To Those Without Pity

"…for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world." -Albert Camus

I have no doubt that Erik knew of my presence in Paris on the night of the performance. In the most inexplicable way, he always seemed to know where I was in the world, no matter how covert I tried to be. We had a mystifying relationship that was rooted deep in our past. Some called me nothing but a kind-hearted foreigner, but then again, they knew nothing of the debt that bound me to Erik. But that story is for another day. All that matters is that our tales were linked, for good or bad, and wherever he went, I knew I was soon to follow.

I hadn't lived on the Rue de Rivoli for long before I was contacted by the Viscount de Chagny. How absurd to think that it was just a week ago when he knocked fervently on my door, demanding to speak to me. He told me stories of the madman who held the Opera House on puppet strings, dictating the tragedy that was unfolding as we spoke. He cried of his dear fiancée, who had become all but entranced by this crazed man. He insisted that he was like to lose her should he not be captured.

Of course I thought of Erik when I heard these words. In my mind, everything seemed to be connected to him. It wasn't until the Viscount began recounting the rumors about the man's visage when I knew without a doubt who was behind the scandal. And yet I couldn't help but think that it was a bit childish for the great illusionist of Mazenderan to be stealing away young girls for the sake of stirring up controversy.

I threw caution to the wind over the next week as I snuck throughout the Opera House, interviewing anyone who would see me in order to gain as much information as I could about Erik's new persona. Before the first day was up, I heard people calling me "the Persian," a nickname that I knew Erik would not fail to recognize. Nevertheless, several things became blaringly evident. The first was that this girl was his sole focus. Whether that meant that he was in love with her or simply desired her, I couldn't have said. The second was that we were past culmination—we were at the tipping point of a potentially disastrous event, and I had no idea how to stabilize things.

In tandem with the Préfecture de Police , the young couple and I began to plan my old companion's downfall. I will never forget the determination in the Viscount's eyes, or the dazed expression that overtook Miss Daaé's face. It was as if she was afflicted by a morphine induced fog, interacting mechanically without full knowledge of what words came out of her mouth. I knew that expression far too well—thoughts of Erik held her mind. Even as the Viscount grasped her hand with a reassuring squeeze, her fingers remained quite limp as if she could not feel them.

And oh, I will never fail to remember the words she murmured as they left the precinct, their fate sealed—the words that everyone else forgot to hear: "He will kill us all."

I was in the box with Raoul on the night of the performance. I have never seen a man so alert, even as he watched the house fill up with opera goers. I had to convince him to sit down as the conductor began the overture, but all the same, he looked ready to leap up at any moment. When Christine first walked through that door, he automatically jumped from his seat and put his hands on the banister before him.

I moved to sit him back down, but stopped suddenly as I heard his voice. Erik's melodious and ever-entrancing voice. It was unmistakable, and yet the Viscount did not seem to realize at first. I watched carefully as comprehension flooded his eyes and his spoke hoarsely to me.

"That is not Piangi."

I did not know what to say. There was nothing we could do from our location. We had not anticipated this. How could we guess that Erik would risk revealing himself in front of hundreds of Parisians? As Erik began to touch her neck, Raoul's hold on the rail tightened. I could see the thought-process reeling through his head—if he left the box, she could be gone by the time he reached the ground floor. His mouth was open, his eyes glued on his fiancée, as if she could somehow disappear from the stage.

And then she did. We barely saw her remove his mask before screams erupted and the stage was plunged into darkness for a brief moment before the lights flickered back on. Raoul was already out the box door when he saw that the stage was bare, no sign of his fiancée anywhere. Before I had a chance to follow, a sea of audience members blocked my way. I struggled against the exodus, hoping to catch him before he made a fatal mistake. Little did I know how vital those precious seconds of delay truly were.

When I finally found my way to the backstage area of the opera house, I began to open every door, desperate to find anyone who could help. For several minutes, all I came across were fleeing ballerinas, clutching their Pointe shoes to their chests as they ran barefoot across the cement.

At the end of a hallway I came across an old door ajar and I heard scrambling inside. Without thought I threw it open and was taken aback to find an old woman rifling through her desk at perilous speeds. She didn't notice me at first, but there was no time for politeness.

"Christine Daaé. Raoul de Chagny. Have you seen them?" I panted, barely able to get the words out over my pounding heart.

She looked up sharply and I recognized her suddenly—the ballet mistress. In my interviews people always seemed to point to her for information, and yet she had remained obligingly quiet over the past week. But now she stood before me with her eyes wide with fright and her mouth firmly shut, as if to tell me that no words would come out of her mouth.

"Raoul was just here!" My breath caught as I heard another voice coming from the corner of the room. There stood her daughter, leotard and tutu still on, with inquisitiveness and terror mixing in her features.

"Meg, you mustn't speak of what you don't know!" the older woman hissed in French so quick that I nearly missed it. "He will have no mercy on rats."

My heart jumped at this—she knew! She knew who Erik was, and she must have pointed Raoul in his direction. "I know him—Erik. I must help the Viscount, please!"

Her thin lipped expression did not waver, though, and she merely went back to tearing apart her desk. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about. Please, Monsieur, I will only ask you once to leave."

"He will kill the Viscount! And perhaps the girl, for that matter. Please, you cannot leave their lives up to fate." I tried to speak calmly, hoping that my serenity would somehow make her see reason. There was silence, but I kept my eyes trained on the woman.

"He's gone through Christine's dressing room at the other end of the hall. There is a mechanism on the mirr—!" Meg burst out at breakneck speed as she wrung her hands with worry. Before she could finish, her mother had flung herself towards her daughter and clasped a hand over her mouth, her stalwart demeanor having transformed into pure sorrow.

As I ran out of the room, I heard her mother begin to sob and grieve over what was to become of them. I didn't think twice about it, though, for if I had my way, Erik would never have the chance to terrorize the two of them.

I could see the room down the hall as I ran, and while I hoped that Raoul had not ventured through the mirror, I wasn't surprised to see it unhinged as I threw open the door. Without thinking twice, I grabbed the candle sitting on the dressing table and slipped through the mirror mechanism.

I couldn't describe the labyrinth if I tried. I was only thankful that I knew some of Erik's tricks—I had known him so well, after all, when he first learned them. This was precisely why when I reached the lake, I knew there was another path. I can't help but wonder whether my choice to forgo the lake and find an alternate route was ultimately Raoul's death warrant. But that's the trouble with hindsight—it becomes so easy to speculate and delve into the smallest details, wondering if those were the breaking points.

I ran my fingers along the walls for what felt like hours, searching for some unknown mechanism that would take me to his home. By the time I found one on a nondescript wall of an unremarkable passageway, I knew I was too late. Nevertheless, I followed the winding hall it provided and tentatively opened the door at its end.

His home was unbearably beautiful. And yet there was something tragic in it—as if it were lost in time and abruptly forgotten. I did not linger, though, for I knew the danger of lurking through his house, particularly if he was still present. He would not show mercy to an intruder. With as much stealth as I could conjure, I began through the house, listening for any sign of movement or life. I was beginning to realize that the house was empty just as I rounded the corner to the foyer and saw the body on the ground.

The Viscount de Chagny did not look peaceful in death. He was covered in dried blood, and his eyes were wide in shock. My focus travelled to his arms, where smeared blood plastered the sleeves of his shirt—the sign that someone else had been here to witness the young man's death, and had made a mark on the body. And nothing else. No dropped jewelry, no abandoned weapon, no trail or further sign of life.

And yet I knew who was behind this, and I knew who was with him.

"Christine Daaé! As I live and breathe! I didn't think it could possibly be you, and yet here you are."

She recognized the voice like it was her own, and she couldn't help the smile that blossomed on her lips. Attempting to restrain it in modesty, she turned around to see the familiar, and yet matured face of her childhood friend.

"Monsieur!" was all she could muster, an involuntary laugh of surprise leaving her lips.

"Philippe didn't believe me, insisting that you couldn't conceivably be up there on that stage, singing as you did. But I knew! You must say that I may bring you out to dinner tonight. I must hear all about how you've found yourself here and your rise to success!" He was bubbling with delight and his smile was no less than infectious. Nevertheless, when she heard these last words her smile fell immediately.

"I could not do that, I'm afraid." The words came out slowly, and she dropped her eyes, unable to meet his gaze.

"You have a prior engagement?" he asked after a moment, his wounded pride thinly veiled by his smile.

"I'm afraid so."

"With Erik?" he asked simply, and her head shot up immediately.

"How do you know him?" she demanded, her heartbeat mounting as she stared open-mouthed at him.

"Isn't it natural to know the name of your murderer? Christine."

"Christine."

Her eyes flew open with a gasp and she looked around, searching for any sign of Raoul. When she was met with the yellow eyes of Erik, she drew back slightly and searched for some defense. When all she found were sheets, she merely hardened her jaw and looked at him straight on. His eyes did not change, though, and he turned away from her.

"We must go."

For the first time she took in her surroundings. It was a small room, and her bed seemed to be the only resting place present, save for a wooden chair in the corner. It was mostly bare of decorations and belongings, though she could see Erik closing a small valise next to his violin case.

"Where are we?" she asked slowly, noting that she was still wearing her Aminta costume from the night before. Nevertheless, she watched him carefully as he turned around and looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"You don't remember. I suppose you wouldn't, seeing as you fainted halfway here. We're at an inn. They said they were full, but the lady of the house was lovely enough to take in my sick wife." His lips curled into a smile which sent shivers down Christine's spine.

"She took me for a prostitute!" she exclaimed as she slipped out of her bed, revealing her costume once again. It was immeasurably unsuitable for any lady, after all—her ankles showing, her breasts not covered to the extent they should, her shoulders peeking out through the lace.

But he laughed at this—a malicious laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "I suppose she did."

"Where are we going?" she asked quickly, rounding the bed to approach him with as much bravery as she could find.

"Far away. You have a promise to keep to me, after all." His words were cool, and he did not move from his spot as he spoke.

"What ?" she murmured almost inaudibly, her breath catching in her throat.

"'I will stay with you forever.' I believe those were the words." He took a step closer and she instinctively shrunk back.

"But that wasn't the bargain! You k—…" The word wouldn't come out, and tears threatened to spill out of her eyes.

"I what?" he asked, staring down at her with hardened eyes, his figure looming over her. "I killed him. I believe that's what you're trying to say."

"How can you be so cruel?" she cried out, taking another step back. "You said you'd never hurt me, and yet you've done this monstrous—"

"Cruel? Monstrous?" he challenged as his voice rose, his expression not softening with her words. "Love is cruel. And betrayal is monstrous. I believe I can make you the villain here just as easily."

This was not the Angel she had known—and yet, he hadn't been an angel for some time now. But only once had he ever been malicious, and she knew the cause deserved it. The unmasking on that dreadful night when she first learned how far from an angel he truly was seemed years and years past. And after that explosion of rage, he had never laid a finger on her again, nor had he spoken spitefully towards her. But things had changed since last night.

"Do stop staring at me like that—you look like a dim-witted child." She could see another insult on the tip of his tongue, but he somehow restrained it. "You must change before we leave—I can't having you traipsing around in such clothing. I've laid a dress out over the chair for you to wear," he said stiffly, his eyes narrowly focused on her.

"Where did you get it from?" she managed, trying to maintain her eye contact with him for fear of appearing cowardly.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

Christine swallowed at that, and looked over at the chair. She hadn't noticed the garment there before, but as she saw it, she moved over and picked it up gingerly. Turning to look at him timidly, she swallowed hard. "Will you step out for a moment?"

Erik stared at her with an expression that she could not read, remaining eerily silent, and her heart began to pound as she realized that he was not leaving. Just as she saw a fleeting spark of sadness in his eyes, though, he spoke.

"I am not a complete degenerate," he murmured, turning on his heel as he started for the door. He opened it swiftly, halfway out before he turned back to look at her.

"And my apologies that it is not white," he said sharply, the hard edge returning to his voice as if it had never left.

"Why should it be white?" Christine questioned tentatively as her fingers gripped the fabric tightly, holding it against her chest almost protectively.

"Why, for our wedding of course."

And here is the next chapter for your reading pleasure! I hope you enjoyed it, and I would love to hear what you think. Thanks so much for reading, and thank you to my reviewers from the first chapter! Your words were truly inspiring and uplifting.

Until Next Time,

Christine