They don't ask too many questions here. Azra's enemies far outweighed his friends. Apparently, he was known for money laundering." Raoul looked beyond caring at this point, as though the thought of his own welfare hadn't even crossed his mind.

She should be frightened, she knew that. She knew that something had irredeemably altered within him. Deep down, she knew he was dangerous.

But when did danger ever stop you?

Her reckless dash into the cellars of the Opera flared vividly in her memory.

What a fool you are, Meg Giry.

She started as Raoul stood up, unexpectedly, walking slowly across the dim room and pausing before the mirror. She noticed how he had maintained his easy grace; there was no sign of stumbling, or hesitancy. At least, not in his stance. But there was a dreadfully blank expression on his face as he stared at the ghostly mirror image of himself, speaking more to himself than to her.

"It happened so fast," he said; with that same blank look on his face. "I didn't think." He stopped himself with a frown. "No, that's a lie. There must have been a moment when I knew - knew what I was going to do."

"Raoul -"

"Why didn't I stop?" he whispered. "Why did I let it go so far?"

Because of Christine, she thought sombrely. Now she's got two men who are willing to commit murder for her. The thought made her blood turn to ice. How many more people were going to be killed before this was over?

"I was sick," he said dully. "After it happened. I kept throwing up until there was nothing left, but I still feel sick." He stared at his reflection in the glass. "I always will."

"It would be worse if you didn't."

"Perhaps. But it doesn't change what I did – I'm still a murderer."

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For not trying to lessen what I've done."

He was staring down at his hands again. When he saw she had noticed, he quickly curled them into fists and looked away. Then he gave a hard little laugh. "I suppose it's truly over now."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? Christine, of course. How can I face her again after this? How can I look at her?"

"If she loves you -" Meg began, but he cut her short with a sound like a laugh, but nothing could be called a laugh that contained such hollow despair. "I'm as bad as he is now. That sense of moral superiority… I don't have that any more. Why would she want me when I'm no better than him? How can I demand that she love one murderer but not another?"

"That's the difference between you. You would never demand her love. You'd let her go, if she asked you to."

"I don't know. I don't know how far I'm willing to go anymore."

"Raoul -"

"It's curious," he said flatly, not sounding curious at all. "I don't know what I'm capable of anymore. I'm becoming so obsessed with finding Christine, I'm wondering whether it's turning me into the very man I'm trying to protect her from."

"That isn't true." She pushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes.

He titled his head to one side, regarding her thoughtfully. His face was cold and hard and beautiful. Like the statues of angels that adorned the Opera chapel. "Why do you keep coming here, Meg?" His voice was soft. "Why are you prepared to forgive me everything?"

She met his gaze steadily. "You're my friend, Raoul."

He reached out and caught at her hand, his fingers causing a brief, rough fiction against her skin. His touch was like a fever. Her heart jumped.

"No," he said. "We're not just friends."

Meg swallowed, tilting her chin up as she looked at him. The topmost buttons of his shirt were undone; it fell slightly over one shoulder, exposing a slant of tanned, muscled skin. She was close enough to feel his sharp inhalation, the tense, barely-there control. There was a rawness to him now that had never been evident before, a kind of wild electricity that was hardly contained by his lean, strong frame. The rough danger of it thrilled her. It was something foreign, alien, unknown.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was soft in the hushed space between them.

He was staring down at their interlocked hands, comparing perhaps, as she was, the small softness of her own to the calloused hardness of his. "I don't know what I would do without you." His voice was low. "You're the only person I can talk to… the only thing keeping me sane."

They were standing very close together, his eyes looking into hers, and she realised this was probably the first time he was really seeing her since she had entered the room. His grey eyes burned, too heightened, too intense.

"Promise me you'll always be here. You see the good in me when I've forgotten how."

Her hand tightened on his. "You are a good man, Raoul."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Good? What does that even mean? In the end, it's just a word."

She glared at him. "I know you don't believe that."

Grey eyes flared with sudden energy. "Has it occurred to you that it might be easier for me to believe it?" he returned, harshly. "That the alternative would mean considering myself in the worst possible light, making me the most wicked and despicable of men? Is that what you want from me, Meg?" His breath stirred her hair; she had no breath to protest. "Is it?"

Meg refused to be daunted by his words or the contemptuous look he threw her. If he was feeling anger, at least he was feeling something. Anything was better than that former terrifying blankness. She could deal with his anger.

"I want you," she said insistently, "To stop punishing yourself. You're too good for this."

His hand tensed beneath her own. A shadow fell across his face. "I'm too good? No, Meg. You don't know me at all. You think you do, but you have no idea."

She knew, in a sense, that he was right. It was his very remoteness that intrigued her, his ability to draw her in one moment and hold her at a distance the next. How very different it was for someone who had always got what she wanted so easily, to whom men approached so willingly...

His hand pulled away from her grasp, and he turned away slightly, remote and untouchable once more. She watched him warily.

"I have to find her," he said. "I have to. It's taken over me, in a final sort of way."

"And we want to help you."

"I know," he said, dully. "But I cannot do what you want. I can only do what I must." He spoke with a bleak determination. "I know myself for what I am. And it's… terrible."

Shaken by the chilling certainty in his tone, Meg could summon no words of resistance.

"It's what I'll have to be if I want to defeat him."

Feeling unlocked her frozen tongue. "Not if the price is your integrity! Do you think Christine would want that?"

A slight smile curved his mouth, but it seemed to derive more from bitter amusement than real comfort. "Meg. What would I do without you?"

She smiled, tried to keep her tone light. It was the hardest thing she had ever done. "Be left to some peace and quiet, I'd imagine."

"No." He didn't laugh, as he once would have. Instead, his fingers rested on her chin, tilting it up slightly. She inhaled his scent and closeness as he looked down intently into her face. There was an expression there she could not name: admiring, almost… entranced. The moment seemed to stretch between them. She stole an unsteady breath.

Then his hand dropped to his side. He looked away. "God, you're so innocent. I shouldn't be dragging you into this."

"I'm not so innocent," she responded, a little sharply. Now why had she said that? Guilt perhaps. Or maybe because she was gradually being swallowed up by the weight of everything unsaid that was hanging over her. Why couldn't she just -

You know why. Stop being such a little fool. There are more important things happening.

He sounded wearied now. "Things used to be so clear. Right and wrong. Good and evil. But now nothing is certain. I don't understand. How many evil deeds can a good person do before they become an evil person?"

"You are not evil." She spoke firmly. "Do you hear me, Raoul?"

"Then why do I feel like this?" he asked despairingly. "Why is everything so dark? And I don't just mean tonight. So many things… Philippe died…" Suddenly, overwhelming sadness crossed his face. Intense pity came over her. "I know I wasn't as good a brother as I could have been, but I loved him. And I don't think he even knew. I can't go through that again."

She shushed him, sympathetically, her fingers combing through the coppery shades of his hair. It curled slightly over his forehead. She could feel the warmth of his skin as the touch became a caress, soothing his temples. He sighed, deep in his throat.

"Christine… she's all I have left. If I lose her, then I don't have anything."

Meg pulled her hand away abruptly. The words, spoken so unconsciously, shouldn't have hurt her, but they did. Raoul did not seem to have noticed her withdrawal, but continued speaking softly, the suppressed pain evident in his voice.

"That night on the rooftop was the most perfect moment of my life. I knew we were in danger, but it… didn't matter, somehow. Everything was clear, and certain. I knew myself, and I was… happy. I had hopes, and dreams. Christine loved me. And whatever danger there was, we could face it, together. And now… and now…"

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her impulsive anger at him fading.

He looked up at her, startled, as though he had forgotten she was there.

"You should go," he said heavily. "It's late. They'll be worrying about you."

"I think they're more worried about you," she said quietly.

He did not respond to that; there was only a subtle tightening of his jaw. "There's nothing more you can do. At least…" He was staring ahead, a hard light glinting in his eyes. "No," he muttered. "I could never…" He straightened his shoulders, looking more like his old self. The frightening intensity had left his gaze. "You should go," he repeated.

She hesitated. "If you need me -"

"I'll call."

A wry smile curved her mouth. "No, you won't. And I think maybe that's your problem."

Before he could reply to that, she had turned and walked out the room, closing the door behind her.

When Meg went downstairs into the small parlour, she saw her mother seated alone at the small table, a glass half filled in front of her. She glanced up as her daughter sank into the opposite chair wearily.

"You look pale." Antoinette narrowed her eyes. "You're not sickening, are you?"

"I'm fine," said Meg, a little impatiently. In fact, she wasn't fine at all. She was bewildered, afraid, pitying, tired, and inexplicably annoyed. She hated her tendency to lose her temper so impulsively, an unpraiseworthy trait inherited from her mother. She sometimes envied Christine's calm tranquillity and generous nature. Be as that may, she could feel the warning signs of brewing anger the way she always did; prickling at the tips of her fingers and the pit of her stomach, the warmth of it flushing her cheeks.

"Here," Madame Giry said, pushing a glass across the table.

Meg stared at her. She had never seen her mother drink.

"Don't look at me like that, Marguerite," she snapped. "I thought you might need it. I certainly do."

Cautiously, Meg raised the glass to her lips. Unlike many of the girls at the Opera dorms, she rarely tried spirits. Too often they were procured from generous noblemen hoping for the pretty chorus girls to lose some of their - admittedly lax - inhibitions. It all seemed like part of another life, now. She knocked the glass back and winced slightly as the contents burned the back of her throat like fire. She couldn't say she liked the taste, but there was something oddly satisfying about it. Maybe it was the bitterness.

"Take small sips," her mother cautioned.

Meg lowered the glass with a sigh. She swirled the drink around, staring into its amber contents. The powerful smell of it made her eyes water.

"He's in a bad way, Maman. Raoul. I don't know what to do."

"Nothing," said her mother calmly.

She looked up at that. "Nothing?"

Antoinette's gaze was resolute. "I've been meaning to speak to you about this for a while. I don't like you spending so much time with him."

Clink. Meg's glass was back on the table. "What? Why?"

"I do not think it a good thing. For him or for you."

"Why not?" she demanded indignantly.

"He's killed a man, Marguerite! Or have you forgotten?"

"He was driven to it -"

"You will not defend that that man." Her voice was stern and unyielding. "I know his circumstances are… difficult. But it does not give him justification to act without regard to any consequences. We could have all suffered from his actions tonight. Would you still be so willing to defend him then?"

"I'm not defending him. I'm just saying I understand why he did it. Besides, I know you always hated him -"

Her mother's hands were gripping the edges of the table, white-knuckled. "I never hated him. I just don't know that I trust him."

"Well, I do," Meg said staunchly. She had gotten to her feet without realising it. "Because, God knows, somebody should!"

"Meg -"

"No," she said, angrily. Her insides were burning; either from whiskey or anger, she could not tell. "No, I am not some naïve little girl any more. You can't expect me to stop seeing him just because you disapprove. Christine chose Raoul, whether you like it or not, and I am not going to turn my back on him the minute things get difficult. Not for you. Not for anyone."

With a shaking hand, she downed the remaining contents of her glass and left the room, her mother staring after her.

Suddenly, she wanted to cry.

The sparsely furnished room was very dark, the shutters allowing barely a gleam of moonlight to penetrate the place of self-imposed seclusion. But Raoul no longer in that room, or in that country, or even in that time. Leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, he was back in Paris, on his estate on a warm June afternoon:

He was seated at his desk leaning over his accounts, but only giving them half his attention. The rest of him was idly appreciating the view his upstairs window commanded over the grounds that were a riot of floral colours. The combined scents of temperate summer air, wildflowers and the polished wood resin of his desk were soothing balm to a head full of facts and figures. He closed his eyes a moment, inhaling deeply. Who could work on such a beautiful day?

Still holding his pen, he began to reread the sheet of figures again when a warm pair of arms were suddenly around his neck and a curtain of tumbling curls brushed his shoulders.

"Christine," he murmured. "You're early."

He felt her smile against his cheek. "Your manservant let me in." One slender hand drifted downwards to the paper on his desk and she leaned closer over his shoulder to read it, and as she did so, he caught the rich scent of her hair and sighed deep in his throat. Christine half turned to face him; she was close enough for him to see the faint flush of colour tingeing her pale skin.

"I'm distracting you," she said in concern, beginning to pull away.

"Yes," said Raoul. "You are." He reached up and caught her arm, bringing her closer to him. "But don't stop."

She was knelt beside the chair so they were almost at eye level; he only had to look down slightly into her face. Her lips were parted in that shy smile so well loved, so long missed. "I'm a bad influence on you," she whispered, not entirely in jest.

His hands cupped the sides of her face gently, fingers lightly caressing the smooth skin and his heart beat fast when he saw her eyes half close, dark lashes brushing her cheeks.

"You're my besetting sin," he agreed in a soft voice.

She leaned closer towards him and he saw her travelling cloak had come loose, exposing one white shoulder barely covered by the ruffled frills of her light summer dress. Her brown eyes opened wide, part sincerity, part youthful playfulness. She was so near that her sweet voice stirred the tiny hairs along his jaw line. "Then what shall I do?"

Raoul smiled, meeting her lips with his.

"Punish me."

Raoul opened his eyes.

"Oh God, that was paradise," he whispered. He sighed, wanting to lose himself again, but a quiet knocking at the door interrupted his reverie. He glowered resentfully in the direction and cause of the disturbance. He hoped whoever it was would go away if he ignored it. They didn't. Instead the door swung open, and Raoul glanced up to see only darkness, before a heavy pair of shoulders materialised through the gloom.

"Oh," he said. "It's you. I hoped -" He sighed and didn't finish the utterance. "What time is it?"

"A little after three."

"Is that all?" He exhaled wearily. "It feels like it's been days."

Nadir said nothing. Raoul rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to ease out the tense lines. He was tired and aching.

"I suppose you've come to lecture me," he said at last, when the Persian remained motionless.

"Do you want me to?" Nadir said, his voice very quiet.

"I doubt it would make any difference."

Nadir was seriously alarmed by the resigned despair in the man's voice. Inadvertently, his eyes went to the whisky decanter, but he saw it was untouched. A small thing, but one worth noting. Raoul hadn't chosen to drink himself into oblivion. He was refusing to take the easy way out. He was making himself feel this, all of it. He wanted to punish himself.

The Persian thought there was only one time he had known such comparative misery. The night his son had died. Back then, he had by no means been averse to drinking and swallowing his grief in a haze of opium. Unlike Raoul, he had pulled no trigger, plunged no knife into his child's heart. No, he had merely stood by and allowed it to happen, given his permission. The fact that Reza's life had closed in a beautiful, illusory dream rather than in crippling agony made it no less painful. Even now, he wondered whether he had done the right thing. The grief would never leave him, but he could cope with the grief. It was the doubt that haunted him. Nadir shook himself. It would do no good thinking of such things now.

"You tried to warn me," Raoul continued slowly. "That night I spoke to Jacques and Verges, weeks ago. If I'd listened to you, then… you tried so hard to save my soul. I suppose it's too late now."

The Persian said nothing. What could he say? There was something both sad and horrible about watching this young, good, kind-hearted man become reduced to a hollow core, a formerly heroic man who no longer believed in heroism, who had retreated into himself, and sickened by what he saw, had become bitter and despairing. Again, Nadir was struck by the familiarity of it, but refused to make the connect in his head. Besides, although Erik was a man consumed with darkness, he had never become an empty shell; if anything, he felt too intensely.

"You know that you could stop this at any time. No one would think any less of you."

"I would think less of me. And I can't stop. I've already gone too far. I –" Raoul looked up, and his voice was all the worse for it's utter lack of emotion. "Nadir, I killed a man today. If I give up the search now, that would have been for nothing. Just a needless waste."

"All murder is a needless waste."

"Be as that may… what happened today… I can never let that happen again. Never."

"So what will you do?"

"I'll not let my emotions get the better of me," Raoul said dully, while knowing full well it had not been passion with which he had killed, but the terrible coldness of clarity.

"And what happens when it's the next person standing between you and Christine?"

"I can't," he said. "I won't."

"That will not do!" Nadir insisted with sudden fierceness. "There will come a situation you think important enough, one man expendable enough. And then you too will be a man who weighs up life and death to his own ends! Do you think Erik began by killing anyone he chose? Of course he didn't. He started by killing his enemies, those who hounded and pursued him and kept him from achieving his ends!"

Raoul made no reaction during this tirade, only stared down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them slowly. "You're a good man, Nadir," he said thoughtfully. "I was a good man, once. But there is nothing else for me. Nothing to live for. Except seeing her. That is the one thing I want. And I can never have it. In the end, that's all there is."

And ever shall be.

Raoul closed his eyes at the bleak inevitability. It truly was over.

Nothing mattered now.

Reviews: Yes, please.

Raoul bashing: Unless it's constructive, leave it at the door. I love Raoul, so there.