To Those Without Pity

"I found a loose string dangling from the hem of my existence. When I pulled it, the world around me began to unravel." -William Reschke

I had been sitting in that hard chair for what seemed like hours, without so much as a word from Chagny, Prideux, Christine, or Erik. The time had passed with anguish as I recounted the events of the night, unable to erase them from the recesses of my mind.

It had all been a blur—before I could turn my head, they had tugged Erik's hands behind his back and pulled him into a brougham with metal grating on the windows. I could vaguely hear Christine calling his name, but he neither looked towards her nor struggled. I expected curses and magic tricks, or perhaps even that deadly lasso he was so very infamous for; he astounded us all, though, by being nothing but tame, and it left me utterly speechless. It wasn't until he was secure in the carriage when I saw his eyes glow out towards us. It wasn't difficult to discern who he was looking at, but she didn't seem to notice his determined and careful gaze from across the drive.

Rather, she had rushed to Philippe, and without a word of preamble, had fallen to her knees and reached for his hands desperately. She had barely touched his fingers before he pulled them away in disgust, though, and I could feel Erik's eyes flash behind us.

"Please, you cannot, please," she was crying to him, her words almost unintelligible. Philippe almost laughed at this as he kneeled down to her level, brushing a finger against her cheek.

"Do not fret, my dear," he said, his voice laced with condescension and sugared loathing. "You aren't going to jail. But I'm afraid you'll have to come with us tonight. Formalities—you understand." When she only let out a longer sob, he put a deceptively warm hand on her shoulder as his voice took on an even smoother, deadlier timbre. "You mustn't worry, Christine. You'll be able to come back before the trial."

And then, without a word, they led her off to a different brougham. I turned to watch her until she was securely in the carriage, rooted to my spot and unable to move. When I finally looked to Erik, I could see his eyes on me; even from a distance, I could see his uncertainty, his desperation, and more than anything, his resignation. And all at once it seemed to make sense—if he were to fight, the punishment would fall on Christine. After all, it was clear that while she was being detained, it was not for a crime—at least at the moment. And were he to do something rash, Philippe may not be so accommodating.

Shortly after, both of their carriages rolled away and I saw nothing more of them. Philippe had seemingly disappeared by the time I was led to a third brougham and driven to the police headquarters in Rouen, where I had been sitting since. Anxiety flooded my veins, for all I could think of was where Christine and Erik might be. Surely not together, yet I hoped with all my soul that they were safe.

I jumped when Philippe finally entered the room, and immediately flew out of my chair to meet him.

"Anxious, I see," he said with a wry laugh, ignoring my rush as he gradually made his way to the chair across the table from me. Clenching my jaw in hopes of restraining any exclamations, I sat down as well and stared hard at him.

"Where is Prideux?" was the first question I asked, to which he cocked an eyebrow in interest.

"Convenient question." Perhaps he wanted me to object, but I merely stared at him until he finally conceded with a reply. "He is safely in Paris, as it were. I decided to take things into my own hands, but I assure you that I'll inform him tomorrow morning. I figured I'd take the bull by the horns, if you understand my meaning." A wry smile played on his lips, and I clenched my fists in my lap in some semblance of control. It only took a moment for me to muster my courage, though, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

"And why are you on the other side of the table from me? I am a part of this investigation just as much as you are, if not more. There seems to be no need to question me." It was a bluff, and there was no avoiding that fact, but I was stubbornly unrelenting.

"There isn't?" he asked with artificial curiosity, pursing his lips in enjoyment as he folded his hands on the tabletop. "My dear Khan, you are so very fortunate that I am not planning on indicting you. Withholding information, hindering justice, aiding a murderer—…" he droned, and I cut him off immediately.

"Suspected murderer." Another useless phrase, yet I said the words defiantly as ever.

He merely looked at me, that malevolent smile resting easily on his lips. "Now, you know that isn't true." I didn't reply, my jaw set boldly as I sent cold stares at him. "In fact, there seems to be a great deal that you know about our little felon," he continued, tapping his fingers idly. "Which is why I shall gladly utilize you to my advantage in this trial, rather than having you thrown in jail. I would just hate for all your usefulness to be squandered!"

His genuine thrill at this was nearly enough to jolt me from my seat, but I affected calmness in hopes of irking him. It did no good, though, for he merely leaned forward in his chair, his eyes glittering in delight. "I should really thank you. Without you, I would still be in Paris, twiddling my thumbs all day long."

"What are you planning on doing?" I spat out, willing myself to remain unbothered by his antics.

"Well," he sighed, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. "Ultimately, I'd like to have your masked friend convicted of murder. I'm not sure how familiar you are with French law, Monsieur, but here, all people convicted of murder are sentenced to death." He paused, his smile widening as he did. "By beheading."

He wanted me to flinch, but I did not. Naturally, he knew nothing of Persian laws, where those sentenced to death suffered far more gruesome ends. Rather, my lips tightened and my eyes hardened as I spoke. "And Christine?"

"Christine…" His gaze shifted as he considered her for a moment, before his eyes landed back on me, his smile gone. "I'd like to make her suffer."

If she had thought the recent events of her life had been terrifying, this put such a notion to rest. She had spent the entirety of the carriage ride choking on tears, utterly unable to breathe under the duress. She yelled to the driver, but he pretended not to hear. She even pulled at the carriage doors, yet found them conveniently bolted against escape. Eventually, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of an old building, and the door was opened by a man who helped her out. She pleaded for information and for mercy, but he too ignored her cries and led her silently into the building.

It wasn't until she was left alone in a small holding room when panic truly set in. She pulled at the doorknob, yelling for Erik, but nobody came. She paced the room, sat stiffly in the chair, dug her fingernails into the wooden table. She wasn't quite sure how long she remained in the room alone, but she knew several hours had passed before the door opened and the face of Philippe de Chagny appeared before her. Jumping up from her seat, she stared at him wildly, waiting for him to give her some explanation.

"So restless…Just like Khan…" he murmured, and Christine merely blinked as Philippe moved and sat down. He didn't say another word for several minutes, even as she sat down across from him and watched him with wide, terror-filled eyes.

"Whose name were you calling?" he finally asked, his words laced with genuine curiosity. These were not the words she had expected, and she grasped for a response.

"I haven't… I don't know what—…" she stuttered, her voice shattered from tears.

"Erik…" he murmured under his breath, and she felt her throat tighten once again. She quelled her desire to cry, though, and held her head high in the face of mockery. "Is that his name?"

She did not give him the satisfaction of a response, and they sat in silence as the seconds ticked by. "Where is he?" she said finally, her words clipped as she began to muster false courage.

He was clearly unpleased at her show of boldness, and his sly look disappeared, only to be replaced by dull revulsion. "He's in prison," he told her bluntly, throwing the words away as if they were meaningless. She flinched at the words and she could see him gain a bit of his footing once more, visibly contented to have won a reaction from her.

"Then put me in prison with him," she told him, swallowing hard to reign in her emotion. But no matter what she did, she knew more than anything that she did not have hard eyes. She could not strike fear into someone by merely glaring at them, and she had never mastered indifferent pride. No, she was and would always be a movable and feeling human being.

"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" he told her, his words devastatingly smooth. "You see, just like Monsieur Khan, I do not plan on charging you with any crime."

Vaguely, she processed Nadir's name once again and wondered what their conversation had comprised of, but she did not have long to think on such things. "You're not the police. You don't have the authority to charge anyone," she hissed, to which he raised his eyebrows in interest.

"Don't I?" he asked languidly, his face contorting into a veneer of concern. "I wonder why dear Erik is in prison, then…"

Her feigned bravery diminished and her heart sunk at his words. "What do you want from us?" she asked as she felt her body wilt under the pressure of his gaze. "We'll give you whatever you want—he's very wealthy—…" She was cut off by a boisterous laugh, and she felt her cheeks redden in shame.

"Money?" he challenged, his face ripe with astonishment. "What do I need with money?"

"Why are you doing this then?" she demanded as she leaned forward, her elbows digging into the table.

"Have you forgotten about my dear brother?" he asked with sugary sweetness, and she felt all former timidity drain out of her as fire sparked within her veins.

"I loved your brother, but what you're doing hasn't a thing to do with love. You couldn't care less that your brother died," she shouted as she sprung up from her chair, her limbs shaking in fury. "So tell me, Philippe—what is all this for?"

He slowly rose as well and he put his palms down on the table, his eyes situated on her stonily. "You're a harlot who's out for money and fame," he murmured in a deadly still tone, all theatricality gone. "And more than that, you sullied my family's name. All I've heard for the last year is about the scandal of Raoul de Chagny and the stage rat. And now that your deformed lover has killed him, I will never escape that shame. No matter how rich I am, no matter how powerful I am, I will be reduced to the brother of a failed and rejected devotee." He looked her up and down once, a sneer forming on his lips. "Dishonor runs deep, and now my family will be forever cheapened by the likes of you."

More than anything, she was shocked at her numbness as he spoke, and of her ease of speech when she finally responded. "Then why aren't you indicting me?" she asked him simply, her hands dropping to her sides, deadened. "If it's about me, then let Erik go."

"Ah, but you see, I want this to run as deep for you as it does for me," he told her with sudden pleasantness as he sat back down, folding his hands in his lap. "And prison is not what would pain you the most." He cocked his head to the side slightly as he observed her, but she wouldn't allow an expression to cross her features. "Honor is what I love most, and you took that away. So I'm going to take away what you love most."

It was on the cusp between night and day when she was finally sent back to the Boscherville house in her appointed carriage. Christine arrived alone, and she felt herself almost magnetically drawn to the front step of the house, where she seated herself torpidly. A thin dusting of snow had fallen since she had last been outside, but she didn't mind the extra chill.

The inundation of emotion was draining, and yet she still felt as if her senses were heightened as she sat on the ice-cold concrete, remembering what it was like to reside here next to Erik. And somehow, the information in her coat pocket about the court summons seemed to be the farthest thing from her mind. All she could do was painstakingly recall the details of his presence, and inevitably be disappointed by her faulty and crude memory.

It was just as she had given up on her attempts at recollection when another carriage pulled up and Nadir was led out, looking just as disheveled as she did. The stars were already disappearing as he moved towards her, and she struggled to keep them in sight as he sat next to her.

"What's going on, Nadir," she asked, although it was more of a statement than a question. She could see him looking towards her, but she did not avert her eyes from the graying stars.

"Philippe has asked me to stay with you here until the trial begins. They can't hold us since we're not being accused of anything, but he wants to make sure you don't go anywhere." He paused, his eyes following hers up to the skies. "I tried to tell him that you wouldn't dream of leaving, but…" He drifted off at this before a low sigh escaped his lips.

"We were in the graveyard only yesterday," she breathed, tightening her lips to quell her swelling emotions. "And we were only at the station through the night, and yet I believe an eternity has passed since I last saw him…"

"You're quite the poet," he told her, his words packed with forced ease. The tears she had restrained since arriving at the police station finally began to spill onto her cheeks, and she was grateful that her companion pretended not to notice.

"Philippe says they're rushing the trial—I have a sick feeling he's hoping to convict Erik before Prideux can find a foothold in the case," Nadir continued, perhaps hoping that the logistics of the coming days would be less disheartening. The thought of an unfair trial only made Christine's stomach sink more, though.

"He's doing it because of me," she told him almost inaudibly, and she saw him turn abruptly to her, his face twisted in confusion.

"You mustn't blame yourself, Christine—he's doing it because of his brother. A Frenchman's need for revenge is insatiable…" he muttered anecdotally, but she continued on without a pause.

"It has nothing to do with Raoul," she told him, brief resentment replacing her sorrow. "I've impacted his family name negatively because of my relationship with Raoul. And while he doesn't love his brother, he seems to have an abundant love of his reputation and pride," she finished bitterly, her jaw clenching involuntarily.

"Christine, he's merely trying to get under your skin by saying such things," Nadir assured her, though she didn't have to look at him to feel the pity flooding his eyes. "Erik made a rash decision and now he must suffer the consequences for it."

These apparently had not been the right words, for she immediately hardened as her eyebrows knitted in grief.

"I'm going to be his defense," Nadir amended after a moment, and Christine finally turned to look at him with wide eyes. "Erik's, that is."

"Does Philippe know that?" she asked in a hushed whisper, unable to hide the small delight she found in his statement. If anyone was to defend Erik, surely there could not be a better candidate than Nadir.

"Of course not," he replied with a smile—the first one that appeared authentic. "He wants to use my familiarity with Erik to help in his prosecution, but if I assume the role of Erik's defense, I'm afraid Philippe won't be able to utilize my knowledge. Too bad." His smile turned sly, and Christine let out a small laugh of relief. It was fleeting, though, for thoughts of the empty house behind her flooded her thoughts almost instantaneously. That monolith of a home seemed to radiate loneliness, and she let out a small and dejected breath as she imagined the hours to come.

"I don't know what to do. How do I stay in this house?" she murmured under her breath, her voice somehow still despite her recent tears.

"We'll make it," he told her, his focus shifting to the lambent sunlight that was beginning to peak through the trees. "He'll make it." She let out a breath at this, and she felt her heart settle within her chest.

"Nadir," she remarked slowly, and he turned to her in curiosity. Without averting her eyes, she leaned her chin on the palms of her hands as the last remnants of stars disappeared into the lightening sky. "Have I ever told you the story of Virgo?"

Who doesn't love a villain? Thanks so much for reading, and I want to extend my immense gratitude towards all my reviewers. I apologize for the lengthy delay in this chapter, but I really wanted to get the best chapter I could out to you all, so I dearly hoped you all enjoyed it! I'd love to hear how much you hate Philippe, so shoot me a review and make my day!

Until next time,

Christine