To Those Without Pity

"On my breast you lean, and sob most pitifully for all the lovely things that are not and have been." -Edna St. Vincent Millay

Another day at the Opera House was before me. The young policemen were given the job of combing through the underbelly of the Palais Garnier in order to find all of its secret passageways and hidden corridors. I asked if this was really necessary—if we were truly going to find anything for all of that work—but it became clear that they simply had nothing else to do. With no evidence that pointed to where the two might have gone, they were desperate. They had put a picture of Christine in the newspapers with a reminder of how large the reward was, but nothing had come up thus far. And so, without any other lead, they had resigned to exploring the cellars.

My age hindered me from coming along, or so I said. I had trekked through them before and I could easily do so again, but I wasn't interested in journeying through those tunnels again. Instead, I made my way to Christine's old dressing room—it had become my refuge during these days, a place to think and read while the fools who surrounded me ran about wildly.

Pulling the papers Erik had written out of my briefcase, I sat myself down and began to read once again.

I fear that if I don't write, I will be tempted to murder that insipid boy. I hadn't meant to frighten her when the chandelier fell, but when managers choose not to listen to their ghosts, accidents are bound to occur. If they had only put her in the lead role as I had demanded, none of this would have happened! If they hadn't sold my box, and if that infuriating Joseph Buquet hadn't gone sneaking around my kingdom, I would not have had to kill him. But alas, it seems that nothing can go Erik's way, and the world must conspire against him!

Christine… She has betrayed me. To write the words tears me apart, but it I cannot delude myself. She thought she was clever, stealing away to the roof of the Opera House. Cunningly done, my dear, for how should the Prince of the Underworld see you when you're so far above ground? But she underestimated me, for I was there. I was behind Apollo's Lyre, and I saw the two of them, playing their game of engagement.

And I saw them kiss. How I had the restraint not to swoop down and break his neck, I still can't say. But worst of all was that she enjoyed it—my Christine, my dear, sweet and innocent Christine savored his lips!

But this is not the end. That atrocious boy is ignorant indeed if he thinks he will take her away from me. Dear Viscount, the play will continue and it will end my way. We mustn't make the fatal error of mistaking the intermission for the curtain.

"Khan," came a voice, and my eyes flew upward to meet those of Philippe de Chagny who was standing haughtily at the door.

"Monsieur le Count," I said stiffly, yet civilly. Standing up automatically, I presented a short bow of my head as a courtesy before looking him straight in the eye and continuing. "How may I help you?"

"What are you doing in here?" he asked bluntly, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the room suspiciously. It hadn't changed since the night of Don Juan, and the dying flowers from that evening still littered the room. No one wanted to enter the room for fear of receiving some dreadful curse, which likely explained Chagny's distrustful glances.

My eyes flickered down to my papers before looking back to him. "I'm doing some reading for the investigation," I told him simply and candidly, knowing there was no reason to lie.

He sauntered over to me and picked up the papers without preamble, his eyes skimming over the words. It wasn't difficult to decipher what these were—how many other men wrote in the same manner as Erik, after all.

"You haven't finished reading these yet?" he demanded, dropping them back on the table as his flashing eyes returned to me. "What in hell's name have you been doing while you're here?"

I tried to remain calm and collected as I clasped my hands behind my back. "I've been very preoccupied with the other needs of the investigation. I'm doing my best, Monsieur."

"You're doing your best?" he repeated coldly, taking another foreboding step closer towards me. "I am not dim, and it is not hard for me to see what you are doing," he warned, his jaw clenching in thinly veiled exasperation.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Monsieur," I replied, forcing serenity to fall over my tone in order to conceal my rising trepidation. "I am doing all that I can—…"

"Don't feed me your fabricated garbage, Khan. You are hindering this investigation, and if I wasn't aware that you have some understanding of this monster's psyche, I would have thrown you out the first chance I got," he threatened in a hard voice. "You would do well not to cross me, because you are hanging on a thread."

With that last word, he turned on his heel and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I took a slow breath as I sat back down and looked at the papers wearily. Yet despite Philippe's admonishment, I couldn't make myself pick them back up and continue reading. And so, with deliberate waywardness, I stuffed them back into my briefcase and relaxed into the chair, staring resignedly into the large mirror on the opposite side of the room.

"Christine, thank God."

She knew where she was. She was in Erik's underground home only moments after the Palais Garnier had been plunged into darkness on the night of Don Juan. And there was Raoul, right before her and as clear as day. She stared at him incredulously, unable to stop herself from studying his all too lucid features. He was there, right within reach…

"Raoul!" she felt herself say, though she hadn't noticed the impulse to speak. Her feet were bringing her towards him, and when she saw the horror in his eyes, she knew that Erik had poised his gun. Turning with painful acuity of what was to come, she let her eyes meet Erik's. He too was far more realistic than should be possible, and it made her skin run cold.

Her mouth ran dry as Raoul pushed her behind him, standing boldly and fearless in the face of death. But instead of observing him as she had that fatal night, she turned her attention to Erik who appeared even more fearsome now that a weapon was clasped in his hand.

"You will not harm her." These words she had not heard. Or perhaps she simply couldn't recall them having been said on that night.

"You think I could act violently towards her? My dear Viscount, your ineptitude continues to astound me." Suddenly, his eyes were on her and she could feel the startled look on her face. "Why are you looking at me with that absurd expression? You must make your promise now."

Her eyebrows furrowed, but she conceded nonetheless. With a few short steps, she had moved out from behind Raoul and was nearing Erik, the same look of bewilderment still drawn in her features.

"You mustn't make this promise, Christine. Things will not go how you wish them to—I will not live through the night," Raoul beseeched her, but she did not hear.

"Put the gun away. I will stay." They were the lines she was meant to say .She spoke them just as she recalled, for she was becoming increasingly aware that this was indeed a play they were performing. With dutiful compliance, she waited for his line.

"You selfish girl. You think your infidelity can be so easily erased? No, it is too late for apologies and promises." The words didn't have the same bloodthirsty malice that they held that night. In fact, Erik seemed oddly serene, perhaps expectant of the events that were approaching.

"I will stay with you forever. Please." With excruciating deliberateness, she let a hand gently rest on the unmarred side of his face as her lips met his. Things were different things time, though—where the action had once been filled with dread, there now resided hope. She didn't recoil when one hand caressed her neck and the other pulled her closer.

But just when she was beginning to think that the events would unfold differently, she heard the gunshot. Terror raced through her veins as she pulled away from Erik who was standing before her, gun back in hand. A hand that had just drawn her towards him. She had no time to consider the fallacy, though, for she was already turning to look back at Raoul's body.

There he was, blood coursing out of his chest just as it had on that night. And there came the inhuman shriek from her mouth, the sound she never thought she would hear again. But as she kneeled down to see his eyes, as she had before, she was taken aback. This was not Raoul's face before her—this was some other man, completely unknown to her.

"What have you done with him?" she asked suddenly, already aware that this was not part of the script. This was not what she was meant to say.

"What do you mean?" Erik replied, a hint of aggravation in his voice. "He's right there."

"No, this is not him," Christine insisted, though she continued to stare hard at the corpse, hoping to see Raoul's face appear before her once again.

"How can you not recognize him?" he asked, his irritation morphing into wonder. "Did you not love him?" he asked with blatant curiosity that made her heart sink.

"Of course I did! But this is not him!" she cried out, turning back to Erik who was now smiling with shameless amusement.

"How quickly we forget!"

It was her own voice, crying out at nothing, that awoke her. She sat up, overcome by oppressive heat, and threw the sheets off of her body instinctively. Her breathing was rapid and her heart was beating at an incomprehensible rate. Immediately her mind went to Raoul as she recalled the events of the dream.

His face…It had been so clear when the dream began, but as she sat there clutching at the bed frame, she was at a loss. And why did it feel so sweltering? Without another thought, she threw herself out of bed and wrenched open the window, closing her eyes as the winter air brushed over her. But there, on her eyelids, was that unknown face—that face that was certainly not Raoul's.

Still unable to bear the unaccountable warmth, Christine sank to the ground, relieved to feel the cold wood of the floor taking over her body. And yet, even then she could not erase this stranger's face from the imprint of her mind.

"He had a strong jaw," she murmured to herself in a firm tone filled with patient endurance. "And his hair was soft. It wasn't blonde but it wasn't brown." Running her fingers along the planks of wood, she repeated these words and continued on. "His eyes were powdery blue. His nose was…" She stopped and her eyes darted about the room in a search for the answer. When she found none, she felt her throat begin to clench as her eyes welled up with tears.

"His nose was long, and his cheeks were always flushed," she tried, but she knew that the half-hearted images didn't give him justice. The watery tone in her voice only made the tears form faster, and they spilled onto her cheeks. "He had small ears, and…" she said louder, but the volume didn't make it any truer. "And he was tall."

With an unrestrained sob, Christine buried her face in her hands as her shoulders shook in sorrowful resignation. The man she had created was nothing but a stock gentleman. He was nothing special, nothing specific—just a man with no marked individuality—and it tore her apart.

She didn't hear the door open, but she did hear someone breathe her name with agonizing concern. It wasn't until she felt a body kneel down and touch her arm that she finally lifted her face and saw Erik beside her.

"Why are you crying?" He stumbled over the words in his urgency, wrapping a thin arm around her shoulders in some semblance of comfort.

"Erik," she wept, unaware that she had leaned into him until her face was buried in his chest. Her body was already exhausted from her lament, but there was no stopping it now.

"Christine, you must tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt?" he demanded, trying in vain to meet her eyes and receive some reply. The ridiculousness of the question would have made her laugh in any other circumstance, but it only brought about another onslaught of tears. "Christine, please tell me—," he tried once more, and words finally began to spill out of her mouth in nearly incomprehensible torrents.

"I cannot remember him," she cried out without restraint. When he didn't respond immediately, she felt herself begin to speak once again. "I cannot remember what he looks like!"

He didn't indicate whether he construed who she was talking about or if he even comprehended her words. But, without a further question he drew his other arm around her and pulled her closer, resting his cheek against the crown of her head. And if she had taken a moment to peek through her seraphic anguish, she would have felt his tears mixing with her own as she sobbed herself to sleep.

Another endless thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter—as you can see, dreams are becoming an integral motif of this story, so I hope you don't mind them. A huge thanks to my reviewers, and I once again encourage everyone to hit that review button. It is hard to express how much gratitude I have for each and every review, for they are always such an inspiration to me. Thank you!

Until next time,

Christine