Death Awakens

Disclaimer: I don't own PoTO

Chapter 5:
It was dark in the opera house. The mob of angry people had long since given up on their search for the murderous phantom. The fire had finally dwindled, leaving only the charred shell of the once glorious inner rooms. There was an eerie silence, one that would have rung in the ears of any bystander. The ghost of screams seemed to lurk against the walls and crevices of the building, stubbornly refusing to disappear into the smoky haze.

Deep in the bowels of the opera house, the unmasked man sat, his proud countenance defeated. ‘She’s gone,’ he sighed, staring into the inky blackness around him.
And then suddenly he was on his feet, anger and betrayal battling against his feelings of loss and heartbreak. He stormed through the cellars and up towards the surface, not caring whether any person heard him. Pity the fool that would dare stumble into his path now. There would be no mercy on them, like there had never been any mercy for him.
He was at the stage now, facing the charred remains of his once glorious opera house. There was little regret in his heart at the moment. The ruins mirrored the state of his soul. It reflected his loss and his torment. There were ashes at his feet, and he considered setting the whole place ablaze, to completely wipe out the cursed events that had led him thus far to his absolute misery, but he paused at a flash of pink that caught his eye.
It was a woman, lying prone on the ground, still like death.

He strode over to her, placing his hands upon her neck to feel for a pulse. There was one, slow, faint, almost nonexistent. A part of him wanted to turn away, to let this woman die there. No one had ever spared a kind act for him, why should he do what others had not?
He decided right there not to help her. He decided to walk away, leave the opera house, leave Paris, leave his life completely behind. And yet his arms betrayed his thoughts as they scooped up the woman and carried her back down into the depths of the opera house.

Lila awoke in darkness. She blinked several times, trying to see something ahead of her, but there seemed to be nothing, just blackness. Fearing she had gone blind, Lila started to panic, twisting around, trying to see.
A soft golden light appeared from behind a corner, and grew as a figure with a light approached her. She couldn’t make out his face, but the glitter of the eyes, the cold bearing at which he stood was unmistakable.
Standing before her was the phantom.

“How do you feel?” he asked her gruffly. Lila remained silent, struggling to find an answer to that simple, yet completely mystifying question.
“Do you speak French?” he asked her, sounding slightly irritated. He then proceeded to repeat his previous question in different languages, at which time Lila finally found her voice.
“English, I speak English,” she said. He nodded and made his way to her bedside, causing a tremor to go through her body. A white mask lay against his cheek, sending shadows in the candlelight across the sculpted, naked half of his face. He was so tall against her small frame, and she gulped perhaps not in fear, but most definitely in awe.
He seemed not to notice, but proceeded to examine her, sweeping her body with his eyes, deftly plucking at bandages she had not noticed before. Then, his examination complete, he stepped back and waited for a response from her.
Lila cleared her voice, “May I ask your name, sir?” she asked hesitantly.
He looked at her sharply. “No, you may not. My name is of no consequence to you.” And then he turned, walking briskly towards the doorway.
“My name is Lila,” she called after him. He stopped, turned, and nodded; he then disappeared.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the darkness.