Chapter 12: The Meeting

Christine sat still, as frozen as the winter world outside and as shocked as summer lightning. Min Pappa is alive… At first she was disturbed that she had not broken down in sobs of relief. After all, it was the customary thing to do, the very thing she thought she would have done. Her next thought pushed the discomfort away, but returned the pain of hope. Min Pappa is in a prison.

Then the tears came, and the blurred, salt-soaked questions. "Where is he? I need to see him! Is he well? What have they done with him?!" From somewhere inside her brain, she watched as her body reacted to the news and realized that she was indeed becoming hysterical. She was a small child again, wanting to be held as she cried…but was it her Pappa who she wanted to hold her, or Erik?

Meg desperately tried to calm Christine, but she would not be calmed. Erik watched for the first few minutes and thought how similar the situation was to one he had created as an assassin. He had killed- murdered- a girl's father. The girl had cried aloud, screaming and cursing him, and would have attempted to take his life had his guards not restrained her. Now her pain is my pain. How many lives have I ruined? The notion bothered him for once. How long before he made rubbish of another's life?

How long until he inevitably ruined Christine's life? He, Erik, who had been confident in his achievements, now questioned the negative impacts of those achievements. I have killed, but how many more have I caused to die?

Meg struggled with a different dilemma; namely, a half-hysterical Christine Daae. Almost irritated instead of caring now that her expensive red dress had been wet with tears and mucus, she thrust the girl away and into M. Erik's arms. I should care more about this Gustave Daae, but I have been in that prison myself. I am not familiar with M. Daae. She gave a sad smile of understanding, for she had lost her own father, albeit in a different way. She deserves all the help available to her. I would not wish that hellish confinement on anyone except Philippe d'Orleans.

Christine buried her face in Erik's shirt, hoping in the back of her mind that he would hold her again. He did. She holds me when she cries…otherwise I must either ensnare or frighten her. How many people have held me? He pushed the question aside and focused more on the feel of the girl's tight grip around his torso. It was good to be held, and now he understood why lovers held each other even without kisses.

Meg looked upon the pair for a minute, and saw M. Erik return the embrace. Feeling that she was intruding, she backed away and returned to the surface, almost smiling to herself. They have found each other…but I must leave it up to fate to open their eyes.

After a few more minutes, Christine calmed, controlling her breathing so she would not hiccup. "Oh…I apologize," she said, drawing away from the man. Erik held his breath. Did she think it wrong to hold him? "I'm afraid I've wet your shirt again…" Her eyes were lined with red, and she seemed even paler than before. She did not pull away completely, still grasping his elbows. It seemed as if the nerve points there had fired off, but in a most delightful manner. She was still sniffling, and her astoundingly clear tears still fell as she attempted to blot the moisture from his shirt with the hanky she kept up her sleeve.

Erik gazed at her pain-filled eyes, wishing he could draw her pain away. She was always beautiful, always perfect, but her sadness was his now. I care nothing for that royal prick's motives. He has hurt the same way I have, and no one should ever be like me. He has hurt Christine… He felt his heart clench in his chest as another droplet slid down his student's cheek. That is unforgiveable.

Though he disliked having to stop Christine's hands as they touched his chest, he stood and pulled her up with him. "Christine, Christine…" he crooned soothingly, "I promise, the duke will not go unpunished. I will ensure it." At this, she looked away from her rather pointless task, but kept her hands on his chest.

"The duke? But what could you possibly do to him? He is rich, royal, and a cheat…" A hint of cynicism colored her normally gentle voice. "The police have done nothing and probably will do nothing for the rest of history." She sniffled and hiccupped again, which interrupted the sound of her breathing and reminded Erik yet again that he could not allow her to remain unhappy.

"I could return your father to you. I would do anything to make you happy again," he admitted slowly, "for you have made me happy. I am only repaying a debt."

"I- I don't understand; what debt is there to be paid?" she asked, now bewildered. "I 'make you happy'?" Thankfully she did not start an embarrassing, intimate conversation about his willingness to help her.

"You are the first friend I have had who has trusted me. That, cher, is what makes me happy." If only I could make her more than a trusted friend…

…

Philippe scowled at the paperwork before him as he sat in one of his many offices in the city of Paris. He had not expected building a munitions factory- only the building, not the equipment- to be so complicated. Perhaps it was because he was building on land that had once been full of apartments that housed the middle class of Paris.

The spy he'd planted in the opera house was scheduled to return that afternoon with information. He checked the grandfather clock in the corner of the relatively plain-looking study. He's late again. Surely he is clever enough to create a valid excuse for his daily reports to me? It took exactly two minutes more for the hired, dirty man to burst into the office, damp from both the cold outside and the exertion of his sprint.

"M. le Duc, I-"

"Spare me the excuses," Philippe cut in. "Tell me what you've found." He did not look up from his work, instead upending an ornately carved hourglass. "You have five minutes." The poor man, exhausted and sweating, began to stammer, hoarse from thirst.

"Monsieur, please, I need-"

"Tell me the news first, and you will have water later." At last! The man held out a pair of white gloves and swallowed nervously.

"The composer's friend is an official from the Ottoman Empire." Philippe raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

"You did not think to keep your skin from touching these? Pity." The deep growl of some feral beast resonated throughout the room. The spy shivered. As well as his profession paid, there were still some unpleasant parts about it; namely, that thing in the back of the room that seemed too graceful and malevolent to be a hound. He started when his employer began speaking again. "I would have had my pet here retrieve the unfortunate man." The duke toyed with the gloves and, after a moment of consideration, set them on his desk.

The spy, now trembling, swallowed back a gasp of fright as two pairs of bright yellow eyes opened in the backdrop of shadows. Still, he was so bold as to persist in his request: "Monsieur, my salary is due…"

"Your salary is here. You are free to get it." He took a step forward, but a snarl ripped from the darkness again. Philippe did not flinch, inwardly pleased that this poor man was afraid of the power he wielded. The glaring eyes narrowed slightly. "Well, don't waste any more of my time." He slid the small stack of banknotes forward, scraping them over the worn surface of the desk. "Take your pay."

The man at last gathered his nerves and snatched the money from the desk. The clinking of metal signaled heavy chains being pulled taught, and a deep roar blew some of the papers from the desk. With a half-scream, the trembling figure bolted out of the building and back onto the street.

He almost tripped on two scruffy-looking mutts, but hurried on his way, stuffing his salary into his grimy shirt.

The dogs gazed awhile at his retreating figure. One lay down on the cold sidewalk and rolled in the thin layer of snow. The other sniffed at a paper that had drifted to the ground. He picked it up in his teeth, scratched himself, and set to trotting in the same direction the terrified human had gone…but did not follow him. His sibling followed, lightly dusted in fine ice crystals that glinted in the afternoon sun.

…

The spy, frightened and cold as he was, decided to take a few minutes to return home and drop his money in a safe place. He did not think himself a man anymore, but a coward. I am no longer Jacques Bennue, but a lowlife grunt worker, a mangy dog for the duke. He had worked in a textile factory until the duke had offered him better pay, and with a wife and child, he took the job without hesitation. And yet, to see my family fed for another night is worth it.

He approached his front door and stole inside, relishing the small bit of warmth from the small stove in the small kitchen. Small things were always appreciated, especially when they approached him with an embrace. "Jacques, you're home early!" His wife, Arielle, having just finished rinsing their dishes, strode forward to hug him close. "You smell like oil, go change!" At that, he had to smile. He had always known she was too good for him.

"I will smell of oil for as long as I work at the opera! There's nothing to be done about it, really, except perhaps hope it won't rub off on you," he said, kissing the housewife's temple.

"It will if you don't change soon," she teased, wiping her wet hands on a rag. "Jean! Your father's home!" she called. A little boy of no more than four years ran out of the shared bedroom holding a wooden flute. He threw himself into his papa's arms, giggling.

"Papa!" Jacques scooped the child up and sat him on his shoulder, enabling the boy to touch the ceiling. "I got a flute from the man on the corner today! Look!" He then proceeded to blow out a lively marching air, extracting a laugh from his father.

"Well done, boy! Maybe one day you'll play for our nation's army! Now go back and practice for a while, eh?" Jacques watched his son scamper into the back room, smiling. Then he turned back to his wife. His smile melted away like a snowflake over a bonfire. "Arielle, how much did that cost?"

The lines at the corners of his eyes became more visible. A speck of grey in his hair betrayed tension. "It was ten francs. Oh, but he was so eager to have one, and-"

"We can't afford these things, not while Jean's too young to work or go to school. It is good for him to learn music, but please, dearest…don't go too far, not while the duke pays me so little."

"You can't get a raise at the opera?" Her voice was hopeful, sad.

"No," he replied, sitting down at their worn, creaky table. "I don't know how to make costumes or design props, or even how to work the lighting." He rested his head in his hands, slipping to the floor. "I cannot ask more of the duke, not only because he won't pay any more, but because I feel I am not a man when I carry out his dishonest work. I am a coward, Arielle." The poor woman, who had stood patiently beside him, now grasped his shoulders and pulled him to face her, kneeling so as to be near to him.

"Jacques Bennue, you will never be a coward to me. You are brave to work for that scum, and handle his insanity. You are a courageous man, never doubt it." She kissed him full on the mouth for a moment for comfort.

"You were always too good for me. You are aware of that, are you not?" he asked.

"I am aware." He sighed and just held her for an hour, until he was sure that she had fallen asleep from the warmth of his hold. It was hard to have a family, but it was enough; he needed nothing else but to support them.

…

Christine hated feeling helpless. It was unnerving, knowing her father was locked away, possibly even tortured, and that she could not do anything. She had cried in Erik's arms awhile, but only so many minutes passed before she resolved that she would do something- anything- to help…or to stop the tears. So she dared ask him, even though she was frightened: "Erik…would you teach me to fight?"

His initial reaction had been one of disbelief. How could she help when she could not physically harm the duke without going to prison? Was it even a moral thing to do in her eyes? It had taken her a full ten minutes of insistent pleading to get him to agree. Now, however, he was perusing his personal armory…and finding that none of his weapons were quite suited to Christine's hands, height, or strength.

He frowned at the blade-bedecked walls. Though each one was perfectly balanced in his hands, Christine was smaller, and by nature, weaker. The soprano shifted next to him, suddenly colder than usual in the small room. There were killing instruments, not light playthings as Eter had made them seem. Yet I must learn. I cannot stand by as people close to me are hurt or killed.

Something glinted at the corner of her eye. She turned, more out of instinct than curiosity, and saw a brown whip with a polished steel butt hanging dejectedly from a rack as if discarded. "How would this suit me?" she asked, pulling the cool leather from its place and running her fingers over it. Erik came to her side and watched as she weighed the thing in her right hand. The handle was the correct width and seemed to warm to her grasp in the way some weapons simply did. "It's comfortable enough, unlike those," she commented, nodding at the array of small daggers, dirks, and even darts that she'd already tried.

"It fits, but how will you handle it?" Erik let his hand drift towards her hair and hoped she would not feel the slight tug as he twisted a lock around his index. "Have you worked with a whip before?"

"No." Well, this complicates things… "It fits my hands, though." Very few weapons fit your hands, Christine. You are nonviolent almost by nature. He took another, longer whip from the rack and snapped it in the small space, causing the poor girl to jump. He was rather amused by her fright, for once. She would never be in any danger by his hand.

"Shall we begin, then?"

…

"Aim lower; the whip will go higher automatically," Erik instructed. Teaching a woman how to fight with something as common as a whip was strange, especially when that woman pursued his standards with determination. He rather admired this drive in Christine.

They were still onstage, with a single candle lit and nothing else.

The target candle flickered as the leather whisked by for the twentieth time. It was now late in the night, as they had practiced together for several hours. Christine had mastered the first few lessons quickly, but this one seemed to have her stumped. The objective was to put the candle out without burning the hide of the weapon. She was of the opinion, now, that it was a trick candle and designed not to go out. Erik's patience, too, seemed to be wearing thin (as if he'd had copious amounts of patience anyway). "Again," he ordered. "Your enemy will not move to accommodate you."

I should not complain…but I do. I did not think that training with a whip… Wait- A thought struck her. Perhaps she was not meant to extinguish the flame with the breeze from the motion, but with motion itself. Eager to test her hypothesis, she tested the weight of the metal at the narrow tip of her weapon, and then aimed carefully, checking her stance and posture. Erik watched, pleased that she had at last thought her way to success.

She swung the thing with grace, and it wrapped several times around the base of the lit tallow column. In a flash, the candle was pulled from its holder and winked out, leaving the two of them in total darkness. Erik smirked at her sudden confusion. She was not used to the lack of light.

"Congratulations, Christine. You've managed to put out the ghost light." She picked up on his banter and smiled in the direction his voice was coming from.

"And do I now suffer a curse, and bring about the return of the Phantom?" A low growl sounded in her ear, and she shivered- though she wasn't sure it was out of fear.

"You've heard those stories, have you?" He could see her shaking and looking for him in vain; it served as another reminder that she was completely under his control.

"I have." She heard him reply from where she knew the balcony seats to be.

"Then you know that the Opera Ghost has killed… Does that not frighten you, Christine?" He sounded grave, and somehow vulnerable. Is he speaking of himself, or of the presence of this Ghost? Nevertheless, she replied boldly, speaking this time towards the balconies.

"It does not." How concise she is now, when she cannot but answer in this night! "It is not right to kill, but…"

"'But'?" This time his voice flowed down from the catwalks and the rafters. Christine's eyes darted, sightless, up to the pulleys and lights, but to no avail. He was not there, or anywhere. "What makes you uncertain that the Ghost is a ghost by judgment and right?" Erik was frightened of her answer, in truth. For truth it was, and her truth had the ability to crush him, heart and soul.

"I am uncertain because anyone in the Ghost's place would have done the same…even I. Therefore, the Ghost is human, and as a human, has a right to life, liberty, and-" He cut her off, terrified and grateful for the cover of darkness.

"Care?" Her next word shocked him to the core. He, too, trembled at the implications of her words. He was no longer a confident, genius playwright and composer, but subject to her whim, a feather under the weight of her words.

"Love." With that, he succumbed completely and took her into his arms, so grateful for her understanding that nothing could pry her from him, not enemy, or weapon, or plot.

A ray of candlelight burst from the door to the halls and dormitories. Erik paid no mind, and did not let go. To his delight, Christine did not seem to mind at all, as she was holding him equally tight, for she had decided, at last, not to let interruptions stop her time with her…friend?

"M. Erik," Mme. Giry's voice said in her steady, determined tone, "you are needed. Your students have decided to take justice into their own hands. Philippe, Duc d'Orleans, will fall."

…

Marcus, Anna, Eter, Artur, Meg, Nadir, Mme. Giry, and Salim had gathered in one of the many back rooms of the opera. This one, unlike the others, was empty of old props and costumes, and well-lit by lanterns (which Artur still avoided touching, as he could not be convinced that they were truly safe to hold).

The room was warm, and Eter was slowly nodding off in Artur's arms. She looked like a child in his arms, though everyone who'd seen her knives knew differently. Anna found humor in this, smirking every once in a while.

"Y'two're certainly comfortable, aren' yeh?" Artur glared and held his precious friend closer, as if to protect her from the redhead's mocking words. They had reached a silent agreement: to wait to share their hearts until they both were ready. Anna had no right to interfere with their relationship.

"She is. I am. We are. Have you an issue with this?" he probed, raising a dark eyebrow and making the burn scars over his eyelid almost glow in the dim light. Anna was about to give one of her characteristically saucy replies, but Erik and Christine entered and took their seats on a large crate. Eter sat up straight; she had been awake the whole time, but no one minded.

Marcus surprised everyone by speaking first. "My dogs brought back this paper when I sent them after the spy; M. Erik, you were aware of a spy planted in this establishment, were you not?" He held up an official-looking document to the light in the center of the circle of seats to make the type of document clear. It was a deed, and it appeared to be the deed to the Paris Opera House.

"Impossible," Meg breathed. She grasped Salim's hand as if it could somehow anchor her to reality. Christine bit her fist and swallowed. Who had gotten a hold of the deed, and just how much power did he have in the opera to get the deed so easily?

Erik snatched the paper away and examined it for himself. "It's a fake. 'Signed, Philippe d'Orleans,' it says." He looked to Marcus suspiciously. "I was not aware of a spy. However, now that I am, give me reason to believe it is not you who gives away the opera's secrets." The growl in his voice warned the young man not to cross him; he would know if Marcus lied by omission or otherwise.

The baritone didn't miss a beat in his defense. "If you look at the top left corner, you'll see the teeth marks of a small dog. In addition, that is indeed the duke's signature and seal. Why would I lie about what I am certain of?" Erik looked for the proof of truth and found it. He nodded his agreement.

"Continue." Nadir stood to draw attention.

"We have reason to believe that the duke means to take this opera through this fake deed, and that because he has faked it flawlessly, he has the original." Salim continued as the people in the room absorbed the information.

"He also has full control of the police, which explains why they haven't done anything to stop him. I know this through my family ties." An accented, alert voice spoke up as if coming to a revelation.

"What is he after?" Eter asked, practically squinting with interest and bewilderment. "He cannot be after only ownership if he chooses to win the police to his side. Also, that prison place that Meg came from was full of people, was it not?" She glanced at the ballerina for confirmation.

"It was- mostly his enemies, from what I could tell, but there were innocents there too." Anna took a long gulp from a glass of sherry and burped. Nadir tried not to flinch at the intensity of the alcohol on her breath.

"I say it's some sort'v maneuvering f'money. Nobles'r always after tha'…exceptin' Salim here, o'course," she reasoned, raising her glass to the young baron. "No, I know wha' 'e's after," she added as an afterthought. Meg looked up, startled and hoping no one would see her blush or understand the meaning behind the Irishwoman's words.

Erik scowled behind his mask. There had been two kidnapping attempts, one of them partially successful. Philippe could not be after Meg or an unknown, poor stagehand, but he could understand if the duke was after Christine. However, that did not seem logical. He's probably looking for leverage, or a ransom…but he could get far more money by simply owning the opera. He absently rubbed his gloved hands together, still somewhat distracted by the memory of Christine's embrace just a few minutes earlier.

Artur was also scowling, though his expression was quite a bit less intimidating than Erik's. He spoke, gaining everyone's full attention, as his voice was too deep not to be audible. "Whatever he wants, it cannot be good. He has already hurt and killed, and it is right to mete out justice on him…but we will not be able to take action unless we know what he wants and when he intends to have it."

Mme. Giry sighed heavily. "Does this mean catching the spy?"

Erik smiled, for this task suited his skill set, and he was eager to revive the old days of cooperation between him and Nadir. The Persian shook his head, also smiling. "It does indeed."