WookieeBeta

Squirrel and pizza
Against gravity struggling
Hauling, not eating

My spattered windshield
Shows me scene of truth and life
Under cloud-free skies

Reflected highways
Mountain feet in the mirror
Pass as half-known dreams

~~ footprints at the gate ~~

From extreme youth, I was expected to always be the knight in shining armor.

Protect my sister? Fine.

Watch over the common folk? Sure.

Become Pharaoh, take on all the problems of an entire country and handle it flawlessly? Why not?

Save the world from the powers of the Shadow Realm? No problem.

Become a life-size guardian angel to a sorely lost young man in a completely unfamiliar century? All right.

Like I said. Knight in Shining Armor syndrome. Really, though, it's never bothered me. It's never been easy, and I've had my fair share of bad moments, but on the whole...it's what I was born for. Destiny, Fate, whatever you want to call it. It's just who I am.

So it wasn't the fact that I was, once again, rushing to the last-minute completely-unplanned almost-sure-to-go-wrong rescue that bothered me.

It was the fact that I was doing so while sitting in Yuugi's room in front of a laptop.

But perhaps I should back up a bit.

I am, to put it simply, a three-thousand year-old Egyptian spirit trapped inside a magical artifact. Yuugi is your everyday Japanese teenager. He also happens to be my direct descendant, and, interestingly enough, my reincarnation. Between the artifact, the blood relation, and the whole born-again thing, plus a bit of ancient Egyptian magic, we are similar enough that I am able to literally take control of his body. To possess him.

Which is why I, not Yuugi, was cursing at the dial-up connection.

I appreciate computers as much as the next spirit. They are wonderful sources of information and of entertainment. Unfortunately, they are equally good sources of irritation, and old faulty laptops and dial-up connections do not a won auction make.

What does eBay have to do with rescues? It's actually fairly simple.

I am not unique, you see.

There are plenty of other spirits floating around, even today. I am personally acquainted with several from my own time - ancient Egypt, that is, not the twentieth century.

Moreover, my people were not the only ones who thought trapping peoples' minds inside inanimate objects was a good idea. The practice actually began earlier. Much earlier. As in, thousands of years earlier, before recorded history. And in those times, a young girl from a middle-class family grew very, very ill. Her parents could not afford what little treatment was then available. They could, however, afford to affix her soul to an item, to prevent her from truly and finally dying. So they paid the local medicine man to seal the girl into a necklace.

How do I know this?

Thousands of years after the fact, my mother presented me with the very same necklace. The girl - her name was Aibou - began to talk to me. Then, when my life was in considerable danger (and by 'considerable danger' I mean one knife to my throat, several more to my back, and a handful of nearly-mortal wounds already inflicted just to keep things interesting), she possessed me.

It's astounding, how much damage two terrified children trapped in the same body can inflict.

To keep a (very) long story short, Aibou and I became close friends, and then we fell in love. And then, about the time I was starting to think that maybe life wasn't such a bad thing after all, some nut decided to seal me into an item.

I haven't seen Aibou in three thousand years. Truth be told, I thought the necklace would have been long destroyed. It should have fallen apart centuries ago now. But it hasn't. I'm not sure what exactly has happened, actually, but I know that now, that necklace is in the possession (no puns intended) of a man called xXantiqueboutiqueXx, and if this confounded connection doesn't time out on me again, it is my full intention to win it.

Aye, I ken weel enouch wot yer sayin'
But we havena the penny tae spare
For I sent it a' aff tae ma bairnies -
Twa sons wha I'll ne'er see mair.

Och I ken weel enouch why yer greetin'
An' I canna say I've no' felt the same
But dry yer een, lass, an' keep workin -
Yer brithers are no' comin' hame.

An' I ken weel enouch wot they've done -
They've left their ain country behind -
But we'll no' think worse o'em fer tha', lass;
'Tis oor job tae keep 'em in mind.

Och I ken weel enouch why yer greetin'
But ye'll hae tae move on a' the same -
Sae dry yer een, lass, an' keep workin',
Fer yer brithers are no' comin' hame.

I.
Artificial gravity
Of a physical nature.

II.
As the ball bounces along the floor
It snaps away,
One of many.

III.
Once, an item of use.
Now, a misshapen lump of sticky goo
Holding the pen and the marker as one.

IV.
Thin, thick
Long, short
Pink, green, or brown
The miser's dulcimer strings.

V.
Never beginning, never ending,
Until the burden becomes too great -
Then, discarded.

VI.
Descendant of twine
Predecessor of the plastic bag
Mailman's friend

VII.
Utility for the father
Weapon to the son
Endless annoyance for the mother
Prized bracelet to the daughter

VIII.
I walked through the hall,
Blissfully unaware,
And it struck me in the face
With all the force of a blinded junebug.

IX.
Would reality seem less fragmented
If it were held together
By a cosmic rubber band?
I think not.

X.
Dark-skinned at ease, full-bodied;
Thin and pale under stress;
Stretched to the limit, and beyond,
Man snaps, like a rubber band.

XI.
The rubber band is all that holds together
The stacks of correspondence -
All that is left
Of our past.

XII.
The elf-child stands
And raises his makeshift weapon;
The dwarf growls
And shoots the rubber band back.

XIII.
Alas! the circle has broken;
The end has come;
Thus falls the fearless rubber band,
That bane of the Creative Writing class.

She is tired. She is waiting. She is tired of waiting, of sitting patiently while the world passes her by. She longs - no, she yearns for a new opportunity. This time, she will not hesitate. This time, she will not stray. This time, she will not fail.

This time, I will not fail.

I thought I was right
I thought I was wrong
I wasn't sure
I'm still not
But now I know
That it's going to work out
That things will be okay
And even if it hurts now
We'll make it through
Together
Apart
We'll make it through
It doesn't matter, really
It never did
I'll go on loving you
As I always did
And you'll go on loving others
As you always did
And somehow, we'll find that place
That distant point somewhere in the middle
Where it all works out
I thought I was wrong
But now I know I'm right

Paralyzed by what could have happened
Stunned by what has
Waiting for all to be become
A nightmare
Laugh
Cry
Sing
Run
Watch in silence
And hope

No need to be alone
Anymore
Release the pain
Let go
Of the past
Of yesterday
For it will not change
Tomrrow
No need to be
In love
Anymore

Pull me down from the sky
Set my feet back on the ground
Teach me the meaning of life
And never leave me

Show me the mountains, and give me the stars
Take me to the edge of the Universe and beyond
And bring me back again
And never leave me

Tell me why the sun seems so small
And how the birds fly
Give me everything
But never love me

Please

Prologue

"Ayame..."

"Yes, Shigure my love?" The slim designer's voice was innocent - too much so. Shigure frowned.

"What exactly did you buy for three hundred and fifty dollars last month?"

"Why, whatever could you mean?"

The brown-haired man's frown became more intense. Aaya was suddenly very focused on one hidden seam in his latest (and one of his most extravagant) evening gowns - a seam that even the apparel-challenged writer could with full confidence call perfect.

"I'm just curious. Usually you tell me what you buy."

The white-haired designer became suddenly pensive. Shigure blinked.

"...or perhaps I don't want to know...?"

Aaya stood up wordlessly and crossed the room, throwing the closet door open with something rather less than his usual dramatic flair. Shigure watched in equal silence, eyes worried. It had been many years since he'd seen the man this withdrawn, this careful, this...emotional.

Reaching into the back corner of the closet, shoving aside bolts of fancy cloth and plastic bags full of scrap material and pattern sketches, Ayame pulled out a cardboard box that Shigure had never seen before. It was unmarked and unopened. There was a lighter spot where the address label had been ripped off. Someone had pulled up the corner of the masking tape that held the top flaps of the box together, but stopped after only a few inches.

"I thought you might not want to see it," Ayame said quietly as he set the box down on the table in front of Shigure. He retreated to the doorway, made as if to leave the room, then paused, one hand on the doorframe above his head and the other hanging limply in space. He didn't turn, but neither did he go on.

Hesitantly, Shigure opened the box. He removed the layer of plain white tissue paper that covered whatever was inside and placed it carefully on the table. He slid his hands down the sides of the box and lifted the neatly folded package of black fabric, shook it out over the floor, nearly dropped it in surprise. It was a large theatrical-style cloak, complete with oversized hood and overcape that stretched around the shoulders and reached just past the wearer's elbows.

His fingers trembled as he draped the cloak gently over one arm and reached again into the box. This time the tissue paper was black. He unfolded it quickly, nervously, revealing a cold, white, and all-too-familiar mask.

A piece of paper with torn edges and folded with infinite care fluttered to the ground. Shigure bent and picked it up, realizing only then that it had been torn from a piece of sheet music; he unfolded it, read the few words scrawled there in a neat but unsteady hand, and sank silently into his chair, still clutching the scrap between his fingers. Ayame moved equally noiselessly, left the house, walked down the street with his head bowed and his thoughts travelling to another time, another place.




--------------------------------------------------------------

Overture

The Paris Opera House was a magnificent place - rich, luxurious, and expansive. It was the gathering-place of every name in the city. So it was no surprise that Philippe Georges Akito, Comte de Chagny, knew his way around quite well.

His younger brother, however, did not.

Shigure had become thoroughly lost the instant they entered the real world of the theatre, where singers practiced their scales and dancers drilled themselves for hours on end over one short sequence, where the fantastic and the grotesque were commonplace and it was the absence of either that was unusual. The young man was visibly nervous, fidgeting with his cuffs as he stared wide-eyed at the chaotic activity that flowed on all sides around him. A giggling crowd of dancers flitted past, and the nature of his blank look suddenly changed. A wide smile spread itself over his face as he stepped forward to catch the eye of the last dancer. A slim brunette with rather untamed hair, she was the -

"Shigure!" Akito snapped. "Leave the girls alone and come this way. We're going to be late if you keep wandering off." The black-haired man disappeared through a fancifully carved door, and Shigure had no choice but to follow.

A boy with brilliant orange hair snickered as he passed. "Too bad, 'Mione. From what I hear down in the stables he would have been just your type - absolutely useless, and always with his nose stuck in some book or other."

"Shut up, Ron," Hermione replied shortly as she shifted Paris Opera House: A History to her other hand.

Shigure had to leap out of the way as a blonde-haired blue-eyed streak charged past, closely pursued by a pink-headed blur. The wind of their passing came as a physical blow. Shigure blinked.

"And you wanted me to be patron of this place," he asked as he finally caught up to his elder brother, "why, exactly?"

"Because it wouldn't hurt you in the least to learn a little responsibility," was the cold answer. "Now be quiet, and stop pulling at your shirt. You've already wrinkled it."



The Queen was impressive, the Empress dazzling, but Ayame made the show. In something less than twenty-four hours he had completely destroyed and rebuilt Ino's costume from the inside out, and now he was simply resplendent in cascades of the purest white. His silvery hair literally twinkled with innumerable flecks of diamond that snatched the light of the great chandelier and threw it back out in a thousand and two sharp glints. But all attention was on his voice, not his dress.

Ino had a good voice, when she chose to use it. Ayame's was the syren-song come alive, the crystal notes of the stars themselves. Delicate and full, touched by the lightest accent, it carried laughter and chimes and trumpets all at once and, effortlessly, nearly managed to drown out the entire orchestra. Even the prima donna's devotees were silent with awe.

Think of me, think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye
Remember me once in a while
Please promise me you'll try

In a shadowed box seat to the left of the stage, a man stirred.

When you find that once again you long
To take your heart back and be free
If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me!

He leaned forward in his seat and focused his opera glasses on the white spectacle center-stage, oblivious to all else.

We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But if you can still remember,
Stop and think of me

He stopped, and he thought.

Think of all the things we've shared and seen
Don't think about the things which might have been

A scarf caught by the wind, so many years ago.

Think of me, think of me waiting
Silent and resigned
Imagine me, trying too hard
To put you from my mind

The sun on the sand, and two boys laughing as they danced away from the waves.

Recall those days, look back on all those times
Think of the things we'll never do
There will never be a day
When I don't think of you!

The name came suddenly with all the force of a full-fisted blow.

"Can it be?" Shigure cried, lurching from his seat to lean out over the railing as far as he dared. "Can it be Aaya? Bravo!"Off to the right someone in the audience hissed, and the orchestra became suddenly louder, but he paid no heed.

"What a change," he murmured, taking a step backwards, "you're really not a bit the gawkish boy that once you were. You may not remember me, but I remember...!"

We never said our love was evergreen
Or as unchanging as the sea
But please promise me that sometimes
You will think - of me!

As the final drawn-out note faded from the air, the opera house fairly exploded in applause, but the heavy door to Box Five hung open, the right-hand curtains still rippling in the wind from its former inhabitant's passing.

Or perhaps it was not the wind, after all. Moments after the theatre emptied, a tall slim man shook his way free of their heavy folds and moved to stand in the middle of the box, eyes fixed on the deserted stage. His arms nearly quivered as he wrapped his hands around the rail. He murmured a name to himself - Ayame - and then slipped through the door and down the hallway before disappearing around a darkened corner.

Another pause, and then a soft groan.

"Whatever happened," Hatori muttered darkly, "to the days when a man could watch an opera in peace?" His knees popped in unison as he stretched long legs for the first time in hours, unfolding himself from the cramped shadows behind the left-hand column. The black-haired man grimaced as he wondered what exactly he'd done to deserve not one but two extra visitors in what he considered his private box. The former manager, the good M. Flitwick, had kept the box empty in return for the occasional small favor; few cared to ask why exactly it was that the Opera House had suffered so few robberies recently. Hatori was accustomed to odd schedules and enjoyed wandering the theatre at obscene hours. If scaring off the local scum meant he got free operas every week or so, well then, who was he to complain? Plus, the rumors of phantoms and ghosts that necessarily arose among the superstitious youngsters at the Opera served to keep all but the most adventurous above-ground. Hatori didn't consider himself to be the secretive type usually, but when one was hiding from society in general, having the Opera House's catacombs almost entirely to oneself tended to make things easier.

He tossed a quick glance at the stage, wondering. That lead singer certainly hadn't been Ino; he just wasn't sure who it had been. Regardless, this "Ayame" was quite talented, and he was rather looking forward to the next performance. If only he didn't have to deal with those two other men...

Stepping around to the back of the column with a frown, he ran his hand quickly over the smooth marble until his fingers found the tiny but familiar depression, and then with the soft rumble of stone on stone he was gone.

Box Five waited, silent, vacant.


Ayame shifted uncomfortably on the saddle, twitching the folds of his dress. The thing was a bit revealing even for his tastes. But between unending practices during the day and secret meetings with Shigure and the Phantom all night, he simply hadn't had the time to design his own costume. At least the seamstresses had stopped trying to sew in extra padding... His lips quirked in amusement, but the smile melted into a frown before it had a chance to form fully.

The black-haired man stalking along a full two strides ahead of the horse was muttering under his breath. The Phantom rarely showed his moods so easily.

"What's...?" Aya started tentatively, then trailed off as the Phantom tossed a quick glance in his direction. Green eyes roiled with barely-restrained emotion. They lingered mere instants before flickering away again.

The taller man lengthened his stride still further, pulling the horse almost to a trot behind him. It was an effort not to run. The other direction. The dark walls of the catacombs pressed in around him, a physical force that tried to pull the breath from his lungs and tear sanity screaming from his head. He felt as if he were falling into an eternal pit of the darkest, most endless black. He half believed that he would never see the light of day again, half hoped for it.

Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair, he thought bleakly, down we plunge to the prisons of my mind. Down this path into darkness deep as Hell! His fists clenched, the nails digging deep enough to draw blood.

"Phantom." Ayame's voice was flat.

The darker man glanced up again, quickly, but straightened his fingers with an effort and slowed his walk.

"...yes?" he asked quietly.

"You've known me for a fair while now, and still I hardly know you at all. So far, I've gone on your word and blind trust. I think maybe I deserve some answers."

The taller man looked up again, green meeting gold in a cold stare. Green was the first to shatter.

"I...can't tell you everything," he said softly. "But I will answer what I can."

Ayame frowned slightly, deep in thought; his eyes rested consideringly on the back of the Phantom's head, and for once he wasn't thinking that the man would look so much better in embroidery.

"Why?"

The Phantom snapped."Why?! Why, you ask?! Why, bound and chained, hand and foot with no bonds at all, to such a dismal place?! Not for any mortal sin - just the wickedness of my abhorrent face!" His black stage cloak snapped like a banner as he turned away, braced his closed fists against the unrelenting stone wall, reined in his temper with something approaching physical force.