The Art of Manipulation || Phantom of the Opera & Loki the God of Mischief ||

11. Who Can Name The Face?

Chapter Eleven || Who Can Name The Face?

"The 'Red Death' had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous.... And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the rebel lets in the blood-bedewed halls of their reveled, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripod expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."
~ The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar A. Poe

~*~

"It was you who lead Buquet to his death."

"Alouette, I was only having a bit of fun. I didn't know it would lead to that."

We were in my room now, today's chaotic static sound morphing into the silence of night.

Loki sat in my chair while I leaned against my desk, my arms crossed over my chest. My lips were pressed into a stern line, my eyes regarding the floor instead of angrily regarding the culprit sitting in my chair.

Loki sat with his hips at the edge of the chair and his legs spread wide, subconsciously claiming all the space he could. He kept his hands half dangling between his legs and he watched as he played with his blackened nails. He resembled an adolescent mortal waiting to enter the principle's office; fully aware he was guilty but in no way going to admit he was at fault. Nothing is ever Loki's fault. He was only just having "a bit of fun". And if you're merely having "a bit of fun", whatever mishaps happen are forgivable, right?

I frustratedly used my hips to push my tall form away from my desk and began pacing at the foot of my bed. Chewing on my worn down nail I muttered, "No one was supposed to die."

Loki twisted in his seat with a guilt-ridden expression he attempted to hide with false exasperation, "It was an accident, Alouette!"

"Was it, Loki?" I snapped. He sunk back into his chair, lowering his eyes to the floor. I continued to shout at him, "You never know when it's too far, do you?!" When he said nothing I raised my voice even more, "Do you?!"

Loki ran his hand over his face and sighed, "I'm sorry, Alouette. I know you liked the old bugger. I didn't think he'd get killed."

Exasperated myself, I plumped down on my bed and covered my face, "I need a moment alone, please. To think."

Loki stared at me a moment. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it when I sent him a bone chilling look. With a gentle poof! and a flash of green, my chair became empty, no trace of the Jotun who occupied it just seconds ago. It wasn't even warm. Not that Loki was warm. I think even if he wasn't a Jotun, a Frost Giant, he would still be cold and sadistic.

I stood up from my bed and approached my desk, the solitary candle creating enough light for me to gaze at the contents sitting on it. At the head of the desk laid my rose, Erik's rose. It had an aura of blue around it, the spell of Life keeping it as youthful as it was when he gave it to me. The same spell kept the same rose alive and beautiful for over a hundred years. Perhaps I accidentally casted the same spell on my love for Erik.

I picked up the rose and pressed it to my nose, closing my eyes as the sweet scent invaded my senses. The smell of parchment and candles still lingered on it. I visioned Erik's fingers when they handed me this rose, handling it with so much care. I remembered his hand at the small of my back as we walked, protecting me, guiding me. When the image of those same hands tightly gripping the rope around Buquet's throat entered my mind, I opened my eyes and shook my head to clear it.