You Alone

DISCLAIMER: See chapter 1.


A/N: Another update. Try not to faint. ;D Hope you'll enjoy this one. At least I had great time writing it. It might be because I have finally come up with The Perfect Ending [tm] for the story. [insert an evil laughter here]


CHAPTER 11 - Mystery of Soprano's Flight


In one of the guest rooms of the de Chagny estate, a rather devastated looking man, once known as the Persian was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at his feet. He was more than slightly surprised by the guilt he felt from telling the young Comte where to find his family. If what he had done, was as good thing as he had believed it to be, why did he feel like he had just sold his soul to the Devil himself? There was only one person involved with Erik's affair that the former head of police wanted to protect.


A plan was beginning to form in his head - a plan that might save young Philippe de Chagny from getting hurt.
"May Allah forgive me," he murmured aloud before calling for Darius.


Raoul could not quite understand why the Persian was leaving so quickly.
"I understand, Monsieur le Comte," the man answered with his thick accent. "Unfortunately, there are some things I must take care of."
"Please, my friend, I am more than willing to help you if there is anything I can do."
"I appreciate that," the elder man answered, giving the younger man a small smile. "This matter, however, is personal."
"You have already made your mind, I see." The Comte stood up, smiling. "You have made so much for me - and my family. If you ever need anything, I shall be more than happy to comply."
"Thank you, Monsieur le Comte," the Daroga answered, bowing. "May God protect you and your family."
With that, he left, praying in his mind that there still was enough time.


Philippe de Chagny, on the other hand, had almost completely forgotten the man he had once called his Papa - deliberately. Sometimes, he would see his face in his dreams but his voice would still be his real father's - Erik's. Somehow, it felt odd to call Erik his father - yet somehow it was the most natural thing in the world. Unlike Papa, Erik would play duets with him to entertain his Maman. Unlike Papa, Erik would take him and his Maman to the Opera every Friday night. Unlike Papa, Erik would answer every single question he ever asked.


Erik did not seem as scary to him any more. Granted, Philippe had been quite afraid of him when he had first seen him that night, four months ago. He had not once dared ask his Erik about the mask he wore all the time. One night, as he was sitting on his Maman's lap, Erik entered the room and sat into his favourite chair, watching them silently for a while.
"How has your day been, my child?" he finally asked.
"I have enjoyed it, father," Philippe answered, smiling. "I have been practicing the violin parts you gave to me. Maman says that I master them quite well already. Then I read the big book with lots of map I found."
"Could that have been Atlas, Philippe?" Erik asked with an amused tone.
"Oui, that it must have been."
"Do you have any questions for me, child?"
Slowly, the child in Christine's lap began asking all those questions about the foreign countries, the names of which he had memorized earlier that day. With a gentle smile, she closed her eyes, leaned back and listened to his calm and beautiful voice patiently answer every question the child could come up with.


Her mind flew back to the first days she and Philippe had spent at Erik's house. Even though she could have told that her son was slightly afraid of the man, it seemed as if the child could not get enough of Erik's presence - and vice versa. Erik had almost immediately begun working on the child's voice and within a few days, the two of them had been composing little songs of their own and then perform them to her. If Philippe did not seem to get enough of being with Erik, Christine quickly noticed that she could not humanly get enough of his voice. When she had still lived with Raoul, she had heard Erik's voice mostly in her dreams - and later at nights, as Raoul was asleep. Now, his voice was the first thing she heard when she woke up, the last thing she heard before falling asleep and the only thing she could remember dreaming of. His voice dominated her mind, her life, her everything - and she could not have been happier about it.


Sometimes, she would try to remember what it had been like to be Comtess Christine de Chagny. Sometimes, she would have some serious trouble when trying to remember her husband's face. She had slowly grown accustomed to the fact that she could not remember his voice. Erik's voice was all she needed now. Erik was all she needed now. She was quite sure that Philippe did not remember that much about Raoul either. The child would never even mention him.


Just a couple of weeks ago, she had written a letter to the man she had once called her husband, telling him that he should not try to track them down. She was not quite sure, though, why she had written the letter. Erik had mentioned once or twice the fact that he had seen men Raoul had sent after them but she had not paid too much attention to it. One night, she had been overwhelmed by the urge to write Raoul - to tell him to leave them alone. She knew for sure that she would die if she were to be apart from Erik - as would Philippe.


She slowly opened her eyes as she realized that Philippe had fallen silent on her lap.
"May I ask a question from you now?" Erik asked softly, surprising both the mother and the son.
"Oui, of course, father. I do not know as many answers as you do," the child answered, his voice slightly nervous.
Erik chuckled softly. "Not yet, Philippe, but I am sure you shall know more answers than I do, when you are as old as I am."
"Do you really think so?" the boy asked, his voice bright.
"Of course. Now, my question."
Philippe leaned closer to him, still sitting comfortably on his Maman's lap.


"I know that you are intrigued by my mask, child. Yet, you have not asked a single question about it. Why?"
His voice was gentle and neither Philippe nor his Maman could hear any trace of anger in it.
Blushing, Philippe began his answer. "I am intrigued by your mask, father. I just thought that it might be too rude to ask about it. I believed that you might not want to talk about it."
"How did you come to this conclusion, Philippe?" Erik continued, his voice coaxing.
"Well, I once fell from a tree - you probably remember it since you were my Angel then already - and I do not really like to talk about it. Besides, I have never before seen a real angel, father. I would not know if all angels have to wear a mask."


A delighted laughter escaped the deformed lips, surprising Christine completely. The act itself was so completely out of character that she was caught off guard, pulling her son closer to her almost reflexively, in order to protect him from whatever Erik might come up with.
It was not until she heard a painful, strained, "Christine," leave those same lips that she understood how much the simple gesture had hurt the man. He had given both of them a new life, away from everything that might have ever hurt them.
"Erik, I --"
He cut her off with the wave of his hand but said nothing.
"Please, father," Philippe spoke with bright yet worried voice, standing up and climbing onto his lap, "you must not be angry with Maman. She only wants to protect me - as do you."


The frozen expression on Erik's face seemed to melt into a small smile as he ran his hand gently through the child's dark hair.
"I know, child. I am not angry with her. Disappointed maybe but never angry."
She met his eye, then, and understood that he meant it.
"I am sorry, Erik. I know how much you have done for the both of us, Philippe and me. I should never have --"
She was cut off again by the same wave of a hand.
"Worry not, mon ange. I understand." She could see his eyes smiling gently behind the mask. "I understand," he repeated more softly.


That night, as Maman was putting Philippe into his bed, the child was even more restless than he usually was at this time. She kept asking all those questions from her, although he usually spared them to be asked from his father.
"Maman, just one more question, please."
"All right. But just one more."
"When am I going to see the baby?"
"Which baby?" she asked, stifling a yawn behind her hand.
The child giggled. "Silly Maman! The one you carry here, of course," he answered, resting his small hand gently on her stomach.
She gave him a gentle smile. "Soon, my dearest. Soon. Sleep now."
"Is Erik not going to come to sing to me?"
"Not tonight, Philippe. You can see him first thing at the morning."


She turned to leave but did not even reach the doorstep, when she heard her son's soft voice.
"Maman? Can you make me a promise?"
"Of course, my dear. What is it?"
"Can you promise me that I shall never have to leave either Erik or you, Maman? Can you?"
"I promise you, my little Philippe, you shall never have to leave either Erik or I. Sleep now, dear."
"Good night, Maman. Je t'aime."
"I love you too," she answered before pulling the door closed.


The following night, Erik was sitting in the library. Christine was upstairs, delivering. She had asked him to call for a midwife at noon and since the woman had arrived, he had not been allowed to see her. He was nervous, yes - he even had admitted it to Philippe. The child was now soundly asleep on the sofa, under a Persian comforter. Despite his nervousness, the dark man was perfectly content right here, staring into the dying fire with his sleeping son and his own thoughts keeping him company.


Philippe woke up some time before sunrise as he heard Erik sit down again, talking to someone with a hushed voice. The child did not dare open his eyes - he was certain that if either his father or the person he was talking to would notice that he was awake, they would move their conversation to another room. When the stranger finally answered his father, Philippe immediately realized that the voice was familiar to him. Although he did not know the language the men were speaking in, he quickly recognized the voice of the man his Maman would refer to as the Persian. As Erik continued to talk, Philippe could already feel the dreams taking him over again. Listening to the sound of his father's voice, he fell asleep again, feeling secure and safe.


Poor child could not have been any more mistaken.