A/N: Thank you so much my dear readers for your lovely reviews! I loved every one of them - and I apologize for being late with this. Headaches can be the pits, and headaches that last for DAYS are sheer torture – but I finally finished the chapter! Do recall, I borrowed some from Kay...And so, with great relief (and no more pain), I give you…

Chapter XXX

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Tied wrists and ankles to the posts of the massive bed, its captive lay propped on pillows of velvet and glared at his abductor dressed head to toe in mourning black. Enough leeway had been given the slender ropes to allow for some movement, but the fact remained – he was trussed like a hog at the absentee mercy of an overzealous butcher. His mind flashed to the past, and the witch who'd made him her slave, often confined to a wooden cage she'd kept in her hovel. The woman before him now was not as old or even ugly, but she also appeared to sport wicked motives.

Le Masque turned wary eyes of apprehension toward the knife she had pulled from a pocket in her skirts and held in one hand.

"And what plans have you for that?" he asked darkly. He did not lack courage, but tied up as he was he could not fight back.

The woman that he recalled the odd little foreigner address as Madame Giry looked down at the weapon, as if just recalling she held it. She then pulled a two-tined fork from her pocket. "You must eat, Maestro," his captor said, nodding to a plate on the table nearby that she must have earlier brought while he slept. "The broths have been beneficial, but now you must have meat to gain strength."

She turned toward him, fork and knife in hand. The suspicion did not leave his expression as he eyed the implements.

"Unless you would like me to cut your meat for you?"

"No." His denial came short and swift. He was no invalid, and he detested her treating him as one.

She hesitated, ill at ease, when he made no move to accept the dinnerware. "Do you need help with other matters first? Would you like me to fetch the chamber pot?"

Broiling heat suffused his face. He would rather wet himself than again be subjected to that humiliation! The woman was in her middle years, no shy maiden and circumspect in her presentation, but still a pesky stranger whose touch he did not desire in mortifying places. Yet on that first day after he awakened from the strange, eternal slumber, he'd been too weak and tormented by pain to take matters into his own hands.

"I have no need of your aid," he said testily. "I am well able to attend my own affairs."

"If you move overly much, you could reopen those wounds. Monsieur Khan did his best to sew you up, but he is no physician."

"The crooked-nosed knave who attacked me with his flying dart? I see the coward chose to be absent upon my awakening." He grabbed the utensils from her hand with a bellow, "Give them to me!"

She jumped at his abruptness and retreated an immediate step in mistrust.

The ropes bound to his wrists gave enough slack for him to eat. He tossed the useless fork aside then brutally stabbed the knife into the center of the hunk of meat and lifted it his mouth, taking a ravenous bite. She watched with surprise and horror. Good, he smirked to himself. Let her know offense and terror …

"Why have you brought me here?" he asked around a mouthful of food.

"I couldn't very well leave you lying helpless by the lake!"

He narrowed his eyes. "And did you see the churls who did this to me? Perhaps you were one of their number?"

"No, monsieur; I had no hand in the plot against you. I found you minutes after they left."

He snorted in disbelief. "To where have you brought me, I will ask once more, and no longer will I tolerate your silence – to the pretentious lord's castle? Does this cavern chamber belong to his dungeons below?"

"Castle, monsieur?" She studied him in wary concern.

"Damnation, woman - do not pretend ignorance! The Vicomte's chateau! Have you turned me over to be the prisoner of de Chagny?"

She blinked as if befuddled. "But…why would I take you there? I don't even know where he lives." She seemed suddenly anxious, as if she wished to be evasive but felt compelled to speak. "I…I did tell him where you were, oui - for Christine's sake. The mob hunted you, and I had no wish to see her – to see either of you – hurt."

Again she spoke nonsense, and he waved her away with the stabbed hunk of meat. "Lies, all of it lies! If you will not speak in truth, then leave me be!"

She hesitated as if she might refuse, but lifted her chin. "It is impossible to speak to you when you are like this. A simple thank you for saving your life would have not gone amiss and been appreciated, but I suppose it's too much to expect an act of humility from the likes of you - the notorious Phantom of the Opera!"

She gave a disapproving little grunt when he remained silent, not acknowledging her bizarre drivel and giving rapt attention only to his food.

"I shall return in the morning, though I don't know why I continue to bother. At least those horrid traps are dismantled," she muttered as she left the cavern chamber.

Traps?

Le Masque pondered her words, but just as quickly dismissed them. The woman was clearly daft, speaking nonsense when all he wanted was to understand. Once he caught a glimpse of and heard the strange black boat glide over the water of what appeared to be an underground lake, he waited no longer. Grabbing the knife from the hunk of meat, he sawed it against the ropes that confined his wrists and ankles. In short order, he was free and bounded from the bed, wincing at the fiery pain that ripped through his chest once his boots hit the stones.

Damn the infernal scoundrels who did this to him! They would soon feel the point of his blade slice through their disloyal black hearts.

With what remained of his clothes in tatters, he needed a change and found inside an adjoining alcove a wardrobe of men's garments. Cut most bizarrely, some with odd metal fastenings, he sorted through what hung from a wooden rod. He found no doublet or linen hose, only a long white tunic voluminous in both girth and sleeve and an acceptable pair of trousers that strangely bagged at the leg and did not cling to his form, though they fit him otherwise. There was naught else but more of the same type of raiment. Where the owner had found such peculiar apparel was a mystery, as was the dungeon in which he dwelled - though this cavern abode, with bed and furnishings, was designed for comfort and unlike any dungeon he'd ever seen!

Also, what could not be explained was the wide array of masks that rested on the heads of white marble busts atop a nearby table. The odd and sundry possessions of a traveling troupe, perhaps, though it still did not explain what he was doing here.

Among those presented, there was a half-mask composed of some unfamiliar, shiny, white substance, neither hide nor earthen, and a mask of the same material with the appearance of a skull – most intriguing but not made to detract attention. There was also a full mask of crimson with gold embroidered along its edges. He chose not to question fortune's favor at such a surprising find in this wretched place and chose a mask of smooth black leather, tying it behind his head to replace his mask of similar structure that the woman had told him was destroyed. By fire? Likely by her own hand!

Near the round table of masks, he found another treasure – weaponry on a long table and above it, hanging from the wall. Slipping a dagger into his boot, he then strapped a belt for a sword around his hips and eagerly took the one bracketed to the wall. Strangely lightweight, more so than any sword he had previously come by, its blade was sharp as the sliding test of his thumb testified, and he slipped the weapon into its sheath. An odd device of black metal shaped like the letter 'L' lay on the table as well, but with no idea what it could be, he left it alone.

Outfitted to defend and attack, the final item he seized was a long cloak he wrapped around his form. He exited the area of his imprisonment to inspect the main chamber. His eyes widened at the sight of a massive pipe organ the archbishop of Notre-Dame would covet to own and at the strange flat columns filled with cracked silver glass that leaned against a rock wall. Upon approaching one, a man came swiftly toward him. He withdrew his sword, noting the attacker on the other side of the cracked glass did the same. He studied the warped visage - also wearing a mask, outfitted as he was, his sword held at the same angle.

Brow furrowed in puzzlement, Le Masque brought his hand to the glass, noting the man there did the same, and he realized - it was his own image! Never had he seen a reflection so clear, only one produced by the forest pond on a still summer's day, and he stared in horrified wonder. The remaining two columns also contained the same cracked glass, his distorted reflection visible there as well, yet clearer in detail than he had ever before seen it.

What den of sorcerers had he entered? What illusion of trickery was this...?

She had taken the boat, leaving him without a mode of transport, and the water looked too deep to wade through. After investigating the chamber, he found an exit through another part of the cavern and grabbed a torch that burned on the wall, eager to leave this bizarre dungeon and return to the familiar.

He seemed to walk forever through cold, damp tunnels that twisted, the injury to his side slowing him down. The stubbing of his boot against a niche in the rock had him stumble violently forward to the ground – and narrowly miss being impaled by the set of three arrows that flew from each wall. Feeling a new burn atop his shoulder, he investigated to see that one of the arrowheads had grazed him. The traps, he presumed darkly; evidently he'd taken a route not disabled.

Dusting off the baggy hose that covered his legs, he picked himself up from the stony ground, wincing as he clutched his bandaged side. More carefully, he traveled through the unknown, and stared with curious horror as he came across many niches with the skeletons of men lying in rows of what appeared to be an underground graveyard. The passageway wound further, leaving the carcasses of the emaciated dead behind, and the trail ascended, until, at last, he reached an iron gate. He pulled the cobwebs away that covered the latch.

Locked.

With a feral growl – he wasn't about to retrace his steps all the way back to that chamber of sorcery and hunt out a key! – he vented his annoyance beneath the lock in several well-placed kicks with the sole of his boot until finally he felt a give. Dropping to his knees from anguish as well as necessity, he studied the bottom bars, noting the earth and loose stone surrounding them, and dug them free. This time, it took little to break the iron door open as it gave a piercing creak. Past the gate, the tunnel moved in a straight line to another grilled gate, which thankfully took no force to swing ajar.

With one objective in mind, he walked outdoors into the deep violet of late dusk, determined to steal a horse and find his way back to the forest – to seek out the two traitors of his band who deserved the fate of those skeletons that lay behind in the distant caverns.

He came to a street and stopped in dead shock. What the devil…?

The road was paved with what looked like stones, the shape of the buildings odd, the carriages pulled by the horses odd – so many nobles in one place? – the fact that these vehicles littered the streets though it must be nearing curfew odder still. This was not Brittany, and though Paris was close, it could not be that city either.

He watched with stunned curiosity as a man bearing a long rod with a flame at its end touched its tip inside a box of glass held atop a tall iron spike in the ground. The man bearing the flame moved away, taking the short ladder with him as the light continued to burn from atop the spike and illuminated the street around it.

Entranced, Le Masque stared at that light and at the strange panes - panes that could be seen through - which enclosed and shielded the steady flame…what wizardry was this? As he watched, a woman with a strange bell-like form strolled into view beneath the golden light, arm in arm with a man who wore a hat with a crown that stood ridiculously tall and round – all of their clothing absurd.

The sound of oncoming horses, their hooves rapidly striking the stones, had him whirl about and pull his sword from its sheath at the possible danger. A ribbon of fire lanced the area near his ribs where the wound still ached from his desperate kicks to the gate, and he grabbed his side, nearly reeling as a wave of dizziness beset him. The driver shook a fist his way.

"Idiot drunkard – get out of the street!" He veered around where Le Masque stood on the stretch of stone road, the face of a woman behind another see-through pane looking out at him from the carriage.

Had he slept an age?! Had the world so changed in appearance, leaving him behind? Impossible! In all likelihood he was under some wicked spell…The old witch was long dead, but the Unseelie court, the dark creatures of the Fae, were always a threat. Had they made good on their curse against the de Chagnys, of which he was regrettably one of their number? He was no slave to superstition, but knew such creatures did exist, to create mischief to mortals ...

He could not stand agape in the midst of the road, especially masked as he was, and set his sights ahead, avoiding the strange pool of light, noting that as he turned the corner other golden pools were repeated on other iron spikes scattered in long lengths along another smooth, cobbled road, some with placards bearing the names of streets - another oddity never before seen. At long last he came across a lone horse tied to the side of a building. Swiftly, he made his move and unfastened the reins. Managing to mount the bizarre saddle without doing further damage to his wounds, he was soon at a gallop down wide streets, desperate to find a way out of this city and out of this spell!

At once, he came across the massive silhouette of a well-known edifice looming in the distance, but the familiarity brought no comfort, only serving further to astound and horrify as he drew close and recognized he was not mistaken: The bastions of Notre-Dame…

Gods' blood - this was the city of Paris!

xXx

Rather than speak of the horrors that were the composition of his life as Christine requested of him, the Phantom shot to his feet and began slowly to pace the cramped interior. Pacing was an outlet for his beleaguered mind and the thoughts knocking about within what memory he could still claim as his own. He ceased his frenetic movements and watched smoke from the meager campfire curl up and out through a small tear in the canvas roof, perhaps made for that purpose, so as not to crowd and asphyxiate those dwelling within. Fashioned a short distance from the flames so the rain wouldn't soak his efforts, with a wooden bucket beneath to catch fresh water. Ingenious in a backwoods, rugged sort of manner, though the bucket would often need emptied during a storm, so as not to overflow and make the mossy floor of the tent even more uncomfortably wet…

He was accustomed to dampness and cold, but Christine...

"Erik?"

He stiffened his shoulders but gave her no heed. The slide and rustle of cloth attested to her rising, and he sensed rather than heard her come up behind him, the hand softly laid on his shoulder testament to that fact.

"I know this must be difficult for you, to speak of such things," she began haltingly.

Ah, Christine, you have no idea, he miserably thought.

"I know your childhood must have been terrible, after what little I was told. And I have seen the marks on your back…" Her fingertips gently traced what cloth concealed.

He flinched but did not move away, his eyes sliding closed as his resolve to keep his silence weakened further. He had no wish for pity and months ago might have called her actions no more than that. But after the eager passion, after the sweet affection he had experienced in her arms, he now knew this was love. She loved him, his dream come to life, as he had always loved her.

She truly belonged to him now and deserved to know his story … after the mistakes he'd made that so adversely affected her, she deserved to know. What she would do with the information once she heard was what gave him dread...

"My childhood was catastrophic from the day I was revealed to the world," he said at last. "My mother's first order was for a mask to be fashioned; I was never allowed to be without it. I spent my days seeking to entertain myself in my loneliness, often locked away in an attic, especially when visitors would come to call. Mother would have little to do with me, and my father died before I was born; she called it a blessing, since he never had to see 'the little demon they had been cursed with'..." The soft warmth of Christine's hand against his back was his lifeline, and he clung to that assurance. "On my seventh birthday, instead of the kiss for which I begged, she forced me to view my reflection, this, the sole time she whipped my mask away, and I understood her abhorrent words to be true. I retreated in fear of the monster in the looking glass, but when I realized that monster was me, I slammed my fists into the mirror and kicked it, hoping in my infantile mind that to destroy the image would be to relinquish myself of its hold. My arms and fists were soon covered in cuts from the cracked glass, blood dripping in small pools onto the floor. She never ceased to yell at me - not to end my tantrum, with the fear that I might have badly injured myself - no. Her shouts were that I could never rid myself of the demon just as she could never rid herself of the miserable excuse for a son she'd been cursed with. It was that night I ran away."

Hearing Christine gasp, what sounded like a soft sob, the Phantom turned. He noticed how she bit her lip hard, trying not to cry, and drew his mouth into a thin line. "Why do I tell you this?" he whispered in grim disbelief, more to himself than to her. "What good can it possibly achieve?"

That these hurtful memories could not have also faded into the dark abyss of oblivion, he wished to understand – a stab from Fate, perhaps – to prolong his misery. And to share that time of his life as he had never done with anyone was a torment in itself.

"I asked," she responded to his rhetorical questions, her voice a near wisp. "You are my husband and I want to know all there is to know about you."

He turned aside, shaking his head in disgust and wishing again that he had not initiated the idea to reveal his past. He felt her hand slip softly into his where it hung loosely by his side. Her fingers exerted light pressure, tugging him toward her. Erik felt powerless under her gentle ministrations, and, first wiping an arm over damp eyes, he turned at her whim and allowed her to pull him back to the furs that she had earlier spread over the ground. She sank down to sit on the woven wolf pelts, never releasing her hold on his hand. Yielding to her silent wish, he took a seat beside her.

"What happened after you ran away?" she prodded after a lengthy span elapsed.

The Phantom exhaled a weary breath. "I was found, by gypsies, sleeping in a field. They bound me hands and feet and threw me into a large cage, the type built for dangerous animals, assigning a handler over me." He scowled. "Jacov was the epitome of cruelty. He beat me into submission, using his perverse lust for defilement and control." He shook his head a little, closing his eyes. "I will spare you the more gruesome details of my incarceration there. I was put on display as a freak for the curious to gawk at and ridicule. It was the sum of my life for five long years."

Five years?! Christine could barely conceive a moment of such barbaric cruelty – and to a child? With a gentle sweep of her fingertips along one of his shoulder blades, she asked, willing her voice not to quiver with tears, "And is that how you came by these?"

He grimaced. "The majority of them. Those peasants at the gypsy carnival enforced the beliefs that my mother instilled in me – that I was a demon and a monster, unfit for this world of perfect mortals. When my mask was seized from my face, it was always with a motive dark and violent. Once I was put on display, I was jeered at, spit upon, made the target for scraps of food, sometimes rotten – and if I did not perform as Jacov wanted, I was whipped into obedience while the audience watched. For the entirety of my life, I received the same reaction – the fear and the revulsion – until you came along…"

She winced at the callous memory of how she, too, had taken his mask from him unawares…twice.

"You did not scream in fear; nor did you look at me with loathing. Yet I was angered by your thoughtless act and lashed out at you, expecting what I had always received once the mask was ripped away. Horror. Disgust. Ridicule. When none of those reactions came, I grew the slightest bit hopeful that not all was destroyed, that we could somehow again find our footing and you could learn to see the man behind the monster, as I pleaded of you that morning…"

"You told me I must leave, that you were taking me back," she recalled sadly.

"I looked upon your face and saw the tears there, the shine of them on your cheeks and in your eyes ripping furrows inside my heart, and I felt that all was lost." He hung his head, staring at the ground.

She recalled well that terrible feeling of loss.

"When I first came to the theatre," she began softly when he said nothing more, "nearly three weeks before you sang to me in the chapel, I was also laughed at and mocked. Never to the extent you suffered, but being alone in the world at the age of seven and newly orphaned, it was difficult to endure. The ballet rats poked fun at my clothes, at my shy behavior, and at my first wretched attempts to dance. They would point their fingers at me and whisper behind their hands, excluding me from all they did. Meg tried to befriend me a few days later – she never pulled pranks or ridiculed me like the others – but I shied away from her at first, still distrustful, grieving over Papa and being brought to the massive theatre to be with other children who didn't want me there. I was frightened and angry and hurt. I, too, know what it feels to be an outcast, and that has never fully changed."

He gave no response, and she continued, "Throughout the years the other girls came to tolerate me but never accepted me into their circle, only Meg, and especially in this last year their dislike of me grew. I found sanctuary in the chapel and met you there. You were kind to me; you befriended me. You were my Angel of Music, and made me feel worthy. I cried that day I first allowed my curiosity to get the better of me when I removed your mask, but not for the reason you think. I was horrified that I'd hurt you, that I'd become like those other girls and done something so cruel and so spiteful, though to wound was never my intent. But by those horrid names you called me and the way you swore at me, you believed it so. I didn't think you could ever forgive me, you were so furious, and when you said we must return, I was sure I'd lost you."

Had she but known he felt the same despair and for the same reason, she might have drummed up the courage and spoken to him, begged his forgiveness and asked if they could begin anew, instead of remaining mute and following him back above ground like a whipped puppy.

Wishing to dispel the hollow ache relived through the retelling of that dismal morning, Christine again reached for his hand. She felt a surge of soothing warmth when Erik clasped her fingers, bringing them to his cool lips and brushing a kiss there before settling their clasped hands back against his thigh. She slid closer and laid her head against his shoulder.

"What happened after you escaped the carnival?" she dared encourage him to continue, leaving out the part of which they were both aware; that he killed his jailer to do it.

"The gypsies had camped on the outskirts of Paris. Thanks to Madame Giry, who was a bystander at the fair that night, I took refuge beneath the opera house until the furor passed and the gypsy caravan continued on its travels. I then stowed away on a ship and found myself in Rome. It was there, for three years, I gained approval from an elderly architect, a master mason who noted my fascination with the Coliseum as I sketched, and took me under his wing. I had never had anyone take interest in me - had never known such kindness. It disarmed me and I grew lax in my guard. Once again, the removal of my mask destroyed the fragile hope I had resurrected for myself. His daughter was insistent to see my face, which resulted in her death. In terror she fell off a terrace during her desperate attempt to escape me, after she, too, ripped away my mask...and so, once again, I fled to another country."

His bleak confession came in an emotionless voice, though one glance at his taut jaw and the reflexive tightening of his fingers proved apathy a falsehood, its creation only a shield.

"This time, stowing away took me to a distant land, where I was first despised and later, by an absurd stroke of fate, revered, akin to a god." He grew silent for short time, as if his mind rushed forward to what he would say. Incredulously, he shook his head. "How can you listen to all of this and not fear me? Or perhaps you do fear me, as before, and have learned to hide it well."

His words stung. After all they had experienced together, after what she had just professed, such an accusation felt unfair.

"Or perhaps I have undergone more trauma in these last weeks than most people have known in an entire lifetime and have matured to a point that I no longer run, frightened away by darkness."

He released her hand and shot to his feet, spinning around to consider her. "You wish to test that theory, Christine?" His words were sardonic, betraying a hint of desperation. "No, don't answer. I must be mad to so challenge you when to hear my bloody past could be what sends you fleeing from this tent - and history repeats itself once again by my words and through your actions!"

"You told me to go that night! It was only for that reason I went," she defended, angry tears of frustration rimming her eyes. He fiercely looked away and she took a stabilizing breath, forcing a softer tone. "Please, Erik, I can see this upsets you greatly, and maybe it's selfish of me not to let it go - but I want to know what happened to you."

"You have become so courageous; I admit I am astonished by the change. But I wonder how far that bravado can stretch before it breaks…"

His words came pensive, dark and low, sending a shudder along her spine. She would allow him to see none of her dread and regarded him with steady eyes. "Try me."

"I became an assassin. The Masque of the Red Death."

xXx

A/N: And so, Christine has learned the worst of Erik's past - but once she knows the details, can she accept it? And Le Masque has been let loose in 19th century Paris – yikes! (muahaha!) ;-) In my original outline, my plan was never to let him wander from the boundaries of the opera house - but after reading some of your reviews, in the hopes that he would find a way out of doors, I thought why the hell not?! It could be fun, and I'm all for that - and, most importantly, it works for the story. So thank you to those who gave me the germ of the idea... Let me know what you guys think so far and please review!