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

13. Twisted Every Way

Chapter Thirteen || Twisted Every Way

"Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?"
  ~ Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera

~*~

Footsteps resonated throughout the back corridors like the thundering march of soldiers. At the head of the line was the army's leader, their captain, the Viscount de Changey. His young face was set hard with determination, Loki's anger and hatred showing through Raoul's eyes like a blazing green fire. On each side of him was the two managers, each struggling to keep up with the young man's agile, long legged strides. Next in line was what seemed to be the rest of the opera house, following close to hear what parts they had in their leader's battle plan. I listened from the upper levels, watching the back of the head that Loki had stolen for himself. Loki's bitterness put an edge into Raoul's voice as he spoke to his mislead troops, "We have all been blind, and yet the answer is staring us in the face. This could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend." My footing sped up slightly, not wanting to miss a letter Loki uttered. The managers also leaned closer, encouraging who they thought was Raoul to continue. "We shall play his game, perform his work but remember we hold the ace. For if Ms. Daaé sings, he is certain to attend."

The managers jumped at the idea, exclaiming loudly and forgetting that Erik may hear them. They all threw out additions to the plan; armed police, locked doors, and the like. As I listened, I nervously bit my worn down fingernail, trying to figure out a way to protect Erik, to save him from the evilness of my childhood friend.

"They will kill him, you know."

I turned my head towards the voice that came from behind me, seeing the outline of Madame Giry's face in the darkness. She stood tall and rigid, as she always does; a tall figure of black in blackness. Grabbing the railing, I looked down to the mortals concocting their plan and said nothing.

Madame Giry continued, her French accent thick, "They will kill Erik if he does not kill them first."

At this, I turned my head to speak to her over my shoulder, my eyes unwilling to lift from their downcast state, "How do you know Erik's name?"

When she emerged from the shadows, her thin red painted lips were curved into an amused smile, "You think you are the only one Erik told his name to?"

"No." I laughed, the sound of it filled with scorn and bitterness. "I happen to know that he told Christine his name, too."

After a momentary pause, she came to my side, her eyes not watching me but the chaos below us, "He told me his name because it was I who brought him to this opera house." She did not meet my gaze when I snapped my head up to look at her, shocked by the information she now gave me. She smiled a wistful smile, her eyes distracted as she reminisced, "He was such a brilliant child. Brilliant but lost. He lacked a mother to show him tenderness and a father to teach him right from wrong." The sounds of the crowd below us drifted back up to fill the short silence that followed. Tilting her head slightly she continued, "He did leave France for a while to work for a Sultana in Persia." Her lips twitched downward into a fleeting frown, the look of remorse that I had seen the night Carlotta lost her voice reappearing, "He did such terrible things in order to survive. He learned many, many things." Then the small smile returned, "But then he came home to his opera house."

His opera house.

I raised my eyes to the ceiling, hearing the very man we spoke of meddling with the playground that had been given to him many years ago. There was so much he never told me. Would he ever tell me? Would he ever want to tell me?