Chapter Text

Prologue

Chelle Countryside outside of Paris, 1907

Christine de Chagny clutched her son’s hand tight in her own as they crept along the corridors of Chateau de Chagny. Smoke hung heavy in the air with the menacing, rippling, glow of reds and oranges as the estate bore an unnerving semblance to hell. But this was hell. The invaders of her home were the demons, with some mysterious devil pulling their chains. They were vile creatures whose modus operandi here was enough to leave anyone paralyzed with fear.

Raoul and most, if not all their staff, lay dead. Because of these men. These trespassers who would destroy everything to get whatever it was they sought. It was something even she could not comprehend. Not to its fullest extent. These men thought she would be easy to break, and that she would crumple under the heat of their eyes and the weight of their fists.

It might have broken down anyone in her position. The pampered wife of the Comte surely would not have any nerve to resist their abuses.

However, most wives did not have a history in the terrifying as she did. They were not haunted by the Phantoms in their past. They did not know the pain in her heart that she suffered when she looked into the eyes of her son. They did not know the strength it gave her, every single day.

It took all her nerve and guile to keep silent as she led Charles through the smoking mazes of their home. Dampened scarves covered their noses and mouths, slowing the progress of the toxic fumes into their lungs. They should try to duck beneath it, she knew. Yet, time was not their friend. Not right now.

As they neared Raoul’s study, Christine glanced back to ensure they were alone while heavy footfalls and angry voices permeated through the halls in their shouting. Satisfied they were not immediately followed; Christine ushered her son inside. There, she locked the door behind them, for what little good a simple lock could offer against their captors.

“Maman,” Charles whispered in hushed terror.

“I know, I know, my Angel,” she spoke softly as she searched the boxes on the shelves until she found the one she wanted. “We are leaving, and let us hope they won’t notice us the moment we go outside that window.” From that box, she drew out the small leather pouch within.

Charles in turn, looked towards the single window and went to flip its locks.

Before he could open it, Christine was behind him with a hand on his shoulder. “Wait,” she said softly, as she peered beyond the clouding panes. None of the demons, in the guise of men, were in sight. However, their horses were there, unfazed by the growing fire raging in the chateau. How many fires had they seen in their service to such cruel masters?

She tore off the bulk of her dress, namely the skirts that would only slow her. Decency be damned. Christine wore enough layers of undergarments that there was no real concern of showing too much.

“That one,” she said, pointing to the nearest equine of dark coloring. “We run for that one, as fast as we can on a count of three, okay?”

Charles nodded, “Yes, Maman.”

“One,” Christine said as she placed her hand on the window frame. “Two,” she slid it up and open. They both took a steadying breath, “Three.”

Charles flew out first, dropping the meter to the ground, and sprinted towards their chosen escape. Christine was not far behind, running barefoot across the gravel. When they reached the horse, she gave Charles a small leg-up as he struggled to scurry up the saddle. The stirrup was too high for him. It even was too high for her to make proper use of, however, the surging energy pumping through her core allowed Christine to overcome the obstacle as she found herself atop the horse, her son before her.

Christine grasped the reins and her feet found the stirrups as she gave the horse a strong kick against its flanks which sent them flying, galloping towards the closest tree line.

It was only as they crossed into the cover of trees that shouts rang out behind them, and gunfire quaked the air like thunder.

Christine leaned forward, forcing Charles to lay along the horse’s withers as they clutched its mane. She dared not look ahead. Rather, she trusted their mount to not careen them to their collective deaths as she urged the creature onward and, hopefully, beyond the grasp of those who would do them harm.

It did not matter where they went. That could be sorted out later. No, they just needed to be free of immediate threat.

Hunted

Charles did not know how long they rode or how far they traveled until they came to a stop in the heart of a forest. They were finally able to sit upright after gunshots had not thundered the air for some time now. Their pursuers seemed to have been lost, but that did little to quell the pounding in his chest and his frightened panting for air.

As he looked around the labyrinth of trees, darkening with the fall of twilight as fiery as the flames that burned his home, nothing seemed familiar. The trees around them were old, ancient even, with gnarled branches taking on strange shapes and angles in their reach for choked sunlight. Not that there was any living foliage to soak in light, as winter had long since dried and withered the few leaves that remained bound to their trees. It would take a turn to spring and new growth to purge them from their skeletal branches.

“Maman, where are we?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” Christine murmured as she raked her fingers through his dark hair and kissed the top of his head. “I don’t know… But I think we’re safe, for now.”

Charles clung to her arm as it fell to wrap snugly around his waist again. It was the only comfort available to him.

Easing their horse onward, Christine directed them towards the tree line and a possible clearing in the trees ahead. “Perhaps there is a town nearby, or at least some dwelling where someone can help us.”

They emerged from the forest into a rolling meadow, with a few scattered trees and no hint of civilization. Not a light or single man-made thing was in sight of their eyes, merely a herd of deer that pranced in noiseless flight, appearing above and vanishing below the hills until they disappeared in the forest.

The cause of their retreat became clear when a shadowy figure wrapped in a cloak and a brimmed fedora crested one of the hills. The mount was massive, with a flowing mane and a tail with hairy fetlocks. Both Christine and Charles were startled at the presence of the other, who stiffened a moment before moving to ride away.

“Wait! Monsieur, please! We need help!” Christine called.

The other figure’s back was turned to them. The mount pawed impatiently at the ground, ready to run. When the figure looked back towards them, the horse abruptly reared up enough to pop its front hooves around to face them before the rider and equine approached in a brisk trot

Charles heard and felt his mother suck in a relieved sigh; until the other spoke. Then, her breath hitched.

“Christine…” spoke the other, his voice rich and warm, but collected.

“Erik,” she choked out a response, full of relief, although Charles heard her tears as her hand flew up to her mouth.

The boy craned his neck to glance between them and shrunk back against Christine as he saw the black mask beneath the shadow of the fedora, with the glint of glowing yellow eyes.

Before another word pierced the air between them, gruff voices drifted from the forest. Christine stiffened, and Charles clutched their horse’s mane tight in his fingers while trying not to whimper his fear in the presence of ‘Erik.’

“Please, Erik. They killed Raoul. They’ve burned our home. They mean to kill us,” Christine tried to summon the words to inform him of their situation.

“They are following you?” asked Erik as he looked to the forest where the voices came and grew in volume.

“Yes,” she nodded.

“How many?”

“I’m not sure. There were at least eight when we escaped, but I think there were more.”

Erik looked between them and the forest. “Go down the hill until you reach the creek. Get in the water and go upstream until you reach the old willow. I will meet you there.”

Christine could barely offer a nod before Erik and his horse charged up the hill toward the forest and the voices. In turn, mother and son took off across the rolling hills which descended in a gentle slope to the creek that Erik mentioned. They broke right when they hit the water and traveled upstream, their horse sloshing through the water and making a terrible raucous.

For as much noise as splashing water made, it was not enough to drown out the sounds of terrified screams, or the rapport of gunfire thundering the air.

Would this Erik even make it to them?

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

They were the seven who gave pursuit. For a near twenty-seven kilometers of weaving through the forests and fields of the countryside skirting around Paris, they’d managed to track the Comtesse and the whelp into the growing night. It was mind-blowing how a pampered lady of class managed to evade them so long, and with some measure of skill. She should never have even made it out of the chateau. But to manage such an escape and not get immediately caught was enough to make Marcel want to end her life the moment they caught up to her.

They would find her and the kid, it was only a matter of time. She could not run forever.

When Marcel heard the sound of thundering hooves, multiple sets, he raised a fist to still the others. When they stopped, their horses chomped at their bits and hooves stomped at the hard ground. While there was no snow to be seen, the ground frozen in the cold that was readily strengthening its hold as the sun fell below the horizon.

The woman and child would surely freeze, or at least be slowed by the chill and lack of sufficient clothing. Especially the Comtesse, who had shed her dress.

Whispers caught his attention in their attempt for silence with the uncooperative beasts they rode.

“Shh darling,” came the hushed whisper of the Comtesse de Chagny from somewhere ahead, but close. “They won’t find us here.”

Marcel smirked and motioned his men to move ahead to seek out their targets.

Seeing a riderless horse wandering through the forest, backlit by the fiery hues of reds to yellows in the sky through the dead trees of winter, turned Marcel’s smirk into a dark smile. The animal, which lipped at the dead twigs of a bush now, seemed bigger than he recalled of Yves’s stolen horse.

It was probably lighting playing tricks on him. Surely.

“But Maman,” whined the child, “What about the Ghost? They say this forest is haunted.”

As they moved ahead, they saw a form hunched over in a dense cluster of dense trees. While the chilled breeze flowed through the forest, the form trembled from the cool.

“There’s no such thing darling. Ghosts don’t exist.” Her voice came from the trembling form.

Got you…

Not wanting to alert the Comtesse to their presence just yet, Marcel slid off his mount, and the riderless horse nickered and trotted towards the clearing. No matter. Fetching a stolen horse was not his priority.

Marcel tried to keep quiet amongst the deadfall of leaves and twigs snapping and crackling beneath his feet. But as he neared the hunched form, still trembling, a frown pulled the corners of his mouth down.

“Ghosts aren’t real, darling,” she continued, even as Marcel’s hand fell to the black cloak that he pulled off a lifeless bush. “They’re just figments of our imagination,” the voice of the Comtesse was now behind them, morphing into something else. Something that made every hair on his body stand on end as he slowly walked back towards the others, including Gaston, Henri, and Louis.

Gaston was the furthest from away, and he swayed in his saddle as though he were about to faint, “Ston?” Marcel called him by his nickname.

“There is no such thing as ghosts,” the voice said, emanating from somewhere near Gaston. “Ghosts only come out when fear takes root,” the voice transformed into that of a dark, masculine tone that sent a shiver through him.

With a snap from somewhere above, the glassy-eyed Gaston fell from his horse, dead, the ivory handle of Gaston’s dagger sticking out of his back.

“What the h—” before Marcel could finish, Henri gave a cry.

Henri grasped at his neck as a rope lifted him from his saddle to the branches of the tree closest to him.

“Hold on!” shouted Louis as he went to Henri and tried to lift him above the pull of the rope around his neck. His efforts were in vain. Henri was pulled higher as a long black form slid down onto the horse behind Louis. In a blur, Louis’s horse was cantering away and two men hung from either side of the same rope. Their mutual struggles only tightened the slipknots around their throats.

Marcel watched, stunned as the shadow melted into darkness, even as the other three men scrambled to save their hanging comrades. The cloak slipped from his fingers as he darted back to his horse and swung up onto the saddle.

Henri and Louis’s frantic legs swung uselessly as they clawed at the rope above them, trying to pull themselves up. Oliviér went towards them, knife in hand to cut them free, until the shadow appeared beside him. The horrified scream that tore from Oliviér’s throat was haunting as he slashed at the figure.

Emil drew his revolver, trying to take aim at the forest wraith.

That creature of the night evaded Oliviér’s slashes and caught the hand welding that knife. With a startling twist of the wrist and arm, Oliviér was pulled from the horse that trotted away— wanting no part of whatever was happening.

His free hand hovering over the firing hammer, ready for the quick cock between rounds, Emil began firing off three rounds.

It was too late for Oliviér however, as the Wraith commandeered the knife and plunged it into his heart. It was Oliviér who took the bullets from Emil when the Wraith positioned his body between them. If the stab wound did not kill him outright, the bullets finished him.

When the knife was pulled from Oliviér’s chest, his body fell to the ground. As Marcel, Emil, and Pepin gazed upon their tormentor, the trees all around them began laughing in a sick, twisted way.

As frightening as the laughter echoing around them was, bouncing between the trees and inside their very ears, it was nothing compared to the horrid sight before them. Death’s head. It possessed dark sockets in the place of eyes, yellow embers burning within. Where the skin was tight and thin over the high protruding cheekbones, it seemed to melt down over hallowed cheeks. The fading light cast across a small thin nose cast shadows in such a manner that it was as though there was an open cavity in its place. Even the thin flesh on that Wraith’s forehead was twisted into withering grooves of decay. The mouth was almost normal by comparison, with the lips contorting in a vile grin, and the flesh of the upper lip was stretched more to the right of his face.

It was vile. A thing of nightmares. But rather than kill it, they sat there frozen in horror, too stunned to move, with the trees still laughing at them.

Whether the thing before them was a man or a phantom mattered little. It had just taken out four of their party, in less than ninety seconds.

When Emil dared to raise his revolver to the creature again, it proved to be his undoing as Oliviér’s knife flew through the air until it was embedded into Emil’s jugular. He slumped off to the side and fell, choking on his own blood and loss of air.

Five in under two minutes.

Whether in terror or good sense, Pepin and Marcel turned their horses and raced towards the clearing.

A sharp whistle pierced the air in their flight, the riderless horse trotting past them and towards the summons.

Behind them, the Phantom replaced his mask and cloak, then swung up onto the back of his Friesian in a fluid movement and pursued the remaining two men.

The misfortune came as Marcel and Pepin caught a glimpse of a woman and child riding upstream a half second before they went into another distant tree line.

Chapter Text

Grave Implications

Traversing water was both a blessing and a curse. Its steady flow washed away scent and trackable trails left by hoof-falls. But for as beneficial as these aspects were, that flow of water slowed the progression of those very same hooves. Their mount marched through the cold liquid with sloshes piercing the air in percussive discourse. Perhaps it was not as loud as a pistol’s clap, but it did not dissipate in the same veracity. It continued, lingering in the air with every stride of the horse.

Strange instruction for a Phantom to give them. However, Christine knew his full reason was not so much about creating sound, but rather leaving a lasting trail. All she could do now was trust him and his doubtless knowledge of just where they were. After all, Erik was not the one who fled into the wilderness without maintaining some measure of direction.

Even over the sound of icy water spraying the air, she heard the screams. Faint and distant, but there nonetheless. As gunshots rumbled through still air and blackening night, Christine prayed none of them would find purchase in him.

Please not Erik too. Erik who she had not seen in a decade. Erik who so willingly came to her aid, even if he believed he had every reason to abandon her.

“I love you, Christine. I always will,” his last words to her back then still rang true now.

Come back to me, Christine willed the thought into the universe as she and Charles turned a sharp bend, deeper into the woods.

Erik bought them time. But as she caught sight of two mounted figures reaching the creek from the corner of her eye, Christine knew it was not enough. It was only a fleeting second of a sightline between her and the others before the trees cut between them, but it was enough for them to catch sight of her and turn down the passage in pursuit alongside the creek.

The pair had no reason to try to conceal their presence with water and easily began closing the distance.

Fear rose again, blossoming within her breast and gripping her core in a far too familiar chill of icy tendrils. Too many times had she felt this anxiety welling within her, today worst of all. As she followed the winding creek, trying to follow his instructions, the others continued to draw closer. It was coming down to the point where Christine would have to steer them from the creek bed just to slow their progress on her and Charles. Until she saw it.

A full-bodied conifer lay over the creek, blocking them from continuing onward. Christine had no choice but to sit back and pull on the reigns until they came to an abrupt halt. Although much of the conifer’s foliage was browned and dead, there was enough green left to believe this was a fresh fall.

What horrible timing.

She scanned either side of it and the neighboring fauna, finding it too dense to travel through on horse.

“Maman?” Charles’s small voice reflected her own growing panic.

Keeping her head clear was getting ever harder.

Christine glanced back to see the men closing in, each with a raised hand towards her. Her eyes widened from the implication, taking Charles down with her as she slipped off the side of the horse just before shots thundered again.

Their horse screamed and Christine stumbled back towards the tree. Holding Charles to her, the currents of water pushed the back of her knees towards the equine as it reared up and fell back towards them. They did not have the chance to completely evade the fall of a dying horse, but at least they would not be crushed.

With every ounce of strength that she had, and with meager purchase on the sharp wet stones beneath her bare feet, she threw herself and Charles back into the branches of the tree and fully submerged under water for a few seconds. Pain tore through her right leg as the horse’s shoulder landed on her, pinning her foreleg beneath its weight.

A cry barely escaped Christine as she managed to sit up enough to break surface and gasp for air, but the cold of the water was a shock to the system and made it harder.

Charles squirmed beside her, “Maman!” His voice was blessedly clear of any ailment apart from abject fear.

Christine continued straining for sufficient breath and tried to pull herself free, only to succumb to pain with another cry.

Sweet Charles managed to find footing, hooking his arm with hers and pulling. Together, they struggled to break free, to no avail. They were trembling as the cold of the water and the night sank deep into their bones. “Go…hide Angel, under the tree. Run if you have to. Erik will find you.” If he was still alive…

Charles shook his head, glancing back to the men, their laughter echoing off the trees. Instead, he sat behind her, helping her keep her head above the water.

Then, as if by magic, he appeared.

Upon his majestic horse as black as the night around them, Erik broke from the forest to become the wall between mother and child and those who would harm them.

“You!” one of the men exclaimed, as their horses skid to an abrupt halt. “How–?”

“You cannot be rid of me so easily, Monsieur!” Erik’s sonorous voice echoed around them. “Your companions extend their grave invitations to you!”

“We have no qualms with you! Be gone, and we’ll spare your life!”

Erik allowed his voice to come just from him. “You speak as though you are not my prey,” came that growl, a tone that marked him as the Angel of Death.

Both men leveled their pistols towards Erik, and he flicked his arm towards them. Sparks and smoke dazzled the air in a brilliant radiance that was blinding to the unprepared. The guns went off, while the garish display shattered the night vision of all who were not expecting it. Even Christine could not discern what happened next, as all she could do was listen to the ensuing scuffle of men and horses. Then, the guttural cry of one, and soon, the gasping of another.

Neither voice was Erik’s.

Thank God.

As her vision began to return, she saw Erik sprinting towards her with two facedown bodies floating in his wake. He led one of the men’s horses by the reigns to them and quickly discarded his cloak and jacket on dry land before he joined her and Charles in the water. “Christine.” She struggled to focus on him as he called her name.

So…tired.

“Christine, where?” Erik coaxed.

“L–leg,” she shivered and felt his hands unapologetically slide down her body. When he found where she was pinned, she dimly felt him paw at the debris around her.

As consciousness began pulling at her eyelids, she became less aware of what transpired around her, only their voices hovering over her, just out of reach. She heard Erik’s throaty cry of determination as the weight was lifted from her leg, and Charles pulled her back. The pain was blinding and darkness quickly consumed her.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Erik’s home was not far. A mere fifteen minutes at a rapid pace. He held Christine tight against him for the journey. The boy, Charles, kept pace on a horse that just lost its last owner. They rode in silence and remained that way up until they reached the confines of his home. Inside, Erik laid Christine out on the floor, before the hearth of his music room that served as the parlor.

He started a fire and fed it numerous logs to consume and generate ample heat quickly. “Sit here,” he directed the boy, who was viciously shivering, although he was wrapped in Erik’s coat.

Charles numbly obeyed, sitting on the bricks by the fire, with eyes remaining downcast.

Satisfied that soon the boy and Christine would start warming, Erik ensured his doors to the outside were bolted before ascending the stairs two at a time to fetch supplies. Clothing, bandages, medicine, and the few blankets he owned— he did live alone after all.

When he returned, he handed Charles a nightshirt that would swallow him as there were no other options. “Go strip off everything that is wet, and put this on. If you have cuts and open wounds, you show me. Understood?”

A small nod. “Wh–where?” he shivered.

“Anywhere. Right there if you wish,” Erik glanced at Christine with thinning lips for a moment. “Just keep your back turned until I say otherwise.”

The boy remained compliant as he turned and began stripping down.

Turning his attention to Christine fully, he unwrapped her from his now-soaked cloak and began striping her of every wet thing as well. Not that there was much to take off…

Oh, Christine, he thought, not daring to utter a word in the presence of her son. His eyes only saw her grisly bruises, especially those in concerning places and coloring. Then there were the cuts, some of them deep and strategically placed for pain.

Why would someone hurt her so… hurt them? Glances toward the boy revealed similar injuries and cuts across his body.

 To bring such harm and tortures to a woman and her child was abhorrent. Yet, the world considered him the monster while normal men did this? It was enough to make Erik’s blood boil as brief fantasies came to mind of just how he would make the culprit bleed. It did not matter if it were one or many.

After he stripped Christine bare, Erik pulled a blanket over her chest and another over her abdomen. There was no point in dressing her now, not until he tended the wounds he could, especially the wreck of her leg where much of the skin was marred with cuts and abrasions from the creek bed. It would not be a surprise if her leg was broken, if not shattered.

With Charles now permitted to turn back around, Erik set to work, treating each injury on mother and son over the next several hours. Time was a blur as he went about cleaning, stitching, applying salves, and bandaging. It was only when the worst of the cuts were addressed that Erik succumbed to his own chills. He had been soaked to the bone so long now, that he had to take a few minutes upstairs to change.

Upon his return, he found Charles unmoved while staring blankly at his mother. The sight forced Erik to swallow a dry hard lump in his throat.

The boy was young. Very young. Eight or nine at best. But the child was staring at the growing bruise on his mother’s side. He might not grasp every implication of that bruising, but he knew.

They both knew.

Worst of all, there was absolutely nothing Erik could do to stop what was coming. Only to hope, and in this rare instance, pray for a different outcome.

If it happened before the incident at the creek, they might have a day, perhaps two, but if it occurred at the creek, or it worsened there, they would only have hours.

Erik knew nothing of children. Soothing any mental torment was not something Erik was especially good at, even with himself. There was only music to calm him. But this boy? He needed comfort and consolation, yet Erik had no real experience with either subject until a brief respite with Christine a lifetime ago. Those weeks were bliss, until they ended in torment, again.

As was life. His life.

Erik made his way to the kitchen, where he opened a cupboard and withdrew a jar of broth and another jar of mixed vegetables including beans and starchy tubers. Of course, it would be better with fresher vegetables, which he did have, but it would take longer to cook them down. He combined them in a pot with a few dried herbs that would both add flavor and quiet the mind.

By the time the quick soup was sufficiently hot, Erik added a special tincture to the cup before he poured the broth. If the boy truly suspected what misery was coming, eating was likely not something he wanted. Broth would be a simpler method of getting some sustenance in him, with the tincture.

It took convincing to get the boy to drink it, and once he did, Charles soon fell asleep, lulled to oblivion by numbed pain and a calmed mind. It was not enough to keep him completely sedated by any measure. But, it would allow him some rest unabated, assuming the mental and physical exhaustion that the day spat at the child.

Come one o’clock in the morning, Erik finished treating every external wound and dressed Christine in a fresh set of his night clothes. Only then did he sit back with his spine against the façade of the fireplace to watch both of his guests and fight the gravity of the tears welling in his eyes.

He glanced heavenward, sucking back the sob that wanted to come out. You cannot take her like this. You cannot make her son an orphan.

Chapter Text

Confession

Sunlight slowly pulled her eyelids open to see light streaming through the crack between thick curtains of an unfamiliar room. The soft crackles and pops, coupled with the woody scent of burning logs in radiant heat, spoke of the fire that should warm her. Even as the heat that caressed her right cheek teased the warmth, she remained chilled and shivered in intermittent intervals. Why was she so cold? Why were these flames dancing across dried wood so near to her, but not pushing out the chill she felt so deep?

Christine’s gaze fluttered around the room, finding rather plain furnishings that sparsely populated the space: a side table, a single chair, a sofa that Charles slept on in a shirt much too large, and a blanket pulled over him. Other features that drew her eye into fringing familiarity was the overflowing bookcase in a corner, the violin hanging in a place of reverence, and the baby grand piano.

A grand piano would have swallowed the otherwise small parlor; or was it a music room?

When she lulled her head towards the fire, she flinched at the sight of waving flames which produced a mirage of the chateau burning in the charred logs. The motion sent a cascade of pain and aches coursing down through her body. Every cut and bruise cried a protest at the jostling. But her leg, worst of all, screamed. A pained gasp escaped her, but it was hardly more than a raspy breath.

It was enough to summon him.

Erik appeared with a steaming cup in hand. “Christine,” he spoke softly when he came to kneel at her side.

It was wonderful to hear her name on his lips again, better now without imminent threat upon them. “Erik,” she managed to speak sotto voce, the corners of her mouth weakly tugging upward. “I’ve missed you so…”

His eyes flickered with something she could not read through the eyeholes of his mask. Instead of giving her a response, he slid a hand under her shoulders and eased her up enough to bring the cup to her lips. “Here, this will help with the pain.”

She slowly consumed the deeply herbal broth, but even its heat did not warm her. When it was gone, Erik eased her back down and set the cup aside. With her parched tongue moistened, Christine’s voice grew stronger. “Why is it so cold, why I am so cold…?”

Then, she saw the sadness in his eyes and the shimmer glinting in the light as he took her hand into both of his. His touch was so warm compared to what she came to expect of his normally cold hands. “I know. I know you are… and I cannot fix the cause, Christine.”

She furrowed her brows, “What do you mean?”

Erik was slow to hang his head, his hands trembling and his voice choked. “Christine… you have a bleed inside you. I cannot stop it.”

Tears prickled her eyes, but she needed to hear it from him, “What are you saying?”

A sob escaped him, and she saw the tears trickle out from under his mask. “Unless there is some miracle and it stops…” he paused with an uncontrollable tremble in his chin. “You are dying, Christine.”

It hit her hard, although she knew the words were coming. “Hold me. Please hold me, like you used to.” Erik shifted and carefully pulled her into his arms, which allowed her to grasp and caress the arm that crossed over her waist.

“Christine… who did this to you? Why would they harm you and the boy?”

She clutched his bicep. Speaking of yesterday was furthest from her mind when she had so many important things to tell him, but she knew if Charles was ever to truly be safe again, these people had to be found. “I– I don’t know who they are… or what they want. Only that Comte Philibert owed a debt he never paid before he died. Then, it fell to Philippe, and to Raoul—now,” she whimpered, “now it’s on Charles. They would not just tell us what they wanted… I don’t know why they wouldn’t just tell us what they wanted. They could have asked for everything we had. We would have given it for them to just leave the three of us alone.”

“They would not tell you?” came his incredulous question.

Christine shook her head against his chest. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Erik’s hold around her tightened. “It does not,” he said softly.

“Raoul gave his life for us,” she said softly, clutching his arm still with one hand and petting it with the other. “For Charles. We would not be here if it weren’t for him… I need you to know, Raoul loved Charles so much. He loved him so very much as his own, without a second thought. Even after everything.”

“I should expect no less. Most parents would love their offspring in such a manner.”

“No…” she choked as she felt her world growing colder, her heart beating faster, pounding harder in her chest. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to do. Erik was finally back in her life, and now… she would be leaving his. “No…” she wept. “Erik, I…I need you to know… I need you to wake Charles. You both need to know.”

There was only the briefest of pauses as Erik shifted and roused the boy with a gentle shake. Two shakes, and then Erik spoke softly. “Your mother, Charles.”

“Maman! You’re awake!” her son declared and soon burrowed into her arms, causing Erik to shift to accommodate. Pain flared, but she cared not, even though she grimaced.

She held Charles close as she kissed the top of his head, savoring her son’s love and pouring every ounce of her love back into him. Into them. Although Charles took much of her ability to embrace, she would not release her grip on Erik’s arm.

“I need you both to know…” she wept the words. “Charles… you must understand, that Raoul loved you very much. You were every bit a son to him, and he took you as his own… knowing— knowing that you were not his.”

Erik went rigid, while Charles pulled up with confused eyes. “I don’t…” his small voice began before it broke off a moment. “I don’t understand, Maman.”

Christine framed Charles’ cheek, offering the best smile she could. “Erik is your father, Charles. He didn’t know. I never had a chance to tell him.”

She felt Erik tuck his head behind her hair, away from their son, and felt the shudder of his sob more than she heard it.

Charles broke into tears while Christine gripped Erik’s arm, saddened that her world was growing darker still. Colder. “You,” she tugged Erik’s arm until he turned his head back towards her and their son. “You promise me, you will take care of him. There is no one else I trust more…”

“Yes, yes, of course, Christine,” Erik rasped. She never heard his voice so weak and distraught that it pebbled instead of keeping its smooth and clear timbre.

“There are,” speaking was making her winded. “There are… papers for you... In case,” she sucked in a breath, “in case we found you. No one can take him…from you…ever.”

Erik nodded against the top of her hair.

Christine fought the heaviness in her eyes as she hooked her finger under Charles’s chin, to turn his eyes up to hers. They were so full of confusion and fear, while tears streamed down his reddened cheeks. “I know he seems scary,” she flashed him a small, weak smile. “But know this, sweetheart…you are safe with Erik. No one will keep you safer than him. No…one. Be good, Charlie,” she tugged him closer so she could kiss his forehead.

In turn, Charles kissed her cheek and hugged her tight. “I love you, Maman…don’t leave me,” his cry was broken and muffled.

Christine ran weak fingers through Charles’s hair. “I love you…” she whispered, her head lulled back into Erik’s shoulder, looking up into his eyes. With the last of her strength, she lifted her hand to Erik’s masked cheek and coaxed him closer, until their foreheads touched and his shaking hand came up to cradle her bruised cheek. “I love you both…”

The pain in her broken body faded into cold darkness. The only warmth she felt was that of Erik and Charles clinging to her.

The last thing her mind registered was the voice of her Angel of Music singing the most beautiful notes. “Christine, I love you.”

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Ten years may have parted them.

A decade of pain and heartbreak from her walking out of his life to spend her last years with Raoul de Chagny.

But Erik still loved her with every cursed molecule of his being.

To have her life wink out like the last bit of flame on a depleted wick ached as horribly as it would have if they had never parted. Christine should never have died. Not like this. Not from the abuses of vile men who seemed to only want some pitiful excuse as motive for murder. And it was murder. There was no consolation for what transpired; for her life to expire while still so very young.

The grief surging through his being shattered his reality. Even as Erik and the boy wept until their tears ran dry, it was not enough. Would it ever be enough? The love they felt for her might be of different shades between them, but it was no less potent in its gravity. Neither wanted to relinquish their respective holds on her. To do so would mean some level of acceptance that neither wanted. Not yet. Not ever.

Still, Erik was first to release her, after spending God only knew how long cradling her lifeless form in his arms as tight as he could, without hindering Charles’s need to cling to her too. As he carefully laid her down and gently swept her fine-colored hair from her face, Erik could accept her spirit was gone. It flew free of the form that could otherwise trap it.

Be free my Songbird, he thought, trembling as another sob escaped him with fresh tears watering his eyes. Fly high on your golden wings like the Angel you have always been to me.

With that, Erik climbed to his feet and stumbled towards the front door, steadying himself on anything that could bear his weight until he was outside. He slammed the door shut behind him and skipped the three steps of his front stoop in a long stride that took him to yellow grass, still glittering in morning sunlight from the night’s freeze.

Not one, but two guttural screams ripped forth from his throat as he fell to his knees. In those screams of anguish, he managed to expel much of his grief and rage in a manner that achieved some relief that just mere tears and weeping alone could not grant. It allowed the raging storm over the black ocean to calm enough to become only turbulent waters rather than massive swells capable of enveloping a fishing boat into its maw.

The frosted blades of grass melted into wet patches beneath his knees and forelegs as he hunched over, cradling his face in his hands as he struggled to ease ragged breaths into even cycles. In that, Erik wanted nothing more than to rip off his damnable mask if only to wipe away all the moisture that accumulated on his cheeks. However, that was not an option with a child so close.

Charles would have enough nightmares to haunt him from the last day alone. Erik did not need to risk adding to them.

Instead, he looked heavenward at the clear cerulean sky as he allowed himself to sit on his heels and continued to calm the harsh rhythmic swells of his chest and his mind.

Unbeknownst to him, Charles followed Erik outside and watched as the older man struggled to regain control over himself. The boy was slow in his approach to his new guardian, his blood relative. In a slow, tentative extension of his right hand, he touched Erik’s left shoulder with his ring, then middle fingers.

Erik froze at the contact, and when he jerked his head to the boy, Charles’s full hand was resting on his shoulder. Though Erik was never one to fully grasp what he saw in another’s face, he did see the mixture of fear, confusion, and grief in those blue eyes. Christine’s eyes. It was more of a feeling than observation in understanding what the boy needed now, especially in the absence of any other soul within a considerable distance of them.

Turning to the boy more, Erik spread his hands slightly in fretful and silent invitation.

Charles lurched forward and flung his arms around Erik in a fierce, needful embrace.

Erik could not stop his stunned gasp at the sudden and needful contact. Nevertheless, trembling hands encircled his son and held him close as Charles cried into his shoulder.

Before them loomed a new reality they did not expect nor were ready to accept. These were uncharted territories where Erik would have to suddenly become a parent to a child he never knew he had, and Charles gaining a biological parent who was little more than a stranger. The boy would bear the burden of this transition. He would be the one to suffer from Erik’s inexperience and general lack of knowledge for this unexpected new role he had to play.

What did he know of being a parent? It was something he never truly entertained the thought of, beyond a single fleeting fantasy. At least Christine was present in that imagining, and she would know— no, she knew what to do with a child. She had the innate instincts of rearing a child. What did he have? Abuses, torments, with nary a single parental relationship to use as a guide? Erik had no real understanding of such things beyond some mild interest in seeing what other, normal, children had with a loving mother or even a father. It usually only became a path to jealousy of yet another fundamental life experience for which he was denied.

At least, in the absence of any other source for it, Charles sought comfort in him. Erik could at least provide him that.

“I miss her….” Charles whispered, those small fingers clenching and unclenching against Erik’s shirtsleeves.

Erik gave him a small squeeze, briefly wondering if he was doing this right. “I know, and you are not alone in that.”

Chapter Text

Learning to Cope

Charles sat at the kitchen table, numbly staring at his arm as Erik deftly peeled away the stained bandage where blood started to seep through. Although the eccentric masked man, his genetic father, had long since moved his mother’s body elsewhere, he did not want to be in that room for any duration.

In the hours since she died, neither Charles nor Erik really spoke a word. They had barely interacted since the hug outside. It was only for the need of comfort that Charles sought out that embrace. There was no one else to seek out, and Erik seemed equally distraught over her loss. They shared in the emptiness of her absence.

Although Erik’s awkward uncertainty was apparent to any observer, that initial hesitance soon faded. In that embrace, Charles felt himself melt into the comfort and safety it offered. While it was not quite the same warmth as his Mother’s, or the familiarity of the Father he knew,  it was more than enough to ease the tear of anxiety in his weary and lonely spirit. Lastly, his mother spoke no lie when she said he would be safe with Erik; because Charles felt untouchable in those deceptively gaunt arms.

A while after that shared moment, Charles ate what he could of the stew at Erik’s rather stern instance. He was not in the mood to eat anything, just sipping at the broth that had been kept hot on the stove was not enough this time. At least it only took a few bites of beans and potatoes to be left alone on the matter.

But then, Erik gave him tea that left Charles’s eyes so impossibly heavy over the course of the next half hour. When he opened his eyes next, roused by the percussive sounds of the hooves from a cantering horse, he found himself in a room overflowing with books. Beneath him were the cushions from the sofa and a blanket drawn up to his shoulders.

When his eyes drifted to the windows, he caught a glimpse of Erik riding by; returning from somewhere unknown.

Only minutes passed between then and now, where they sat at the table.

“Where did you go?” Charles asked as Erik poured some sort of thickened liquid over the long cut that almost ran the length of his inner forearm. It first stung, then tingled into nothing.

Those strange eyes where those irises lacked pigment glanced up to him from behind the eyeholes of that black mask, but Erik did not lift his head. “I returned the horse you rode to the creek. I cannot keep it here.”

“Why?”

Lips pursed as he gently wiped away the excess ointment, to which Charles felt no pain, only pressure. “Horses are easily tracked. It would not do well to have the property of a dead man housed within my stable.”

“Because of your…mask?”

Erik’s lips thinned further as he switched to a cloth and warm soapy water and carefully began cleaning the wound again. “Yes. Once someone discovers them, authorities will likely try to find their way back here.”

“Then what?”

“You will hide in the basement while I convince them to leave.”

“You have a basement? And how will you convince them to leave?”

“So many questions,” Erik sighed. “There is a hidden basement which I shall show you how to access. As for convincing them,” a small flash of a smile appeared this time, “my secret.”

Charles crinkled his nose as silence fell between them while Erik paused the cleansing to closely inspect the wound further. Though it was not uncomfortable, Charles did not want to spend any time in his own thoughts. “How many followed us?”

Erik paused with another glance, turning his chin upward this time. “There were seven.”

The two floating bodies in the creek after the blinding flash slipped into his mind, then the invitation, from seconds before their deaths.

“They are all…?”

“They are no longer of any concern,” Erik answered, clinically detached from his own words.

Charles swallowed hard, knowing the implication, though Erik seemed to avoid saying it outright. While their deaths were deserved in his eyes, he was not sure how to feel about the notion. Relief that they were gone and some sort of justice for his parents was served, intermingled with guilt for being glad those men were lying dead somewhere.

Erik traded the soapy water for a small crock filled with a thick and sweet-smelling amber substance, beginning to spread the sticky residue over the wound.

“Honey?”

Another small glimpse of a smile. “An old tried and true method to stave off infection while promoting healing if you keep the area and bandages clean, as we are doing now.” Erik finished applying the honey and re-wrapped the wound. After which, he began cleaning up the various bottles and supplies he had on the table by returning them to a square wooden bin that fit numerous medicinal supplies.

As more hours of silence ticked away, Charles spent his time in the kitchen just staring out the window as the world passed by. Rather, it was nature and woodland creatures that wandered the grassy meadow of Erik’s property beyond the glass panes. Deer were a near-constant presence, with the three horses out in the massive pasture that took up much of the clearing to the back of the small two-story house.

Two of the horses were Friesians, as indicated by their silky black fur, wavy manes, tails, and the bit of hair growing around their fetlocks. The third one was white and seemed content to graze on what little grass was available. All seemed content to exist, and Charles envied them for that. Peaceful ignorance of life and its troubles…with its losses.

Erik seemed to keep busy with moving things up on the second floor. What exactly he was doing, Charles did not know or care. It mattered little to him. Nothing seemed to matter now.

But when dusk came, Erik reappeared with the instruction for Charles to dress and meet him outside. Charles did not even mind that his clothes were stained and tattered. At least they were dry and not an oversized nightshirt that might as well be a dress on him.

When Charles did emerge, Erik was in the process of hitching the Friesians to a small tented cart that would only really need one horse to pull it along.

“Where are we going?”

Erik did not pause or waste any fluid motion as he expertly moved around the horses and adjusted any buckle and leather strap as needed. He did not even cast Charles a glance. “Paris. You will need clothing and a place to store it along with a bed. Unless you are fond of a thin cushion on the floor of my library.”

Charles shook his head.

“Among other tasks that can only be addressed Paris, I do believe it is fair to say we are both agreed that your Mother deserves…” he paused long enough to take in a deep inhale, “deserves a proper burial.”

Glancing to the bed of the cart, Charles swallowed against the welling tightness of his throat. Quickly, he turned towards the horses and stroked the velvety nose of the one who bounced his head towards him while nickering playfully.

“That one is Phobos,” Erik spoke from inside the stable, where he was writing out a note on waist high table nestled against a wall opposite the four stalls. “But he answers to Phoe.”

“Like a villain?”

“Yes,” Erik chuckled. “Though, he hardly has the personality to be a fiend.”

Phoe bobbed his head with enthusiasm as he butted Charles with his nose, before just rubbing his face against the boy, particularly around the bridle straps. Charles did not let Phoe’s shoving head deter him. If anything, it made him grin and scratch at everything Phoe wanted scratched with a small giggle.

“Case in point,” Erik commented with a gesture to the eager gelding. “He is friends with most anyone.”

“What is the other one’s name?”

“Deimos. He is not as friendly. It takes time for him to decide if he likes you, and it is best to let him come to you.”

Charles nodded at the stoic equine that was giving him a bit of a side-eye look. “Does he get a nickname too? Is it Dei?”

Erik shrugged and added a bucket to the back corner of the cart before approaching. “Eimos perhaps, on occasion. Dei does not seem to suit him. Most nicknames fail to fit him,” Erik’s eyes flickered over Charles a moment before he added, “Go fetch one of my jackets inside. It is too chill to be without one for three or more hours.”

“Three?”

“Yes, two to get there. Another hour or so more to travel through the city to our destinations.”

Charles grumbled something under his breath, which was a mistake.

Erik’s eyes narrowed, and his tone instantly dropped and sharpened. “Get the jacket now, and I do not care if it swallows you whole. You will wear it until something more suitable is procured. Do I make myself clear?”

His mouth went dry as he shrunk back a bit, “Yes, Monsieur.”

“Then, go get it.”

The boy darted away and hastened his step into the small house, retrieving the same jacket that he used last night before rejoining Erik at the cart. Once there, Erik helped Charles climb up onto the bench seat and took the seat beside him. Already, his demeanor had softened from the authoritative force he had become in a blink.

As they went into the night, Charles came to an understanding.

Life with Erik was going to be interesting.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

When they did reach Paris, Erik was at a terrible crossroads of indecision of how exactly he wanted to proceed. He needed to leave Christine’s body with the mortuary under the cover of darkness. Having her body discovered in his presence was the worst possible scenario. No one would believe a masked fiend would be anything but the murderer of the Comtesse and her husband. Not the rescuer. Not the one who tried to save her life. Only the murderer.

They would lock him up and throw away the key until the day of execution. Likely by guillotine, for France had a strong taste for a beheading. What a spectacle it would be too, bare-faced on the block. The crowd would be fainting before the blade ever fell through his neck. What would they do with his grisly head then? Embalm him in a jar for generations to gawk at the murderer with death’s head? Dissect him out of morbid curiosity of how anyone could be so hideous?

The question was what to do with Charles. It was likely that whoever wanted the de Chagnys dead had eyes on any affiliates. That crossed out Meg Corbin and possibly Nadir. However, Nadir was not much of an option regardless. That man would sooner believe that he killed the de Chagnys for some stupid reason. If not, the incessant questions would grow mind-numbingly annoying faster than an open flame-catching oil.

There was too much he needed to do than to waste time chatting just yet.

Which left three choices. The first and second options were that he either left Charles unsupervised in a rented room, or tucked away in an alley and hope he did not get apprehended in the meantime. The final possibility, was keeping Charles in his direct care while he rendered the locks to the morgue useless. If they were caught, the boy would be in the charge of the Sûreté, for better or worse.

Charles was safest with him, even if Erik somehow was captured for a crime he did not commit.

No one else knew where Charles was. No one else knew where or who Erik was.

Right now, they were almost as invisible as the Phantom of Erik’s past.

There was…the opera of course, with a fortress lying beneath its belly. However, that old abode was the last place Erik wanted to go ever again. Regardless, if he somehow failed to return to Charles, it would be a death sentence for the boy.

Ensuring the hour was sufficiently late and the area was devoid of life, Erik made quick work of picking the lock and ushered his son into the corridor. Then, after locating the appropriate room, Erik moved Christine’s body faster than he ever moved a body before. He had kept her well concealed in the cart, in a manner that would make it difficult to locate her should they have been stopped and searched.

Moving her was both the harder and easier part, in the sense she was over twelve hours deceased and rigor was in full effect.

When he had her safely within the confines of the morgue and placed on a gurney, Erik proceeded to bar Charles from the room but secured him in the corridor. As he looked towards her, her body wrapped in a blanket, Erik pressed his back to the door. Fingers became little more than claws as he shut his eyes and steadied himself.

This is not Christine… She is not here. She is not here.

He had to disassociate from her completely to ensure that her magical appearance came across as nothing less than legitimate, as a last-minute addition. Which meant removing the blanket and covering her with the sheets found within the morgue. Death and the contortions of the flesh that death created did not bother him.

The fact that this was his sweet Christine lying there as still as stone bothered him without measure. He did not want to see her any more than he had already had, but he would do this to protect himself, Charles, and her right to a dignified burial alongside the man she chose to wed. Anything for Christine.

After taking a deep breath and as detached as ever, Erik proceeded to make all the necessary adjustments to her presentation, not once looking at her face.

When he was finished, he permitted Charles’s entrance while he went about forging documentation with his right hand. He listed her as being found on the side of the road between Chateau de Chagny and Paris. The man who found her, a false name of course, attempted to render aid, but she died anyway. It was upon her death that her body was brought here.

All of which were essentially true statements, apart from the identifying information. Any investigation into the name would likely lead to the conclusion that whoever brought her, wanted to remain anonymous. Also true. However, forging the initials and a timestamp on intake documents…well, that would remain blank. Hopefully, there was at least some inadequate employee that was in great habit of forgetting details. If not, well, the police would have more questions than actual leads.

When he finished, Erik looked at his son, standing beside where Christine’s body lay. Charles’s face was long and his eyes pinned to the sheet covering her, looking rather miserable, which was a sentiment that Erik shared completely.

“It is unlikely that you or I can attend her funeral,” Erik said softly. “So, if there is anything you wish to tell her before we leave…”

“Is that what you do?” asked that small voice. “Talk to her body?”

Erik paused as he struggled to summon suitable words to divulge the thought. “Her death is perhaps the first to have…impacted me. While I have not spoken to her body, I have spoken to her spirit, here,” Erik tapped his temple, “as though she is still alive and can…answer my questions, although I know she cannot.”

“She isn’t alive. She can’t hear me. She can’t speak. Nothing.”

“A spirit such as hers does not simply vanish with a last exhale. Her spirit lives on. I have no doubt of that, even if I am not fond of religious connotations. Her memory also lives in you.”

“Still…why talk to her at all?”

Erik pursed his lips. “Charles, I cannot presume to know or understand all aspects of grief, or how others deal with it. What I do know, what I have observed, is that speaking to the body or the grave of the missed one seemed to ease the pain of that loss. I know in conveying my thoughts to her, what I wish I had said or could say, releases it into the universe. The idea that she is listening helps lift the weight of things left unsaid, which is something I think that you need now,” Erik came to stand beside the boy and placed a hand on that small shoulder.

“Speak to her aloud or in silence, in the presence of where she lays, or her spirit whenever you think of her. Allow yourself to release that pain you feel in here,” Erik floated a fist over Charles’s chest between the sternum and diaphragm. “Carrying it with you always is not good for your soul. It will turn to anger if you hold onto it long enough and will mean even more misery for you. Believe me when I say that it is a path you do not want to dwell within. I know this better than most, and it is a form of hell.”

Charles seemed to absorb what was said but remained unmoving and sullen. “I don’t know what to say.”

Erik moved his fist from hovering over Charles, to briefly rest an opened palm on the sheet over Christine’s head. “You start by telling her goodbye.”

Chapter Text

Mystery of Lon LeRoi

It was late morning by the time Inspector Herbert Petrie of the Police Judiciaire found his way to his desk. It was there that his partner, Julien Claudin, was already waiting, clad in one of his deep maroon jackets of a well-tailored suit, and his silver hair perfectly combed. Although Julien was the older man of their duo, he was not losing his hair, only its color. This was something Herbert found himself rather envious of, as his hair behaved quite the opposite; retaining dark shades while thinning faster than a mangy cat.

“We found her,” Julien declared as he raised his hand holding a new file in the air.

“The Comtesse?”

“Yes! However, where we found her is the troubling bit.”

Herbert settled into his chair and pulled up his spectacles from the breast pocket of his charcoal gray jacket, while he took the proffered file. “And where was she?”

“The morgue.”

Herbert frowned, “That isn’t helpful.”

“But this is,” Julien reached over and tugged up the intake form, “it’s forged. Someone broke into the morgue last night to place her there.”

“Odd…” Herbert muttered and looked over the note. “Why go through so much trouble for all this? Afraid to report her death properly?”

“I don’t know,” Julien sat across from Herbert as he spoke. “But whoever this is, he did try to help her.”

“You saw her?”

Julien nodded and sat back while rubbing his arthritic left hand. “I just got back. Whoever is behind this tragedy on the de Chagnys, beat her. The cuts, the bruises. Even her leg seems shattered. All of it was bandaged, and according to the examiner, done well. It was not some amateur who tried to help her.”

“Any sign of the boy?”

“Not yet, but there have been some interesting rumors regarding several bodies coming from a forest near Vaujours.”

“Vaujours,” Herbert repeated, “That’s not terribly far from Chelle.” Which was a commune where Chateau de Chagny sat on the northern outskirts of the border.

“A lot of forests to cover,” Julien commented, “Which is why I sent Michael and Robert to investigate what exactly the local authorities have discovered. Might be nothing, but hopefully it is something. Maybe we’ll discover who this Lon LeRoi fellow is and just how much he knows. If we find him, perhaps we will find the boy too. Alive I hope.”

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

In a rented room of an establishment in the Pigalle neighborhood of Paris, Eduard sat in a chair in the shadowed corner feeling rather satiated for now, as he buttoned his trousers. A pretty slip of girl quickly worked on covering up her smooth skin and wiping the telling residue from her mouth and chest. He rather she kept the evidence of what she was on display, a nice little reminder of her actual worth to the world. It was the only thing she would ever be good for anyway.

When she was only half finished, a knock came at the door, and the mood in the room shifted as someone dared disturb his evening. In a brisk movement, Eduard threw a purse at the girl. “Get out!” he throatily hissed at her.

She gave a small shriek as she fumbled with the satchel and bolted from the room. The pair of men on the other side of the door watched the girl scurry off with slackened jaws. “Nice legs,” one brute commented to the air, as they stepped into the room and shut the door behind them.

“You better have better news for me, gentleman,” Eduard growled from his chair. “I still have only heard of the Comte’s death. This was meant to be a simple little assignment, and yet it has become a massacre of endless failings. I wanted no witnesses. Yet, the Comtesse and the little Vicomte still eludes your men, as though mindless idiots are pursuing them. It will only be a matter of time before she talks to someone and word gets out more than it already has.”

The two men regarded each other nervously. The first of the pair, a tall brute, large in build with meaty hands and a scruffy face, slowly started to explain, “Well you see, we have some good news for you…”

“What would that be?” demanded Eduard.

“The Comtesse, Monsieur. Our informant in the Police Judiciaire has heard that the Comtesse’s body has been discovered in the morgue. This is from the mouths of the lead investigators themselves. Someone named Lon LeRoi put her there.”

“Put her there?”

“Yes. He broke into the morgue and placed her body, sir.”

Eduard furrowed his brow. “Why would this LeRoi even bother with such a thing? It would make more sense to leave her in a gutter somewhere, like she deserves.”

“It would suggest that this LeRoi does not want to speak with authorities,” spoke the second man, of average height and build, and with a deeply olive complexion. The Spaniard. “It is likely a false name as well.”

“Well, I suppose that is a brief benefit; until he decides to spill whatever he knows. Either way, this is getting too messy, Hugo,” Eduard growled as he looked back at the brute. “What of the boy?”

“Still no mention of the kid. But there is also talk that there were bodies found near Vaujours late yesterday,” Hugo answered quickly. “There are more investigators who were sent there this morning.”

“This means what to me?”

The brute grimaced. “I suspect those bodies are my men,” he swallowed hard. “None of them returned after I sent them to get the Comtesse and the brat.”

“Are you suggesting a little Comtesse, a meek singer at best, and a brat took out your men?”

“Well, no… but she did kill two of them before we could even apprehend her to begin with.” Hugo wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. “But— but it could mean she got help from someone. Perhaps it was that LeRoi fellow.”

The Spaniard slid a step away from Hugo.

“Sounds like you need to do better in your recruiting if a woman can take any of them out in the first place! For your sake, Hugo, you should pray that they find the boy’s body out there with them.”

Hugo swallowed.

“You, Tavares. I want you to find out who this LeRoi is and where he living. If he has any connection out towards Vaujours, it should not be hard to undercover. Whether he helped the Comtesse or just delivered her body matters not to me. He needs to be silenced, permanently.”

“I will find out who this person is. You have my word.”

“Good. It’s better than some others,” Eduard shot a pointed glance towards Hugo, who hung his head.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

The scene was a mess to say the very least, and the story unfurled with a considerable amount of backtracking.

The end point was where the investigation began, two bodies in the creek with their throats sliced deep and a pair of living horses with a third deceased in the water. There were numerous tracks to follow, cemented by the near-frozen ground. Of the apparent chase that transpired, there was a count of three galloping horses, with two tracks along the banks of the creek and the third coming out of the woods, halfway between the dead animal and the dead men.

A man of an above-average height and lithe build stood at the heart of the scene. Michael Carriére took in every available detail with light blue eyes, while his short, light brown hair rippled in the chilly breeze. He could almost visualize the end; the dead horse travelling down the creek bed to hide the trail. The pursuers, not caring if they were tracked, gaining ground. Then the interloper, who put a block to the pursuit.

The interloper, who put himself between the fallen fir tree with the dead horse and the pursuers who meant to do greater harm than just killing an equine.

Ahead, Robert Destler, as identified by his dark attire and long brown hair tied back with a black ribbon at the nape of his neck, walked downstream of the creek with eyes cast down. He followed the trail of disturbed gravel and hoof prints left in the mud by their ‘victims’ with sure and precise steps over uneven ground, as he moved without hurry.

Robert was good at his work, among the best even. However, his cool and calculating demeanor was as off-putting as the silky smooth and soft cadence of his voice that did not seem to match his presentation. It was too practiced. Had he been anything other than a fellow investigator of homicide, Michael could almost envision him being something worse than the murderers they hunted.

In turn, Michael focused on the hoof prints that came from the woods and followed them in a more relaxed manner compared to his friend. These tracks were harder to follow through deadfall and rougher terrain, but freshly snapped branches and disturbed leaves made the job a bit easier. It went as straight as the forest would allow of any horse and rider. The strands of long black horse hairs snared on broken branches were a bonus to Michael’s endeavors.

When he emerged, he was in the meadow uphill from the stream, with Robert still in the tree line where five more bodies lay. In the forest, it was harder to envision all that transpired, but in theory, one died from his own knife in the back. Another had a stab to his heart and bullet wounds to his back. The knife used, Michael assumed, was the one nestled in the jugular of the third man. Victims four and five lay together, fatal ligature marks marring their throats. The marks were thin, as though the weapon had been more of a cord than a rope, and it was missing from the scene.

“Nine horses and seven dead riders. I am willing to bet,” Robert observed in his usual mellifluous inflection that was only just projected loud enough for Michael to hear, “that it was the de Chagnys riding the dead horse.” Robert slid to Michael’s side with a look at the messy hoof tracks around the victims. “If we follow the trail long enough, we are bound to find our way to the chateau.”

Michael cast him a wary glance but gave a nod nonetheless. “Agreed. But right now, I am more interested in who is number Nine.”

Robert turned and pointed to a spot in the meadow. “The de Chagnys and number Nine met over there. Pure happenstance too. His horse is a fiery one.”

“Nine decides to help the de Chagnys. Takes out seven men with ease, using their own weapons against them,” Michael shook his head, “apart from one knife and a line of cordage. These men chasing the de Chagnys ran into a damn expert. He came back for the cord at some point after everything.”

“Probably to return a horse as well,” Robert added. “I have a hard time believing three people rode the same horse out of here— if the Comtesse and little Vicomte were together. Nine directed them to the water and the direction.”

“And he knew how exactly to catch up. I don’t think that six and seven were meant to leave this forest alive…”

“There are some good Samaritans out there, but not like this one. We have blood near the dead horse. Do you think it will be enough to track him?” asked Robert, but it was not really a question when they both knew the odds.

“I don’t see the point. We would have better luck trying to figure out where he came from. Even then…” Michael shrugged. “Our best play is to start questioning anyone who lives nearby and to see if we can get a good cast on the hooves of Nine’s horse.”

“It won’t be much.”

“But if it’s unique enough, we can pair it with this,” Michael held up the long horse hairs. “Then we would have one of best leads yet. Perhaps, I can’t imagine that there will be an absence of information from him.”

Chapter Text

Paris

After depositing Christine at the morgue during the night, Erik managed to secure a decent room in a rather deplorable establishment. However, when one wore a mask and the other had bruises on his face, Erik could not exactly blame the more reputable inns for declining a room to the more questionable visitors. Renting space to such persons would likely make their guests feel uncomfortable by the deplorable’s presence alone. What a horrid notion to their precious reputation.

At least Erik was able to secure a kettle of hot water and a buttered baguette with warm ham for Charles to eat while he prepared a special cup of tea to help the boy sleep through the night. The inevitable suffering from the plague of a restless mind would otherwise keep such rest beyond the boy’s reach.

Charles’s mental state was becoming a greater concern, with his inability or resistance to find a suitable outlet for grieving. Although Erik was hardly a source of proper guidance on the matter, he did know what it meant to continue to hold onto such pain. What he could not quite grasp was why Charles did not even wish to bid his mother a farewell. A day had barely passed, it was true, but in consideration of all the torments that the last two days held for the boy, the absence of tears since Christine’s passing that morning was problematic.

It was not just the absence of continued grief for Christine, but…damnably, for Raoul de Chagny as well. While Erik never cared for the man, Christine did… Charles did. In truth, de Chagny was the more suitable arrangement for Christine and the rearing of a child, even if the thought pained Erik’s still bleeding heart further.

Charles was bottling everything away, even Erik knew that, and its effects. But beyond what little advice he imparted, Erik did not know how to help him further.

Perhaps the boy would find his own path to handle his grief.

In turn, Erik skipped eating anything and enjoyed a cup of tea without the addition of any sedative. He watched Charles fall into a fitful sleep within minutes of consuming the provided drink. It was not ideal. Restless thrashing was hardly restorative, but at least it was better than no sleep at all and any tormented dreaming was going to be forgotten.

Come morning when Charles awoke on his own accord, Erik acquired him another buttered baguette, this one with cheese. Erik was eager to move on with the day, as the less time they spent in Paris, the better. They were already at more risk than he cared to admit.

Their first stop was two-fold in purpose. There was the carpenter, whose work Erik often found favorable for the quality of his craftsmanship. Then there was the blacksmith that sat on the other side of the alley, where Erik recruited the farrier to perform maintenance on the hooves and re-shoe the horses.

At least neither business was in habit of gauging him out of francs completely. In comparison to others of their trades, they only marked up their work by half.

With the carpenter, Erik left a note of what he needed to purchase and loaded into the cart, which was left between the two businesses. It was nothing that should not already be on hand, all the necessities for furnishing a bedroom for Charles since having him sleeping on a mat, the sofa, or Erik’s own bed, simply would not do for any length of time.

Their second stop was the tailor, which Erik had been using for years.

“Ah! My best client!” declared the aging tailor who must be in his fifties now as they were granted entry through the backdoor. “Monsieur Renaud, I have some items ready for you in anticipation that you would appear again soon—” the tailor paused as he looked Charles up and down. “And who is this? In one of my ruined jackets no less!”

Erik gave a sigh, “Monsieur Brossard, this is my charge, Gustavé,” he introduced with the use of Charles’s middle name, for continued discretion. “As for the jacket, I could not have him freezing to death in coming here to appease your vanity.”

M. Brossard harrumphed and peeled the jacket off the boy with a look of disdain at Charles’s rather depressing state of dress. “Well then, I suppose it’s a good thing you brought him here to rectify this,” Brossard threw a glance toward Erik before looking back to the boy. “Now tell me, dear boy, what has put you in such a state? Quite the shiner you have.”

Charles pursed his lips with a glance towards Erik, who dipped his chin. “I got into a fight with a few other boys,” the boy explained.

“For what reason?” asked Brossard as he lightly grasped the wing of Charles’s shirt collar, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

Erik narrowed his eyes. Damn tailors.

Charles shrugged, “They didn’t exactly give me one, just jumped me.”

“I see… and this is all you have, Gustavé?”

“Monsieur Brossard, I do have other tasks that need accomplished today,” Erik spoke with sourness.

“I’ve been on my own for a while, until Monsieur Renaud found me last night,” Charles said anyway, keeping with the story they had fabricated for just this reason.

Brossard glanced between them, his jaw set and mind annoyingly working on something other than measurements.

Not caring for the apparent thought process coursing through the tailor’s mind, Erik bit out a lightly toned warning, “As you and I both know, Monsieur Brossard, there are certain things better left unsaid,” such as the extent of Brossard’s relationship with his associate. “I trust that Monsieur Joubert is doing well?”

The tailor squared his shoulders a bit and raised his chin slightly as the point struck home. They both had their secrets and were reasonably privy to certain…privileged, information. Brossard and Joubert were the fine artists of a certain Red Death costume. “It will take a few days to make anything to your expectations Monsieur,” Brossard snipped, as he tugged the measuring ribbon from around the back of his neck and set to task.

“That will not be necessary,” Erik spoke in a more casual manner. “Merely whatever you have available that is his size and will likely grow into will suffice.”

“Any other preferences? Colors?”

Erik gave a dismissive wave. “Whatever the boy wishes, however, it is best to avoid any light colors for any jackets, trousers, or shorts,” he winced at the last one. While he understood the fashion for rampant boys running through the day, he was not overly fond of it.

“The knee socks as well?”

“At Gustavé’s discretion. I gave my stipulations.”

Brossard breezed through the measurements and jotted them down all at once, even Charles’s feet. “What color would you have for such socks, Gustavé? Contrasting? Matching? White?”

“Uh…” Charles looked helplessly towards Erik, who only offered an aloof shrug.

“Jean!” Brossard called to the front, as he wrote something on a separate piece of parchment.

Jean Joubert appeared from the front and gave a noticeable start at the sight of Erik, but recovered quickly. “Yes?”

“Here,” Brossard held up the paper. “Go to the cobbler and get this boy some shoes. Four boots, an ankle and knee in each color.”

Jean took the note. “Any particular…style?”

“Practical,” Erik laid out enough franc notes to cover the cost of those shoes.

Joubert took the francs and vanished from the shop without making eye contact with Erik.

Brossard looked towards Charles when he had yet to give a preference on colors. “How about I bring you my selections, and you decide what you like best, since your guardian is being less demanding today.”

Erik flashed a wicked smile, which Brossard ignored.

Brossard soon vanished, then quickly returned with an armful of garments. He then began laying the selections out on a work table.

“Monsieur, I have a matter that I need to broach with Monsieur Ducasse next door. Would it be too much of an imposition?” Erik asked with a gentle motion to Charles.

“No, no, not at all. I imagine it will take time to ascertain Gustavé’s preferences,” the tailor stated and went to fetch more clothing.

Erik looked at the boy and lowered his volume, “Stay in the back here. Do not go to the front. I will not be terribly long.”

Charles only nodded, but nervously glanced towards where Brossard vanished.

“It will be alright,” Erik assured softly. “Should something arise, I am right there,” he pointed to the wall that separated the solicitor’s office from the tailor.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

“Your son?” asked the incredulous solicitor as he slumped back into his worn leather chair. “The little Vicomte de Chagny, that everyone is looking for, is your son?”

“That is what the Comtesse said before she died, yes,” Erik explained from his seat across the desk from solicitor Ducasse, whom he employed for various tasks requiring legal documents. From purchasing land, to banking and investments, Ducasse was the man he had manage it all. After all, few people would continue to do business with him with such large sums of money at stake.

“How do you know she wasn’t telling some falsehood?” sighed Ducasse as he picked at the old, crinkled leather of the armrest. A nervous habit, Erik suspected.

“He is the right age, and it is simply not something she would lie about. Lastly, his name is one she… knew I favored in the unlikely event…” Erik trailed off, not wanting to delve deeper into that particular memory.

Ducasse pinched the bridge of his nose. “You should be telling this to the Police Judiciaire.”

“Then off to the guillotine I go,” Erik cut his fingers across his neck. “Then who will protect the boy from whoever killed his parents?”

“You don’t know that, Monsieur Renaud.”

“I do, and you know that well enough yourself, Monsieur. A man in the mask is the convenient choice to quickly wrap up such sensationalized homicides, and the only person who would complain about it is me.”

“And me,” Ducasse protested. “Even if most of my work for you is as an executor of certain affairs that your afflictions bar you from with prejudice.”

“Only because of the exorbitant retainer I pay you,” Erik growled.

“Seven years I’ve worked for you, and I’ve not once questioned all the different surnames you assign, depending on what we are working on; Alarie, Vernier, Lavigne— I’m fairly certain there is no actual Erik Renaud at this point.”

“Your point?” Erik snapped while his patience thinned finer than parchment.

“The point being…you give me fucking headaches that are not worth that retainer’s fee because, admittedly, yes,” Ducasse leaned forward with his hands steepled on the desk now. “I like that fee. That, and you have been just curiously too damn interesting to work for, until now. Now, you put this de Chagny business on me during one of the biggest homicide investigations of the decade. To what end? To add the boy’s inheritance to your small fortune?”

Erik shook his head, with a dismissive hand floating across the air between them. “I have no need or want of any part what belongs to the boy. That is his, and his alone. Eventually, it will be discovered that he is alive and that he is with me. If there are documents that will somehow put him in my rightful custody, that is all I want. He is all that matters to me. His inheritance can be handled at a later date.”

“If he is in as much danger as you think he is, doing this now could draw attention to you both. Solicitor Tomas and the Estate could demand proof of life, to see him. Then, the Police Judiciaire and whoever is hunting him will be upon you.”

“Tomas should be reminded that it would put a risk on the boy.”

“And I’m the one to remind you that this risks the boy.”

“I have no fear of the police or those who mean Charles harm.” While hiding Charles was paramount to him, Ducasse had no real information that would lead someone to his doorstep. At most, they would discover that Charles was in the care of a masked specter who went by the name Erik. Fewer still would know of Erik’s connection to Christine. If anyone did manage to realize his former existence as the Opera Ghost, well… it would serve to put fear into those men sooner than later.

“You should.”

Erik only smirked.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

When Erik returned, he was pleased to see Charles properly dressed rather than still wearing tattered rags and oversized garments. The brown trousers and jacket, with a mint-colored shirt and patterned vest of deep orange, suited the boy well. Perhaps a bit more eye-catching than Erik preferred. However, in his effort to keep Charles at ease, dressing him entirely in black was not going to be helpful to the cause.

“A vast improvement indeed,” Erik had commented as he adjusted the black fedora Charles wore to tilt over his bruised left eye.

In turn, the relieved smile from the boy nearly melted him.

The rest of the errands from there on were rather mundane. However, as loathe as Erik was to do so, it resorted to sending Charles into shops with a list and francs to purchase a few but necessary items while Erik waited with the cart and horses. He was in no mood to deal with ignorant fools accusing him of some imagined misdeed. A child running errands for a parent flew below observation.

As a reward for his assistance, Erik brought their cart to a stop in front of a quaint toy shop where he handed the boy a five-franc note, to which Charles issued him a puzzled look.

“Purchase whatever you wish,” Erik clarified.

Charles remained unmoved. Whatever brightness or spark of interest Erik expected to see at the prospect of a splurge in a toy store, was not present.

“Unless you want music, art supplies, or books, I do not have much in the way of entertainment for you.”

“I…I want…”

Erik remained silent, waiting for Charles to finish the incomplete thought. But when the boy spoke no further after a minute, Erik made the effort to keep his voice soft as he asked, “What do you want, Charles?”

Charles’s chin quivered as he pressed the franc note back to Erik and stood. “I just want to go…”

“Charles?” Erik’s hand fumbled as he took the returned bill that had been pushed into his chest.

The boy hurriedly climbed over the bench seat to the back of the cart. “Can we just leave, please?” Charles pleaded with a crack in his voice, then tucked himself under the canvas tarp.

A swirl of possible reactions stirred within him, from confusion and shock to a flare of his temper, for failure in his attempt to appease the boy. Rationally, Erik knew it was likely a culmination of all the events of the past seventy-two hours that would cause unparalleled stress on Charles. Yet, his admittedly clueless attempts to offset that stress and grief only seemed to worsen Charles’s state of mind, rather than pose any remedy.

At a loss of appropriate behavior for the given situation, Erik did not snap at the impertinence of Charles’s suddenly fouled mood. Rather, Erik allowed that all too familiar and icy shield to rise to full defense of his already weakened heart. It suffered more than enough torments for a lifetime.

Even if Charles meant to world to him, just as Christine had, there was only so much Erik could handle in a lifetime.

Blinking away the threat of tears, Erik sunk into icy composure as he tucked the franc note into his vest pocket and took up the reigns. “As you wish,” he tersely obliged.

Chapter Text

 What Lies Ahead

Michael Carriére and Robert Destler watched one of the less common roads between Paris and Vaujours, stopping all those who caught their eye that traveled through. There were only a handful of persons passing by, and none of them made their collective instincts stand on end or offered any useful information. No one lived close or within an acceptable range of the forest filled with bodies.

Then as time went on and patience started to wane by the hour, Robert straightened in his saddle. He was especially watchful, lifting his chin towards a section of road to the west, where there was a blind spot until the traveler crested the hill. “There.”

Michael turned his attention from the eastern section in time to see a pair of black horses being driven by a man cloaked in black, traveling at a steady pace.

“He has an air about him, I see it already,” Robert continued. “Tread lightly.”

Michael quirked a brow, “You take the lead.” Though Michael was not inclined to disagree with Robert’s intuition, he preferred prudence over more direct methods of questioning.

Robert needed no further blessing as he surged ahead at a canter, with Michael following suit. “Bonjour, Monsieur!” he greeted with a bit of brass in his raised hand, denoting the official capacity of his presence as he blocked the road. “A word if you please!”

The man eased his team to a halt as he looked between them. At first, the man’s face seemed rather odd and smooth, catching light strangely although the fedora cast much of him in shadow. It was as Michael neared that he saw the slightly shadowed lines were that of a mask. A mask that was stained in such a manner to match a fair complexion.

“Of course, Messieurs,” his voice was almost as smooth as Robert’s soft silken tones, only his was both richer and naturally darker in quality. His eyes, however, darted between them in a near unreadable fashion, while there was only a slight hint of tension in his spine. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, we are looking for information. You see, we’ve recovered quite a mess of bodies in the forest six kilometers from here, seven in fact. We are looking for information of any sort on the matter.”

“How recently?” asked the other.

“I’d rather you tell me where you have been and where you are going.”

The masked man tilted his head, his posture going more erect. “I’ve spent the last few days in Paris resupplying. I am headed home now.”

“How many days?”

“Two.”

Michael wordlessly dismounted and began to inspect the cart and horses, under the eye of the masked man.

“What were you doing in Paris?”

“Again, I was resupplying,” the man shifted a lever that set the break to Michael’s benefit.

“So far out?”

“Anyone more local does not like doing business with a man in a mask. I get accused more often than not.”

“Of what?” pressed Robert.

“Theft.”

“Why do you wear the mask?”

“I cannot continue to have everyone swooning over my devastatingly handsome appearance. It is not by choice, I assure you.”

Michael felt a smile tug at his lips while he ran his hands over the horses. The team was in immaculate shape, well-brushed and maintained. However, along the flanks of the larger animal, he felt a few bumps and possible bruises, but no cuts.

“I am in no mood for jokes Monsieur,” Robert growled.

“Your compatriot found it funny,” came the most dry response.

“I am not him.”

Michael shook his head to himself, not wanting to engage any more than necessary, and focused on the horses. He snaked a hand down each of their legs until they obediently popped the requested hoof up for inspection. Pulling a knife from a sheath on his hip, Michael used the back of it to scrape away bits of mud and debris that already packed into the orbit of the new iron shoes. The soles and frogs were freshly cleaned and trimmed. “They’ve been to a farrier,” Michael reported.

“Interesting,” Robert drew out in a tone akin to a hiss.

“Perhaps, if you asked more direct questions Monsieur, I could be of better assistance. I fail to see how caring for my horses or ensuring my supplies are met are cause for concern.”

“It is not the act themselves, but the timing of such is rather…convenient.”

“I cannot help that things transpire when I am merely trying to go about my daily life.”

Michael moved around the cart, tugging at sections of the tarp to view the contents. Crates with canned goods, and a trunk, all of which seemed to be nothing more than the supplies that the masked man claimed, with the addition of some furnishings.

Before Robert could utter another word, Michael spoke up as he returned to his horse. “I thank you for your time and cooperation, Monsieur. You may go.”

The masked man released the break in a snap of motion and urged his team on down the road.

Robert in turn, was glaring daggers.

“Antagonizing him will get us nowhere,” Michael answered.

“I have no doubt of his involvement.”

“Neither do I,” replied Michael as he swung up onto his horse. “But you were getting him agitated. Mere suspicion because of a mask and timetable is not good enough to put him in irons. We’ll learn more by watching him than locking him away.”

The younger man growled something under his breath. “I suppose he will be…easy enough to track now, with a cart. Though, I’m certain he will destroy any evidence before we move on him.”

“That evidence is likely already destroyed, if the horses are of any indication. If one of those horses left that print, that cast is useless now. In the meantime, I think it will be best that you head on back to Paris and brief Claudin and Petrie on our findings.”

“And you will do what?”

Michael gave a nod toward where the cart vanished. “I will keep an eye on him. The two of you sharing a space is like two powder kegs with a short fuse, and both of you are holding torches.”

“I will be sure to laugh at your funeral,” Robert darkly foretold.

“Well, at least he seemed to like me more than you. My trip to an early grave might yet be stalled.”

“Wishful thinking.”

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

There was much that she had in common with her mother, more than she really cared to admit. They followed the same path in both life and career, it seemed: widowed, single mother to a darling girl, and dancing as the Prima Ballerina at the Palais Garnier. In the years since the reign of the mysterious Opera Ghost, the former edifice to music lost its taste in opera and strictly favored hosting ballets as its main source of revenue.

With a few galas and concerts to round it out.

It was a shame really. All those beautiful voices no longer filled the magnificent baroque and marble rooms of unmatched artistry, that left every newcomer with their mouths agape from the stunning beauty. Beautiful music remained of course, and the dancing, but the absence of bel canto voices made the triad of performance incomplete.

What was an opera house without operas gracing the stage?

Did the Palais Garnier truly need its Opera Ghost to allow it to flourish to its full purpose of staging magical and detailed stories through music? Or did management fear that daring to stage another opera would summon the Ghost again?

Madame Meg Corbin, Prima Ballerina, and soon-to-be Mistress of the Corps du Ballet, stretched out over the barre below the line of windows in a small rehearsal room. Their opposite and adjoining walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Then the piano, empty of any player, sat in the single mirrorless corner. Her only company was her seven-year-old daughter, Helene, who ever so quietly brushed the hair of her doll while Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata began to play over the gramophone.

With it, Meg let the pointes of her ballet slippers carry her to the center of the room. There, she let the grief of the past two hellish years of loss begin to flow through her in slow measured movements, from the toes of her feet to the tips of her fingers. Every motion and position that she transitioned between was of her sorrow, from the float and curves of her arms, to the bend of her torso and the lift of her leg, as she slowly spun on the tip of her toe.

First, it was her husband, Auguste, taken by illness. Then her mother, by age. Now…now her best friend with her family lost to tragedy. Although she had friends within the ballet and the Garnier, they were not ones she could hold confidence with, especially when they sought her position on the payroll and attention from patrons.

Never had she felt so alone. To have everyone that mattered so dearly to her, gone. So quick and without recourse. Just, gone.

All she had now was sweet, little Helene, who had lost a friend in Charles.

Meg almost always imagined that Charles and Helene would become sweethearts, and then she and Christine could finally become family, in a greater bond than they already shared.

There were times Meg knew her mother had been lonely while she grew up. However, she at least came to have some sort of friendship with the temperamental Opera Ghost. Such an option was not available to her. Even if a new Ghost were to appear, she was aware of the follies of the past. Meg was certain she learned from the mistakes of her mother, and Christine.

As Meg moved with fluidity out of a slow twirl that nearly defied physics, she posed at the end of the sonata, arms raised above her head, and hands flared out. Her front knee was bent low, toe turned out, while her other was drawn straight back in an exaggerated bow. Then, as the last notes hit, Meg brought her hands down to cross over her sternum as though she cradled a fragile flower, her head bowed and a trickle of tears dropping into her palm.

Meg held the pose longer than necessary, even as the song switched to something livelier and brighter than her mood under the scratchy needle. She struggled to push the headline of the discovery of Christine’s body that morning from her mind. Although no further details were given, it was surely a matter of time before they found Charles’s too. As time passed, so too went the hope that he was alive or would remain that way for much longer.

Reddened eyes lifted to the mirror as she stared at the cold glass, missing the fleeting apparition that delighted in the over-the-top squeals of the ballet on a regular basis during practice. Perhaps it was merely a way to playfully vex her mother when she started getting too serious.

Erik had vanished for years after everything. It was only more recently that he kept a kind of correspondence. Notes, really. A small congratulations over her rise to Prima Ballerina. Her marriage. Helene’s birth. A condolence for her husband. Nothing more than a short line. Until her mother died. Then, he wrote a lengthier condolence.

He annoyed her to no end after those horrid events, where he willed himself to die beneath the opera when Christine and Raoul left. He was thoroughly unpleasant and unwilling to let her, her mother, or the Persian man help him at all. He only cooperated long enough to regain the strength to lock them out permanently.

Only in the death of her husband did Meg come to understand some measure of the pain Erik must have felt then. Were it not for her mother, Christine, and especially Helene, Meg would have gladly climbed into that pine box with her husband. No question. She understood how deep love ran and how it felt to not have it understood by anyone else.

As Meg looked at her reflection, she asked him a question he would never actually hear. “Do you even know?” she whispered and rose to full height.

The answer would come soon enough.

Meg sat beside Helene and kissed the top of her daughter’s dark coppery hair, giving her a warm hug around her shoulders before untying the soft pink ribbons on her slippers. When she pulled on her lady’s boots and rose to slip on the black skirt of her dress over her leotard, the door cracked open slightly, and a boy poked his head in. “Madame Corbin?”

“Hmm, yes?” she asked, distracted as she buttoned the waist of her flowing skirts to sit properly over her midriff.

“A note came for you,” the boy held the envelope.

“Bring it here,” she said, holding out a hand.

The boy flushed and timidly came forth.

“Come on then, it’s not like you haven’t seen me with less on when I dance on that stage.”

The boy grew redder and hastily went to her, before dashing from the room once she took the envelope.

Taking a moment, she laid it down on the piano to shrug on a blouse and chinch a belt, reading the familiar scrawl of La Prima Ballerina, Palais Garnier.

“Think of the devil, and he shall appear,” Meg sighed.

Helene looked up from her place on the floor, hugging the doll to her chest. “What, Maman?”

“Oh…nothing sweetie. I’m just thinking aloud,” she smiled at those cheeks, rosy with freckles.

Meg settled onto the piano bench and tore through the black wax seal, drawing out perhaps the lengthiest letter from him to date.

Madame,

In light of recent events, I find it is only fair to inform you of the events as I have come to understand them, for our mutual care for those who were targets of such vile transgressions. In their flight from the chateau, we crossed paths after they had ridden for kilometers, and they begged for my aid before we realized our identities. Several men pursued them across the countryside.  

While their pursuers were dealt with, there was little I could do to spare her life. Her injuries were too grievous to remedy, and she passed away in the arms of the boy and I. 

From what little she managed to say, I have reason to believe that the danger posed to the boy remains great. It is likely those behind this assault are watching you, in hopes of finding him to finish their despicable quest.  

Know that the boy is safe in my care, and I will let no harm befall him.  

See to it that this letter is burned.  

Regards,

~O.G.

Meg choked a sob of sadness for the loss of her friend, but also in relief of knowing Christine died in the arms of the man who cared for her so deeply, and that Charles was alive. She knew of no safer place for him. If what Erik suspected was true, it explained the lack of his use of any of their names, should the letter be found by any such ne’er-do-well.

Titles were easy enough to dismiss if questioned. O.G. did not exist anymore. Erik usually signed his letters and notes with a plain ~E.

After taking some minutes to gather herself, Meg tucked the letter into her blouse under the thin fabric of her leotard, risking no chance of losing it by accident.

With Helene’s hand safely wrapped in her own, Meg hurried home with a constant eye turned over her shoulder. She could not help that as fear clawed at the back of her mind. She had no one she could depend on aside from the man who just sent her a letter.

Just as requested, she burned Erik’s letter in the hearth of her small flat the moment she and Helene arrived home.

Chapter Text

Forever an Angel

They returned late in the afternoon, in a trip filled with stony silence from Charles’s inexplicably soured mood and Erik’s guarded unwillingness to interact any further with him in such a state. The only benefit of that was when they were approached by the Police Judiciaire, all Erik had to do was instruct the boy to crawl into a tight corner under the bench seat. It was a benefit that seemed to have worked.

As infuriating as his interaction with the two investigators was, they did let him go. Even if Erik knew it would be fleeting. Suspicions were high, and the younger of the two made no secret of that. It was rather amazing that Erik did not have to remove his mask for them. Yet, how long would it take for them to come knocking at his door? Asking more questions? Watching him and Charles? It would be unreasonable to keep the boy locked away forever. That course of action never went well.

No matter. He would plan and adjust accordingly. If anything, they could play into the story they fabricated for the ever-so-chatty tailor. Messieurs Brossard and Joubert did like their conversations, but knew when to keep mum when it came to their best client.

The moment the cart rolled to a stop in the stable where the aisle was wide enough to accommodate, the boy flew from the back and into the pasture with César.

Erik did not acknowledge his son’s retreat as he quickly unhitched the Friesians, and sent them into the pasture after Charles. Phobos instantly gravitated to the boy with playful nudges that went unanswered. No matter, Erik had a cart to unload and tasks to complete before the day was gone.

The small cottage in the middle of nowhere, always felt more of a home to Erik than any other residence he held prior to its construction. At most, it probably could only ever house a small family comfortably. For Erik, and now the co-habitant of his son, it was still more than enough space. It was a modest layout, but very beautiful in that simplicity. The external walls were stone, with minor examples of masonry work that went into its build.

From the detached stable of a matching design, the house was best accessed through the back door. That was where the small kitchen rested with only a few cabinets, a stove, and a table, where the wooden bin still sat with all its medical supplies.

After lighting a few kerosene lamps, Erik proceeded to inspect the security of his residence for any sign of a possible intrusion while they were away. It did not take long when the first floor consisted of three rooms: the kitchen, the music room parlor, and the first of two libraries.

The walls of the music room consisted of creamy off-white color with little art aside from the gothic figurines that sat atop the mantel of the hearth. A piano sat in the corner, with a violin and a few other instruments out on display. Sheet music and compositions were neatly arranged on the bookcase, which was against the wall, where the stairs were located on the other side that led to the second floor.

The library’s walls were a dark red color, with mahogany bookshelves lining the walls and framing the two windows. The exposed selves were lovingly carved, and a plush dark red rug covered the floor.

The texts themselves were on a wide range of subjects: art, architecture, medicine, science, history, geography, and astronomy. The languages of the books were not restricted to French, but to any language that Erik could read and speak with fluency.

The upstairs consisted of four rooms, much smaller in size. The second library, located to the right of the stairs, was like the first in decorum, but perhaps a bit more spacious since there were not as many books. The selection of books included stories and poems from various parts of the world that Erik found most appealing.

The washroom sat to the left of the stairs, and down the hall were two bedrooms. The first of them was Erik’s, which he now kept locked shut. The last room was a hastily cleared area that, once furnished, would serve as Charles’s bedroom. It had just lost its function as Erik’s study and a creative space outside of music. All those items it once held were hastily moved to either the master bedroom or the hidden basement below.

Of the four pieces of furniture purchased, only two of them needed some assembly. First, he assembled the bed by attaching the legs and headboard to the frame. The next piece to assemble was the dresser, largely consisting of bolting four sides together and putting in the drawers. Erik would have rather assembled the furniture with his son, to keep the boy distracted, but taking over the task entirely on his own was a more efficient use of time.

He roughly arranged the room with the bed on an interior wall, with a small bedside table and the trunk for any keepsakes Charles may gain, at its foot. It currently held all of Charles’s new clothing, blankets, and general bedding.

Once the room was made suitable for sleeping and the trunk unpacked, Erik finished unloading the few bits of general supplies and foodstuffs from the cart. After feeding Charles a rather light dinner, where no words of conversation were exchanged, Erik sent the boy to bed without the assistance of a pacifying substance. Too much of that would risk a dependency that Erik would rather not have the boy ever experience.

It was only now, that everything seemed to settle. After two days, going into three nights of constant commotion, Erik allowed himself a chance to relax in the confines of his room and the privacy of the locked door. The mask flew from his face with prejudice. It had been years since he had to wear it so chronically and for such long stretches. Feeling air on his skin was much to the relief of his face, which had not had more than an hour of reprieve from it. Yes, he wore a mask every day as a normal part of dressing. However, two full nights of it was getting irritating, and the buildup of sweat was sure to flare up a rash.

Upon adding an ointment to a wash basin filled with warm water, Erik removed his dark brown wig and set it on the nearby mannequin head. Erik then cupped water into his emaciated hands and splashed it over his face, spreading some of it over his head and relishing in the refreshing feeling. Next, he dipped and wrung out a soft cloth and began washing every centimeter of his face and head. He gently scrubbed out every twisting groove of his curse to remove all the salty residue of sweat and tears from his rather sensitive flesh.

Once everything from the neck up was wonderfully cleansed and patted dry, Erik finished his routine with the application of his gelled mixture of aloe vera. His skin rejoiced at its soothing coolness that kissed the air. As deplorable as his time was in the Middle East, it did introduce him to that wonderful plant. It was simple enough to keep on hand, both potted and neglected for how little attention it needed to be kept alive.

Just like him.

After settling into comforts, Erik made his way to his desk, which made the move into his room.

A dozen pages of charcoal sketches and half-written manuscripts lay before him, and a candle on the far corner illuminated his various little projects, none of which could grasp his attention. His colorless eyes that glowed amber in shadow, could only focus on a painting he created of Christine so many years ago; not long after their lives had parted ways.

She had been so happy in that time they shared. A magical interlude from the arduous life they suffered leading up to that point. The light and radiance of her spirit was something he could never forget, even if it ultimately resulted in her going back to de Chagny… again.

Erik managed to capture those sentiments into that little portrait he made of her. Only now he realized that the glow he recalled was likely from Charles. Neither of them could have known it then. Or did they?

There was that one moment, where they gazed upon a rather rare style of painting he created. It was not meant for her eyes, but Christine discovered it anyway. Much as he had discovered her little diary. She practically sat in his lap with his arm snaked around her waist, as they gazed upon the wistful fantasy his mind conjured. Christine guided his hand to her abdomen while she implored him for the names of the two little children.

The dream became halfway real, only in that Charles now lived in the very home that painting had inspired. There was no Christine. There was no daughter. Just them.

Did they subconsciously sense the life they created then?

As his musings continued, Erik found himself missing the painting that came to pain him so. However, Erik had little desire to seek out anything he left buried beneath the opera, of that past life. It had been hard enough to move on from it the first time.

“Oh Christine…” he whispered to no one, as his long slender finger traced the outline of her angelic face, framed by wavy golden locks of hair. “It should not have ended like that for you. You deserved better.”

All the what-ifs and useless longing began to run through his mind, as her ultimate fate came to torment him again.

If only she had come to the train station that night. If only he’d shirked his vow to vanish from her life forever if she chose not to join him. Maybe the pregnancy with Charles would have made her change her mind and decide to stay with him…

She could have lived. They could have had the dream.

Never was Charles’s first moments to be in Erik’s arms. Lost were his first steps, his first words, laughs, and smiles. Wide-eyed wonder—gone because both parents were irrevocable fools.

If only Christine stayed...

If only he were a better man.

He should have been there from the start. But he was not, and Charles called another man Father.

Words he would never hear in reference to him.

An agonized cry escaped Erik’s throat at the thought. He is my child! My son! No one else should have been called Father!

He did not earn the title… No, he did not even deserve it. He was not there from that first minute onward. Raoul was, and he earned that reverence.

Erik brought a shaking hand to his sunken eyes, to wipe away his tears. His shoulders sagged as a sob whacked through him in his grief at the thought of lost time, his lost love, and how fate had cruelly turned against him once more.

 His eyes drifted toward the pouch he discovered, in the tatters of Christine’s garments, before he burned them. Not for the first time since he discovered its existence, Erik again took it up into his hand and poured the contents of it into the palm of the other.

Out came a small brass key, two dark opal pendants framed with gold, two bowed ribbons of red and blue tied to what remained of snips of hair, and then lastly, was the Angel skeleton key. It was the same one that opened the first gate to the Palais Garnier at Rue Scribe.

Every time he gazed up at this small assortment of items, his confusion only grew by the moment. Both opal pendants were of a darker shade, but that darker coloring only highlighted all the fragmented pops of color that caught the eye, dependent on how light caught it. Both were rather small, but sized in a manner that they could either become the pendant of a necklace, the centerpiece of a bracelet, or set into a ring, much like the gold and onyx ring he wore on the small finger on his left hand.

What made these items so important to her that she brought them along in her flight from vicious men? Why the skeleton key? What did the brass key unlock? How would he ever know where it led, precisely?

After focusing on it so heavily and thoughtfully, Erik came to realize the objects in his hand became hard to focus on with his eyes. He hated this part of aging. The few things he liked about himself were in the early stages of abandoning him.

With a resigned sigh, Erik donned the pair of glasses he started routinely keeping near him. However, seeing better did not grant him the chance to place the engraved designs on the brass key. Not when a frantic cry from the next room caused Erik to jump with a start in his chair.

He froze out of habit, holding his breath to listen to the sounds coming through his wall. When the cries and moans from the next room continued, growing worse by the moment, Erik took up his candle and donned his mask as he stood.

Heading straight to Charles’s room, he entered without announcement and set the candle atop the dresser. Erik went over to the boy’s bedside, calling to him as he approached. “Charles,” he crooned softly.

The boy was writhing in his bed, tangled in the sheets and his body in a fierce sweat. Hoarsely, he cried in his nightmare, “No, no! Please no! Let us go!” He flinched and cried out as if struck.

“Charles, Charles,” Erik said again, grasping Charles’s shoulder and shaking him. “Wake up.” But it was to no avail. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Erik firmly grasped the boy’s flailing arms and gave him a strong shake. “Charles!” he called firmly.

The boy jumped, his eyes flying wide open in fear as his breath caught in his throat. He was stiff, frozen in shock and fear.

“You had a nightmare,” Erik told him softly. “You are safe.”

Nodding slowly, Charles continued to remain tense and frozen in his spot.

“Breathe,” Erik instructed hypnotically, loosening his hold on the boy. Then, he drew away in the belief that it would help his child relax with the distance. Despite the gesture, Charles flung himself into Erik’s arms and wept.

Stiffening when Charles wrapped his arms around him, Erik felt something light within him that he never thought he would be able to possess. This was different from the embrace they shared in the wake of Christine’s death. An instinct that he long thought impossible to consider having, or capable of possessing. Slowly and hesitantly, he let his arms encircle the boy, his boy, and rock him gently. It was all he did or could think to do.

Eventually, Charles came to find his voice. Though muffled, he easily heard, “I want the tea.” So, the boy had come to associate peace of mind with tea.

“You cannot have that tea,” Erik said simply. “It is not good under prolonged use.”

“Please,” he pleaded.

“No,” Erik said firmly, giving no room for argument. He added after a thought, “What did your mother do when you had a bad dream?”

Of course, Erik knew that it was not merely a dream. It was a memory, and it set a raging fire through his veins. He knew the child suffered a strike of the hand or a weapon in it. There was no mistaking it from that flinch. He silently vowed to find the one responsible for Christine and Charles’s suffering and inflict a painfully slow death upon them.

Charles shivered in his arms from the nightmarish memories, but went on to reply, “Sing. She would always sing to me until I fell asleep… I miss hearing her voice…”

Erik gave a fleeting smile. Yes, Christine would have done just that. Music was as much a part of her as it was a part of him. “What would she sing?”

“An old lullaby, and one she said an Angel sang to her.”

“Which do you wish to hear?”

When Charles did answer, Erik chose for him. He began to sing softly in a hypnotic voice. “Hush my Angel, dry your tears,

“I will protect you, from shadows you fear,

“Hear my voice, fear not of darkness…”

Charles’ eyes widened slightly at the selection, but relaxed considerably from Erik’s soothing voice lulling him into sound slumber.

Even as sleep eventually reclaimed the child who slowly went limp in his arms, Erik continued singing the lullaby until its conclusion, not wanting to part from the moment. However, Erik did lay the boy back into his pillows with reluctance. When he covered Charles with blankets, the look of peace playing across Charles’s face warmed him.

Slowly, Erik let his hand rest on his son’s chest and sang to him again. This time, it was the song Christine’s father had sung to her. Eventually, when he felt exhaustion tugging at his own eyes, Erik brought two fingers to his lips, then pressed them to Charles’s forehead before he left him to hopefully sweeter dreams.

Chapter Text

Charles woke the following morning with light from the adjacent window spraying across his face. Quickly rolling onto his front, he buried his face in the pillow to hide from the garish rays. Despite the brightness, this was the first time he woke since everything that he was not wondering what a decent mood felt like. The day still bore the terrible weight of the loss of a life and the people he knew before, but now it seemed somewhat manageable.

How though? His mood yesterday had been so turbulent throughout its entirety; from conjuring a false story of his presence there with Erik, to acquiring new clothing and running other errands. Then, when Erik offered him a chance for toys, he just could not. He did not want new toys, new clothes, a new life. Charles just wanted home, his home. His toys, his room, his parents. All out of reach, even if an untouched townhome that he and his parents resided in while in Paris was just a neighborhood away.

He wanted to go there and find something familiar to hold onto. But he knew he could not, for the same reasons that they made use of his middle name. People could not know where he was, and Erik seemed to think that anywhere familiar to Charles was being watched.

The proximity of being so close to their Parisian home and yet so far was jarring. Coupled with the want of the familiar, he wanted his mother there to comfort him and his father to guide him. But like the Parisian house, they were out of reach, and he had yet to follow Erik’s advice on grief. Not even a small utterance of goodbye to his mother.

Perhaps it had been a mistake not to tell his mother goodbye then, and now the moment was lost to him forever. As he came to realize his error, it only became more apparent that he did not deserve much of anything.

Then came the memories as the muscles of his body ached from the night before, from the tension and terrors he’d experienced in his nightmares. The imagery began flooding back into his head as his mind became more aware. Hellish recollections of that day, that moment, haunting his mind—until Erik came and saved him from it.

The relief, Charles realized, came in the form of music. The lullaby was the first bit of melodious sound in the oppressive silence that he had heard in days now. Mother always sang or hummed the day away without a bit of thought.

The lullaby. He sang the lullaby that Charles believed only his mother and himself to have known… How did Erik know it?

Of course, the fact that there was a relationship between him and his mother completely escaped the boy’s mind for a moment. Charles even went as far as denying it, although it was fruitless because it would only mean that he was denying his own existence.

No. No, his mother only loved his father, Raoul, the Comte de Chagny. Not Erik. Yet… she had said she loved them both as she died.

Charles frowned at the thought as he slowly rolled out of bed and dressed. From there, he slipped out into the hall, glancing at the door of Erik’s room. It was not hard to guess that Erik was not on the other side of that door. He had an unmistakable presence about him, a presence that no one else could ever come close to possessing.

He wandered the second floor, only to find it empty before he descended to the first. There too, was empty. The dishes in the kitchen from the night before were put away, the curtains to the library still hung closed, and the violin in the music room vanished. The instruments that were present there helped distract his mind from why he did not like the room.

Peeking out the window, Charles looked out into the front of the property where a thick blanket of snow covered everything, from skeletal shrubbery to the full, gnarled, canopies of old trees. They were spaced ten to fifteen feet apart, and were it summer, they likely provided most of the yard with shade. The gravel drive that ran the length of the front property was only marked by the slight indention where snowfall initially took longer to stick to rock warmed by yesterday’s sunlight. Parts of a fence appeared just beyond the tree line, wherever sunlight touched, running around the front before it vanished completely.

Where before he thought the fencing and pasture only encompassed the back half of the property, Charles came to realize most all of it was fenced.

He sighed and looked away from the window, dark blue eyes landing on the well-maintained piano with a polished black finish in the corner of the room. His feet drew him to it, and his hand drifted over the smooth wood of the lid before he slid it back to reveal ebony and ivory keys. Absently, he let a finger occasionally fall heavy on one of the keys here and there with quiet notes sounding so softly, they barely made it out of the room.

With a furtive glance around, Charles rested the fingers of his right hand, rather, the top hand as most pianists called it, on the keys. A bit louder this time, but it was still low. He played the scales with a ripple effect on his five digits, starting from the thumb to pinkie then down again, then changed the key and repeated. Getting a bit comfortable, he let his left hand, or bottom hand, play the melody.

It went against common inclination of both pianists and composers alike. Most were right-handed, thus playing the melody in top hand and harmony in the bottom hand. As far as he knew, it was rare for any known composer to disobey unspoken rules. Harmony always sounded flatter than melody because it only highlighted the more colorful notes, and harmony was always lower than melody. Playing inverse brought color to the lower notes and flattened the higher ones.

When he lacked a witness, Charles often went against conventional practicalities. Although the result sounded strange and even unearthly, he liked it, thus continued these naughty traits.

The instant Charles heard the back door open, he froze in position, listening. When the sound of quiet footsteps reached his ears, he quickly abandoned the piano and darted from the room. Soundlessly, he snuck halfway up the stairs where he turned on his heel to head back down as if it were the first time that day, just as Erik appeared at the bottom, a white mask covering his face today.

By the look in his eyes and the purse of his lips, he was rather bewildered. To Charles’s luck, Erik did not voice the thought. Instead, he remarked, “I was beginning to wonder if breath still possessed you.”

“Huh?”

Erik merely shook his head. “I am sure you are starved. Unless you are not that fond of food…”

Charles only gave a blank stare.

With a sigh, Erik only gestured the boy toward the kitchen. All too happily, Charles trotted past him and vanished inside.

Erik glanced at the adjacent room where he swore he had heard music. He took note of the fact the piano lid was open… The piano lid that he closed that morning, did he not?

Shaking his head in dismissal, he muttered to himself, “You are getting senile.”

In the kitchen, Charles slipped into his seat at the table and noted that all the surfaces were glossy and smooth, as if they were freshly polished.

Trailing a finger over the surface of the chocolate-colored wood, he could not resist wondering just how far he would slide in his newest pair of socks, after a running start on the freshly oiled wood. A shame it was not the floor.

Back home, he made things interesting for both parents and staff in his misadventures. He broke every prohibited act, be it smuggling in reptiles or sliding down the banisters. Everything Raoul and Christine forbade, he did anyway. The real trick was making certain they never caught him in the act.

Erik entered in his usual elegant stride that put most of the upper class to shame, as far as the boy knew.

“What would you prefer to have for breakfast young de Chagny? I have eggs, bread, a bit of cheese...”

“I have a choice?”

Colorless eyes gave Charles a sideways glance from the corner of the mask’s eyeholes. “For...the moment.” Erik drew out those three words with trepidation.

In the life he knew, meals, among other things, were predetermined affairs that left him with no say in the matter. His parents were firm practitioners of ‘eat what is given to you, or starve.’ Not that they ever starved him, but eating an alternate meal compared to the rest of dinner was not an option. The view was, if the child in question was hungry enough, or desperate enough for dessert, they would finish their plate. If not, he had to wait until the next meal. Lucky for Charles, that was not very often.

This rule was one of the lower classes, as his mother had been before marrying Raoul. She explained how for some, getting regular meals a day could be very fortunate for some families, since their finances were limited. Francs could not be afforded to waste anything to a few picky eaters.

“Charles,” Erik called with a hint of impatience.

He blinked. “Uh...pain perdu?” In a pang of timidity, he sank back into his chair, hoping his request was not too much of a nuisance.

Erik acquiesced with a nod. Within minutes, he was dipping sliced bread into a mixture of egg, milk, vanilla, and cinnamon, before placing a pair of slices into a lightly buttered wrought iron skillet on the stove. Pain perdu, otherwise known as lost loaf, was a universal way to eat stale bread without gnawing on a corner.

Charles both heard and felt his stomach rumble when the delicious-looking plate of fried egg-battered toast appeared before him. The dollop of grenache grape jam and a sprinkling of powdered sugar, made it look all the more appealing. It looked better than even Armand’s Restaurant’s presentation of the dish. His mouth watered from anticipation.

Like previous meals he had in the presence of his new caretaker, Erik sat across the table from him, without a plate for himself or intention of proper religious etiquette. Charles knew he was not a religious man by any means, beyond a muttering of the Lord’s name in sotto voce to himself as a curse. That did not send Charles astray from the routine that his parents instilled in him. Dipping his head down, he closed his eyes to cite a silent prayer to himself, blessing his food and even the eccentric man who prepared it for him.

Upon finishing, he opened his eyes and started smearing the jam evenly across the bread and then cutting it up with a fork and knife into biteable pieces. He tried very hard to ignore that inkling feeling of Erik’s eyes upon him. Charles knew he was watching, because that was what Erik did. He sat at the opposite end of the table, without a meal or beverage before him and watched, intently.

The first bite made his taste buds jump in glorious delight at the surprising burst of flavor, from the morsel now melting in his mouth. This nearly made him inhale the second and third bites, before he could hear Mother’s voice in the back of his head saying, ‘Charles, slow down!’ in her usual chide. He obeyed the memory and slowed his pace to one of a proper little gentleman of society.

At the sensation of tingles running down his spine, Charles risked a glance at Erik, to find him still watching. The habit unnerved him to no end. Why sit, watch, and not eat like any other common man or woman would? Why did he do it? What did he think about while enacting this most disconcerting trait?

Charles looked to his plate and took another forkful of pain perdu to distract himself from Erik, but it did not work. As soon as he swallowed, he dropped his fork onto the half-finished plate and looked to his guardian in a sudden loss of tolerating patience. “Must you do that?”

Erik gave a faint start at the unexpected clang, but recovered quickly as he acknowledged him with inquisitive eyes. Perhaps he had raised his brows behind the shield of his mask. “Do what, precisely?”

“That.”

Instead of speaking, Erik made a motion of waving a hand in a graceful circular motion, as if to beckon the words from Charles’s mouth.

“You know.”

“Charles,” Erik sighed with a hint of exasperation. “I am many things, but a mind reader is not amongst them.”

“You’re watching me as I eat.”

Erik tilted his head to the side, eyes giving a slow blink of consideration. “Is it such a crime?”

“No, but it is unnerving to have you sit across from me, watching me without a plate or drink for yourself. Do you not eat?”

“I ate before you woke.”

“You could have waited.”

Erik frowned, “I rose before the sun, and you came down after nine-thirty.”

Charles leaned forward over his plate. “Then you could have woken me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you needed your rest.”

“Why didn’t you eat supper with me last night then?”

“I do not require sustenance as you do.”

Charles twisted his face, not believing a word. “I’ve had several meals in your presence now, and have never seen you eat.”

“The last time I took a meal in the company of others, was long before you were born.”

“But you have me here now, to remain daily, and over nine years a long time. Even a few weeks is too long.”

“I have neither had the luxury, nor opportunity,” Erik spoke with idle indifference.

“What about my mother?”

As if it were somehow possible, Erik’s back went straighter at the mention of her. “I cooked for her, and she ate while I kept her company.”

“Did you eat with her? Did you talk...?”

Erik shook his head, “Occasionally, we spoke while she ate, which was not often. She detested my presence much of the time… At least, up until your conception.” He raised his hand to silence any questions that sprung to mind. “I will speak no further on that.”

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat. It seemed like such a queer relationship. Little talk? Mother disliking him? Then why did he exist here now? Why did they interact so fondly in those last few...?

He shook his head to himself. “Why sit and watch me now?”

“It would be rude otherwise.”

“It’s rude now! You do not talk or read, or in the very least, dine with me? It’s weird to eat and have your every move watched like you are some strange, new exhibit.”

“We are speaking now.”

“That’s not...” Charles shook his head with a groan, planting his face in his hands. “But this isn’t pleasant talk...common talk.”

“Very well. I shall leave you to yourself, since you apparently detest my company as well.” Erik pushed himself from his seat. “Wash your plate when you are finished.” Then he was gone; out the back door, leaving a stunned Charles in his wake.

The boy quickly recovered. “I do not detest your company!” he shouted after him, although the door separated them. “I detest your silence,” the last was a murmur to himself. He pushed the delicious meal away, a pang of guilt replacing his appetite.

Chapter Text

Handful of Snow

The back of Erik’s property was much like the front in regards to the shading trees that covered most of it, though with enough spacing in between, that it did not look cluttered. Deimos, Phobos, and César wandered about the snowy pasture freely.

César was Erik’s oldest companion, to whom he promised that his days would end in his care. At age thirty-three, the Lipizzaner Erik long ago stole from the opera was still rather spry and trustworthy. He was also the one to carry Christine upon his back, the first time he brought her down through the cellars.

Everything she touched was an invaluable treasure best handled with care. The boy held no exclusion from this. He was the most treasured of all, even if feelings of affection were ultimately unreciprocated. Such was life.

Erik needed a retreat. Breakfast became a most stressful affair. It brought back memories of his childhood, if it even was definable as such.

He rubbed his hand up and down César’s face when the stallion came up to him with a small nicker. After a moment of mutual greetings and a few kind words, Erik swung up onto his back and they set off towards the trail leading to the creek that ran along the back of his property. It was a favored spot where the horses would often go to linger, graze, or to get a drink. It was a short distance away from his home, ideal for a moment alone, without leaving the house and stable completely out of sight.

During those first few years with his mother, before he ran away, Erik could not recall ever dining with her. Not even on his cursed birthdays. No, he ate alone in the dining room with his only friend, Sasha, sitting there beside him. She watched him with an interest in his activities only a dog could muster.

It was painfully lonely in that hour, where he sat more than he ate. It never tasted good, anyway, merely a bland plate with mashed root vegetables or haricot verts. But, he rather have the medley of plant-based foods than the cut of meat that often came minimally cooked. That meat was served so raw that whatever unfortunate creature once was, continued to bleed on his plate and churn his stomach. He always gave Sasha whatever he failed to bring himself to eat, which was most of it.

Thus, Erik painstakingly made sure whatever he cooked was worth eating, and that his guests did not have to eat in isolation as he had done for most of his life.

There were, however, a few exceptions to that rule. He ate before his Romani keepers in youth, and dined regularly with Giovanni in Italy when the old man welcomed him into his home and to his table with open arms. During his trip with Nadir to Persia, he shared many meals with him and the servants at dawn and dusk—later followed by court dinners with the Shah and his little underlings. Except for Giovanni, and occasionally Nadir, there was no talking on his end. He was merely there and little more.

Erik brought César to a halt by the water’s edge, where he slipped off his side and began strolling along thick snow along the bank. The creek was approximately twenty feet wide and six feet deep. It fed into the Seine from a freshwater spring, like many others throughout the Parisian countryside.

The Italian Master Mason was the only person who ever really spoke to him on a variety of subjects, even at the dinner table where they always took meals together; if work schedules permitted.

Erik drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, and brought his hands to the leather of his mask, pressing them firmly against it as he slowly let his breath escape his lungs. During this, he leaned back against one of many old juniper trees that cast his property in shadow, with the aid of the few heaths.

Charles wanted normalcy. Perhaps, he even craved it. Not that he could blame the boy. Not in the least. But normalcy? That was not something Erik knew. Not when his only true references were in books and scant memories in his all too brief life with Giovanni. He could not carry on a simple, normal conversation at the table with his son! A child who might as well be a stranger he passed on the street. The boy he did not know because of the cruel fate which God continuously dealt him.

He squeezed his eyes shut beneath his mask and hands, desperate to stop the tears that the tingle of moisture flushing into his lower lids foretold. The effort was as useless as cupping water in his fingers, as the tears seeped through the thin cracks and spilled down his cheeks. How could the inadequacies he felt throughout his life double yet again? Double into this unbearably heavy burden, burdening his soul with the weight of a full harvest moon, large and low in the sky.

“You should not have left him with me!” he suddenly screamed with a throaty weight in his tone, hands falling from his face to hug himself. “Christine...” he whispered in a sob. “Christine, I cannot do this... How can I be what I never had?” he rocked himself and dropped his head, trying to reign in his emotions. “You should have left him with Meg…or his aunts. Not me...never me. I was never meant to be a father.”

He shivered at the memory of her hand sliding down his arm with loving affection, a wisp of a smile on her transparent lips as she sat before him. She was a translucent angel in the very same position she had been in that night, just before they fell into each other’s arms, her wavy honey tresses falling over her shoulder, smelling of sweet honey almond.

 “No!” he cried, out in a choked sob, as a surge of panic flooded. His palms flew up to press against his eyes and block out the ghostly visage of her before him. “No! Erik cannot remember this! He cannot handle this! He should never have touched his Christine! No, no, no, Erik should never have burdened her with his child!”

Stress brought forth his mental afflictions, where he could not refer to himself in the first person, no matter how hard he tried to stop it in the few times he was conscious of it. It revealed his unbalanced faculties like no other emotion, save for anger.

“Erik does not deserve him now! Why Christine? Why...?” he spoke the last with little more volume than a whisper. He remained beneath the juniper, laid out on his forearms and knees in centimeters of snow, face wet beneath the leather that hid him from the world, and his son.

For several minutes he continued crying, quieter now, as he tried to control his pathetic weakness for emotional outbursts and shut his mind from himself. Even in the effort to void all thought in search for sanity, the question still echoed through his mind. Why? Why did Christine wish to leave the boy with him and not someone more...qualified?

‘Because you are his kin,’ a sexless voice answered him.

Erik shook his head to it, not wanting to listen at that moment.

Minutes ticked away, allowing Erik’s tears to stop, his breathing to even out from ragged gasps, and the shaking in his muscles to steady.

‘You need him.’

“No,” he whimpered weakly. “Erik will only hurt him as he has done with all that he loves.”

‘Charles is strong.’

Erik shook his head again, and the voice spoke no further.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Erik sat in the shadow of that juniper tree, resting against its thick trunk with his jacket and trousers growing frost the longer he remained. He sat as still as a gargoyle on Notre Dame, with a blank stare at the creek, where light shimmered on the steady ripples.

The emotional outburst of ninety minutes prior had long ebbed away into a dull and passive state of mind that was for the better. Nothing he saw registered in his mind. Nothing he heard drew his attention, only the bliss of nothing but peaceful quiet.

Until a stick snapped under a crunch of snow.

Sound and reality rushed back in a storm and Erik leapt out of blissful ignorance with his heart beating against his ribcage. In his start, Erik brought his hands to his ears for only a moment, to muffle the sound of his heart pounding and the rush of blood traveling through his veins, accompanied by the steady trickle of water over a few rocks along the shore, birds singing in the surrounding trees, and frozen branches swaying in the breeze in their magical little chimes. He saw and identified everything in his immediate field of vision with such startling clarity and a rush of many thoughts at once.

He cringed and had to close his eyes to block it out, with his hands pressing over his sensitive ears. This was sensory overload at its peak when he realized the gentle breeze in the air brushing the little hairs on his forearms and neck, chilling his skin and his proverbial soul. These sensations happened all at once, in a span of three seconds.

“Did I frighten you?” Charles asked from Phoe’s bareback, not far from him.

Erik shook his head. This is why we do not shut down, for we cannot handle waking! The thought was true enough, but he needed a moment of not thinking. Perhaps this was not the best of locations to practice that.

“No...” he spoke a moment later, slowly opening his eyes when he was prepared to see and feel again. He ran a long-fingered hand over his wig in a slow stroke. “No... it is not...you.” His hand reached the back of his head, where it stopped. He floated it out from his skull two centimeters, fingers splayed and tense, while pulling it to the side of his head. There, he hit himself with the heel of his palm, right above his right ear with a satisfactory, muffled thump.

Thoughts quieted themselves again.

“Ah... that is much better...” Erik muttered with a little smile, and Charles only stared, his jaw a little slack.

“You just hit yourself.”

“Yes.”

“How is that better?”

Erik shook his head with a dismissive wave of his hand. “That is...complicated. The more important question is, why you are here? You, who has come to despise my presence as of late.” He looked up and over to the boy, as Phoe gave a bored stomp of his right front hoof. The subsequent swish of his tail to ward away imaginary flies sounded like a wet bristled hard brush performing a single pass over a filthy tiled floor.

“I’m sorry…”

“Do not say things you do not mean,” Erik snapped. “I have no patience for it and have heard enough lies for three lifetimes.”

“I was looking for you, because I am sorry. I haven’t been…myself…” began Charles in earnest, “and I was worried. You’ve been gone for two hours.”

“Have I now?” the reply became light and, as if there were a sigh waiting to appear but it never did. Erik slipped a hand into his pocket, withdrawing an old silver pocket watch, and flipped it open for proper examination, to discover it was thirty minutes before midday. “I suppose it has,” his tone never changed.

Charles picked his right leg up and swung it over the equine’s neck to slide off Phoe’s left flank, closest to Erik. The motion was graceful enough for Erik to find it a bit admirable, especially when the soft landing highlighted the practiced dismount. Of course, it was not a technically proper dismount, since the leg did not swing around to pass over the rear. “Just when were you going to come back?”

“Forgive me. I failed to realize I was accountable to you,” Erik crooned with a drip of sarcasm.

Charles crossed his arms, much like Christine did whenever she felt either put off or perturbed, perhaps both, in this instance. “Then don’t expect me to be accountable to you.”

“That would prove to be your undoing,” came the retort. Erik set his eyes back to the watch, tracing his finger across the hands, the glass pane lost long ago with its previous owner, Giovanni. He could not recall how many times he repaired the little keepsake after it became water-logged or replaced various corroded components through the years. It remained a good watch to suffer his many abuses.

However, he possessed a better one developed by Alcide Droz & Sons, manufactured by the West End Watch Company in 1886. He favored it because the watch they called L'Impermeable was the first style of pocket watch that was waterproof. Well, water resistant, as it would succumb to the liquid if it remained submersed long enough. At least it was easier to revive to working order after it drowned. Easier than Giovanni’s gift anyway.

Unbeknownst to Erik, Charles crouched down in the snow and began sweeping a small pile into his hands.

Erik's attention was on the watch, with another pang of melancholy. It was a verge fusee piece of fine champlevé silver, made by William Liptrot in 1752. On the outer ring, in its face, numbers marked every increment of five minutes, from five to sixty, with the inner ring listing the hour in Roman numerals. It was elegant, simple. Erik often wondered if it was a gift from the master mason's own father, but he knew it was unlikely he would ever find out. Not that it particularly mattered.

A mildly icy ball of white flew into Erik’s right shoulder, splattering in a small spray of frozen powder that jerked him from hyper-focused reverie. It took his mind longer than it should have to switch from thinking of a timepiece to the fact the boy just threw a ball of snow at him, much of it still attached in a most disorderly fashion.

Perturbed, Erik cast Charles a rather dark glance, while cocking his head to the side as he vanished the watch into a pocket. “I beg your pardon, little Vicomte?” he asked with an edge creeping into his voice again.

Charles was grinning as he threw another.

Erik’s hand shot up and caught it, although it disintegrated in his palm. “Charles,” he spoke with growing sharpness.

The boy stooped over and began forming another ball in mittened fingers, his eyes bright and his grin never fading.

“Charles de Chagny,” Erik snapped and rose to his feet.

Charles straightened, unbothered by Erik’s increasingly sour tone, and continued to work the snow in his hands. “Snowball fight.”

Erik shifted his head tilt to the other side.

“You know, snowball fight,” came the bright answer that did nothing to explain the reasoning. “Playing!” Charles added when the prior statement did not seem to land.

“Playing,” Erik repeated, perplexed.

“Yes, playing. Got to play with friends and Ma—” he paused at the likely mention of his deceased parents. Charles cleared his throat. “We would play all the time when it snowed and had many great battles.”

Erik studied him for a moment, feeling the anger of just a minute ago melt away like the snow around them in the sunlight. Then, he looked towards an untouched patch of white powdered ice beside him. There were few times he could recall seeing young children laughing and shrieking as they threw those balls of snow, or just handfuls of it at each other.

“Haven’t you ever had a snowball fight?”

“No… I never had the luxury.”

Charles furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. “Why not?”

Images of iron bars and a jeering crowd marched across his mind’s eye in a most unwelcome fashion.

Erik glanced to the boy warily as he summoned the breath to answer, but hesitated for want of proper wording. “My peers have rarely been fond of my company, no matter the age.”

“Oh,” Charles said as his face fell, suddenly feeling guilty as he looked at the snowball in his hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t kno—”

A snowball landed square on his chest.

Charles’s attention snapped back to the masked man in black, who stood out in stark contrast to the world of white, a new projectile actively being created in his gloved hands. The grin returned.

Chapter Text

Michael Carriére watched the scene unfurl from deep within the tree line, binoculars in hand. The masked man from the road yesterday was out in the blinding sea of white powder, exchanging hurled balls of snow with a child who was half his size. It was hard to identify the boy at that distance, even with the assistance of binoculars, but the shiner over the left eye made it a loose identification.

The little Vicomte de Chagny was alive.

If the laughter he heard carried by the frozen breeze was any indication, he was safe.

Lon LeRoi, was it? That was the name on the document in the morgue that he only briefly glimpsed before being sent off into the country. A pseudo-identity, that was never in question. But who was this masked man, really? Who was he to attempt to help the Comtesse, kill her pursuers, and take in an orphaned aristocrat?

You knew her, didn’t you? You knew them.

Why not come forward with information that could help solve the murder?

It was a question that Michael already knew the answer to. Who would believe him? Robert certainly paid their cause no favors in regard to this LeRoi fellow. Although Robert, along with Julian and Herbert, were ones who favored logic, facts, and evidence, there were many they worked with who wanted to close cases on some half-investigated notion.

For those investigators, this LeRoi would be their prime suspect within minutes of a chat. Cut, dry, and tinder tossed to flame.

Michael lowered the binoculars, still leaning against the thick trunk of a tree to minimize his visibility to the predator that kept a watchful eye on everything while playing with the boy.

For all the indications that Robert Destler would be a proficient killer in another life or just a twist of fate, this LeRoi was far superior. Every movement was methodical, and he honed in on the child like a Briard herding sheep. Any snowballs that Charles de Chagny threw and connected with his guardian were permitted.

Movements were anticipated by the turn on the boy’s hips or shoulders, and LeRoi’s reflexes went beyond catlike in speed. No wonder seven men died to him, most killed by their own weapons.

Many questions that came to Michael presented quandaries. A conversation needed to be had with LeRoi – or whatever his actual name was. The boy’s safety was also paramount, which again, came down to a conversation. What then? By all accounts, he should tell the others of the boy’s status, where he was, and who he was with. Yet, a nagging feeling tugged at him that what he knew now, was best kept secret.

As the playful antics in the snow wound down, the pair started back towards the small house. The masked man, however, stopped, frozen in place before he turned with a careful scan of the area for a long moment. Then, he vanished into the cottage after the boy.

Frowning, Michael lowered the binoculars and stowed them into his satchel in exchange for one of the small leather-bound books. Drawing a pencil from his coat’s inner breast pocket, he began taking notes.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

For someone who claimed to have never participated in a snowball fight, or even knew what one was until today, Erik was annoyingly superb at flinging snow through the air. He certainly landed more hits than Charles could get on him. It was not as if Erik were a small target either, despite being rail thin and incredibly tall.

But as the cold crept upon them, numbing their fingers and grew Charles’s nose redder than the brightest tomato, they eventually made their way inside. There was not much to read of Erik's expression, but the small flashes of a smile turned to full-on toothy grins as their game reached the height of fun. Running, laughing – though Erik’s mirth did not extend beyond a few warm chuckles – and a kind of game of hide and seek, although neither of them were capable of blending into the sea of blinding white.

As they made their way into the warmth of their home, Charles kicked his boots at each gray brick step to loosen packed snow from them. Each step had already been swept of snow before Charles even went out that day, which was not a surprise, as it seemed Erik made more use of the back door than the front for the horses.

“Do you only keep horses, or have you had other animals too?” Charles queried as he reached the stoop, stomping a bit more.

“In what capacity?” Erik asked when he turned back to him from scanning the property.

“Pets, livestock,” Charles shrugged. “Any I guess.”

He seemed to consider the question as he moved to the bottom step. “There has been a dog, then a cat. I even had a hen more recently for the eggs, until something ate it.”

“Something ate it?”

“Yes, while I had to leave for supplies. Short of keeping her in the stable all the time instead of her reinforced coop, there was little else to be done.” Erik gave a graceful shrug. “Mostly I keep horses out here or wildlife in need of some sort of assistance; a broken wing here, a leg there.”

“Wildlife? Do you find them?” Charles asked as he stepped inside.

“No,” Erik said, following him after ridding his shoes of snow build-up as well. “They have a habit of finding me.”

“Finding you?”

“Yes,” Erik closed the door when he stepped in and moved towards the stove. “I will step outside or wander my property, and there will be a new guest. How would you prefer to warm yourself? Tea, chocolate, or a…” Erik stopped himself. “No that won’t do, you have stitches still.”

Charles’s lips twitched. “You used a contraction.”

“Pardon?”

“You said ‘won’t.’”

Erik’s left hand went to massage the underside of his right wrist. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“I think that is the first one I’ve heard you say,” Charles pressed.

Erik turned away and collected the kettle, lifting the lever for the spigot that fed water into the house from a well.

“Why do you avoid them?”

“I do not avoid them, Charles, as you clearly heard me use one.”

“Then why the lack of them?”

Kettle filled, Erik put it on the stove and lit the oil burner. “Chocolate or tea, Charles?”

Sensing the mood shifting, Charles stopped himself from repeating the question. “Chocolate, please.”

“With mint? Christine always liked it with mint. Granted, there is no peppermint right now, only regular.” Erik turned towards the cupboards and drew out two cups and three canisters.

“Mint would be nice,” Charles answered softly.

“Splendid.” Erik opened the canisters and placed several dried mint leaves into the warming water.

Charles watched as Erik busied himself with adding chocolate shavings to one cup and dried leaves of a tea blend into a small metal fuser that allowed seeping without too much mess. The aura of the room and Erik shifted rather dramatically from what he thought were simple questions. It was becoming apparent that those questions were a greater cause of stress.

Like that morning, only worse.

Which was strange, in that it seemed simple conversations stressed Erik more than facing down seven men, or the death of his mother, or those investigators they ran across on their return from Paris. Just simple conversation. Social things.

“My peers have rarely been fond of my company, no matter the age,” Erik had said when Charles explained what a snowball fight was.

Parisians were rude to him, even when Charles was close to his side, at the cheap inn where they stayed. Even the farrier and carpenter over-charged them. Monsieur Joubert avoided him. The investigators were suspicious, Monsieur Brossard was the exception, the only one who really seemed to act normal around Erik.

He lived alone, away from everyone and everything.

This morning and now began to make sense, as he pieced together the little granulates of information that he had learned over the past two days.

Charles bit his lip as he looked towards Erik’s mask, while he continued busying himself. There was little way of knowing what lay beneath it, only that he was not bold enough to ask. All he had were a few hints to work with. Even so, it was not a good enough reason for others to be so crass. At least that was what his parents taught him. Tears pricked at his eyes as he came to understand everything about his guardian being odd.

Unsure of how to help Erik with whatever was plaguing his mind, Charles only had a bit of instinct to guide him. Following it, he went to Erik’s side and touched his right hand.

Erik flinched and back-peddled away. “Yes, it is best if Charles goes and warms himself by the fire. Erik is not fit right now.”

Charles paused at the startling change in diction. It was a complete shift, as though he was narrating the situation more than being present in the moment, even if he was present now. Charles took another step towards the masked man who was his father, even if not yet a parent.

Erik again recoiled. “Not fit!”

“Would Erik hurt Charles?” Charles asked, slipping into the same speech pattern to see if that would help at all. It did not.

“No, no, never.”

Charles tried to smile, “Thought so.” He took another slow step.

Erik stepped away. “May yell,” he warned. “Has terrible temper.”

He’s trying to hide it, Charles thought, sensing missing words. “Erik would yell at his son?”

“Son…” Erik repeated, sinking to the floor in the corner as he put himself between the exterior wall and cabinets. “Yelled at Christine. She left him because he scared her. Always scared her,” he nearly folded over as his masked face went into his hands. “Cannot scare son too. Failing…”

His own cheeks were wet now, and led by some inner feeling, Charles went to Erik and slid to the floor beside him. “Let me understand,” he said softly, as he reached over to touch Erik’s right arm again.

Erik shook his head, pulling away.

“Please.”

Silence hung between them before Erik slowly moved his arm back to where Charles could reach. When Charles did grasp it, he turned Erik’s arm so it was palm up and pushed back the sleeve to see the spot he had rubbed minutes ago. There lay dozens of scars in the most tender part of the wrist, all at an angle rather than a straight cut.

They were horrid. Not that Charles was ever on the receiving end of lashing, but he could not imagine receiving one there. His tormentors had not even done that to his wrists.

“Charles had an Angel for a mother,” Erik whispered. “Erik did not. She did not like contractions. Erik was a thing to her. Spoken of, not spoken to.”

“That’s why…you are speaking in third?”

“Did not know better, until your age. It is ingrained.”

Charles’s eyes watered more, and he wrapped his arms around Erik’s neck. This time, his embrace was to give comfort, rather than seek any of it for himself. It took Erik a full minute to lean into its intended warmth with a shudder as he wept.

Chapter Text

Police Judiciaire

“I dislike him being out there,” Robert Destler growled to the other two men, as they sat in the parlor of Julien Claudin’s home. “Especially if that man is as capable as I think he is, it would only be a matter of time.”

“He might lack your conventions and prowess, but he is no less capable of handling himself,” Herbert Petrie responded as he sipped at his brandy. “He’s been at this job longer than you.”

“And trained by me,” Julien reminded them. “Just as you all were.” At sixty-four summers, he was the oldest among them. While well into the age of retirement, he could neither quit the job nor have the job leave him. Without a marriage or family left to tend, investigating curious crimes and murders was what made him the most content. Sitting by with idle hands suited none of their investigative collaborations. “Michael might seem the mellow one among us, but I can assure you he is not. He can hold his own when and if necessary.”

Robert grumbled something under his breath.

Julien rose to his feet and stepped over to the map of Paris and the surrounding countryside, eyeing the pins marking Chelle, Vaujours forest, the morgue, and the site where the body of the Comtesse was discovered. “You said you found this man here?” he asked, pointing towards a side route between Vaujours and Paris.”

“Yes. Returning. Michael noted the horses’ shoes were new, and their hair matches what we found. His timeline also is suggestive.”

“But it could be coincidental, nonetheless.”

“I find that unlikely. You didn’t see him.”

“I’m wondering if I have before,” Julien muttered.

“Come again?”

Herbert sat up in his chair a bit, brow raised, but continued his silence.

“Why would the Comtesse wind up in Vaujours, if that is where she truly died? Why not head to Paris?”

“A meandering route? Random direction? An escape for the sake of escaping? It could be any number of reasons,” Robert stated.

“Yes…” Julien murmured. “Herbert, how much digging have you done into the de Chagny Family?”

“Apart from possibly the boy, every de Chagny has wound up dead or missing. Including the Comte’s sisters.”

Julien turned to him with rising brows, “You’re joking.”

“Unfortunately not,” Herbert rose from his chair and pulled out some folders he brought with him. “We knew about Philippe, beneath the opera. Bashed in the head and drowned in ninety-six. Blamed on the Ghost.”

“What Ghost?” asked Robert as he stepped closer to look.

Herbert raised a hand to pause the youngest man. “Eveline du Bouvier died in her sleep– heart gave out after her husband and family died in a carriage accident, and Roseline de Faure has been missing for a long time now. The list extends to aunts and uncles. Now, with Raoul and his wife…”

“What about this Ghost with Philippe?” Robert pressed.

“The Opera Ghost,” Julien smiled. “You were but, oh…eighteen then?”

“Watching skirts, no doubt,” teased Herbert in a warm chuckle.

Robert glared between them.

“Comtesse Christine de Chagny was once Christine Daaé, a soprano at the Palais Garnier,” Julien began. “The Opera Ghost is said to be a deranged man who lived beneath the opera house, blackmailing management, harassing divas, and he fell madly in love with Mlle. Daaé. The Comte himself told me the Opera Ghost was little more than a deformed man who wore a mask.”

Robert inhaled sharply and went over to the decanter, filled a glass with bourbon, downed it, and poured a second.

“There is much more to the story, but you have a tendency to want the side notes,” Julien went on.

“You think the masked man we found,” Robert downed a quarter of the second glass, “Is this Opera Ghost?”

“Hard to say without evidence. Many will wear a mask for medical reasons; veterans and such. There were many after the last war and the commune.”

“Why didn’t you find and arrest him then?”

“He was a Ghost. Hard to put such phantoms into cuffs, you know. Regardless, the Comtesse proclaimed this Opera Ghost innocent of killing Philippe.”

“Why is that?”

“She was under the notion that Philippe’s death… was not of the Ghost’s method. Which, I am inclined to agree, from what I know of him,” Julien explained. “Every other death in and around the opera house was largely asphyxiation via ligature or drowning. Even those were rare. We cannot be certain if he killed anyone. All we have is rumor and the Comtesse’s word.”

“If this Ghost is this LeRoi, and LeRoi is the man we encountered on the road, he is a killer. I would bet my salary on it, and he likely killed those seven men with ease,” Robert growled.

“We work off facts, not inclinations!” Julien snapped. “I am not saying you are wrong. You do have a reliable sense of these things, but we need more than just hunches. You know this. Even if the Ghost, LeRoi, and the masked man are the same person, he is not the one who killed the de Chagnys.”

Herbert’s eyes darted between the two. “You did say those tracks from the men were traced back to the Chateau,” he noted. “Following Christine.”

“Yes, but Michael and I had someone else follow the whole trail while we covered a rough third. It was winding, not direct, meaning she either did not know where she was headed or was being evasive.”

“Or both,” Herbert pondered aloud. “Would she have gone to the Ghost, if she knew where he was?”

Julien spread his hands, at a loss. “She always acted…odd, whenever I brought up who or what he was. De Chagny too. Within two months of the investigation into Philippe, he went about as mum as she did. There was little to work with, and Philippe’s case went cold. The de Chagny family seemed to content with the idea that he slipped and hit his head.”

“Content,” muttered Robert. “There is no way, other than happenstance, that she meant to find him where we believe they met up. His trail came from a village, hers from Chelle. Where he went from there is unknown.”

Herbert pressed his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes. “Who was that friend of the Comtesse? The dancer?”

“You worked it too?” Robert asked, turning to him.

“Along with Michael, but he was still just a patrolman and I just starting on with Julien. I questioned a few people. Not much else.”

Julian’s brow furrowed a moment before he went over to a chest of drawers and began rifling through files. Pulling out a thick one and dropping it on its top, he flipped through the pages. “Madame and Meg Giry, friends of Christine. The Madame always got notes from the supposed Ghost… Then there was that strange fellow,” Julien flipped a page. “Khan, the former police chief from Persia…”

“They knew more than most anyone else there, if I recall,” said Herbert.

“Yes… Perhaps they will be chattier after a few years and the deaths of the de Chagnys,” nodded Julien. “Herbert, you find and talk with the Girys. I’m sure the girl would be married by now. Robert, you and I will talk to Khan.”

“And Michael?” Robert asked.

“Can take of himself, dammit.”

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

It was dark when Michael started to make a perimeter around the solitary residence, which inhabited the singular clearing of the forest it occupied. There were few ways to get close to the stone house without betraying himself quickly with the present snowfall. The front of the residence was unmarred by anything beyond wildlife wandering through. No human, no horses, only the cloven hooves of deer or the padded toes of rabbits and foxes, to name a few.

Making his way to the back took time, but the snow was vastly more trampled there, thus his presence would be harder to detect if he got close. Hours trickled away, and the only other activity he witnessed was the masked man emerging to tend the horses and coax the white one into the stable for the night. The black pair were given feed in their stalls but not barred from returning to the field.

Whenever the man in question had a moment of pause, he was keeping an eye on the tree line. Whether this was habit or a raised guard, Michael was uncertain. Even with fingers and toes numb in the cold, he was not about to break camp yet or move to get closer to the house, although dim lights had vanished from the windows. The moon was breaking from cloud cover, making the snow glow, and he would be easily seen.

What would occur if he tried to merely knock, come morning? Would ‘LeRoi’ even answer the door?

It no longer mattered when his skin began to crawl in warning, and he pricked his ears to hear a quiet crunch on the snow behind him. Michael spun on his heel, with a hand moving to his hip, while the figure shrouded in darkness sprang forward.

Michael’s hand never made it to his revolver as a thin cord slipped over his head and tightened around his neck. It slid tight, with a gloved hand bracing the back of his neck. By instinct of former military training, Michael did what no ordinary citizen would do, and threw himself forward against the binding of his neck.

What he did not expect was the other to continue to hang on and take a tumble with him. While the hand vanished from the back of his neck and the tension slackened, it was not enough to free him completely. They both were grounded in the snow, his attacker partially on his back as they both struggled to gain some semblance of control. Michael rolled from his front to his side, swinging his elbow around toward the other in a sharp jab.

The attacker grunted and fell to the other side as the bony joint found its mark.

Michael then rolled fully to his back, blindly reaching for the length of cord that was still bound around his throat. Upon its discovery, he quickly wrung his arm around the tether between him and his attacker twice before it tightened. This time, when the cord constricted, it turned Michael’s arm numb rather than his throat. By the feeling of cold bits pressing against his skin in critical areas about his neck, this was a blessing.

But the other – the masked man – Michael assumed, was not finished with the assault yet. The retaliation to the failed throttling resulted in the arm that he wrapped in the cord being held in a skeletal vise grip. It wrenched him back over to his front before Michael’s unbound right hand could find the holstered pistol on his hip. But now, that hand was pinned between his chest and the frozen ground beneath him.

A knee pressed against his spine momentarily while the pistol was removed from his hip. Then, as it was flung away out of easily obtainable reach, the masked man sat astride Michael’s lower back. Bony knees were locked on either side of Michael, and his left arm bound in the cord between his throat and the man. His right arm, of course, was now pinned by both his torso and the other’s knee. While not completely out of options, Michael was at the other’s mercy.

“I had hoped,” that sinister silken voice began as he leaned forward and fingers coiled around the cord between Michael’s arm and throat, “that you were that other one.”

“I’m not… here to hurt you or the boy.”

“I care not for your intentions Monsieur, though I must compliment you before you die. Most do not think to throw themselves against what strangles them. You managed to extend your life, if only by minutes.”

Michael grunted, thinking quickly as the cord tightened but lacked the initial strength, or rather, the leverage of before. “Wait…” he tried, “I don’t think you killed them…”

The cord stopped its growing tension.

“I have no doubt of your capacity to kill me, Monsieur. If you dislike what I have to say, then by all means, end me. But I think we can help each other.”

“I am hardly one for needing assistance in anything.”

“Then help me uncover who killed the de Chagnys.” On a hunch, he pressed further. “Help me find who killed Christine.”

There was a mewled sound of angst from the mention of the victim’s name, and the air shifted from focus to chilled weight. “You want justice for her, don’t you? And for the boy? I saw the shiner he had today.” There was no point in denying that the man who held his life now knew they had been watched. “You don’t strike me as one to harm a woman or child.”

“You are being manipulative,” the other growled, the sparks of mal-intent and focus returning in the drop of timbre of that dark, emotive voice.

“Take my words as you will.”

A long silence hung between them before the cord around his throat lessened.

Chapter Text

Ponder the Reason

It had been a long day. A very long day, where breakfast was trying, the afternoon elating then tormenting, and the evening filled with apprehension. So many overwhelming social interactions of various emotional weights left Erik feeling utterly sapped of mental stamina. Interacting with humanity always was a chore. It was easier around certain souls, certainly, but no less draining.

Erik enjoyed playing with his son, even when the hairs from a lifetime of prudence lifted on his neck. Charles’s voice when he laughed, was music on Erik’s ears. He wanted more of it, all the time. It reminded him of Christine. Also, the sound of it was completely different, more like his own.

Then… then that boy’s intelligence proved…trying.

Contractions were a forbidden concept in his adolescence. What little Erik revealed of his youth was true. Erik’s mind largely operated in the third person, although he knew it was an imperfect thought pattern. He was a thing, an object, monster, creature… his birthname was as unpleasant as his face. As much as his mother loathed him, she was strict in his learning of manners and etiquette. She tried to break him from drawing and writing with his left hand by lashing the inner wrist of that hand.

If he spoke out of turn or with a contraction, she struck the inner wrist of his right hand, forgetting again that it was not the hand he favored. Decades on, the mere thought of it still brought the stinging pain of the reed coming down and breaking tender flesh.

Erik was ready for the day to be over, but life was never that simple. Not for him. Never for him.

Instead, there stood one of the Inspectors he encountered on the road just yesterday, in his small stable and chilled to the bone. However, this Michael Carriére hid it well. Erik saw the minor tremble that rippled through the man every few moments. Although Erik always strived to be a suitable host to any guest he might have, as few and far between as they were, he was not yet willing to provide the other with more comfort than that of the stable’s stone walls and sturdy wooden doors that blocked the windchill.

“You knew you would be followed,” Carriére commented plainly.

“I would be a fool to think otherwise.”

“Perhaps, though many are not quite so aware.”

“I am not like them,” bit Erik as he turned on his heel back toward Carriére after igniting a lamp for the Inspector’s sake. He, in turn, side-stepped elegantly towards a shadowy corner he preferred, for numerous reasons. Most of those motives were to eliminate the other quickly, if necessary.

Carriére watched him wearily, with ugly bruising already forming on his throat from being ensnared by the Punjab lasso. Those light blues eyes spotted the rope behind Erik that led up to the rafters, where a load of haybales was raised high to lower the chance of vermin nesting in the yellowed straw. In his foresight, Carriére stepped out from under its shadow. “You most certainly are not.”

“You are more observant than most.”

“It helps when you like to keep breathing.”

“Most of humanity wants to keep breathing, yet they are not mindful enough to take the simplest precautions to prolong their longevity.” There were other ways to kill him as needed, of course, but the sudden drop of weight upon the Inspector’s head would have been the quickest. The mess? Mild. In the grander scheme of it at least.

“True enough,” Carriére glanced towards the haybales again. “Though most of humanity does not have someone aiming to kill them.”

“That could be debated,” Erik said dryly.

“We would be here all night if that were the case.”

“Indeed. Yet, I have no patience for such trivialities.”

“Neither do I,” the Inspector agreed. “So, I will get right to the matter at hand. You are this Lon LeRoi, who brought her body to the mortuary. You also dispatched those men who pursued them. But what I find most curious, is that Christine and Charles de Chagny fled their Chateau and managed to wander nearly all the way here from such a distance. There are other homes, other towns, and villages between their home and yours, that she could have stopped at and gotten help. Why is that?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Monsieur.”

“Is it though? You knew her.”

Erik gave an aloof shrug. “I encountered a woman and child four nights ago who begged for my aid. Who would I be as a gentleman if I were to deny such a request?”

“You killed her pursuers, most of them with their own weapons. Seven of them.”

“Did I? Curious to manage such a feat. Something more suiting to a man of your age, rather than an old thing like me.”

“You do not move as though you are plagued by arthritis.”

“Pain becomes numb when it is all you have ever known, on both planes. One merely learns to just exist with it and let it become static in the back of the mind.”

Carriére’s eyes narrowed with critical thought but did not press that statement further. “What happened at the creek? Why did she die? I could only glean part of the scene from what was left.”

Erik maintained eye contact, though he wanted to look just about anywhere else. The fog of emotion threatened to well in his throat, and an unforgiving amount of phlegm seemed to cling to his vocal cords. Flexing the fingers of his left hand, he swallowed back the worst of the sudden muck that threatened his voice. He had shut the image of her from his mind, even as the flare of panic he had felt then sparked a fire in his chest. “I cannot say precisely what had happened prior to our encounter. However, I do know that the dead horse you saw paid her no favors. When they shot the horse, it had fallen on her and trapped her in the creek.”

“Her leg.”

“Precisely. That alone should not have killed her, but it likely worsened whatever abuse they put upon her,” Erik answered through gritted teeth, hands now curling to fists. “They abused the boy as well, but not to the same level as they did her. She died come morning, despite my efforts to the contrary.”

“You knew what you were doing in protecting her and tending those wounds,” Carriére spoke softly and with empathy.

“Do not start that,” Erik snapped.

The Inspector’s brows furrowed and his jaw slackened, “Pardon?”

“That. Your feigned empathy in an effort to set me at ease.”

“That is not my intent—”

“Lies,” Erik spat the word in a growl now.

Carriére’s mouth clamped shut for a moment, brow-raising a bit as he studied Erik a moment. “You are right that I was…am trying to set you at ease. But I do assure you, Monsieur, my empathy for all of this, is genuine. Whether you chose to believe me or not.”

Erik did believe him in that statement, even if it did nothing to quell the flames in his spirit at the moment. “Then speak to the point and logic, and not by appeasement.”

“As you wish,” Carriére granted with a nod, letting a tense silence fall over them for long moments before pressing on with his incessant questions.

“You knew her.”

“That is subjective.”

“Why else would she come out here, but to look for you.”

“I can assure you Monsieur, she has no want of me. Our encounter was happenstance. Had I not been traveling myself; we would not have crossed paths.”

“I disagree.”

“What do you know, boy? You can follow a few tracks through ramble, let your bias lead you to my door, and then what?”

Carriére shook his head. “It was not bias that made me follow you. It was instinct. A feeling, if you will. You played your part well on the road, but when that instinct starts calling, I’ve learned it is best to listen as you have. It served you well, hasn’t it?”

“Instinct and experience are entirely different aspects.”

“Yet one still helps inform the other.”

“With bias.”

“Then you are just as biased, with your supposed history with others. Always being accused of things you are and are not guilty of, all your life – because some affliction lies behind your mask?”

Erik stiffened a bit, though tilted his head nonetheless.

“Yes, I’ve deduced that you are deformed, and you have such hostility and disdain for your fellow man because you hardly feel like a part of humanity. If you were injured or scarred at some point in life, you would not be so bitter and paranoid.”

“Here I thought you wanted to keep your heart beating a while longer,” Erik bit in warning.

Carriére was unphased by the threat. “I do. However, I detest bullshit and games as much as you do, in this instance. Would it not serve us better, and her, if you cooperated?”

“I am being cooperative,” Erik growled. “You are still alive, and I have not assailed you again…yet.”

“You are feigning collaboration. You know things about her and the situation, and I have the means to investigate this more deeply. Even more freely, in this case. Would you rather inform my efforts or continue to throw obstacles in my way, Monsieur? Do you want to be blamed for lives you did not take? I’ve no interest in tossing you into a cage for killing those men in the forest.”

“I am not in the habit of trusting lawmen, most of whom are often so narrow-minded that they fail to see the truths that lay before them.”

“I aim to be better than that.”

“I see that.”

“Yet, you are being difficult.”

“Old habits die hard, Inspector.”

“Which will not help her, or the boy. It’s not as though you are in a position to tend to everything yourself. Unless you plan to leave the boy alone again, or did you somehow have him hidden in that cart yesterday?”

Erik dipped his chin forward. It was a fair point, though that did not mean he liked it anymore. It would be simpler to kill this man than to work with him. However, leaving Charles alone, unguarded for extended periods, was not an option either. Thus, in this case, Erik relented. For Christine. “Very well. Regardless of what you may believe, I do not have the faintest idea why she would come out this way.”

“But you knew her.”

Erik set his jaw. “Yes, a long time ago.”

“At the Garnier?”

Now Erik’s eyes narrowed, “Perhaps.”

Carriére gave a small smile, “You were my first case.”

It was not a stretch. With the scandal of a decade long gone between a budding star and a masked villain, how could this perceptive Inspector not piece it together in some way? It was no surprise for him to reach that conclusion, yet no less annoying.

“Did not find much, did you?”

“But at least now I better understand why.”

“An assumption, Inspector.”

“Why would she seek you out? Which is what it appears to me, even if you disagree.”

Because I fathered her son… but Erik was not about to disclose that delicate detail to anyone else. Not yet, at least. “I do not know. She had made it clear to me that I was not to be a presence in her life any longer, which is a wish I granted. The name on this property is not a name that she would have recognized.”

“Yet, she still came this way.”

“Many things can happen in a panic when your life is at stake, Inspector. One does not often think clearly at those moments. Given your profession, you should know that. Unless, you are rather incompetent, despite initial pretense.”

“I am well aware, Monsieur. As such, I am not one to leave such possibility to complete chance, either. Perhaps it was total happenstance. Perhaps, she learned of your whereabouts at an earlier date, and it was her subconscious that brought her and the boy out here. I am inclined to believe the latter.”

This again. Why was this man so stuck on the notion that she would want to find him at all? “She would have little reason to seek me out, Inspector.”

“Little reason,” Carriére repeated thoughtfully, after a pause.

Erik repressed the grimace. This was why he did not socialize well with others over such troublesome affairs. In an effort to shift the focus from the truth of Charles’s heritage, which was likely Christine’s partial reasoning, or her husband wanting to keep track of him, Erik replied, “I am familiar to her, and was something of her protector before everything…went out of hand at the Garnier. Her husband was dead by the time they fled, and if she somehow learned of my whereabouts — on a subconscious level — she was likely seeking refuge in the interim, even if I was a black stain on her life.”

“You loved her.”

“Irrelevant.”

Carriére shook his head. “Not to the investigation.”

“In your opinion.”

“I need to get into her head, Monsieur. I need to get into Raoul de Chagny’s head, so I can get into the mind of whoever wanted them dead. Right now, I think those men you dispatched were but hired help. I have to find who would have the means to hire so many and keep his or her hands clean of this blood trail. I also get the impression that you will not let me both speak to that boy and leave from here alive.”

Erik inclined his head in an affirmative to that. There was little chance he would allow such an interaction yet. If ever.

“I would be well within my rights to force the issue, and bring reinforcements here to speak with him,” Carriére began.

Erik’s eyes darted to Carriére as a dark cloud started to descend upon his vision, until the Inspector raised his hands in a disarming manner.

“However, I think I saw enough today between you two to be assured that he feels comfortable with you. He would not be laughing and playing in the snow with someone he fears.”

The fingers of Erik’s hand relaxed from the fist they curled into from the potential threat. Regardless, Erik sensed the coming question.

“How is the boy?”

Erik knew the true question behind the one spoken, and his jaw clenched from his own internal woe of the matter, rather than anger. “He is…managing. He has yet to speak of what he had witnessed.”

Carriére's head bobbed once with a single nod, his eyes briefly downcast before collecting himself a moment as he straightened. “Did Christine tell you anything before she died, that could help us find out who is behind this?”

A long and heavy sigh came and went, with a deep rise and fall of his chest. “She… did not know who attacked them. She mentioned that Comte Philibert owed a debt, which was passed on to Comte Philippe, then…then Raoul,” oh, it pained him to utter that boy’s name, “and now that debt is on Charles.”

“What was the debt?”

“They would not tell the de Chagnys this supposed debt, which is curious when it is something they wanted to be paid in full.”

“That does not make any sense,” Carriére muttered, as he brushed his hand over his light brown hair.

“Agreed.”

“Why bring up a debt, when they were just going to kill them anyway? What is the point of even mentioning it if they would not say what it was…” the Inspector began pacing as he vocalized these questions rhetorically.

Erik craned his head to the side and watched the man move back and forth in thought as he pondered those questions. Questions that Erik had been asking himself several times over the past four days.

“Why not just kill them outright? It was never the intent to have the debt paid…” Carriére continued under his breath, with a glance to Erik. “You’re sure that is what she said?”

“Beyond measure.”

Carriére’s hand fell over his face, hand cupping over his mouth, just below his nose. The pacing stopped, but the mind was still working at a vigorous pace.

What was it like to have a nose? A bump of cartilage extending beyond the bone to create a proper and pleasing airway that others could look upon without disgust.

“That boy is the key,” Carriére commented to him.

Blinking out of his thoughts, Erik’s eyes settled on the Inspector again. “He is,” he agreed, but did not relent to the silent ask.

Carriére gave a single nod, although he appeared to deflate with an exhale. “I better return before search parties are sent for me come morning. I will… keep your home here a secret, if only to protect the boy. But I do ask for your name.”

It took a long moment for Erik to consider the Inspector’s words before relenting. It would likely only be a matter of time before he would learn of it anyway. It was a fair guess his name came out during the loose investigation into the Opera Ghost. Persistent bastard. If they did go to the Daroga, that thorn would certainly give it up within seconds of conversation, if he had not already, “Speak nothing of where we are to your comrades, only that the boy lives. If my name or the boy’s status appears in any paper, I will find you, and then the boy and I will vanish.”

“You have my word.”

With a slow nod, believing him, he permitted his name. “I am Erik.”

Chapter Text

The Canvas

Within hours of dawn breaking over the city of Paris, a knock at the door seized Meg’s heart in the perpetual state of anxiety she found herself feeling ever since…

She did not allow herself to finish the thought. Instead, she rose from her seat at the small kitchen table, where the third and fourth chairs were almost always empty now, and cinched the sash of her robe tight before brushing a kiss to the top of Helene’s head. As she neared the door, Meg peered out the small side window to see her caller, her hand curling around the head of her mother’s old cane.

On the stoop stood an older man with thinning dark hair, clad in tan slacks and a jacket where the shade of purple was so dark, it was nearly black. The bowler hat was neatly held in his hands already. Grudgingly, she made sure the security chain was in place before cracking the door open to the limit of that chain. “Yes?”

The man offered a tight smile as he regarded her warmly. “Madame Corbin?” he asked, and she gave a fraction of a nod. “I am Inspector Herbert Petrie with the Judiciaire. I was hoping to speak with you, in light of recent events.”

Meg swallowed hard, but never the less closed the door enough to unlatch the security chain after Inspector Petrie showed her his badge. She led him into the parlor where she motioned for him to take a seat on the worn sofa. “Can I get you something? Water? Tea?” she asked solemnly.

“No, thank you. I’m sure my presence here is troublesome enough,” Petrie spoke softly as he settled into the sofa and set his hat down on the seat beside him.

Meg pulled her robe a bit tighter and slowly settled into her late husband’s favorite chair. “I expected someone would eventually come knocking sooner than later.”

“Ah, yes,” Petrie commented as he pulled a notepad and pencil from the inner pocket of his coat. “You’ve gone through questioning before, as I recall.”

“Excuse me?” she asked with rising brows, surprised.

“Yes,” Petrie began, warmth in his soft cadence. “You were still Meg Giry then, and I had considerably more hair.”

Meg’s brows furrowed a moment as she scanned over the man again, subtracting the years the best she could. He was vaguely familiar to her, perhaps marginally heavier. His round face was more lined with time, and his dark hair thinner, with more streaks of silver running through it than all those years ago. “You were one of the Inspectors, after… after everything, at the Opera.”

He offered a small smile, “Yes.”

“I’m surprised you would remember, after all these years.”

“Hmm… yes, though you could say I cheated a bit,” Petrie held up his notebook as he spoke. “Though I will admit, that case has always intrigued me and never quite…left me either.”

“Many of us could say the same,” Meg offered softly as she tucked a strand of black hair back behind her ear and relaxed more into Auguste’s chair. “In your profession, I imagine some things never quite leave you.”

“You are right in that. I have a feeling that this is going to be one of those cases.”

Meg looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “It would be for me, if I were in your stead.”

“I have little doubt of that,” Petrie continued to use a disarming tone. “What do you know of what happened the night of February 17^th, with the de Chagny family?”

“Only what I have read in the papers.”

“What precisely have you read, Madame Corbin?”

“That the de Chagny home was found in smoldering ruins, with Raoul’s body and those of their staff. Then, that Christine and Charles were missing, until they found Christine’s body three days ago, but no details were given. Also, that Charles is still missing,” her eyes watered in earnest over that, though she was careful in her wording. Although she knew the answer anyway, she asked the next question as not to outright betray herself, “Have there been any updates on finding Charles? I can hardly bear the thought of not knowing what’s become of him,” Meg shook her head, remembering the agony of what she knew before receiving that note from Erik and letting it play across her features.

“I’m sorry, no. Nothing that I am at liberty to say at this time.” Petrie’s hand went back into his jacket’s inner pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, which he held out to her.

Meg graciously took it, dabbing her eyes.

“You were good friends with Christine and the de Chagnys?”

“With Christine more than Raoul. We were both only children and considered ourselves akin to sisters through the years. When my daughter, Helene, was born,” she began with a fleeting smile at a fine Sunday tea they had at the de Chagny Chateau years ago, “we had secretly allowed ourselves to imagine that we could become actual sisters, if Charles and Helene might become sweethearts and marry. Silly things, but it helped keep the light in our day.”

“Were there dark days?”

This gave Meg pause as she considered the thought, wanting to assist the Inspector the best she could without risking too much. “No. Not in the conventional sense of the word, at least. It seemed to me that there was always something of a cloud that hung over her, ever since her time at the Opera.”

“Why do you think that is?” Petrie questioned, watching her more than he took notes.

Meg shook her head. “I’m not sure. She would never tell me what troubled her. In good company, she was bright as ever…but there were times… I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try, please? It may be helpful.”

Glancing down at her hands again, she sighed. “I want to clarify, that what I am about to say is only a feeling. I have no actual proof or facts, just intuition.”

“A woman’s intuition is said to be quite accurate, in many cases…if she is keeping a clear head, that is.”

“Yes… to a point, anyway. It is more accurate in regards to her own family and children.”

“You have my attention, regardless.”

Meg pursed her lips. “Christine and Raoul were always kind to each other and those in their lives. Sweet, loving, affectionate… but I never… I did not quite believe that they were in love. At least, not in the ways I had seen in other couplings or experienced in my own marriage to Auguste. It seemed a façade to me. A well-played one, but one, nonetheless.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Christine’s mind always seemed to wander, and because of it, she could tell a wonderful story. But after… everything that happened at the opera, she changed…in the months that followed and more, after Charles. At first, I thought it was just because of her pregnancy and the loss of Serena, but as the years went on, I would catch sight of her looking out a window with her guard down, where she just seemed… sad.”

Petrie made a few short-hand notes. “Serena? Her daughter?”

Meg gave a nod.

“I was unaware there were any other children.”

“There…is and isn’t,” Meg paused and pursed her lips together as she struggled for the right words. “Charles is the oldest of twins. Serena was delivered with the umbilical around her neck. She did not survive, and it about destroyed Christine, and Raoul, but especially her. Christine would cling to Charles afterwards, like he was the only thing in the world. Only those of us close to them knew of Serena.”

“Did Serena’s death seem to cause any discourse in the marriage? Often, such tragedies can lead to an inability to move on as a couple.”

“No. Raoul was very compassionate and empathetic to her pain. More than most men of his status, I believe. I guess, they decided not to have any more, for fear of having another such incident. I do not believe Christine’s heart could have handled another loss such as that. I think that Raoul thought much the same as I did, in that regard. They were a solid coupling, united in much of their decisions, and he would consult her on whatever obstacles crossed them and their marriage.”

“But you do not think they were in love?”

“Not in love, but they did care about each other deeply. Just not in the way one might consider for a marriage, since the revolution.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I have little idea why. Only that it seemed to me, that their marriage was more of an arrangement. But as I said, this is only speculative on my part.”

“Do you think either of them loved someone else?”

“Not with any authority.”

“What about, without authority? A ponder that is creeping into the back of your mind, but not so strong that you would be willing to make a wager.”

Meg’s eyes snapped up to Petrie’s dark ones at that. “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

Petrie sat back a bit, with another quick notation made. “So do you, Madame Corbin. This is all a very curious affair that I think stretches back years. Raoul and Christine de Chagny are at a loss for enemies in their lives. There seems to be one in particular that would have a motive for murder, to the point of hunting down your friend, unless you can give me a name. Jilted lover? An affair, perhaps?”

Meg shook her head. “Christine and Raoul were not like that.”

“As far as you know.”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“I have it on…some authority that Raoul de Chagny did briefly engage with a mistress, early in the marriage.”

“By whose account?” Meg asked, eying him, and wondering if this was even a true statement.

“I cannot tell you that, Madame.”

“I do not believe that for a moment. Raoul is not that kind of man, and neither is Christine that kind of woman.”

“It can be amazing what is learned… after the fact. Things that you did not think possible for someone to do, have often been proved otherwise; once an investigation begins into a death. Particularly a homicide.”

Meg did not doubt the Inspector’s words for an instant in this regard. But for Christine and Raoul? This was something she was certain of, to the point of nearly making that ‘wager.’ Yet, as she believed this fact of her friend’s lives, over the years, Meg had come to question just who exactly Christine loved in her secretive heart. The secrets that never seemed to truly fade, in the years since the Opera Ghost haunted and terrorized the Palais Garnier. “I am sure that is true, Monsieur Petrie, but I am certain of their integrity in this.”

“Very well. Though, if you permit me, I want to discuss a loose theory I have nagging at the back of my mind. It’s not the full picture as painted by an artist, but it is enough to gain a vague idea of what that artist has in mind.”

Meg said nothing, solemnly folding the handkerchief in her hands now.

“On the night of January 7^th, 1897, your friend, then Christine Daaé, was abducted from the stage of the Paris Opera in the middle of Faust, during scene two of act five – vanishing before everyone, with a flicker of the lights, as Marguerite pleas for heaven.

“Come the afternoon of January 8^th, she returns in the company of Raoul and Monsieur Nadir Khan, all of whom are quite disheveled and perplexingly quiet about what transpired in those lost hours. Raoul, who had been talkative of the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, and the Phantom of the Opera, suddenly falls silent for weeks. That is, until we found the body of Comte Philippe de Chagny on February 11^th. He grows chatty again about the deformed man living beneath the Opera, who abducted Christine and nearly killed him and Monsieur Khan. So surely, he must have killed Comte Philippe. Raoul goes silent, come February 15^th and onward. Christine was quite evasive on the matter entirely, and would only admit there was a man whose name she would not give us. All she would say was, ‘It was not him.’”

Meg continued to sit in silence.

“It is almost the same story as the one you, your mother, and Monsieur Khan had told us, Madame Corbin. We know the Opera Ghost is more than just a myth that the Palais Garnier has chosen to bury, along with operas themselves, as though keeping opera from the stage of an opera house would be enough to keep the Ghost away. It is interesting, that even after all that Raoul de Chagny said he had suffered at the hands of this man, he chose not to pursue the case over his brother. Not only that, but everyone seems to have chosen to protect this man from justice, for at least Comte Philippe, and possibly more.”

Still, Meg said nothing, even as tears flowed from her cheeks.

“Now, all the de Chagnys are either dead or missing, and as it stands, my only real suspect is whoever the man is behind the Opera Ghost. Do not mistake me either, Madame. I do not think this lightly. However, what the papers are not telling you, is that Christine’s body was discovered in the mortuary. It had been broken into by an expert. The documents there regarding her body were forged, and all we have is a name. LeRoi. My colleagues and I suspect that is false, of course, but we have reason to believe that this LeRoi and the Opera Ghost are one and the same. Tell me, Madame Corbin, does the name Erik have any meaning to you?”

“No…” she breathed softly.

It was a terrible crossroads to be in as Petrie spoke, and this artist’s half-painted picture was disturbingly accurate in the speculation of what was to come. Erik’s note to her, left her rattled on just who she could trust. Could she even trust Petrie with anything she knew, as vague and unhelpful as it might be? At the same time, however, she wanted them to find Christine and Raoul’s murderer.

She did not know Erik. Barely knew him at all, beyond him being a fleeting shadow who, ultimately, had looked out for her, her mother, and Christine during their time at the opera. For all the things that transpired there, even before the scandal, there were certain things that she was able to grasp about him. If Erik was truly as heartless and cold as the world seemed to think of him, why had he never killed Raoul? Erik had an unhealthy infatuation with Christine. They all knew it. He believed he loved her. As such, it would have been easy for Erik to kill Raoul at the start and claim Christine without competition, so why did Raoul live until now?

Because the Phantom only killed out of measure of self-defense, at least from what little she knew and gleaned from her mother, as well as Monsieur Khan. But how accurate was that statement, truly? Would Erik kill Christine and Raoul out of frustration ten years on? Was the note he sent a farce?

No. Never. Not Christine. Not when he had yearned for death for those weeks, all those years ago. Only to suddenly regain a reason to live again?

Oh Christine, what did you do then? What haven’t you told me?

“All the de Chagnys?” Meg asked after a moment, voice little more than a whisper. “All dead except Charles?”

“No. Roseline de Faure née de Chagny has been missing for some time now; before all these tragedies began falling upon the family.

“Roseline?” Meg repeated under her breath. “Raoul’s sister?”

“Yes. Did you know her?”

“No… I think I only briefly met her at their wedding, then…”

“Then what?”

“Then, nothing. I had not heard of her since. Not a mention, or that she was even missing. Not by Christine or even Raoul.”

Inspector Petrie’s brows now pinned together as he regarded her. “Curious.”

Chapter Text

Daroga

While Inspector Petrie was across the city speaking with Madame Meg Corbin née Giry, Julien Claudin and Robert Destler ascended the stoop of the humble townhome on Rue de Ravioli. As they removed their hats prior to knocking, Julien shot his younger counterpart a look of warning. “You would do well to remember to think before you speak. We need this man’s cooperation, and your habit of antagonizing our witnesses will do us no favors with a former Police Chief. One from Persia, no less.”

“What’s the difference?”

Julien sighed as he shook his head, then lifted his hand to the brass door knocker, which he used to rap thrice. “You think conspiracy and corruption is bad in France and Europe, think again when you go to the East. In-fighting seems to stunt the growth of any country.”

The door to the residence opened before Robert could summon a response. A rather meek-looking man with olive skin and dark hair peppered with gray stood in the entryway, head slightly downcast as he looked up at them from a heavy brow.

“Bonjour Monsieur,” Julien greeted warmly, his tone light and with quiet motions of emphasis to himself and Robert, as he introduced their party. “I am Inspector Claudin, and this is my associate, Inspector Destler. We were hoping to speak with Monsieur Nadir Khan, about a matter of some importance.”

The meek man gave a nod and moved aside. Once the pair stepped in and the door locked behind them, the Inspectors were led through the cozy domicile that was scented in rich and exotic spices.

In the study, they found an older man seated in a chair across from them, a tea service set on the small, low table, central to another chair and sofa that occupied the room. His hair was thick and grayed, with lines of a few rebellious strands that had yet to succumb to the silver of their aging neighbors. His deeply tanned skin was lined and weathered with time.

“Inspectors,” he greeted. “I was beginning to wonder if there were any policemen worth their salt in this country.”

“Monsieur Khan?” asked Julien.

The other issued them a nod and motioned for them to take a seat.

Both opted for the sofa and as they settled onto its cushions, Julien briefly introducing himself and Robert again.

Khan glanced at the other man with a dismissive wave, “Thank you, Darius. You may go.” To Julien and Robert, he said, “No Mifroid? Shame…I was almost wondering if that dim man was still trying to flex investigative aspirations.”

Mifroid was not quite of sound mind to properly investigate anything beyond a rumored theft of twenty-thousand francs from the pocket of a manager. Try as he might, he was in habit of dismissing any and everything he did not immediately believe on a matter, much to the detriment of the later investigation into Philippe de Chagny’s death.

“No…no… we are quite a different branch of investigator, Monsieur Khan,” Julien assured as he partook of the tea, pouring the steaming brew into a fine porcelain cup. “We actually make an effort to discern the truth of a case.”

“Is that so?” Khan asked, unconvinced, while his posture in his relaxation into the chair spoke readily of disinterest already. “Yet he was in charge?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking, anyway. We are more studied in matters of homicide. He was tasked with less… critical matters.”

“You were there too, then?”

“After Comte Philippe de Chagny’s death, yes. Though, I do have an associate who was at the Opera when Mademoiselle Daaé disappeared the last time. He should hopefully be returning from Vaujours this morning.”

At the mention of Vaujours, Julien had hoped to glean some reaction from the Persian who sat across from him. True to form, however, the former Daroga betrayed nothing, while Julien was near certain that there was some familiarity with the region.

“Now all the de Chagnys are dead, the matter of the boy is still pending?”

Robert shifted, and Julien silenced him with a sharp motion, to which a partial roll of his eyes was given.

“Exactly,” spoke Julien. “It is concerning when there seems to be a central person involved in both instances.”

“Is that so? You presume it is the myth that no one in your government believes?”

“I would not say that no one believes it, when I am sitting here before you now, Monsieur Khan. I believed it then, as I do now. The only difference is that I am in a better position to investigate everything more thoroughly; without the hindrance of those who both work alongside me and above my paygrade.”

“Forgive me, I am not overly optimistic of your endeavor here, especially with so many years gone between then, and now.”

“Perhaps I can better persuade you, seeing that you have been following what you can of the case rather closely,” Julien pressed with a nod towards that neat stack of newspapers on the small side table by Khan’s right hand. “What those papers are not telling you, is that a man by the moniker LeRoi, broke into the mortuary on the night of the 18^th, leaving Christine de Chagny’s body and forged documents as to how her body was discovered. Inspector Destler here had a notable and interesting encounter with someone you might find of interest to you, between Paris and Vaujours.”

Khan and Julien’s eyes settled on Robert, who straightened a bit in his chair. “I was out there with Inspector Carriére to investigate a group of seven bodies found in the forest, which we have come to believe are those who attacked the de Chagny family. Their trails led back to the Chelle Chateau. When watching the road and speaking with all who passed through, we encountered a man with black horses, a cart, and a mask. He was quite…evasive.”

Still, Nadir Khan’s face and body language betrayed nothing of worth to Julien or Robert.

“I have fair reason to believe that he is the man Mifroid noted as Erik, the Opera Ghost,” Julien said watching Nadir carefully. It would not do to miss some important detail.

Khan’s dark eyes studied him a moment, reading into Julien and Robert as much as they struggled to read him.

“I did a lot of reading last night, Monsieur Khan,” Julien said as he leaned back into the sofa and sipped his tea, shifting in his seat to cross his legs with one knee over the other. “A lot of catching up on the mystery of the Paris Opera. Granted, Mifroid isn’t the greatest at documentation, but I tend to be quite thorough in the notes I take. We did speak briefly then, if you remember?”

“I do,” Khan granted.

“I find your attitude, regarding this Erik, contradicting at the best of times. One moment, you speak of him as though he is the scum of the earth, and the next, you are singing his praises, like he is some ethereal creature. Why is that?”

“When Erik is…not of an ideal mental state, he is a fiend that is best treated as the vile creature he becomes. There is no rationale, no logic, no reasoning with him when he is in that mindset. A mindset that is, thankfully, a rare one. However, when his mind is clearer, his brilliance and capacity for…anything really, is hard to detest. The life he was dealt is a cruel one, and his time in Persia, working for the Shah-in-Shah, did no favors to that end.”

“You want to have him arrested, then, to protect him?”

“When I say that Erik was in an unhinged state at the time of Comte Philippe’s death, I mean that to the fullest extent. Though, after the abduction, and after Christine was gone, the depression he suffered…” Nadir shook his head. “I believe him when he says he did not kill the Comte then.”

“You spoke to him after Philippe’s death?”

“Months after, if not a year.”

“Why so long?”

Khan offered a thin smile. “After Erik took Christine and let her go, let us all go, he was content to let himself die. I endeavored to keep him amongst the living a while longer, an act he did not much care for. Thus, he became complacent long enough to regain enough strength to lock me from his home.”

The new information that Khan decided to bestow upon them elated Julien, but he was careful not to betray that swell of excitement. “Why did he continue living, when he barred you from his home?”

That thin smile remained unchanged. “Because, Christine went back to him.”

Robert’s eyes widened as he shifted in his seat, now eager for more.

“When was that, do you remember?”

“Sometime in early February. I cannot recall the precise day.”

“What happened next, after she went back to him?”

“That is something of a complicated story that neither of them would tell. I suspect something of a romance occurred. They were to meet at the train station not long later and leave together. However, when Christine did not arrive, it was understood that she decided against furthering a relationship with him. By their agreement, if she did not meet him at the station, he would leave her life forever; which would give her leave to marry Raoul de Chagny and have no ghosts of their past haunting them.”

Robert was taking notes as Julien continued to ask the questions, though now it was harder to decide which line of queries he wanted to pursue first. “What did he do?”

“He left France for months. But at his age, he tends to grow homesick for his native tongue. I suspect it has become harder for him to maintain all the languages he knows through the years. We spoke briefly when he returned, and that is when I learned of his account of Philippe; which was only that he found the body floating in the lake when he went about his plans to extricate me from his home. Admittedly, he seemed to barely remember even that much. Given his state then, I am not surprised, either.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Erik?”

“Many years. He finds me insufferable and tends to prefer solitude now, over our once regular game of chess,” Khan lazily motioned to a chess set that was settled by a window. “Sometimes he might play a game through correspondence, but even that has dropped off.”

Julien and Robert looked over to the board, where its pieces were set in what appeared to be an active game.

“Where do you send the correspondence?” asked Robert.

“I don’t. I put the response in a specific little box out back, and he will come to retrieve it at some point. It could be gone within hours or weeks, at best.”

Robert let out a quiet sigh.

“When did you last speak with Christine, or any de Chagny for that matter?” Julien asked after a pause.

“Several years now. Though when they did come around, they would ask if I knew what became of Erik, to which I was disinclined to give them an answer.”

“Why is that?”

“The more distance between Erik and Christine, the better it was for both of them. Whether or not they knew it, it would be the only way for either of them to move on from all that happened between them.”

“Why would they want to find Erik?”

“I do not know, and I was not inclined to ask.”

The hairs at the back of Julien’s neck rose a little in a tingle. Pursing his lips, Julien uncrossed his legs and leaned forward a bit, with his elbows now brushing against his knees. He had a hard time believing a former Police Chief would not ask such a question. Regardless, Julien wanted to keep Khan talking. Leaning into a theory that he did not believe, Julien asked, “Why would Erik kill them, after all these years? After supposedly leaving Christine’s life?”

“He did not kill her, or any de Chagny.”

“Is that so? How can you be so certain? He seems a jilted lover, to be sure.”

“Erik would sooner take his own life than bring harm to the woman he loved. He may have his demons, but he often will not kill unless his own life, or the life of someone he cares for, is threatened. Even then, he is not one to knowingly bring harm to a woman or child.”

“What about Raoul? The obstacle?”

“To kill Raoul de Chagny would defeat the motive for killing him. It would hurt Christine too much, and thus, hurt Erik. Erik would only kill Raoul if he brought harm to Christine. If Raoul was directly threatening Erik’s life…that is a matter that could be debated without end and with no satisfying conclusion.”

“Implying that… Erik killing Raoul in self-defense may make Christine… mad at him?”

“Yes, if he is of sound mind.”

“But unsound…?”

“The debate.”

“What are instances that would cause Erik to have an unsound mind?”

“Same as any man: love, stress, narcotics, and alcohol. For Erik, it would be that precise order.”

The rest of their interview with Nadir Khan was rather unproductive. Apart from a brief inspection of the ‘box’ where correspondence was exchanged with the mysterious Erik, there was nothing else of note. No matter, as now there was a great deal of new information to start piecing together.

Chapter Text

The Wall

Michael Carriére lay sprawled on the sofa in Julien’s parlor, freshly bathed and cards written out for whenever the others returned from… who even knew? He’d spent enough time roughing it out in the cold, not bothering too much with the seeking out of an inn or a room somewhere.

Warmth and comfort had become a luxury to him now, as he let his mind drift through thoughts and theories while resting with his eyes closed. His interaction with the man in the mask rolled over his mind again and again, searching for some detail he might have missed.

A question he forgot to ask. A gesture made. A word spoken. Something…anything that would illuminate him to more of this mystery.

Distantly, Michael heard the locks to the front door jiggle and turn, then footsteps on the floorboards of the foyer, accompanied by familiar voices.

Footfalls approached, but Michael kept his eyes shut beneath the weight of his arm, blocking out the light as he snoozed and brooded.

“You look like hell,” Robert commented. Despite the gruff words, the glimmer of relief in that silky voice was not lost on Michael.

“Curtesy of Monsieur LeRoi. It is lucky that I was the one who followed him. He would have killed you,” Michael goaded as he dropped his arm and blinked until his eyes started to adjust to light again. “He doesn’t like you, at all. ‘I had hoped you were that other one,’ he said.”

“And why is it you are not dead?”

Michael sat up slowly, glanced between Julien and Robert, and scratched the underside of his chin with the backs of his fingers, much like the mafia boss they had arrested last year. “I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” he said in an accented rasp, to emulate that crime lord who aimed to expand into Paris.

Robert and Julien merely stared at him as though he had gone mad.

“Where is your sense of humor?” Michael asked and continued to receive that stare. “Oh right… you have none.”

“I have humor, just not yours,” Robert wittily sniped as he went to sink into another chair, reaching for an ink pen and the stack of cards that Michael had not yet put away.

Michael shook his head with a small smirk. “I appealed to his wish to find out who killed the de Chagnys… particularly, Christine. On a hunch.”

“An accurate one, at that,” Julien complimented as he took his seat. “What did you learn?”

“In short,” Michael began, taking a sip of his brandy that was on the low table filled with case files that had been gone through in his absence, “his name is Erik, and he was the Phantom. Which seems to be something you, and I’m guessing Herbert, were already suspecting after Robert briefed you?” he motioned to the files he did skim through.

Julien nodded.

“He claims his encounter with Christine and Charles was by happenstance, which seems to be something he genuinely believes. I have my own suspicions on the matter, though.”

“What of the boy?” asked Robert.

“Alive and well. I saw them playing in the snow yesterday afternoon. The boy does have bruises, but seems comfortable in Erik’s presence.”

“That is a relief.” Julien breathed. “Were you able to speak with the boy?”

Michael shook his head. “No. Erik was quite…guarded. I will go into more detail once Herbert gets here.”

The front door opened and closed again.

“Speak of the devil, and he shall arise,” Robert muttered as he wrote his notes on the cards.

“Speak for yourself!” Herbert hollered from the foyer.

“Do lock up, you are the last one in,” Julien called back.

Soon enough, the four men were crowded in the small parlor, writing out singular thoughts onto cards. It was the simplest way to move and reorganize details, melding them together as they collectively briefed each other on the information that they had learned over the past few days. It helped to bring them all to the same level of understanding in their investigative efforts. As the cards were written, they were first arranged on the table or floor, then moved to the Wall.

The Wall was where they collected their thoughts, ideas, and formulated their timeline. It was their road map to the plethora of information and was the best way for them to start piecing together the puzzle of information, as it stood. Now, that map was stretched years rather than days. The first dates went back ten years. There was no way around that detail.

January 7^th, 1897: The starting date where matters began to climax at the opera, which also seemed to set the current events into motion. Christine Daaé vanished from the stage during the prison scene of Act V, in the course of a brief power failure that cast the house into total darkness.

A trapdoor was to blame.

Raoul de Chagny was passionate and unraveling by the vanishing act. Mifroid was dismissive of him in the notes taken, liking the notion that Raoul was a lovesick boy who was delusional. It mattered not to him if he encountered the ghost named Erik at a graveyard before. Graveyards were where one met a phantom, after all.

Because of Mifroid’s obtuse nature, de Chagny had disappeared with Khan down into the cellars of the Opera and promptly vanished too, leaving Carriére, Mifroid, and others searching for them, with little luck.

This was also the last time Philippe de Chagny was seen alive.

January 8^th, 1897: Christine Daaé, Raoul de Chagny, and Nadir Khan emerged from the cellars, weary, disheveled, and not at all talkative about what transpired below. Mifroid likened the situation as a play, to bring fame to Daaé and the Opera House through scandal.

February, 11^th, 1897: Philippe de Chagny’s body is discovered at the shore of the underground lake, lain on the old Communard Road, a relic of Paris’s bloodied history from the 1870s.

Raoul de Chagny grew talkative again, quick to blame the Opera Ghost for all his woes and the death of his brother, but the Ghost’s name was not mentioned ever again.

February 15^th, 1897: Raoul de Chagny went silent again, unwilling to speak on the matter further, despite their efforts.

Interviews with Christine Daaé and Nadir Khan, in the days that followed, yielded little results as well, largely due to their silence and Christine’s assertion that ‘It was not him!’ without ever giving a name to ‘him.’

           That was where the more interesting story seemed to unfold, in regards to Erik and the de Chagnys.

As comments gleaned from Erik, Meg Corbin, and Nadir Khan were pieced together, the story went as follows:

Erik, the Opera Ghost himself, was very much in love with the young Christine Daaé. So much in love, that he lost the will to live to the point of spite. While Khan tried to keep the man alive, for reasons unknown to the investigation, Erik recovered enough to somehow barricade Khan from his home beneath the Garnier.

It was believed that this was approximately when Erik may have encountered Philippe’s body, days before its discovery by authorities, if certain statements were to be believed.

After the body’s discovery, Christine had gone back to Erik for reasons unknown, where it was thought an affair between them occurred. If true, it seemed to give cause as to why Raoul de Chagny seemed to fall silent again about everything, come February 15^th.

Whatever happened next was unknown, beyond that the affair seemed to end suddenly when Christine Daaé did not meet Erik at the train station. As such, Erik vanished for months, and contact with Mlle. Daaé was cut completely.

Records showed Daaé as marrying de Chagny at the start of April. Charles de Chagny was born on the 15^th of October. Interesting dates, indeed.

By Madame Corbin’s account, Christine was forever changed by what happened in that year. The marriage, while loving, seemed to have been an arrangement, to which the Inspectors were inclined to agree. Dark days followed Christine, where in unguarded moments, she was observed to be sad, in more ways than just a mother losing a child, perhaps. Interestingly enough, the de Chagnys had chosen not to proceed with having any more children, an uncommon practice in most marriages, even after the loss of a child.

By Khan’s account, his contact with Erik and the de Chagnys was fleeting and kept strictly separate, not mentioning one to the other, in thinking it best that Erik and Christine de Chagny were kept parted. Why did the de Chagnys seem so intent on finding Erik?

The answer was almost glaring, although it was only by speculation.

“I knew he was lying. Khan knew why they were seeking out this Erik, but he wouldn’t tell us,” Robert growled as he methodically paced with steepled fingers. “Why would he lie to us about that?”

“He did not want Erik to know…or us,” Michael said as he stared at the Wall that held so many more notes that he was still processing. “But he knows now. He was…very protective of the boy. Ready to kill me on the spot, numerous times. I think it likely Christine told him before she died.”

“Which confirms what Khan said about his nature as well,” Julien intoned as he studied the wall as well while sipping his brandy. “This is something that has to stay in this room. We cannot breathe a word of it to anyone. It is likely to cause a scandal that we don’t need and was what Raoul de Chagny seemed to want to protect Christine and Charles from. At this juncture, it bears little weight on this case and only rules out our Opera Ghost, for now. Too much is pointing away from him.”

“Christine was looking for him, which suggests that she and Raoul may have had some bit of information that Erik was out there,” Michael motioned to pins on a large map they also had on the Wall. “Seems too much effort to seek him out so diligently, to merely inform him that he had a child with her. Why bother telling him or looking for him at all, unless she loved him? If what Madame Corbin insinuates is to be believed.”

“If she loved him, why didn’t she meet him at the train?” Robert challenged.

Michael shrugged, “An accident?”

“Case please,” Julien sighed. “Ponder the romance another time. As it stands, it has little bearing in finding out who would kill them. I am more interested about this… unspoken debt, which no one seems to have an idea about, as of yet. What could it be, and to whom is it owed, if it is so generational?”

“Roseline de Faure,” Herbert said as he stared at the card in his hand. “Madame Corbin mentioned that Roseline was at the wedding of Christine and Raoul, but she did not know that Roseline is a missing person, as neither Christine nor Raoul made mention of her afterwards. Not even her disappearance. It struck me as odd.”

“Roseline,” Robert repeated thoughtfully and stooped to search the piles of files for her case.

“Curious, for the lack of mention of that sister…” Julien began. “Debts, Philibert, Philippe, Roseline, Eveline, Raoul…” he said softly, before moving to search through files, as well. “Eveline and her family died after Roseline vanished, didn’t they?”

“What of Philippe’s death? Do we have a date on that from the examiner, or do we just have a missing date?” Michael said as they were now searching through the stack.

“Roseline de Faure, reported missing May 16^th, 1898,” Robert read as he pulled the file from the stack.

“Eveline du Bouvier died in her sleep July 24^th, 1903, after her family died that June in the carriage accident,” said Julien.

“Philippe… missing January 7^th, 1897 and recovered February 11^th…” Michael read, skimming over the reports, and began studying the grisly pictures in the file. “…Blunt force trauma to the head, water in the lungs…bruising,” Michael turned the page, searching for information. “He was waterlogged and bloating. Cold temperatures slow decomposition, but water can… confuse estimates.”

“Go on,” pressed Julien as Herbert came to stand beside Michael, looking over the file, as well.

“Best estimate… he died that week, between the 3^rd and 7^th,” Michael said after a stunned pause.

“Of January or February?” asked Robert.

“February… but this doesn’t make sense. That’s basically a whole month missing…that we missed?”

“Look,” Herbert said as he pointed to a picture that had Philippe in the morgue on an exam table, a faint line on his inner forearm. “Didn’t Christine have that same cut?”

Michael gave a slow nod as the others gathered.

“Why wasn’t it noted in this report?” Michael wondered aloud.

“Good question,” Herbert agreed.

“I want every file and dates we have, for every de Chagny we have, including extended family that share the bloodline,” Julien said, in quiet authority. “Every death. Everyone missing. I want to get as much information and timelines as we can before we go back to Khan or Erik. I have no doubt they know something more, whether they know it or not. We also need to revisit our persons of interest from the Opera. Philippe was held somewhere, ‘and I want to know where.”

Chapter Text

Haunting Memories

Charles winced and squirmed a little in his chair.

“Be still,” Erik said as he stilled with a sharp thread cutter in hand. The small forked instrument was common in any sewing kit to cut a single thread of a bad stitch in a garment.

“I can’t.”

“You can, yet you will not,” he rebuked, struggling to curb the tide of his frustration from having delicate work interrupted. Charles’s arm was stretched across the table again, as Erik tended the wound in the tender flesh of the underside of his forearm that ran from elbow to wrist.

“It hurts.”

“I numbed your arm. You should barely feel anything.”

“But I do.”

“Then do not watch.”

“I want to, and what if you poke me?”

“I do not recall such complaints when I gave you these stitches to begin with, Charles.”

“That was different.”

“How is it any different from then and now? I did not give you much to numb anything.”

“Because the cut hurt more than the stitches.”

Erik let out a long and exasperated exhale, struggling for patience. “I will not poke you if you remain still. However, I cannot make such a promise if you keep moving whenever I attempt to break a stitch.”

Charles buried his face into the crook of his left arm, resting heavily on the table.

With Charles finally still, Erik began breaking each of the twenty stitches he had laced along the boy’s arm. The relief he felt at the fact the boy did not suffer a cut to the artery went beyond description. It came close. Very close. Layers of skin had been penetrated until it was at the cusp of those primary veins. There was little doubt the initial injury held more pain than the stitches Erik made to bind it back together.

Four days passed since the Inspector had paid that ‘visit’ and one week since Charles’s and Erik’s worlds were violently thrown together in mutual tragedy. In that time, Erik came to the slow and prudent realization that young Charles was becoming more comfortable around him and his environment. How did Erik know this? The simple fact was that various items either moved or disappeared. Luckily, things moved more often than vanished, and despite what many may have thought, Erik knew he was not that senile yet. Thus, he possessed the sneaking suspicion that Charles figured out one of his many ticks: move something out of its specific place and the old man will notice, then put it back.

Heavens, this child was a spitting little mirror of him in adolescent misdeeds and genius, apparent afflictions aside. This forced Erik to open the box of tricks he long ago locked away in a dark corner of his mind, and spur the clever Opera Ghost awake again. Oh yes... the little amateur prankster would be repaid in kind.

Another point of behavior that confirmed that Charles was comfortable was endless questions. Luckily, none of them were about the mask, his past, or Christine…but he asked about every other question imaginable. Annoyingly so. Every time Erik went to handle a task, such as tending the horses, Charles was right there, peering over his shoulder and wanting to know every detail of what he did and why. What made it all ironic was the fact that the boy was doing exactly what he did all through his childhood and younger years, only Charles did not have to deal with the discrimination of being different.

Through it all, the only thing that kept Erik from losing his usually volatile temper was those wide blue eyes filled with curiosity. Christine’s eyes. It made a part of his heart melt at the endearing sight every time. There were moments when it seemed those eyes would not be enough to sate Erik’s temper. As yet, his temper did not win out.

The day thus far was plagued by constant, pouring rain rather than snow, keeping Charles trapped indoors away from nature and the horses. The strange part, however, was the sudden absence of questions from the boy. Finally, a bit of quiet so Erik could rake his mind over everything that brought them together; her death. Yet, in that quiet, he discovered the silence from the boy equally maddening.

Erik finished breaking the stitches and began pulling out the strings from the boy’s arms with tweezers.

“I feel that,” came Charles’s muffled voice from his crooked elbow.

“I promised no poking, not twinges.”

Charles huffed.

“There are worse discomforts,” Erik said academically. “Even you admitted such.”

Charles craned his head in the crook of his arm to watch Erik with his now visible eye. “I know,” he replied in a small voice. The bruises on his face had faded from the darkest shades of black, blues, and hints of red, to faint greenish brown, nearly the shade of green olives. Yet, the dark circles were growing around his eyes from near-sleepless nights.

Erik finished removing the stitches and began cleansing the arm and applying ointment again with his usual precision. “I find your silence for much of today to be most vexing.”

“Why? You get irritated when I talk too much.”

“Yes,” Erik was never one to sugar his words as he set the ointment aside and began wiping his hands on a damp cloth before cleaning up the mess from treatment. “Yet, I have not discouraged you either.”

“Not in words.”

Erik paused as he placed glass bottles of various purposes into a specific order in the box that housed most of his medical supplies. “Then I apologize…” he said carefully before looking to Charles and motioned towards his mask, bringing levity to his voice, “I am not the best at masking my thoughts.”

A small smile cracked Charles’s otherwise solemn expression. “I can’t imagine why,” the boy teased.

Erik offered a brief smile as he rose and put the box away. “It would appear I prefer you prattling on about whatever strikes your mind, even if it may seem irritating. I am merely unused to such…socialization for such extended periods. I am fond… of the sound of your voice in my ear.”

Charles’s fingers traced the grain of the wood on the table. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” Erik spoke softly as he returned to his seat across from Charles. “You are my progeny. While I will never be a proper parent in any vague sense of the word, you are still a son to me, and I rather not be a barrier to your ability to learn anything. Few things are more agitating than asking a question to learn practical things when those who held the answers refuse to share their knowledge.”

“Because that’s what happened to you?”

Damnably smart, his child. “Yes,” Erik answered slowly.

Charles’s eyes shifted to his fingertips, still tracing the wood grain. “You are trying…” he granted softly. “I know that. This is just hard when I miss…them. I miss home…and the comforts of what’s familiar. But…your voice is comforting to me as well. Like Maman’s was.”

“Her voice had a way of calming the spirit,” Erik said, with moisture threatening his eyes. “I could listen to her sing all day, every day, and never grow tired of hearing her.”

“Me too,” Charles whispered. “I can hear her when you sing that lullaby. She used to always sing it to me.”

“Did she?” Erik asked with some indescribable feeling stirring within his spirit.

Charles nodded. “Whenever I was tired or upset.”

“I used to sing it to her, when she was saddened and missing her father.”

“She learned from you?”

“I wrote it because she had troubles sleeping, as do you. Though, I believe you have far more reason to have nightmares.”

Charles uncomfortably turned away from him, looking towards the window where rain pummeled against the glass pane in gale-force winds, and said nothing.

Erik looked out the window as well, unsure how to proceed. How would he ever convince him that talking about what happened would help bring them both closure? Tell him outright? Charles was a bright child, mature enough for his years. He could handle these truths. In his own youth, Erik recalled many horrors, including a few when he was younger than his son. How things could have gone so differently.

Even with Giovanni.

Rising from his chair, Erik made his way to kneel beside him. With reluctance born out of a lifetime of horrific experiences, he reached up to touch the boy’s shoulder with his fingertips.

When Charles turned back to him, Erik jerked his hand away as if his fingers had touched a hot wrought iron skillet. “Horrors are not easily forgotten, Charles. They never go away. They want to haunt you and eat at your core until there is nothing left but misery or worse, nothing left to feel.”

A frown stretched across Charles’s face while he watched Erik’s withdrawn hand in the corner of his eyes. Nevertheless, he settled his gaze on the masked face before him.

“I have known many, unspeakable things. Things that, while it seems the world turns in blissful ignorance, much of that pain, suffering, and hurt will keep you in a suffocating hold.”

“Like what? Your mother?”

Erik shook his head, closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of Javert. How foolish of a child he was to believe sexual assault affected only women, or was even just between male and female. No, in that, genders and age knew no bounds. “Not just her, Charles. There are many kinds of people out there. For as horrid as she was to me, there are those who are…worse. It was not until I was a few years older than you are now that I became more than just an object to be caged, displayed… and used.”

Charles’s small face crinkled in his confusion, struggling to comprehend the meaning.

“I have never forgotten anything that has caused me pain, Charles. I wish I could. I wish could forget many things. But the mind does not work like that. You will never forget what happened to them, no matter how much you wish otherwise. What you can do, is search for a way to find some measure of solace and acceptance of that pain. If you can find it in yourself to tell me what happened that wretched day you want to forget, I will do everything in my power to help you find whoever harmed them.”

Fear and pain shone in his son’s eyes, giving Erik only a mere hint of what must be raging through his mind. Charles would not tell, not now, perhaps not ever. Without a recounting of events from the only survivor, finding whoever killed his beloved and traumatized his son would be a near-impossible feat to accomplish.

Erik closed his eyes with a tired sigh as he hung his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wish I knew of more ways to help you. All I can really offer is my attention and music.”

“What if they kill you too?” Charles asked, voice small and young, wrought with fear. “What happens to me then? I go to Madame Corbin and Helene? I have no aunts or uncles left.”

Erik furrowed his brow at the mention of relatives. “They will not kill me, Charles.”

Something in Charles snapped then. “How can you be sure? You’re of flesh and blood just like Maman and Papa, and they’re dead! They can kill you too, and they will kill the Corbins! Everyone!” Tears stained his cheeks now, his chest heaving with ragged breaths he sucked into his lungs between sobs.

Erik straightened immediately, turning to grasp his son by the shoulders. “No! I have fought for my right to live every day of my life, and I will not die by the hands of men when I have you as my reason to live now. I will never leave you and I will never abandon you. If they harm me, I will recover. If they take you from me, I will find you. We are tied to each other until age takes me, by which point, you will be a fine young man who will have everything I have to give you, to teach you. I swear it.”

Amid Erik’s vow to his dear child, the boy reigned in his cries and drew himself up a little. Charles’s eyes shone like glossy marbles from tears not yet fallen down the streams of his dampened cheeks. Time seemed to pass irrevocably slow with the silence that hung in the air, interrupted only by the patters of plump raindrops splattering against the windowpane in rapid succession. Even that sounded far away.

Charles drew in a breath to bring forth words, then the kitchen lit up in a garish flash of white light before a loud clap boomed a second later, shaking the house and everything in it a little. Both felt like their skin leapt from their bones from the startling interruption as they jerked their gazes toward the outdoors, where the reality of nature came back to them. Rain fell in torrents, some visually thicker than others as the wind gushed the bands of water about.

Whatever Charles was going to say died in his throat with that clap of thunder.

Then the sounds of rain and wind seemed to fill the room in a deafening roar, though the view beyond the glass never worsened. A steady percussion of thunder rolled overhead like a heavy ball on smooth floorboards with bright flashes and astonishing jagged streaks of light between black billows. Some claps even backlit clouds that would have been mountains in a mythical fairy tale. The rain provided both cadence and melody with the wind as haunting strings.

“It’s music,” Charles whispered, entranced by the orchestra of nature.

Erik snapped his gaze to the boy, his blood running rapidly in his veins while his mind screamed at him.

No, it could not be true.

He looked back to the window. Could it?

The piano was never as he left it anymore.

He looked back to the lad, who appeared entranced by the sounds of music around them.

“Come with me,” Erik said as he rose to his feet, holding his hand out to the boy. In the instant Charles took his hand, Erik quickly drew him to the music room and set him at the piano. “Sit, play.”

Charles sank onto the bench, but obliged no further when he looked up to Erik with a slight downward turn of his lips and a furrowed brow.

“Do not look at me like that! I know you can, the piano is never as I leave it!” he flew to the windows and threw them open, not caring if rain fell in or the cold chilled them. That did not matter now when he possessed the skills to fix it later. Sounds of the storm flooded into the room and their ears. “You hear the music! Play it! Feel it! Give yourself to it!”

And he did! Oh, sweet heavens he did! Erik closed his eyes and let that intoxicating feeling devour him and ripple his skin with gooseflesh, which happened whenever he gave in to the music.

Charles beat at the keys, playing what nature inspired in him; the pain, fear, and sadness that poured into the music. He released the pent-up emotion, letting it flow through the outlet that no other could provide. Erik felt what the boy felt. Whenever a musician free-played while venting their troubles, the music that came forth told much of what said musician released.

Young Charles was a musician.

The Chateau in Chelle

A simple knock at the front door drew him from his room to the second-floor balcony that looked down into the main foyer where he spotted the butler, Niles, walking in his usual austere gait to the door. As he flipped the locks and opened the ornate wooden door, the person on the other side kicked it open; sending Niles reeling as a deafening gunshot sent him to the floor, a smoking hole in his chest.

Fear raced through his chest and clenched his sternum and trachea in an icy grip that prevented the passage of breath.

The maid, and Niles’s wife, Jeannette, screamed from the threshold leading into the parlor, drawing Charles’s eyes as well as the man’s, to her. With another report from the gun, she fell silent as the wound forced her down the same path her husband had taken to the afterlife.

Charles could not move. This could not be happening. It was surreal and he felt like all function and sense of self abandoned him as fear tightened its wretched clutches on him.

These men made their way inside, but he could not count them, not now, with his heart beating against his ribcage.

Papa snatched his arm and dragged him into the safety of the hall when another gunshot pierced the air, hammering his eardrums with the violence of sound. This bullet pierced Raoul in the arm with enough power to send him staggering into the wall with a cry of pain.

Paralysis abated with his father’s pain mounting and Charles stayed by his side, tugging at his good arm in a silent urge to further retreat. One of the men ascended the stairs two at a time, closing in on them fast. “Papa…!”

Raoul shook his head to himself, as if he was trying to clear away the fog. Charles put his full weight into the next tug at his arm, lurching his father forward a few steps to keep his balance.

“Papa! We have to go!” Charles begged him, just as the first man turned to the corner.

A filthy smile spread across rotting teeth when he caught sight of his target, but that smile didn’t last as another gunshot rang out, and the man was thrown back by the bullet hitting him center of mass.

Charles looked back behind him to see his mother standing there, holding Papa’s pistol out before her in a true and steady grip.

The brief reprieve brought a flood of relief into Charles’s veins from her assertive action against the invaders. This lasted little more than three seconds when four men appeared at the top of the stairs behind him. Christine shifted her aim to the closest one. “Leave my house,” she growled, though her voice shook.

The closest of the pair, a tall oafish man, let out a booming laugh. “Think you can get us all before we get ‘em, Comtesse?” The brute gave a nod to Charles and Raoul, who had managed to straighten himself out, but remained still since he and the boy were in the crossfire.

His Mother tightened her hold on the pistol, glancing between her family and the men,

Unbeknownst to her, a fifth man was creeping up the hallway behind her. Charles tightened his grip on Raoul’s hand, as the older man cleared his throat while looking towards Christine. The standoff would not work favorably.

She looked over to see Raoul shake his head slowly, and she put down the gun. Once she straightened up, she issued a startled cry just before a flash of pain exploded on Charles’s temple, sending him into darkness.

In the music room, Charles struck a final, jarring chord without conscious thought, just as darkness descended and he fell backwards, off the bench.

Chapter Text

The Stars Were Shining

Charles landed safely in Erik’s arms when he fell backward, unconscious. The way he had swayed on the bench as he played indicated many things. He felt the music through every fiber of his being as he played, and the faint was imminent. Which meant he, perhaps, went too far into the music, inspired by a memory? The thought was little more than a sneaking suspicion spurred by personal experience. Not that it ever went this far.

Deftly shifting his hold, Erik cradled his son close to him, treasuring the moment, although he would be the only one to remember. He brushed his thumb in circular motions on Charles’s right arm before he let out a long breath with a weary sigh and rose to his feet. In two steps, he reached the sofa and laid the boy down, though he was reluctant to let him go.

“If you only knew...child...” Erik whispered, brushing sweaty hair away from Charles’s clammy forehead. His hand remained there for several moments of indecision before a flash of lightning drew his attention. Hesitation lingered, until a gust of wind brought a wave of cold air through the opened windows.

Erik glanced at the windows and withdrew his hand from the boy, instead pressing it upon the arm of the sofa as an assistance to rise to full height. From there, he stepped over to the windows and proceeded to shut out the elements.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Crackle, crackle, pop.

He was at peace; he didn’t want to leave. Never to leave this place where his troubles and pain were an afterthought, at least for now, in this moment.

Crackle, pop, crackle.

Soft light and warmth touched his face, drawing him to consciousness he did not want. No!

Crackle, pop!

A distant cry, then a scream echoed in his ears from memory.

A few quiet notes of the piano drew him closer to the warm light and general awareness. It was not a complicated tune by any stretch of the imagination. It was simple, light, yet repetitive with a unique heaviness, while the melody sounded as if the player’s mind was quite a distance away.

Charles opened heavy eyelids at a slow rate to let them adjust to the dim lighting. It took him a long minute to place his environment. He lay on the sofa of the music room with a hot but dying fire in the hearth and crocheted blanket drawn over his body from toes to neck. Lamps flickered throughout the room, bringing illumination into otherwise darkened corners. The flash of light from the double windows hinted at the presence of storms still lingering, but the absence of thunder told of its distance.

He looked to the piano where Erik sat in his shirtsleeves with his hands dancing across the keys, back turned.

Charles closed his eyes, willing himself to fall asleep to his guardian’s music.

There was an elegant key change into a melody that Charles liked describing as a rolling climb, where the notes played fell back into reverse: one two three four five four three two one. The count would begin again a note or two higher than the first sequence; two three two one. The count of the ‘rolling’ notes was not restricted to five. It went as high as seven or nine and retracted to a minus one or two.

He did not particularly feel like trying to track or pin the pattern played. He doubted he could keep with it, even if he heard it a hundred times. No, he needed to see the pattern and then it would make sense. Maybe, hopefully—his head hurt now from thinking too deeply into it.

Instead, he let himself be lulled into sleepiness as the music rocked a slow steady rhythm about his ears and head.

What came next surprised him, but Charles dared not move.

“E lucevan le stelle...” sang Erik, his voice quiet and heavy with remorse, highlighted by his rich, dark timbre that captivated the boy’s auditory senses.

“Ed olezzava la terra...” the R’s rolled off Erik’s tongue like a dignified purr, though sad all the same. “Stridea l’uscio dell’orto...”

Charles felt a chill run through him as the song went on, and it was only in its third line. Although he savored every word and let it consume him, he wanted to know more.

“E un passo sfiorava la rena...”

What was he singing? In what language? While these words were clearly not French, it felt like a type of operatic lullaby.

“Entrava ella fragrante...” The notes climbed again and fell in reverse before he sang, “Mi cadea fra le braccia.”

“O, dolci baci, o languide carezza,” Erik held the first note quietly, and then he slowly lengthened his pronunciations a fraction. “Mentr’io fremente le belle forme disciogliea dai veli!”

Like the music he played, Erik sang like the rolling melodies; sad, yet enraptured by his song as it progressed. Power grew in the prior line, rising with emotion, but it remained quiet when it felt like it needed to be sung out more than it was. He restrained his projection of ‘disciogliea.’ and Charles wanted to hear him take it, conquer it.

“Svani per sempre il sogno mio d’amore,” Erik seemed more immersed, though his voice did not show it here. “L'ora è fuggita, e muoio disperato,”

As the last lines began to spill from his guardian’s lips, Charles continued to find himself frustrated by his apparent restraint.

“E muoio disperato,” There was power to be taken here, in these final lines; he felt it, though neither voice nor the solid melody remotely hinted it. Nevertheless, through this, he realized the sadness, understanding a few words here and there... Erik was grieving.

“E non ho amato mai tanto la vita,” and despite the realization, Charles became resigned now. “Tanto la vita.” The song barely faded into silence when Charles gave into the urge to shift his position a little on the sofa.

Such movement caused Erik to snap around in his seat, eyes, head, and then body, until he sat almost full-faced to Charles. After a few seconds passed between them, Erik seemed to settle into his seat more, although he hardly moved. “My apologies, I did not intend to wake you.”

“Why did you hold back?”

Erik gave pause to the question in his slight wary glance to the piano, before making eye contact with Charles again. “You were sleeping. Had you been awake, or more so, not been present in the room, I would have sung out more,” he shook his head to himself with a dismissive wave. “No more of this. I have dinner waiting for you— you had a light lunch and it is precisely two hours past supper, you must be famished.”

Charles could only nod, feeling like his head was threatening to spin.

Erik inclined his head before he rose from the bench with strides to leave.

“Erik.”

He stopped and turned to regard him like before. “Yes?”

“What happened? How did I end up...” he looked to his position on the sofa, “here?”

“You were unleashing your emotions into the music as you played. It appeared you were lost within your own mind; I assume your memories. As you finished, you promptly fainted, collapsed...what have you. I caught you and placed you there four hours ago. I left you to rest because you were quite a shade of pallor, more than normal.”

If anything, Erik was rarely short on details.

“More than normal?”

“In the time I have known you, you have been quite pale. Stress is not very good for your health, you know. Gradually, you have been growing lighter and lighter. Tonight, you skipped a few shades...which, thankfully, have remitted for now in your rest. The same goes for the dark circles around your eyes.”

Never short on detail... Charles crinkled his nose, scrunching his face as he tried to translate the point of what Erik was telling him. “You’re saying that I’m getting sick because I’m stressed?”

“As well as sleep deprived, but yes.”

“Sleep deprived?”

“You have not slept through the night since Paris.”

Charles scrunched his face again. “You took the special tea away.”

“In interest of prolonging your good health.”

“But you said I’m getting sick.”

“Because you have not slept and are very stressed.”

“Because you took the tea away!”

“I hardly see your point.”

A wall. Talking to Erik was sometimes very much like talking to a wall, in the sheer density that mingled with apparent genius.

An aggravated groan escaped Charles as he buried his hands into his face while trying to melt into the couch. “You say I’m getting sick because I am not sleeping well, and I’m stressed. Yet, you won’t give me the tea, which helps me sleep and relaxes me because it’s bad for me?”

“Precisely,” Erik chirped with a small smile.

“Explain how the tea is bad.”

“I like your heart beating,” Erik replied and turned with intent to leave it at that.

“What? Wait!” Erik had already left by the time Charles managed to get the words out of his mouth. Forgetting the blanket settled over him, the boy leaped from the couch. However, he promptly fell forward when the blanket snared his feet as he tried to take a mighty stride to catch up. Charles’s hands flailed as he caught himself on the arm of the sofa in his panicked effort. Humiliation averted, Charles drew his feet out from the blanket’s entanglement and dashed after Erik. “Wait! Erik!”

He found the older man in the kitchen, ladling a broth-based soup with chunks of vegetables into a bowl.

“What did you mean?”

“Clarify,” Erik spoke with evident confusion as to the reference of the inquiry.

“By tea and my heart?”

“Ah! Yes, tea and heart. The tea is a tranquilizer. It relaxes, helps you cope and forget more easily. But too much tea over an extended time calms a weary heart so much that it no longer wishes to function.”

Charles felt that if his eyes widened any further, they would pop from their sockets. He sunk into his chair, too stunned to bother searching for words.

The bowl appeared before him with a spoon. “The only other cure for your growing illness is to tell me what happened,” Erik said as he walked around the table to his chair. “Which, unless I have misread you, is still some distance off.” Erik set his cup of tea down at his place setting before he sat in his chair. “Tell me, young de Chagny... have I misread you?”

Charles ran his finger along the rim of the bowl, eyes and mind glazed and distant. It could not hurt. At least not now, in small...pieces. Or maybe he just wanted to prove Erik wrong. Somehow, that in and of itself felt like a conquering achievement. He remained aware that this could be a well-played game for the tale, since there were no mirrors in this house that he knew of. He was too drained and exhausted to resist this battle.

And so, Charles began the tale that started with a knock and fell into oblivion from there. He only reflected on what came to him as he had played the piano. Erik hung on his every word, those colorless eyes analytic and focused as he watched him. Few questions were asked: How many– eight? Twelve? What did they look like– ruffians? Charles felt so very uncertain at his own descriptions of the events that unfolded around him. In all honestly, he was too frightened to care. Erik seemed annoyed by that fact, but he never remarked upon it.

At the mention of his mother using his father’s gun, Erik nearly choked on his tea.

Charles ignored him, explaining the rest up to where he assumed someone knocked him upside the head with the butt of a gun. The memory still brought on the throb of where they struck him.

“I can’t...say anymore...I’m tired...” Charles said, eyes heavy and his mind fogged. Erik managed to pick his brain in his few questions, but it was enough to drain him. They had been at this for nearly three hours it felt like, though the segment of the story had been a short one.

Erik nodded, “Go on to bed.”

Chapter Text

The Guardian

The weather the following morning was proving to be just as miserable with thick dark clouds shrouding the sky, with only the thinnest sections allowing a bit of sunlight to crack through; teasing the pebbled shapes in silhouettes above. Although many did not favor dreary atmosphere, Erik often found overcast skies soothing by its diffused lighting. Furthermore, the familiar smell of threatening rain in the cool, crisp air, left him feeling invigorated. This was his favorite cluster of the elements, all that was missing was the rain and claps of thunder.

Spring hinted at an early arrival in the slight warming of ambient temperatures that kept them a few degrees above freezing. Nature delighted in this by the sounds chirping of Ortolan Buntings and other birds singing beautiful melodies in harmony to one another, basking in what little warmth they had. Squirrels added to the music by the rhythm of their claws scrapping against thick bark as they darted up and down various trees, chittering their slights as males were likely bickering over an available female. Were they really trying to mate this early?

Water lapped at the stones along the creek’s edge where it flowed in a steady current. Its banks were near overflowing from the steady stream of storms that continued to pass through, along with the melting ice and snow that oversaturated the grounds.

César, Deimos, and Phobos were all nearby, lipping at thin grasses that they grazed over time and again throughout the winter. Their hooves suctioned to the mud as they moved around leisurely to find any spare blade that had not yet fallen victim to the mud or their chronic hunger; their tails would swish at irregular intervals that sounded like reeds whistling at a beach.

These sounds that danced to his ears were the heartbeats of his secluded sanctuary, buried deep into the countryside. It was what gave his home a constant of music and inspired what he often played on the violin during his morning serenades to the forest around him.

Playing music back to the home that gave him the greatest sense of place was a daily ritual as quiet thanks.

He did not play today.

Instead, Erik stood in the middle of the field with his cloak catching in the constant cold breeze, eyes shut and his ears pricked. While the music of home reached his eardrums, but Erik did not hear any of it, not even the grunts and nickers of his equines made amongst themselves as they attempted to graze.

Not one single sound registered in Erik’s mind. No.

He listened for the irregular pulse.

One of the horses moved to stand before him, nudging his face into Erik’s arms, which was when his mind registered the small drags of a back hoof that he heard just prior to contact.

“Hello, old friend,” Erik greeted the old stallion warmly. Keeping his eyes shut, Erik’s hand rose from his sides, following the heat of César’s breathing until he found the whiskers and fine velvet fur of that warm muzzle.

César’s lips mouthed at Erik’s fingertips before he fully pressed his head into Erik’s chest and rubbed his face up and down until Erik wrapped his arms around that massive head.

“Bribery will not work,” Erik smiled, scratching the full length of César’s mandible.

César made an insulted noise with a little jerk of his head.

“I fed you plenty this morning, and there is hay in your stall.”

The old Lipizzaner nudged him.

Erik continued giving César scratches in all the equine’s favorite places while the horse nuzzled in for more with more contented sounds. The feeling was mutual as Erik felt his own tension begin to drain away as he often found the stallion’s presence therapeutic.

“I will miss you, you know,” Erik whispered as he kept his eye closed and rested his head to César’s, his hand now caressing the equine’s face. “We have a few months, at best? Perhaps to the end of summer, so you can gorge yourself on all the sweet grass? I would like that; I might be ready for it then.”

César’s gave a nicker that feigned youth.

“I had come to believe that we might go together,” Erik continued with a small sigh, “but that is not an option for me anymore, is it? Not when the boy needs me to see him into adulthood. He has already lost two parents prematurely; he does not need to lose a third…”

César made a grunted whine in a strange agreement.

At thirty-three or so years old, the stallion was at the end of his lifespan. In a sense, César was already on borrowed time from the amount of apothecary effort Erik put into his care. In turn, Erik was coming up on his fifty-eighth year and drifting into the frame of time where most men seemed content to drop dead.

During the course of the last decade of suffering the agony of Christine’s absence, Erik made no effort to manage his aging. There was no point to needlessly prolong his life with no one to share in it— not after tasting just what normalcy felt like; with her. He spent these last several years just existing, and waiting for eternal darkness to finally claim him.

Sparing César a cruel end when the Garnier retired him, gave Erik some sense of purpose. Not much of one, but the horse was forever dear to him.

Now with his infinitely precious son giving him more meaning to his life than ever before, more than even her, Erik was determined to see this task through. He would somehow guide that boy into becoming a respectable young man.

Certainly, more than he ever was.

Although he allowed himself to relax in César’s company, cherishing what little time they had left together, Erik still listened to the sounds of nature reverberating around him and tickling his sensitive ears.

Ever since Carriére paid that visit, Erik’s guard was heightened as he awaited the day of likely betrayal. He was always armed now, with more than just a cord of catgut concealed in his sleeve. Not only that, but in addition to his numerous and concealed armaments, Erik kept most of Christine’s ‘keepsakes’ on him as well. In his vest pocket, opposite the tethered pocket watch were the two keys and the dark opal pendants, framed in gold.

The snips of hair in their ribbons were kept locked in a small box inside the house.

All the items were still perplexing to him, but the four Erik carried seemed the most important. Why? He was not certain, but he wanted them at hand if epiphany struck. With his nerves stirring, honed by a lifetime of survival and self-sufficiency, Erik was not about to leave them behind by accident.

Then, Erik heard it.

Rather, it was what he did not hear.

The pulse of nature changed its ambiance as merry birds ceased their song while squirrels fell equally silent. In that sudden hush falling across them, Erik’s skin now prickled and his hands curled into fists.

Something unfamiliar and unwelcome was nearby.

Plump droplets slowly began dripping from the sky.

In stark contrast to the silence that spoke its warning, a brilliant series of chirps and tweets drew Erik’s attention to his home, a bubbly bird, and Charles. The boy was sitting under the small awning of the back stoop, pausing his sketches to look up at the small Ortolan Bunting prancing excitedly to-and-fro on the roof above the boy with a few flaps of her tawny wings.

Erik eyed the strange songbird as she continued to make a scene, as though a snake was ready to capture her offspring from a nest.

Erik’s gaze fell to his son, who appeared equally baffled. The back of his mind pieced it together in a surge of instinct, even if his foremost thoughts were still just warning of danger. “Charles, go inside!” he called as he began moving towards the boy.

“But—”

“Inside, now!” he let his sudden urgent authority give weight to his voice, the unspoken warning of imminent threat.

Charles's eyes widened at the tone and popped to his feet without further question. As the boy turned and reached for the knob, Erik was already behind him, ushering him inside.

“Basement,” Erik instructed firmly.

Charles obeyed, trotting to the front rooms and into the library where together, they moved a chair out of the way and pulled back the plush rug. Erik dropped to his knees with a deliberate placement of his hands over on two specific boards, which made a section of flooring sink down with its edges concealed in the seams of the floorboards. When Erik lifted his weight off it, the joined boards swung down to reveal the stone cellar hidden below.

“Go, Charles,” Erik ordered.

“Erik—”

“Go down,” he snapped.

Charles shook his head and flung his arms around Erik’s neck in a tight embrace.

The move stunned Erik for a moment, as did the tremble he felt in Charles’s small frame. Swallowing the urgency for just a moment, Erik hugged his son close with a brief kiss to his cheek. “I will be fine, I promise you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I am a hard man to kill.”

Charles shivered, still clinging to Erik as though the world threatened its end. “You better be.”

Erik grasped Charles by the shoulders and pushed him back to arm’s length. “I am,” he swore. “Now, I need you to hide.”

Charles nodded and shifted his feet into the opening, then dropped down with a kick of his legs.

“Good boy. Remember, bar the door as I have shown you, and do not open it again until you hear me say ‘D’Artagnan’.”

“What if something happens to you?”

Erik did not have the time to give all the guidance he could. Instead, he resolved to the simplest rule that carried him through life, “Then…in that unlikely event, trust your instincts.”

Charles gave a solemn nod, but before Erik shifted away to trigger the trapdoor to shut, the boy called his name again, “Erik!”

A sigh escaped the older man as he peered back down to his son.

“I love you,” the boy said, his face etched in worry, eyes more sunken and skin paler.

Erik’s features softened and he fought the welling emotion in his throat. “I love you more than anything, Charles; and you have just made me invincible.”

It pained him to seal his son beneath the world, but it was the safest place and best thing for him. While Erik dealt with whoever was coming, he could not be fretting over his son’s whereabouts. That was more likely to be the cause of great detriment than anything else. Erik was skilled in both his defenses and offenses. He saw the shift in a stance or the turn of the torso, seeing the patterns of a posture that projected the intent, much like a skilled dog herded errant sheep back to the group.

That focus meant survival.

It was the only way to keep his promise to Charles.

Erik unrolled the rug back into place, and returned the chair in a stereotypical manner. Even if someone managed to work their way into his home, or even incapacitate him, they would be hard-pressed in finding the trapdoor, or even the room below without the minimum aid of an axe. He designed it to be as invisible as every other trapdoor and hidden passage he ever created.

If absolutely necessary, Charles had an alternative way out of the basement that would take him to the stables and César’s stall. There was no way in without substantial effort unless Charles granted permission. Erik would have it no other way.

The room was set two minutes before the knock came at his door, allowing just enough time for a few more minor preparations.

Rolling his shoulders and flexing his spine, Erik worked out his stiffness in a moment although he hoped his precautions were not necessary and whoever came was someone of concern.

Instinct told otherwise.

Fine.

Erik flexed his hand and opened his front door.

Chapter Text

The Living Death

“Here! Look at this!” Michael announced as he stepped into the parlor of Julien Claudin’s home, where he and Herbert sat hunched over mountains of paperwork and files stacked into neat piles. “It took some digging to find, but!” Michael deposited two folders before them, “I found the discrepancy!”

Julien and Herbert adjusted their respective spectacles, opened the files, and skimmed over the contents with critical eyes. “Two?” Julien muttered as he and Herbert switched between files. “Two reports?”

Michael nodded, leaning forward with his hands splayed on the table. “We only ever received the original report from Doctor Moreau. Remember how he came under suspicion of tampering some months prior, and it couldn’t be proven?”

The pair nodded. “Vaguely,” muttered Herbert.

“Doctor Fraise,” Michael began and tapped the newer, amended report, “was on to Moreau’s tampering in Ninety-Six. She–”

“–she?” asked Julien.

“She,” Michael affirmed, “was a vital part of the corruption case the Judiciaire brought against the Sûreté, Préfecture, and other Parisian officials.”

“The LeMaitre brothers…” Herbert murmured, making Julien look at him with a raised brow. “The LeMaitres were detectives in the Préfecture. They and many in their department worked to out the corruption in their organization – those who were in collusion with the Sûreté’s bribery and tampering to protect the powerful. While they succeeded, their new command found a way to have them sacked, despite flawless records and closed case rates.”

Michael nodded. “They were fired in Ninety-Five and opened their own P.I. firm with a few other ousted comrades in Ninety-Six.”

Julien shook his head from the plethora of information Michael and Herbert were giving him, seeing little point beyond the mention of two Doctors and a bit of corruption. “Relevance…?”

Michael bounced his heels with enthusiasm and began pulling more documents from his satchel to present to his mentors in a spread of papers. “Doctor Natalie Fraise was married to Liam LeMaitre. Liam and Valen LeMaitre were murdered in October of Ninety-Six, a case still unsolved. Doctor Moreau handled the autopsies for the LeMaitres, and Doctor Fraise couldn’t touch them over a conflict of interest. Instead, she sought to prove Moreau was tampering with evidence by re-examining his cases, which included Philippe de Chagny. It happened to be her last. She re-filed the autopsy with her findings,” Michael’s hand went over the file that had Doctor Fraise’s report. “I can’t say why this never reached us in whole, only that pages are missing from what was sent to us, and that she was killed two days after this filing,” he tapped the finger on the date.

Julien slumped back into his chair, looking over the files that Michael presented, at a near loss for words over what was starting to formulate. “How did she die?”

“A brougham she was riding in broke a wheel and went over an embankment,” Michael swiftly explained. “Doctor Fraise was in the process of filing grievances against Moreau at the mortuary, but when she died, it was dropped and buried.”

“Comte Philibert worked in City Hall…” Julien murmured, “How much did the LeMaitres corruption case affect him?”

Michael nodded, “All I know, is that he was invested in their work. Whether that was for or against is not exactly clear, as he died in the earlier stages of it. Comte Philippe, however, took up his position upon his death. From what I have found, his role in the corruption scandal was somewhat ambiguous, in that he neither helped nor hindered the LeMaitres. Though, the brothers dying, then Phillippe not long thereafter… with Doctor Fraise after she looked into his case? Moreau has done the bulk of autopsies in this, the de Chagnys, the LeMaitres, Fraise, and most of their associations.”

“I’m going to venture a guess… Moreau is dead,” Julien muttered.

Michael nodded.

“When?”

“Two years now, natural causes.”

“If this case rooted in corruption…at the higher levels, I am inclined to believe that the LeMaitres were after other officials, and Comte Philippe was taking a side that someone didn’t like. His death falling into the climax of the media scandal at the Palais Garnier was not just fortuitous. It was just a simple way to eliminate a problem and let the blame fall on the Opera Ghost, who no one would believe if he was ever found.”

Michael gave a somber nod.

Julien sighed with a glance to Herbert, who was already on the same train of thought.

“You want me to check in with my sources with the Préfecture about the LeMaitres?”

“I am hoping there is someone still alive that might have some pertinent information. I want the case files on their deaths. It’s been too long to merit an exhumation of anyone Moreau autopsied in this, but I can’t help but feel like someone knows something,” Julien murmured thoughtfully. “Corruption leads to debts, and both of those can lead to a vendetta.” he shook his head. “If what Christine said to this Erik is true, then the pieces are starting to fall together.”

“What of Roseline de Faure née Chagny? Do you want to stop looking there?” asked Herbert.

“For now… I know she has a role, but I need more than speculation.”

“What is your speculation?” Michael asked this time.

“I’d rather not say. However, I will admit that I think she is key to sorting this mess. In the meantime, Michael, you go to our masked friend and see if he remembers any unfamiliar faces lurking about the opera in less-than-conventional places. I will see what information I can get in City Hall’s records.”

“We start sniffing around too deeply into City Hall, we are going to become targets ourselves,” Michael stated softly, eying his primary mentor with a raised brow.

Julien’s hand brushed over post-mortem pictures of the LeMaitre brothers that were lain out before him from Michael’s astute dive into the case as he moved to grasp his glass of brandy. Upon taking a long drink from it and expelling a long sigh, he replied as he looked up to Michael’s cool blue eyes. “Good thing we don’t have families to worry about then.”

“What about Robert?” asked Herbert as he tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully.

Julien warily looked between Herbert and Michael, “He’s looking into a lead in Pigalle. For the moment, mind your words and keep your eyes and ears open.”

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Erik expected violence as a result of opening the door, by instinct alone. There were three waiting for that latch to slide, he knew. He checked. Live as an unwanted creature for the entirety of one’s life, and one always made certain and calculated the risks of opening a simple door.

For all the preparedness he had of mind and environment, he did not quite expect the unbridled brutality that came. He scarcely parted the door two centimeters before it was thrust open. While it did not send him reeling back, the brute who barreled through rammed his shoulder into Erik’s stomach as he found himself briefly lifted, then falling, as he was tackled to the ground.

Air evacuated his lungs as he hit the floorboards with an almost unnerving crack, pain flaring up from his ribs and back. His mouth now filled with the distinct metallic taste of blood, biting his tongue upon impact.

What was this man? A bear? Goliath reincarnated?

Erik gasped for breath with little success as the brute repositioned, but did not let the fruitless wheezing panic his mind. He had been in such situations before, more times than he cared to count. Instead, he focused on Goliath’s shifting position to saddle Erik’s hips as a fist raised, all a blur in Erik’s unfocused vision that was slow to recover from the stun he suffered. It was to Erik’s credit that his acute mind still registered the incoming blow.

In a well-timed maneuver, Erik jerked his head to the side, and Goliath’s beefy fist struck the black oak floorboards rather than caving in his masked face. Just as he heard the sharp intake of pained air rush into the giant’s lungs, while Erik still struggled to obtain such breath, the Phantom thrust the heel of his left palm up to the underside of Goliath’s ribs.

The howl that permeated the air was more than heard, it was felt in the reverberating bass of the giant’s voice. Any observer who did not possess Erik’s ear would assume this was just the pained result of the fractured flanges of an overpowered fist against an immovable object. Who would not scream out that pain?

“Stop!” ordered someone beyond Erik’s sightline. “We need him alive!”

Poor choice!

As breathing started to come easier and the world became clearer, the giant sagged over him, but Erik paid that no mind as his right hand searched for his pocket.

“Where is the boy?” that same commanding voice demanded as he came into view beyond Goliath. “Tell us and we will spare you.”

Familiar darkness descended over Erik's mind…

Old friend, he thought, while cold malice oozed forth in a sinister chuckle that he projected to echo in their very heads.

To get out of this situation for his son, and for the sake of his beloved’s memory to keep their child alive, Erik closed his eyes and allowed the chill to turn his blood to ice and detach from the world. Yes, he could take life in his own defense without remorse. However, when it came to groups that sought to end him, like in Persia, like the night that led to Christine’s death, and now this moment, he needed to be more.

When his eyes snapped open, the room was no longer chilled by the frigid breeze through the open door. No. The storm grew within. “Like hell,” growled the Phantom in a whisper they heard so clearly in their heads.

The two other intruders who stood in his foyer watched the shift of the masked man, shivers curling around their spines in sudden, deathly warning. Then… the largest among them, who was well over two meters tall and of sizable bulk, was shoved aside in a motionless heap. Blood soaked his clothing from just below the ribs, the masked man’s left hand and arm drenched in the ether of life itself. So dark was it in its wetness, the deep crimson and its stunning volume served to deepen the growing warning of instinct that ignited the primal need of fight, or flight.

Light caught the brighter shade of red in the shine of a thin, polished blade stemming from the Phantom’s wrist. When his hand straightened with the elegance of a feather floating on a gentle breeze, the blade slid back into his sleeve, sopping with the blood of their fallen comrade. So lost were they in their own disbelief, the pair were slow to raise their pistols and take aim.

The Phantom, rising to an elbow, flicked the wrist of his right arm and rolled to the side, as a blinding flash and smoke filled the air.

Both men fired their pistols haphazardly and without a visible target, emptying their revolvers without pause. No satisfying sound of connecting reached their ears, only the percussions of bullets connecting with wood, plaster, and shattering glass. Where did this man go? Surely, they would have hit him in the deluge they clumsily unleashed.

When the smoke cleared and their eyes readjusted to the scene around them, all that greeted them was the corpse of their fallen friend, now littered with bullets like the floor and furnishings of that narrow little entry hall. It was a straight shot between the front door to the rear door, which hung partially open.

“Coward,” grumbled Rupert as he began reloading his pistol.

“We’ll get him,” added Martine while doing the same. “He won’t go far…probably will lead us right to the brat.”

“You sure he ain’t just gonna hightail it outta here?”

“Positive,” Martine muttered. “If what I’ve been told is true, that kid is his.”

“Shoulda told the others.”

“And let them get our bounty?” Martine shook his head. “Fuckin’ bastards won’t be taking what’s ours.”

The pair advanced through the house quickly, bracing their hands against the wall as they traversed through the thick and slick blood of their friend.

“More for us,” Martine muttered which left Rupert snickering as he led the way.

They made it to the kitchen with terse moments of stability before their boots gained better traction on unsullied flooring, both intently focused on the ajar door. Rupert was the first to step outside, Martine a few paces behind. So focused were they, neither saw the shadow leach out the narrow broom cubby behind them, nor the blur of motion of that shadow closing the short span between them in a blink.

Martine did not even get to eke out a stunned cry before a cast iron skillet swung full force into his face without apology, knocking him conscious as he fell flat on his back.

Rupert spun on his heels, pistol rising as the Phantom gave a sharp wrist flick that sent a slim knife flying into the man’s hand. A pained cry escaped him as the gun fell from his grasp when he stumbled backward on the stoop and down the stone steps into the mud.

The Phantom loomed over Martine, whose chest still heaved with life, even if the old Opera Ghost let the skillet slip from his grasp to land on the intruder’s stomach. Let him be winded. There was no need to hasten his motions as he collected the first fallen revolver, then the second, without pause in his methodical stride.

The last victim was scurrying in the mud like a blathering fool, weeping as he jerked the thin little throwing knife from his hand. There was a particular twisted pleasure as the Phantom watched the fool’s eyes widen at the site of him. Oh, but he was feeling very generous at that moment, even as the high started to calm and the storm within quieted only marginally.

Erik ripped the mask from his face, revealing death’s head as he strode to the fool sunken into the quagmire of the over-trodden paths of human and equine.

All color drained from Rupert's face as he muttered a horrified prayer at the ghastly visage before him.

“You are fortunate to be…unarmed,” Erik growled with a snarled mouth, as his eyes shone like embers in the shadow of sunken sockets. “I should silt your forearms like they did to her… and to our son! And for what! Some imaginary debt to hide the vendetta?” Erik’s voice rose with every word as his chest heaved in ragged breaths of the fury that blazed within his miserable soul. “Why!”

“I— I don’t know!” Rupert stammered as he pushed backward, inching away, although the soaked earth slowed his efforts.

“Death by a thousand cuts, was it? No, no… they got too impatient for that. I suppose I should be grateful for her sake, however… for you and your friend, I shall have all the patience in the world to deal such tortures.”

“Please...! I know nothing! This is just a job!”

“Just a job!” Erik sneered, in a voice as powerful as thunder. “Intentionally destroying innocent lives! Lives who have done nothing to you or anyone else! The audacity!”

Rupert gave no response to this, but only uttered a pathetic question. “Wha—what are you…?”

“Le Mort Viviant, sent by the Devil himself to deal with greedy vermin like you,” Erik hissed and struck the man with the butt of a commandeered pistol.

Chapter Text

Retreat

When Michael investigated something, he was never one to leave a stone unturned. He liked gaining as much insight as possible into a given case and all its potential players. That research meant endless hours diving into records, case files, and reading numerous census reports. The latter of those files offered little illumination, but that was better than nothing at all.

What struck him the most was the potential conspiracy that he began unearthing. While he divulged all relevant information he gained to Claudin and Petrie, there were details he left out as he debated the necessity of their inclusion. It felt as though what little more he knew was best kept to himself in this matter that tore at him.

Even as Michael wandered through the small graveyard on the outskirts of Paris, a small detour, he felt fickle strings of unknown anxiety pulling his chest tight and clogging his throat. The day seemed…off, in an inexplicable way. Was it the new knowledge of the likelihood of some grand conspiracy, or some pang of grief in solidarity for those he came to visit?

There was no way of knowing to any satisfaction until that apprehension revealed itself.

He roamed between the headstones hat in hand, his mind wandering over the case while his eyes scanned for specific names engraved into each small monument to the dead.

What bothered him during his discussion with Julien and Herbert was the quiet instruction of, ‘Mind your words, and keep your eyes open,’ which pulled at Michael's thoughts. Why keep this from Robert? Why now? What happened during that briefing that turned their collective dynamic? Robert certainly had his plethora of faults and an unsavory disposition, but to almost mark him as a potential threat against this case? That seemed extreme.

His instincts nagged at him over this, but deciphering that feeling was becoming more complicated than he cared to admit.

Michael’s gaze found the names he wanted, stopping him in mid-stride as his brain registered the engravings fully. It took only a moment, and he collected his breath before he stepped over to the trio, crossing the holy trinity across his chest. Even as he moved to speak to them, he felt a stab of remorse for those he never knew, yet they had earned his respect.

“Hardly seems fair, does it?” he asked them. “You have dedicated your lives— you gave your lives to this city and our nation, to protect the people from the corruption within the system, and this is how you’re repaid? Lying there, your cases unsolved? Discarded by those you worked with, why? Why would they turn their backs on you? You were still our own…”

The bitter breeze kicked up, tossing leaves across the headstones in a mesmerizing swirl, brushing across the names of the trio he came to visit. The first marker in the row was for Valen LeMaitre. The second memorial was shared between husband and wife, Liam LeMaitre and Natalie Fraise-LeMaitre.

Michael let out a shaky breath, bowing his head to look at the hat in his hands, “In reading about you all, I like to think if fate was different, we may have been good friends — or at least I would be an admirer of your work. You could put Julien and Herbert to shame,” he offered with a chuckle and small smile, the breeze stirring the leaves again. The windchill stung his eyes, making Michael wipe the tears from his face with the back of his wrist, though he was certain the wind was not entirely to blame.

“If I manage to see this case through, and it does not explain what happened to you, I will do all that I can to solve your murders. You deserve to have justice too.”

Michael cleared his eyes again and returned his short-brimmed fedora to his head. He shifted on his heels to leave but paused when the dim splash of yellow caught his peripheral vision. Frowning, he turned back and knelt at Valen’s grave where a small bundle of wilted yellow flowers lay beside the corner of the headstone. Older… dried out, but a sign of a recent visitation.

He hesitantly collected the bundle, which was swallowed by his hand, they were so small. His eyes narrowed as he shifted them back to sit center at Valen’s grave, taking one of the flowers from the tiny bouquet and pulling his notebook from his inner pocket. Michael deposited the specimen with care between clean pages for later identification, then began brushing leaves around to look for any other sign of visitation.

Around Valen’s grave, he found the remains of other flowers in greater states of blackened decay scattered throughout, but nothing around Liam and Natalie.

“Did you lose something, Monsieur?” a gravelly voice asked from behind.

Michael pushed off his hands to sit on his ankles as he looked up towards the speaker, an old groundskeeper with a bushy beard. “Hmm, no… Not exactly. Perhaps you could help me,” he began as he climbed back to his feet. “Have you seen who has been leaving flowers at his grave?”

The groundskeeper leaned to the side, peering around Michael to look at the headstone, then sniffed a grumbling response, “What’s it to you?”

Michael pulled his jacket aside to show his badge, “I’m with the Judiciaire, investigating their deaths.”

“Hmm,” he grunted in a drawn-out pause. “A few visit them. A lil’ girl who says he’s her Papa,” the groundskeeper nodded to the unmarried LeMaitre. “She’s about eleven or twelve now, so I guess it’s possible. Used to come regularly enough, but now it’s about once or twice a month. She comes for just ‘im though.”

Papa? “Do you know her name?”

“Valerie. Sweet thing. Likes to have ‘tea’ with him, but not like when she was young. Her Maman gets a bit cross with her sometimes.”

“Is there anything more you can tell me about them? A surname? The mother’s name?”

The groundskeeper shook his head. “No, they keep a distance, but the girl will often come without her mother.”

Michael nodded. “What of other visitors? You implied there were a few.”

“One other that still comes, a man, visits on their dates,” he nodded to the headstones. “Not the woman’s though.”

Michael looked back, committing birthdays and deaths to memory, though he already had those listed in his notes. “What can you tell me about the man?”

“Not much. He avoids me, but he wears a mask.”

Michael’s gaze snapped back to the groundskeeper.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

It took time before Erik uttered, ‘D'Artagnan,’ through the floorboards above. Far longer than Charles cared to think about. After the cacophony of commotion, raised voices, and gunshots –he heard it all– Charles stood mortified in the cellar, straining to hear something, anything that signaled that his Father continued to live. The long minutes of silence after further strife in the kitchen brought chilling dread upon him as though he would never see light or life again.

Not again…please not again!

Then Erik’s voice came just as he was ready to take flight, promising that all was well, only that he needed Charles to remain down below for a bit longer. Erik's only clarification was: “There are things that you should not see.”

Charles understood the vague meaning, not wanting to see any more death than he already had in his life.

The sound of a gramophone playing was the only company Charles had for a long while, playing somewhere above, distorting other sounds. But that was the intention, a distraction from whatever occurred. It helped. Some.

Then, after shuffling above and the word of promised safety, Charles pushed the lock back and the trapdoor soon opened. When Erik’s hands dipped down, Charles leaped and was hoisted up into his Father’s snug embrace. He burrowed into those strong, gaunt arms, wishing for the world to disappear. He wanted them to vanish from those who were set upon ruining his life and robbing him of everything important to him.

“I’m scared,” he whimpered.

Erik’s arms tightened for a long moment, nodding against Charles’s head. “We cannot stay here any longer, not until this situation has been handled.”

“How did they find us?”

Erik pushed Charles back by the shoulders until they were an arm’s length apart. “That does not matter right now, only that I get you to safety. If we are discovered there, then I will know who betrayed us. If that is the case, by the time they reach us, we will be long gone.”

“Where?”

There was a firm squeeze to his shoulders and those strange eyes roamed over his face with a glimmer of hesitance lurking there. “You… you will see soon enough. For now, go upstairs and see if there is anything you must have that I did not already pack for you.”

Charles gave a nod.

Erik brushed the back of his gloved fingers against the boy’s cheek in a long study of his son’s features. Then, when he seemed to realize himself, he jerked his hand back before shifting his weight to rock up to his feet. “Be quick, Charles. I will call you in a few minutes. Wait for that before you come down.”

Charles issued another quick nod before he gave Erik another mighty hug around the middle, oblivious to his Father’s pained wince, and dashed up the stairs two at a time.

In the boy’s wake, Erik’s hand fluttered over his bruised ribs as he gathered himself, then went on to carry out necessary preparations.

With his son still safe within the confines of his home, where the front entrance was now barricaded and most of the blood cleaned up from the hall, Erik went back outside. Despite the disturbing quiet that lingered in nature, he went about his tasks, aware that eyes were upon him again. These eyes were not there when he took the saddle from one of three new horses on the front of the property, nor when he left two men tied up behind the woodshed to stare at the body of the fallen giant.

No matter.

His horses were tacked and ready to leave. Necessities were packed. There was but one task left to accomplish.

Erik marched through the mud and melting snow to the woodshed, a pistol in hand. He never held much favor for a gun. They were loud and left more mess than he cared to deal with. However, he made an exception in this circumstance. He lacked time and the mood for theatrics, not when he was eager to take his son and go to his fortress beneath the world.

Pulling the mask from his face and letting it hang by the thin wire on his arm, Erik turned the corner where his attackers were secured. Of the two that still lived, only one saw and flinched as he recoiled in disgust. The other, whose nose was crushed by the skillet, looked as though he teetered on the thin line between life and death. His face and clothing were covered in blood, browning as it dried, yet bubbling a little when he wheezed for breath – his jaw likely suffering fractures and a few loosened teeth.

“We don’t know nothin’,” quipped the one who didn’t have to struggle for consciousness.

Erik said nothing as he prowled closer, positioning himself until the body of their ‘friend’ lay between them.

How unnerving it must be to see the killer of the brute standing there, unphased by the altercation. While it was not a David and Goliath comparison, Erik stood taller than most, but the man had several centimeters on him. When it came to weight, Erik was at least a third smaller.

The other squirmed at the sight of the dead man and the Ghost as the comparisons played across his face when his eyes flicked between friend and foe. Good.

“Then you know something,” Erik bit with malice.

The man blinked, jaw slack.

“‘Don’t know nothin’,’” Erik repeated the phrase in the same unruly inflection. “Means you know something.”

“No, we don’t!”

Erik tilted his head to the side, hairless brows raised. “One does not get to live this long, being this ugly, while being stupid. A double negative in words is the same as it is in arithmetic: the sum becomes positive.”

The man blinked, not a thought in his brain.

Erik pulled his thin lips back with a snarl, playing into his hideousness and making the man cringe. “And, the world would sooner have you walk among them, the idiot that you are.”

“I’d sooner be an idiot than a freak like you!”

Erik leveled the pistol at the man’s head. “I would rather be ugly in that context.”

The man swallowed, pressing back into the shed’s wood-paneled wall.

“Who hired you?”

“He’ll kill me…”

“I will kill you.”

The man swallowed.

“Slowly,” Erik added. “I shall you have you begging for death by the time I am done.”

The man spat at the snow near Erik.

“I will start with the nails, prying them their beds. It’s quite excruciating, you know, I have heard men scream like eunuchs who lost their testes before puberty. Maybe I will turn you into one too, no ether or laudanum, either. You will start bleeding out because I will not do it properly… Then, I think I will pluck out your eyes and feed them to the vultures as an appetizer.”

Crossing his legs now, the fool of a man pressed harder into the wood panels as though he could vanish into them.

“Tell me who, and you can have your life and the chance to extend it beyond your employer’s wrath, or mine.”

“Taveres,” gurgled the one with the caved face.

Erik turned toward him. “What else do you know?”

“He’s workin’… for someone else. Don’t know… who,” he wheezed. “Only…they want…the kid.”

“Why?”

“For ten thousand, I don’t ask…questions.”

“A bounty?”

Bloodied face nodded, eyes swollen shut.

The hairs on the back of his neck began prickling, nagging at him to leave but there was one last detail he needed to know before that. Did they find him by luck or through betrayal? “How did you find me?” He growled, leaning forward like the perturbed gargoyle he was, to further intimidate the one who could see his abhorred face.

The motion spared his life.

The clap of a rifle’s rapport echoed through the cold air and lifeless trees as the shed’s siding erupted in fragmented wood splinters from the bullet that struck it instead of his head.

Instinct took over as his sharp mind struggled to comprehend what transpired. He ducked low and darted around the shed for cover. The living men in his wake cried their protests, which were as short-lived as the remainder of their lives. The next gunshot that rang out silenced them both.

Gritting his teeth at the implication, Erik kept his back to the small structure, briefly reveling in the fact that he kept that shed well-stocked with logs. No matter the power of the rifle being used against him, there was not yet a bullet that could penetrate that much timber. However, Erik was trapped. Dashing across the over-saturated ground or mud and melting snow without getting shot was not favorable. If it were a short sprint maybe, but even that border lined suicide.

Rather than let fear and panic sink in, that other self that stemmed from determination settled into his spirit and honed his focus. Erik slid his mask back into place as his mind raced and flickered over his options, dozens of ideas flying across subconscious thought as it worked to solve his conundrum with what he had at his immediate disposal.

Too bright for a flash trick. A smoke cloud would be better served to cover their escape on horseback if they were quick enough.

Erik turned toward the logs with a fragmented plan crawling into his mind and grabbed a sturdy oak wedge. It was a poor idea, he knew, but if the shooter had an itchy finger to squeeze off another round, it would buy him the seconds he needed to get to the house and his son. When Erik adjusted his grip on the hardwood and prepared to launch it through the air with an underhanded toss, the rhythmic pulse of falling hooves beating the ground drew his attention toward the front of the house and property.

That sound did not last when the shooter aimed at the newcomer.

Erik glimpsed it, the wiry frame of a man clad much like Carriére riding a chestnut before the shot fired.

The horse screamed that unnerving screech as it went down. How bad the fall was became obscured by the corner of the house and Erik’s impulse to run, which he did. He ran to the house in the time it would take for even the most skilled shooter to adjust aim, if not load another round into the barrel.

Erik ducked into the safety of the stone walls that made up the exterior of his home as another shot ricochetted off a stone brick.

“Erik?” called the nervous voice of his son.

“Yes,” Erik breathed between pants as he rushed to meet Charles at the foot of the stairs where the boy stood trembling. “We are leaving,” he assured as he rested a hand over his son’s shoulder and guided him into the library, which both served as the furthest corner of the house from the shooter and the closest exit to the stable.

Outside, with a jarred shoulder and covered in mud, Michael scooted closer to the house, unsure of where the shot came from beyond a vague guess. He wanted to get his rifle from its saddle holster, but the risk was too great to take. Instead, he settled on his pistol. Though less accurate, it was better than nothing.

As he reached the house, he climbed back to his feet with a hand on the wall to steady himself. His mind danced between the well-being of Erik and the boy and then whoever took a shot at his horse. Was there one shooter? More? Where? How did they find this place?

Any concern he had for his witnesses vanished when a nearby window popped open and a familiar masked face peeked out.

“Ah… you survived…” came the dryest remark in a somehow chipper tone. “You were a most wonderful distraction.”

“You’re… welcome…?” Michael managed to reply, not even sure how else to respond.

Erik gave a nod and slid out the window with startling grace.

“How many are there?” Michael asked, watching the masked man turn back to the window with outstretched arms.

“There were three,” Erik said, giving a small nod and beckoning gesture to the window, “The fourth shot the others, and at you.”

A pale boy with dark hair and blue eyes appeared in the window, eying Michael warily before he took Erik’s outstretched hands and shimmied out of the window too.

“Charles?” Michael asked in a flood of relief to finally see the boy up close and in one piece.

The child cast his guardian a glance.

“We do not have much time,” spoke Erik, swiftly guiding the boy toward the stables. “It will not take long for the other to clear the house or mount a horse. I rather be out of range before he can.”

Michael followed them without a word.

Inside, the Phantom was helping the boy onto one of the saddled Freisians and climbed on behind him. Next, he leaned over to collect the lead rope of a white horse that had a few bags strapped to its back.

“Take Phobos,” Erik instructed as he straightened and directed his mount towards the stable doors without pause. “He won’t throw you outright.”

Michael glanced over to the other Friesian, saddled and ready to go, though he assumed the horse had been meant for the boy to ride. He did not spare it further thought as he approached the animal while holstering his pistol. He barely managed to get his foot in a stirrup and heave himself up into the saddle before Phobos began following his master who took off the moment they cleared the stable doors, angled to keep the house between the shooter’s last known position and them.

Phobos’s unexpected acceleration almost threw Michael as his foot instinctually searched for the other stirrup and settled into the equine’s smooth gait as they followed the Phantom into the tree line.

Chapter Text

Midnight Visitors

It was dusk by the time they reached the outskirts of Paris. Although they were in peak condition, the horses were breathing hard with mighty swells of their chests from their exertions. It was not a full-tilt gallop from the secluded residence of the infamous Phantom, but the transitions between trot and canter along narrow little trails that ran parallel to the main roads gave little reprieve.

Michael’s body ached everywhere from the fall to the rough riding, and he could tell by the sag of Erik’s shoulders and short breaths, that he was not the only one in pain.

“What happened?” Michael wheezed out the question.

The trio were in a secluded little groove off the trail they had been following, with a dense wall of trees and undergrowth surrounding them. At the center stood an ancient oak tree with a trunk thicker than four men and a canopy that dominated the forest’s roof.

“They found us,” Erik hissed from his mount. Though a thin man of a ‘delicate’ frame, his demeanor possessed the unique ability to project a sense of intimidating lethality. Cross him now, and suffer a pre-ordained fate for the fallacy.

“How?”

“I am inclined to believe it was you.”

Michael shook his head. “No— I have not so much as made a notation on what I know of you. All my immediate associates know is who you are and that you have the boy, no location beyond the vicinity of Vaujours.”

“Enough to narrow down the search,” he growled.

“Nothing more than what was already reported in the paper,” Michael snapped back. “I came out here to talk to you about the case, not to kill you.”

“I told you what I know.”

“I think you know more than you realize.”

“Ah yes! A name is what I can give you, Taveres— he hired the group that attacked us. I could not get much more information from them before they lost their—” Erik’s gaze flicked down towards the boy in his arms, “–wits. The shooter did not grant much time for more, beyond the price of the bounty.”

“Bounty?”

“Ten thousand.”

Michael balked.

“At that price, Taveres is just a middleman.”

“How do you know?”

“You are a poor detective if you need to ask,” Erik snipped.

“We need to schedule a meeting to discuss several developments in the case, for which I need to ask you more questions, and perhaps even the boy—”

“You will not be questioning the boy,” growled the older man.

Sensing his time was cut now, there was one question he needed to ask that gnawed at the back of his thoughts. It was not of Comte Philippe or the details of what happened a short while ago, but rather what he learned in the graveyard. There may be many scarred and masked men in France, and Europe for that matter, but what were the odds that those others would be visiting the graves of men who held a loose tie to the current case? “Liam and Valen LeMaitre. Who were they to you?”

The other stiffened as though an electrical current swept through his veins.

“It is you who visits their graves, is it not? Three ti—!” Michael never got to finish the sentence before Erik hissed out a command that sent the burrowed horse into a fit. A quick buck and a mighty rear-up sent Michael flying to the ground for the second time that day. It was not so much the actions of the Friesian that threw him from the saddle, but the suddenness of the action that got the better of him.

“Follow at your peril,” the Phantom growled before a dozen horse hooves thundered the ground in a percussion of thumps that pulsed in Michael’s skull.

The violent rumbles of the earth soon vanished into the night as Erik, the boy, and all three of the horses vanished into darkness, leaving him aching on the ground in their wake.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

It was late by the time they reached the heart of Paris. Not only by the distance they traveled but the stops they made. The late hour allowed Erik a chance to deposit the bulk of the essential bits of luggage they had in one trip into the secret Rue Scribe entrance to his musical haven. He did not venture far into the narrow passage, not wanting to deal with trying to prepare that near-forgotten home into a suitable space for the boy tonight.

Next, they went to a stable between L’Opéra Garnier and their end destination for the night, where Erik arranged boarding for his horses for the next fortnight, although one was not staying there yet.

They traveled through the backstreets, accompanied by the silhouettes of strange night dwellers playing across the walls of alleyways, accompanied by the sounds of rambunctious hollering and laughter. They moved and morphed into frightening creatures of myth. In the dark, they seemed so much more than a mere illusion. A shadow lurched on a wall with a reverberating moan or growl that made the brave Deimos take a few skittish sidesteps away from the unknown.

In darkness and shadows, things became so much more than they were. Scurrying cats were panthers climbing through a cramped metropolitan jungle. Dogs fighting over a scrap of food or playing with a rag became large feral wolves fighting over carcasses. Men were bumbling, brainless ogres drawn to the siren calls of women.

Erik paid these no mind. He had seen what distorted shadows did many times over, often as their manipulator. On the streets of a city though, silhouettes just existed in all its unworldly glory. At least until passing their alley of origin revealed it was nothing more sinister than a robbery.

Charles was tense, despite his still and silent form pressing back against him. He watched every shadow play out with bated breath until he saw their true nature. Even if that true nature was less than amiable, they certainly seemed better than whatever the boy's mind concocted.

“Why are they not at home, in their beds?” Charles eventually asked.

“As more electricity is installed, the less a city sleeps.”

“Why?”

“Because light is more frequent to show the way. Flames extinguish in hours while a light bulb can last weeks. Without the threat of darkness, why go to bed?”

“Because they were up all day?”

Erik gave a low chuckle. “It is not that simple.”

Silence resumed between them as Erik turned them down Rue de Rivoli. On that road that ran along Tuileries Gardens, countless shops, boutiques, and cafés lined the boulevard while adjourning side streets led to small, little townhouses, one of which he turned onto next.

“Where are we going?”

“To the home of an old friend. Only he would tolerate an intrusion at this hour.” Erik answered as he brought them up to a tying post in front of a modest little townhouse.

He dismounted and tossed the reigns over the post while Charles slipped off beside him. Erik collected their one remaining bag and his violin case before placing a firm hand on Charles’s shoulder and guiding him towards the front stoop. “Stay quiet, and do not,” Erik caught the boy’s hand from meddling with the scarf, “remove that until we have you inside.”

Charles let his head fall forward with a drawn-out groan.

They ascended the steps where Erik did not hesitate to make good use of the brass doorknocker. It took several intervals of three raps until finally; there was a knock back from the other side.

{What devil knocks at this ungodly hour?} grumbled a tired voice in Farsi.

Charles crinkled his nose at the voice while Erik smirked and replied, {Your favorite.}

{I have no favorites.}

{Ah! Nadir… Must you mock me so?}

{Always.}

{Open this door before I merit its locks useless!} Erik said as he gave a hard pound of his fist against the heavy oak. {You would have a child sleep on the streets?}

The door swung open to a rather harassed-looking Persian in his nightclothes. His thinning gray hair was mussed from sleep, but his black eyes were sharp and alert as they swept over Erik and then Charles. Nadir then heaved a long, tired sigh before he stood aside.

Erik took that as his cue and ushered his son in.

“Darius, please see to Erik’s horse,” Nadir said to the younger Persian man who stood off to the side.

Erik passed the servant a small card denoting the stable as Darius nodded and slipped out the front door before Nadir closed it behind him.

As they made their way into the drawing room, Erik set the bag and case aside before he went over to the windows, drawing the drapes close while Nadir stoked the fire in the hearth back to life with a new log.

Erik discarded his cloak and fedora onto the back of his preferred chair in the concise manner befitting a confident king. Both he and Nadir took up residence large in chairs while Charles lingered in the center of the room for a moment as he unwound his scarf.

Both boy and Persian let their eyes wander each other with apt interest before Erik went about introductions with appropriate gestures. “Nadir, this is my son, Charles,” he introduced with a keen eye on the Persian’s cadence, “Charles, this is Nadir Khan…an associate of mine.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Charles,” Nadir said as he offered his hand.

Charles slowly took it with a small shake, “It’s…nice to meet you too, Monsieur.”

“I trust Erik has taken very good care of you.”

Erik sank into his chair, his legs crossed and his elbows upon the armrests with his fingers tented before his masked face. He was rather curious as to what the boy would say.

“I…he…” he stuttered and looked to the man in question, who offered no assistance. Charles looked back to Nadir. “He does…”

“It has been a rather trying day with bounty hunters trying to collect,” Erik supplied at Nadir’s questioning glance.

“Eri—”

“Do not chide me, Daroga. It is a conversation best had later.”

“Very well,” his eyes shifted between lad and man. “I haven’t any spare beds.”

“The sofa will suffice for the boy, whilst I do not need sleep for now.”

Nadir inclined his head to his old friend before turning to Charles. “I am certain you are famished. There is food in the icebox; you're most welcome to help yourself.”

“Meaning… We need to talk without ‘you,’” Charles muttered.

The Persian offered a small smile, “Go eat dear boy.”

Charles obliged after a nod from Erik and vanished into the backrooms.

Nadir leaned forward in his seat. “Erik, had I known where you were when she came to me, I would have sent her to you.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed. “And after those three years, you did not tell me?”

“She was married, Erik. Happy, just as you had wished it. When you came back, I could not shatter that for her. Nor could I shatter the peace you managed to find in yourself. Not when all either of you could bring each other was this endless pain.”

“He is my child Nadir! I deserved to know before she was on her deathbed!”

“Then you should not have placed your obituary in the papers! Not that she believed it for one instant, or the Comte for that matter. They searched for you. They came to me so many times that I lost count! But after a year, they stopped looking, deciding to put their energies into raising him instead. I must admit, I even wondered if you shackled yourself to a ball and chain and threw yourself into the Seine! Three years Erik! Three years you were gone without a word— even to me!” Nadir almost shouted. He forced himself to settle a little as he ran a hand over his lined face and trim goatee framing his mouth.

“The past is in the past, Erik. We all made mistakes, but there is nothing we can do about it right now. I am sorry for not telling you the instant you resurfaced. I only did what I thought was best for all four of you."

“Three,” growled Erik.

“No, four. The Comte loved that boy, knowing full well you fathered him. But that didn’t deter him in the least as it would have for most any other man of his class.”

They fell into silence, and the tension that built up between them during their exchange began to ebb away with the ticks of the mantle clock.

“I’m sure…you’ve come for more than just a bed or my part of what happened,” Nadir said at length.

Erik sat motionless in his chair, his steepled fingers long since fallen to the armrests. He clutched them so tight against the upholstery, that he wondered if he would make puncture tears in it. Why would they put forth any effort to find him at all if Christine chose de Chagny? Did he initially not want another man’s child? His child?

At least Erik could credit the man for caring for them in his absence.

But he was only honoring Christine’s wish. Her choice was made quite clear.

If Nadir told him of Charles when he returned — if he had never left France, he might have had a chance to learn of Christine and Raoul’s motives. There would never be an official answer to these questions, as the only ones capable of giving them, were dead and buried.

For now, he wanted to damn Nadir for it all. It took considerable effort to stifle his temper from erupting on his oldest friend, and even more effort to relinquish his grip on the chair.

“The Judiciaire has been looking for you,” Nadir prodded at that moment, since Erik did not answer the first probing inquiry. “They have been here, Detectives Julien Claudin and Robert Destler.”

“Not surprising, since Detective Carriére has managed to find me.”

“Shocking,” came Nadir’s dry reply.

“He had an instance of good fortune for such an achievement.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I trust people to betray me.”

Nadir went silent at the indirect jab, as he had betrayed him on certain levels numerous times. Perhaps, at least one day, Erik could trust in his own child and not suffer yet another betrayal in the long line of them.

“Alas, Carriére seems eager to find who killed Christine, and aims to kill my son.”

“Curious, a detective aiming to complete his mandate? Outrageous!”

Erik batted the commentary away. “Until they are given cause to leave the case unsolved,” he growled. “Though I will grant that he would be harder to buy off, and he is smarter than you— in some instances at the very least.”

“I’m flattered,” Nadir’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

Erik chuckled mirthlessly, “He has discovered more about me in a few weeks than you have in a lifetime.”

“I would have to take your word for that.”

“Rather ironic, is it not? Especially considering he appears to have this impression that Christine was looking for me, the night she died. Why would she be looking for me, old friend?”

“A familiar mask, I imagine,” sighed Nadir. “Worn by the only man I know of who is capable of slaughtering seven without a gun in a night? You might be a thing of nightmares, but it’s clear that her last hours demanded the company of a Phantom – if only to see the boy was left with his last relative.”

“Last?”

“All the de Chagnys are dead, Erik. Given the circumstances, I would hardly say she could leave the boy with Madame Corbin.”

Erik fell silent, mind churning.

“How are things fairing between you the boy?”

“As though I have many good first-hand experiences in parent-child relationships,” came his irritable answer. Beyond that brief flash of normalcy with Giovanni in Italy, or watching Nadir with Reza, he had little else with which to gage his experiences.

“Insufferable– I know you are more than capable of putting feelings into words.”

Erik gave him a sideways glance as the fingers of his left hand rippled in varying patterns. Finding these words was as difficult as describing his love for Christine. Nothing could express it beyond just playing music. After all, if he ever stuttered, it was in her presence.

His eyes traveled to where he last saw the boy. “I am…most fortunate to have him with me, though I wish the circumstances were different. He is smart and musical, and I cherish every moment with him. Even when he pesters me with his endless questions or moves my things around as though I would not notice! What I cherish most of all was when we… played. We played, Nadir, in the snow! A snowball fight, he called it!” he added the last with a tremble in his voice. It cracked between a laugh and a happy sob. Erik brought his shaky hand to the eyeholes of his mask to wipe away a few tears. “I had seen such interaction between children before, but never understood what it was until him…”

Erik let out a long, weary sigh as his hand touched his mask briefly, letting the soft leather inside soak in the tears beneath. “It was the first time I ever heard him laugh, and it was music to my ears to hear him have a moment of happiness in my presence. I will gladly take that moment to my grave if that is the only time I am to see him happy in my presence— because I have not seen it since!”

Erik sobered a moment, lifting his head from his hands, but remained hunched for a second as he looked up to Nadir with weary eyes and straightened like a cat stretching its back. “He is perfect, Nadir. It all comes from his mother— how he managed to avoid…” Erik motioned toward his masked face in a graceful gesture, “defies logic.”

In the small hallway outside of the drawing room, Charles listened to every word that he was not supposed to hear. While he gained some answers to questions about the situation surrounding him, it left more unanswered ones in its wake. One thing he knew, was that this Monsieur Khan was not someone he liked for reasons he could not grasp, yet. All he had was a feeling in his gut that left him apprehensive of the man. He did not sense danger or a threat from him, but something did not sit right either.

As the conversation began shifting towards what transpired to bring them to Monsieur Khan’s, the lock flipped to the front door which made Charles slip off toward the kitchen as the servant, Darius, returned.

Charles spent the next several minutes alone in the small kitchen, nibbling on a few slices of buttered bread until the adults appeared. His skin pricked at the sight of Monsieur Khan, but seeing Erik quelled the sudden build-up of nerves.

“Consider what I've said, old friend,” Monsieur Khan was saying to his father before casting a glance his way. “Please do make yourselves comfortable. Good night.”

The masked man issued one nod to them before Khan left them, retreating up the narrow kitchen with the servant in his wake.

“Do we have to stay here?” Charles asked.

Erik tilted his head in a manner that was akin to a raised brow.

“He makes me… uncomfortable.”

“He will not harm you.”

“Not like that— it’s just, something.”

Erik remained silent and glanced up the stairwell before focusing back on him, “It will only be for tonight. Where I am taking you next may require some cleaning and lacks any useable form of sustenance until I can acquire some.”

“The…Opera?”

Erik gave a nod. “That Detective and Nadir will know where we are, but I have a residence in the fifth cellar that is a veritable fortress. It is the safest place for you until I can decide what to do next.”

Recalling the overheard conversation, the next question was easy to ask, “You were the Phantom?”

“Yes, long ago. It is… how I came to know your mother – but that is a story for another time. For now, come along. Time to rest,” Erik said with an outstretched hand, beckoning him.

Charles obliged and soon was settled for sleep on the sofa, with a suitable pillow and blanket over him.

“Erik?”

Erik glanced over to him as he loosened his cravat. “Yes?”

“Can you tell me a story? Please?”

He paused his motions and tilted his head at the thought before he resumed. “A story? What kind of story?”

“Any kind.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line beneath the mask, Erik turned to his chair, his mind running through tales.

“No, next to me,” Charles pressed, sitting up and clearing space for him.

Erik hesitated before he obliged and was stunned to have the boy curl up to his side. It was by good fortune that the bruising of his ribs was on the opposite side of the boy’s presence, but the tenderness snaked around his torso regardless, causing a wince to ripple through him.

Charles craned his head to peer up at him.

“It is all right,” he assured, letting his right arm come to rest on the boy’s shoulder. “Merely a bit of soreness from earlier.”

“They hurt you?”

“I have suffered worse. Now, I do not know much in the way of children’s stories…”

Charles sighed beside him and snuggled a little closer. “Make one up…”

Erik sat in silence for a moment, turning a few thoughts over in his mind before settling on a loose idea for a fairytale – not that he knew much about them…

“There once was a boy whose hair was black as the night that surrounded him. He woke in a bed of tall grasses, not knowing who he was or why he was there. He sat up, azure eyes sweeping across the empty plain where the only thing beholden to him was a majestic old willow tree with silver leaves shining in the moonlight.

“The boy sprang to his feet and dashed to the old willow tree until the nightingale accosted him with warning, ‘No! You mustn't! Danger lies ahead!’ cried the bird as he hovered before the boy's face.” Erik's voice changed for the bird's speech, to make it unique from his narrative, and he gave the boy a voice of his own as well.

“‘Why ever not?’ asked the boy. ‘I see no danger and I must see where I am.’

“‘I can fly higher than the tree and tell you what I see, but you cannot go near that tree!’

“‘Why help me?’

‘Because I do not want to see another life lost to that tree!’”

‘It cannot hurt me.’

‘That is what they all say before they're gone, never to be seen again!’”

Erik continued onward with his story, even after Charles's eyes fell closed in the midst of the second line. Even in sleep, the boy still might be able to follow the tale as he spun it. If his voice could bring Charles a level of peace as he slept, then he shall have his voice.

Chapter Text

Epiphany

If anything of a more sinister nature occurred in Paris, it would happen in the Pigalle District. While rather unassuming and dull in daylight, it became vibrant at night with numerous cabarets, bars, and Maisen Closes – otherwise known as brothels. Some establishments even managed to offer all three, the most famous of them being Moulin Rouge, or rather, the Red Windmill.

Its trademark feature was just that, a large windmill painted red, sitting atop the roof of its walled entrance. With more businesses and neighborhoods gaining access to the growing number of electrical grids, the Moulin Rouge took full advantage of artificial lights. It glittered and flashed in all its glory, drawing droves of people to its open lot crammed between two buildings. Music resounded throughout the night amongst the gay chatter of the masses.

On the surrounding streets, men of diverse classes and social standings milled about. Most of them were inebriated out of their right minds and looking to spend the night in a woman's arms. In this neighborhood, they never had to wander far if they had enough money left in their pockets.

As the night was still in its youth, Robert Destler didn't have to be overly prudent. He had a good hour more before the cutthroats and thieves came out to take advantage of fools in a stupor.

Robert picked his way into the Moulin Rouge, where he followed a stream of men through the garish wall that led into the large expanse of an open patio, paved with stone. Wrought iron tables and chairs filled the space, while the strings of electric lights hung above them provided adequate luminance with spectacle.

Beyond the tables and those who occupied them sat the large stage, complete with wings and eaves so performers and stagehands alike could stay out of sight. While performances were primarily colorful introductions, it was but a taste of what was to come. Upon the conclusion of introductions, the stage opened to the crowd as the main entrance into a lavish dance hall trimmed in reds and golds. The floors were polished black with booths and balconies overlooking all that transpired there, with another stage at the end.

While they hosted cabarets several times a week where the dance hall was lined with chairs, other nights, it was nothing more than an exhibition of scandalous dancing between staff and visitors. Guests had no reservations about fawning over scantily clad girls in vibrant dresses prancing about in constant exuberance.

It was not unheard of to have many fellows lose their wits with a glass of Absinthe and a woman flaring her skirts in his face as the girls performed an over-the-top version of the Can-Can.

This night was such a night. Men and mistresses, dancers and courtesans, all intermingled in shameless reveling.

Perhaps on any other night, Robert might have joined them. However, he needed to abstain from Absinthe and the very tempting dances of a girl. A head fogged by spirits and lust would do him little good, not with work to be done.

Robert slid along the balcony, eager to gain a vantage point to further survey the room. He needed a very specific type of person, and spotting them was not a difficult matter. The brutes the Moulin Rouge employed were hard men to miss. Tall, well-muscled, and almost as provocatively dressed as the women. Many of them were dark-skinned in varying shades - Indians, Africans, Moroccans, Spanish – it seemed Oller and Zidler were as exotic in their male hires as they were with women.

After all, mistresses and perhaps the rare wife needed something savory to look upon as well.

As Robert turned a corner, a young woman in a gaudy dress of oranges and reds sprang out from behind a column. With a robust giggling purr, she accosted him with a flare of her skirts and a peak at her undergarments. Before she could drop them, he tugged her close to him and pressed her back against the column and rail.

When he pressed his lips into the nape of her neck for a taste of her smooth olive-colored skin, the girl hooked a leg on his hip, her arms winding around his neck as she swooned.

The kiss only lasted three seconds before he lifted his head to look at her. “Maybe next time, but right now, I would like to talk to your boss.”

“Oh, well…Monsieur Zidler is busy,” she answered airily.

“I’m a very patient man.”

Her hands snaked along his shoulders and down his arms. “I’m sure you are…” she said with hunger slipping into her voice as she felt his muscle tone. “I can help make the time go by.”

“That won't be necessary, but perhaps you can help me in other ways. What do you know of the de Chagnys?”

She shrugged a little. “Not much really, but I know his solicitor, I think. He’s one of my clients.”

“What's his name?”

“Monsieur Tomas.”

“Merci, mon cherie,” he kissed her hand this time. “Alas, it's still very important that I speak to Zidler.”

She bit her lip, “At the end,” she nodded to the end of the balcony behind him. “Jerome can take you to his office.”

Robert dipped his hand into one of his pockets and drew out a franc note with a large sum before he tucked it between her bosoms. “This conversation stays between us.”

She nodded, and he left her there without a glance back as he went deeper into the dance hall. At the end of the corridor, he came to a black man who was sharply dressed in the style of the Moulin Rouge, standing by the stairwell.

“Jerome?”

The man nodded.

“I must speak with Zidler.”

A brief chat and a flash of his badge later, Robert joined Zidler in his office. The co-owner’s workspace was as glitzy as the rest of his establishment. Red, again, was the prominent color scheme, accompanied by golden trimmings that reminded him of South Asia and France of the last century combined in a queer assortment of decorum.

Charles Zidler himself was a portly man with rosy cheeks and a nose that matched his curly orange-colored hair. Behind him stood a massive windowed wall that permitted a glance down at the dance hall below any time he wished.

Upon his entry, Zidler popped up from his chair with a smile spread wide across his face. “Ah! Another prospective investor I hope!”

Robert pondered his reply before opening his lapel in the most boring manner to reveal his badge again.

Zidler's cheer fell away as he plopped back into his chair. “Oh, one of you,” he intoned in a rather pleasant tone, just not thrilled.

“I’m certain you knew it would only be a matter of time before one of us found our way here,” Robert commented as he wandered about the office, admiring some of the exotic and rather erotic decorations. Many of the paintings that adorned every wall were rather interesting to his untrained eye. They captured the essence of movement and grandeur of cabaret.

“Unfortunately…”

“I am told you are quite the keeper of dirty laundry. With a place like this, I’m not surprised. Tongues tend to wrangle when liquored up and pleasured…”

“In a manner of speaking…”

“What do you know of the de Chagnys?”

Zidler raised a bushy brow at the name. “De Chagny? That’s not a name I expected to hear,” he paused a few moments, his eyes wandering upwards to the right for a moment in recollection. “The late Comte, Philippe de Chagny came here often enough. Spent quite a bit of money on my girls. Occasionally, he brought his younger brother Raoul along – he was a Vicomte at the time – but he never partook of anything. He seemed like he’d rather be anywhere else but here!” Zidler huffed at the notion. “Alas, that was months before the Comte drowned.”

Robert drifted closer to him. “Do you know of any debts they may have owed?”

“Perhaps… They were never a family for owing, I hear.”

"It is important that you tell me everything you know, facts, rumors, enemies, debts. I want names of any of their associates that you and your girls know of.”

Zidler paled as the red washed away from his pudgy cheeks. “This is about the murders, isn’t it?”

“Why else would I be here?”

Then Zidler talked. He kept talking until the hour was late, and there was nothing more to tell. Robert had a list of a dozen names he needed to look into. Someone would know something, and he would find it out sooner than later.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Morning came in the form of a shaft of light striking the polished brass of Nadir’s mantel clock. Its bright reflection in his eyes roused Erik from his ephemeral slumber in a matter of seconds. Erik shifted to avoid the stream, blinking away the haze of sleep. Once he did, he carefully drew himself up from the sofa and Charles’s attached form, then glided over to the front bay windows where he adjusted its curtains, closing the troublesome gap.

He turned back toward the boy, where Charles remained sound asleep, undisturbed by neither light nor activity. The residual warmth on Erik’s side lightened his spirit for having his dearest child seek comfort in his company…

…something Erik never expected to experience.

Clenching his jaw, Erik stifled the worst of an oncoming yawn before wandering across the hall from the drawing room to the study and one of Nadir’s overstocked bookcases for the bounty of tomes that might inspire some thought on the situation at hand.

Erik was a man of extraordinary recall of sight and sound. Yet in very few cases, if his mind deemed something trivial, he could remember it without essential context. No location or person sprang to forethought in this matter. All he had was a name to focus on, and that brought him little other than the knowledge that this Taveres was a fixer.

“His father owed a terrible debt…” Christine said so clearly in his mind.

Erik paused, mulling over the repeated phrase.

His father owed a terrible debt… he turned to the room, mind working. Raoul's father was the family Comte, succeeded by Philippe de Chagny, the eldest of two sons. The old Comte died of natural causes – Raoul had once told Christine. Old Philibert de Chagny had time to pass on family matters to his heir. Nevertheless, with Philippe de Chagny’s untimely death beneath the Opera…such matters died with him.

~X~

It was the lull between, where Nadir and the Girys vanished, granting him leave to bar them from his home permanently. They had all but given up their endeavors with him, when the fetid stench of bodily rot and decay drew him out from his hole in the ground. He would have contented himself to die alone in Christine’s leaving. However, doing so in peace without pungent odors assaulting his olfactory senses in conscious moments became little more than fantasy. It crept into his house, overpowering his array of aromatic spices from the Orient.

With feline dexterity, Erik floated across the narrow outcropping along the water’s edge, eyes sweeping across the tranquil surface. Inspecting his lake was not the simplest of feats. No, even those who dwelled within the Opera and glimpsed the lake with their own eyes often described it wrong.

It was not as vast and sweeping as many would say or believe. While the expanse was immense with countless walls that doubled as support columns with arched openings, it became impossible to take in the lake with single a glance. He had to move through the vaulted chambers of the glorified water tank to find disturbances. It was to his design that there were only a select few areas frequented by Opera staff and other trespassers; far from his home. Erik had ways of tracking down strays with ease.

After several minutes of venturing between chambers and following the putrid scent, Erik spied upon a group of ripples out of place. He followed the undulations to the main chamber which was the most spacious expanse. There he saw a bloated body floating in the center.

Ah, the Siren claimed another victim. When did that happen? There have been no trespassers since that night… oh…

Sparing no further thought, Erik maneuvered as close as possible without going for a swim himself, and drew out his lasso. In a flick of his wrist, Erik ensnared the corpse with the thin line of catgut. He turned towards the shore at the Communard Road and towed the body along towards it.

He soon loosed his Punjab Lasso with another flick and tugged the body ashore.

In that instant, he noted that this was not the work of the Siren. The gash in the side of the man’s discolored and swollen skull was a testament to that. A Siren lured her victim to their watery grave by hypnotizing song, not bashing them over the head. Far too messy.

This was not his work – the Siren’s work – but whose was it?

Erik pressed a handkerchief over his pitiful nose and mouth to muffle some of the odor as he tilted the man's head to the side to get a better look at him. Short hair, goatee…fashionable features for a man of nobility. He flipped a part of the man’s jacket open and drew out a handkerchief from the inner pocket. It took only a brief examination of the embroidered initials over the de Chagny family crest to identify this man as Philippe de Chagny, the Vicomte’s older brother.

Erik turned the Comte’s head back to the other side to study the gash there once more. He committed its shape to memory as fragmented voices trickled to his ears from above. A glance revealed growing luminance from the passage leading back up to the opera. Undoubtedly drawn to the odor, as he had been, the opera staff was coming to find its source.

Weighing his options and suppressing the need to investigate the curious death himself, Erik returned the silk handkerchief back to Philippe de Chagny’s pocket, and pushed him off the shore enough to make it appear that he just washed up. Satisfied, Erik retreated to his shadows just as the first man rounded the corner.

~X~

“You know, old friend, I’d rather not see that look in your eyes.”

Erik blinked out of his reverie to find Nadir leaning back against his desk with his arms crossed. “What, precisely, is that look, Daroga?”

“That look you get when your devious mind is at work.”

Erik snapped his fingers. “Ah yes! Even when such thought processes bring forth an epiphany, you sit there fraught with nerves.”

Nadir issued a heavy sigh, “Be out with it, Erik.”

“I have been looking at this the wrong way. Old Comte Philibert owed a debt. He passed this on to his eldest before he died. Yet, Philippe de Chagny never saw his death coming, thus could not tell his brother of it.”

“Yes, that is why Raoul and Christine are dead.”

“No.”

“No? Erik, you're not—”

Erik waved Nadir into silence. “Philippe was murdered, aht!” he cut Nadir off before the Persian spoke out of turn. “But not by me, Nadir. Really, you know of my ways and that of the Siren — his death was simply too messy. It lacked…art. No. Philippe was killed because he was no longer obliging this debt. Why kill the only other person capable of paying it —after killing the predecessor who never had a chance to pass it on? If Philippe would have even passed it on in the first place,” Erik stated while he paced the room.

“If it was in the form of money, Raoul de Chagny perhaps began paying it as an expense. If it were something else, it would be easy enough to con him for a little while. But eventually, de Chagny would have looked into it. As loathe as I am to admit it, that boy was bright enough to question such things, reinvest interests and so forth. What if he discovered something sinister, and, like his brother before him, refused to pay?”

“Erik…these things are nothing more than conspiracy. You’ve nothing to substantiate these…theories.”

“Life is but a conspiracy, Nadir! You know this better than most, or have you forgotten those rosy hours of Mazandaran?”

“We are no longer in Persia, Erik,” sighed Nadir. His hand fell over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose to ward against an oncoming headache. How very old of him. Then again, he was in fact, old; several years his senior to be precise.

“And Europeans, Asians, and Russians—are no less deceitful or cunning, Nadir,” Erik chided. “I do believe you ought to make an appointment with your physician and get your head checked. Your capacity for recall has diminished drastically.”

Nadir dropped his hand from his face. “Says the certifiable one.”

Erik ignored him, but before he could utter another word a small commotion in the next room drew his attention, preceding the near-panicked call of, “Erik!”

Conversation forgotten by the sound of his progeny’s voice, he strode toward the next room to be assailed by the child who bolted to him with arms wide open until they wrapped around Erik’s midriff. Wincing at the abrupt embrace, he slipped uncertain arms around Charles’s shoulders, not daring to pull him in tight as he cherished the moment. “Did you think that I had left you?”

“I…” Charles heaved a long, shuddering breath. “I — Can we just go? Please?”

Erik grasped his son’s shoulders and pulled him back to gaze at his pale face. More dark circles formed around his eyes and tears streaked down his clammy, hollow cheeks.

Oh… Charles, Erik thought with every millimeter of his being aching for his tormented child.

“I assure you, you are quite safe here, dear boy,” Nadir chimed from behind, unaware of the boy’s state since Erik made himself a protective barrier between them.

“No,” Erik said, looking into his son’s glassy eyes and giving his shoulders a small squeeze. “Your hospitality has been most generous, Nadir, however, it would be best for us to be on our way now.”

“Nonsense —” Nadir huffed.

“Get ready, with your scarf,” Erik let his voice whisper in Charles’s ear. Relief fell across the boy’s face as he nodded and turned back to the drawing room. As he turned back to Nadir, he said, “It is likely the Judiciaire will come to your door again sooner than later. It would be best if the boy were not here.”

“You’ve already been in contact with one,” Nadir protested.

Erik tilted his head and took a silent step towards him in a long glide, “I have no desire to deal with any other than the one. At this juncture, I find him more trustworthy than you.”

“Is that so?”

“He is not the one who claims a kinship and then denied me seven years of knowing my child,” Erik bit with low, cold venom in his every word. “If you had not denied me that one human right, then Christine could very well still be alive.”

“You don’t know that,” Nadir riposted.

“Oh, but I do Nadir, because had I known about my son, I would have resided closer to them — at the very least, and Christine would have known where to find me.”

“You’re assuming too much, Erik.”

“No,” Erik rasped. “Regardless of what transpired between her and I — or the life she had with de Chagny — she still named our son Charles. A name I had selected.”

Nadir’s jaw clenched shut.

Sensing Charles behind him again, Erik turned and stepped over to their things in the drawing room, where he delved into a bag and drew out a leather mask that matched his skin tone. With his head in the corner and back to everyone, he switched the masks over his face in a blur before gathering everything up.

When he returned to Charles’s side, catching his hand with a scant handful of seconds lapsing since his prior statement, Erik further snapped in his darkening ire, “You had no right to meddle in this matter, and you damn well know it.”

“I did what I thought was best,” Nadir growled.

“For whom?”

“The boy.”

“Yes…A lot of good that did him,” Erik bit back, giving Charles’s hand a little squeeze.

“Ah yes, with a man barely fit to rear him.”

“I may be worthless as a father, but by God, he will see adulthood and be capable of caring for himself if that is the last thing I do on this earth.”

As father and son turned to leave, Charles paused and turned back to Persian, his face shrouded in a scarf as Erik had instructed. “He isn’t worthless.”

“You hardly know him, little de Chagny.”

“I know enough. Maman promised that I would be safe with Erik, and that there was no one she trusted more to care for me. She’s never lied.”

“I’m sure,” the Persian responded with a softened tone and an insincere smile.

Erik’s hand tightened around his, and Charles was all too happy to leave the little townhouse.