Phantom of the Opera 1. Prologue & Death's Head

**Author's Note:**_ I know the dates are a little off, but this will be explained as this story progresses. I've edited the best I could, but sometimes I still miss very basic, stupid, amateurish mistakes. If you see such things-do let me know so I fix them?_

_I would Like to Thank some of Best Friends for giving me a nudge to bother posting this: Sa Sirena(A.k.a my Rp Christine), Jade Lady, and PirateMeg for being with me through thick an thin.__**  
**_

* * *

_**The End of the Ghost Story**_

**Prologue**

_**Paris France, 1907**_

Their home was in hot flames and the late afternoon winds did nothing to sate them. The air was thick with black smoke and falling gray ash. Through it, a woman and her young son fled from the Chateau's back door, a dense cloud billowing out after them. She staggered towards the stable close by, pulling her son along by the arm.

Upon reaching the stable, the woman went to her favorite chestnut, and slipped a bridle over his long face and quickly fastened the buckles. In a flash, she gave her son a boost onto the thoroughbred's back then climbed on behind him.

"Charles, hold on!" she ordered her son as she kicked the chestnut's flank. The horse whinnied and lurched back before bolting forward into a gallop.

They followed the road through the heart of the forest between their home and the glittering city of Paris. Eerie silence gave way to the sound of thunderous hooves falling in heavy rhythm upon the dirt road, in sync with their hearts pounding in their chests.

Charles clung to the horse's neck, closing his eyes tightly against the fear he felt churning his insides. The sky burned a fiery reddish-orange in the late afternoon sun, but it only reminded his young mind of the horrors he experienced at home, or was left of it if the flames ever died.

No matter how hard he tried, his closed eyes only kept repeating what happened in his mind in a vicious cycle. There was no escape from it.

The rocking movements of the horse did not stop for what seemed like a lifetime, but when it did, he managed to crack his eyes open as his mother slid off behind him. She pulled him off with shaking arms that quivered from the strain of supporting his weight.

"Come along…" she whispered in her growing fatigue. In an unsteady gait and shuffling of her feet, she led him to the steps of a small townhouse that she climbed before she beat her small hands door repeatedly while she leaned heavily against the frame. After what seemed like another eternity, the door opened to reveal the worn face of Madame Giry, whose expression creased with worry at the sight before her.

"Christine?" she breathed.

"Madame," was all Christine de Chagny managed to say as her strength gave out and she collapsed into the Antoinette's arms, who barely managed to support her.

"Erik!" Antoinette called towards the back of the house, only to find he was already beside her, taking the Comtesse into his arms.

Christine looked at the masked face she had not seen in ten years. The man she had long thought dead. She curled an arm around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder while she wept openly.

He wasted no time in carrying her into the next room. "Christine, what happened?" he asked with both anger and worry apparent in his beautiful voice.

"Please, please take care of Charles!" she began though her voice scarcely traveled beyond him. "Raoul gave his life for him! His father owed a terrible debt and now they are trying to kill us all!" Her free hand curled into in the lapel of Erik's jacket, holding it so firmly, her already pale knuckles lost what little color they had left. She knew her time was running out. "They….they came to the house and burned it," she whispered when he laid her down on the chaise, but she did not release her hold on his neck and jacket. He tried to pull away, but she would not let him. Not yet. "They tried to kill my baby but Raoul saved him at the cost of his life."

Erik managed to pull away enough to see the terrible swollen bruises on her once angelic face and pale skin now so terribly discolored.

"Oh Erik! Raoul loved Charles so much! He raised him as his own," she said, as Erik's eyes quickly took the rest of her only to see the deep gashes and the gunshot wound. His heart tightened and tears began form in his eyes when he realized her wounds were mortal. The gasps from Antoinette and Meg told him they knew this too.

His eyes went back to her face and brushed the sweaty strains of her hair out of her eyes.

"Charles is yours Erik," Christine said more calmly, she felt her end nearing. "He's, he's ours. Please, please promise me to take care of him."

Erik was too much in a shock to say anything, tears flowing freely.

"Promise me Erik!" she demanded, her voice cracking.

He nodded to her as they stared into each other's eyes for what would be the last time as Charles bolted in to Christine's arms and buried his face into her neck, crying. She kissed his forehead, the life draining from her eyes. "Always remember Raoul and I love you," she said.

"I love you mama, don't leave me!" he begged.

"I'm sorry Angel," she whispered sadly. "Now promise me you'll be a good boy for Aunty Meg, Grandma, and Erik."

Charles only nodded.

She looked up at Erik and snaked a hand into Erik's, and told him with her eyes how much she loved him.

He held her hand tightly, bringing it to his lips and kissed it softly. "_Christine I love, you,_" he sang to her softly as her eyes fluttered close and her hand went limp in his own.

He distantly heard Meg and Antoinette give a sob of mourning behind him, but the pain he felt in his chest was too much to bear as he wept for the loss of his Angel.

_**Death's Head**_

Several hours later, well into the evening, Charles sat in the vacant hall of the Giry house staring vacantly at the well-worn wooden floor. Light flickered against the floral wallpaper adorning walls from the few gas lamps, taunting the bleariness he felt within him.

Antoinette worried for him since he had not spoken, much less acknowledged anything since his mother passed on. When Meg pulled out of her grief, she tried to coax him to come into the kitchen and eat something or talk to no avail. Her admirable attempts fell on deaf ears.

The former Ballet Mistress had dealt with the sorrow of a child's loss of their family many times during her years of taking care of the girls of the ballet, but the anguish Charles displayed only reminded her of the man who had vanished shortly after Christine's passing, the man who helped Charles come into existence.

Erik was in terrible anguish, but she knew he had matured enough in that regard to pull out of it just enough to be functional for a short time, no matter how short it was. He was perhaps the only one who came close to understanding what exactly young Charles was feeling. All she knew was that the blank stare showed nothing of what must be going through that tortured mind.

Before, they bathed Charles and tended to his minor cuts, bruised face and combed out his matted black hair. His usually pristine clothes suffered stains from small amounts of blood in different areas. The tears in clothes revealed the minor cuts and severe bruised he sustained in whatever took place at the de Chagny estate.

With a small sigh, she returned to the kitchen, brushing her hands against the black skirt of her dress.

Meg was sitting at the kitchen table, her cooling untouched tea before her. Her blue eyes were again glassy with tears. Antoinette patted her daughter lovingly on the shoulder as she passed her to make more tea.

"Do you think he will honestly return?" Meg asked absently.

"He has always kept his word," she replied. "He could be doing numerous things now, or he needed some time to sort through his own grief."

"He really loved her then."

"Oh, heavens yes child. As unusual his displays of love were, he loved her as if she were the only thing that existed. It was his downfall."

When the old clock chimed eight times in the house, the quiet rapt on the back door made Madame Giry to hurry over to peek out the window before letting Erik inside.

He stepped in with a slight nod to his head before he hung up his cloak and fedora on a nearby coat rack. "I have nowhere to take him tonight," he told her softly. "My home is far out from the city."

She nodded quietly. "Yes, the boy needs to rest tonight— if his mind will let him have a bit of piece."

"I have a few things which may assist in that." He took in the room with a sweep of his eyes. "Where is he?"

"This way," she replied leading him to the hall. "Meg and I cleaned him up, and tended to some of his cuts, but he hasn't spoken or eaten at all."

Erik only gave a slight tilt of his head, his silence telling this sudden burden of a child was far from his areas of expertise. Luckily, for him and perhaps boy, Charles was not an infant or toddler anymore. With a supportive pat on the former Phantom's arm, she said, "Collect your son and I will take you where he can sleep tonight." Madame Giry turned away started up the stairs to the second floor with only the light of her lantern to prepare the room.

Erik watched her for a moment as she left him and the boy alone. She did it on purpose, he knew. This was by far nowhere close to his understanding, and he did not like this feeling stupidity in the least. It was like an insult to himself. However, he had little choice now.

Regarding Charles, who still stared at the floor, Erik pursed his lips together in thought of how exactly he would accomplish this task.

After a moment, he spoke softly, "Charles."

The boy gave no indication that he heard him.

"Charles," he said more firmly with a tone that only his voice could muster.

He blinked several times and slowly looked up at the masked man clad in a black suit.

"You need to rest."

"I don't want to close my eyes," he said after a moment. "I'll see it again…over and over."

"I could give you something that can help with that," Erik said with a small idea coming to mind.

That got his attention.

"Only if you will eat something first. If you do not, I will merely take you up to bed and let you decide there," he said simply with a tilt of his head. "And do not think I won't either."

Charles stared at him a moment to see just how far this very strange man was willing to go. When he gaze only met with emotionless, almost colorless, eyes with a slight amber tint. The stark white mask that hid all of Erik's face save for his jaw, which did not help in reading the older man's intent.

With a defeated shrug of his shoulders, Charles slowly stood and Erik gestured him to go ahead to the kitchen. The boy only eyed him a moment before he did so, placing a hand against the wall to help keep balance.

Upon seeing Charles and a nod from Erik, Meg jumped to her feet and prepared some leftovers for him to eat.

Within a few short minutes, Meg set a small plate of food on the table in front of Charles. He slowly picked up a fork and poked at it absently as he took a few small bites every few minutes.

The former Phantom watched him a moment thoughtfully. _At least he eats something. I cannot blame him for his disinterest in it, but it a necessary task._ Erik looked to Meg with a graceful gesture to the teakettle on the stove. "May I, Madame?"

Meg gave a quick nod. "Yes yes, of course," she said meekly.

He went over to the emptied teakettle and started a new brew, with a special ingredient for Charles.

A short time later, the boy finished his meal and Erik had given him the tea laced with a tranquilizer. It was not one that was considered to be addictive unless under prolonged use, which he planned on avoiding. From there, he took the Charles upstairs to the only room on the narrow hall that possessed the flicker of candle light.

Inside, Antoinette finished making up the small bed for Charles and she offered him a kind smile when she saw him. She shuffled him to bed as Erik conveniently vanished from the room. That trick would only work for that night though, since he had too much information and a new burden drop on him. This would probably be the first time he would have to take care of something other than himself and various pets.

She smiled softly when Charles instantly seemed to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. No doubt, Erik offered him assistance in that regard.

Bending down, she kissed the young boy on the cheek before leaving the room.

Erik was waiting for her in the hall, which of course gave her a slight start when he spoke right when she shut the door. "I went to the estate," he informed her simply.

Antoinette looked at him, pulling her shawl around her shoulders more snuggly.

"What did you see?"

"The house and the servants' quarters were burned, with no witnesses."

_Erik arrived at the estate some time later as the sun was almost set. It was eerily quiet with little signs of life. The house lay in smoldering ruins with smoke still floating sky ward from select hot spots. The servants' quarters laid to waste as well, only he could see a few bodies in the grass._

"I scouted the area-"

_He was at the forest line, just out of sight when he dismounted his black Friesian. From there, he moved along the border of the cleared property to scout out the area before moving closer. Whoever did the deed would more than likely still be there. _

"_-_and found the men by the stable. They knew Christine and Charles escaped."

_The men were still there, lingering by the stable. He was too far away to over hear them and the sun was still too high to move closer without detection just yet, however, he knew they were hunched over a map and bickering where to go next._

"When they left, I went closer to see if anything useful was left."

_The lighting was with him by the time the men left. He crept closer to the remains of the stable to see if they left anything. He scanned the area with a trained eye. _

"I found this," he held up a golden crucifix ring with a small ruby embedded its center. "Then one of the men returned, and gave chase."

_A faint glimmer in the grass that caught his attention, catching the last failing rays of sunlight. Moving quickly over to it, he knelt and picked up the object, a ring. Before he had to a chance to examine the ring, the sound of hoof falls in rapid succession caught his attention. _

_Erik looked up to see one of the men returning, charging at him upon his galloping horse. Freezing for a half second in mental calculation, Erik ducked behind a wooden post as a bullet struck where his head had just been._

_He quickly went deeper into the remains of the stable, luring the other man in, hopefully on his mount. And sure enough, he did and Erik darted out the back as the shadow he was, and slammed the double doors shut and locked them. Granting himself a few more moments that it would cause the man to come out and around, Erik gave a single sharp whistle. _

_His Friesian mare, Duchess, flew from the spot he left her and galloped over upon his command. She got close enough to him just as the other man came around the side of the stable. Erik ran along her projected path and grabbed her long mane as she came up to pass and swung up onto her back._

_He sat heavily on her back, which caused her to slow severely, and instructed her to turn towards the charging man with his legs. After receiving a swift kick to her sides, Duchess charged forward, much to other's surprise. In his charge, Erik pulled out the knife he always kept with him._

_In a swift blur of movement, he slashed the man deep in the arm as he flew past. Instead of turning around and Punjabing him to finish it, Erik kept Duchess in pace towards a shallow slope of a hill that led into a narrow trail that neither ran to or away from the Parisian city. There was little time to lose considering the attacker's comrades more than likely heard the gun shot intended for _his _head._

_There were shouts behind him as he turned Duchess up a slightly rocky slope and into a small opening between the clusters of trees. Sitting heavily on the mares back, she came to a quick halt. Erik slipped off and vanished into the trees._

_Three of the men, the only ones trusted to give a chase, soon appeared. The injured leading them._

_Erik was crouched on a branch just over their heads. His black cloak wrapped around his elegant frame and a black leather mask now covered his face._

_He waited for the most opportune moments before he struck. When the last one in line passed beneath him, Erik let himself fall from his perch as he sliced the man's throat with his knife in a fluid movement before he landed on the ground._

_By the time the surviving pair turned towards the thump and whinny of a spooked horse, their comrade was lying on the ground dead. "What the….?" the injured leader breathed as he looked around frantically for the cause. _

"I'm over here!" _a haunting voice called from the brush to his right._

_The pair looked towards the brush while a shadow moved behind them._

"No! Not there!" _the voice called again, this time from behind. _"Here!" _Now it was beside the injured leader. _

_He spun his mount around to the sound and gave a start as his horse reared up in fright. There, in front of him, hanging from a tree branch was his other comrade, staring at him lifelessly. _

_That was when the disembodied voiced whispered from everywhere and nowhere. Beside, behind, in front, above, and below. The survivor looked around frantically in all directions, his heart pounding his chest from adrenaline and fear combined. _

_The trees, the trees were talking! As were their leaves, which sang as a breeze swept up the trail. His mount spooked and took off at a gallop, leaving the rider where he was, for a split second before he landed on the ground. Wildly, he raced to his feet, spinning on his heel, looking for that disembodied voice. "Where are you!" he demanded in fear and frustration, all because of a ghost that seemed to haunt the forest now. He stopped turning, to listen to any whisper he may receive in response._

"_Here," this time, it had to be real; he even felt the breath on the back of his neck._

_Slowly, he turned around and gave a start at sight of a faceless man whose eyes burned amber. Before he could react, or even think, his back collided against a tree. Catching the breath which had be knocked from him, he looked back up to the faceless man as his hand fell to his sword, threatening to draw it. _

_The faceless man stood stoically, staring at him with those haunting eyes. A faint gleam of light caught the metal of the sword that he brandished._

_With a roar of anger, the injured leader drew his rapier and charged the faceless man. _

_The other merely sidestepped the brash move and held his weapon in an offensive position. He only waited a moment for the injured leader to turn and face him because he launched a quick attack._

_The injured man barely managed to parry the attack, and a fight went on with a quick exchange of strikes that displayed their fencing skills. However, the fight did not last as long as the injured leader had hoped. When he lunged for the faceless man's midsection, the specter merely dodged the action and caught his wrist tightly in long fingers. There, the specter brought him close and thrust a knee into his gut, causing the injured leader to drop his rapier._

_From there, the specter threw him back against a tree, causing him to fall from the pain of it. The faceless man came at him in an instant, throwing his mask to the ground while he wrapped his hand around the injured leader's throat. _

_The leader's eyes widened with horror at the sight that befell him. "Who sent you!" death's head demanded._

"_I..! I don't know!"_

_Slamming the leader's head against the trunk of the tree to make a point, he again demanded, "Who!" _

"_I swear I don't know!" the leader cried._

"_Why did you attack the de Chagnys!" he growled impatiently._

"_I don't know anything! I only get paid when they're all dead."_

_Erik narrowed his eyes when he saw he would get nothing useful from this, thug. Knowing that the man in his death's grip was too dangerous to keep alive, he tightened his grip with a low growl. The man's eyes bulged from their sockets as a sickening pop sounded in the silent forest as his crushed his throat._

_The man went limp and Erik released him. He remained still for several minutes, breathing in and out slowly, his amber eyes slightly glazed over. _

_He blinked several times before he retrieved his mask as he stood, fastening it securely in place before he vanished with a twirl of his cloak._

* * *

**Author's Note:**___ I will say this only once: Every writer loves feedback-even constructive criticism-I am not excluded from this. So if you read something-and especially if you enjoy it, do review. It helps inspire, and spur us to write more because we know people are reading. Thank you.  
_


	2. Flying With Grace

**Author's Note: **_Forgive me this incredibly long absence from this story. Life was...need I say? Regardless, hopefully I can post this more often. If I do not, I suggest outright harassment for an update. My contact information is in my profile._

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**_Flying with Grace_**

The funeral for Raoul and Christine de Chagny took place three days later and the mourners were few in number considering there were few of the de Chagny family left, and a small group of close friends.

Charles stood between Meg and Antoinette as the service took place, with tears flowing freely down his cheeks. His new guardian was nowhere in sight for reasons he could not comprehend. Not that it even mattered, he never knew him or even seen him before his Mother brought him to the Giry's. Why would he come?

The minister finished the holy farewell to his parents and the guests quietly departed. Charles and the Giry's were the last to leave, and he did not want to go. It was a reality he didn't want to face, did not want to go on. However unfortunate the fact may be, suicide was a sin, and could mean hell. Hell was a place he did not want to go when his parents were in heaven.

The day was bright and sunny. A stark contrast into the dark mood Charles felt. He lost everything with the span of a few hours, and all he had left was his mother's locket that held an image of her and his father, one on each side. Even the horse that he and his mother had ridden in on had seemingly vanished.

He choked back a sudden sob that came up in his throat.

Now, he had to be in the custody of a man he didn't know, and never heard a _word_ about. All he knew was his name was Erik, and he was the one who _fathered_ him. Erik had remained rather elusive, aside from providing him with suitable clothing and drugged his tea at night. He was always gone in the days, not even Madame Giry knew where Erik vanished too.

Maybe the masked man secretly wanted nothing to do with him. After all, he was conceived out of wedlock, not to mention the fact that every encounter he had with him was increasingly awkward.

Charles sighed as he lagged behind as they made their way through the graveyard, his head bowed. He shoved his hands deeply in his trouser pockets, his left hand fiddling with his mother's locket. The touch of the currently warm metal brought him a degree of comfort. But it did not entirely sate the need for it, nor the warmth that love and genuine affection could bring.

Madame Giry occasionally glanced back at him as if he would disappear on the whim. However, he was always there, and getting more and more confused with it all. Where would he go? Back home to ruins?

He glanced at the gothic grave markers; his eyes scanning over the names of the dead, long forgotten save from the family in which they came. Even then, some families have forgotten them. Some of the stones weathered chips or cracks, which made him internally shudder before he bowed his head again.

Just beyond the gates of the graveyard was a black open topped carriage drawn by what looked to be a young black mare with a white fetlock on her right foreleg, and a fine coat that shined in the sunlight. The driver stood stoically at the side of the carriage by the step that led up into the cab. He helped Gramma Giry and Aunt Meg up while Charles tried to get a look at the man face, which the shadows of the black fedora did not permit.

The driver turned to him and tilted his head. Charles saw the faint line that boxed his chin and the upper lip of his mouth and dropped down to his jaw line, following it on either side of his face. "Will you be joining the ladies, or would you prefer riding with me," he gestured elegantly to driver's bench.

Erik's voice snapped Charles out of his daze, and he looked between the bench and Gramma Giry, who nodded for him to join Erik. He looked back to him, "With you, Monsieur."

Erik gave a slight nod and gestured for him to climb up. Charles quickly did so, albeit nervously, and slid over to the far end. Erik joined him a moment later, gathering the reins in his hands; he released the break and gave the mare a soft whistle.

The mare complied and gave a light trot while her master kindly coaxed her around a turnabout until they headed in the proper direction towards the city. Charles watched admirably how the unusual man kindly directed the mare. It was more of an askance then a demand, which seemed to work wondrously.

"Is she yours?" Charles asked Erik suddenly as he idly watched the horse's movement.

Erik cast him a sideways. Following Charles's gaze, he gave a nod. "Yes."

"She's beautiful."

The older man gave a small smile. "Her name is Ebony."

Charles gave a nod and went silent, studying his surroundings, namely Erik's driving skill, which did not go unnoticed. "Have you ever driven?"

"No Monsieur."

Erik gently pulled back on the reins until Ebony halted then he offered Charles the reins, "Time to learn then."

The boy looked at Erik with surprise.

"I'll teach you."

Charles looked between Erik and the reins, before he took them. Erik gently adjusted the boy's grip to the position that would offer the most amount of control. "You want just enough tension on the reins so you can just feel her mouth on the bit," he instructed as he guided the boy's hand to the proper tension. "Too much-" Erik guided Charles's hands back more, causing Ebony to begin chomping at the bit as she backed up a few steps, "-she'll get agitated."

Charles nodded quickly, his muscles tense with nervousness as he adjusted the reins in his hands without assistance, but Ebony remained a bit agitated.

"Relax yourself. Most horses can feel or sense their master's feelings. If you are calm, she will calm. If you are frightened, she becomes frightened. If she is frightened and you are not there to calm her, things can become very dangerous very quickly. Do you understand?"

"Yes Monsieur."

Antoinette smiled as she watched Erik now trying to form something out of nothing, in his usual calmness that sometimes had a way of rubbing off on someone in the best way. Her daughter glanced at her with a smile, her bright eyes and cheery.

They made it back to the city in one piece with Charles, under Erik's careful guidance, driving. The little journey had many stops at goes, but the masked man never once lost his patience with the boy's inexperience.

When they reached the more busy streets, Erik took over driving again after he adjusted his fedora over his skin colored leather mask properly.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, Erik stood outside the Giry house between his mares, the Friesian, Duchess and the Thoroughbred, Ebony. The latter of the pair, and the younger, nickered irritably as he tightened the girth around her the saddle would not slide off to the side. "I know, I know, you don't like it," he said softly as he patted her neck.

She turned her head to just be able to look at him with her right eye, almost glaring at him as she flung her tail wildly as she stomped a foot on the ground. "You know just as well as I do that she doesn't take any of it," he gestured to Duchess. "You are still young and not as trustworthy yet, mademoiselle."

Erik turned to the post where he had both mares tied, to collect the saddlebags filled with supplies to last him the next three weeks back at his home. To his surprise, Charles was sitting on the front stoop, watching him. Pausing for only a moment, Erik turned back to Ebony and proceeded finish hooking up the saddlebags.

"Is there anything else you require, boy?" Erik asked him.

Charles shook his head, "No Monsieur."

"Then please get your…Grandmother so we may inform her that we will be on our way."

The boy nodded, springing to his feet and disappearing inside the small house. Antoinette appeared on the steps of her house within moments, a shawl draped around her frail shoulders with Charles at her side.

"When will you be coming back?" she asked Erik who choose to remain by his horses.

"Two- three weeks. _If _things go smoothly," he said rather matter-of-factly. "If not, I am quite positive that there is a book of some sort out there that will be of assistance," he remarked in idle thought.

Antoinette smiled warmly. "I'll keep watch for one."

Erik tilted his head inquisitively but spoke nothing of it.

_If he only knew,_ Antoinette thought with amusement. _He will soon though._

She turned to Charles and spread her arms for an embrace. Charles did not hesitate a moment before he wrapped his arms around her as she pulled him tight. "Do I have to?" he whispered quietly.

"Yes," she whispered back as she kissed the top of his head. "Just remember, he does _love_ you and he knows little about children. But he will keep you safer then you can imagine."

Charles nodded his head before he pulled away looked up at Erik, who was waiting patiently. With gentle encouragement from Madame Giry, he went over to him.

With help from the older man, Charles got up on the back of Ebony. Erik quickly adjusted the stirrups to his height and handed him the reins after attaching a lead rope to the ring on the bit, as a precaution. From there, Erik swung up onto Duchess, holding Ebony's lead rope firmly in hand.

"Take care," Antoinette called to them as they headed out into the streets of Paris.

Their travel through the city to countryside beyond the city was quiet and rather uneventful save for weaving around the Parisian citizens and their various ways of transportation.

Erik was fiercely vigilant of anything that moved or even breathed. His fedora was tilted down, hiding his eyes entirely and in such a way that a shadow played across the rest of his face. It was not until they reached the countryside and well off the beaten path that Erik let Ebony's rope slacken comfortably.

Still, the journey remained quiet aside from brief comments to each other. The sun went down and Charles, who had begun to become drowse in the ride, shivered from the loss of warmth the sun had brought.

Seeing this, Erik glanced around the darkened surroundings to calculate an approximate time that they would arrive at his home. "It is only a half hour more."

"I'm cold and I'm tired, can't we go any faster?" Charles complained quietly.

"Yes, however I question your balance and I rather avoid exhausting your mounts tolerance of doing such in that contraption I set her up in."

"You mean the tack?"

"Yes."

"She weighs a few hundred pounds and you're worried about me and the tack, whose feather weight in comparison."

Erik tilted his head towards Charles. "True. However, I rarely if ever, require my horses to wear such things because it is rather uncomfortable to them. Like your belt fastened too tight around your ribs and cold, unfeeling metal stuffed in your mouth designed to turn your unwilling head about rather forcefully. In some cases, painfully."

Charles was rather speechless to that. "I never…thought about it like that."

"Most do not," Erik said simply. Instructing Duchess to step up beside Ebony and Charles, he offered him a hand. "If you want to go faster, you will have to ride with me. I will not have you on her back because she will only become irritated and that would rapidly grow unpleasant for you."

Charles looked between his mount and the hand Erik offered him and decided to take his chances with Erik. The instant he took the older man's hand, Erik easily pulled him off Ebony and up onto Duchess's rump.

The boy shifted his position until he sat astride on the mighty mare while Erik briefly fiddled around Ebony's head and neck for a moment. When he sat back up, Charles wrapped his arms around his midsection. "Have you ever ridden bareback before?" Erik asked simply.

"No faster than a trot."

"Then hang tighter," he muttered adjusting Charles's hands until they gripped each other snugly. "Just allow me some room to breathe."

With that, they took off at a gallop before Charles could muster a reply after being thrown back, instantly thankful that Erik could maintain his position effortlessly.

He held on with a death grip as they flew along an open field with Ebony's freely galloping alongside them.

Charles watched her run with them, kicking her back legs out playfully, with a smile growing on his face.

The young mare accelerated her pace and ran out ahead then cut over in front until she was on the other side when she dropped her pace down again to gallop beside them. Duchess tilted heavily to the left in an action that seemed to surprise Ebony before she fell in step behind them.

Heading into the forest line again and suddenly Erik shifted his weight that caused Charles to do the same because of his death grip around his midsection. Then, for a brief, sweet instant, Charles felt like he was flying when Duchess leapt over a fallen tree in silent wonder.

When her hooves thundered upon the ground again, it took Erik a second to assume his original position again. Charles turned his head in time to see Ebony jump it easily. Through the wild ride upon a horse's back under the starlit sky, the pair reached cottage in less than half the predicted time.


	3. Forever an Angel

**Chapter 3**

**_Forever an Angel_**

In a rented room of a tavern located in a small town just outside Paris, a man sat in a chair in the shadowed corner as a pretty girl quickly worked on covering up her bare, smooth skin. When she was only half finished, a knock came at the door and the mood in to room shifted satanically. In a brisk movement, the man threw a heavy purse as the girl. "_Get out!_" he hissed at her throatily.

She gave a small shriek as she fumbled with the purse and bolted from the room. The pair of men on at the door watched the girl scurry off with slackened jaw. "Nice legs," one commented to no one in particularly.

"_In the near future, _gentleman," the man said coldly from his chair.

"Right." they said in unison was they entered, closing the door behind them.

"I want a progress report. I told you _no witnesses_ and I only see Raoul and Christine de Chagny in the obituary, not the boy with them. Why is that?"

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… The Comtess and her son somehow managed to escape."

"And?"

"We know that she went to the house of Madame Antoinette Giry," the second, a short muscular Spaniard remarked. "We also know that the Madame posted the listing in the paper. There is a history between them from the Palais Opera…"

"Why aren't she and the boy dead then?" the shadowed man demanded.

"Because there was a man there," said the brute.

"_Was_?"

"A few hours after the Comtess and the boy escaped, at the estate, Bertrand headed back as we were leavin' and we heard a shot and two more of the boys went back. When they didn't show, we went to check it out and found nothing. Look around the woods and we find them, all dead. Throat slashed, hanged, and a broken neck," said the Spaniard.

"How is this to concern me?"

"We believe the man was behind it. Something about him screams killer, and I know from experience. Last we heard, this man took the boy and vanished into the country side."

"Why didn't you kill him then, Señor?"

"I would prefer to watch him and get a better idea what this man is capable of," seeing the employers expression darken considerably at comment, he absently added, "It was not I who let them leave the estate alive. That isn't exactly a trait of mine."

The brute gave a startled look to the Spaniard and back to the employer, fumbling over his words to muster a desperate sentence that could be his saving grace.

"Quite so, Señor," the employer commented as a bullet pierced the brute in-between the eyes.

"I want you to locate this man, bring me back reports, or it will be your head next."

* * *

Charles landed on the ground when Erik pulled him off Duchess's by the arm and released him when he felt that the boy was close enough to the ground that he would not hurt anything _else_.

The boy rolled into a fetal position on the ground, holding himself as he issued a whimper of pain.

Erik felt the corners of his mouth tug upward a little in a expression crossed between amusement and sympathy. For him, that was a hard choice, because, on the _rare_ occasion he got a bad jolt on a horse, it hurt, _badly._ Although, he knew the feeling, the boy's reaction was just simply amusing to say the least.

"You think it's funny," Charles groaned as he rolled onto his other side while Erik slipped off Duchess and led her to her stall for the night.

"I did not say a _word_," Erik said simply, sliding the stall door shut. Heading over towards Ebony, he begun taking off the tack and supplies he had strapped to her. "You did that to yourself, if you didn't decide to get daring, _that_ would have never happened in the first place."

"Yes, yes, blame me. I'm the stupid kid."

Erik looked at him sharply. "Stupid? No. Naïve? Yes, yes, very much." he turned back to Ebony, taking a brush to her coat now. "I am not blaming you, and I am not going to feel at all guilty. You, dear boy, need to learn to take responsibility for what you do, because I most assuredly will not."

Charles stared at the older man, utterly confused.

Erik sent to the mare to her stall where he closed her in before he strode across the simple stable to the large opening that they had entered through, and closed them. Sliding the lock into place from the inside, he turned and headed back to the other end of the stable and began to open one of the two doors. "I suggest you roll yourself out of the main aisle before you get yourself trampled by hungry beasts."

Quickly doing so, Charles watched as three horses rushed in when there was enough clearance before Erik closed it most of the way.

All five of the equines nickered and neighed happily, as Erik shuffled them in to their stalls and proceeded to provide them food and water for the night. Charles paid them no mind when he saw the last in the line was a familiar chestnut. "Chanté!" he exclaimed, leaping up and attached himself to the chestnut's stall, feet planted on an over turned bucket to stand tall enough to reach out to pet the white stripe running down the gelding's face. This very horse he and his mother escaped—

Charles refused to finish that thought and ruin his moment. Instead he turned to the older man, swallowing back the lump in his throat and tickling heat swell in his lower eyelids. "You kept him?"

As he finished settling in the gentle creatures, Erik took hold of the lantern and turned to him. "Yes, why would I do otherwise?"

Charles shook his head when no reply came to bare.

"Come," Erik spoke after a moment. "You two can bond later."

He stepped down from the bucket prudently when Erik gracefully gestured him to come along as he moved to leave the stable. Charles quickly trotted after him, or at least, as quickly as his little injury would allow.

He was led to the cottage where the size of it could probably only ever house a small family with no more than one or two children comfortably. It was a simple layout, at least in what was visible in darkness, but it was very beautiful in its own simplicity. The external walls were stone with minor examples of masonry work that went into the design.

They entered through the back door where they stood in the small kitchen with only a few cabinets, a stove, a table in the center lightly cluttered with papers and manuscripts.

After lighting a few kerosene lamps, Erik proceeded to give Charles a brief orientation of the residence. The down stairs consisted of three rooms, the kitchen, the music room, 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 of the mantel of the hearth located on the outer wall of the room. A piano sat the corner with a violin and a few other instruments out on display. Sheet music and compositions 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 was dark red in color with mahogany bookshelves lining the walls and framing the two windows. The exposed selves were lovingly carved and a plush dark red carpet covered the floor.

The texts themselves were on a wide range of subjects: art, architecture, medical, 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 in certain regards since there were not as many books. The books were stories and poems from various parts of the world that Erik found most appealing, especially from the American author, Edger Allan Poe.

There was a bathroom complete with plumbing and hot water for a bath, if so desired, to the left of the stairs. Across the hall was two bedrooms, one of which door was locked shut and the other was open to a bedroom that was set up in haste, but had a bed with a chest for any keepsakes at the foot. A dresser was just to the right of the door and a closet to the left corner.

Later, after orientating Charles with the house and a rather light dinner, Erik sent Charles to bed without the assistance of a tranquilizer. It was not an easy task, but it was strictly necessary to prevent dependency and addiction. _That_ was subject much better left avoided.

Erik sat at a desk in his room with a dozen pages of charcoal sketches and half-written documents before him. 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 far along into her lessons.

"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."

He should not have let her go after that night, which bound them together for a lifetime with a precious child. If he had not placed that obituary in the newspaper...would she have come back with their son? Would she have stayed till their days ended together—her death would have been avoided.

Charles's first moments, spent in his arms. Lost were his first steps, the first words, laughs, 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 wasn't, and Charles called another man _father._

Words he'd 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 didn't earn it... No, he did not even deserve it. He wasn't there from that first minute onward. Raoul was and he earned that title.

Removing the white leather mask that only revealed his eyes and tucked under his jaw, 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 cruelly turned against him once more. It was not until several minutes later that he was able to compose himself, and reassume the mask again.

His eyes fell upon the ring he recovered at the de Chagny estate, before he took it up into his hand. The thick golden band was marked substantially in engravings. It was maze. Difficult to decipher. It was an unfortunate fact what made it worse for him. The markings were _familiar_, but for the life of him, he could not place it.

After focusing on it so heavily and thoughtfully, Erik came to realize the object 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, because 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, setting the candle on the top of the dresser. Erik went over to the boy's bedside, calling to him as he approached. "Charles," he called 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 grasping his shoulder and shaking him. "Wake up." But it was to no avail. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Erik firmly grasped the boys flaring arms and gave him a strong shake. "Charles!" Erik 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're safe."

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

"Breathe," Erik instructed hypnotically, loosening his hold on the boy. He drew away slightly, in belief that it would help the child relax with the distance. In spite of the gesture, Charles flung himself into Erik's arms and wept.

Stiffening when Charles wrapped his arms around him, Erik felt something spark in him that he never thought he would be able to possess. An instinct that long thought impossible to consider having, or capable of having. 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." The tea was what always held the tranquilizer, and Charles came to associate peace of mind with tea.

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

"_Please_," he pleaded.

"No," Erik said firmly with 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 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 when on to reply, "Sing. She would always sing to me until I fell asleep… I miss hearing her voice…"

Erik smiled briefly. 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 didn't say, Erik chose for him. He began to sing softly in a hypnotic voice_. _"_Hush, Little Angel, dry your tears_

_I will protect you, from the darkness you fear_

_Hear my voice, fear not of darkness…_"

Charles eyes widened slightly at the selection, but relaxed considerably from Erik's soothing voice lulled him into sound slumber throughout the remaining three verses.

By the time Erik finished the lullaby, Charles was limp in his arms, sound asleep with a look of peace on playing across his features. Gently, Erik laid the boy back down in bed and covered him with the blankets, after he untangled them, before he left him for the night.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _The lullaby is of my own creation, I only posted the first verse as reading lyrics can be strenuous when you have no music to go with it. Usually I like putting how exactly things are sung, especially in roleplays, but here, it seemed to take away from the moment between Charles and Erik. We all know Erik can sing, and we each have the ideal 'Erik Voice' in our head. I debated putting Ramin Karimloo's version of Lullaby(can be found on Youtube and my ideal Phantom Voice) as the song here, but it just wasn't fitting. I do hope you all are enjoying this so far._

_Oh! If you see silly spelling/wrong word mistakes-let me know? I know some have escaped my notice. Thanks!_


	4. An Uneasy Start

**Chapter 4 **

_**An Uneasy Start**_

Charles woke the following morning with the light from the adjacent window spraying in his face. Quickly rolling onto his front, he buried his face in to the pillow to hide from the garish rays of light. It was too bright to fast to wake in a descent mood.

The muscles of his body ached from the night before, from the tension of the terrors he experienced in his dreams. The memories of it began to flood back into his head as his mind became more aware. Hellish recollections of that _day_, that _moment_, haunting his dreams—until Erik came and saved him from it. The lullaby. He sang the lullaby that he 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…

Charles frowned at the thought as he slowly rolled out of bed and dressed. From there, he slipped out into the hall, glancing to 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, it was empty. The dishes in the kitchen from the night before were put away, and the curtains to the library still hung closed, and the violin in the music room vanished.

Peeking out the window in the music room, he looked out into the front of the property where the old trees with a thick trunks and a full canopy of leaves that hung from gnarled branches. They were spaced ten to fifteen feet apart and provided most of the yard with shade. A few very random spots possessed full sunlight, and in those spots, amidst the lush green grass, were patches of wild flowers blossoming in an array of colors ranging from blues to purples, pinks to reds, yellows to oranges. The gravel drive ran the length of the front property until it vanished into a forest thick. Parts of a fence appeared just beyond the tree line, wherever sunlight touched, running around the front before it vanished completely.

He sighed and looked away from the window, dark blue eyes landing on the well-maintained piano in the corner of the room with a polished black finish. His feet seemed to take him to it, and his hand drifted over the smooth wooden 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 at there, and the quiet note sounded softly so it barely made it out of the room.

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

It went against common inclination for pianists and composers alike. Most were right handed, thus played 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 flatten 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 he heard the back door open, he froze in position, listening. When the sound of quiet footsteps reached his ears, he quickly slid the piano lid down over the keys before he darted from the room. Quietly, 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.

By the look in his eyes and the purse of his lips, since he chose a mask that would reveal them that morning, 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 look.

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

Erik glanced at the adjacent room where he could have sworn he 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're getting senile."

In the kitchen, Charles slipped into his seat at the table and noticed the absence of paper clutter from the night before, only smooth, glossy surfaces laid before him. Trailing a finger over the surface of chocolate colored wood, he could not resist wondering just how are far he would slide after a running start in his newest pair of wool socks 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, 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, bacon..."

"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 leaving him with no say in the matter. His parents were firm practitioners of 'Eat what's 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 the enough for dessert, they would finish it their plate. If not, wait until the next meal. Lucky for Charles, that was not very often.

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

"Charles."

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 nod and 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_, 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 with a dollop of Grenache grape jam and a sprinkling of powdered sugar appeared before him. It looked better than even Armand's Restaurant presentation of the dish. His mouth watered from anticipation.

Like during his first meal 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 wasn't a religious man by any means beyond a muttering of the Lord's name in sotto voce to himself. That did not send him a stray from 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 cutting it up with a fork and knife into bitable pieces. He tried very hard to ignore that inkling feeling of Erik's eyes upon him. He knew he was because that was what Erik did. He sat that 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, 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 to the half-finished plate and looked to his guardian in a sudden loss of tolerating patience. "Must you do that?"

Erik jumped at the unexpected clang but recovered quickly as he acknowledged his son with an inquisitive look in his 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 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 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 awakened 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 four meals in your presence and 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 ten years a _long_ time. Even a few weeks is too long."

"I've not had the luxury, nor opportunity," Erik spoke with idle indifference.

"What about 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, it was not often. She detested my presence much of the time." 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 his self. "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 talking now."

"That's not..." Charles shook his head with a groan, and planted 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 even though 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.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _Forgive me for the shortness of the chapter, it was the best I could manage without basically combining two chapters into one. Erik _is _socially inept, and I think a lot of authors (Including myself at times) tends to forget that he doesn't understand social cues or contexts like the average person as Leroux indirectly described him._

_And, I have to give Kudos to Aero, a.k.a. Jade Lady for helping me find the right word to finish a sentence('Exhibit' since I drew a blank after I wrote 'new') and giving a fair opinion on both musical and conversational authenticity.  
_


	5. Let the Battle Begin

**Author's** **Note:** _I am very proud of the following Chapter, and several exploratory elements that lies within that stem from my observations of Erik's Character. It is Strictly my from my ten years observation of him, primarily between, Leroux, Kay, and ALW, and I would prefer that no one goes out and claims "I thought/did it first!" As of 6/23/12-as far as I know, this suspicion is not published in Any Phantom story, be it fanfiction, ebook, printed book, a show, movie -etc that I have touched/read/seen/heard. Granted, there's a lot of Fanfiction out there, but one can't read them all!_

_Being it would be historically inaccurate, I can't give the condition's name, as it wasn't named yet in this time period. It is widely known now, and symbolized by a puzzle piece. If you figure it out, kudos to you. And just know, it's more minor variant than the more apparent ones most are familiar with, because Erik IS functional.  
_

_And to the Kay fans-Yes, I tweaked a detail of Erik's past with his mother(And his age, but that's later)-only to add plausibility to the Leroux habit in Chapter 4. I'll shut up now-  
_

**_Enjoy!_**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

_**Let the Battle Begin**_

The backyard 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. Duchess, Ebony, old César, and Chanté, wandered about freely throughout his property along with the gelding that were merely there for convalescent purposes. He would be grateful when the owner returned to reclaim him. Three horses were enough to tend to daily, the added fourth and fifth were a handful, and he could not give away Chanté, not when Christine rode him last with Charles who had an attachment to him.

Selling was a prospect. Either Duchess or Ebony... he already promised César that his days would end with him. At age sixteen, the Lipizzaner he long ago stole from the opera was still rather spry, trustworthy, and carried Christine upon his back years ago.

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 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 where the horses would often go to cool off or get a drink. It was a short distance away from his home, ideal for a moment alone without leaving house and stable completely out of sight.

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 watching him with interest in his activities only a dog could muster.

Needless to say, 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 with a cut of meat that often came minimally cooked to the point of whatever unfortunate creature it 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, whatever he cooked, he painstakingly made sure it 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 gypsy keepers in youth, dined regularly with Giovanni in Italy when the old man welcomed him into 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. With the exception of 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 water's edge, where he slipped off his side and began strolling along the grassy bank. The creek was approximately seventeen feet wide and six feet deep. It fed into the Seine from a fresh water 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 when work schedules permitted it.

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

Charles wanted normalcy. Perhaps he even craved it. Not that he could blame 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 the all too brief life with Giovanni. He could not carry on a simple _normal_ conversation at the table with his son! A child that might as well be a stranger he passed on the street. The boy he didn't know because of the cruel fate in 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 weighing down his soul with the weight of a full harvest moon large and low in the sky.

"You shouldn't have left him with me!" he suddenly screamed with 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 nod and dropped his head, trying to reign in his emotions. "You should have left him with the Girys, his aunts, not me...never me. I was never meant to be a father."

His 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 lavender perfume.

"_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 are he tried to stop it the few times he was conscious of it. Stress 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, 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 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. "I will only hurt him as I have done with all that I love."

'_He is strong.'_

Erik shook his head again, and the voice never spoke no further.

* * *

Erik sat in the shadow of the juniper tree, resting against its trunk with the sleeves of his navy blue shirt rolled up past his elbows and the first three buttons of the collar were unfastened. 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 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, peaceful quiet, until a stick snapped.

Sound and reality rushed back in a storm in which 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 and the birds and leaves singing in the trees. 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, but sweet smells of grass, flowers, and tree sap mixed with the bitter scent of fresh horse excrement baking in the sun somewhere not too far away assaulted his nose. 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 Chanté'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 at moment later, slowly opening his eyes, prepared to see and feel again. He ran a long fingered hand over his toupee in a slow stroke. "No... It's not...you." His hand reached the back of his head where it stopped. He floated it out from his skull an inch, 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's 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?" He looked up and over to the boy as Chanté gave a bored stomp of his front right hoof. The subsequent swish of his tail to ward away pesky flies sounded like a wet bristled hard brush performing a single pass over filthy tiles.

"I was looking for you," began Charles in earnest. "You've been gone for two hours."

"Have I now?" the reply was light and idle 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 discover it was thirty minutes before midday. "Oh...I suppose it has," his tone never changed.

Charles picked his right leg up and swung it over the equines neck to slide off Chanté's left flank, closest to Erik. The motion was graceful enough for Erik to find 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 be your undoing," came the retort while Erik set his eyes back to 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 and 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 watches 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 sauntered off to the grassy shore along the creek, kicked off his shoes, and tugged off his socks.

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 loud splash accompanied by a spray of water forced Erik from his thoughts. He looked up to find Charles's shoes, socks, and shirt on the shore, with the boy in question in the center of the creek, treading water easily to stay afloat. The older man uttered a discontented sound in the back of his throat at the current situation. At least he could swim. "Get out of the water."

Charles shook his head with a troublesome grin. "No," he intoned sweetly.

"Charles, get out of the water, _now_," his thin patience draining.

"Umm... No."

Erik snapped the watch shut faster than a blink, eyes now ablaze. "Why must you make things difficult?"

Charles shrugged. "Because you didn't say please."

For the first time, Erik had to remind himself that this insolent child was in fact as his own offspring, to prevent himself from wringing this boy's little neck for his impertinence. "It was not a request."

"Then what was it?"

Using a low smooth timbre in his tone as a prerequisite to hypnotism and subtle warning, Erik said, "It was an instruction."

"Same thing," he protested with a glance and a splash of water, breaking any connection necessary to proceed with plan A.

Perhaps Charles already knew to be mindful of his voice and eyes by forewarning of the Madame. As annoying as it was, Erik was grateful, as his son would not become a victim of a few well-practiced tricks. If he ever failed to trick him after issuing more effort than he used now, no one would have a chance. "No," he replied gently with a pause. "It is not."

"To you."

"To a dictionary."

"I'm not coming out; you'll have to make me."

Erik rose to his feet in a smooth motion that should have been difficult for his age. "That can be arranged." Pity he lacked his lasso in that moment...or a general lead rope on a horse. Charles did not even put Chanté's bridle on him.

With his pocket watch and glasses set aside, Erik made his way to the water's edge. As he waded in to his knees, a grin broke out on Charles's face, and that was he knew a game was afoot.

Charles began treading back away from him, his mischievous grin widening as soon as Erik lurched forward to swim after the water reached his thighs. The boy knew he did not have much of a chance to out-swim an adult, but he did have a plan of defense.

As Erik neared in silence with exception to the little ripples lapping against neck since his limbs remained submersed, Charles prepared to initiate his plan. Then when he came within a meter, Charles popped the fingers of his left hand above the water in a curved arc, and pushed his hand forward, catching water in his palm with enough speed it curved with his hand into a concentrated splash towards Erik's eyes.

Erik froze mid-stroke to wipe the water from his face and the eyeholes of his mask. "I see..." he began before his drew his hand from his mask, lifting an eyebrow beneath it. "It is like that then."

Torn between continued grinning and retreating, Charles nodded and turned his side to his guardian in preparation to sidestroke into freestyle swim away from Erik with a scissor kick of his legs. In turn, Erik vanished beneath the surface.

Charles took his cue to attempt an escape. He made his turn to his front, began bringing his arm around for his first stroke, until he suddenly felt a bony hand clamp down on his ankle, and yank him under.

The intent was not to drown, merely make a point that this game would not work in the boy's favor in the foreseeable future. Kicking, thrashing, with general struggling did not free Charles from Erik's vise grip. Instead, it forced the man to draw him into a bear hug. After fifteen seconds under water, Erik pushed off the waterbed, thrusting their heads back above the surface.

Charles gasped for air and continued squirming while Erik moved them towards the shore. The older man snickered a little at the boy's strained '_Errs!' _while he seemed to call upon every muscle in his little frame trying to break the hold.

"No fair!" said the boy between pants of breath.

"Life isn't fair."

At this point, Charles twisted around in his guardian's grip enough to notice the black toupee looking much like a wet rat hanging off the side of Erik's head. Without a thought, Charles snatched it and flung it towards deeper water.

Erik froze mid step, water at his knees, he glared at the boy grinning stupidly in his arms.

"Are you going to get it or you going to let a bird make it a nest?"

_He did not take the mask, he did not take the mask,_ Erik thought repeatedly, and issued a small growl at the boy's taunt. To the lad's credit there was nothing misshapen about the back of his head, only what thin bits of uneven white hair he just kept trimmed enough to hide beneath his wig, now floating downstream...

With a snarl of disgust from the boy discovering a bit of _leverage, _Erik tossed the child into deeper water. Upon hearing laughter stemming from the two-second flight with the subsequent splash, Erik dove back into the water and moved into an easy front crawl towards the floating hair. He retrieved it less than a minute later where he turned to Charles, who followed him downstream, and splashed him the face.

The laughter was musical, and nearly brought a smile to Erik's lips, at least until the boy splashed him. It lacked the precise aim from the one that started these misbehaviors a few minutes prior. However, this time, Erik decided on an alternate form of relation: the taste of one's own medicine.

Erik clapped his arms together just at the surface sending a wave of water into the boy's face. From there, an all out water war of splashing, sloshing, and laughter broke out. Though only one individual truly laughed, the other permitted himself a genuine smile, a smile born of the first time playing some silly game with someone else who enjoyed it.

The play continued for several minutes until the wig slipped from Erik's fingers in a splash, and landed right on Charles's face.

Humiliation for the mishap never had a chance to fester within him as Charles clamped his hands over it and his face with a comically dramatic scream. "Ahh! It's trying to eat me!" he thrashed his legs about wildly. His small biceps flexed and fingers tense as he 'struggled' with the toupee. When he managed to pull the terror of the wig away from his face, his arms shook in such a way that Erik almost wondered if the hair was in fact, alive, and trying to latch onto his son's face again.

Which it did, and Charles fell back into the water with a loud splash as if to show the force of it. Only then, did a warm chuckle emanate from his larynx. After a minute of Charles's play with his doubtlessly ruined wig, Erik shook his head to himself, snatched Charles's arm, and pulled him from the water. "Come along little Chagny, I think we've had quite enough."

Charles didn't resist, trying to straighten out the hair while following Erik's guiding hand before handing it to him.

Erik took it with a little sigh as they stepped onto dry land, one could not even begin to differentiate what was right side up with it anymore. Therefore, instead of trying to devise a way to restore it, he plopped it on top of Charles's head. "I think it will make a fine nest there, don't you?" he inquired as he stepped over to collect his watch and glasses, loathing the feeling of wet clothes clinging to his wiry frame.

Charles snatched the soaked wig from his head, "Ha, ha, real funny."


	6. The Assassin

**Chapter 6**

_**The Assassin**_

Laszio Pascual took up his usual seat at the table ideally located between the bar and the wall beneath the second floor balcony. No one really favored this particular table. Two out of four legs were shorter than the other pair, and on opposing sides, making it a rickety old thing that sometimes sent a pint of ale sliding to the floor. Usually its drunken keeper helped it along by falling sleep on the wrong side.

On some infrequent occasions, that pint of ale ended up in its owner's lap. The comical semi-intoxicated humiliation that followed a round of hearty laughter and unsavory hollers, always left Laszio grinning.

Ode to the taverns of witless men, cheap booze, and...

A delectable girl with too much kohl around her eyes and rouge on her pouty lips walked pass, clad in a thin worn chemise, a tight black corset, and a saucy orange skirt.

...scantily clad women...

Laszio shook his head to himself to snap from his momentary distraction and ignore the fact she planted herself in the lap of a toothless old coot with a big bushy moustache who was old enough to be her grandfather.

Apparently, such things were not restricted to the West. No, in this part of the world, a higher class of clientele wandered in, a Baron here, a Vicomte there...nobody cared. Not as long as they drank, shared good humor, and paid up on some shoddy bet.

Laszio was not here to observe them. No, his attention was on two men up stairs in a bedroom—not with a woman. Business talks most likely, but getting pass the two brutes watching the bottom of the stairs would be more trouble than it was worth. Not to mention it would alert the two individuals to unfortunate circumstances better left avoided.

The first of the two men was little more than a nameless mystery, a low-level aristocrat perhaps working his way up through the ranks with the aid of a notorious secret society to which his own warred against for over eight hundred years. Of this, Laszio could not be certain since he only had a few not very reliable rumors to work with. He did not have the contacts in France as he did in Italy, Spain, or even Germany. France was only a country he passed through often and harbored only a few friends and associates that he _knew_. One such friend introduced him to an eccentric man out in the country they called Monsieur E, or just Eerie for kicks, who rehabilitated or just generally tended to tired horses.

The second man, known as the Spaniard, was little more than a man for hire to take care of the Aristocrat's dirty work amongst others, and received quite a sum in doing so. The Spaniard, otherwise known as Tavares to a few small circles, was more of a high-level investigator/enforcer than an assassin, though many would not share in that sentiment.

Not that he could blame them, fate and death prevented them from crossing a real assassin—not the hashish smokers either. Well that was how it started out... before Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad revolutionized the _Creed_, so legend said anyway. Who knew how broken things became as the legend was passed down word of mouth for generations.

Tavares was a wanted man to the global underground, and Laszio had a personal vendetta against him for killing his uncle Juaquin in Madrid three years ago. He had been in the house that night, visiting his family after a long trip in from New Mexico. The discovery that morning sent chill down Laszio's spine.

Granted, Juaquin was a threat in the underground, but killing a man in his sleep had no honor. If he died in combat, Laszio would have let the incident go. But that was not the case. How very unfortunate for the Spaniard...

The tavern was quiet for the moment, but there little guarantee that would last for any length. Laszio sipped his ale and let the alcohol slide down his throat in a slow burn as he made a game of observing the other patrons. It was more to keep his mind off the sly scumbag that was the Spaniard.

The old coot's face the next table over, was turning a bright shade of red when the girl wiggled in his lap. Maybe he would just keel over and die of an overworked heart. It would serve him right for thinking so impurely of a girl that young, even if she were just in her mid-twenties.

Laszio shifted his gaze away once more, and noticed he drew the attention of many near him. His bronzed complexion was not like that of the French and European natives who seemed to hide from the sun. Sure, in England, rain or fog claimed the moors more than sunlight ever did, but here in France, sunlight never hid behind thick blanketing clouds for any length. After all, they had their fine wines that needed sunlight to ripen prevalent vines.

His head was shaved bald with three gold rings in his left ear, two his right. For this part of Paris, his choice of garments was strange; many thought it was a cross between Russian and Middle Eastern styles. He wore dark trousers with knee high boots, and a long reddish brown tunic style jacket that fell to his knees with gray trim and black leather belt over a scarlet red sash binding it together. It was a snug fit, forming to muscular arms, but flexible in such a way it did not hinder his movements in the least. The linen even managed to keep him cool, although heat did not bother him.

Yes, he stood out here, but only in some parts. Emigration between countries of the world was in full swing, and behind the Americas, the European countries were among the must-go places for work. Since the Franco-Prussian war in 1870-71 and the commune that followed, the French were not producing as many children as other nations. In turn, they began working out agreements with Italy, Poland, and Belgium for workers to fill in the empty slots that otherwise would have been performed by the men who died in battle. Many young wives were left windowed and unwanted since they were 'soiled'. That alone would lose three generations, the fathers and the children they might have fathered, then their children.

A shame really.

Laszio was not particularly tall. Instead, he stood shorter than the average, a whole head shorter in some cases. However, what he lacked in height, he gained in his solid build. Small enough to out maneuver a typical man, strong enough to take down a brute with the proper application of physics.

A screech upstairs caused Laszio and everyone else to jump a little in their chairs and looked up to the balcony. There, one of four doors swung open with angry petite voice yelling at some stupid fool before he went flying through the air from above, and landed on the old coot's table. The girl screamed and scrambled away like frantic little chit who lost her way for the moment.

He felt a wave of homesickness.

The fool who took the fall barely had a moment to secure his trousers and shout obscenities at the girl who threw him before the coot began kicking him the gut. Apparently, the fool had at least one friend who punched the coot in the nose, sending him into a table of three. Things spiraled out of control from there since the table of three had their gambling and drinking ruined, which interrupted others, and the insuring brawl began.

Just like home.

Laszio cracked his knuckles and then craned his head to either side to crack his neck as well, time to blend in by playing.

* * *

Tavares, the Spaniard fought the headache threatening to grow behind his eyes. His employer spurred too many of those as of late, this de Chagny business was not helping. Over the past hour, he went on explaining how the Comtess Christine knew the Girys through her time at the Paris Opera. There she had been a chorus girl branching forward towards stardom a little over a decade ago. It while she was there, she met the man who later became her husband.

A trip Library-Museum of the Opera brought wondrous finds in the form of old newspapers, incident reports, ledgers—everything. There he discovered strange occurrences and scandal that surrounded the young woman. The year 1896 was the strangest of years, the death of the stagehand in the third cellar, falling counterweights, the strange guest at the welcoming dinner for the then new managers, Christine replacing la Carlotta at the gala opening the season, more interestingly, the rumors around her random disappearances.

Staff records showed the then Ballet Mistress Madame Giry being sacked for withholding information, blasphemy, and theft. Yet when her replacement watched a performance on the evening of May 20, 1896, the same night Carlotta croaked, a counterweight fell from the chandelier and killed the new ballet mistress. With that, Madame Giry had her job reinstated while the accident. Later still, the Comte Philippe de Chagny found dead along the shore of the subterranean lake after the disappearance of Christine _and_ Raoul. Those 'happenings' among many others, was blamed on one person—or Ghost rather.

"You're saying that this man we are looking for is this ...Opera Ghost?" Tavares's employer exclaimed.

The Spaniard gave a single nod.

"Blasphemy!"

"It explains the man," Tavares reiterated. "It explains the aura he carries. From what I've glimpsed of him, he walks like the dead, a silent stalker ready for a kill."

"That is a story, a lie, a tall-tale those two fools used to fill the house every night. I remember those incidents. Those were only ever printed in the tabloids, nowhere else. What you found in that library is only to keep that myth going."

Tavares shook his head. "You hired me to do a job, and everything is pointing to Giry as being a key. The Comtess had few friends outside of them. Even if I am wrong, that man should reappear, with the boy, to Giry."

"That boy knows too much, he will ruin us."

"No one has stormed through our doors yet."

"'Yet' being the operative word."

"Trust me," the Spaniard sighed. "I've been at this long enough. We watch the Madame, and do not interact with her or her little daughter. Not me, not your men, we wait until he comes back. We do not—" a screech in the room next door interrupted him, before the sounds of a whore probably sending the client over the rail.

"—We do not engage her," Tavares said in a lower tone, eyeing his boss and not trusting him in the least.

"Very well."

_Why do I not believe you? _Tavares did not comment on the thought, only dipped his head. He pushed the fine line enough as it was; he needn't test his luck any further. "I've been here long enough. I recommend you stay back for a bit, so I am followed instead of you."

* * *

Laszio gritted his teeth when a larger man wrapped his arms around his waist, threatening to squeeze the air _and_ the life out of him. He constantly had to remind himself not to unleash his talents upon those who lacked his superior combat skills. It would not have been fair in the least. Besides, with targets so close, he could not alert them to his presence yet. He needed to discover what they were up to first and who would inevitably succeed them in the end.

As Tavares appeared at top of the second floor balcony, Laszio put his weight back into the man holding him as he lifted both legs and pushed off another man whose back was turned. The result sent Laszio, his captor, and the other man to the ground. This successfully broke the hold on his midsection, permitting him to take in a deep, much needed breath.

Rolling to the side as if thoroughly winded, Laszio drew his knees up to his chest to protect his stomach while watching the Spaniard descended the stairs and artfully picked his way through the brawling crowd. A side step left followed by a perfectly timed duck beneath a stray fist, and a full three hundred sixty degree turning step forward with an artful middle and forefinger jab into the jugular of an imbecile who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The poor victim clutched his throat as he fell to his knees gasping.

Laszio gave a cry of pain when someone connected a very pointy edged shoe or boot to his kidney, sending a lightning tree of pain up his back. Those always hurt...

Rolling to a prostrate position on his hands and knees, Laszio looked under his armpit back toward his target before he swung a leg around in a hook toe that dropped the kicker onto his former captor in sweet revenge.

By the time he looked back to the Spaniard, the man vanished through the door leading onto the street. Mindful that eyes were likely watching for the well coordinated, Laszio climbed to his feet and wove through the crowd in gentle nudges and an added stumble to his gait every few steps.

Once fresh air traveled up his nostrils, he cast a glance around his immediate vicinity outside, only to a few people going about their business and the Spaniard gone.

_Just my luck..._ Laszio thought with a groan. With a glance up and down the street, he set off northward, hoping to rediscover a bit of good fortune.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _I do hope you all enjoyed the new Character!__ I do promise Erik and Charles will be in the next Chapter. And thank you all for the high praise of the Wig segment in the last Chapter, I just couldn't resist it! You all have made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! Thank you again!_


	7. Haunting Memories

**Chapter 7**

_**Haunting Memories**_

It was a very long week later when Erik came to the slow and albeit, prudent realization that young Charles had become more comfortable around him, and the new environment. How did Erik know this? Because various items either moved or disappeared. Luckily, things moved more often than vanished, and in spite of 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 specific place, the old man will notice and put it back.

Heavens, this child was a spitting little mirror of him in adolescent misdeeds and genius. This forced him open the box of tricks he long ago locked away in a dark corner of his mind, and spur the old clever magician musician 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 was 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, tending to the convalescent gelding's foreleg for instance, Charles was right there, peering over his shoulder, 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 as a child and other parts of his younger years. Only Charles did not have to deal with discrimination of being different.

Through it all, the only thing that kept Erik from losing his usually volatile temper was those wide dark blue eyes filled with curiosity. Christine's eyes. It made a part of his heart melt at the endearing sight every time. At times, it seemed that those eyes would not be enough to sate Erik's temper.

The day thus far was plagued by constant, pouring rain, keeping Charles trapped indoors away from nature and the horses. Erik took the opportunity to retreat to his library upstairs, where the boy eventually followed, again. At least Charles was silent for the moment, sitting by the window with a forlorn expression.

For once, Erik had his peace with a classic book called _Study in Scarlet_ by Doyle that told of beginnings of Sherlock Holmes. A notable fiction designed to enthrall its reader into suspenseful mystery. Enjoying it proved far more difficult than he preferred. The nagging little voice in his head was not helping his cause in the least. He suddenly snapped the book closed with an irritated expression, causing Charles to jump in a start as the noise cut through the silence like shattering glass in a vast empty corridor.

Charles spun around to look at the older man in confusion.

"Something is bothering you because you are silent, which is something you are not known for," Erik said with his irritation showing only through his voice.

"It's….it's nothing…" Charles stuttered.

Erik's eyes lit in a way that the boy knew that his answer was not good enough. There was no use in denying that the older man could show more expression with his eyes and body language most anyone else.

"How did you know the song? The lullaby I mean."

Erik's gaze went blank. "Pardon?"

"The lullaby, that you sang my first night," Charles slowly explained. "I thought only mom and I knew it."

Softening slightly, Erik gave a nod. "She knew it because I sang it to her," he went on to elucidate. "I wrote it because she had troubles sleeping as do you. Though, I believe you have more far reason to have nightmares."

Charles uncomfortably turned away from him.

"Just remember, at some point, you will need to tell me what happened there."

"I...I don't want to remember Monsieur..." he whispered.

Erik looked down and away from the boy, unsure how to proceed...how to convince him that telling what happened would help bring the de Chagny's murders to justice. 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, with the gypsies. How things could have gone so differently.

Even with Giovanni.

Rising from his chair, Erik made his way to kneel beside him by the window. With reluctance born out of a lifetime of horrific experience, he reached up to touch the boy's shoulder with his fingertips.

When Charles turned to him in a flash of motion, Erik jerked his hand away as if his fingers touched a hot wrought iron skillet. "Perhaps, perhaps I should tell you a story..." he pursed his lips into a thin line. "But it must remain between us, do you understand?"

A frown stretched across Charles's lips while he watched Erik's withdrawn hand in the corner of his eyes, never the less, he nodded, setting his gaze on the masked man before him.

"When I was your age, I had no one. No one who cared, no one who loved me, and because of it, a very cruel man exploited me. He did things, and tried to do things to me that I wish I could forget." Images of Javert's beatings flashed through Erik's mind. Wicked scars on his body recalled stings of the cattle whip slicing through his flesh with whatever else he managed to beat him with.

"What things?"

Erik closed his eyes, trying to block out the memory of Javert putting his filthy hands on his body, cupping him between his legs. How wrong it was on so many levels, how foolish of a child he was to believe sexual assault affected only women, or even just between male and female. No, in that, genders and age knew no bounds.

"He beat me daily for being, different. He, had an affinity for little boys, tried to do things to me that no _child_ should experience."

Charles's small faced crinkled in his confusion at his guardian's words, struggling to comprehend their meaning. Living a life as a young Vicomte protected him from many things, including the realities of the lower classes.

"I've never forgotten what happened then Charles. I wish I did. I wish could forget many things. You will never forget what happened to them, no matter how much you want to. What you can do, is search for closure. 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 and find whoever harmed your family."

Fear and pain shone in his son's eyes, giving Erik only a mere hint of what must be ranging 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 and leaned against the wall by the window. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I wish I knew of more ways to help you. But I don't."

"What if they kill you too?" Charles asked, voice small and young, wrought with fear. "What happens to me then? I go to papa's sisters? The Giry's?"

"They won't kill me Charles."

"How, can you be sure? You're of flesh and blood just like mother and father, and they're dead! They can kill you too, they will kill my aunts, the Giry's, everyone!" Tears stained his cheeks now, his chest heaving with ragged breathes he sucked into his lungs between sobs.

Erik straightened immediately, turning to Charles with concern widening his eyes beneath the mask. "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 to the afterlife, 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."

In the midst of Erik's vow to his dear child, the boy reigned in his cries and drew himself up 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 windowpane in rapid succession. Even that sounded far away, though it sat just to Erik's right.

Charles drew in a breath to bring forth words, then the library lit up in 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 towards the outdoors where reality of nature came back to them. Rain fell in torrent, 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 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 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 down stairs to the music room and set him at the piano. "Sit, play."

Charles sank to 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!" Erik spoke rapidly. "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, 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!"

He did, oh sweet heavens he did. Erik closed his eyes and let that intoxicating feeling devour him and ripple his skin with gooseflesh—that happened whenever he gave into the music.

Charles beat at the keys, playing what nature inspired in him. The pain, the fear, and sadness that the poured into the music. Releasing the pent up emotion, letting flow through the outlet that no other could provide. Erik felt what the boy felt. Whenever a musician free-played while venting their trouble, the music that came forth told much of what said musician released.

Young Charles was a musician, of that, he was certain.

The boy's tortured mind fell into the blur of memories of _that _day. The group of men forcing their way into the chateau, shooting first the butler, then one of the maids the moment she screamed at the sight of her husband falling dead. Yes, he saw it happen from the top of the stairs where he sat in paralyzed fear until his father snatched him up by the arm and pulled him to the safety of the hall as another gunshot went off.

_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 Niles the butler walking to in his usual austere gait to the door. As he flipped the locks and opened the ornate wood door, the person on the other side kicked it open; sending Niles reeling and a deafening gunshot sent him to the floor, a smoking whole in his chest. _

_Fear reached 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 men's to her. With another report from the gun, she fell silent as the wound forced her down the same path her husband just took to the afterlife._

_He could not move. This could not be happening. It was surreal and he felt like all function and sense of self abandoned him while fear tightened its wretched clutch on him._

_These men, he could not count them, not now with his heart beating against his ribcage, made their way in, and looked up at him._

_Dad 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 the silent urge to further retreat. One of the men ascended the stairs two at a time, closing in on them fast. "_Dad..!_" _

_Raoul shook his head to himself, as if he was trying to clear away the jumble of thoughts. Charles put his weight into the next tug at his arm, lurching his father forward a few steps to keep his balance._

"_Dad! We have to go!" Charles begged him just as the first man turned to the corner._

_A filthy smile spread across filthy greenish black teeth when he caught sight of his target, but that smile did last as yet 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 Christine standing there, holding what must have been father's pistol out before her. _

_The brief reprieve brought a flood of relief into Charles's veins from mother's 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 in a mildly shaky voice. _

_The closest of the pair, a tall oafish man let out a booming laugh. "Think you can get us all before we get 'em, _Comtess_." The brute gave a nod to Charles and Raoul, who managed to straighten himself out, but remained still since he and he boy were in the crossfire. _

_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 while the older man cleared his throat while looking towards Christine, The standoff would not work favorably._

_She looked over to see father shake his head slowly and she put down the gun. Once she straightened up, she issued a startled cry with a flash of pain to his temple, then darkness._

In the music room, Charles struck a final jarring chord without conscious thought just before he fell backwards, off the bench.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _What can I say? Christine needed her, "You go girl!" moment. Who am I to deny her? And for anyone who cares, there's a full size version of this story's Cover on Deviant Art. A link(well, you'll need to copy paste) to my Deviant Profile is in my Profile.  
_


	8. Stars Were Shining

**Author's** **Note:** _Forgive me reader, it has been a month since my last confession-erm-post. :-P Forgive the long wait, I had an insane work schedule that took a bit to recover from, coupled with a personal life, an then a malfunctioning computer for the last two weeks(this one that I do 95% of my writing on) that needed to have it's hard drive wiped and everything -installations has been a nightmare... to the point I had to take it in because somethings went beyond even my computer skills. _

_Alas...it's back to normal. Most importantly, I have all my writing and artwork still. _**  
**

_The song in this Chapter is called E Lucevan le Stelle (or Stars Were Shining in literal translation) from the Puccini Opera, Tosca. I truly suggest looking it up, it's on Wikipedia with three versions of the lyrics, one in Italian, the other two in English. To listen, it's on Youtube, I personally recommend Peter Hofmann's(former German Phantom Btw!) rendition, primarily because he Is a Heldentenor, same as my Erik. Jonus Kaufmann has another excellent rendition. I even suggest listening to it while reading the second section here-you'll understand it better. I spent at least two hours with Hofmann singing it to me as I wrote the core of that section...so yeah...  
_

_I'll shut up now! Enjoy!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**_Stars Were Shining_**

Charles landed safely in Erik's arms after he fell backward. 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 a 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 wary sigh and rose to his feet. In two steps, he reached the sofa not far from the piano and laid the boy down, through 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 cooled air through the opened windows.

Erik glanced at the windows and withdrew his hand from the boy, and instead pressed 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 with the aid of glass and wood.

* * *

_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 conscious 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 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, on the sofa of the music room with a hot but dying fire in hearth and crocheted afghan drawn over his body from toes to neck. Candles flickered throughout the room, casting light in otherwise darkened corners. The flash of light throughout the room from the double windows behind hinted at the presence storms still lingering, but the absence of thunder said it was far off.

He looked to the piano where Erik sat in his shirtsleeves tinkering away at 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 like describing as rolling climb where the notes played fell back into reverse: one two three four five four three two one, one then 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 about his ears and head.

What came next surprised him, but Charles dared not move.

"_E lucevan le stelle..._" sang Erik, his voice quiet 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 his guardian tongue like a dignified purr, though sad all the same."_Stridea l'uscio dell'orto..._" Charles felt 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? 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_," he held the first note was particularly quiet and 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 need to be been 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 didn't particularly 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 apparent restrain. "_E muoio disperato,_" There was power to be taken here, in these final lines; he felt it, though neither voice or 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,_" to spite the realization, he 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 about in his seat, eyes, head, and then body until he sat almost full faced to Charles. After a few seconds passing 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. "Because I did not wish to wake you. 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 the music room.

"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 be lost within your own mind, I assume your memories. As you finished, you promptly fainted, collapsed...what have you, and 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 two weeks I have known you, you have been quite pale. Stress isn't very good for your health you know. Gradually, you have been growing lighter and lighter shades. Tonight, you skipped a few shades...which have 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 the funeral."

Charles scrunched his face again. "You took the special the tea away."

"In interest of prolonging your good health."

"But you said I'm getting sick."

"Because you haven't slept and very stressed."

"Because you took the tea away!"

"I hardly see your point."

A sigh of aggravation 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 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 turned away with intent to leave with that.

"What? Wait!" Erik was already gone by the time Charles managed to get the words out of his mouth. Forgetting the blanket settled over him, the boy leapt from the couch to his feet. However, when he moved to take his first big step to catch up, he fell forward and caught himself on the arm of the sofa in his panicked effort to catch himself. Thankfully, he succeeded and started to draw his feet out from the entanglement of the afghan and dashed after Erik. "Wait! Erik!"

He found the older man in the kitchen, ladling a broth based soup with chucks of vegetables and meat into a bowl.

"What did you mean?"

"Pardon?" Erik asked 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 talk to me," 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 couldn't hurt. At least not now, in small...pieces. Or maybe he just wanted to prove Erik wrong. Somehow, that in itself felt like a conquering achievement. He remained well 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 tired to resist this battle.

And so, Charles began the tale that started by 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– seven? 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, and Erik seemed, annoyed by that fact, but he never remarked upon it.

At the mention of mother using 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."

* * *

The trip deep into the French countryside was no easy matter. It was a hike, a four-hour one at that. Cutting the time down would be simple enough if he jogged or even had a horse. However, he was not in the mood for enlisting aide for transportation on his way to pick up his horse, Rio. Regardless, the man keeping his horse was a notable recluse, a paranoid one at that. Laszio couldn't complain though. The man knew his stuff, that fact was impossible to deny. That coupled with fair prices, well, the hike was worth it.

He turned onto the narrow lane that wove between old trees that aged well into their hundreds from the thickness of their trunks. Instead of the dirt-gravel roads he spent the better part of his day traversing, the lane mulched with trampled old leaves and sticks. It was only just wide enough to take a cart, which hadn't been through in a while since the wheel scars looked like they were healing up nicely.

In little time and careful steps pass mud puddles and fallen branches from the storms the night before, Laszio reached the gate to Monsieur E's property and vaulted over it rather than participate in conventional methods of entry. After a glancing around his surroundings, Laszio proceeded onward to the cozy little house on a narrow path through tall grasses reaching just past knees.

As he neared the house and the small barn, he saw the five equines wandering about the enclosed property, three he knew to be Monsieur E's, and Rio, his piebald paint of black with patches and shocks of white on his back, neck, mane and tail. However, the chestnut thoroughbred of fine breeding was a new face. Idle thought brought a curious mind as only something to occupy his thoughts as he made his way over towards the buildings.

"Monsieur?" he called out, hoping the man was somewhere nearby outside. He paused on the path that forked between house and stable, looking any sign of the masked man. "Monsieur E?"

"In the stable, Mister Pascual," came Monsieur E's voice in English from the aforementioned location.

Laszio turned on his heel and stepped into the small barn to see him standing at a worktable, wrapping herbs and vials into a burlap satchel. "I was beginning to wonder if you would appear."

"Oh? Well, it is a _long _hike from Paris."

Monsieur E inclined his head in a slight acknowledgement as he finished putting items in the burlap and handed it towards Laszio. "Rio should be fine. For every three days of hard riding, give him a day of light work if not off entirely, otherwise you risk another flare up and lameness. The herbs in this will help any inflammation. Just mix a little into his food and it should correct the problem within a day or two."

Laszio nodded while slinging the satchel over his shoulder. "I'd like see him and make sure he's sound before payment."

"By all means," Monsieur E said with a dismissive wave to the outdoors. "However, the price has changed, _Ḥashshāshīn._"

Laszio froze mid-turn to the outdoors, and turned his gaze back the masked man, who was smirking a little.

"Oh yes, I know your little secret."

"How?"

"I make it a habit of knowing who I do business with. You walk like a stalker and you favor delta shapes with a bowed bottom, the mark of your sect, is it not?"

"If you know so much about it, then you should know calling me _Ḥashshāshīn _is an insult."

Monsieur E batted the remark away with an idle wave of his hand, intermingled with impatience. "Consider it a test of sorts, to ensure you are as you appeared. Regardless, while I once held a considerable amount of knowledge in the underworld of global affairs, such things have fled my interest in the last seven years. Thus, what I know has considerably decreased in that time." He paused then, walking across the aisle towards the empty stalls, head tilted in such a way that Laszio often read it as someone whose mind traveled faster than vocal chords. The sudden pace was more of a way to expel energy from whatever he was thinking than an actual show of nerves.

"Matters have... risen as of late, which has come to my attention. Due to certain circumstances, I am unable to look into them myself. The Chevalier's spoke highly of your investigative skills before they left the country."

Ah, so it was the Chevaliers who enlightened Monsieur Eerie to their occupation. Adrian was an Assassin too, and his wife Jasmine the daughter of one. They were his good friends, Adrian often a partner of sorts whenever Laszio came into France. Unfortunately, due to Adrian's rising notoriety, they had to leave or risk the safety of their little family.

"Which means, you want me to look into said matters for you?" Laszio asked, crossing his arms over his chest and moving his feet shoulder length apart.

"Precisely."

"Am I to kill a target?"

"No!" the masked man said quickly and then seemed to realize himself. He took a deep breath and proceeded to smooth out invisible wrinkles on his blue silk vest. "No," he reiterated in a calmer tone. "At least not yet– if you discover who is behind this matter, I want to meet them…"

Laszio could not begin to describe the way Monsieur E spoke the last sentence that sat some between a dark purr and a malicious growl. All he knew for certain was that chills tingled down his spine and forced an involuntary to shake his body for only a moment. They didn't nickname him Eerie for nothing.

"I see…" Laszio offered with a level of composer. "What am I to look into for you?"

"The de Chagny murders."


	9. Tantrums

**_Author's Note:_**I apologize for the delay...parts of this were very difficult to write out. While I had the idea of the scene in mind, certain elements had a lot of options, which were all good, and leads to the same destination, but I could not decide which route I wanted to take.

As and FYI, if any of you are a fan of Karimloo, I do recommend seeing him sing live on concert, not even a live recording can do his voice justice, seriously. It is-very inspiring at a lot of ways, and though he will never know it(probably) the music he choose to sing, helped me through this-as strange as that sounds.

To D: Since I can't PM, thank you for your compliments in your review. It means so much to me, and I'm glad you like are things are unfolding.

And my Regular Reviewers and Readers: I could just hug you.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_**Tantrums**_

For a moment, and only just that, Erik wondered if it was wise to involve this unfamiliar assassin into this most delicate situation. A situation he much preferred to handle himself. However, Charles's presence in his life played a part in his self-restraint from leaping into yet another foolhardy venture.

His advancing age intermingled with hard living played a considerable role in this matter as well. The coming fall would bring him to his forty-seventh year—a far cry from that teenage boy who helped Giovanni's masonry team put the final touches on Garnier's masterpiece that was the opera in its final years of construction. Nor was he the lucky, but naïvely foolish young man discovering his way in Persia. Erik would gladly settle for physical and mental prime he possessed during his time in Turkey, constructing the Yıldız Theater and Opera House as he approached his thirties.

Yes… raising Charles became the closest thing to normalcy since Giovanni.

Now his joints started to ache with his age, masonry dust that settled in his lungs years ago shortened his breath painfully on occasion if he did not keep up with his apothecary concoctions. Then, there was whatever havoc various poisonings had done to his body. A reason he left his hell beneath the opera was not only to escape memories of Christine, but also climbing those damnable stairs coupled with cold damp air on a daily basis started to become a task in itself.

Erik shook his head to himself although he was well aware of Laszio Pascual watched him like only a predator would.

_Did I ever watch people like that?_ Though, he already knew the answer was of a more positive nature than he cared to admit at that particular moment.

"The de Chagny's?" Laszio asked after a moment, as though stunned by the task lain before him.

"Oui," Erik spoke the word as an afterthought, slipping back into his native tongue while he interlaced long fingers together.

At the glimpse of the Spanish-American twisting his lips a little, Erik realized his err, but allowed his silent mirth creep into a small smile while the other translated the word in his head.

Erik tapped his fingertips on the backs of his hands in a rhythmic pattern that he was not even aware of doing.

"What information can you give me? The boy for instance, he is the only witness if I recall the story correctly."

He resumed speaking English as he continued discussing the matter. "That child is not your concern," Erik growled with sudden vehemence at mere mention of his son. "As far as the papers are concerned, he was not even present when that happened."

"Then he is with you," Laszio started delicately. "He is most likely is a fair amount of danger—"

"No, there is no question to the amount of danger he is in now. He has only spoken of a fraction of what had happened, and his recollection is slow and something only I should handle." Erik's tone grew neutral again, to lessen the growing tension he sensed between them. "Seven to eight men forced their way into the chateau after they killed the butler and the maid. They were dressed commonly, if not of lower class ruffians and foul creatures one would expect at a tavern that even the wealthy would not venture.

"One injured the Comte, before the Madame killed another. I killed three more a few hours after the Comtesse and the boy escaped. The one I interrogated claimed they were only hired to kill them, he did not know by whom or why."

"That leaves approximately four left?"

Erik nodded. "Possibly. There is room for error on the numbers involved, currently. I saw a dozen there when I went to conduct my own investigation. The boy saw a fewer amount, perhaps the others remained at the exits. There were several cadavers on the front lawn of the various household staff."

"Is that all, Monsieur E?"

In spite of himself, Erik chuckled darkly at the name. In English, Monsieur E sounded much like Misery. Oddly fitting to say the least since he often had bouts of misery plaguing him from time to time. To his credit, he had not suffered through that particular emotion much since Charles came into his life.

This line of thinking sparked a…unpleasant memory.

"_His father owed a terrible debt and now they are trying to kill us all_!" Christine had cried in her last moments.

Her death brought misery, but with pain, came the light of Charles.

"The Comtesse mentioned a debt the Comte's father owed, and these men were now trying to kill them as a result," Erik paused, thinking of de Chagny sisters, and then extended family. Not that cared for them in the least, but he felt grateful that a mother's dying breath left Charles in _his _care rather than that of remaining de Chagnys. "Whoever these people are… they are likely to pursue other members of the family in effort to acquire payment of this debt and to silence the boy."

The mere thought of someone wanting to kill his son made his blood run hotter than thinking of someone robbing his beloved Christine of her life.

"I will see what I can find out… It will likely cost you more than what I owe you for the horse."

Erik parted his hands with an impatient wave to dismiss Pascual's words. "Cost is of no consequence to me. Meet me at three o'clock on the Pont des Arts Bridge in one week."

"One week," Laszio repeated with a nod and turned to leave, collecting the saddle that never moved from where he left it the last time he was there.

After he vanished entirely, Erik let out a long sigh with a glance around his surroundings. Wisps of brown hair just next to the side door caught his eye. He set his jaw at the notion of who hid there. Pressing his lips into a thinner line than they already were, Erik flexed and wiggled the fingers of his left hand in anticipation as an educated guess formulated in his mind. In an instant, his hand shot around the bend, snagged the boy's ear and yanked him into view.

Charles issued a started yelp at the sudden action. However, a small cry soon replaced that yelp as Erik pinched his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger and snapped them against each other with speed and pressure on the area that the pinching friction he created brought more than a little pain.

"Your ears are burning!" Erik hissed with venom as he freed the boy's ear from his grasp.

"Oww! That hurt!" Charles cried at him in a tempering tone that threatened to rival Erik's own. Tears glittered in the child's eyes, but they never fell. "You hurt me!"

"Yes, so you may remember what will happen should you ever eavesdrop on me again!" he warned. "Have your parents not taught you such actions is not suitable for a little _Vicomte_?"

"I am not a Vicomte!" shouted the boy as he continued to hold his tears at bay. "I am not _even_ a _de Chagny_! So stop calling me that! I'm–" he sucked in a stuttering breath, "–I'm not even a–a— whatever _you_ are! I am a bastard because you abandoned mothe—"

Charles never had a chance to utter the _er_ before Erik snagged his arm and pulled him closer as he bent slightly at the waist to look him in the eye. "I want to make this…_abundantly clear_," he put emphasis into every syllable as though he savored it. "_I, _never left your mother. I _never_ abandoned her into a pit of darkness. I never destroyed her in every aspect imaginable."

The boy struggled to break away, not wanting to hear another word, but Erik held fast. "_She_ did that to _me, _three times."

"You're _lying!_" Charles shouted. "Mother wouldn't hurt a bee if it stung her!"

But she could break hearts and more recently, kill a man. Erik knew better than to spit out those words. Had he still been a young spiteful man, he might have, and utterly ruin this little 'episode.'

The boy continued to fight against him, and Erik held both of his biceps in a firm grip that this wiggly child came close to slipping away from like hot butter. Erik knew he was bruising the boy who fought him like a savage beast with flaring arms, legs, and gnashing teeth that missed their marks. It would be easy to hurt him, to snap a joint or break a bone, but he did not want to hurt him in such a way. The bruises would only be his effort to contain the child.

Attempting to restrain the child became futile when bolt of pain ran up his left leg, emanating from the center of his shin, where Charles landed a _most_ successful kick. The boy slipped away from his slackened fingers– it only took him that fraction of a second to manage an escape.

An emaciated hand shot out to the workbench where Erik shifted his weight to his forearm to stabilize himself rather than fall all the way to the ground. Having a child disable him, no matter how briefly, was humiliating enough for one day. Falling all the way down would be outright embarrassing, even if he lacked witnesses.

It only took a moment for the pain to numb into a dull ache that permitted him to put his weight back onto the limb with a level of prudence as he pushed himself upward. Straightening out long legs that no longer favored that particular crouched position took more effort than he cared to admit, to even himself.

Erik turned his gaze to where the boy ran off to, stepping outside into garish sunlight with eyes squinting against the brilliant visual. Blotting out the sun with a raised hand, he scanned the immediate area, which revealed nothing. A quick survey of the area around house and stable showed not one single glimpse of Charles, the boy was gone.

* * *

Hours slipped by with the constant tick of a small clock on the mantel. A plate of roasted parsnips and haricot-verts with salt cured mutton sat untouched on the table. Erik sat the piano, staring blankly at the ebony and ivory keys that taunted him cruelly with emotional release. He needed to vent, to let go of the terrible things building up within him, worry chief among them.

Playing music was a drug, but he sat there, uninspired, lethargic, and devoid of energy to even lift a hand and caress the cool keys. To even think of touching them seemed like a sin. Five hours passed since the boy ran off, and he had not the faintest inkling of what to do. He searched the creek, the stable, the house, his property as a whole and found nothing more than a footprint here, a broken twig there, not enough to pinpoint an area when these clues were too scattered. Nothing amounted much to anything, but he was certain that Charles remained in the fence line.

At least that was his dearest hope.

All the horses remained accounted for and locked away in the stable after he made certain he was not locking the boy in them. Paris was too far to travel by foot in reasonable time, and neighboring houses and villages were still a bit of a hike through rolling hills, some of them banked by stone trenches from old wars. He never pointed out which direction these places were.

Erik did not like this feeling of befuddlement that plagued him in these last few hours. Should he go out looking again for the twentieth time? Call a name to the air and never hear an answer? Sit and wait for the boy to return, half starved for the early dinner sitting cold in the kitchen– since lunch became a forgotten meal to the assassin's visit and the ensuring spat?

Charles heard the dealing between him with Pascual, but just how much did reached his little ears? How much English did he understand? Enough to that his guardian committed murder in the wake of his parents' homicide? That he hired an assassin to fetch killers? These things could easily drive the boy from him forever. Damn his prying ears! This whole series of events would never transpire if Charles continued to play outside, away from the stable!

Of course, this whole affair was not the child's fault. No, it rested entirely on his shoulders. Such a, _compromising_ matter should have been discussed in a more private location where they could not be overheard. How could he be so foolish?

_He is running from you._

Erik shook his head, striving to deny the prospect of such a terrible truth.

_He will not return._

"No…" Erik murmured in a small and pitiful tone. This wasn't the voice he liked; it wasn't the one he heard down at the creek days prior. This voice always told of hurtful things, both in lies and truths. He and Charles made so much progress since they had known each other. Surely, that would be enough to keep him from running in fearful panic.

If Charles were running away, he would be alone on a road plagued by night with thieves. Though he had to remind himself that after five hours, the boy would be well into the city. Suddenly, Charles alone on the road did not seem so bad. Paris, the jeweled city of France, is not Europe, filled with the filth of humanity. In this modern era, more ne'er-do-wells lurked in cities than the open, unguarded roads.

Erik jumped when the lid slammed shut over the keys.

He blinked, slowly letting the polished black wood before him drift back into focus.

How did it get there?

His eyes slid to the right without turning his head, and saw his tense hand gripping the lid.

_Oh… _he thought. After an apologetic caress of the wood, he stiffly withdrew his hand instant before he flew to his feet. A few short moments later, Erik abandoned the piano and scaled the stairs to his room where he drew a small bag from the closet. Blanket, spare shirt, and a small pouch of bullets for his _Modéle_ 1892 Lebel Revolver, along with a few other necessities went into it. When he finished with that, he donned his cloak and fedora as he stepped into Charles's room where he stuffed a set of clothes in the bag.

After leaving a note on the kitchen table for the boy in case he was mistaken to the child's whereabouts, he went to the stable in haste. Upon opening the main door and each stall to let the horses wander out on their accord, Erik pulled Ebony aside and slid the bridle over her face with the O-ring snaffle bit in her mouth. Although he did not favor tack, he secured the buckles with practiced ease, and did the same with the girth and saddle as he put them into place.

Erik rode Ebony off into the night within twelve minutes of leaving the music room.


End file.
