Slaying the Silence

Chapter Fourteen

      The Silent Phantom paced angrily back and forth, silently cursing the brazen Dauphin.  He walked in a tight line, kicking at the wall each time he passed it.  Though he knew such actions were childish, he could not stop.  Better the stables than a human being.

    But why had he not done more to the Dauphin?  A mere blow to the head was not enough to atone for his treatment of Aria.  What could be his motivation for such actions?  The Phantom knew that the Dauphin loved Aria.

     His brows knit together even further.  For reasons unbeknownst to him, admitting that - even in thought – was agonizing.  Why should he care that the Dauphin loved her?  Let them live their lives.  He had only to protect her, until he could dispose of those who had threatened her life.

     Yet he did care.  The knowledge that she would someday wed the Dauphin tore at his heart.  He pressed his hands to his temples and shook his head vigorously.  No.  It did not concern him, and he did not care.  Or so he told himself.

    Suddenly, he felt suffocated.  He growled under his breath, and lowered himself down into a crouch.  Sighing, he briefly closed his eyes.  He had felt like this the first few weeks after he had made himself his mask.  His face had longed for the fresh feel of the wind.

    He gave in to this temptation.  Slowly, he reached up and pulled the white mask off of his face. 

   Immediately, the air in the stable hit him full in the face.  It felt heavenly, despite the heavy scent of horses.  Yet he could not enjoy it.  He sat deathly still, looking at the white mask in his hands.  That was it. That was what had earned him his name – what had made him the Silent Phantom.  It looked cold and unfeeling; the eyeholes dark and foreboding.  

   He quietly dropped the mask, and raised trembling hands to his face.  He could feel the raised lines on the left side of his face – the marks that were in themselves a device of torture; the lines that marred his face, so that he was ashamed to show it.  True, the mask was useful in hiding his identity.  But mostly, it was to hide this, what he called his deformity.

     His nails dug into his face, nearly breaking the skin.  He began to breathe heavily, and bent over double.  He slowly pulled his hands away.  His skin felt as if it was on fire. 

    At that moment, quiet footsteps came from beyond the stables.  The Phantom’s eyes widened, and he hastily reached for his mask and placed it back on.  Quickly, he unlatched one of the horse’s stall doors and slid into the box with it.

    The horse neighed loudly, causing him to wince.  But he quickly rubbed the horse’s neck, murmuring soft words of comfort.  Soon, it quieted.

    The footsteps came ever nearer, and it became clear that the person intended to come into the stables.  He frowned, and peered between the cracks in the door. 

    Soon, the stable door creaked open, and a dark form entered.  It was Madame Rousseau.  She was still dressed in her everyday garb.  In the stable’s flickering lanterns, he could see that her face held deep creases of both worry and exhaustion.

     She cleared her throat timorously.  “Please, Monsieur,” she called out.  “I know that you are here.  I must speak with you.”

    He sighed, and silently slipped over the box’s door as her back was turned. “Why are you here?” he asked quietly.

    She started, and whirled around to face him.  She seemed anxious about something.  It seemed difficult for her to meet his eye, and she constantly wrung her hands together.  When she finally spoke, however, her voice was clear and firm.  “Did you harm Mademoiselle Aria?”