A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! After the last two angsty chapters, leaving some of you in dismay, here's one with a wee bit more humor – and the introduction of my interpretation of another character loved by many (I think I forgot to mention it in my intro- but this also has aspects of Kay - so maybe should have gone in the book section and not the movie section? lol Oh,well.)… And now…

Chapter III

The door shook in its frame with the force of the banging on the wood. After interminable moments it was awarded relief as it opened. A cloaked fugitive swept past the short, elderly Persian who answered the nocturnal summons.

"Erik," he said with scant surprise, as if having the walls shake with the force of insistent pounding in the dead of night and being barreled past into his home was a commonplace occurrence. And indeed, for this guest, it was. "What a pleasure to see you. Do come inside."

He waved an impatient hand, casting aside all pleasantries, and came straight to the point. "I need a place to stay for a short time, Daroga."

The Phantom's command was thinly veiled as a request. He rubbed a terse hand down the back of his natural hair, oddly absent of a wig. Grabbing the crystal decanter kept there for his sporadic visits, he filled a tumbler with a shot of brandy.

Nadir Khan sighed and shut the door, throwing the lock. "Are you sure you would not care for some spiced almond tea instead?" he carefully phrased his question, eyeing his friend's distraught appearance and trying to gauge the extent of his latest dark mood.

In response Erik tossed the brandy to the back of his throat and poured himself another.

"I take that as a no…"

"I have burned all bridges this time." The Phantom approached a chair, glass in hand, and fell into it, long legs sprawled, his despondent action still somehow managing to display a careless, elegant grace. "I destroyed all that ever mattered. There is no turning back."

Finally catching on to the seriousness of the situation, the Daroga sobered. "Certainly it could not be so bad, never as bad as Persia." His composer-artist friend had a leaning toward the melodramatic, and with the quiet reminder he hoped to help Erik put things in perspective.

The Phantom grimaced at the Daroga's reference to one of the most harrowing episodes in his life. "I brought down the opera house. It is in ruins. I lost the woman of my dreams. She left. With him."

His face twisted with the pain of witnessing her tears of misery, with a surge of anger at himself for ordering her to go – and at her fickle heart for initially leaving.

Later, he had stood just inside the draped tapestry of the mirror, battling the strong impulse to retrace his steps to where she stood and surrender to whatever she asked, to seize the pleasure of a kiss he'd so callously thwarted, never once believing such bliss could be his to possess. Hopelessly resigned to take whatever crumbs she would toss his way, even with the suspicion that their reconciliation would not be long lasting, he had been tempted. Knowing that in the end, she would only leave him again; it was inevitable. Only the slow sound of her footsteps crunching over glass and fading into the distance had brought him to his senses and steeled his resolve to move in the other direction.

Erik finished his drink with one brutal snap of his wrist and swiftly rose to his feet, hurling the empty glass at the hearth with a growl. He felt uncertain if he was more incensed with his wretched, battered heart for almost giving in, to play the cycle all over again, or for shirking from further abuse and leaving her there.

"Feel free to dispense with the stemware. I have plenty to go around."

The Phantom narrowed his reddened eyes. "You always led me to believe you were a man of compassion."

"I understood that compassion is a trait you have no time for."

"How astute of you to remind me. I left my lasso behind, but I could make biscuits flavored with arsenic to go with your tea," the Phantom countered dryly. "Since you enjoy the taste of almond so well."

"It sounds to me as if you have accomplished enough mayhem for one night's work."

The Phantom sighed, dropping his body back to the chair and his head into his hands.

"What have I done…?" he whispered.

The Daroga leaned forward, taking pity on him. "Tell me, my friend."

There were few people the Phantom trusted and never entirely, but the Daroga, once the chief of police at the Shah's palace, was on that short list. Ten years ago, the Persian helped him escape certain death. At least twenty years his senior, their association had been forced by necessity, the Daroga having had his share of blood on his hands, first due to fealty and later in rebellion of a sadistic ruler.

Though he often threatened the Persian when angered, the Daroga was one of three people the Phantom would never willingly send to an early grave. The second was Madame Giry, who saved him as a child, and like the Daroga, gave him unconditional loyalty, both parties for reasons of their own. And the third, of course, was Christine.

Contrary to Opera Ghost belief, he did not kill for sport or to pass the time when a bad case of ennui took hold. He killed out of necessity with the instinct to survive, wretched beast that he was to desire to live. Piangi had been a mistake, as he told Christine. Buquet, though she had not asked, not only threatened the Phantom's existence with his continual desire to hunt him out and spread false tales, to further rile the masses against the Opera Ghost. But the lecher spied on Christine while in a state of undress, later stalking her in the corridor. His death became paramount as a matter for her protection. But he never meant to maim or kill those wretches whose sole crime had been to enjoy a late night at the opera and see his life's work. So many deaths to add to his number, the sum of which was too numerous to count. Surely he was beyond redemption…

Though an angel, in a state of nervous frailty, had again sought him out, without knowing why.

Oh, Christine...

For the next quarter hour, the Phantom related the tale of the moment all had gone wrong at the Bal Masque to this evening's premiere of Don Juan Triumphant and all the horror that transpired.

"She returned and gave you her ring." The Daroga looked steadily at him in shock upon the conclusion of the bitter tale.

"Immediately to walk away and leave with the boy," the Phantom added testily.

"Only to return hours later and beg to stay. Am I the only one to see the common thread?"

The Phantom frowned. "She betrayed me in the plot of the meddling Vicomte's, allowing herself to be used as bait. I heard the words from her own lips. Her reluctance to comply, her eventual surrender to his plan…"

"And did you not deceive her these many years in the pretext of being her Angel?"

His words mirrored Christine's hurt response. But he was drowning in guilt and did not need more reason to despise his existence.

"You can be extremely wearing on the nerves, Daroga."

"It is one of my many skills. The process of questioning helps to expose the facts. Most helpful in my line of work."

"You are ten years retired."

"One never forgets these things." The Daroga took a sip of his steaming tea. "What interests me most is that ring. Do you still have it by chance?"

With a grimace, the Phantom pulled the token from inside his waistband where it fit snugly, the facets pressing painfully into his skin as a cold reminder. He took one dark look at it and handed it over.

The Persian's eyes widened at the extravagant display of diamonds. "She gave you this, after you stole it from around her neck at the Bal Masque, then later returned it to her?"

"Is that so unusual?" the Phantom barked and in a fit of restless energy, returned to the table to pour himself a third drink, hoping the alcohol would numb his mind and make him forget. "It became for me a symbol of the ring I wished to present to her, for what I hoped would be our wedding." He let out a humorless chuckle. "She returned it to me and left."

"She returned to you the ring given to her by the man to whom she is affianced?"

Erik grunted. "You are making a titanic commotion out of nothing."

"It rather does sound like an opera. How I detest such spectacles. I don't know why the silly plays grew to be so popular."

"I could easily create a trapdoor for you through which to disappear," the Phantom groused, as if ticking off his options.

"There is one matter you seem to be overlooking in all this," Nadir said, ignoring the wry threat. "Of course, due to your highly acclaimed genius, I blame your distressed state and the brandy."

The Phantom scowled. "And that is?"

"Despite all of what happened, she came back."

"I am well aware of that fact – did I not tell you moments ago? But for how long would it have lasted this time? A day? A week?" He shook his head in disgust. "It no longer matters. Whatever we had – or would have had – is over. She will eventually return to that boy if she has not done so already. It is inevitable. She is a child in logic, who does not know what she wants, and I was a fool to ever think it could have been me."

The Daroga said nothing, watching as his unhappy friend picked up the bottle and strode toward the guest room. The sound of the door slamming made clear the discussion was over. He was accustomed to Erik's short outbursts and foul temperament, his moods erratic, swinging one way then immediately another. But in this, his tormented friend had just cause.

The news of the Opera House's demise and Erik's part in it, while certainly tragic, did not unduly surprise or shock Nadir. The events of Persia, especially those leading to their escape from the Shah, were far worse.

It was a pity such calamity had befallen Paris and those who had visited the Opera that night. Nadir thought back to the day when Erik, a young man he then presumed to be in his early twenties, had visited him with a look of hope in his eyes he had never before witnessed, his words tentative but encouraging, about an enchanting little girl he'd seen in the chapel and her gentle pleas for an Angel of Music to come visit her. His admittance had followed, that he had pitied the child and answered her through the walls, marveling over the curious warmth he felt in his chest at seeing her great happiness in her bright smile. A novelty for Erik, to give someone pleasure and not pain.

"What else was I to do, Daroga? I could not disappoint her, when she begged me to visit her again. How many have wished for my company in this world?"

Nadir said little, knowing there was nothing he could say to change Erik's mind and little he could do to prevent such a future from unfolding. He had seen a remarkable change come over his friend when he became Angel to a lonely child. Of course Nadir had been somewhat concerned by the devious ploy but chose not to speak, grateful to see Erik turn his masked face away from the macabre and give outlet to one of his more rewarding skills, his music. He had known Erik only a short time while in Persia, the young court magician's genius in herbs and illusory tricks of the mind giving Nadir's terminally ill son a more peaceful death, at his behest. Later, in his official rank as the Daroga, Nadir helped Erik evade the entire palace guard. With no familial ties to bind him and his own life in jeopardy as a traitor to the Shah for helping in the escape, he left his homeland behind and journeyed with Erik to France.

Death had been the driving force to bring them together, but how Nadir Khan wished for life for his friend.

After the cataclysmic horror and bitter remorse he experienced with regard to Persia, which Erik never spoke of but Nadir sensed haunted him, his association with the child Christine brought purpose to his life and teaching her had given him pleasure. On the rare occasion Erik would visit, Nadir had been stunned by the positive change in his outlook, which all too soon became an obsession to have her as his own once she blossomed into a woman. During his last infrequent visit with Erik, Nadir warned him not to pursue – since she had never yet seen him to know he was a man and not a celestial creature. Erik had stormed out of Nadir's flat with a few cutting words and remained distant - until tonight, when he arrived in a state of emotional collapse.

Nadir did not know Christine Daaé, having seen her only once from afar. Yet if her heart was as conflicted as Erik claimed, it would be wisest if she kept far from her former voice instructor. The two had almost destroyed each other, and he had no wish to see his friend's heart again shatter and watch him draw further into himself in becoming a ghost. If fate had truly designed the paths of these two miserable, lonely souls to one day cross and parallel, as Erik vehemently claimed months ago, then so be it. But at this juncture of their lives, Nadir could not foresee anything prosperous coming out of their union.

Erik would be livid if he learned the Daroga interfered, and he questioned his wisdom to intrude into the life of a man so tormented and feared in Persia he had been called the Mask of Death. But perhaps a note to this Madame Giry was in order…

x

For three days the Phantom closed himself up in the guest room in a masochistic orgy of drinking, cursing and lament, the entirety of his thoughts revolving around the loss of his Angel. Powerless to resist, she had come back to him – again. Acting with malice, he had forced her away – again. A game of deceit and heartache in a cycle that was never ending. He barely slept and never ate, wishing he could cut out his bleeding heart. Only then did he believe this throbbing pain would cease, for he would be dead and unable to feel.

How could he exist without Christine in his life? She had given him a reason to live, extending toward him companionship, respect, affection…

And a kiss.

Never in his life had he known the touch of lips on flesh, and had not expected the extent of awe and passion that had shaken him to the core when her lips pressed so deliberately against his. No matter that her approach had been self-sacrificial, he had felt her own surprise in their kiss, which then led to one deeper and even more soul-shattering. He could have taken her, yes, and she would have gone with him, either time.

He could have had her in his bed and made her his by forcing all of her recurrent fears to yield to the fire that burned within passion. A feeling shared, the extent of which she was still unaware but could no longer deny. Both of them innocents to the act, but both inherent to the heat that raced through the blood when with one another.

He had seen enough through his eavesdropping to know that she did not feel the same desperate urges when with that milksop of a boy…

But later, once the rapture faded, she would have come to hate him for his treachery. It had been a kiss freely given, but the demand of more from a monster had been unconscionable. He had never planned to tarnish his Angel, aware of her deep-seated beliefs, intending that a priest should bind them. But she did not want to be shackled to a beast - had he not heard her on the rooftop? Beauty sought after beauty. Regret and unease would have soon filled her inconstant heart, as it often did these last months, until she could bear no more, and she would have left him unaware, to return to that wretched boy.

And that surely would have dealt the killing blow.

Yet, for all that, it was not Christine's failure to commit her life to a monster that broke his resolve to claim her…

At the distant beat of drums and the roar of the mob calling out for the Phantom's blood, he came to realize he could not force upon her a role in the wretched future that should be his alone to bear. In an atypical move, he conceded defeat and wished her well in her future as a wealthy Vicomtesse.

Now he cursed his attempt to be merciful and strode out of the room in a foul temper.

The Daroga sat in the breakfast nook, eyes widening in surprise. "A pleasant afternoon, my ghostly friend. I had begun to think you would never come out for air. But in recalling your former home, I suppose you are accustomed to a tomb-like existence."

The Phantom scowled at the man's disgusting cheerfulness. "Is that the L'Époque?" He snatched the newspaper from the Daroga's hands and hastily riffled through it, scanning the captions in the society pages.

"I see that you're in your usual delightful mood today."

"Nothing," Erik bit out, ignoring him. "Not one word in four days! What are they waiting for? A bloody invitation to the French court? Why is there no announcement of her engagement to the fool?"

"Why indeed," the Daroga said thoughtfully. "Would you care for some luncheon?"

"Brandy. I need more brandy." The slam of the guest room door enunciated the statement.

After three more days of this forced extraction from life, Nadir had had enough, but neither was he a fool. Should he barge into the room or take Erik by surprise, by intent or by accident, (a feat he long ago reckoned an impossibility), he would likely find his thick neck with the Phantom's hands wrapped around it or any other device that allowed for strangulation. The cummerbund of the costume he still wore for instance…

Humming to himself, he picked up a wooden reed and began to play. He never made it to the second stanza of his impromptu song.

"What the devil is that noise?" The Phantom growled, lurching out of his dark tomb, his hands clutching his head in agony.

"I thought to pass the time and play something I composed."

"Spare me the attempt. It sounds like a screeching rat with influenza."

"Have you ever heard a screeching rat with influenza?"

"Sometimes I despise you, Daroga."

"Nothing out of the ordinary then? Have some tea, my friend. It is newly brewed."

"I need more brandy."

"You drank every drop in every bottle, and I am not going out into the rain for more."

The Phantom slumped to a chair. "I am undone." He dropped his masked face into his hands. No matter his state of sobriety, which was moot since he arrived, he had managed to keep the porcelain covering affixed to the right side of his face. "Why is there no damnable word yet?"

"Are you not more concerned with the investigation to catch the – what was it the newspaper said…?" Nadir pulled it closer and looked over the front page through his moon spectacles. "'…Ah, yes. The highly dangerous and most licentious Phantom of the Opera?'"

Erik waved a hand. "I have been running and hiding the entirety of my life. I find I hardly care anymore. What I cannot tolerate is the wait to hear of Christine's plans – why the devil is there no announcement? What are they waiting for? At least, once the wretched notice is in print, I can then move on to the next stage of this infernal misery."

"You have the design of your misery planned?"

"Your silence would be greatly advised at this time, Daroga."

"You truly are a pitiful sight, Erik."

At the sudden and violent flash of blue-green eyes, Nadir proceeded more cautiously, aware he was indeed pushing too hard. He did not want to rouse his friend's mercurial wrath, but could no longer endure seeing him wallow in such abject despair either.

"You need a bath. You need to eat a true meal that is not composed of liquid sedative from a bottle. And you need a shave."

"Yes, am I not a pretty creature?" the Phantom sneered. "With a face like this, what does it matter if I have whiskers sprouting from my jaw?"

"I could always throw you into the bath with your clothes on. The way you've been weaving, you would have no strength to resist and the clothes would then be laundered."

The Phantom gave a weak laugh. "Bear in mind, I need no lasso to accomplish the task."

"But if you kill me, who then will be audience to your great design of misery?"

It took five more days and countless empty threats before the Phantom succumbed, still no wiser to Christine's status. The dark humor and wry banter he and the Daroga habitually shared over the last decade, ever since coming to France, helped to sharpen his wits and alleviate his black mood and dismal state, though it did not obliterate it entirely. Only one incident could do that, and he lost the chance when he pushed Christine away. It mattered little that he had been the one to leave the final time; the results were the same. She was gone from his life. And the absence of her presence was impossible to bear.

Once water, soap, and decent food returned him as close as he would ever approach the tenets of acceptable humanity, it took another full week for the Phantom to make a decision on what course to take with the rubbish he'd made of his life. He had amassed a small fortune from the managers in the last decade he haunted the theatre as Opera Ghost. Hell, if he wanted to, he could purchase a title, since the possession of one garnered respect from all who heard it. He decided in the end that his imminent departure from Paris would be wise, and a tour throughout Europe might stir ideas for what he wished to accomplish. The Daroga refused compensation, insulted at the very idea, so Erik did what any self-reliant Phantom who scorned charity would do. He stuffed a wad of franc notes in a vase of the guest room for his friend to find later.

Two weeks had elapsed since the night of the fire. One more order of business must be accomplished before leaving this wretched city, and he was most interested to hear what his former aide had to say…

xXx