To Those Without Pity

"Mind led body to the edge of the precipice. They stared in desire at the naked abyss. If you love me, said mind take that step into silence. If you love me, said body, turn and exist." -"Vertigo" by Anne Stevenson

We obtained her picture from his home on the underground lake during the second day of the investigation, though the police didn't know her likeness. Philippe and I certainly did, and so when they found the multitudes of drawings in one of his drawers, we confirmed who they characterized. They surprised me, to be honest. He always drew her with a hint of a smile, yet it was so faint that it was quite easy to miss the spark of joy. It was always in her eyes, and it seemed to shine underneath the lead. Some of the policemen marveled at his artistic abilities, and it took all of my restraint not to laugh—they hadn't the faintest clue who they were dealing with. Even I did not know him, but I did understand that his genius stretched far beyond any of our foolish imaginations.

One of the policemen immediately took it to the world above in order to run it in the newspapers. Philippe was offering an absurd amount of money for any information leading to their whereabouts. He wanted to offer an even higher amount for their capture, but Monsieur Prideux insisted that this would prompt citizens to act recklessly in order to detain them. Although these were not the words Philippe wished to hear, I was thankful for them. It was becoming apparent that this Prideux could be an ally if I played my cards right.

Philippe would be a problem, though—he had become a leech on the investigation. Nobody seemed to mind, though, for he was funding everything and paying them additional money for tidbits they found regarding the case. And so, when one particularly young policeman found a pile of papers hidden underneath a floorboard, he brought it to Philippe before Monsieur Prideux or myself. All the same, I had been scouring the house for signs of what Erik might have taken with him when I found a group of them reading the papers aloud.

"'She sings like an angel, and yet she knows nothing of her aptitude.' I'm sure that's not the only thing she's an angel at!" one of them guffawed, sending the others into a fit of laughter.

"This Daaé girl must have been quite the lay—these rich men can afford the best, of course," another said, and I noted that Philippe did not object.

"What are you doing?" I finally asked, clasping my hands behind my back as I approached them coolly.

"We found these papers, and I thought they might contain information regarding about their plans," Philippe replied calmly, turning to face me with a quiet defiance.

"I think it would be best if you give them to me. It does little good to laugh at our assailant—much better to try to understand him." The words were empty, for I knew that there was little use in trying to understand Erik, but I knew they could not argue. Nevertheless, they stood and stared at me for several moments, before the group of policemen looked to Philippe one by one. I watched as his mind ticked away, trying to read my expression and my thoughts, but I revealed nothing.

"Very well," he responded finally, grabbing the pile of papers and shoving them in my hands. "You can barely read them anyway. The man writes like a schoolboy," he snapped, sneering at me before turning on his heel and walking away. His cronies followed him obediently, while I made my way to a remote end of the house to begin reading.

Erik had dated each paper which made it far easier to sift through them and find the first. Philippe had told the truth, though—the words were nearly illegible, and he wrote in a sickly red ink that brought shivers down my spine. He had never told me that he wrote down his thoughts, but that was no surprise. A man did what he could to hold onto his sanity, and this was far tamer than his other methods. Pushing the thought aside, I looked down to the paper and began to decipher the scratch.

I'm not in control of my mind. It would be fatuous to claim that I was ever sane, but I always possessed absolute awareness of my decisions. I may not have made judicious decisions, and I may have been reckless, but I was never unaware of behavior. But now this girl… This child has overtaken my thoughts, and I find myself lost in reverie for hours on end. And yet she is nothing but an adolescent—I could easily be her father, and yet she has captivated me. I have never felt as foolish, and yet I find myself constantly entertaining thoughts of her, imagining her voice intertwining with my own.

For she has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. She sings like an angel, and yet she knows nothing of her aptitude, for her ability has not been harnessed or refined. But I can feel the genius that lies deep and untapped within her. She is nothing but a dancer, and a mediocre one at that, but I knew that if I could just get a hold of her…

Perhaps I've done a dreadful thing, capturing her mind. I'm not sure what I was thinking when I first made my voice known to her in her dressing room, but as I've said, I can't seem to think in her presence. It's shameful, really—she thinks I'm her father, returned from the grave. And I, as monstrously as ever, have allowed her to believe such a thing. Anything to keep her near me. Anything to keep her dependent on me.

I have never been so concerned about other people's lives. Even Nadir and his son held a lowly place in my mind compared to her. I want her to succeed, and I want her to shine. I'm at a loss, for I've only ever watched over myself, but I feel a compulsion to watch over her. It is unbearable to care for another human being. I hate it, but I adore it even more.

Oh, Christine…

"What's that?" Prideux asked gruffly, and I looked up abruptly to meet his eyes.

"Just some documents I've found around the house," I replied—not a lie, but I wasn't certain of how he would react to them.

"May I see them?" he asked, extending an arm towards me. I studied him for a moment before reluctantly handing over the first page. I hadn't a clue what else these pages held and I feared what he would find. Nevertheless, I watched wordlessly as his eyes skimmed the page, his face remaining stony. When he finally finished, he let out a slow sigh and handed the paper back to me.

"The others underestimate this man, don't they." It was a statement rather than a question, and I nodded in silent agreement.

"Monsieur, he is no common criminal," I said after a moment, and Prideux looked down at his hands briefly.

"He loves her. You can tell by his words." I didn't nod this time, but my eyes afforded him enough of an assent. "And one can never predict the actions of a man who feels love—it's the most powerful drug I know of."

I watched him carefully before standing up slowly, papers in hand. "I believe you are right," I said, unable to hide the sorrow that tinged my voice. What relief, and yet what terror flooded me to know that someone else was beginning to comprehend the magnitude of this man. "May I keep these? I'd like to read through them all," I asked simply, hoping that my candidness would sway him.

His eyes flashed for a moment and I thought he would demand to take them all as evidence. Instead, though, he nodded once and said with grave solidity, "I am trusting you, Monsieur Khan."

I try to think that I would always do what was right, but even I'm not sure if, in that moment, he had made the right decision.

She hadn't even realized that she had fallen asleep until she awoke with a start in the middle of the pitch dark night. It had been a dreamless sleep, which was something of a relief—after all, to see Raoul time and time again in her mind was tearing her apart mentally. Staring up at the canopy, Christine remained still for several moments, the discomfort of an unknown bed and a stranger's nightgown returning gradually. Without knowing what had prompted her, she pushed herself out of bed and made her way to the door without a word.

It was darker than she was accustomed to, and she reached a hand out to the wall in order to guide herself down the hall. Were she not in a drowsy fog, she might have turned back when she realized she hadn't a clue where she was going, but somehow she didn't mind wandering through the house. What was even more peculiar was that she had no apprehension about where Erik might be—she didn't worry about if he heard her or if he was nearby. In fact, not one thought crossed her mind regarding her new husband.

Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself in the front hallway, staring at the front door. Her mind was just beginning to clear when she took the final steps to reach the doorway, yet that didn't stop her from extending her hand and grasping the doorknob. Her thoughts flickered to Erik momentarily, and whether he was watching her. If he was, he wasn't saying anything. With a combination of determination and diffidence, she let her hand turn the knob.

Her heartbeat mounted when it gave way. Surely he would lock the front door to ensure that she remained with him. How could he risk her escaping? Opening the door tentatively, she looked outside into the darkness. Her eyes had begun to adjust, and in the reflection of the moonlight she could see the wooded drive. She couldn't say where it led—she hadn't paid the slightest attention during most of the drive, for she didn't know when they would reach their destination. It was deadly still, though. No sound of carriages or people anywhere; there was only the sound of the wind brushing lightly through the tall trees, bringing a shiver down her arms. The chill of winter hung in that wind, making the encounter all the more ominous.

What would happen if she were to step outside? Or perhaps walk down the drive to see what was beyond it. Or what if she were to just keep walking and walking until she found someone? The thought made her close her eyes for a moment as the wind passed over her once again with its wistful sigh. She knew precisely what would happen—Erik would find her in shorter time than she could possibly imagine. Then, he would drag her back to this house and lock her up, never to see the light of day again.

"Are you going somewhere?" came a soft voice behind her. She hadn't heard him approach, but that didn't come as a shock. Her body remained languid as she turned, but even so, her heart began to beat faster.

"No," she murmured in reply, her voice nearly inaudible under the hushed wind. "I just wanted some air." It wasn't entirely false—she didn't know why she had ventured out, but the air was refreshing in a way.

Erik slowly approached her, no sign of weariness in his eyes. "Then we should step outside," he said diplomatically, placing a skeletal hand on her back and leading her through the threshold of the door.

As soon as she had left the shelter of the house, her body began to tremble from the cold. The stone underneath her bare feet radiated up her legs, yet she stared ahead, watching her breath form clouds in front of her.

"You're cold," he stated as he began to shrug off his dress jacket. She shook her head, though, marveling at the crisp chill that bit at her fingers.

"I like it," she muttered, and she watched in her peripheries as he pulled his jacket back on. "I can feel it." There was no need to elaborate—they both knew the numbness that had afflicted her over the past few days, juxtaposed with the bouts of extreme emotion that would hit her without warning. Just to feel was a wonder.

"How do you know no one will come for me?" she asked suddenly, not turning to look at him. She could feel him watching her, though, with a scrutinizing gaze. After several moments, she worried that he may begin to malign her and point out that her strength was merely feigned. For it was true—any vigor she could muster was immediately eclipsed by her fear of Erik.

"Who in this world would come for you?" he challenged smoothly, his hand still resting against her shoulder blades. "Your insufferable boy is dead—who else would risk their life for you?" His words were eerily calm, making her breath quicken somewhat in quiet distress.

"Meg," she replied, doing all she could to maintain the same level of tranquility. "Madame Giry. The managers. They will come," She could hear the cracks in her voice, but she remained still, unwilling to fall apart once again.

"Will they?" he questioned, turning slightly to look at her in curiosity. "You think very highly of yourself, my dear," he continued, looking out at the trees once again with grim serenity. "My fault, I suppose."

Christine closed her mouth at this, her mind running blank once again. They stood there in perfect silence as the cold took all feeling out of her body, and still when she could no longer feel Erik's icy hand on her back. They remained even as the sun slowly peaked above the horizon, coloring the sky with pale purples and reds. The mist that dwelled between the trees seemed tinted with the same colors, surrounding them in a pastel fog that took her breath away.

"Nobody will come, will they." She swallowed with difficulty as she pressed her fingernails into her palm, searching for feeling once again.

"No. They will not." He spoke with equal frankness, as befit him. Nothing else needed to be said, and they both knew they were meant to turn and step back into the house. She could not feel the wood beneath her feet as they parted ways wordlessly, retreating to their own refuges as sun bled in through the windows.

I'm very pleased to be getting this chapter out to you today! I would like to once again extend a thank you to my wonderful reviewers. If you haven't reviewed, I'd love to hear what you think, as I greatly value all feedback! More importantly to the readers, each review really pushes me to get the next chapter out in a timely fashion. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!

Until Next Time,

Christine