Chapter 6: To See the Truth

"What? I deal with matches, boy, not disappearances or childbirth," the plump woman said, wiping her hands with a rag to remove the spilled ink. She only succeeded in frustrating herself with the blackish-blue smears. "I do not marry the dead to the living, if that is what you came for. That would be an abomination."

Raoul frowned. This woman was certainly plain spoken, was she not? He tried again. "Please, madam, look through your records, look for Daae. I only need this small fact." Was she hiding the facts from him intentionally? Did she know aught that he did not?

"I have nothing for you. Look for yourself," she said, pushing a heavy, leather-bound book towards him with a dismissive snort. He accepted the book and set it on a table before he could lose his grip and drops it. The first pages almost tore in his urgent fingers.

The tome was organized by date, and he immediately flipped to the back, looking for a date a few months before Christine's birth.

There was no 'Daae' scrawled on the paper, just as the woman had told him. There was nothing to be found. Then he narrowed his eyes. "Have you any documentation of those couples who were never married?"

She snorted. "You must think me mad, or infallible, or a historian! I do not document bastards."

There was obviously nothing for him there, so he vacated the premises and stepped out into a slowly waking street. The noises of morning were so contrasted to his mysterious goal. Where else could he go? The midwife? No, the midwife who'd delivered Christine was dead now, so his old nurse had told him.

Could it be that the healer that had tended to the sick midwife still lived? It was another seeming lead, but also another seeming disappointment at the end. Perhaps he was wrong, and there would be a good amount of information.

But then…there were at least seven different healers in town, supposedly including himself. He shook his head, earning a strange glance from several passersby. The twists and turns of unrecorded history were ever evasive…

Perhaps the new library would hold something of worth to his search.

…

Philippe sighed over his paperwork. He had to pay for the construction of a section of wall to replace an old, broken bit, and the wall had to be done within two weeks and protected with many lamps. Elsewise the Darks would squirm their way in through the faint bits of shadows and make an honest villager a victim. Honestly, with the way pieces of wall kept falling over the years, one would think it was purposely being destroyed!

Then there were also the countless demands of people wishing to have streetlamps fixed, or paving stones replaced, or public buildings repaired. They all went to him because he had the money, not necessarily the authority. In this world money was power, but sometimes he wished he didn't have to deal with the responsibilities of power.

He looked at the hourglass on his desk, one that was large, and marked with the hours and minutes. He had sworn he would finish his work before his midmorning break, but his heart longed to deny this disciplined torture. Ciara would be out tending to the community gardens now, perhaps feeling in the soil for weeds and bugs. Just a few more minutes…

A knock at his study door penetrated the dustless sunlight and shuffled papers. "Master Philippe, there is, in the sitting room, and he requests an audience. Will you see him?" What was it this time? Would it be traveler looking for sanctuary, or a criminal searching for a loophole of asylum? Would it be a complaint about the state of a certain road, or a rotten fence?

"I will see to his discussion, complaint, argument, pleading, whatever it might be," he grumbled. "Send him in." The maid left to fetch the man. He turned back to his papers, eyes trailing over, but not really reading, a letter of complaint from a potter who'd had his wall vandalized by a group of spiteful boys. It had aught to do with slurries of clay and red oil paint, a mixture that took much scrubbing to wash away. He knew. He had played such pranks as a boy, and had had to scrub the marks out himself.

The door clicked open, and he looked up. It was a ragged, tired-looking man, who he recognized as the one who had guided a Christine Daae to her death. "Tell me, what brings you here? With fame as the one to risk his life for our safety, I thought you'd have few problems."

"But I do have an issue, and, young sir, it is with you." Philippe frowned. What could this man possibly be displeased with him for?

"Say on, and I will solve your issue with me as best I can." The man leaned forward and rested his calloused knuckles on the solid wooden desk.

"You are courting my daughter Ciara, and you did not ask or even alert me. Furthermore, I would not have her in your company. She needs to support her family with all she is, and that means not seeing you." So this man was Ciara's father. Why did he only reveal himself now? Why did he not care for his supposed daughter throughout her childhood? He must have seen them together that morning in the store…or been informed. Who had informed him?

"Who told you this? I have not courted anyone, to my knowledge, nor did I know that my company was a blight upon Ciara's work and family life." He stood, with the man just opening his mouth to reply, but Philippe cut him off. "If you are so worried that she will lose her honor, her livelihood, or her place in a family I have never heard of until now, let me assure you that in my care, she is safe from any and all harm."

The man sneered an ugly, domineering sneer, losing his tired appearance in a wave of malice. "Oh, ever the good and caring, are you not? But I cannot let her in your good graces for any reason. It is simply not healthy," he replied, shaking and attaining a blotchy appearance in his flushed anger. Who was this petty human, to think he was worthy of robbing the Darks of a fully capable member of their ranks, albeit a reluctant one? "You are a- a corruptor!"

Then the strangest thing began to happen. His skin blackened, as if being smudged with ink and charcoal, and his eyes swirled with a lightless color that was not color at all. Philippe's heart leapt in his chest for fear of this creature, this thing claiming to be his beloved's parent. Were he not so washed away in terror, he would have realized that Ciara was indeed his beloved.

Trails of void reached out for him, for his limbs, and about his body, and he could not tell if they touched him or merely paralyzed him. His whole self was cold despite the sunlight windows. One word reverberated through his mind: Dark!

How powerful with this being that it defied the laws of magic and moral and could prey on a human even in light? Philippe's head and chest began to ache, and his bones felt too heavy to carry within himself. He began to panic once he realized he couldn't move. He tried, he tried again, but the coldness weighed him down, as if he were being buried in ice.

And then…he couldn't even see. What black magic is this? He struggled to stay conscious under the crushing pain, his subconscious was in the process of deciding whether or not to shut down his mind, and leaning on the option of a dead faint.

He felt as if his soul was being tenderized by the onslaught of pain. A voice kept saying things, whispering like the sharp edge of a knife against skin, but he did not comprehend.

Another voice joined the one grating against the contours of his mind. This one was softer, weaker. Stop this. If you do not, I will stop you myself. There was a familiarity and warmth to this aura, a nonthreatening persona.

Do not interfere. He is a threat to the Darks.

There was a lapse in the concentration of cold pain, and Philippe took that moment of warmth to stumble forward and crawl to the side. His vision flickered, and he gasped for breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

A cry of rage kept Philippe in the land of wakefulness rather than exhausted sleep. "Do not presume I will not end your life because you are my blood!" He stood on trembling legs and leaned against his desk, watching the scene play out before him.

There was the man, still bleak and inky with the residual energy of his leeching. A puddle of shadow lay at his feet, and he glared down at it with a boiling malice that could have scalded the fur from a bear's hide. The shadow swirled upwards, paling and smoothing over, and forming into Ciara's human body, bruised and purpled and white in all her vulnerable beauty. An errant thought entered Philippe's mind: I have heard her inner voice! And…she must have left her clothes somewhere.

Perhaps he should have been concentrating on his gratefulness to her for saving his life, but that was shadowed over by confusion and apprehension. What was she, if her father was a Dark? Was she a Dark too? Marry! He was in love with a Dark! Well, that, and her clothes seemed to be missing. Had she left them behind in her haste to save him? It seemed quite possible with her ability to melt and reform. But then…why was her father still wearing his clothes?

Ciara stood firm against her father's wrath, and found the sensation of defiance very freeing. Why hadn't she stood up to him sooner, if it would feel this good to be free? She shook her head at him, smiling grimly. I will not move. Because of their relation, her father could read her thoughts.

"I, in my strength, can kill you both," he said, speech touching both sound and mind.

But you will not, Ciara silently shot back in her newfound will.

"What I have in mind will be all the more humiliating for you, and for him." And the malicious being melted into shadow again and flowed out through the window.

Philippe regained his composure and snatched his cloak from a hook on the wall and covered Ciara with it. As beautiful and slender as she was, if he looked at her any longer, his admiration would show itself in his actions. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

Her spread arms dropped in defeat, and she hung her head, but lifted it again when she felt the warm pressure of cloth around her shoulders.

She turned her face to him, to show she acknowledged his presence. Her eyes were sad and sightless. "What was that, Ciara? And…what are you?"

She could not answer, but only leaned her cold, spent self on him and let exhaustion take over in a faint.

…

Christine opened her eyes. Her back felt cold and exposed, and reminded her of the strange, sudden transformation of her bones. She might be turning into a dragon, but she certainly did not feel like one. She felt tired, haggard, even, and bathed in the saltwater of her tears. It did not help at all that Erik tried to keep her warm against his side and had been prevented by the spikes protruding from her back. Of all places for spikes to grow, it had to be the place on her otherwise human body that helped her to keep warm at night!

Her eyes were clouded, so she rubbed at them and blinked. The residue of a fitful sleep cleared away quickly, but the odd tint to her vision did not. Colors were more vivid, and her own skin seemed brighter and more shaded than the whiteness she was used to seeing.

A loud curse roused Erik from his sleep, and he opened his eyes to an abashed-looking Christine who screwed up her face as if she was questioning her own sanity. He saw into her face and it seemed different.

"Erik…my eyes, are they different?" Her question seemed so vulnerable. She was still afraid of the changes.

Yes. He stood and stretched, and Christine found herself rather awed at the strength in his fluid limbs.

"How?" She was still staring at him, and Erik found her gaze…appreciative? Perhaps the transformation was changing more than her body. Perhaps…

Your eyes have turned silver. It was almost comical to see her scramble to the bath and check her reflection. She squeaked and jumped away. He snorted. There is nothing to be afraid of in your reflection, which, I might add, will not rise up from the water and asphyxiate you.

Her blush spread down to her neck. "I know! Has anyone ever told you that your teasing is merciless?" Without waiting for his answer, she crawled back to the edge of the pool and held her hair to the side to allow sufficient light to see her reflected image.

Her hair was tangled and matted, and her face thinner than she remembered. Perhaps all of her was thinner. She squinted at the still water to discern her eyes. They were grey in the sclera, and the irises had indeed turned silver. What startled her most were her pupils. They had turned slit, like those of cats, and black.

A pause that bespoke sorrow and disgust, then: "I look like a freak; like a were-beast stuck halfway. Even they would find me ugly…"

And to that declaration, Erik protested mightily. Something in his self-control snapped. He could never abide insecurity in others. You think you are hideous? Then look upon me, and see that you are beautiful! The vibration of his voice was such that it caused a breeze that ruffled Christine's hair even more. She turned about, more afraid than she had been since she had arrived, to see the impregnable armor of his hide fading like reflections to reveal scars longer than her body and as wide as her arms crisscrossing his ribs, neck, muzzle, everywhere she could see and extending to places that she couldn't see. Some scales were missing, as if plucked out, and slowly, agonizingly growing back through the bare, pale flesh. A few of his spines were missing at his shoulders, just in the most vulnerable hollow where back met neck, torn and sawed away, the work of human brutality.

The illusions of a healthy, beautiful, well-treated creature were gone, and in their place, the epitome of cruelty.

Then she stopped staring in petrified awe and noticed that he shook and trembled as if in pain. He shook as if weak and in pain, like his tortures had been only the day before. His head was lowered, eyes closed in shame. And his legs folded beneath him, and he was laid low in such a display of sadness that Christine swore she felt her heart break for him.

"Oh, Erik…" she sighed. The sting and flush of tears reached her newly reptilian tear ducts and poured down, splashing against the floor and hissing like acid.

His tears were larger than hers, she noted in the back of her mind.

He had never been embraced before. Embraces had always been such trivial things in his mind, just gestures exchanged between the softer, more sentimental races as comfort. Embraces were never his, so he ignored them. He could almost taste his own surprise in the air when a small arm threw itself about his neck and a small body followed, pressing against him as if he was her only hope of life.

And he rather enjoyed it.

…

"How did it happen?" was her tentative question when they were calm again, and awkward silence reigned.

Must you ask that now?

"Yes. I want- I need to know."

Why?

"If I am going to live with you, become a dragon, and-" She stopped herself before she finished her sentence. "If I am to do all this, I should know. I should know you well and better than well."

Why would you wish to live here, after all you have seen, after you know what I have hidden? Why stay?

"Where else would I go? I do not know how to hunt, or find water. I do not know the society of dragons, what is accepted and what is not. I would not know how to…find a mate."

Erik hissed, and his damaged spines raised and shivered. I am not the one to teach you these things. If you wish for a mentor, go to Nadir- he has had the time of his life teaching me, and I am certain he would teach you.

"But I do not want to leave you!"

He was silent at that. They had moved from their one-sided hug to opposite sides of a roaring fire. His dark mood had not abated, but neither had her compassion. But what had he to lose if he did tell her?

His answer was in those silver, sweet eyes and gracefully sweeping back with new, shining ivory poking from every vertebra… He should never have hoped for a mate, for it would break him.

You will have no other way but yours in this, will you?

"No."

Then who am I to keep you from having the way that is yours? Christine could not tell whether his sigh was one of resign or relief. I will tell you, but I must warn you as well; when you know, you cannot leave!

…

Nadir had gawped in amazement, his whiskery maw opening instinctively as if to taste the air in the scene he witnessed and confirm that it was real. He had never seen anything so mysterious and disturbing, to see a human grow spines and keen eyes like a dragon. Would she complete the transformation and become a full dragon by the next full moon? Then, for sure, the council had to accept her, and she would be healthy company for Erik.

He glanced at the sky, searching for the silvery outline of the celestial body, which was visible to dragons at all times, even during the bright noon. It was a waning gibbous. Just a few short weeks until the meeting.

But…considering Erik's questionable past, and the fact that this new, young female was actually a human suddenly turned dragon, was the future certain? Or would they have to flee the council's wrath because they would not part?

He puffed white smoke and dipped a claw into the images, distorting them.

In the last picture, he had seen Erik upset. Naturally, this had been troubling, but even more saddening than that was the unveiling of his scars and his complete vulnerability towards the human girl. He had never shown those marks to anyone, not even Nadir, who had only seen them on accident.

No, now they would be impossible to separate.

He hoped and prayed for the best, but with circumstances as they were; he could only expect and brace himself for the worst.

…

Ciara opened her eyes and saw nothing but the blankness she had no name for and could not name, having never seen anything to compare it with. What she heard and felt and smelled around her more than compensated, however, and she decided that waking in one of Philippe's spare chambers was not a bad thing. He must have moved her after the incident with her father…

Her father! And Philippe, what must he think? Was she on trial for witchcraft, or worse, under house arrest and scheduled for execution by burning?

Her frantic breathing only sped up when there was a knock at the door. "Ciara? If I may enter, please, open the door."

Mara! Maybe she will tell me what has happened.

A moment passed, but Ciara did not move. Maybe she would come in of her own accord. When the timid, gossipy girl did not open the door, she attempted to stand.

Immediately, her knees buckled, knocking against the smooth floor. Her palms followed. The quick transformation from human to Dark and back had taken more from her than she had thought. A wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over her, and she fought to keep the contents of her stomach down.

What is wrong with me? I was never so weak before… Her mind, too, distorted with the sounds around her. Mara suddenly sounded so high pitched it made her want to scream, and the birds outside echoed instead of chirped. The floor was moving beneath her.

At last, the door opened. Mara, in her very hyperactive imagination had imagined just what was wrong- Ciara was sick, because she would not open the door and had not answered in any way. The pale form on the floor was squirming feebly, fingers twitching as if pulled by strings.

"Ciara!"

Yes, master Philippe. I am here. Her mind replied, but of course she did not speak. Warm hands clutched at her arms, at her face, patting her cold cheeks and desperately pulling her up. Her eyelids lazily slid half-closed, and the nausea did not abate, though she felt slightly more stabilized in his arms.

Oh. He's warm…

Everything felt disjointed and scrambled. Sound was blocked out by her fatigued mind, and she registered only touch as Philippe picked her up and laid her on something coarse and earth-scented. It, too, began to move, but this motion was jolting, not the smooth lurch that her mind created. There was rough wood at her fingertips, and it was cold, too cold again.

Then she felt it, thought it, and nearly accepted it: I am going to die soon. Ah, well…at least I might die knowing what it is to be held and cared for. But Philippe, he does not deserve to see me fade away and disintegrate into naught but a shadow… Her resolve returned; her nails gripped cracks in the wood.

Yes… I will live for Philippe. He cannot see me like this forever in his memory.

I will make him joyful. Slowly, consciously, she breathed. She swallowed, and sound popped back into existence. The rattling of wheels and reins filled her sensitive ears, and she could hear her heart beating sluggishly. Her lungs and throat stung with the effort of continued, forcedly deep breaths.

Maybe if I am well, I will be human.

Maybe If I am well, my father will leave us be and find we are too strong for him.

Maybe if I am well…Philippe will love me. Yes. He must love me.

...

I beg your forgiveness for neglecting this for so long! I can only hope you will be lenient and continue reading, and (gasp) leave a review!