Page 47 of Angel's Fall
Raoul’s gut was unsettled, and not just because the wine Vincenzo kept in his little garret tasted closer to vinegar than fruit. He kept drinking it, even though it was barely past noon on a Sunday. As Vincenzo had declared before pushing the bottle into Raoul’s hands and pulling off his suspenders, it could count as communion. For a few minutes, as he’d taken his pleasure with his shipmate, Raoul had felt just a bit more human. Now the fucking was done, and his brain was afire once more.
“You know, I could get offended that you look so far off after all that,” Vincenzo said from where he was sprawled on his bed, staring at Raoul as he dressed. “And that you’re getting on your way so quickly.”
“Lucky for us, you’re not sentimental.”
“I’m just patient.” Raoul turned to Vincenzo in confusion, and the other man cocked his head, smiling playfully as his dark curls danced about his face. “I’ll have you mostly to myself again in a few days. When we set sail.”
“Oh. That.” Raoul’s stomach fell. “I’m... not sure if I’m going north.”
“Not sure? Raoul, the expedition needs you,” Vincenzo replied with uncharacteristic seriousness. “You’re a trusted officer. Men signed onto this adventure because they knew you were brave enough to do it too. And now you’re thinking about abandoning it?”
“It’s complicated. My family needs me here,” Raoul muttered. It was half true.
“You’re the second son. No one needs you as much as the men on that ship,” Vincenzo countered. “Be honest: you’re still pining after your soprano, thinking you can marry her. As if she’d take you.”
“She would! But there’s more than that—” Suddenly, the weight of all of it – of Christine and his father and all the intrigues and lies and revenge – was suffocating. Raoul collapsed on the end of the bed, his head in his hands. “I have to stay to make things right.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Raoul took a deep breath, remembering the face of Red Death and the skulls and angels on his father’s ornate tomb. They’d given him nightmares for weeks, so had the knowledge of how Georges de Chagny had burned to death. “I’m planning on killing a man. The man who killed my father.”
“What in the sweet name of fuck are you talking about?” Vincenzo forced Raoul to look at him. “I can’t possibly have heard you say you want to kill someone.”
“I don’twantto. But I have to. To save Christine and avenge my father, I have to kill this man. I have no choice.”
“Bullshit! You could keep your promises to the expedition and just leave. You could walk away from whatever operatic entanglement you’ve found yourself in and live your life!”
“Can I?” Raoul asked back, again feeling like the weight of the world was on him. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“You can. Dear God, Raoul, I know you,” Vincenzo said with more sincerity than Raoul had ever seen from him. “You’re a romantic and an idealist and a brave, good man. You’re not a killer.”
Raoul recalled Antoine saying as much. No one thought he could do what needed to be done. They thought he was soft and foolish and easily led astray, like a child fighting shadows. “I need to be, to avenge—”
“Killing someone won’t bring your father back, but it will damn your soul.”
Raoul scoffed and looked down at the other man’s still naked body. “You’re concerned with salvation after what you just did?”
“Whatwejust did,” Vincenzo corrected, and Raoul shook his head.
“I’m not like you,” Raoul declared, rising and grabbing his jacket. “And I’m not as weak and foolish as everyone thinks.”
“I didn’t say that! I’m trying to help!”
Raoul pushed Vincenzo away when he tried to come near. “I’m going to be late for the party. Good day.”
Raoul did not look back as he stormed out of the building and into the bracing cold. Winter was hanging on fiercely, even though spring was only weeks away now. That was the reason for the expedition’s timing. They were to sail north from Le Havre before stopping to resupply in Bergen before the long voyage north. Their mission wasn’t even to reach the pole, but to find the wreckage of another ship that had disappeared three years before on the ice.
Raoul shivered as he put on his jacket. He wondered how cold it would be in those still waters, where ice floes and bergs made passage almost impossible. He’d spoken to a whaler once, who had spent three years along the cold coast of Greenland hunting the great beasts for their oil. He’d said it was so quiet out there you could hear the snow landing on the sea.
Raoul wished he was there, away from his family and his past and his useless love. He could disappear into the north and never return. He could be happy. If only he could let go.
He was surprised when he found himself at his own doorstep, his feet sore from the long walk full of dark thoughts. Servants were already hard at work filling the Chagny manor with flowers and food, and no one even spoke to Raoul as he went to his room to change. His valet ignored the stench of liquor and cigarettes on his clothes as he helped Raoul into his evening attire for the party. Soon enough he was gone, leaving Raoul to stare at his useless mural of evidence about Erik and his handwritten accounts.
Vincenzo was right – killing Erik would not bring back Raoul’s father. It could save Christine, but was she worth that? Would it damn his soul to take a life? Surely, it would be like killing in war. It would be righteous. And Erik wasn’t a person, he was a monster.
Still, Raoul thought back to when he was twelve, and his father and Philippe had taken him hunting for the first time. They’d spied a handsome stag, and their valet had readied the gun before placing it in Raoul’s hands. It had been so heavy. He had felt his father watching him, and all he could think with his childish heart was how beautiful the creature was and how little he wanted to end its life. What gave him the right? He’d aimed for the tree beside it and scared the poor thing off. His father had found it again later and shot the beast with no hesitation.
Raoul shuddered in shame for the coward he had been and the killer he might become. The fire was low in the grate, and the chill of evening had crept into the corners. It reminded him of the Opera; the way the light never fully pierced the dark shadows that hung like cobwebs. It was eerie, how the dark made him feel like he was being watched. Perhaps because he was.
