To Those Without Pity

"Tease not our ghosts with slander, pause not there to say that love is false and soon grows cold, but pass in silence the mute grave of two who lived and died believing love was true." -Edna St. Vincent Millay

I went to the police before long, and I led them down to Erik's underground kingdom. They brought far too many men, and I felt vague disgust as they picked through Erik's belongings throughout the house without a shred of courtesy. I tried not to watch as one young officer pocketed a pair of cuff links that were stashed in a drawer, or as another knocked over one of his many precious instruments. Gradually, the heavy feeling that accompanies regret and pity crept over me, and I nearly forgot that Erik had killed once again. What would he think he if saw these bumbling men handling his prized belongings? I suppose it didn't matter much anymore.

They spoke to me, of course—asking me this and that about him. I had decided the moment I saw Raoul's body that I wouldn't reveal my past with Erik. I knew they wouldn't understand, for what could Parisians understand about the ways of Persia? They would hear my words, but they would not listen or even attempt to understand. This so-called sophisticated society was afflicted with blinders, and they could not see past their uneducated biases.

And so I told them nothing about the torture chambers. I kept the Shah and the Khanum a secret, and I didn't say a word about his disfigurement or his time with the gypsies. Nevertheless, they had gathered enough information from the managers to learn of the murder of Joseph Buquet and the chandelier, which led them to infer on their own that he was a severely insane killer. His appearance had been greatly skewed, for they did nothing but interview the ballet rats who told stories about him. But even as they recounted the stories that claimed he looked like a glorified skeleton, I knew they were not far off.

As for Christine…

They hadn't come to a conclusion, even as the morning light hit the Opera House. Some were convinced that she had been kidnapped once again, just as she had been those many months ago. Knowing of her secret engagement to Raoul and that she had helped in planning her instructor's ruin, they couldn't understand how she would willingly leave with this gaunt specter. They insisted on putting out a search for the girl, hoping that someone would recognize her and reveal their whereabouts.

And then there were others who decided that she had chosen to leave with her teacher. They said that her engagement and her willingness to help the officers capture Erik were all a ruse, and that they had been planning to leave all along. They had no interest in "saving" the young ingénue from The Phantom of the Opera, but rather to question her and perhaps convict her. Whether the murder of Raoul de Chagny was intentional or not, they were not sure. But as they said, "Meurtre est meurtre"—murder is murder.

When Philippe de Chagny arrived, he did not help the situation. Before he had seen the body, he had already called the poor girl a harlot and a tramp, while labeling Erik a depraved fiend for the murder of his brother. He crafted an elaborate story of his own creation when he approached the body, insisting that the young Mademoiselle had always had a criminal look in her eye. He imagined her standing there, perhaps with the gun in hand herself, mocking his brother before delivering the death blow. I was thankful when one of the more wizened policemen—Monsieur Prideux—barked that conjecture had no place in the investigation.

I knew things were not as simple as they seemed, because I knew Erik. Things were never straightforward with Erik, and it was impossible to understand his motives or his emotions, particularly when it came to the one person who had any control over him. It had become painfully evident that his Christine was his world, and these police did not understand. The first time they asked if Erik had raped her, I was left speechless. No, these men could not understand.

And yet I could not go out on my own to exact justice, or even find them by myself. I would have to humor these officers and find a way to remain a part of the investigation. After all, how could they deny me? They were fooling themselves if they thought that anyone knew Erik better than I.

The streets were bustling as they exited the inn and stepped into a carriage that was sitting idly at the curb. Christine eyed the passersby with uncertain eyes, but they didn't see her. They didn't even see Erik, despite his menacing demeanor and mask. She knew that he preferred the dark and the solitude, but there was something to be said about hiding in a crowd, for no one paid attention as he grabbed her arm and directed into the carriage before moving to the street side and climbing in himself. It was as if they were invisible—or as if nobody cared. Even the driver failed to glance back at either of them as they entered. She thought idly of how Erik could afford his silence, but such a thought was asinine, for she had long known that he was unaccountably wealthy.

But even if someone cared, what could she do? Run to them and beg them to keep her safe? She knew far too well that Erik's hold was stronger than iron, and that there was no escaping his eyes. Since the day Christine had met him, she had underestimated his power and ultimate control. But now, after all that had happened, she knew better and more fully comprehended the futility of escape.

Without a word, the carriage began to move, and Christine's eyes shifted from the driver to Erik nervously. His eyes betrayed nothing, though, nor had he said a word since he left the room. Her mind had not stopped running since she awoke; she was filled to the brim with thoughts of Raoul and of Erik, of the Opera House and of her future, and the future that her former fiancée would never experience. She could feel her throat tightening and she quickly blocked the thought out of her mind, painfully aware how little her tears would help her now. She had heard the spiteful words Erik had thrown at her when she protested about Raoul, and she was not prepared for another onslaught of affronts, no matter what level of grief she was experiencing.

"Where are we going?" she asked slowly with chastened hope, watching as he grimly turned his head towards her. His words from that morning hung heavily on her shoulders—Why, for our wedding of course. He had not mentioned any date or time for the event, and part of her wondered if they were going to a church at that very moment. If Erik would enter a church, that is. For a moment, her mind spun at the thought of marrying under some other institution than God, but on further reflection, this seemed useless to worry about now. Despite her racing mind, though, she tried not to betray her nerves as he studied her for a few moments before speaking.

"I think it best if I don't say."

Christine swallowed, wracking her mind for something to say in response, but he turned away once again. "I see you've brought your violin." It seemed like such a ridiculous thing to say—how could anyone care for a violin when death and murder hung over their heads?

"How else would you practice? I couldn't easily bring a piano along, and so a violin must suffice until we can find better accommodations." He spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but she barely heard a word after he had finished his first sentence.

"Practice?" she choked, unable to bear the time he took to turn back to her.

"Of course," he snapped, his jaw setting in defiance as he watched her. She saw him take in her distressed expression, though, and his features softened somewhat. In what felt like an eternity, he reached out and took her hand gently, apprehension clouding his own demeanor. "My dearest Christine… I only want what we once had. I want our life to be just as it was. Which means that we must practice, and continue to improve your voice. We will make music together, just like we once did."

For a moment, she forgot about the events of the night before and her breath hitched as she marveled at his compassion. Gentle words were not something she was accustomed to, after all. She had learned to accept his cold demeanor as his kindness, for Erik could not be read like other men, or other people for that matter. But as he spoke of their future and their idealized past, she couldn't fathom how he could possibly be the same man that had just verbally abused her, or the same man who committed great acts of violence without batting an eye. It was only a moment, though, before she remembered.

"Things cannot be the same, Erik," she murmured, swallowing as she saw his eyes harden immediately. "You know they cannot."

"Because of the boy," he snarled, pulling his hand away with venom. Perhaps if she hadn't known him for so long, she would be taken aback by his rapid changes in temper, but now it was second nature to adjust to his mood. "At least we're on even playing ground, now." He seemed pleased with the remark, and her eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, clenching her fists in her lap as she spoke.

"It won't be long before he looks quite like me. The grave does that to a man."

His sneer left her dumbstruck for several moments, and unrestrained tears filled her eyes one again as she felt the dull pang of solemn emptiness. As usual, he did not miss her expression, and he tensed in discomfort, forcing himself to look away.

"Oh, please don't begin crying again." He said it with uncaring malevolence, but she knew that he couldn't bear to see her tears.

"How can you say such a thing? I loved him, Erik! What would you do if someone killed me? How would you react?" She struggled to wipe away her tears, but they kept coming, even as she looked desperately towards the driver who did not seem to hear.

"Do not suggest that your love for him is even an echo of my love for you. I love with you with such transcendence, Christine, and he was… He was merely a vile boy!"

She felt some satisfaction as he, too, fought for words and faltered, and her pain began to morph into anger. "He was a great man," she protested, watching him with a defiant gaze.

"You don't know of his despicable thoughts about you!" he growled. It was painfully clear how hard he was trying to control himself as his fury boiled beneath the surface. "You do not know what he said about you to his foolish friends, or how his brother spoke of you! He had no respect for you!"

"Raoul loved me," Christine objected, though a sick feeling began to emerge at the pit of her stomach as she saw a frantic spark in his eyes.

"Perhaps in your presence." His voice was somewhat calmer now, but she could see how overwrought he was with resentment. "To the rest of the world, he behaved as if you were some kind of loose woman."

"He would never say that!" Her mind corrected herself—he would never have said that—but she did not voice this amendment. It was a fact that she could barely wrap her thoughts around, and a fact that Erik had no pity for.

"But when others suggested it, he did not deny it. That is as heinous a crime as saying it outright."

The words had a sense of desperation in them that she hadn't expected. Anger gone, he was doing all he could to rationalize his behavior and perhaps even garner her approval. He watched her for several moments, and she searched for some response. When she could muster none, she closed her mouth and looked forward with a quiet sigh.

"I don't know much about human interactions," he continued, still observing her warily. "But I do know that love is unqualified and absolute. When you love someone, other people's words do not alter your feelings." He paused as his words softened, but Christine still could not bear to look at him. "A man in love does not allow his brother to call his fiancée a whore."

She felt her lips quiver, but she kept her gaze fixed on the floor of the carriage. "I don't believe you," she murmured nearly inaudibly. She knew her fiancée, and he would never allow such words to be spoken. And yet, she knew that there was no chance that Erik would revoke what he had said.

"Then don't," he snapped, all tenderness disappearing quicker than it came as he set his gaze ahead. "I am well used to your naivety, but to behave as if that boy was some angel simply because he is dead is absurd."

"Raoul is in heav—…" she began as she turned to him suddenly, unsure if she had said it in fury or hopefulness.

"The Viscount will be rotting in a grave in a few days time," he interrupted, a wry smile playing on his deformed lips. "It's a lovely fate we share, is it not?" She knew full well that he was testing her and prodding at her, waiting to revel in her reaction, but she did not care.

"I will allow you to insult me, but not my God," she replied with smoldering bitterness dancing on her tongue. "I will not stand to be mocked about angels or heaven."

"Ah, Mademoiselle—but that is what I do best."

Thanks once again for reading! This was a slightly shorter chapter, but not to worry—the next chapter should more than make up for it in length and content. I would love to hear what you all think about the story so far; reviews are certainly what kick-start my writing and provide a lot of inspiration for chapters to come. I hope to hear from you, and thanks once again for reading!

Until Next Time,

Christine