Phantom of the Opera 1. Prologue

**Author's note: Hey Everyone, this is my first phanphic after years of reading and being the casual observer, so be nice! I don't accept flames, they're a useless waste of space, though I do accept constructive criticism; if you can justify why you don't like something, or can make suggestions on how I can improve my work, then please, feel free. Like any Author(ess) I LOVE reviews, so please review for me, it helps me to know what you guys want to read! Other than that, buckle down for the Journey and ENJOY!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

**Lest we Forget**

**Prologue**

To the aristocratic high-end of Parisian society Christine and Raoul de Chagny were the public eye's most prized couple. So happy, so incredibly in-love, and almost everyone knew of their fairytale romance; childhood sweethearts, and young lovers at Christine's tender age of seventeen. There was no better way to put it, it simply seemed as though they were made for one another. Although, however well-versed these people thought they were on the past and present lives of their ideal couple, none of them knew of the true way in which Raoul de Changy had come to marry Christine, all they knew was that Christine Daae was a former ballet rat with the Corps de Ballet at the Opera Populaire, who mysteriously turned prima donna over-night. Though why her success was so short-lived none of them knew, and Raoul was quite content to keep it as such.

He had taken it upon himself to squash any rumours circulating Paris about Christine and his involvement with the infamous Opera Ghost, and nobody but he, Christine and Madame Giry knew of what had occurred down beneath in the cellars of the Opera house that fateful night of the Opera House fire.

The reputation of the de Chagnys could not be compromised any further, after what had happened between Raoul and his brother Philippe. Philippe had always thought Raoul was spontaneous in everything he did, with his business and with his women. Philippe had taken it upon himself to publicly express his disdain for Christine as she was in his eyes, purely not good enough for his younger brother and he had even gone as far as to try and get their marriage annulled. This immediately caused a rift between the two once-close brothers, and Raoul has never forgiven him for his treatment of Christine. Instead he gave him an ultimatum; accept Christine as his wife, or lose the only family that he had. In the end Philippe had grudgingly accepted, though he had never fully welcomed Christine into the family, and any politeness shown by him was purely in the interest of keeping the peace between he and his younger brother.

However, it was only a few short weeks after Raoul and Christine's honeymoon that a police officer come knocking on the door of the de Chagny estate.  
Officer Bonnaire had spoken quietly to Raoul before the younger de Chagny has collapsed to the ground with a cry of anguish. Philippe, who had been on a business trip, had been mugged by a band of thieves on the road, and left for dead. The coroner had said that he had died from substantial blood loss due to several knife wounds to the chest and abdomen. Raoul, who had argued with Philippe before his departure, was terribly grief-stricken and as he was now the oldest, the responsibility of running the de Chagny estate had fell upon him. Raoul did not take the news of his brother's death lightly, he became introverted and distant with Christine and all that knew him, and had buried himself deeply within the business and maintaining the good name of the de Changys. Christine rarely saw her husband anymore, the life she came to lead was not the fairytale she had imagined. When she had imagined her married life she had thought of all the wonderful things her and Raoul would do together, how they would have beautiful picnics in exotic places, how he would read to her like he had once done so long ago, how they would share their stories and make love to one another by the candlelight… in none of these visions had she ever imagines herself to be alone, but she soon came to realize that to live the life of nobility was to _be _alone…


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter One**

_Angel of Music you denied me… turning from true beauty… Angel of music do not shun me… come to your strange angel…_

**_Angel of music… _you betrayed me!**

The last few words had been spoken so clearly, that it were as though he had been right beside her bed.

Christine woke with a start, her forehead chilled by the slight perspiration forming upon her brow and her heart racing beneath her chemise. She brought her hands to her eyes and tried to bore the images, the haunting melodies out of her mind. Why must he haunt me so? A thin ray of sunlight was trickling in through the slight parting of the curtains, giving the room a serene quality that could only be achieved with the morning light. The window had been opened, Adele, their maid must have already been in this morning. She wondered what time it was as she rolled over to wake Raoul. Christine was met with empty bed, What more did you expect? The nettling voice inside her head questioned, how long has it been since you woke up in his embrace? She pushed aside these thoughts as she heard a soft knocking at the door.

"Madame, are you awake?" It was Adele, the young maid whom Christine had become quite close to. She reminded her painfully of Meg with her cheery nature, vibrant smile and pure heart.

"Yes Adele, you may come in." Christine stretched widely in a very unlady-like manner, but considering there was no-one around to see, she felt very free to do as she pleased. Adele came bustling in carry a steaming tray of delicious smelling foods.

"I brought you some breakfast Madame, you missed main breakfast this morning…"

"Adele, how many times have I told you? Please call me Christine, you make me feel so old calling me _Madame _all the time," she joked lightly.

"Yes Ma- I mean _Christine_." Adele said, placing the steaming tray upon Christine's lap. She glanced down at it, savouring the rich aromas wafting from the porridge, French toast and tea she had brought her.

"Adele, would you be able to tell me the time?" taking a bite out of her toast.

Adele promptly informed her that it was indeed very late into the day, 10:30 already. Raoul had left for a business meeting very early this morning and he had given the maids strict instructing not to disturb her, however Adele had thought that at 10:30 she might have been getting a little hungry.

"Famished." Christine giggled and Adele smiled. "Care to join me?" she asked, gesturing to the space of bed beside me. Adele's smile faded.

"Oh, no Madame that would be very inappropriate of me…"

"Nonsense," Christine cut her off, "I am inviting you…You know I get awfully lonely on my own sometimes."

"No Madame, I really shouldn't…"

Christine's face fell slightly, and Adele seemed to notice this, as she climbed ever so hesitantly upon the bed to sit beside her.

"Please, please do not tell Monsieur le Comte about this, I'm sure he would send me away." She looked fearful, "I have no where else to go."

"Adele, I assure you that Raoul shall do no such thing even if word _were_ to slip out, please, for the moment you are not my maid, you are my guest…"

And so they spent the next half hour eating out way through Christine's breakfast, although Christine noticed Adele barely touched anything. The truth was that Christine didn't want to be alone, not right now… she feared that if she were alone that grief-stricken voice would come back to haunt her, as it did in so many of her dreams…

XxXxXxX

"…over there!"

"Who? The comtess?"

"Only by marriage my dear…. filthy little Opera rat she is… how she ever managed to worm her way into fine Parisian society defeats me…"

"Surely she can not be that bad?"

"Don't let looks fool you Clarisse, there's no telling where she's been…"

"Oh, shush…here she comes!"

"Good morning Ladies, fondest greetings to you all. I hope this morning finds you well?" Christine smiled graciously at the two women; one of whom looked flustered and rather embarrassed, the other donned a cruel smirk.

"Madame le Comtess." The cruel-eyed woman sneered, giving Christine a gracious smile which turned out to look more like a grimace. _That's right, go on and smile. Pretend you weren't talking about me, _Christine mused. "How is your husband? I see he is not here with you this morning."

Christine plastered a smile on her face. "No, Raoul has business with the de Changy estate to attend to, he shall not be returning for another week or so, depending on whether his business goes smoothly. Since Philippe passed away he has had to take on numerous responsibilities." She stated matter-of-factly, despite the feelings of despair in her heart. To show weakness in front of women of this character is to commit social suicide.

"That must be very hard on you _Comtess_, I can't imagine how I'd feel if it were _my_ husband that was away all the time. You must not see a lot of him nowadays…" Christine tried to keep a passive face; this woman was truly vulgar. "It's such a pity that a husband such as yours… should be such a …. _Phantom_."

Christine's breath hitched in her lungs, as her eyes shot up to meet the woman's. _Was that a smirk on her lips? Surely she didn't know…? _The panic must have been evident on Christine's face, as the woman smiled widely, bowing her head slightly before turning to walk off; "Good day to you Comtess." Her lady friend followed in tow.

Christine was left dumb-struck, staring at the woman's retreating form. _Who was she?_

"Adele," Christine stopped her passing handmaiden. "Adele, could you please tell me who that woman is?" She pointed towards the group of ladies, describing the woman with fiery red hair, fair skin and a voluptuous purple day gown.

"That lady Madame?" she nodded. "Oh, that be the Dutchess of Cornwell my lady."

Christine nodded, "Can you tell me about her?"

Adele thought for a moment. "I don't know much my lady, only what I hear in the servants' quarters and around town gossip. Her name is Cornelia; her husband is Richard de Martineau – the Duke of Cornwell. She stems from an old family, old money, and she's a well-known purist as far as nobility is concerned_." Well that would certainly explain her dislike for me_, Christine thought grimly.

"Does she, er, ever attend the Opera?" She asked nervously. Adele's eyes brightened.

Of course, my lady, her husband was patron before Monsieur de Changny. Though," she paused, "naturally she still attends the opera; every showing I believe."

_Oh, great_, Christine gritted her teeth. "Thank-you Adele, you may continue."

_If Madame de Martineau attended the Opera Populaire frequently then of course she would know all about the scandals surrounding me, _Christine thought miserably, _Lord, I hope she was not there the night of Don Juan. _She looked over at the Dutchess, and saw to her discomfort that she was gazing steely at her. _If looks could kill._

After all the guests had left and the last dish had been cleared away, Christine sat and pondered what to do with the rest of her afternoon. Of course she had taken no pleasure whatsoever in the course of the tea party, good lord she could think of better ways of occupying her time... _actually, _Christine thought, _come to think of it, now that I'm here, that's probably not true. _Still, the vulgarity of some the women surprised her. Gone were the days when she thought Carlotta was an unbearable toad of a women, she was an angel in comparison to these women. They truly made over-dramatising, tantrum-cracking and pure unadulterated cattiness and gossip an art form! _Well, why wouldn't they be good at it? _Christine mused humorously to herself, _they do practise it pretty often!_ Christine would sooner die than willingly invite any one of them for tea again and actually _enjoy_ it.

"Oh Meg," Christine sighed, "how I wish you were here..."

"Well, then I guess the timing wasn't so bad after all."

Christine whirled around to find her life-long best friend standing in the doorway, her blonde hair glowing in the sunlight and a wide grin spread across her face.

"Meg!" Christine ran up to her friend, wrapping her arms tightly around her slender form. She smelled of everything that reminded her of home, candle wax, perfume, lantern oil and a numerous other things.

"W-what are you doing here?"

"Oh, is that the greeting you give your best friend?" Meg smiled jokingly. "I haven't seen you since you left Chrissy, can't I come and check up on you every once in a while? You haven't replaced me have you? You haven't become to good for me?"

Christine grinned. "Are you kidding? You really have no idea how vulgar the women are around here are, I honestly don't know what I'm going to do without you!"  
She hugged her best friend again for good measure, her eyes widening in shock, as the formidable countenance of her old ballet mistress, and friend appeared framed in the door way.

"Madame Giry!" Christine smiled fondly after releasing Meg from her death-like grip.

"Hello Christine, my you do look well."

Christine blushed under her gaze. Despite the fact that it had been many months since Christine had ceased being a student of Madame Giry's, she still felt her hawk-like gaze steadily watching and appraising her.

"Christine, I'll allow time for you and Megan to catch up, I have no doubt that there is much to tell. However, I must also speak with you today, in private preferably." And with that she whipped around and strode purposefully from the room.

"Well that was strange." Meg noted, before exclaiming wildly, "but who cares?"

"Come," Christine urged her to sit down. "I want to know everything about anything about everyone!"

* * *

**Author' Note: Okay, Chapter one, let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 2

Madame Giry sat thoughtfully before Christine, listening intently.

Christine chose her words carefully. "Things are not as I expected..."

"You are not happy?"

"No, I am... it's just that I thought things would be different."

"How so?"

"I don't know. It's Raoul, it's me, it's this place... I just, I don't know what I'm doing Madame Giry! I barely see my husband, he is constantly away on business, and it's changed him..."

"The stress of his brother's death-" Madame Giry began.

"I know," Christine interrupted. "I thought so too at first, I thought it was the stress of handling such a vast amount of fortune, the weight of the family name upon his shoulders, but he has been so distant with me, I fear I do not know who he is anymore."

"He is the same man who you fell in love with, my dear."

"Is he? How can you be so sure, Madame?"

For once Madame Giry could not provide an answer, how could she blatantly reassure a girl who trusted her so much? How could she lie, without certainty, and tell her everything would be alright? Christine sighed wearily. "I-I just feel so, so _isolated_. I don't fit in here." A silent tear slid down her cheek, she could taste its saltiness upon her tongue.

"Oh, shh Christine, my dear."

Christine wept silently into Madame Giry's shoulder, as she patter her back soothingly.

"I'm sorry to have to leave you like this Christine, you have been like another daughter to me, and such a loyal friend to Meg," Madame Giry embraced Christine warmly. "We will both miss you very much."

"Not as much as I'll miss you Madame." Christine wiped a tear from her eye. "I'm sure you and Meg will be very happy in London."

"It's the fresh start that I think we both need." There was no need for more words, for what they both felt, and understood went far beyond them. They had shared a mother/daughter relationship, yes, but they had also shared an understanding of a man, as dark as the night he shrouded himself him, and both had seen beyond the mask.

"H-have you…?"

"Seen him?" Madame Giry knew what plagued her thoughts. "No Christine, I have not." She sighed heavily. "I know vaguely of what occurred down there, in his lair that fateful night, but beyond that… to his whereabouts, his well being?… I know as much as you, my dear." She surveyed her adoptive daughter, noting the brown orbs filling with tears once more, the brows knitted in anguish, and the pale skin draining even paler. It was several moments before Christine ventured to speak, and when it came it was in no more than a whisper.

"I wish… I wish I could see him… one last time."

"Do you?" Christine looked up in bewilderment. Madame Giry sighed once more, placing a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

"Do not be so hasty as to stir the ghosts of the past, Christine. You think you are ready to see him, yet have you stopped to consider that although you may wish to see him, that he may wish not to see you? Or of the consequences?" Christine looked up. Madame Giry, ever the wise woman that she had known, voicing what Christine herself feared.

"You have a good man for a husband Christine, I know it, just have a little faith in him" It seemed as though she wished to say more, but there was no more to be said. Christine fully understood the implications of Madame Giry's words. She nodded.

"Yes, I do."

XxXxXxX

A week had passed since the Girys had visited, and Christine's disposition had still yet to change. It was late, and although Raoul had returned home around noon, she had only had a brief greeting with him, before he whisked himself away to meet with even more _gentlemen_. So when Christine returned to her bedchambers, she sat and thought about her husband, and the life she now found herself to lead. Christine missed Raoul's safe and pleasurable company so much, the delightful conversations they once had. Pulling a book from her bedside drawer, she flipped the pages lazily open, not to any particular place, it was only a way to pass the time, for she would wait for her husband to retire. To Christine's dismay Raoul never came to bed that night, and when she finally allowed the book to fall limply from her hand as drowsiness took over, she finally allowed herself to succumb to the infinite pleasures of sleep. Infinite pleasures were the last thing to enter Christine's mind that night.

_"..Come! Come inside! Come and see, the Devil's Child!"_

_A young Christine dressed in ballet clothes looked up fearfully at the man who towered over her. She did not like the look of this man, the way the stench clung to him like the filthy clothes he wore, his teeth were rotted in his overly slack mouth, as leered at her and her fellow ballet rats, beckoning them to see this "attraction", held within the tent. Meg looked over her shoulder. _

_"Come on Chrissy, we don't want to be left behind..." her young friend urged._

Christine's brows knit in anguish, her fingers twirling about her flaxen curls as was the habit when she was nervous. "Oh, I don't know about this Meg, I don't think we should go inside."

_The remaining ballet rats turned on her. "Oh what's the matter, Precious princess? Are you too scared to go into a tent? Are you afraid of the dark? Look, everyone! Christine's chickening out!"_

_The ballet rats all sneered and mocked her for her lack of bravery, as Christine nervously fidgeted with her hands. Suddenly Meg's voice, braver than it usually was, piped up._

_"Hey, leave her alone! She's not scared, are you Chrissy?"_

_  
She nudged her young friend, urging her to prove them wrong. Christine drew in a large, shuddering breath, and stepped inside the tent.  
It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness, but she could vaguely make out a crowd surrounding a cage. The smell was unbearable, like rotting food and faecal matter.  
The ballet rats pushed and jostled her from behind, finally shoving her through a gap in the crowd, where she found herself pushed right up against the bars. The sight that befell her almost made her dry retch. The cage, rusted and old contained copious amounts of straw, and strangely enough, bones. There were filthy rags lying about, and two bowls, one filled with dirty water, the other empty. As Christine's eyes adjusted more to the darkness, a sudden movement caught her attention. Huddled in the further most corner of the cage, as far away for the jeering and leers of the crowd as it could get, was an animal. It cowered from the constant abuse, of objects being thrown at it, and as it lifted its pitiful head, Christine gagged in horror. This was no animal, it was a young boy! Through the slits of the filthy Hessian bag pulled firmly over his head, Christine could make out the fathomless sadness in cased within those swimming orbs. Their eyes locked, and it were as though every other thing in the universe ceased to exist apart from Christine and this boy._

_"Oh, my God... Erik!" Christine whispered._

The boy crawled towards her, his hands and skin as filthy as the rags he wore, and his hair a matted mess. He grabbed the bars in front of her, hoisting his pitiful form up, so that his and Christine's eyes were level. It seemed an eternity that they stared at one another, fierce gold never leaving chocolate brown. Christine brought her hands to the bars, her pale fingers barely touching the tips Erik's, as a single tear fell from Erik's eye and disappeared behind the bag, leaving a clean streak on his grubby face. Suddenly a large shadowed figure emerged from behind Erik and tugged the young boy back from the bars.

_  
"No!" Christine cried, as the man ripped the bag from Erik's head, revealing his deformity to the mass of people crowded around his prison. _

_Women and children screamed at the sight of him; "Demon! Abhorration! Devil's Child!" Curses rang through the air, as Erik feverishly tried to hide his face from the crowd, but the man kicked him mercilessly in the ribs, sending him sprawling to the floor. The sound of a whip cracked through the air, sending a stabbing sensation through Christine's heart. She fell to the floor, gasping at the immense anguish she felt, her head spun from the pain. She gripped the bars, raising her head to look upon the pitiful form of her young angel. Christine's eyes opened even wider in horror. Erik the boy no longer sat surrounded by the immense filth, instead a fully grown and de-masked Erik sat cowering pitifully, his eyes never leaving Christine's in his silent pleas as slash upon merciless slash ripped across his already severely scared back. A crumpled newspaper fluttered across Christine's vision, as she caught the main headline; **"Phantom of the Opera apprehended?" **Christine's mouth fell open in horror. _

_"No!"_

_  
Erik looked up grimly through the iron bars, "Why Christine? Why?"_

_  
Christine screamed. "Erik!"_

"Erik!" Christine's heart thudding madly within her chest, cold sweat dripping from her face, her sheets tangled wildly around her trembling form. She gasped, fighting for breath, "Erik!" She choked out. Then throwing the blankets off her, fell from the bed and scrambled across the polished wooden floor, fleeing to the bathroom, where she was violently sick, her knuckles white as she clenched the basin sides, her body heaving with each wretched convulsion.

Christine felt terrible, her whole body trembled from the vividness of the dream, and as she splashed cold water on her face, the image of the fluttering newspaper filled her mind. _What had it said?_  
"Oh, God!" she breathed, before hastily pulling on a dressing gown and fleeing the room.


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter three. **

"Raoul? Raoul!"

Christine barged through the double doors to Raoul's study and meeting room. There were several gentlemen in tophats and pristine suits crowded around the meeting table covered with documents and briefcases; the thick stench of cigar smoke pilfered the air, creating a discernible haze. Raoul stood at the head of the table, the unfathomable surprised look adorning his aristocratic features at his wife's abrupt interruption of his meeting was replaced by high annoyance. "Christine?"

Several of the gentleman turned to look at the ungainly sight of their business partner's distressed wife.  
Raoul chuckled nervously.

"A-ha.. erm, Christine dear, what are you doing out of bed?" The servants quickly appeared in the doorway behind his wife.

"Raoul, Raoul, I must speak with you!"

"Ah, Messieurs you must excuse my wife, she is not well at the moment." He walked up to his wife as the low, nearly indiscernible rumble of dissapproval began amongst the gentlemen. He pulled his wife from the room, and in a low voice whispered, "For Goddsake Christine, what is wrong with you? What did you think you were doing interupting like that? Do you have any idea how important this business meeting is, how much you have just embarassed me in front of such important people!"

A tear stubbornly made its way down Christine's cheek and plopped onto the floor. She felt as though she were a child being scolded by an angry parent. What had happened to her husband? Suddenly it were as though the blinders had finally been taken from Christine's sight, she began to see things more clearly. _How long has Raoul been treating me like this? Since when did I cease becoming his little Lotte and began the life of a trophy, to be seen and not heard? _Christine shook her head and looked upon her husband with a new light. _Who was this man who stood before her? _

"Well?" he demanded.

"I-it's nothing. Forget about it, it can wait until another time." _It was only a dream after all. _Suddenly she felt very foolish.

Raoul glared at her, obviously her insistence that her 'interruption' was for nothing had caused him even greater annoyance, before turning on her abruptly and returning to the room. The door clicked behind him with a sense of finality.

One of the servants approached her from behind. "Madame?"

Christine turned to look at the closest thing she had to a friend at the estate, Adele. She stood with a concerned look upon her sparkling blue eyes.  
"Madame, are you alright? Christine nodded wearily.

"Are you sure?" She placed a light, comforting hand upon her shoulder. "Is there anything I can get for you? Tea perhaps?"

"Yes, thankyou Adele, tea would be lovely. Could I also have the latest newspaper please." Christine gazed out the window, trying to calm her racing heart, her ragged breathing and shattered nerves. It was mid-morning and the sun was mid-way in the sky casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. "Adele, could you bring that outside, please? I would very much like to sit in the gardens."

Adele curtsied politely, then bustled off to prepare the tea. Christine tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and ventured out through the large oak double-doors. Despite it being Spring, the sun was surprisingly warm. Christine quietly wandered through the gardens, observing the buds that were readying to bloom, and the blossoms already adorning some of the fruit tress. She found a shady spot beneath an ample sized tree, and was about to sit at the base of its trunk when her newly-found lady manners took hold, and instead she sat daintily upon a nearby garden bench.

Despite the vastness of the de Chagny estate with its many servants, gardens, stables, and quarters, Christine had soon found that the novelty of the place began to wear thin after abundant days of being social prisoner to its confines. As a comtess she was expected to be seen at all the parties and social outings, and to make an effort to create friends with the wives of important men, that Raoul may benefit from having the connections to. At the beginning Christine has felt like a princess in this fancy world of outings and parties, dazzled by the sparkling jewels, the beautiful gowns and the luxurious company. But she soon came to realise that the numerous tea-parties were just the war grounds of vicious gossip, the lavish gowns were no more than masks hiding he cruelties of the women who wore them, who one could never trust for the fear of being backstabbed at a moments notice. The people in this 'fine Parisian society' were hardly fine at all, it was a vicious circle that Christine had found herself thrown into, and the hounds were always encircling, waiting for her to slip up so they could tear her apart. The insincerity of these people made Christine sick, and she knew that half the women who kept friends in company secretly hated them and wished whole-heartedly for their demise. In this kingdom, wealth and status ruled, and for Christine being a former ballet rat and Opera 'harlot' (as was the general opinion circulating the town) was social suicide.

Christine gazed steadily around the gardens, and noted with annoyance that there were no leaves on the ground. It was just the beginning of spring, there ought to be leaves on the ground, but only vast expanses of perfectly manicured lawn spread about her, It was always the little things the Christine noticed, the little things that a casual passer-by wouldn't notice, but Christine, with the insurmountable free time she found on her hands, had too much time to ponder upon. It was the little things that bothered her the most, the lack of dust behind dressers, how whenever she purposely messed her bed up, it was always in perfect order when she returned. Nothing was ever left when Christine forgot to put it away, and when she went looking for it, it was always where it was supposed to be, stashed away in her bedside drawers, or hung neatly upon a coat hanger. Growing up in an Opera House, Christine was used to untidiness and chaos. To have a lack of it Christine found to be unnatural and quite frankly, unnerving. But it was the gardens that bothered Christine the most, and until today, the reason why this was so had eluded her. Now she looked upon them with a clarity she had not formerly possessed.

The gardens, whilst beautiful, (though Christine had never had a garden before), were too neat and confined within their dainty little planter boxes; the hedges were as straight as the very fences they represented. The trees - shaped into little balls of perfection - didn't seem right, because nothing was natural. There was no wilderness within these feeble plants; trees weren't meant to be confined to meticulous shapes... they were meant to be free! And with every day Christine spent suspended in this surreal and secluded space, the more she unwillingly felt the fire within her soul be contained, her very essence being conformed - to be a comtess, as was what society expected from her. It was, after all, her duty.

Christine's musings were interrupted by the arrival of her tea. Christine virtually snatched to paper from her grasp, frantically scanning the headlines, and then searching the obituaries. Adele frowned at this strange behaviour. Christine let a long-held sigh of relief escape her lips. There was nothing, not mention of capture, no notice of death. Nothing. The whole world was none the wiser that an Opera Ghost even existed! Adele frowned again. "Is that all madame?"

"Adele?"

"Yes Madame?"

"Do you ever wish that you were a part of this?"

Adele smiled nervously. "A part of what, Madame?"

"This." She threw her hands into the air, wildly gesturing around the lavish estate. "Do you ever wish you were a part of this society, subject to its standards, people and wealth..."

Adele sighed and thought for a moment. "No."

"No?" This answer surprised Christine. "Why ever not?"

"I have seen many things Madame, some of the most terrible ways people have treated their so-called "friends", have been revealed to me in this job. I have seen people do things, Madame, that you could not possible imagine, and I see both sides. Despite the power that comes with this life-style, the ability to make a difference in ways that matter..."

"Not even for wealth?"

"Madame, there is no denying that I do not desire wealth, what fool could say they do not? But the reasons why I desire wealth differ from those of the people you now find yourself associating with. If I desire wealth, it is only because I wish to provide a better living for my family, we are not so well-off you see." Christine nodded and thought for a moment as Adele continued.

"Everyone starts off with the best of intentions, Madame, but money? power? they corrupt the soul, and I would not trade my morals, nor the close bonds I am grateful for within my family, for this,"

Christine smiled. "You're truly one of a kind, Adele. Thank-you for being my friend."

Adele smiled and blushed a little. "Is there anything else Madame?"

"No, thankyou Adele, you have done for me more than enough."

Christine sighed and sipped her hot, sweet tea, allowing her thoughts to mull once more.

That evening Raoul decided to join his wife for dinner. He had cancelled the previously arranged business dinner plans, optioning for a quiet night in, Lord he knew he needed to de-stress. To his annoyance however, he found that Christine wasn't overjoyed at his sacrifice, on the contrary, she showed nothing but poorly contained mild surprise. _Was it really that shocking that he should wish to dine with his wife? _He shook his head disheartedly.

_Christine... Christine..._

"Christine!" Christine jumped, startled. "Christine, I've been calling your name now for several minutes." Christine blinked, the glazed look in her eyes disappearing.

"Yes?"

Raoul threw his napkin down in frustration. He was irritated by the fact that Christine wasn't listening as he told her how he managed to close an extremely important deal with the Martineuxs. Naturally she had been off in her own world. Raoul looked at her concernedly, she had not been herself lately, and he had no clue why. He knew that having to be away on business all the time was probably taking its toll on his wife, but this was not what he expected. He wanted to be able to come home, to have his wife run into his arms with the excitement of him being home, to listen to his trials about work, to relax him after the stresses of arguing with clientele and affiliates, after poring over numbers for hours on end. He wanted to be able to come home, tired and stressed and see his beautiful wife smile at him warmly, want to know about his day - he didn't want to have to fight for her attention. Something else was also bothering him, yet he couldn't remember what it was. Suddenly he recalled the incident.

"Christine, dear? What was it that you wanted to talk to me about today?"

Christine turned her gaze upon her husband, as she thought about her vivid dream, and the absence of any articles in the newspaper. "Oh, nothing Raoul. I told you to forget about it. It wasn't important."

Raoul sensed that she was bitter over his little outburst and abruptness. What she didn't understand was how important that meeting really was. God, he was under enough stress as it was without having to do damage control because of his wife's poor behaviour. This, however, was one battle that he would have to surrender and concede defeat.

"Christine, honey, I want to apologize, for earlier." he reached across the table to take up her hand. "I had no right to be so abrupt with you, especially if there was something deeply concerning you. I truly am sorry. Can you forgive me?"

Christine looked upon the face of her husband, his boyish good looks had faded into the visage of the man that sat before her.

"I forgive you, Raoul."

"Thankyou Christine, you make me very happy." he stood then, and crossed the table's length to press a lingering kiss to her forehead, then her lips.

"I'm kind of tired Raoul... perhaps I'll go and have a rest. You don't mind, do you?"

Raoul sighed. "No, of course not... but if there's anything you need, just let me know." And before he knew it, she was gone. Raoul sighed again, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He wasn't quite sure what was wrong with Christine, or indeed how to reach her. Perhaps some time away from work could do them both the world of good. He groaned resignedly and pushed his drink away, turning to face the door that Christine had just left the room through. "I love you Christine."

Christine slept fitfully again that night, her dreams were filled with haunting melodies and masked me, bloodshed and tears.

* * *

**Hope you're all enoying this fic, let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter four.**

_Angel of Music you denied me… turning from true beauty… Angel of Music do not shun me… come to your strange angel…_  
**Angel of music you betrayed me!**

Christine's eyes snapped open. The last words spoken had rung so clear that it were as though he had been right beside her bed, whispering into her ear. _The dreams are getting more livid._, she thought, taking large shuddery breaths of cold air and exhaling them slowly. The music wound about her, suffocating her under the weight of emotion and flooding her thoughts with nothing but thoughts of darkness, love, despair… thoughts of _him._ She shivered, though not from the cold, and rolled onto her side, desperately seeking some form of comfort; something Raoul had always been able to give. All she found was emptiness.

She sighed miserably, and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shivering form. It was still dark outside, with a whisper of dawn on the horizon and a cool breeze drifting in through the partially open window. She lay back down and closed her eyes, desperately trying to fight off the haunting melodies that clouded her senses. It proved to no avail, he simply would not let her rest.

She looked across at the mahogany bedside table and sighed in resignation, letting her pale hand wander across its surface before pulling the top-most draw open.

The book was still there.

She let a sigh of relief issue from her lips before pulling the book out of the drawer. She always feared that one day Raoul would wonder what the infamous black book with no title was, and attempt to read it… but thankfully that day had not come. Caressing the soft black leather, Christine attempted to make out the title once more, but it was forever lost to her; the gold lettering had faded long ago. She flicked the book open to the middle. It always opened at the middle. After all, she was the one who had cut the squares into the numerous pages of the latter half of the book. This produced a secret compartment. An inconspicuous hiding place where Christine could keep the one thing she both cherished and feared. A gold ring. But it wasn't just any gold ring, it was _his_ gold ring.

She caressed the worn band, an anguished sob escaping her lips. Her breathing calmed as she turned the band over and over in her fingers, watching mesmerized as the lights reflected dully of its surface, then ever so carefully she slipped the ring onto her finger. She admired it for a few moments, before coming to her senses and wrenching the wedding band off her finger. _What did she think she was doing?_ Christine turned hastily to put the ring back in its hiding place before reconsidering and placing it on the plain gold chain she wore around her neck. The metal felt cool against her hot skin.

She could no longer procrastinate, and with a determined look she clambered out of bed and hastily began to dress. The chill of the hallway took her by surprise, and Christine hastened to stifle a gasp before allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Although the cooks would already be awake preparing for the day's meals, the servants either hadn't lit the lamps, or they had extinguished sometime during the night. Christine hoped it was the latter, the less people around, the less people she would have to sneak past. The fewer people knew where she was going, the better. Christine didn't like the servants asking too many questions; she didn't really want to explain herself – she wasn't too sure herself exactly what she was doing.

A half an hour carriage ride and Christine found herself standing before a once familiar sight: the Opera Populaire. Christine was devastated. The beauty of the once grandiose opera house lay in blackened rubble; its golden entrance barely recognizable; the paint bubbled and grotesque, its structure a sagging and decaying mess, no more than a lifeless shell of its former glory. A tear slipped down Christine's pale cheek, knowing that this destruction was caused entirely by her._ How many people had lost their lives that night? All because of _me? A ghost of a breeze emanated from the dark hollow, pushing her curly locks back from her forehead, making her delicate skin prickle in discomfort and foreboding. There was no turning back, and with a resolute determination, she pushed open the grimy doors, creaking on their once-oiled hinges, and stepped into the gloom.

An impenetrable darkness consumed her, and Christine fought the panic rising in her chest, the urgent need to turn and flee through the door whence she came, back into the world of light where the ghosts of the past couldn't haunt and torment her. But that was a folly, Christine knew she would gain no sense of peace until she had returned to the darkness, until she was sure that there was no chance, no inkling that Erik could still be here, lurking in the shadows. It took her longer than usual to locate her old dressing room; the familiar corridors that she had grown up playing in were now disfigured and unrecognizable. On more than one occasion she thought herself to be lost, until she stumbled upon some faintly recognizable relic which gave her some bearings of direction.

When she did finally stumble upon it, her stomach almost gave way. The once finely decorated room of Prima Donnas was a ravaged wreck. The wallpaper was blackened and curled, the furniture ash-coated and collapsed. As she took her first tentative steps into the room that housed so many memories of disembodied voices, longings and desires, her heart plummeted. Upon the dresser in an extremely dusty vase there was a rose. A blood-red rose. Its stalk stood proud and tall, the thorns cut neatly from its sides to avoid injury, and a black satin ribbon adorned it stem, dark tendrils cascading down the base to fall limply by the gathered remains of wilted petals. So beautiful and velvety to the touch, they now lay shriveled, almost blackened by the ash that lay settled upon their ghostly form.

Christine could not stop her hands from shaking as she reached forward to caress the long green stem, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. She closed her eyes, her fingers tracing up and down the slender stem, the tips of her fingers entwining in the ribbon… she could almost hear her Angel's ethereal voice, laying her tumultuous soul to ease. She allowed herself these few precious moments, where the past seemed so alive… so real.. before she forced her eyes to snap open. She gasped in fright. The image of Erik stood vividly in the mirror, so real it could be no apparition. The white mask gleamed at her, so steely in its resolution, reflecting the uncovered side of his face perfectly. Those golden eyes blazed fiercely from the darkness, cold and unmoving, yet masking a thousand emotions.

Then just as he had appeared, he vanished. Christine blinked in surprise, so sure that what she had seen was real; she fought tooth and nail to hold onto the realness of the image, the fabric of her sanity, fighting the readily enveloping self-doubt that was slowly creeping its way into her mind_. He had been there! He _had_ been there!_ Or had he? The nettling voice in her mind began to whisper once more, tormenting her once more, never letting her have a moments peace.

_It's all I deserve_, she muttered darkly and resignedly to herself. And yet her heart ached painfully of regret and remorse. Oh how badly she wanted that image to be real, to have Erik watching over her. _He_ would stay with her through the night, protecting her from her guilty conscience, chasing away her nightmares with the sweetness of his voice, soothing her fears and wiping away her tears. Her own thoughts betrayed the silence of her heart… how badly she craved his strong embrace! Be it physical or vocal… only he could take this pain from her… only he… Her fingers wandered over the glass, before meeting its edges, searching for a latch, a switch… anything that would force the door to open, allowing her access to his secret kingdom of darkness and her angel, the man who could somehow, with his beautiful and ethereal voice make everything right. The mirror would not give to her incompetent hands and in desperation Christine flung herself before it, her pale fists beating mercilessly upon the glass that might as well have been stone. "Erik…!"

XxXxXxX

_Damn! Damn, damn, DAMN! You mindless fool! You ten types of fool! How could you be so blithe! _Erik cursed himself as he fled down the mirror passageway, his pace furious, yet his footsteps unbetraying of his presence, emitting the scarcest of sounds. He truly was a ghost.

_She had come back, why had she come back? Why had she come to find me? _A fragment of a hope began to blossom in his heart before Erik cruelly and quickly stamped it out. His step faltered, as his indecisiveness took hold. He had learned not to trust a hope, it was cruel and merciless; hope could tear you to shreds, leave you a weak and pitiful remnant of your former self. No, a hope could never be trusted. The sudden urge to turn around and rush to her side, to hold her once more and bring peace into those dreamy eyes was crushed by his sudden sense of pride.

_She grows tiresome of that boy_, Erik thought reasonably. _Always the indecisive and naïve child, she comes looking to her former teacher for guidance and reassurance._

"Bah!" Erik spat into the darkness, "I will not be the fool to her bidding! I will not be the puppet on her string, subject to her every whim and plea. I will be strong!" _I have to be strong. _

With a sudden clarity, Erik stopped his tirade down into the dank cellars and halted abruptly by the secret passageway concealed by the turning stone.

_What if she breaks that mirror? What if she comes looking for me? _His heart constricted painfully within his chest. He knew that if Christine were to follow him down into the depths of his pitiful hell he would know no bounds; he would never be able to let her go. She was like a drug, something he both loved and loathed. And yet, he was a slave to it. An addict of Christine. She was a toxin that he was desperately trying to be rid of, and although she had left a gaping wound upon his soul with her betrayal, he was damned if he would not try to scourge the last pitiful drop of her essence from his heart. Yes, he was an addict, but he was an addict who was discarding his morphine. No, he could not see her… he could not let her see him… he could not stay there.

_Damn you Christine for your insufferable indecision! Is it not enough to rob me of my heart and my sanity, must you now take my home! _

* * *

**A/N Aww, poor Erik. **


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter five.**

Christine sat in silence and defeat. The mirror had defeated her. Ever loyal to its creator, it had refused to yield to her, unwillingly to betray the brilliance of the mirror mechanism and allow her access to him.

"Oh, Erik." She sighed, allowing her forehead to thump lightly against the glass, her breath creating foggy patches as she breathed heavily. She was desperately trying to calm herself, she was the comtess de Changy after all. Ladies did not perform in this manner. _Good Lord, _she suddenly thought. _How long have I been here? _There were no windows in the dressing room to alert her to the time of day. For all she knew, it could be mid-morning, what would the servants say when they discovered she was not in her room? What would Raoul think if he ever found out she had returned here?

Christine blinked back the tears that threatened to succumb her vision. She gazed over at the dresser, and pulling herself off the dusty ash-covered floor, walked aimlessly to its side. She pulled open the draws one by one. They were filled with innate objects; hairbrushes, make-up, hair pieces and combs that once belonged to her vengeful rival, the dreadful La Carlotta. Just as Christine was giving up hope, she opened the last draw and found what she was looking for. There lay a scrap of parchment, a half-filled bottle of ink, and a slightly bent and misshapen pen.

She pulled forward the broken seat, and sat precariously upon its edge, testing its weight tentatively before settling in.

_Dear Erik..._

And her mind hit a blank. How could she put into words the anguish she felt every day since leaving him? How could she tell him about her dreams, how ill she felt at the thought of him coming to harm? What made her think that he would believe a single word she would write, when she had so mercilessly betrayed him and left him to the uncertain cruelty of the mob?

She did not know, and for a long time she sat, her hand poised to write until a large droplet of ink fell from the end of the pen, splotching the paper messily.

_Oh great. _She tore that section off.

_Dear Erik..._

_Until now I had been too young to know and understand what it was to love another so completely that the very absence of them makes you physically ill. But I have come to learn from my mistakes, Erik, and even though I cannot right the wrongs of the past, I know within my heart, my soul, my very being, that I will never love another as much as I love you. The past cannot be rewritten, but you have shown me the way Erik, and I have started down I path that I fear I can never return from. If by someway this missive finds you, then know that it is only you that I think of, and that I will forever be eternally sorry. I love you my Angel.  
Forever yours, Christine._

Christine paused and re-read what she had written. _It's no use, what was I thinking coming here? _Violently she tore the note to shreds and threw them in the air where the fluttered down around her, and stormed to the door. Turning back over her shoulder, she took one long last look at the place that had housed so many memories. Just as the tears threatened to envelope her, she gazed at the mirror and whispered into the dark, "I love you Erik, even if you can't hear me." And for the last time, she turned her back on the room and fled, not stopping until she reached the bustling streets outside.

A ghostly wind blew throughout the Opera house, ruffling the curtains and stirring the dust, as though the Opera House was mourning the loss of its greatest star. A small slip of paper lifted from the floor and was carried with the multitude of ash from the floor, whisked beneath a small gap of the mirror, where the darkness enveloped it.

_..."y. I love you my Angel,  
...rs, Christine..."_

_XxXxXxX _

Erik threw off his cloak in a disgruntled fashion. He picked up a vase and hurled it against a stone wall, watching with satisfaction as it shattered into a millions pieces, completely destroyed beyond repair. "Damn you Christine!" He cursed, his breathing coming in shuddery, uncontrolled gasps. _How was it that she made him feel so uncontrolled?_ Erik ran a hand through his silky black hair, looking wildly around the devastated ruins of his lair. He still had not the heart to repair the damage. He let it remain, a cold reminder of the damage his infatuation with Christine had caused, a reason never to go back to her. This was _his_ home. He had let Christine into _his_ world... and look what she had made of it! But damnit! He would _not_ make the same mistake again! His eyes darted wildly around, observing the broken mirrors, furniture and torn sheets of music.

"At least the animals hadn't the nerve to touch my beloved organ," he mused darkly. What was he to do? Why couldn't he be left in peace, to live out his days in this cold place, alone, to rot in his misery. _Could Christine even deny him that! _There was only one thing to do. Erik purposely, with fresh determination, strode across the cavern to his desk, and pulled a spare bit of parchment free from the copious amounts stored in the drawer. Dipping his pen into the infamous blood-red ink, he began writing in a feverish scrawl'

_Madame Giry,  
I must speak with you urgently.. Meet me by the Rue Scribe entrance tomorrow morning. Come alone.  
Erik._

Sealing the envelope with his signature wax skull, Erik smirked grimly to himself.

XxXxXxX

"So, Monsieur le Fantome. We meet again."

Erik nodded curtly. "Madame. I trust my letter found you well?"

"Indeed, else I would not be here." Madame Giry replied dryly.

"My visit shall only be a brief one I assure you Madame, I merely came to inform you of my removal from Paris." His abruptness could have been considered rude.

Madame Giry eyed him suspiciously, "You're leaving?"

"One could put it that way." He held a piece of parchment out to her. She read it quickly and glanced up at him.

"Ah. So the _Angel_ has clipped his wings and decided to grace humanity as what he truly is: a man."

"Do not be so blithe as to remind me, Antoinette." He growled the words.

"What do you think you'll gain by running away, Erik?" Erik's back stiffened.

"You have undeniably been somewhat of a… _friend _to me over the years Antoinette, but my personal affairs are none of your concern."

"None of my concern? None of my CONCERN!" Madame Giry was speechless. "Do you know what you did to that poor girl! You manipulated, and deceived her! You could have ruined her. You ruined us. You ruined everything that I worked to build ever since I came to this godforsaken Opera House. And I have to live with the knowledge that I allowed it to continue, I thought I could save you, change you…"

"Nothing can save me Madame. I am a monster as Christine so _eloquently_ put it, and a murderer, undeserving of love. Humanity has already twisted me enough, so that the grotesqueness of my soul goes far beyond the scarring of _this –_" he pointed a finger viciously at his face. "Now I am a monster in whole."

"You've seen terrible things, yes. I know! I was _there_, Erik, or have you so readily forgotten? But I, and humanity have shown you kindness, yet you are so consumed by your pain and the suffering you've experienced that you refuse to see it!

"Kindness! Was it kindness Christine showed me, when she revealed my face to the world!"

"She was naïve! And you frightened her Erik! My God, Christine still laments for an Angel that never existed!"

"I'm sure the Comte would not approve…" Erik stated dryly. Madame Giry's head shot up.

"Bah!" Erik barked, choosing to forget his near encounter with Christine the previous day. "Do not be so foolish as to think I would follow her Madame. I have not seen her, nor the Comte for that matter. She made her decision when she left with that _boy_ – and left me to rot in my misery!" He spat the words viciously. "No… she made her choice, the past cannot be undone and I see no reason for me to… _interfere…_ with her life any longer."

"Yet you will leave her with the burden of your 'death' upon her shoulders? Where is the logic in that Erik, tell me!"

"There is no other way," he said forcibly. "I will not have her come for me when she is no longer satisfied with her precious comte!" He paused. "No, you will post exactly what I have written there in the morning Epoque, I'm sure it shall give the towns people some… _peace of mind_, knowing that I am dead.

Madame Giry glared at him. Few people would have the nerve to stand up to the Phantom of the Opera, but Madame Giry knew the man behind the mask. Her back stiffened.  
"Where shall you go?"

"Abroad." His answer was curt, and an eerie politeness had crept back into his voice. When Madame Giry failed to respond he ventured further. "I do not wish to tell you my precise location; I fear that you may… _disclose_ my whereabouts to Christine if she should ask. No, to her, to you, to the world, I am dead." Silence followed.

"Very well, if that is how you wish it…"

"It is."

"I see. Well Erik, it has come to this; a parting of ways. I wish you better fortune in the future." She extended her hand to him.

He took it with a swift shake. "And to you, Antoinette," and with a brief nod, he spun around on his heel and walked off into the enveloping darkness, making no sound bar the faint whispering of his cloak skimming the ground. A true as though he were a specter of the night himself; he truly was a ghost.

"Farewell… Erik."

* * *

**A/N Okay, getting more into the plot now. R/R!**


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter six.**

When Christine returned from the Opera House, she paid the carriage driver a copious amount of money to keep the destination of her morning's outing a secret. Knowing Raoul, he would most likely double check with him, to confirm that Christine had indeed not returned to the Opera House. It was his biggest fear. Christine knew she should feel guilt over this conspired deception of her husband, but truthfully she knew that he was all the better off not knowing, it would only cause more problems in their already shaky marriage. If Christine was to spend time with Raoul, as their time together nowadays was so preciously little, she couldn't bear the weight of what she had done standing between them.

Christine quietly padded up the steps to the large oak double doors, looking about her as she did, hoping not to be spotted. When she was sure the coast was clear, she quietly slipped inside the foyer, carefull to close the door softly behind her. She had barely made it halfway across the entrance hall when she was spotted.

"Madame de Changny!" Adele's high pitched voice reverberated chillingly throughout the entrance hall. Christine hastily signalled for her to be quiet, before padding quietly over to her.

"Madame de Chagny, if it is not so rude to enquire... where have you been?"

Christine gifted her a lopsided grin. "Shh, Adele. It does not matter, I have simply been for a drive. Has Raoul left the manor yet?"

Adele mutely shook her head. "Oh no Ma'am. When he saw that you were not in your rooms this morning, he made sure to cancel all his morning apointments until you returned. He has been pacing frantically, he demanded I tell him where you were! B-But I didn't know madame... he got angry with me!"

"It's alright Adele, you need not worry." Christine sighed. _Oh dear. _"Where is my husband now?"

"In the library ma'am."

Christine dismissed Adele and made her way towards the library. She greeted many servants on her way, as they bustled past her, attending to the daily chores. Soon she came face to face with library door. She knocked softly upon the wood... once... twice... she was about to knock a third time, when she heard Raoul's distinct and very distressed voice call out; "I said I was not to be disturbed!"

"Raoul, honey, it's Christine."

There was a loud thud from within the room, as though someone had tripped over an item of furniture in their rush to get to the door, before the door was wrenched violently open.

"Christine!" Raoul exclaimed, tugging Christine into his arms and burying his face in the crook of her neck. He held her at arms length. "Where is God's name have you been?"

"I'm so sorry to have worried you Raoul, I only went for a drive, I didn't think-"

"Didn't think? Didn't think what Christine? Didn't think that I would notice that my wife's missing?"

He looked pleadingly and desperately into her eyes, craving an answer of which Christine could not give. She looked up into his face, noticing the deepening wrinkles in his brow from concetration, the fine stress wrinkles around his eyes.

"What's happening to us Christine? How did we get like this?"

Christine knew. She knew that they had begun this downward spiral ever since Raoul had been obligated to take over the de Changny estate. Ever since Phillipe died. Or perhaps it goes beyond that. Perhaps they were always on borrowed time, that Christine had always been on borrowed time, but had been too foolish to realise it.

She shook her head. "I don't know Raoul. I don't know."

Just then there was a knock at the door. Raoul's eyes remained firmly locked on Christine's as she gave him a gentle smile and went to answer the door. One of the servants, a brusk women of whom Christine did not know the name of, stepped through the doorway.

"Monsieur, Madame, there is a lady who just arrived."

"Who is it?" Raoul asked irritably. Clearly he still wanted to converse with his wife in private.

"A 'Madame Giry' Monsieur."

Christine's eyes lit up and she squealed delightedly. "Madame Giry? She's here now?"

"Yes Madame."

Christine turned to look at Raoul, a wide grin plastered on her face. "Oh, Go on," he sighed.

In the most lady-like manner she could manage, Christine sprinted from the room.

XxXxXxX

"Adele, could you bring some tea to the sun-room, please?" Christine called the her servant as she passed her in the hallway.

"Certainly madame."

When Christine finally discovered Madame Giry waiting patiently for her in the foyer, she delightedly threw her arms around her old ballet mistress.

"Oh, Madame Giry, it's wonderful too see you again, and so soon!"

She escorted Madame Giry to the sun room, where the tea arrived shortly after.

"I take it Madame, that yours and Meg's plans to move to London are still in place?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, Christine, we're leaving tomorrow."

"T-tomorrow?" Christine nearly choked on her tea.

Madame Giry nodded silently, sipping her tea quietly. For a few minutes the former teacher and pupil sat in the sunlight, quietly contemplating what this separation will mean for the both tof them, before Christine slammed her tea down, breaking the peacefulness.Suddenly.

"There's something I need to tell you Madame, but you must swear to me that you will not betray a word I have said to Raoul." Madame Giry nodded mutely, she would wait and hear what it was that was troubling this precious girl. Christine suddenly began to tremble. and when she was spoke, it was in barely a whisper.

"I-I went back, Madame." Madame Giry stared at her in bewilderment. "I went back to the Opera House."

"Oh, Christine..." Madame Giry breathed.

"I know, I know! I shouldn't have gone back, I know that Madame. But, I couldn't help myself. I needed to know. I-I needed to know if he was there, I needed to know that he was safe, and alright. I just... I just needed to know, Madame! Surely you of all people would understand that?"

Madame Giry sighed in heart-break and dismay. Suddenly it all made sense, Erik's sudden and furious desire to leave Paris, he _had s_een her.

"And... I-I saw him, Madame, I saw Erik!"

"You what?"

"I swear to you, it's true. He appeared to me, in the mirror ,and then he was gone, but I swear it was no illusion! He was real!" Christine's words had become more frantic, and the utter desperation in her eyes nearly brought Madame Giry's resolve crumbling down around her.

Christine bowed her head and whispered dejectedly, "he was there, Madame, he was there right in front on me, just beyond the glass. I know he was there; I could feel him."

Madame Giry sighed in dismay of what she was about the say, the unforgiveable lie she was about to tell. The time had come.

"That's impossible Christine," she whispered gently.

"W-What do you mean?"

Madame Giry stood and turned solemnly to Christine, unfolding the morning paper she held tucked under her arm and placing it flat open upon the table. Christine looked up in pure and utter bewilderment.

"Read and you'll understand."

Madame Giry paced the room, finally settling in a spot by the window as Christine scanned the pages of the _Epoque. It really was a beautiful day. _The sound of breaking china pierced the eeiry silence shorlty after, and Madame Giry closed her eyes in resignation, an utterly defeated sigh escaping her lips. _Curse you Erik._

"Madame Giry… it… it cannot be…" The paper fluttered to the floor, the heading **"_Phantom of the Opera - proclaimed dead_." **was barely visible. Madame Giry turned to look upon the ghostly-white face of her adoptive daughter.

"Why? When?" Tears began to fall heavily from Christine's brown eyes, as anguished sob after anguished sob wracked her body. _Curse you Erik for putting her through this._

"He can't be… he c-can't be dead! Why? W-why did he…leave…me!" Madame Giry placed firm arms around Christine's shoulders. "H-he promised he'd never leave me!"

"Hush my child… " She stroked her hair, desperately trying to comfort her and calm her shaking nerves. She hadn't realized how hard Christine would take the news that her angel, her guardian and former friend was dead. But no amount of soothing words, no amount of condolences would ever repair the gaping wound in Christine's heart; her entire world was falling about her in those few moments, a life-time of dreams scattered in the wind, as a howling and tormenting rage befell her.

She couldn't take this, it wasn't real; _it has to be a mistake! Erik couldn't possibly be dead! He couldn't! He just couldn't! Curse you Madame Giry for telling me this terrible lie! Why would you try and hurt me like this? How_ could_ you_!

Violently she jerked away from Madame Giry's seemingly comforting arms and stormed upstairs in a flurry of skirts, curses and tears. Numbly she heard Madame Giry's protests and bewildered calls after her, but they fell upon deaf ears. Her thoughts were utterly drowned by a cascade of unbearably tormenting music, the very cruelty of man-kind, the world! Was crashing upon her senses with waves of fury… Don Juan echoed relentlessly around her mind… her heart truly felt as though it had been torn in two… And yet when she finally burst through the door to her bedchambers everything stilled, like the eye of a hurricane, so deceptively peaceful, yet still on the edge of horrendous destruction.

Before her resided her full-length mirror, it seemed out of place somehow. _How ironic!_ Christine thought wildly, her eyes streaming furious tears. _Even an innate object such as a mirror stands to ridicule me!_

The cold glass stood mockingly before her, tormenting her thoughts with the reflection of herself, the memory of her angel. She stared at herself in horror, the pale lifeless skin hung heavily from her cheeks, making her look at least 15 years older than her time. Her hair hung lifeless and limp around her shoulders. No longer the sleek and shiny gossamer curls that bounced with life and vitality, they simple hung, like old and matted curtains framing her ghostly, dead-pan face. Her eyes were red and puffy, no light shone from within those brown orbs, they were as dark and dank as the hell in which she had cursed her beloved angel to.

_Look at yourself Christine… _The mirror whispered mockingly to her. _See what you've created, the penance for your wicked crimes…_

"Shut up!" Christine screamed, flinging herself before the mirror, her small hands hammering against the unforgiving glass. "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

The mirror smashed, sending shards in all directions and small splinters of glass driving themselves deep within her creamy palms, the blood a stark contrast to her pale skin. And strangely enough, Christine didn't feel a thing. It was a welcomed pain, really, some outlet for the terrible and insurmountable grief she found herself howling into the empty room. It was the final straw as she collapsed in a quivering, wretched pile before the broken mirror.

"You promised Erik! You promised you'd never leave me! YOU PROMISED!"

"_As did you Christine,"_ the empty room whispered mockingly_, "as did you…"_

* * *

**A/N Ah, the angst! Review!**


	8. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter seven. **

"Christine?" There was a loud knock on the door. "Christine!" it had been hours since anyone had bothered to disturb her.

Raoul stood outside the bedroom door, his voice becoming louder and more insistent, and his knocking upon the door more persistent. Christine offered no reply, she was so deeply consumed by her thoughts that it were as though he didn't even exist. The rift between them had grown a little wider. She sat huddled in her bedclothes, the gold ring still hanging symbolically from her chest, which rose and fell with her slightly uneven breathing. If one couldn't hear the commotion out in the hallway one would think this was a peaceful setting, but a loud CRASH emanated from the doorway. The trance was broken, and Christine's eyes swivelled quickly in their sockets. He formed an almost impressive visage, standing there in the broken-down door's stead; the lamps from the hallway casting eerie shadows across his aristocratic features.

"Christine!" he cried exasperatedly.

Christine barely seemed to take in his presence. He took a few moments to survey the room, and his wife lying huddled on the bed. The blood, dried and splattered on her hands, still yet to be cleaned up was what he noticed first. The obvious lack of self care; her hair tangled and mussed, and her eyes puffy, weary and blood-shot. Her skin had become so pale; he had never seen it this pale before. It no longer possessed the milky quality, but had become drained and translucent, as though the life within her had left on the wings of her Angel. He shuddered at the resemblance.

"Christine! What are you doing to yourself! I will not allow this to go on any longer!" He would have been better off yelling his frustrations at a brick wall for all the good trying to talk to Christine did.

"For Gods sake Christine, look at me!" Her eyes slowly dragged her gaze to fall upon her husband.

"What are you doing! What do you think you'll accomplish by rotting away in this room?" No answer.

"My God, Christine! You don't eat, you barely sleep, my god, it is as though you are dead!"

"Perhaps I am." Her voice came as a hoarse whisper from lack of use.

"What ever this _Angel_ of yours was, he was, in reality nothing more than an insane and disillusioned man."

"You're wrong…"

"Am I? The last time I checked, sane people didn't live in dank cesspools under an Opera House, abducting young girls from behind mirrors and murdering innocent people for no apparent reason! Listen to reason, Christine!"

"There is no reason, nor logic left in the world."

"Do you not see what he has done to you? He's brainwashed you, made you-"

"Why don't you just go on and say it?" Christine snapped, her eyes suddenly full of fury. "Go on! Say it! Say you're glad he's dead!"

"Christine…"

"SAY IT!"

"Christine…!"

"SAY IT!"

"Alright!" Raoul practically shouted the word. "I'm glad he's dead, but not nearly glad enough! There, are you happy? Believe me when I say, Christine, that nothing would bring me greater pleasure that to be able to say that it was _I_ who did away with him! A crude, vulgar, psychopathic murderer! Who would miss such a _creature! _I'd be doing the world a favour! Ugly, twisted Evi-"

A sharp slap cut the air. Christine stood there, her small frame quivering with rage and her pale hands clenched into fists by her sides. A look a pure shock was chased quickly from Raoul's face to be replaced by utter bewilderment. He stared angrily at Christine, resentment and jealousy for the man who had murdered so often, and without remorse; the man who has occupied the thoughts of his wife for too long clouded his vision.

"Adele!" He yelled for the hand-maid, without allowing his eyes to leave Christine's.

Adele appeared swiftly in the doorway, a small look of shock at the scene quickly and professionally wiped from her face. "Yes Monsieur?"

When Raoul finally spoke, his voice was hard and levelled; Christine was reminded forcibly of Erik. "Madame Christine wishes to clean herself. Help her." And with that he stalked from the room.

XxXxXxX

SMASH! Raoul yelled in fury as the brandy glass shattered against the library door. _How could he…? Why does she…? _Wild and unanswerable questions bombarded his aching brain. _Why? Why Christine? How could you? Why, why, WHY! _He dragged his hand through his dishevelled hair, almost attempting to yank it from its roots, he was pulling so hard. The pain made him feel a little better; an outlet for all the anguish he felt.

_This was not the way it was supposed to be! _He rested his head in his hands, desperately searching for a moment, a singular moment in time when everything had begun to fall apart. We he had ceased living and begun existing. He opened his eyes blearily, and caught the dull reflections of light glinting off the band adorning the fourth finger on his left hand. His wedding ring.

_What I have given up for you Christine. _His gaze fell to the floor, where a smashed picture frame resided. Two young men smiled cheerfully from the faded black-and-white photo, encapsulated in time; forever young and carefree. _Oh, my poor brother. _The glass was fractured in several places from Raoul's outburst, a large crack run up the length of the frame, splitting the brothers in two - so like the rift that had formed between them. Raoul could take no more, no more of this hurt, his life was not supposed to be like this and he collapsed with an anguished cry, allowing the tears to fall fast and heavy until he thought he could cry no more. Emotionally drained, he passed into a fitful sleep filled with masked men and childhood memories.

XxXxXxX

After Christine had forcibly been bathed, she dismissed Adele with none of the politeness nor gestures of friendship she had shown the young girl in the past, and the girl had reproachfully, albeit slowly left the room, much like a dog leaves with its tail between its legs when it has been told off. Now Christine wandered around the de Chagny manor aimlessly; its halls empty and hollow – a shallow reflection upon the young woman herself. The manor itself was far too big, _why would anyone need such a large house?_

She passed empty room after empty room, her footsteps padding softly on the rich carpet, no more than a ghost. As she passed the room at the very end of the hallway she stopped silently. This was her favourite room. It was the room that had the most beautiful view of all the rooms in the manor. Polished wooden floorboards reflected the moonlight that shone through the gap in the curtains – billowing in what seemed to be a non-existent wind.

The window had been left open and Christine crept silently towards it, peering out over the rich gardens of the estate. The moon was full and basked the grounds in a silvery light, making the shadows crisp and defined and the landscape before her appear other-worldly. She shivered slightly as a faint breeze was enticed through the window to caress the soft skin of her bare shoulder. The wind whistled through the trees, the leaves whispering a forgotten song of times now past. How strange… that the earth seems to have a voice of its own – in the wind. When it is angry the wind will howl, when it is silent the wind will cease to blow, and yet here it was… gracing the land with its deft and gentle touch – it was at peace. Christine wished she could feel the same, at peace. But truth be told she was not, and everyday she spent within the stifling confinements of the de Chagny manor, the more the wind would howl like the turmoil in her heart.

Beneath the window a flower box was mounted, and Christine noticed with surprise that it was planted with rich and beautiful red roses. They were in bloom, their delicate petals unfolding in what will be a dazzling display. She reached out one delicate finger to stroke its velvety petals before reaching toward the base and snapping the rose clear from its stem. She sat and stared at it in wonder, as though she had never seen anything so beautiful, and closed her eyes, bringing the rose to her face, breathing in its rich scent and allowing the petals to caress her face. The wind howled. _Christine…_Christine's eyes snapped open, _surely it couldn't be_. She peered urgently over the window, searching the ground for anything, the swish of a cape, the glint of a white mask, staring at her from within the shadows. But all she saw was garden. Defeated, she sat back on the window seat, the wind ruffling her curls. A silent tear slid down her face and fell upon the rose. _Please, _she begged to the heavens, _you've taken him from me, so please let me go. Let me forget him… It hurts too much. Please help me forget him…_More tears slid down her face as her anguish took over her. She crumpled the rose in her fingers and allowed it to fall to the floor, _no more than distant memories, _and fled from the room.

XxXxXxX

It was raining heavily; rather unusual for this time of year. The rain fell heavy against the windows as the sky outside darkened to a gun metal grey and rumbled its disapproval. Raoul sat up from his crumpled position on the library floor, his neck and back aching. The fire had long ago extinguished, and he cursed the maids for not sending somebody to tend to it.

_Probably thought it was best they stay away, _he mused darkly. His head ached terribly as he caught sight of the brandy bottle, standing almost stoically and menacingly upon the glass table top, mocking him for his foolishness. Those 'few stiff shots' he had decided to take ended up draining over half the previously full bottle as Raoul sat, with head slumped in front of the fireplace.

_Hadn't he been a good husband? _Raoul sat and contemplated this. As he thought back over the two years that he and Christine had been married, looking for a singular moment in time when things had begun to fall apart, he was appalled to find that the memory of business partners, successful deals, business trips and all the nights he'd spent away from Christine, alone, dominated. He had never stopped and realised just how distant they had grown apart. How could he have so callously given no consideration to the devastating impact this would have had upon Christine? His Christine. Suddenly Raoul found himself full of self-contempt. He had driven Christine away from him, back into the memories of that monster. How could he have neglected his only family, swept aside an old love for a new and exciting one; money?

Suddenly he found himself in a state of claustrophobia, trapped in this library with only his thought to torment him cruelly. He staggered out into the hallway, the rain still beating down upon the roof relentlessly, as he stumbled the corridors until he came to a room. That room. Raoul gulped and stepped inside. The curtains stood limp and lifeless on their rungs, the polished floorboards dappled with the reflection of the spattered windows. The walls were painted a light shade of baby blue, a music box lay upon the table on the far side of the wall and Raoul stumbled over to it, lifting its lid ever so carefully. A tune, a beautiful tune, filled with sorrow floated out from the box and reached Raoul's ears. He could almost hear the longing words… _Masquerade… paper faces on parade… Masquerade… hide your face so the world will never find you… _

Raoul stared wistfully out the window as the memories enveloped him. _Christine's shining performance in Hannibal, the day that Raoul had been re-united with her once more… Their first kiss upon the rooftop as snow gently caressed her chocolate locks… the feel of her lips on his… the Masquerade Ball… their engagement… The Phantom appearing at the top of the stairs, dressed in a menacing costume in shades of scarlet with a death's head. _Raoul grew angry at this thought. _The Phantom ripping his engagement ring from Christine's neck… fighting him in the cemetery… watching his beloved be seduced once more by him during Don Juan… following him to the depths of the Opera house… the feel of the noose around his neck… His beloved kissing that demon… _At this Raoul threw the music box across the room, where it skidded to a halt as it hit the wall. His eyes followed it, stopping once it slid across the window. _What was that?_ He shuffled forward on his hands and knees towards the window sill, where he picked up a wilted object. A rose. A red rose. _One of His roses!_ Raoul scowled at the flower,_ so Christine still laments her Angel? _Raoul's heart broke a little, as angry tears enveloped his eyes.As the tears spilled down his face, a tune, as though to mock him began to play in the background.

The music box had fallen open, and its tune waned scornfully; _Look around, there's another mask behind you… _A lightning bolt suddenly illuminated the sky.

"How can I win against a ghost?" he shouted to no-one and to everyone, craving an answer.


	9. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter eight.**

_One month later._

When Christine had requested that Raoul allow her to return to the Opera House and pay her last respects to her Angel, he became enraged and denied her swiftly.

"No! Absolutely not, Christine!"

Christine balled her small fists, ready to violently snap back at him.

"After what the Monster did to us? How can you even think of returning there? It's not safe! No, I forbid you to go back there."

"You cannot stop me Raoul!"

"Damnit Christine! You will not cross me on this!"

And with that he stormed from the room, slamming the door on his way out.

When Christine attempted to defy her husband's orders, she was informed by the carriage driver that Monsieur de Changy had demanded that no carriage of his was to grant her passage, and she stormed back angrily inside. _Damn you, Raoul! _That night she shut herself away in her bedchambers, refusing food and company from anyway, especially Raoul.

When morning came Christine woke to find that Raoul was not beside her. It had ceased to surprise, or worry her a long time ago, she had simply ceased expecting to see him there in the mornings, it was so rare that he even came to bed. The storm from the night before had cleared, leaving a wonderfully fresh and clear morning, the sun shining and the birds chirping in the nearby trees. But for all Christine cared, it could have been raining fire and ash, in fact it would be a better representation of the utter anger and anguish she felt within her. The birds, the sun, the fresh clear morning; they brought her no joy, and she sadly wondered whether she would ever feel joy again. She looked through the gap in the curtains and smiled sadly. _If only you were alive, Erik. _

Christine didn't know why she should feel this way, it was not as if he would have even known of such a glorious morning, or indeed taken any enjoyment in it, he would have remained, hidden in the darkness of his secluded, underground world. Christine's stomach lurched at the thought of her angel, cold and alone in those dank caverns, with nothing but his utter loneliness to keep him company. There was an unbearable weight building in Christine's chest, begging for release. Suddenly Christine saw, with an unusual clarity the reason for such a beautiful morning. _He wants me to sing... I must sing Erik's requiem. _

She rose from the bed in a dream-like fashion, pulling the curtains and the windows open, allowing the cool breeze to grace her warmed sin. Suddenly anticipation took hold as she opened her mouth a little, cleared her airways and let a small note escape from her lips. From then on she was lost to the music, as she had craved to sing for so long, this release was wondrous, for both her and Erik. She sang a song that her Angel had taught her, it was by no means a traditional requiem, but in every way it was devoted to Erik. It was a song of love, and loss, tragedy and triumph, but Christine knew now that fairytales and happy endings were just useless dreams and wishes never granted. They existed only in story books for young children who knew no better. The heavens itself seemed to listen in anticipation, as the birds joined in her melody. A pearly tear slid down her cheek as the memories of her Angel plagued her. It was true that Erik had been many things, a murdered, a deceiver, but to Christine he was no more than a tormented soul, and she had seen the beauty that lay within him, and the terror. The devotion and love which it seemed he saved only for her... She would miss him till the day she died, love him... he was all she'd ever had for years...

A door slammed loudly and abruptly behind her. Her song faltered.

"What the hell do you think you are doing!" Raoul yelled, his face flushed with anger, and what appeared to be sweat. He must have heard her in the gardens and rushed to put a stop to it.

"Raoul… I…. I was just…." Christine attempted weakly to explain.

"You were singing!"

"Yes.. but I…"

"You were singing one of _His _songs!" Raoul virtually spat the words out. Christine couldn't deny it.

"You were singing _for _Him, weren't you!" Again, silence. Raoul ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. _How did it come to this?_

"Why can't you just let him go, Christine? He's dead and yet you hang to him like he's a real being of flesh and blood. I'm here Christine! I'm the one who's still here! And I have given you everything, EVERYTHING! What has he given you beside death and destruction!" Raoul's eyes were frantic. He stared at Christine as she mumbled something incoherent. "Well?"

"He… he gave me music…"

Raoul stood deathly silent, his face re-composing itself and hardening. Christine waited silently, her eyes downcast, fearful to look at her husband. Suddenly Raoul crossed the distance between the two of them, and gripped her roughly by the shoulders, "I won't have my wife chasing a ghost!" and with that he kissed her, hard and rough, bruising her lips; nothing at all like the kisses he had bestowed on her, it were as though he were possessed. He ended the kiss harshly and grabbed her arm, "come on, we're leaving."

"R-Raoul!" Christine protested. "Raoul, what are you doing? Let go of me!"

"Adele!" Raoul shouted for Christine's hand maid, dragging her from room to room in his search, "Adele!"

The hand maid swept into the room in a flurry of skirts, a duster in her hand. "Yes monsieur?"

She looked nervously from Raoul's angry, flustered face, to the tight grip he had on Christine's arm, to the pained look in Christine's eyes. "Is everything all right monsieur?"

Raoul ignored the enquiry. "I want you to go upstairs and pack a suitcase for Christine, include enough clothes to last a few weeks, but don't bother with any personal items." Raoul barked at her.

When Adele didn't moved for the look Christine had given her, Raoul gave her a rough push towards the stairs, "Now!"

"Raoul! I'm not going anywhere! Let me go!" Christine cried angrily.

"Lucian!" Raoul now called for his manservant.

"Yes Monsieur?" Lucian appeared almost immediately. Christine had a feeling he had heard the dispute and had been eavesdropping near by.

"Lucian," he said, walking over to the desk and scribbling a brief missive on a spare piece of parchment. "I want you to take this to Monsieur Ettiene now, tell him that I will be out of the country for several weeks, and that this is the address he is to forward any important business documents or articles that need my attention." Lucian turned to leave. "Oh, and Lucian?"

"Yes monsieur?"

"Keep this to yourself for the time being."

Christine looked around her in a panicky fashion. _Did he say out of the country?_

XxXxXxX

Raoul had been true to his word, forcing Christine into a carriage that would take them to the train station, that very night they boarded a train that would take them to the French coast, where they would board a boat for England. Christine had fought him all the way, making a spectacle of Raoul and herself in the train station lobby; Raoul's grip had never lessened on her arm, and Christine was sure, judging by the maniacal gleam in his eye, that he had temporarily lost his mind! Raoul paid heftily for a private compartment away from prying eyes, and with the right price, his wish was granted. Christine looked about her fearfully. Could no-one see that she was being escorted, _kidnapped_ even, by a madman! No, they took one look at the wedding bands adorning their hands and decided this was a domestic quarrel; a lover's tiff. In the end Christine had stopped fighting. There was no way to snap Raoul out of his ridiculous frenzy; he had to play it out. _It was easier if you didn't fight._

_The sooner we get out of Paris, the better _Raoul had thought. He, however, didn't understand. Christine looked morosely out the window of the speeding train. The storm clouds had returned and the rain once again fell against the windows, it's steady patter almost hypnotic. _How ironic, _Christine thought bitterly, watching the blurred outlines of the country side whip past. _I have managed to destroy the two men I have loved most dearly in my life. _

She looked over at the near-sleeping form of her husband, and for the first time noticed the fine lines of stress around his eyes, and the few grey hairs that appeared throughout his fine, golden hair. _Poor Raoul, _she thought,_ still a boy at heart... he doesn't understand. The problem doesn't lie in Paris... it lies within me... _And with that she allowed her head to loll back against the seat and close her eyes; welcoming the sweet bliss of sleep.

It was storming terribly by the time the train pulled in the little sea-faring town. Christine pulled her cloak around her small form tightly, trying desperately to fight off the sheets of rain and cold wind that pummelled her and the other passengers as they stepped off the train.

Raoul grabbed her hand impatiently, "Come now Christine, we must get a move on…" She could tell he was anxious, but as they neared the docks, Christine looked at the small boat and tumultuous water that seemed to engulf it.

"Raoul…" She asked worriedly.

"Yes my dear?"

"Surely we're not going to set sail in that thing… tonight?" Raoul shifted his gaze to the boat and the merciless waves crashing upon its deck. He frowned.

"No… I," he paused to consider his options; even he didn't like the look of that vessels chances out in the open sea. "No, I shall think not… not to worry, I'm sure we can find suitable accommodation for the night."

The accommodation they managed to find was not suited for the likes a Comte and Comtess. When they had stumbled into the local inn looking bedraggled in their soaked clothes, lugging their luggage behind them, the man behind the bar counter had offered them a room above the inn for the night. Raoul had gladly accepted, thankful to be out of the downpour, and anxious to get into some dry clothes. As he dragged the luggage in through the door, Christine peered nervously inside. The room was small, but not as small as she was used to, having grown up within the Opera house dormitories. It consisted of scuffed wooden floorboards, a scrubbed wooden table and two roughly cut chairs, a sofa that had holes in it and a worn, and slightly sagging bed by the corner. Thankfully the room had its own bathroom; a small area consisting of a wash basin, a tub and toilet. Raoul turned around to look at her. _She looks frozen! _He thought worriedly, and walked over to embrace her in an effort to warm her up. Christine stopped him midway.

"If you'll excuse me Raoul, I'm going to have a bath and clean myself up." She spoke with a dry-cut politeness that baffled him, as he watched her form slip through into the bathroom, and the door close behind her. He heard the dull clicking of the latch falling into place. _Doesn't she appreciate anything I'm doing for her?_

Christine drew herself a bath, stripped down and allowed her tired body to be enveloped within the warm water. It was a small luxury, but a heavenly one. She pulled a small bar of soap from within her bag, and began rubbing the rose scented foam into her hair, washing away the oiliness and grime that had accumulated with travel. Rinsing her hair, she allowed herself to sink even deeper under the bubbles. She was completely at peace until she heard the irritable knocking on the bathroom door. _Thank god I put the latch on. _She didn't know why, but she felt that if Raoul were to walk in on her like she was now, she would feel extremely embarrassed.

"Christine!" No answer. Raoul sighed irritably. "Christine if you're still in there I'm going downstairs to get a drink." Still no answer. He gave up pounding on the door, and left the room. Christine waited until she heard the sound of his dying footsteps down the hallway before she allowed herself to breath.

Over the past two year things had changed, with Raoul gone for so long all the time she had only begun to realize just how much. There was no denying that she had loved him dearly all those years ago, he had been her safety and provided her with a gentle love, and promises of a fairytale life. At the age of sixteen, this was all she had ever wanted. But it was times like these, and they occurred more than ever that she just wished for _more. _More than the life of a comtess, which Christine found difficult, yet boring, challenging and unsatisfying all at the same time. She often found herself wondering _what am I doing here? _At the age of 18, and after nearly two years of marriage, the pressure was also on Christine to bear Raoul an heir. A year ago she would have been content to be a wife to Raoul and a mother to their child, but now more than ever she wondered if she made the right choice. At first hers and Raoul's marriage had been exciting and sensual, full of love and adoration, they had tried often and on numerous occasion to conceive a child, but it just never happened, and soon after Philippe's death and Raoul having to take on the family business, she felt as though she had ceased to amuse him anymore. With nothing around the manor to do, and her music career long dead Christine felt, in a way, useless. These days she found herself avoiding him as much as possible, and dreaming even more of the Angel she had left behind…. _Her_ angel.

XxXxXxX

Christine woke with a start, choking on the water as she took quick, spluttered breaths. She had fallen asleep in the bath, and gasped as the icy water swirled about her. She had been dreaming of him… dreaming of his seductive voice drawing her into his arms… only this time she had gone willingly. Christine shook her head and clambered out of the bath, searching around the dark room for her dressing robe, as the candle had burnt out long ago. She shivered against the frigid air of the room, and fumbled with the latch on the door. There were no candles in the main bedroom, but a faint glow was cast by an oil lamp placed on the scuffed table. _That hadn't been there before. _She cast a nervous glance around the room, checking to make sure she was alone. She was. Not even Raoul was there, and she wondered where he might be. Shaking herself she concluded that the owner of the Inn must have been in to deliver the lamp. _Now I'm really glad I did put the latch on, _she mused silently. She pulled back the sheets on the bed, the blankets were musty and moth eaten, but for the life of her Christine didn't care, as she collapsed in an exhausted pile and fell almost instantly into sleep.

Something hot swept across her face… Christine stirred slightly, the hairs on her neck prickling uncomfortably. A whisper of air tickled her ear, she sighed before warning lights went off in her head. A pungent odour drifted towards her… it smelt strongly of smoke and alcohol, cheap rum to be exact. Her breath hitched in her lungs, she dared not breathe or open her eyes. She felt the close proximity of whoever it was looming over her, and the smell of sweat filled her nostrils. She almost gagged on the smell, and couldn't suppress the small whimper that issued from her mouth.

"Ahh…" chuckled a thickly slurred voice, "so you are awake then, my pretty."

Christine was now positively terrified, she felt large hands fumble with the blankets, and her eyes snapped open. She had expected to see Raoul looming on top of her, but whoever this man was, it wasn't her husband. A flubby, heavily stubbled face met hers, with a pudgy noise, and squinty blood-shot eyes. Ragged breath coursed out of his large lips and his stench was over powering. Christine jerked away quickly.

"Who are you!" She screeched, before a thick hand slapped down over her mouth, clamping it shut.

"No need, my dear, you and I will be _very_ well acquainted soon." He chuckled evilly.


	10. Chapter 9

**A/N: Okay, here is the next installment... the resolution of the dreaded cliffie! Anyway, here's where the story takes a definite twist, so let me know what you think! Cheers!**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

* * *

**Chapter nine.**

Christine tried to scream, to struggle, but the man was too heavy for her. He pinned her to the bed and began fumbling with her nightgown, greedy hands keen to explore every crevice. She was able to slip her hand free from under him, and brought her hand up clear under his nose, thrusting the heel of it into the face of her attacker. This stunned him for a second, but Christine was unable to move – his weight had not shifted.

He growled angrily at her, "You stupid bitch!" he punched her clean across the face, leaving cuts across her cheek from the ring adorning his left hand.

Christine sobbed miserably. _Where was Raoul! _The man licked at the blood, before clutching her face roughly and kissing her. It was the foulest thing, and Christine bucked under him, trying to free herself. She desperately called for help as her attacker began unbuckling his belt – his intentions clear. Christine tried to calm herself, and saw her opportunity when he had difficulty undoing his belt. With no other option he took the hand restraining Christine away, and she didn't waste a second.

Looking over at the table, she saw the oil lamp sitting there. For one wild minute she considered smashing it over his head, but that would inadvertently have set fire to the bed, and indeed to her. Wildly she looked around the room for something, anything to stop her attacker. He seemed to be having a fair bit of trouble with his belt, and Christine spotted her hairbrush and other accessories lying across the room. Praying to the gods, she reached inconspicuously into her hair to feel for the pins that she had left in the night before. She was almost giving up hope when.. there! She pulled one of the long ivory pins out of her hair and held it close in her palm.

Her attacker hadn't noticed, and his weight was bearing down painfully upon her small frame. Lifting her arms around her head, she screamed again for help. The man quickly clamped down both his hands on her mouth, and Christine took this moment of distraction and brought her hand down forcibly upon her attacker's back, driving the bone pin between his shoulder blades. The man howled in agony, and Christine thrust her hand into his eyes, adding to his anguish. He lifted some of his weight in an attempt to grab the pin out, and Christine took this opportunity to push him off the bed and scrambled, terrified, across the bed.

The man growled after her, and she fumbled with the door before fleeing out into the darkened hallway, her heart pounding in her ears, and her breath coming in terrified sobs. She ran blind down the hallway, the tears streaming from her eyes, crying for anyone, screaming for help. Someone opened a door nearby, light flooding into the hallway. Christine jumped back, before a reassuring voice tried to calm her.

"It's ok lass; I'm not going to hurt you." The kindly face of the Innkeeper peered at her, and Christine ran into his arms, seeking comfort from somebody, anybody. He patted her awkwardly and escorted her downstairs. After calming her, he asked her about what had happened, and she told him, in detail about the man who had come into her room. He listened intently, concern etched all over his face.

"And you said you left him in there?" Christine nodded. "You're sure your husband is around here?"

Christine looked at him blankly. How could she have forgotten that Raoul was supposed to be here… supposed to _protect_ her… and he left her to the mercy of that man… that _animal._ A fresh wave of tears threatened to envelope her, but she fought them back bitterly. The Innkeeper, sensing her distress, thought not to question her about it anymore. Instead he left to investigate the man who had attacked the young comtess.

Christine grabbed his hand as he turned to leave, "No! Please don't leave me alone!"

"No, of course not. I must go investigate however, you may come with me if you wish." Christine nodded silently, chewing the inside of her cheek.

When they approached Christine's room, she began to shiver uncontrollably. The Innkeeper placed a reassuring hand on her arm; she already liked this man.

"I just realized I don't even know your name," she whispered.

The Innkeeper hesitated, "My name is Patrick," he gave her a small smile.

As they entered the room, the first thing Christine noticed was that the man was not there, although she had no intention of killing him, she had expected there to be a body laying in a pool of blood. She shuddered at the thought. Wind fluttered the heavy curtains, and Patrick walked over to investigate.

"Broken window," he murmured, "and there are spots of blood leading to the window… your attacker must have fled." He concluded.

Both relief and dread at the prospects of the man being alive washed over Christine, and for the first time she noticed how indecently dressed she was in this man's presence. A hot blush crawled up her neck, and her eyes began searching for her dressing robe.

"I think you're looking for this," Patrick held out her dressing robe, and Christine almost snatched it from his grasp, a furious blush blossoming on her face. It's not that she found this man awfully attractive, to be frank he musn't be older than her Angel, but Christine has learnt through aristocratic society that the prospects of being found in this… _compromising_… position were not favourable. Christine realized Patrick was staring at her, and averted her gaze quickly.

"Well, er.." Patrick coughed, noticing her awkwardness. "How about that husband of yours?"

Fresh tears sprang to Christine's eyes, and she furiously wiped them away. At the exact same moment she heard a muffled giggle, a loud thump and a curse come from the room opposite. Christine stopped dead. She knew that voice. Anger replacing tears, she raced across the room, out the door and through the door opposite. She stood in the threshold, rage emanating from her small form, as the heavy door swung back into place behind her.

"C-Christine!" Raoul, cried in surprise, tumbling off the bed, and indeed off a woman too. Even from here she could smell the foul stench of brandy, and another smell she figured to be his harlots' scent. Raoul stood shakily, wrapping a sheet loosely around his naked form.

"C-Christine! T-This is not what it looks like!" The woman, still wrapped up in the bed looked bewildering from Raoul to Christine.

"So you're not cheating on me with some common whore! Because that's certainly what it looks like!" Christine cried shrilly, throwing her hands into the air.

"No… I just… she… too much to drink…" Raoul stuttered over his words.

"Don't!" she cried. "Stay here with you _whore…"_ she spat the word as though it were vulgar. "I'm leaving, and don't you dare, DARE follow me!"

"No! Christine! Wait!"

She fled the room, almost running straight into Patrick, who she knew had heard the entire conversation; the whole town must have heard! Crying angry tears, she flew down stairs as fast as she could, before collapsing on all fours and loosing an anguished cry. A pair of firm hands fastened around her shoulders, and for a minute she thought that Raoul had followed her. But it wasn't Raoul's eyes that met hers, it was Patrick's concerned ones.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he whispered.

Christine nodded. "Please, could you get my bag from upstairs? It has passenger tickets and money in it… I can't go up there… I… I just can't!"

He nodded understandably, and even though he didn't need to, told her, "Wait here."

Christine felt her heart tear in two. Although she and Raoul had been growing ever more distant as time went by, she still cared for him dearly, and the shock of his betrayal was devastating. _This is probably how your Angel felt when you left him… heart-broken, torn in two… _a voice niggled in her head, and finally Christine understood the significance of her betrayal and the pain that she inflicted on an already tortured soul. She wiped the tears from her face, as the first rays of morning light peeped shyly through the window.

Patrick returned shortly carrying her bag, and a grim look on his face.

"Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?" he asked her. _Poor girl, she's already been through so much in one night, and then to find her husband cheating on her… she must be devastated._

In all honesty Christine had no idea what she was going to do. She couldn't very well return to Paris with Raoul, in truth she was homeless! Meg and Madame Giry had moved... Christine's eyes snapped open. London! She gazed steadily at Patrick.

"I'm going to London." She said resolutely.

XxXxXxX

Patrick's grim look didn't falter. "What are you going to do there? Do you have anywhere to stay? You can't go alone!"

Christine briefly explained Meg and Madame Giry's move to London. "…and Raoul and I were already planning to go…" her face fell, but she quickly regained composure – there would be time for crying later. She pulled the two boarding passes from her handbag. "And I already have tickets. The boat leaves today." She ended matter-of-factly.

"But you still can't go alone." Patrick insisted. "A women of your status…?" he let the sentence trail off; Christine was already fully aware of the atrocities that could befall a woman. "I'm coming with you."

Christine looked up at him, surprised. "No, Patrick, you can't… your Inn… I barely know you…" A multitude of excuses tumbled from her mouth… she barely even knew this man!

Patrick waved a hand, "My brother and I run the Inn, he won't mind taking over for a while… and as for you and I barely knowing each other? We'll have plenty of time on the boat passage. I guess the question is… do you trust me?"

Christine looked into his eyes, searching for a hint of a lie, but all she saw was honesty. She didn't know why she was willing to put everything on the line for this man, but he had come to her aid when she needed someone the most.

"Yes… I trust you."

It had taken Patrick fifteen minutes to pack everything he would need for the trip, and leave a note for his brother explaining his whereabouts and plans. All the while he hid Christine in the Inn office, where no one could get to her, especially that bastard of a husband of hers. He had seen his type many a time before, always with their money and their titles, and never had he taken as much interest in their wives as he had in this young woman. Usually a nobleman's wife was worse than the nobleman himself, but this woman seemed… different somehow.

Christine sat within the office, completely hidden from view, waiting for Patrick's return. She observed the tiny space to try and get a feel for the man whom she would be spending the next several weeks with. To her surprise she noticed several books scattered around the office, and even more so that they were mostly of poetry. She smiled at this thought, then scolded herself. _You've already destroyed two men's' lives… and you barely even know this man. _As she continued to peer around to room, her breath hitched in her lungs as she stared out the tiny window of the office door. There was Raoul, standing fully clothed, and yelling Christine's name. Christine shrunk even more into the shadows as she watched her husband's desperate and defeated look before he took off into the streets to widen his search. She allowed herself to breathe again, and felt surprisingly numb.

Patrick returned shortly after with a broad smile. "Ready to go?"

XxXxXxX

Christine allowed herself to smile hesitantly. After handing their boarding passes to the boat's captain, they had taken seats by a window and watched the rest of the cabin slowly fill with passengers. She was thankful to see the storm had dissipated and the ocean had calmed somewhat significantly; the boat now rocked gently from side to side. Patrick sat down next to her and gave her a reassuring smile.

"Are you ok?"

"yes… well at least I'm going to be."

"You're doing the right thing you know. If your husband, the Comte, _Raoul _can't see what's in front of him, than he doesn't deserve you, or your forgiveness." She smiled a little, albeit in irony; _If only you knew the half of it._

"I… I just want to get as far away from Paris as I can, there are too many memories." A silent tear slipped down her cheek, and Patrick reached forward to wipe it away with his thumb.

"Don't cry for him Mademoiselle," he whispered, assuming she shed tears for her husband's betrayal. But Christine mourned not for Raoul, but for the demise of another – her angel. _If only you were here… you'd know what to do. _'would he?' A voice niggled in her head. 'After you crushed and betrayed him so, would he come to your rescue, even if he were alive?' Christine shuddered and hastily pushed these thoughts from her mind. She turned to stare mournfully out the window when her heart suddenly plummeted. She watched in horror as Raoul sprinted up the docks toward the boat, then up the boarding bridge and onto the deck.

She turned ashen-faced to Patrick, "it's Raoul!" she hissed.

Patrick's eyes hardened, as a commotion was heard from the passage-way; _"… my wife…on board… let go of me!" _Christine and Patrick followed the noise out into the passageway, where Raoul stood, apprehended by two rough-looking sea-men, struggling and arguing with the captain.

"Unless you present me with a boarding pass Monsieur, I will have no other option than to turn you off my boat!" Raoul's face was turning red from the struggle. "I will buy a boarding pass right now then!"

"I have already told you that this passage is full!"

"You don't understand, my wife has my boarding pass, she is already on board –" his eyes darted wildly around the passageway, "Christine!" he exclaimed in hope and desperation, spotting her where she leaned cautiously out the door of the compartment.

The captain turned to face Christine, who was standing slightly sheltered from view behind Patrick. "Madame?" he addressed Christine, "do you know this man?"

Christine cast cold eyes on Raoul's pleading and desperate face. Patrick touched her arm reassuringly. "No, Monsieur. I do not _know_ this man; I have not seen him before."

"Christine!"

"He sounds like a madman if you ask my opinion Captain." Patrick wrapped a protective arm around her waist, trying to give the pretense that it was _he_ who was married to Christine.

The captain nodded. "Very well Madame, if you are sure. Boys, get this man off my boat!"

"Christine!" Raoul cried, kicking furiously, trying to break free from the hold the two men had on him. "Christine! Don't do this! Don't leave! Christine!"

She shuddered as she listened to Raoul's desperate pleas fading as he was dragged off the boat. Patrick placed a hand on the small of her back, "Come."

She allowed him to steer her back into the cabin, and took her seat once more by the window. It had taken all her strength not to go back to Raoul, his eyes had been so full of regret and sorrow… but she had forcibly reminded herself of the image of Raoul in bed with another woman, while she was about to be brutally and sexually violated. She stole a glance out the window, but Raoul was no-where to be seen.

"Christine…? Christine?" Patrick nudged her. "It's going to be alright you know."

"How do you know? How do you know anything? You don't even know me!"

"I may not know much, but I know that beneath your title there's a lost girl, who's trapped in a life she doesn't love and who's missing something, something that makes her whole. You're broken Christine!" Patrick replied dejectedly.

Christine looked into his eyes, yet found no deception there. She looked down, fiddling with her handkerchief. "Perhaps you're right." She whispered softly.

"Christine," Patrick placed to fingers under her chin and raised it gently. "What the comte did was not your fault, so do not trouble yourself with blame. Everything will be alright. Soon you shall be amongst your friends, and you will see, but until then I suggest you get some rest, it has been a long night." He gave her a reassuring half-smile. Christine nodded, and took her leave, shutting the door behind her as she left the compartment. Patrick was sure that he heard the sound of muffled sobs only moments later, but almost as soon as they began, they ceased.

When the boat finally docked in, Patrick had fallen asleep against the window pane, his mouth slightly agape and a small pool of drool forming in the corner of his mouth. Christine stood and contemplated him. Who was this man who had willing and readily put his life on hold the help her? What did he want from her? He was handsome in a rugged way, completely opposite to Raouls' boyish good looks enhanced by his aristocratic appearance, and his kind, laughing eyes… _no! That was the _old_ Raoul, the one you _thought_ you knew. _Christine reprimanded herself. Oh how she longed for her best friend again. Patrick began to stir, opening one bleary eye and peering about. It took him a few moments to register who Christine was and what he was doing before jumping up from his seat hastily, and wiping the drool from his mouth, looking extremely embarrassed. Christine allowed herself a smile which turned into more of a smirk.

"Did you have a nice sleep Monsieur?"

Patrick gave a nervous laugh, "Yes, very. Well, Madame, are you ready to go?"

XxXxXxX

Christine and Patrick stood before an iron gate.

"Are you sure this is the right place?"

Christine looked at the address scrawled upon the faded bit of parchment: remnants from one of Meg's letters. "Yes, this is it."

"Very well then."

Patrick pulled the gate open and allowed Christine to make her way up the cobble-stone path. A cold wind was blowing the leaves about the scraggly bushes of the unkempt garden. Madame Giry never was one for gardening, and besides, living at an Opera House didn't require the services! Christine felt nervous, dreadful and excited all at once. Smoothing out her dress she knocked smartly on the door, once… twice… as she went to knock a third time the door swung abruptly open to reveal a small, petite blonde girl the same age as Christine.

"I already told you we…" The girl looked up. "Christine?" she asked uncertainly.

"Bonjour Meg." There was a pause where neither dare not speak before a loud squeal was issued, and Christine practically collapsed under the bundle of blonde hair and blue eyes that was Meg.

"Oh my Christine, it's so lovely to see you! Why didn't you tell mother and I you were coming? We could have prepared dinner, or at least lunch. Oh my, we have so much to catch up on already, I can't believe you'd surprise us like this. Mother will be so pleased to see you, we're working in a small production company now, nothing like the Opera Populaire, but mother says she suited for the smaller shows now… who's this?"

Whilst Meg was ranting on, Patrick had stood humbly and shyly behind Christine, not wanting to interrupt the reunion, though apparently Christine hadn't gotten a word in. Now, Meg had noticed him, she eyed him suspiciously.

"Ah, Meg, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. Patrick, this is Meg, my best friend since we were little ballet rats together, "she smiled fondly, and winked at Meg. "Meg, this is Patrick."

"Good evening Mademoiselle." He nodded politely at her.

"Patrick…" She contemplated him for a moment then turned her attentions back to Christine. "Come inside, Mother is home and I'm sure she's wondering who was at the door. My, she'll be so excited." Meg led the way through the house, not pausing to address certain rooms, but rather dragging Christine down what she thought was the most direct path.

Patrick whispered in Christine's ear, "Your friend is, er, very enthusiastic." Christine nodded, giving him a secretive smile. "You have _no_ idea..."


	11. Chapter 10

**A/N: Thanks to all you guys who reviewed, it means a lot and thanks for the overwhelming encouragement... I'm reallyglad you're all enjoying the story thus far. And now, I present to you the next installment. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

* * *

**Chapter ten. **

"Maman! Guess who's here!"

Madame Giry turned from her spot at the window. "Christine?"

"Hello Madame Giry, I know you must be very surprised to see me, well, so soon."

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't. And who is this?" Christine had nearly forgotten about Patrick's presence; he had been so quiet.

"Oh, this is a friend of mine, Patrick. Patrick, this is Madame Giry, the closest thing to a mother I've ever known." Madame Giry nodded in greeting, the bewilderment still settled plainly on her face.  
"Madame Giry, there's something I need to tell you."

_Oh no! _Thought Madame Giry is a panicked fashion, _surely she doesn't know about Erik- _

"Raoul and I... w-we're over."

"WHAT!" Christine fought the tears that threatened to envelop her, trying to keep her voice as steady as she could, as she recounted for her and Meg the dreadful events of the night passed.

"And then - Oh, God! I thought he was going to kill me!" Madame Giry pulled Christine into a tight embrace as she wept hysterically on her shoulder, stroking her hair softly.

"Oh, my dear child... my poor dear child, the horrors you've encountered... How could Raoul do such a thing to you...? Hush now, shhh, it's alright, it's all going to be alright."

Patrick's brows knitted in worry. Madame Giry released Christine from her grasp, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly.

"And you," she addressed Patrick. "if you had not been there..."

"I was merely in the right place at the right time." Patrick assured Madame Giry humbly.

"Oh nonsense Patrick!" Christine wiped the tears furiously from her eyes. "Do not be so bashful! You were caring and chivalrous - to a total stranger no less! And I haven't even been so courteous as to say 'thank-you'!" Christine's tone softened as she approached the man, taking his hand in hers.

"Thank-you Patrick," she gave it a light squeeze. "I really mean it, thank-you."

Patrick felt as though a huge balloon had swelled in his chest. He bowed graciously, kissing the back of Christine's hand. "Anything for you... Mademoiselle."

It was the first time he had referred to Christine as "mademoiselle." Usually he referred to her by "madame," as her marriage expected him to, but now that he had seen the break-down of Christine's marriage, he felt at liberty to call this radiant young women whatever he wanted, and "mademoiselle" suited her beautifully.

Their eyes met for a moment before Christine turned shyly away with a petite yawn.

"Christine, you must be exhausted. You will take a nap, and I will wake you at dinner." It was an order more than a suggestion; Christine needed some stability and someone to care for her in her life right now. Christine nodded sleepily, a sudden exhaustion of the last few days travel suddenly hitting her mercilessly.

"Come on Chrissy, you can rest in my room." Meg led a drowsy Christine down a nearby passageway and out of sight, leaving Madame Giry and Patrick staring awkwardly at each other.

"You, um Monsieur...?" Patrick was startled by his own rudeness - he had not even thought to disclose to Christine his own last name!

"Raynaud! My name is Patrick Raynaud."

"Well then, Monsieur Raynaud, I would offer you a place to sleep, but I'm afraid there are no spare beds; there are however some cushions and a blanket-"

"-I'll take the floor... believe me Madame, I have had worse." Madame Giry gave a wry smile.

"This way then, if you please, Monsieur."

XxXxXxX

Patrick had tried sleeping, he really had. His body demanded it of him, his weary limbs aching from lack of rest - yet his mind would not be at peace. He lay back on the floor, padded by the two blankets and pillows the Girys had offered him, and stared at the ceiling. He noticed with slight dismay that it was cracked in several places, and the paint was peeling and chipped. He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. Once more the picture of Christine filled his mind, he could see every detail of her as clearly as if she were there, right in front of him. _Oh, to hell with this! _He cursed lightly to himself, before dragging his protesting body up off the floor and across the room. He had to see her. There was something, something that Patrick just couldn't place his finger on, that made him feel so protective of this woman; this woman who he barely knew. She was beautiful, there was no doubt of it, but he had seen and experienced beauty before... but had soon found that the beauty he had so amply shared in, was no more than pretty looks and caked on make-up. Patrick had given up hope of ever finding someone who was truly beautiful; both inside and out. But somehow this Christine was... different. She radiated an innocence unlike anything he'd ever seen before. And yet, she was like a fragile flower, of which the cold of winter's frost could kill.

Patrick stood in the doorway to her bedroom, his breath hitching in his lungs as he made out the faint outline of Christine's sleeping form in the soft light. He smiled to himself, taking a few tentative steps forward until he was at her bedside. She lay on her side facing him, her chemise rising and falling with her steady breaths, and her delicate fingers entwined around her necklace_. She even looks beautiful when she sleeps_, mused Patrick, completely enamored with the sight before him. He didn't know how long he stood there, watching protectively over her as she lay deep within the arms of sleep, and only once did she stir. Patrick froze, afraid Christine's eyes would fly open at any moment, along with a string of accusations; he was, after all, standing over a married woman's bed. _Formerly married_, he reminded himself. But Christine simply muttered something incoherent, and rolled onto her other side; emitting a soft sigh. Patrick smiled warmly, reaching out a solitary finger to stroke just one of her delicate gossamer curls.

"What are you doing?" Patrick retracted his hand immediately, jumping back in surprise at the accusatory voice from the doorway. He turned sharply. Meg Giry stared back at him, her arms folded about her waist, and her eyes narrowed. "What were you doing?" she repeated again.

"Uhm, er, I-er..." Patrick mumbled for a moment, grasping at any plausible explanation for his actions. He shrugged helplessly. "I just wanted to make sure she was ok."

Meg looked unconvinced. "_While she's sleeping_? Obviously you can see she's fine. That still doesn't explain why a grown man was leering over her bed!." Patrick stood stunned. _Surely she didn't think...?_

"I was not _leering_ Mademoiselle-"

"Well, that's sure as hell what it looked like!" Meg placed her hands on her hips, blocking the doorway.

"I assure you Mademoiselle, I was doing nothing of the kind! I merely came to see that Christine was alright, and now that I have seen to it, pray, remove yourself from the doorway so that I may pass."

Meg reluctantly stepped aside, glaring at Patrick as he passed, obviously anxious to leave the room.

Madame Giry watched with bemusement as a very harassed-looking Patrick rushed past her in the hall-way, muttering incoherently to himself and dragging his hands through is blonde hair. He didn't even seem to notice her, as he passed, rushing quickly into his room with a slight click of the door closing.

Meg stood in the doorway for a few moments; watching Christine worriedly. Hopefully her dear friend hadn't been too hasty to take in a man she didnt even know; after all, all she knew about this Patrick, was his name. Her eyes narrowed. Why would a man put his life on hold to "help" a woman he barely even knew. Meg froze...

"Madame?"

Madame Giry looked up from the book she was reading, "Monsieur Raynaud." She acknowledged him with a small nod, folding a bookmark within the pages and closing it quietly in her lap. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Patrick, please Madame." He ran a nervous hand through his blonde curls; how was this going to sound? "I-I was wondering, just wondering whether you would be able to tell me a little more about C-Christine?"

Madame Giry sighed, for a moment it looked as though she was about to say 'no'. "Patrick take a seat." She indicated to the near-by arm chair. Patrick sat down slowly, his eager face turned to Madame Giry's in rapt attention.

"I guess Christine's story begins with the death of her father. Christine's mother died giving birth to her, and Christine's relationship with her father was the closest bond I've ever seen between two people; Charles loved that little girl with every fibre in his being, and Christine was full of nothing but utter adoration for him. For the better part of seven years they lived in Sweden before Charles and Christine moved to France, where -" Madame Giry took a deep breath before continuing. "-where Charles fell ill and died."

Patrick looked away; his heart breaking a little for the innocent young woman in the room across the way, orphaned and alone at such a young age.

"I took Christine in, bringing her to live with Megan and I at the opera house, where I was the ballet mistress, and Christine and Megan were my students."

Patrick frowned, "The opera house, Madame?"

"Yes, the Opera Populaire."

"Christine was part of the Corps de Ballet at the Opera Populaire?" Patrick asked in disbelief.. He had heard of the Opera Populaire and the stories of its infamous "Opera Ghost".

"Oh, certainly Monsieur, but she became much more than that."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you read the papers Monsieur?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Then I am sure you are familiar with the name," Madame Giry sighed, "'Christine Daae'?"

Patrick's eyes widened considerably. "C-Christine Daae?" He barely whispered the word. "S-She's? Christine Daae?"

Madame Giry nodded curtly, "One in the same I'm afraid."

Patrick sat back into the seat with a look of utter disbelief. "I would never have believed it!"

"Oh believe me, Monsieur," Madame Giry chuckled darkly, "bless my soul for I love her so, but extraordinary predicaments follow that girl wherever she may be."

Patrick frowned, thinking fervently back to every article he had ever read about the famed opera house and its inhabitants. "I don't understand –" Madame Giry glanced meaningfully at him, retrieving the book from her lap. Slowly something floated to the surface of his mind. He stopped dead, "Surely you don't mean-?"

Madame Giry's grim smile reflected the sadness in her eyes. "Not… the Opera Ghost?"

Patrick eyes widened even more so, his mouth falling slightly agape in the shock as he slowly made the connection. "The Opera Ghost… Miss Daae's disappearance from the stage…?" He let the sentence trail off into the silence of the room, blinking slowly. Madame Giry had ceased to answer, choosing instead to stare at the book's pages, determined to resume her lost place and bring the conversation to a close. Patrick sat still in anticipation, resolved to be undeterred. A few minutes passed before Madame Giry sighed with annoyance and snapped the book shut.

"I suggest, Monsieur, that if you wish to know more you should approach Christine on the matter. As for me, I have told all I am permitted to, and shall not oblige you with any more."  
She flicked the book open again, glaring at the page before dropping it to her lap in resignation. She stood up quickly in irritation, glancing at the darkening skies outside and making her way to the kitchen.

"It is getting late Monsieur, so, if you'll excuse me I shall begin dinner."

He stood up hastily, "I'll help madame!"

"No Patrick, I assure you I am quite competent."

"Oh, I have no doubt of it," Patrick assured her, "I just feel so helpless; I would very much like to do something to show you how grateful I am for your allowing me to stay here."

Madame Giry waved her hand, sighing in irritation. "Ok, fine, if you're sure dinner for four is not too much trouble-"

Patrick laughed, "I've been an Innkeeper, and chef, for several years Madame, preparing dinner for four people is no task at all."

Madame Giry granted him a wry smile at that one.

XxXxXxX

The sounds of pots and pans clanging in the distance drew Meg from her reverie. She sat precariously upon a stool in Christine's room, gazing steadily out the window as night enveloped the day, leaving dark red streaks across the horizon. Christine still slept peacefully by her side, undisturbed by the apparent racket coming from the kitchen. Meg stood up impatiently, storming down the hallway ready to reprimand whoever it was who was causing the raucous, for fear of it waking Christine. As she reached to doorway she peeked curiously around the corner. Before her eyes lay the most bizarre sight.

Patrick bustled around the kitchen; his face red from the heat of the stove, and a woman's apron clinging to his form. A wonderfully aromatic smell wafted through the doorway towards Meg, and all thoughts of yelling at him over the noise he was making disintegrated as soon as the smell reached her senses. Meg stepped through the doorway, with a small '_ahem.'_

Patrick looked up, "Mademoiselle Giry!"

"Monsieur…" Meg stopped in shock; she didn't know this man's name!

"Oh! Raynaud, Mademoiselle! My apologies for not informing you sooner!"

_Monsieur Raynaud… Patrick Raynaud… _Meg mused thoughtfully, _Hmmm… sounds nice. _

"Monsieur _Raynaud_, may I be so bold as to enquire what exactly it is that you are doing?"

"Certainly! I'm making…well, actually I don't know what it is called," he smiled buoyantly, "would you care to taste?" He held a large wooden spoon out to her; the smell wafting towards her enticingly.

Meg walked over to him, hesitantly taking the spoon from his hand and bringing it to her lips.  
The taste was overwhelmingly good! She smiled a little as the spices infused in her mouth.

"It appears, Monsieur Raynaud, that you are quite the talent in the kitchen. Perhaps you would consider preparing dinner more often?" Meg smiled warmly.

Patrick blushed a little at the compliment, "Certainly, my dear mademoiselle, any time my assistance is required, all you need do is ask."

"I'll remember you said that Monsieur," her lips quirked a little as her eyes smiled at him mischievously.

A sudden scream pierced the air. Patrick and Meg looked at each other in alarm, before running down the hall towards Christine's room.

XxXxXxX

Christine thrashed around violently, her sheets twisting about her form as cold sweat dripped profusely from her brow, soaking her bed clothes. "Erik!"

_She felt as though she were suffocating, a large hand clapped down over her mouth as the smell of cheap whisky filled her nostrils; the stench was unbearable.  
"Ahh my pretty, why do you scream so? There's no-one here to save you… no-one hears you screaming…" The shadowy figure leered over her, she couldn't see his face, but the smell… like death, and liquor… breathing heavily in her ear, as he pushed down on her, barely allowing her to breathe, "Erik!" _

"_You truly are alone…" Chuckling, a maniacal laughter rang through her ears, drowning her thoughts. She was drowning, suffocating under the immense weight, being pulled further and further down into an empty void, as his laughter filled her mind…_

"Erik!"

Madame Giry violently shook Christine, desperately trying to wake her from her nightmarish hell. She could not. "Christine! Christine! You must wake!"

"Erik…" A weak cry issued from her parched white lips, her voice was hoarse and cracked.

"Meg! Bring a towel, quickly!" Madame Giry barked. Meg flew past an extremely concerned looking Patrick standing in the doorway, utterly unsure of what to do. He was torn in two; he desperately wanted to help, yet he didn't want to intrude, he didn't know what to do.

"Christine, you must wake! You are safe here! Christine!

Suddenly Christine sat up, screaming. Madame Giry grabbed her shoulders as she hysterically cried Erik's name over and over again. She forcibly took her face in her hands, demanding that Christine look at her eyes, _she's still in the fits of her nightmare!_

"Christine! Christine, look at me!"

Christine did as she was told; weeping pitifully as she looked into Madame Giry's concerned and alarmed eyes.

"You are safe Christine. You are here, in London with Meg and I. Nobody can hurt you here, do you understand me? You're safe, Christine, you're safe."

Christine was clinging to Madame Giry when Meg arrived with the towels, wrapping one around Christine's shivering body; she was as pale and cold as death.

Rushing Christine's huddled form from the bedroom, they pushed passed Patrick and headed straight to the bathroom. Patrick followed in tow, wanting to keep as close to Christine as he could, to let her know that he was there for her.

"Meg, take Christine inside now, draw a bath," she pointed towards the bathroom door, before halting Patrick with an upraised hand. "I'm sorry Monsieur, there is nothing more you can do for her." And with that she whisked inside the room, closing the door resolutely in his face.

Patrick felt both dejected and helpless. He stormed angrily to the kitchen, slamming pots and pans down on the tabletop to alleviate some of his frustration. He stopped for a moment as a cloud of jealousy began to slowly unfurl within his heart. _Erik? Who the hell is Erik?_

XxXxXxX

It had been a week and a half since Christine's horrific nightmare, and still she had not opened up to Patrick, nor really spoken to him since. He wasn't sure whether she felt embarrassed by the incident, or if it were truly too horrific to speak about, but either way he felt miserable; he wanted Christine to be able to trust him! Still, he knew he shouldn't be so insensitive to her feelings; if she didn't wish to speak of it, then that was her decision and he should respect it either way. She knew he was there for her, if ever she needed him. He ground some oregano and added it to the stew he was making, stirring it thoughtfully.

Meg wandered aimlessly down the hallway, humming a simple melody from the ballet she was now dancing at the theatre company. She had just spoken, or rather checked in with Christine. She was still having nightmares, but none so violent as that of a week and a half ago; she now simply murmured a little in her sleep. Meg sighed with worry; she hated seeing her friend like this; so upset and jumpy. Meg caught whiff of a delicious smell wafting as she passed the kitchen door. _Patrick must be at it again_, she mused silently.

It was strange. Despite the fact that he had been living in her house for nearly two weeks now, Meg had barely gotten to know him. That very first day he and Christine arrived he appeared to be an extremely pleasant man; both caring and noble. He had an aura about him that exerted friendliness, and although she had questioned his intentions at first, she had seen by the vast concern drawn across his face at the sight of Christine in pain, that his heart was good and true. But since that night something had overcome him. Now he cooked and mended the house non-stop; he was morose and silent the majority of the time, preferring to keep to himself, whilst regularly trying to converse with Christine. Meg noticed that his eyes seemed to light a little whenever she entered the room, but when she'd leave once more without a word of greeting to him, his eyes would darken once more. Meg felt for the man, she really did. He genuinely cared for Christine, and it was killing him to know that she was openly ignoring him. _Gosh, he needs something to distract him for a while, to get him out of the house, _she thought.

Meg doubled back to the kitchen, popping her head through the doorway in a would-be casual way. "Oh, Patrick?"

He looked up from his stew, the sweat glistening on his face. "Yes Mademoiselle?"

"Really Patrick, must you always call me Mademoiselle? You make it seem so formal all the time."

"I'm sorry… Meg, is there something I can do for you?"

"There's no need to apologize, you make it seem so-… oh never mind! Yes, Patrick, there is something you can do for me." He waited silently, absently stirring his stew.

"Yes?" He asked irritably.

"I was wondering whether," she took up and pen and piece of parchment, scribbling some unnecessary items on it to make a list, "you could take this and go to the market for myself and maman?"

"You just went yesterday," he protested.

"I know, but there were some things I forgot yesterday," she apologized, "please Patrick?"

"Yes, certainly Mademoiselle," he sighed. Meg noticed that he always reverted back to 'mademoiselle' whenever he was irritated. This was one of those times.

"Thank-you Patrick." She went to leave the room.

"Wait please, mademoiselle." Meg halted. "Would you mind at least looking after my stew?"

XxXxXxX

Patrick returned from the market place alone, balancing two bags of groceries and a small trinket he had bought for Christine. _Perhaps it might cheer her up a little._ As he opened to front door, something caught his attention. Shifting the bags to one hand, he bent to retrieve the letter that had been pushed under the front door, and continued into the kitchen, placing the groceries upon the counter-top. A terrible smell filled the air and he noticed his stew sat thick and gluggy within the pot; Meg was nowhere to be found. Patrick sighed in dismay, his attentions drawn once more to the letter. He stared at it, shocked to see _"Christine de Chagny"_ printed in eloquent handwriting upon the front of the envelope.

_Who would be sending Christine letters here? _He turned the envelope over slowly in his hands, his eyes growing dark as they scanned to small print upon the coat-of-arms wax seal. _"de Chagny."_

_So, that wretched man of a husband of hers knows she's here. _Patrick quickly looked behind him, his eyes hardening as he slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his coat. _You don't deserve her de Chagny, you don't deserve her forgiveness... not ever. _

_

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_**A/N: Okay, now it's your turn; review! Please...? I'd really like to know what you guys are thinking about how the story is panning out. I'm sorry for the lack of Erik, but he is coming, I promise you! (The more reviews, the more inspired I'll feel to write quicker, hint hint) lol, cheers!**


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hey everyone. Okay, thanks to all the people who have reviewed this story thus far, the response I've gotten from you all is heart-warming :D. Well, I finally got around to writing the next installment, school was hectic this week... assessments and everything and exams are soon :( I'll try and keep up with the updates, the more reviews the more inspired I feel to get my butt into action, lol. Anyway, enjoy the new chapter, cheers!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

* * *

**Chapter eleven. **

"Oh, Monsieur Raynaud-"

"Patrick, please mademoiselle-" he cut in distractedly.

"-I see you have returned."

"Indeed mademoiselle, that appears to be the case."

_Well,_ thought Meg, _so much for that brilliant plan of my getting him out of the house serving as a form of distraction…_

Patrick's thoughts however, were still well occupied by the concealed note… and his ruined stew.

"I see, Mademoiselle, what has become of my stew."

Meg's faced reddened in immense embarrassment. "I'm terribly sorry about that Patrick; I only left for a moment!"

Patrick sighed, "a moment too long, I gather?"

He could barely make out the faint mumble of "I guess so" from Meg, as she scuffed her toe along the ground. Patrick didn't have long to scrutinize Meg, however, before Christine entered the room. An eerie silence soon descended. Patrick sought out Christine's eyes and Meg stood in suspended motion, gazing between Patrick and Christine, and the unspoken connection between the two. Finally Christine shyly averted her gaze and left the room quietly.

Patrick stood still for a moment, seemingly completely oblivious to Meg's presence, before pursuing Christine out into the hallway.

Meg shook her head, slightly offended that she should be paid so little attention, but expecting it none the less.

Patrick stopped Christine before she entered her room; that was territory that he didn't want to be found trespassing on again.

"Christine!"

Christine's back went a little rigid, before she turned to face him.

"Hello Patrick, was there something you wanted?"

Patrick nearly growled with frustration, _what was with this indifferent civility! _

"I was hoping to talk with you," and noticing the almost grim expression upon her fine features, added, "I also bought something for you."

He reached into his pocket, and felt with surprise the sharp edge of the letter. Shaking his head he dug a little deeper and procured the bracelet he had bought at the market place.  
He noted Christine's curious expression, and held his hand out to her. Ever so hesitantly she slipped her delicate fingers into his large ones, and he slowly slid the bracelet onto her wrist.

The beautiful blue and green glass beads contrasted perfectly against her pale skin, and matched with pale blue of her day dress. Christine smile warmly at him, "Thank-you Patrick; it's beautiful."

"It pales in comparison to you, Christine."

Christine felt the heat slowly rising to her checks, and pulled her hand from grasp, clearing her throat. "I know why it is you wish to speak with me, Patrick, and I am afraid I owe you an apology."

He stood silent, waiting for Christine to continue.

"I know my behavior of late may have appeared … odd, and at the worst times rude. And I know that I have kept you at arm's distance ever since that night… but the truth is, Patrick, that you don't know me. You don't know my past, and my past made me who I am… there are things that you don't know, and that you probably never will, it's just too painful to relive."

"I understand Christine, I suppose I just wanted to make sure that you're all right," _No!_ Patrick's head yelled at him, _don't let her get away! _

She gave him a small smile, "I will be okay, Patrick, please don't trouble yourself with worry."

"How can I not? Already I have seen, and learnt of some of the traumas you have been through in your life… and so young."

Christine laughed at this, "Oh, Patrick, I am not so very young, soon I will be nineteen."

"Not so young! My dear Christine, at nineteen your life has barely begun."

"Is that so? And how old are you Monsieur Raynaud?"

"A year from thirty."

"And of course that makes you all the more older and wiser does it?"

"Of course Christine." Christine was on the verge of retorting when he quickly cut in, "though, I must admit, one would be exceptionally unfortunate to have endured as much as you. I certainly have not in my lifetime."

"No, Patrick, and you probably never will."

"My father died too, when I was just a boy."

"You think that is all? That was only the beginning, and yet it was the end. You know nothing!" Tears were beginning to form in the corners of Christine's eyes, and she blinked them back furiously.

Patrick held his hands up in defense, taking a step back from her. "I apologize Christine, I did not mean to upset you… I just, I just wanted to let you know that I'm here, if ever you need me."

Some of Christine's anger dissipated as she looked upon his helpless features. "No, I am sorry Patrick, I didn't mean to be so blunt with you. You have been nothing but kind to me," she reached up and touched his shoulder, "and you don't deserve the way I have been treating you."

He closed his eyes and sighed wearily, "you could treat me however poorly and still I would remain." He took her hand from his shoulder, grasping it in his own, "just give me a reason to stay, Christine."

She looked up at him, frightened of what she saw in his eyes, "I can't Patrick." And she left him there, a hopeless man in the hallway.

She closed the door resolutely in his face, and rested her back against it, _what was going on? _

XxXxXxX

When Meg ventured out into the hallway she found Patrick and Christine had disappeared. She heard a small thump come from the guest room, and figured that to be Patrick. Assuming Christine was once more in her room, she approached it._  
_

"Christine?"

Christine turned from her dresser to find Meg knocking gently on the door, "come in Meg."

Meg approached cautiously, unsure of how fragile her dear friend might be at the present time. Christine smiled at her and she relaxed a little. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better," she assured her, "I haven't had any nightmares for two nights now."

"That's great Christine, I've been so worried about you… we all have."

"I was a little worried about myself," Christine confessed, her eyes clouding over with the same worried-look Meg had become accustomed to seeing every time she looked at her face.

"I know, I wish there was more I could do to help you, Christine."

Christine took hold of Meg's hand, "you being here for me in all the help I need Meg; I don't know what I'd do without you."

Meg smiled a little wider, the question she had been meaning to ask burning upon her tongue.  
"Chrissy, Maman and I must return to the company tomorrow; we, well, _I_ was wondering whether you would perhaps join us?"

Christine froze, her face falling. Memories, so many memories began flooding her head, scenes of the Opera Populaire filled her mind, swimming before her vision, and Christine violently shook her head in an effort to rid herself of the visions; of _his_ face, _his_ voice, _his_ destruction… and most of all, his_ love_.

Meg saw the devastating impact this small request had upon her friend and hastily retracted the invitation; apologizing profusely to Christine for ever making such an ill-advised and thoughtless request. _She couldn't go back she wasn't ready to go back.._

Christine smiled bravely, shoving the thoughts away; "Don't be silly Meg, of course I will accompany you tomorrow."

Meg was completely taken aback, "are you sure Christine?"

"Absolutely."

XxXxXxX

"Monsieur Montague, may I introduce to you Christine de Changy?"

"A pleasure Madame," Mr. Montague bowed graciously to Christine, bestowing a slight kiss upon her hand. Christine didn't trust herself to speak. Although she understood some English, her speaking abilities had a lot to be desired. _Something I must remedy, _Christine mused,_ if I am to live in this country. _

Though Meg wasn't very bilingual either, she had more confidence that Christine to use the little English that she had acquired, and Christine had no doubt that it wouldn't be very long until she was almost fluent. In the mean-time, her mother spoke both French and English fluently, and as she was the head ballet mistress, she found herself constantly translating things for Meg whenever she could not understand the meaning herself.

When Mr. Montague saw that he would get no further conversation from Christine, he turned his attentions back to Madame Giry.

"Ah, Madame Giry, I have been meaning to speak with you," he retrieved a folded piece of parchment from his coat pocket, handing it to her briskly, "perhaps this might interest yourself and Miss Giry?"

Madame Giry unfolded the parchment and perceived it to be at once some form of advertisement; a more in-depth reading revealed it to be notice for a new opera.

"I have heard, through my numerous contacts that the London Opera House is at present looking for ballet corps, and perhaps principal dancers, Madame, to fill the roles in their new production."

"I see."

"Yes, apparently their new maestro and composer is highly intolerable and a terribly hard to please man; he has demanded nearly half the cast and orchestra be replaced."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed it is Madame, I heard it fresh this morning over breakfast. Now, if you'll excuse me, there is an appointment I need attend to. Good-day to you Madame. Miss." And with another small bow and a whirl of his tailcoats he had disappeared down the hallway and out of sight.

"Christine," Madame Giry asked cautiously, "would you care to accompany myself and Meg to the Opera House?"

The word "opera house" stirred so many emotions within Christine. When she ventured to speak she found her voice caught uncomfortably within her throat. She cleared it, "Oh, I don't know if I can-"

Madame Giry didn't allow her to finish; she was confidant in knowing exactly what it was the Christine was thinking, and even worse, feeling. "Do not worry ma cherie, I can call a carriage to take you home, or perhaps you would like to occupy your afternoon with a stroll through the market-place? I fear it shall only be here for a few more days."

Christine smiled a little, "thank-you Madame Giry, I would very much like a walk. I will see you at home tonight."

The Giry's saw Christine off to the market place before calling a carriage of their own and heading to the Opera House.

XxXxXxX

Erik dragged a hand through his sleek black hair, growling in frustration. He threw his composition down. "Damn you infernal man! Can you not read? That is a C sharp! A SHARP! Why do you insist on playing a D? I will not have tone deaf violin players in my orchestra! Collect you paycheck and don't return until you learn to play your instrument properly!" He snatched up a violin. "For the rest of you;_ this_ is how the piece is _supposed_ to be played…"

He then proceeded to correct and demonstrate the playing of his piece to the rest of the orchestra for the next hour and a half, before he dismissed them all with a bark of "rehearse or I shall know!"

Erik was far from being pleased by the standard of musicianship shown by the players, and was in the foulest of tempers when he came across one of the Opera's managers in a hallway.

"Monsieur Martineau, I was just on my way to see you."

Martineau was used to Erik's turn of temper by now. He was also used to giving him whatever it was that he wanted. "What is it Erik?"

"You are continually supplying me with inferior players! I have not seen a larger bunch of tone deaf imbeciles in my life! I am surprised half of them can tell their bow from their rest."

"Mr. Deveraux, please calm down!" the manager cried in alarm; his maestro looked almost murderous!

"It's an insult to my work and my name!"

Martineau sighed, "What is it that you want Mr. Deveraux?"

"You will assign all casting rights to me!"

"Mr. Deveraux! You are not the only composer we have working at this opera house!"

Erik waved a hand in impatience and annoyance, "Bah! Don't assume I care about the works of _other_ men; I only demand to be in charge of _my_ orchestra."

Martineau narrowed his eyes then sighed in exasperation, "You're not going to stop haggling me until I give you what you want, are you?"

Erik smiled cunningly, "absolutely not."

"Fine! Have whatever ever you want! Lord knows Mr. Deveraux, if you weren't so brilliant I should have thrown you out long ago."

Erik smiled in triumph, giving Mr. Martineau a curt nod, before turning on his heel and disappearing down a passageway.

Martineau rubbed his eyes wearily; _that man will be the death of me… _

XxXxXxX

The lamps had not been lit in this section of the opera house, as Erik once again found himself lurking down the hallways. _No, _thought Erik, _I am not lurking, I am merely striding purposefully… I work here now! _He smiled grimly to himself, as he passed through a doorway that would lead him onto the backstage. People greeted him as he went with common civility. To them he was the mysterious musical genius with the terrible temper, and they treated him as such; a dangerous animal. In short, they were terrified of him. Erik smirked; if they were afraid of him they would treat him with a certain degree of respect; he liked to keep the staff on their toes.

There were still some orchestra members in the auditorium, rehearsing their instruments, and Erik winced as he heard the discordant squeak of a badly rosined bow. He scowled, and stepped up onto the stage, fully intending to reprimand whoever it was that was subjecting his ears to such vigorous torture, and who treated their bow with such impertinence. He froze when his well-tuned ears caught the sound of a French accent echoing in the auditorium.

"… I tell you Meg Giry, this is an opportunity not to be wasted…"  
_  
Meg Giry? _Erik quickly whipped behind a curtain to conceal himself from the approaching party.

"Ah, Monsieur Martineau I presume?"

"May I help you?"

Erik heard the muffled sound of papers being exchanged, but did not chance a glance.

"Madame Giry I take it?"

Erik began to panic, _Madame Giry! _

"…and this is my daughter Meg."

"Ah, the new head ballerina at Montague's production house."

"Yes, Monsieur."

"I take it then that you have heard of our recent troubles concerning the casting of our new production," Madame Giry nodded in affirmation. "Our composer is a most… _difficult_ man to please I'm afraid. He is a stern man who craves perfection."

"Forgive me, Monsieur, I am unsure of whom you are speaking."

Erik's heart raced, _this can't be happening! I've worked too hard! _He clenched his fists in anger; _why must my past persist on following me everywhere I go! She'll ruin everything I've worked to achieve here!_ His breathe hitched in his lungs as he listened in anticipation for Martineau's answer.

"I am not surprised, Madame, there are few who do. He is a rather mysterious character, who turned up at the opera house one day an unknown, but his musical genius was unmistakable."

"I see Monsieur. And by what name does this mysterious composer go by?"

Erik dared not breathe; _please not my first name…_

"A Mr. Deveraux."

He heard nothing but silence, and was sure Martineau had given him away when he finally heard Madame Giry say, "I'm afraid the name is unknown to me also."

Erik allowed himself to breathe, he was as yet undiscovered, though he was adamant about finding out _why_ Madame Giry was here, in _his_ opera house! He remained behind the curtain, allowing a glance to see Meg's audition. _Well, little Meg Giry seems to have _grown up_ since last I saw her, Erik _mused, allowing himself a smirk at the thought of Christine's mischievous ballet rat friend… _No! Christine is no longer a part of your life_! He reprimanded himself; _she is as good as dead to you… and you literally dead to her…_He paused for a moment,_ my, how ironic._

Erik smirked, once more letting the curtain fall in front of him, and turning his back on the remnant of what he'd left, retreating to his quarters where he knew he would not be disturbed.

XxXxXxX

Erik sat at his desk, ink from his quill dripping steadily into his unmarked parchment, his thoughts suspended. He cursed himself furiously, screwing up the parchment and throwing it into the fireplace. He had been desperately trying to work on his latest composition for the past two hours, but it proved to no avail; he simply could not concentrate. He sighed wearily, rubbing his eyes and pulling out his pocket watch – it was nearly one in the morning.

Erik stole a glance out the window; it was a cloudless night and the stars were shining brilliantly. He got up and walked to the window, opening them with a resonant click. A cool night breeze was enticed inside and Erik closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The air smelled so fresh after a day's rain, and he looked around himself, despite the fact that he knew no-one could possibly get in, or be in his quarters. Tentatively he reached his long fingers up and removed the mask. How glorious it was to feel the cool air against his hot skin. He was unused to wearing his mask for such long periods; living underneath the opera house had not required it of him – only when he ventured to the surface. The mask chafed his skin making the welts look all the more red and angry. He sighed and pulled his chair forwards, sitting down and gazing at the stars. He had not realized what demoralizing impact his near encounter with the Giry's would have on him, and sighed dispassionately; what he lacked was inspiration.

_"Nighttime sharpens… heightens each sensation… darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…"_ Tears began to fill Erik's eyes as he sang softly under his breath, his face exposed to the glorifying darkness of an entirely new kind. He blinked them shut, trying to force the memory of that night firmly from his mind; _this was _his_ life now, and damnit! Christine would not ruin this for him!  
_Erik's eyes hardened as he replaced the cold mask on his face once more, kicking his chair back and pulling his cloak over his shoulders. The door slammed shut, making the walls quiver with anger as he left the room.

XxXxXxX

Christine's gaze was fixed wholly on the night sky before her. She had been woken by another nightmare, but of an entirely different. It was one of _his_… It was always the same; she would constantly wake with that dreaded feeling weighing heavily in her heart. She knew what the pounding sensation was, it was her utter adoration and love for the man she'd left behind, her Erik…. But the other, the gut-wrenching feeling that made the bile rise in her throat? She knew this also… she'd felt it after her father's death. Christine knew that she was wholly consumed not only by love, but an overwhelming sense of guilt. She had never before felt so wretched, so wretched and yet so helpless. There was nothing to be done now, no way to redeem herself in the eye's of her angel… death had flown him off on wings that he had always claimed to have. She would never again look upon his face, nor hear his ethereal voice, except in her dreams, where he returned most every night, intent upon torturing her with the memory of that which she can now never possess.

Christine sighed disconsolately, tucking her feet underneath her nightgown, the cold wind was brushing her toes uncomfortably. The tears had long ago dried on her face, leaving her cheeks feeling stiff and worn. The beautiful star-filled sky offered her no comfort tonight; at best she usually felt closer to her angel under the sky, but tonight she felt nothing but cold.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed, turning her back on the window and returning to her bed, her thoughts still wholly occupied with him.

XxXxXxX

Patrick lay awake, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the ceiling. His emotions were a raging storm at the moment, both frustration and anger, disappointment and whatever his feelings were for Christine furiously bombarding his thoughts.

Punching his pillow, he let loose a growl of frustration; not only for Christine, but for himself.  
_"She gives me no reason to stay, and yet I cannot bear to leave!"

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_

**Okay, there's no E/C yet, but I wrote plenty of Erik for you to feast your eyes on, lol. so REVIEW! (please?)**


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: Okay, I know it's been ages since I've updated, but school has been pretty hectic with SACs and assessments up to my eyeballs! Plus, I've had a bit of writer's block and netball finals etc. So, seeing as it's the holidays, here's the latest update, I hope you guys like it and thanks for being patient. Cheers!**

A window slamming roused Patrick from his semi-conscious state. The wild wind outside was battering the shutters, causing them to slam loudly against the brick exterior of the house. A spring storm blew gales outside, as Patrick pulled himself up onto his elbows, rubbing wearily at his eyes as he tried to focus them. It was still dark outside, the newly-formed cloud cover concealing the vast beauty of the stars. He rolled onto his back, blinked a few times, then got resolutely to his feet, his hands groping blindly for the lantern. As he struck a match, a soft light filled the room, casting ghostly shadows in the walls and ceiling. After finding the offending shutter, and locking it tight shut, something within his trouser pocket poked uncomfortably into his leg. Patrick reached in, his fingers brushing the rough edges of parchment. Hesitantly he withdrew the object; holding it to the lantern light. It was the Vicomte's letter to Christine. Patrick's eyes widened a little; how could he have been so stupid as to forget to get rid of the note; the only connection still laying between Christine and the life she'd left behind; possibly the last chance for reconciliation between she and the Vicomte.

He couldn't let that happen.

Patrick pulled the door in the glass case open, stuffing the note inside. He watched with grim satisfaction as the parchment began to blacken and curl, finally igniting, and continued to stare at it long after it had turned to ash.

XxXxXxX

_Three months later. _

Erik kicked his chair out from the table, sitting less than gracefully upon it, and allowed his feet to thud onto the table. He was in high spirits, permitting himself a triumphant smile. He had just handed the final pages of his composition to Martineau, and spent well over two hours rehearsing it with his orchestra. Mr. Worthing had finally mastered the complicated cadenza and innuendo in the opening of Act two, and not one of his violinists had played out of tune. Smirking a little to himself, he pulled the program for the impending opening night across the table, and cast his scrutinizing yellow eyes over it. Emblazoned in fine gold calligraphy across the cover, was the title of his opera; _"Night-side Phantasia."_

Erik grimaced. He had been at a loss these past three months over what to call his masterpiece; it could not, after all, have no title. Several suggestions were made to him, yet none seemed to capture the essence of the tragedy, a score that Erik had poured his soul in to. Though he was still highly dissatisfied with the title, it was by far the best suggestion. He threw the program back onto the table, extricating himself nimbly from his chair and wandering thoughtfully around the room.

His light footsteps led him to his piano, where his long fingers trailed lovingly across the keys; caressing the sleek ivory. It was a fine instrument made of rich mahogany; one of the conditions he had made with Martineau on accepting the position. It did not touch base with the grandiosity of his beloved organ, rusting away in the dank cellars of the Opera House, but it would do. Erik frowned; he did not want to think about his cherished organ, it was part of a past he was determined to leave behind him… whatever the cost.

XxXxXxX

The bright spring had given way to warm summer, warmer than usual for London, though Christine was gradually adjusting to its temperature. She could scarcely believe that nearly four months had passed since she had left Paris, and she had had no word from Raoul. She frowned at the thought, her heart giving a small, yet painful ache.

She didn't miss him, in the sense, though she would give anything to have the old Raoul back. No, it was more coming to terms with the fact that he obviously cared so little for her as to not enquire after her health and well-being, that hurt. For all he knew she could be dead! Christine turned her back furiously on the window, nearly ripping the curtains clear from their rungs and returned to her dreseer.

"Christine?" Meg knocked quietly on the door.

"Come in Meg," Christine called from the dresser table, beginning to pull ribbons through her hair.

"Christine you look beautiful," Meg beamed.

Christine turned and smiled at her friend, taking in the midnight blue dress she wore, the low cut of the neck-line and the matching jewelry that adorned her neck. The blue brought out the colour of her eyes, making them sparkle even brighter. "Look at you, Meg; I don't think I've ever seen you look more beautiful."

Meg blushed a little, producing two tickets from behind her back, "are you ready to go? Maman has just ordered a carriage." She flashed Christine a smile.

"Arriving in style, are we?"

"Well, what else would you expect, Christine? This is a premiere! We have to look classy and elegant."

Christine giggled, putting on a mock snobbish tone, "why? Because we're such lovely, eligible, well brought-up young ladies?" she sobered, "I still can't believe you and Madame Giry spent so much money on these tickets."

"Now Chrissy, we're not going into that conversation again. As maman and I have repeatedly explained to you, we have been saving for a while, and dear Chrissy; it's not every day my best friend turns nineteen." She handed Christine her ticket, "Happy Birthday."

Christine's heart warmed. It had been a long time since she had felt this happy.

"Now come on!" Meg urged, "or you'll have made maman's and my labour for nothing!"

XxXxXxX

Erik stood idly on the balcony staircase; over-looking the arrival of the hundreds attending the premiere of his newest opera. Martineau enthusiastically greeted the distinguished guests and high-ranking aristocrats, _Distinguished, _he smirked; _they know not what it means to be truly distinguished. _

"Fools," he muttered under his breath, as he drew his opera cloak closer around his broad shoulders; his superior ears listening to its faint shimmering over the polished stone.  
Erik hated crowds, and even more so, he hated the 'meet and greets' that came with the opera business. He was a solitary craftsman, a solitary man who wanted to compose and be left alone. For the first time, Erik felt anxious about the reception of his work; this was his one chance to cleanly break from the life he had known in Paris, to show the world a fragment of the genius he knew to possess.

He peered indifferently down into the gathering crowd below, scrutinizing the frivolity and arrogance of the upper-society; not one woman, he observed, was content with who she is without an array of jewels and furs, and her nose held high enough to add at least six inches to her height. Every face looked the same.

Snorting sardonically, he took a step back from the balcony, turning his back on the society he knew he could never be, nor desire a part of.

XxXxXxX

Christine descended the steps of the carriage gracefully; aided by the hand of the footman. Her long chocolate-brown evening gown trailed elegantly behind her, as she retracted her nimble ballet arms from the footman's grasp. She blushed as a pair of gentlemen to her right eyed her considerably; whispering amongst themselves. Meg soon followed suit, nudging her friend as she noticed the attentions of the gentlemen.

"Naught but five seconds, Christine, and you've already captured the hearts of the first two gentlemen to see you."

"Shush Meg!" Christine batted her hand away furiously, "they will hear you!"

Meg gave her a wry smile, her eyes flashing mischievously. She took up Christine's hand, raising her head slightly and led her past the two men, quirking her eyebrows subtly in their direction. Christine lowered her eyes, both embarrassed and amused by her friend's behavior.

"Come now Christine, what is the good of being a young woman if one cannot have a little fun?" Meg whispered out of the corner of her mouth, smiling broadly.

Christine could not help but laugh at her friend's frivolity.

At this point Madame Giry had caught them up and taken charge of the party, leading them up the stairs where they were ushered through the golden double-doors by two doormen. The moment Christine stepped foot within the entrance hall, her stomach gave a particularly painful lurch.

The hall was filled with hundreds of candles, their wax dripping from the tall, elegantly scrolled candleholders. A large chandelier was suspended overhead; highlighting the beautifully painted ceilings, and gold carvings of the pillars and statues. In terms of grandiosity, it nearly matched that of the Opera Popular, though held none of its sentimental value. Still, it was a cruel reminder of the life Christine had lost, and could never possess again.

The hall was filled with the usual aristocrats; consumed by self-importance. She noticed, (whilst blushing, naturally,) that she had captured the attentions of several men upon her entrance. Indeed, Christine looked the very picture and essence of perfection. She wore a tight-fitting gown of chocolate brown, the same colour as her eyes, which dropped from the waistline into a flowing skirt that resembled liquid chocolate. She had long given up trying to tame her wild curls, instead preferring to pin the sides, whilst retaining the back in an elegant clasp. Some curls had managed to come astray, and cascaded about her fine face; framing it perfectly. Christine noted, her eyes smiling in amusement, the dirty looks of envy the aristocratic women around her cast in her direction. She returned their gazes levelly; determined to treat them with the same contemptuous indifference she had shown to the same sort of women back in Paris.

"Christine, come along." Madame Giry's stern voice broke her reverie, beckoning her onwards.

The hairs on the back of Christine's neck stood on end. A sudden movement drew her gaze to the balcony staircase, where she was sure someone had been standing only moments before. She shrugged her shoulders, shaking herself mentally before following Madame Giry's footsteps into the theatre.

Erik had taken but six steps down the hallway when Mr. Martineau came bounding up the stairs to his left, his top hat tucked firmly under his arm.

"Ah, Mr. Deveraux! A good turn-out for your premiere, is it not?"

Erik nodded curtly.

"A full-theatre sir! The likes of which is rarely seen is London!"

Erik's lips quirked; "I can barely contain my excitement."

Martineau clapped his hands together, "and what a triumph tonight has been."

Erik's raised an eyebrow, "the opera has not even begun, sir. Perhaps you will give me leave to defer my rapture; at the present moment I daresay I would not do yours justice."

The light beside Martineau began to flicker.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Deveraux, I think it is high time we made our way to our boxes."

Erik nodded curtly once more, brushing carelessly past his enraptured manager as he made his way down the hallway that would lead him to his private box; number five. Indeed Erik found this rather ironic, but old habits die hard and he had demanded the private use of the box at every performance be sanctioned. He pulled the rich maroon curtains aside and observed the masses of people below him in the stalls. The curtains fluttered once more into place behind him. Erik always took care to remain concealed from view, and he often heard people question why box five is never inhabited. Pulling the chair back from the balcony, he pushed it slightly into the curtains before sitting gracefully upon its padded cushions, entwining his finger in his opera cloak. His attentions fell steadily on the stage curtains, waiting for the overture to begin.

Christine and Meg found their seats with ease. They were not near the front of the stage, nor in any of the boxes or tiers; the Giry's could not afford such grand seats. No, they resided comfortably four rows from the back, seated between two women of equal standing. Christine's heart fluttered at the familiarity of the scene, only she had never been part of the audience, one of the many faces, their eyes trained on the stage with anticipation. She had always been behind the curtain, trying to be rid of her nerves, or giggling with Meg. She peered hesitantly at Meg, and noted the same dreamy expression; she too was reminiscing about life in the Opera Populaire. Her reverie was broken as the curtains parted and the overture began.

XxXxXxX

As the tumultuous love scene came to a dramatic end, the lights brightened in the theatre; signaling the intermission. Christine couldn't move. She was struck by the sheer beauty and power of the music; the way it made her feel things she could not have thought possible for any human to feel. There was something eerily familiar about the opera, something that niggled in the back of her mind, yet which she couldn't quite put her finger on. Whoever the composer was, he managed to capture the raw emotion of the characters in his story; the innocence on the young girl portrayed by the sweet notes of a violin, whilst the obsession and passion of her lover embodied in the rich tones of the cello. This was undoubtedly a masterpiece. Christine stared curiously at the program: _"Night-side Phantasia" _was emblazoned in gold across the stiff parchment, "_Composer: E. Deveraux."  
_  
Christine frowned; _E. Deveraux? _A French name, and yet itwas unfamiliar to her, and represented so much mystery. Christine knew she would very much like to meet the maestro, and began scanning the boxes and tiers; trying to match a gentleman's face to the raw, and powerful music. A sudden flash of white caught her attention in the box to her right, and Christine's heart skipped a beat; her stomach plummeting. She rose slowly from her seat, cautious of her shaking legs and swept her eyes frantically over the remaining crowd. The box was empty. Christine closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to steady her nerves, and slow her racing heart.

"_Christine?" Christine's eyes shot open; Meg's concerned face staring at her. "Are you alright?"_

"Yes, fine." She answered a little too hastily. Meg stared at her doubtingly. "You'll excuse me, I need some air."

Pushing past a lingering couple, she flew through the hallways amid stares and cries of "I beg your pardon!"

Memories, no many memories flooded her view and she scarcely knew where she was going. Her breath hitched painfully in her lungs, her eyes watering as she slowed to a stumble; clutching painfully at the stitch in her side. The hallway she now resided in was dark, barely lit bar the soft light shed by a few candles. She suddenly began to panic, her air-ways restricting painfully. _Oh, God! I don't know where I am! _She fell back against the wall, desperately trying to steady her breathing. _Stupid girl, _she reprimanded herself, _you've run down a hallway; just follow your steps back. _Suddenly Christine felt rather embarrassed. She peered into the mirror opposite her, taking in the ruffled state of her dress and the make-up smudged down her cheeks.

"Good lord," she breathed, before traipsing over to the mirror to fix her appearance. When she was satisfied that she looked at least decent, she retraced her footsteps down the hallway, albeit a little more calmly. When she reached the foyer, Meg and Madame Giry were no where to be seen. The room was brightly lit, with several ladies and gentlemen talking in raptures about the first Act of the opera.

"… such raw emotion!"

" never heard anything like it…."

"… must be a brilliant composer…."

Erik smirked as his fine-tuned ears received the compliments with pride. Though he doubted whether a third of them would even know the difference between E and a D, it was a welcomed change from ridicule and scorn. He turned his back on the room, observing once more, the fine paintings on the wall.

Christine entered the large foyer silently; it was large enough to fit two of the Girys' house inside at least. Though she was considerably calmer, she still could not shake the sense that she was missing something, haunted by her memories. The couple in front her parted company, allowing her an unobstructed view of the room. She gasped.

A tall, dark cloaked figure stood before her, shrouded in the shadows of the foyer. Christine took in his appearance with shaky breaths; black suit, black cloak... back leather gloves, and slicked black hair. Everything she familiarized with her angel, bar the melodic voice. Christine's heart skipped a beat for the second time that night. _Could- could it be? _Despite every rational objection her mind could muster, she gathered together what shattered nerves she still possessed, and slowly approached the man.

"Excuse me Monsieur?" The words Christine uttered came in no more than a whisper; barely audible over the loud chatter in the crowded foyer. Christine swallowed her resolve, placing a cautious hand on the man's shoulder.

"Excuse me Monsieur?" she asked boldly. The man's back went rigid, and he slowly turned around.

XxXxXxX

"Excuse me Monsieur?"

The man turned around. He was a handsome young man, sleek black hair, prominent cheek bones; perfectly chiseled features supporting a monocle obscuring his left eye. Christine's gaze faltered.

Erik's voice dropped from his throat; his mouth suddenly went dry as parchment, his muscles as rigid as stone. He knew that voice. After years of moulding it, perfecting it, polishing its beauty, how could he not? Darting a fervent look across the hall, he saw none other than his Christine talking to a man of whom he knew nothing.

"May I help you miss?" the young man asked, slightly bewildered.

"Oh, I'm sorry Monsieur; I thought you were somebody else…"

The young man frowned in lack of understanding of her French.

Erik watched on, too shocked to have yet regained control over his muscles. _Was that a tear in her eye? _Coming to his senses, he swiftly darted into the nearest door-frame, obscuring him from view should Christine turn around. He observed the slight slumping of her shoulders, the tilting of her chin, the dullness in her eyes; surely all this could not be signs of disappointment?

Despite all this, Erik could barely contain himself; his eyes remained firmly locked on her form, her maturity reflected in the fullness of her curves; the shape of which had altered since he parted with her when she was just sixteen. There was something not quite right about her; something that had changed. The weight of the situation suddenly hit him; the Christine he had known and loved, the Christine he remembered was but a naïve girl. The Christine that his eyes remained locked on was now a young woman of eighteen. What change these two years had brought upon; she was no longer a sweet and innocent girl in need of protection, but a most alluring woman.

Erik was snapped out of his musings by the movement of Christine turning to leave. He retracted even further into the shadows of the private box, his watchful eyes following her movements as she passed the doorway, treading lightly down the hallway.  
Before he could stop himself, he whispered but one word; "Christine…"  
Christine's step faltered; her eyes widened in panic; darting wildly around the hallway. Erik shrouded himself in his cloak, cursing himself silently for his stupidity.

Christine shook her head; "pull yourself together, lest someone should question your sanity. No sensible girl hears voices from the dead!"

The lights began to flicker in the foyer, signaling the end of the intermission. Christine quickened her pace, and hurried to resume her seat in the theatre. A silent Erik watched her retreating form.

He scarcely allowed himself to breathe; returning silent and morosely to his private box, not caring much for the beginning of Act Two, nor whether Mr. Worthing had managed to succeed in the playing of his piece.

_How could she be here! Why is she here! Where is her precious Vicomte! _Wild, unanswerable question flew throughErik's head. _It's impossible! She cannot be here! _His hands gripped the edge of the balcony so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Frantically he searched the crowded mass below, searching for her face… anything…any trace or sign of her. _There! _Finally he spotted her, four rows from the back, and in the company of… the Girys!

"I should have known," he cursed bitterly, prying his fingers from the ledge.

The second Act began shortly afterwards, but Erik's mind was in great turmoil. His indecisiveness over his want of seeing Christine, and the need to protect his heart, and his new life from her, was tearing his mind in two. He could not stay here, when she was in so easy a reach; he could be discovered at any moment. He left the box, flying down the numerous passageways which lead to his quarters. The door slammed resolutely behind him.  
Erik placed his hands calmly on the desktop, breathing steadily. He had not bothered to light the lanterns; preferring the encapsulating darkness, that always provided some form of comfort. Suddenly Erik broke, sweeping his arm wildly across the table; he threw everything upon it to the floor. The bottle of crimson ink smashed on the floor, forming pools and rivulets around his feet.

"Why must she come back! Why must she ruin even this, my one chance to break from her forever!"

His heart beat frantically. "Stop this madness Erik, she will ruin everything! One cannot love a ghost!"

The words echoed mockingly around the empty room; _No… and seemingly one cannot love an Angel either…._


	14. Chapter 13

**A/N Okay guys, considering I hadn't updated for a long time before the last chapter, and I was on holidays, AND I'm feeling generous, I wrote you guys the longest chapter yet! Arrgghh, last week of holidays was soooo hectic; but, omg, I had my debut on Saturday Night, and it was the BEST night ever! Eww, but now I'm back at school and it's exam period :( This may delay some future updates, but exams are all over half-way through November, so it should all be good after then. Now, I shall present to you Chapter Thirteen - the revelation (sorta). Cheers!

* * *

Chapter thirteen. **

_Drip…drip….drip..._ A steady, rhythmic drip cast echoes around the cold dark room. The steel basin underneath the tap caught the small droplets of water as they fell from the leaking faucet. The faint sounds of the opera added to the haunting melody of the air, as a dark shadow sat as still as death at the table. The faint glow of a lit candle cast ghostly shadows across the unmasked portion of his visage; whose features were set as blank and impenetrable as stone.

Erik stared deep into the candlelight, without really seeing it. He sat stiffly upright; his back as rigid as stone and his gloved hands lying clenched upon the table top. The crimson ink had spread widely, drying long ago and leaving the floorboards stained red underneath his feet.

The sounds of tremendous applause broke his reverie, as he slowly blinked his eyes, bringing the sharp quill and parchment beneath his fingers into focus.

_"Dear Madame…" _was scrawled untidily across the small scrap of parchment, which Erik observed before crumpling it into a ball and throwing it into the fireplace.

He stood, suddenly aware of how much time had passed, and began removing his dinner jacket, white gloves, gold vest and cravat hurriedly, throwing them into a heap on the bed. The white shirt he retained. A few minutes later the door to his quarters opened, and the Phantom stepped forth. A black vest, cravat, jacket and cloak adorned his stature. He pulled a large black fedora deep over the right side of his face to conceal the mask, and worked his fingers into the soft leather of his black gloves. The sound of many footsteps echoed down the hallway; the opera had ended – there wasn't much time.

Erik started down the passageway; the lanterns had burnt low in this area, concealing him in shadow, and took a sharp right. He walked briskly down the deserted passageway and headed down the stairs, pulling a small silver key from within his cloak pocket. At the bottom of the stair case he turned left, where he was met by a solid wooden door. The key inserted perfectly into the lock and swung open with a creak. The backstage of the theatre lie before him; busy with life and excited chatter. Erik ducked behind the stage curtains, avoiding a pair of stagehands who were removing props from the last scene. He pulled back the maroon drapes and found himself on centre stage, the entire theatre laid before his eyes. It was always a spectacular sight to behold; and yet every time Erik found himself presented with its grandiosity, he felt a flare of resentment for what the curse of his wretched face had denied him.

There were a set of steps concealed by the side curtains that lead off the stage into the audience seating area. Erik passed rows and rows of rich crimson, and gold trimmed seats as he made his way to the set of gold double doors that would lead him directly out into the foyer. The foyer was filled with the lively and excited chatter of the aristocrats and their wives, and Erik could not help but smirk as he heard his name being thrown about in their raptures. He sighted Martineau across the room from him, wildly gesturing to one of his patrons who, believe it or not, looked almost as enraptured as he. Erik quickly made his way through the foyer, ducking past couples and avoiding the likes of Martineau. He pushed himself up against a side door, once again inserting the silver key, which allowed the door to open; permitting him access to the entrance hall. He had not seen Christine, nor the Girys in the foyer, and only assumed that they had already made their way to the entrance hall.

The entrance hall was filled with people making their way out of the opera house; chatting excitedly and reliving the passion that Erik had installed upon his work. Erik turned a deaf ear to them, tilting the brim of his fedora slightly upwards and fervently scanning the crowd of people for any trace of Madame Giry's party. He spotted the swirl of a chocolate-coloured gown, as it whipped around the corner of the open double-doors and out of sight. Erik side-stepped the crowd; pushing impatiently past the hoards of people milling uselessly around the exit. As he burst forth from the crowd onto the front steps, his yellow eyes blazed fiercely as he spotted Christine being helped into the carriage by a footman, before closing the carriage door behind her. He couldn't let her go.

A line of carriages with their horses strapped into the harnesses and their drivers mounted patiently on their seats; waiting for their respective Masters and Mistresses to call upon them, lined the opposite side of the cobble-stone street. Erik paused in thought before turning to look over his shoulder, and melding perfectly into the shadows. He surveyed the drivers carefully; examining which he thought to be the drunkest of the lot, and crept silently and stealthily behind him. The horse whickered nervously as it sensed Erik's impending presence. The driver did not even turn around as Erik brought his hand down swiftly upon the man's neck; hitting the point sufficiently to knock him into unconsciousness. The man fell forwards off his seat, where Erik dragged him with ease off the carriage; depositing him in to bushes off the side of the road. He turned to check on the Girys' carriage; it had not yet left its mark. Erik's nimble fingers worked quickly on the buckles and straps that held the horse securely in its harness. Before long he had freed the black mare, using the carriage to hoist himself agilely up onto its bare back, and taking the reins in his gloved hands. He gave the horse a swift kick, turning the mare around to face the Girys' carriage, which had begun moving off down the street.

Erik watched it go warily; he had always learned to keep a safe distance whenever he was stalking his prey, lest they become alert of him before the time is right. When he was sure he had at least fifty meters between he and the carriage, he gently kicked his horse into action; trotting steadily along the cobbled street, concealed in the shadow of the night. Erik's fierce yellow eyes narrowed considerably, as the landscape of London was bared before his sight; as clear as should it be daylight. He focused entirely on the carriage before him, not once letting it from his sight and committing the path it took to memory. Fifteen minutes later saw the carriage slow to a halt outside a rather battered and weathered-looking house. The garden, or lack there-of, was unkempt and extremely scraggly. The window panes were grimy on the outside, and decrepit shutters hung at odd angles from the windows. The light pouring through the windows, however, made the interior seem strangely warm and cosy. Erik pulled up his horse some way down the road and observed Madame Giry, Christine and Meg depart the carriage and make their way towards the house; Madame Giry and Meg chatted animatedly amongst themselves, but Christine seemed strangely silent.

"Is something wrong Christine? You seemed awfully quiet on the carriage ride home," Meg asked her friend concernedly.

Christine shivered slightly despite the warm breeze. Madame Giry had stopped in front of the steps and turned to face her.

"I-I just can't seem to shake the feeling that," she paused as Madame Giry raised her eyebrows, "… um, it doesn't matter; I'm just tired. Please, let's just go inside."

Erik watched on silently as the front door flew open; his yellow eyes blazing fiercely at the sight of a young man descending the steps to greet the women. His hands gripped the reins unnecessarily tight, making his knuckles turn white as bone. The horse whickered nervously, once more sensing Erik's apprehension.

Patrick smiled graciously at Madame Giry and Meg, politely enquiring after their evening before turning his attentions to Christine.

"Christine, no doubt I have said this once already this evening, but you look beautiful."

Christine tried desperately to suppress a blush that threatened to creep to her cheeks. She gifted him a small smile; unwilling to either participate in his playful banter or encourage his compliments. "Thank-you Patrick, I believe you have already."

Madame Giry and Meg smiled at one another and continued up the steps to the front door. Patrick held his hand out to Christine, smiling cheekily; "mademoiselle?"

Christine took his hand hesitantly, albeit a little resentfully, not wanting to seem rude. The moment the bare skin of their fingers touched, Christine stomach gave way to the most awful feeling, and she nearly tripped up the front steps. There was something eerily familiar about that moment; as though a ghost walked along side her as a dreadful feeling of Deja vu swept over her.

Erik's heart stopped beating in that moment as he watched his Christine hold hands with a young man of whom he knew nothing. The way he spoke and gestured to her clearly displayed his affections in a way society would not allow if Christine was still married to her precious Comte. His eyes had hardened and dulled to a faint orange as he watched to pair retreat inside the house; his countenance turning as cold as ice. "Fool," he breathed heavily before turning his mare around to return to the opera house and his solitude; the shadows enveloping his as he rode – welcoming him back into the darkness.

XxXxXxX

"… and the overture maman! I wish you could have been there Patrick, the music was so beautiful I cried even during the overture."

Patrick laughed a little, "I daresay it was an immensely enjoyable evening-"

"-Oh, but I cannot believe that girl could have been so cruel. All that man ever did was love her unconditionally, and she betrayed him ruthlessly, don't you think so maman?"

Madame Giry was peering concernedly at Christine, "I think it is all a matter of interpretation, my dear. That story was told only from the gentleman's side; we would know none of the particulars-"

Meg snorted, "none of the particulars? Maman it was plain as daylight. My, it was such a tragic opera; I spent the entire night in tears. Didn't you Chrissy?"

Christine looked up sharply, "what? Oh… uh, yes."

"Chrissy, are you ill?" Patrick looked up at her. All three sets of eyes were gazing levelly at her. Christine winced, "just a slight headache, though, perhaps I should lie down."

Madame Giry nodded, "if that is the case, then a lie-down would be a good idea. If there's anything you need, please let us know."

She lowered her eyes, "thank-you Madame Giry."

Christine quickly dismissed herself from the discussion, returning morosely to her room. What she truly wanted was to be alone. There was something in that Opera House, something familiar that had stirred memories and feelings she thought she had buried for good. And now, the memories were alive and as animated with her as if they had only happened yesterday. She sat at her dresser table, playing idly with the wax that dripped steadily from the single candle adorning the dresser top. There was something strangely comforting about the candle-light; its soft and flickering quality had always managed to calm her. It had always been something she had familiarized with her Angel, for a candle's flickering flame was never predictable, and Christine was never sure when the spell weaved by her Angel would be snuffed out leaving her all alone once again. She sighed despondently. Not only had tonight brought back painful memories of her Angel, but had reminded Christine just how much she actually missed the theatre; its exciting and unpredictable lifestyle, the electrifying atmosphere, she even found herself regretting the loss of La Carlotta's frequent tantrums; they had been such a large part of her life for so long.

One small, pearly tear freed itself from Christine's lashes and trickled slowly down her pale cheek. Whatever strength she had thought to possess that night left her and it was not long before a cascade of tears followed as she wept solidly into her hands.

Patrick stood outside her bedroom door, listening somberly to her anguished sobs.

XxXxXxX

Bright, clean morning light streamed through the part in Christine's curtains. She yawned sleepily as she tugged the covers off her bed, stretching her arms up high and bending her back in a majestic arch.

"Christine?"

There was a gentle knock on the door. Christine lifted her head lazily, expecting to see Meg's bubbly face poke through the crack in the door. Patrick's bright green eyes peered at her instead. Christine gasped and nearly fell from the bed in an attempt to hastily pull the covers off her bed up around her nearly-naked form. All that she wore was a thin chemise; highly inappropriate clothing for Patrick to see her in.

"Oh! um," Patrick stuttered, stumbling backwards and hitting his head on the door. His face had turned bright red from embarrassment, as he hastily stammered numerous apologies to Christine.

"I, uhm, didn't mean- I'm so sorry!"

After Christine had gotten over the initial shock, she tried desperately to stifle a giggle at Patrick's mortification; a feat that was proving rather difficult. Suddenly Patrick ceased his apologetic ramblings, his face falling slack in humiliation at her incessant giggling; a fraction of a moment passed where he and Christine stared at one another before he fled the room; stubbing his toe and cursing in his haste.

Christine fell back onto the bed with a sigh, her stomach cramping painfully as she tried her best to laugh quietly. _Gosh! If only Meg were here to witness this!_

When she as able to contain herself she emerged from her room, pulling a silk dressing gown over her chemise; (one of the items of clothing she had brought with her from Paris,) she found Patrick in the kitchen; his whisk and bowl in hand. His face was still immensely red; though Christine was unsure of whether it was still from embarrassment or the heat of the kitchen. Judging by his awkwardness, Christine assumed it to be the remnant of his earlier mortification. She smiled despite herself. Patrick smiled nervously.

"Christine, please allow me to apologise again for before; I-I shouldn't have intruded upon your privacy." Christine grinned in amusement, the whole situation appearing all the more trivial.

"Patrick, it's fine, honestly. Though, you must have come to see me about something; may I enquire as to what it was?"

"Oh, um," he set the mixing bowl down. "I was just wondering whether you would escort me into town later; there is a very lively market traveling through, and perhaps we could have lunch also?"

Christine frowned a little and Patrick's heart sank; she was going to say 'no'.

"Yes, thank-you Patrick, that would be nice."

His face broke into a wide smile; something she had not seen for a while. Christine sat on one of the kitchen stools, resting her head in her hand. There was something strangely familiar about Patrick which puzzled her slightly; she watched him bustle about the kitchen, starting the stoves and pouring mixture into the fry-pans. Some of the redness had dissipated from his cheeks, and Christine looked closely at his kind features. His brilliant green eyes were fixed in concentration on his task and he brought a large hand to his face to push his curly blonde hair back from his forehead. She smiled slightly, genuinely looking forward to this afternoon's outing – anything to take her mind off and distract her from her thoughts and memories of last night.

XxXxXxX

_swoosh_… Erik wrinkled his nose as a cloud of dust freed itself from the rarely-opened curtains and searched for new places to settle. The bright summer light filtered through the slightly grimy windows illuminating Erik's dank quarters. He resumed his position at the desk, pulling the piece of parchment forward and suspending his hand above it. He cursed as the loaded quill he was holding dripped splurges of crimson ink on the half-filled page. He blotted it out hastily and began writing again. Jagged, spindly notes ran ragged across the page as Erik poured his emotions into the dark concoction of music he composed. He paused in reflection, anger washing over him at the thought of his own weakness the night before. Why was he foolish enough to follow her? _Snap! _Erik looked down in surprise at the snapped quill in his hand; his fingers clenched unnecessarily tight around the shards of stem. He cursed darkly, throwing the quill aside and rummaging through the set of draws to his right, in search of a new one. He groaned as his search proved fruitless.

"Damn! Another unnecessary trip down town," he stood sharply from the desk, his chair clattering dramatically to the floor as he draped his long cloak over his shoulders.

He glanced outside at the warm summer's day and decided a vest and jacket would be unnecessarily hot. His long fingers trailed from his cloak fastenings, to the mask adorning his face, pressing it firmly to his skin to secure it. He winced slightly; wearing the mask out in daytime during summer would cause him to sweat profusely and make the mask extremely uncomfortable and irritating. But, there was nothing to be done about the matter. He stalked across the room and snatched the black fedora from the topmost shelf in his closet and pulled it low over his face. His eyes fell on the crumpled piece of parchment that lay discarded in the fireplace.

No, he would not dwell on thoughts of Christine; to her he was dead and that is the way it will remain. He would and he would forget he ever saw her. _Nothing but a ghost, a memory…_

XxXxXxX

"Oh, Patrick, look at these ones!" Christine grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to a near-by stall. He smiled at her excitement, as she bent low over the stall table, turning various bracelets and necklaces made of the most incredibly beautiful blue and green stone, gently over in her hands. A Persian man stood behind the stall, smiling toothily at his prospective customers; keen to make a sale. Christine picked a silver and blue-stone bracelet from the pile and lifted her gaze.

"May I?" she indicated to the bracelet. He nodded enthusiastically at her, gesturing for her to try the bracelet on. Patrick stepped forward, taking Christine's arm in his hand and deftly securing the bracelet about her small wrist. The blue stones sparkled and winked in the sunlight, melding perfectly against her pale skin. Christine gushed, running her delicate fingers along the fine silver links.

"It's beautiful."

The Persian smiled widely; extremely pleased with her satisfaction, announcing in stuttered English, "I do special deal! Special deal for you!"

Christine smiled and reached within her bag for her purse before Patrick intervened. "No Christine, let me." He put a hand on hers, lowering her purse back into the bag.

She frowned, "are you sure?" She wasn't entirely sure if she was comfortable with Patrick buying things for her, lest of all things she imagined would be rather expensive. But Patrick was clearly determined to do this for Christine, and he was not to be game set.

He then began the process of bartering the price of the bracelet down, lowering his voice to a low rumble whilst Christine browsed through the rest of the items in the stall. She turned over her shoulder to see the Persian man nod and the clink of coins as Patrick passed money into the eager tradesman's hands. A few moments passed and he returned to Christine, smiling in immense satisfaction. "Shall we?"

The pair continued through the market place, stopping now and then to peer into the stalls of foreign trades people, selling anything from exquisite jewelry, to beautifully carved furniture, silk scarves and exotic foods. Patrick stopped at a stall selling hairpieces, and allowed Christine to wander ahead. He quickly looked over the items laid before him, taking in the dazzling jewels and shine from polished metal. His eyes stopped on a beautiful gold-sculptured butterfly hairclip, with cut-glass pieces arranged in patterns on the wings. He looked quickly around the see if Christine was near-by, but she was already twenty meters away, looking through a stall that sold silk scarves and embroidered cushions. Patrick gazed after her, noting the soft dappled light falling across her face, the way her eyes sparkled and her pale skin shone. She turned around, smiling as their eyes met; brilliant green unto chocolate brown. Patrick smiled incandescently, his stomach giving a nervous flutter.

"Sir?"

Patrick's reverie was broken by the voice of the stall owner, who peered curiously at him, gesturing to the hairclip clutched tightly in his grasp.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he handed the owner some money, who in turn took the hairclip from his clasp and wrapped it in brown paper, tying it off neatly with string. Patrick took the parcel and stored it deep within his coat pocket, patting it reassuringly as he jogged to catch up with Christine, who was now at least fifty meters away. He folded his hands behind his back and walked stoically alongside her, smelling the fresh summer air along with… _what was that delicious smell? _He turned abruptly towards Christine, noting the way her petit nose was lifted ever so slightly in an attempt to catch more of the wafting aroma. She smiled pleasantly at him, her eyes winking mischievously, "you do smell that, don't you?"

He frowned, rubbing in stomach thoughtfully, "yes, I must confess I do." He reached within his coat and pulled out an old pocket watch that had once belonged to his father, flicking it open and noting the positioning of the hands. "No wonder why, my dear, it is past one O'clock." He snapped the watch shut, "hungry?"

Christine grinned, "ravenous."

She followed Patrick as they wound their way through the crowds of people milling around the market place, until they stumbled upon a corner-store café. The bell tinkled as Patrick pushed the door open, holding it for Christine as she entered the room timidly. From the outside, she must confess, the place looked rather shabby and unkempt for an eating house. Christine was in a good mind to question the sanitation of the place, but the moment she set foot within its walls, those opinions left her completely. The interior of the café was spotlessly clean, with polished tiled floors, grey-wash walls and comfortable green-cushioned seats. But most of all it was filled with the most delicious and inviting aroma, that Christine was very disinclined to leave. Patrick motioned for her to take a seat as he took a menu up in his hand, flicking the pages casually with his fingers.

"They have a vast range of pasta dishes," he noted, reading down the page. A waitress soon tended them, taking their orders and returning to her counter. Patrick placed the menu on the table behind him and turned to find Christine smiling warmly at him, playing idly with her bracelet. They soon lapsed into lively conversation, with Christine retelling some of her life in Paris, and Patrick sharing stories of his childhood in Scotland.

"… tell me more about your brother."

"He's actually my half-brother, and there's really not a lot to tell. Liam is eleven years older than I am, and our father was married to his mother: she was Scottish. She and Liam were extremely close and had a very special bond, as our father once told me. When Liam was nine she fell ill with pneumonia and died during the winter, and my father, and Liam especially, took it tremendously hard. A year after her death, our father remarried my mother, who was English-born like he, but spent the greater part of her childhood in Ireland. A year after they married they had me, and I don't think Liam has ever really forgiven our father for moving on with his life, when he was unable to."

"That's so sad, what happened?"

Patrick sighed, "well, my father died when I was twelve and my mother was left to raise me with little income. My brother, by that stage was twenty-three and living outside of my mother's protection and care. She loved Liam, I know she did, I just wish that he had been able to see it; to be able to look past his grief. Now, he and I work and run the Inn, but I can feel he still resents me. We've never been very close, and I doubt we ever will." He stood, "I shall go pay the bill." Christine smiled sadly, watching him go. They had both lost their parents at such young ages; perhaps Patrick could understand her after all.

As they left the café Christine grabbed Patrick's hand, and turned him to face her, "Patrick, I want to thank you for your kindness today, and in buying me this bracelet-"

He held a hand up to her, "please Christine, it was my pleasure."

"But, you didn't have to. You've been nothing but good to me, Patrick, thank-you," she stood on her tip-toes and pecked him lightly on the cheek, before letting go of his hand and walking off in front of him.

Patrick stood stunned, a pink tinge slowly spreading across his cheeks as he brought his finger tips to the spot where Christine's lips had met his bare skin. He watched her go in wonder, her flaxen curls bouncing behind her, sunlight turning them into melted chocolate. Suddenly he came to his senses and proceeded after her.

An hour's meandering saw the sun beat down mercilessly upon the market square; Christine fanned herself exasperatedly and Patrick had discarded his vest long ago. What little shade that was offered by the few trees in the square was occupied, and the liveliness of the banter and barter of the market had lost its appeal. Patrick touched Christine's sleeve lightly, and she turned to face him, her cheeks tinged pink with fluster, "Christine, perhaps we should retire for the afternoon?" The sweat trickled into his eyes as he pushed his moist hair back off his forehead. His damp shirt clung to his torso, exenterating the tight abdominal muscles. His hand fell once more to his side.

Christine nodded in agreement, glancing up at the bright, hot circle hanging in the sky over head. Undoubtedly they had been here for hours; Madame Giry was probably wondering where they were, "Let us go then."

XxXxXxX

The door closed quietly behind them. No sound could be heard from within the house; neither the clink of a dish, nor the sounds of Meg's humming. The house seemed positively deserted. Christine stood in the kitchen, watching as Patrick put the few food supplies they had purchased away; storing them in the cupboards and pantries. His back remained turned to her, and Christine felt an uncomfortable trickle of sweat work its way down the nape of her neck. She shuddered slightly and left the kitchen to head for her room. She stowed away her newly bought items in her dresser draw and walked wearily into the bathroom. The faucet gurgled slightly as she twisted the rusting handle, allowing her hands to trail across the surface of the cool water as the basin began to fill. She turned it off and cupped her hands around the liquid, bringing it quickly to her face in a revitalizing splash. She removed her dress and placed it in the washing basket, sponging her soft skin with a wet flannelette to remove the dirt and grime. The caked on dust was soon washed from her face, staining the flannelette cloth brown and yellow. Her wild, untamed curls flew about her shoulders as she tried haphazardly to work a brush through them, separating each strand and binding them together with a pale blue ribbon at the base of her neck. When she finally emerged from the room she wore a white blouse and Prussian blue skirt, which flowed majestically across the wooden floorboards. When she entered the kitchen she found Patrick busily working away at the chopping board once more. She smiled to herself.

Patrick turned around, "Ah, Christine, I thought you'd drowned in there! I almost felt inclined to come to your rescue." He grinned cheekily at her.

Her eyes winked in amusement as she played along with his banter, "my dear knight in shining armour, what would I ever do without you?"

"Stay locked in your tower for ever and a day."

Christine's face fell. Patrick didn't realize it at the time, but that small sentiment had hit home with Christine considerably; he could not have been truer. He had saved her in his own way, if it had not been for that night in the Inn, Christine was sure she would have been on the brink of insanity. He had freed her from her marriage with Raoul; she was no longer somebody's trophy.

"Christine, are you alright?" Patrick went to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself. His hand fell limp at his side.

Christine wiped away a stray tear, "I'm fine Patrick, honestly. I was…" she paused, unsure of whether she should confess the truth about her reflections, of how indebted she felt to him. "I just feel like I owe you so much, I came to you a stranger and you lifted me from one of the darkest places I've ever known. In a way, you saved me Patrick; you saved me from myself, from my marriage with Raoul, my own indecision. I don't know how I can ever thank-you."

"Oh, Christine," he took a step towards her. The gap between them narrowed, and Christine suddenly felt very nervous; her eyelids fluttered, hiding her eyes behind her long lashes. He reached towards her, the tips of his fingers brushing the soft skin of her upper arm, sending a spark of electricity emanating from his touch throughout her body. She took a stumbling step back, her mouth falling slightly agape. His brilliant green eyes widened considerably as he quickly grasped her hand in his to prevent her from leaving and pulled her closer to him.

"You felt it, didn't you?" She dumbly shook her head, refusing to acknowledge to sudden and growing attraction she felt between herself and he.

"Damn it Christine!" He grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly once, unable to contain his irrefutable feelings.

"Why do you continue to deny it? We have been together for months; I have stayed by your side and watched the ill-fates that have befallen you. I have been there when you wept, for the infidelity of your worthless husband, and I-I have felt…" he paused, desperation and nervousness overpowering his features, his brows knitted in anguish as he let his heart pour out to this woman. "I have felt more than I ever thought I could feel for one woman. I don't know how it happened, and I don't know why I feel this way Christine, but I'll be damned if I'm wrong that you don't feel it too. It wasn't a mere coincidence that we met in my Inn that night, it was fate!"

Christine lifted her eyes to meet his, searching for deception, but all she found was adoration, a growing love that even she had begun to feel the presence of. Patrick's eyes began to crinkle in a smile, she felt his warm breath upon her forehead, his lips were… _No! This wasn't right! _Suddenly she felt claustrophobic; he was too close, there was no air, she needed to get away!

She pulled away from Patrick's grasp, "I'm sorry Patrick… I-I can't do this!"

She pushed past him, a cutting knife falling to the floor with a clatter where it spun slowly to s top. Patrick watched her go with growing pain in his eyes, "Oh, Christine…"

XxXxXxX

A soft knock was heard on the door. Patrick lifted his head from his arms as a shy Christine stepped timidly into the room. A glass of amber liquid sat near Patrick's hand, making Christine all the more nervous. He blinked at her in disbelief, slowly registering her appearance. He shook his head and coughed dryly;

"Christine."

"Patrick, I wanted to apologize… for before."

Patrick waved his hand with a sigh, and stood from the chair, rubbing the stubble on his chin wearily. "No, there is no need for an apology on your behalf. It is I, who should apologize. I shouldn't have said the things that I said, it was inappropriate of me… but it does not change the way I feel about you, Christine. What I spoke of was the truth."

Christine shied away from him, "Patrick, you have been very good to me, and I appreciate the sacrifices you have made on my behalf… we've built a beautiful friendship," Christine watched as the hopefulness held within his steady gaze was crushed in an instant by her words. "But that's all it can ever be for me; a friendship."

He looked at her pleadingly, "you haven't given us a chance, Christine, I can make you happy," he took in her distressed look, "is there no hope?"

She stared at the floor, unable to lift her gaze to meet the desperation in his eyes.

Patrick sighed resignedly. "There's no changing your mind then? Is this to be your final decision?"

Christine lifted a warm hand to her friend's cheek as a tear freed itself from her lashes, "I'm afraid so," she replied softly, allowing her hand to stroke his cheek softly before falling to her side once more.

"The truth is Patrick, that I love someone, more than any person on earth is capable of loving. He made me who I am, he was what made my soul complete before the broken pieces went missing. He was all I had." A tear slid gracefully down her cheek.

"You speak of his as though he is dead."

Christine's breath hitched in her lungs. "He is Patrick, he is." It was the first time Christine had ever confessed to somebody the feelings she harboured for her fallen angel.

"Then why do you cling to the past Christine? Why do you condemn yourself to loneliness, when there is somebody who loves you?"

"Oh Patrick, don't you understand? I have already lost the one for me, I can never love another."

"But you can be happy Christine! Love grows, it does not simply exist, it needs to be nurtured. We can be happy Christine, can't you see that?"

"No, Patrick. You deserve somebody who can love you unconditionally, somebody else..."

"I don't want anybody else! I want you, Christine!" He tried to pull her into a kiss, but she drew away frightfully; panicking at his desperation and frustration.

"Please don't make me do this, Patrick!"

She didn't even spare him a look as she fled from the room, her heart a raging torment of emotions. The thudding of her heart emanated in her ears so loudly that she didn't even hear Patrick's desperate plea after her. _When will you stop running, Christine?_

The front door slammed loudly behind her, but she couldn't hear it amongst the ringing in her ears, the pounding of her heart. She didn't know where she was going, she ran blindly, turning down streets and alleyways, avoiding trampling carriages and street hooligans, before she collapsed on a bench, her chest heaving with each painful breath. She closed her eyes, working frantically to slow her racing heart, lest it leap right out of her chest. The sounds of the streets and market place greeted her, its lively bustle and bartering oddly calming to her nerves.

The jingle of a shop bell tinkling sounded behind her.

"Ah! If it is not the Maestro himself, Monsieur Deveraux!"

Christine's eyes shot open. _Monsieur Deveraux? E. Deveraux? _She stilled her breath, waiting silently in anticipation.

"Mr. Hurst." A man's curt and harmonic voice reached her ears.

"I hear congratulations are in order, sir. What a fine accomplishment; to be so successful in your debut into opera business!"

"Indeed sir."

"Well, what shall we have for you today? Parchment? Ink? I had a fine new metronome delivered this very morning."

"No, I require only a new eagle feather quill, two bottles of crimson ink, and two reams of music-stave parchment."

_Crimson ink? Stave parchment? _Christine felt sick as she listened to the mysterious man with the melodious voice make his demands. It was a few moments before the sound of coins clattering on a glass top preceded, "Thank-you and good day to you sir."

The doorbell tinkled again, and the man stepped out from the shop onto the pavement. He paused, before his light footsteps continued down the street.

Christine spun around quickly on the bench, blinded by a sudden flash of light that reflected harshly off the white mask of the man walking ten meters behind her. His black cloak billowed around his muscular form and he wore nothing but a poet's shirt underneath, a black fedora adorning his head. He seemed to be moving in slow motion, each graceful stride taking an eternity to pass, and the world stopped in that moment, no other sound could be heard bar the faint tapping of his dress shoes upon the cobble-stones. The ground tilted underneath her, the bench she sat upon spun, and the entire world seemed to be coming down around her as Christine gasped, "Oh my God… Erik"

Suddenly the bile Christine had been suppressing rose to her throat, and she put her head between her knees and vomited. She vomited until she was certain there was nothing left inside of her, bar the utter turmoil and torment. The sun was too hot, sweat dripped heavily from her face, and the last thing she remembered was the brilliancy of his white mask before her eyes clouded over and the world went dark.

XxXxXxX

_Christine… _

Christine…

"Christine!"

Christine blinked her eyes slowly, the world steadily coming into focus. She sat up with a gasp, "Erik!"

Madame Giry put a damp cloth to her forehead, pushing her back down onto the sofa she resided on. She turned her head slightly and saw Patrick and Meg standing near the doorway, watching on worriedly.

"Shush, Christine, you're alright now, just hush." She sponged softly at her forehead, soaking up the beads of perspiration forming once more upon Christine's brow. The poor girl was shaking terribly despite the heat in the room.

Christine tried to sit up again, regardless of Madame Giry's attempts to keep her lying down. "No, Madame Giry! I saw him! I saw him, I swear! It was him, Madame Giry, it was him!" Patrick frowned immensely, trying to comprehend what Christine was saying. He turned to Meg for explanation, but was confronted by the same look of incomprehension. Madame Giry's brows knitted together in anguish.

"Meg, please fetch me some more water and blankets. Monsieur Raynaud, could you please go to the market and purchase some ginger?" She spoke softly, gazing worriedly at the evident fret upon Christine's face.

Meg left the room straight away, but Patrick lingered, reluctant to leave Christine's side. "Monsieur please!" Madame Giry barked. Patrick gazed one last time at Christine, and left the room swiftly.

"Now, child, tell me what happened."

Christine shivered; sweat dripping down into her eyes. She blinked away the saltiness and stared into Madame Giry's face. "I saw him Madame Giry, I saw Erik!" She barely whispered the words, but Madame Giry's face drained of all colour, her mouth hanging slightly agape. There was no concealing the truth now.

"Christine…"

"But, no, it couldn't have been… Erik is dead," Christine looked pleadingly at her, "Isn't he?"

Madame Giry closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her breath coming in shaky gasps. _Curse you Erik! I warned you!_ She opened them and looked pityingly into Christine's eyes, trying to convey the regret and remorse she felt over telling her daughter such a horrifying lie.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry."

"No," she protested weakly, her eyes hollowed as whatever strength she had thought to possess, left her then, "no… It can't be!"

All Madame Giry could do was nod silently; there was nothing she could say.

* * *

**A/N Okay, considering I went to the mammoth effort of writing you guys a nice, long chapter, I expect everyone to review! Reviews are what make it worth the effort, and I really want feedback from EVERYONE, even if you haven't reviewed before! If you want to make suggestions for the next chapter, feel free and I'll be sure to review-reply to all of you. Until next time, sorry to leave you in such a cliffie, Cheers!**


	15. Chapter 14

**A/N Hey there, I'm back after a month and a half break for Year 12 and 11 examinations, but now I'm into full writing mode again. Here's the much sought after chapter, and thank-you to all my reviewers, (especially Froody, coz she's awesome,) who have been patient in waiting for this to happen. A nice looong chapter, and it's finally here! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

**Chapter fourteen.**

Christine's eyes widened in horror as the full impact of what Madame Giry was implying struck her.

"Erik is… _alive_?" The whisper barely pushed past her lips as she struggled for breath against the sudden choking sensation, her head spinning wildly, threatening to envelope her vision in darkness once more. All these months Erik had been alive and Madame Giry had known… she had _known._

Madame Giry's mouth set in a grim line, "Yes."

"How?" Christine's eyes fell, the tears burning behind her eyes pricked painfully, her brow furrowed as she fought for some sort of comprehension. She looked into Madame Giry's face. "How could you?" The tears dissipated as her anger grew, red clouded her vision and all she could see was Madame Giry's betrayal.

"How _could_ you?!"

Madame Giry placed a hand on Christine's arm, trying to placate her as she watched her daughter's anger and anguish steadily rise. "Christine, I-" Christine ripped her arm free from her grasp.

"No! No more lies!" she screamed, "I don't want to hear anymore of your lies! You did this! How? H-how could.. how could you-" she started to hyperventilate.

"Believe me, I didn't have a choice, he-"

"No! You watched me cry myself to sleep for months! Months! And you never said a word!"

"Christine I had no choice! It was what he wanted!"

"What he wanted?" She seemed to shrink at those words, her grief and anger waged war with the utter joy she felt in her heart at finding out her Angel was alive and well. "What he wanted?" she whispered softly, struggling for breath as she batteld her anxiety. "What about what _I _want Madame Giry?" Tears slid down her cheeks, leaving burning tracks in their wake. "I l-love him Madame Giry, I _love _him." The words echoed through her mind; _I love him Madame…. I love him… love him…_

Suddenly Christine jumped to her feet and turned to leave the room. Just as her hand reached the door-knob, Madame Giry's reprimanding voice rung in her ears.

"Christine! You're in no condition to be going anywhere."

She turned. "I don't care! You can't keep me from him anymore. Can't you understand Madame Giry? I _have _to find him!"

And without another glance back, she wrenched to door open and ran out into the street.

XxXxXxX

The streets of London echoed with the sounds on Christine's footsteps. Dusk was settling fast upon the city, the soft yellow gleam from passing windows lit her way, like a thousand tiny candles. The vast expanse of the city lay before her eyes, its beauty taking on a more ethereal quality as the night drew near, the dust no longer choked her breath; the air was crisp and clean. It was as though she was seeing the world for the first time, through new eyes. The rhythmic beat of the city took on a whole new tone, as her skirts skimmed the cobble-stones beneath her feet, whispering a song of their own. The city was a cacophony of sounds, each unique and in unison.

The tears had dried long ago, leaving clean streaks down her dirty cheeks as Christine flew through the cobble-stone streets, one destination and one idea implanted firmly within her mind; the London Opera House. Several passers-by stared impertinently at her peculiar visage as she swept past them, uncaring of their brazen looks and subtle mutterings; she had a purpose.

A warm breeze swept down the streets, stirring the leaves and sweeping back the damp hair that clung to Christine's forehead. She glanced at her reflection in a passing window and stopped dead. She shuddered as she took in her appearance. Her hair hung in tangles about her shoulders, her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and the black from her khol make-up was smeared down her cheeks which were swollen like her lips. She screwed up her eyes in frustration. How could she see Erik looking like this? She looked no more decent than a common prostitute. She glanced down at her skirts; her petticoat was covered in filth and the white hemming was brown with dust. She sniffed slightly, wiping the back of her hand across her face and abruptly sitting on a nearby bench-seat. The stars were just beginning to make an appearance in the sky, the temperature had dropped considerably and Christine found her shivering despite herself. Suddenly it struck her how utterly foolish it was to have run out on Madame Giry just to find herself parked on a bench in the middle of London with no escort and no-one to know where she was.

A man suddenly stumbled out of the alley way opposite her, and Christine gasped with fright. The man had a filth-ridden bedraggled look about him, and walked, dragging his right foot in a sort of lob-sided shuffle towards her. Christine's eyes widened as she noted the near-empty liquor bottle hanging limp at it side. That was it for her. She stood abruptly and fled down an adjoining street, ignoring the shouted nonsensicals from the man at her heels. _Stupid Christine_, she reprimanded herself. Even if she were to find Erik at the Opera House, what would she have said to him? No doubt looking the way she did, the doormen probably never would have allowed her in in the first place. No. She needed a plan.

XxXxXxX

"Christine! Oh thank-God you're alright. I was so worried I didn't know where you were. Maman said you ran off!"

Christine extracted herself from the bundle of blonde hair that had flung itself at her the moment she'd stepped foot inside the house. Patrick kept his distance, still angered and his pride still hurt by the rejection Christine had shown his earlier.

"I'm fine Meg, really. I just needed some time by myself."

Madame Giry quickly appeared at her side, her face an arrangement of shock and surprise; she had not thought Christine would return.

"Christine?" she asked tentatively.

Christine turned warily to Madame Giry, plastering a fake smile across her face to keep up the pretenses of everything being okay between the two of them; for Meg's sake.

"Yes Madame Giry?"

Despite the smile, Madame Giry noted the slight coldness in her voice. Without reason to, no-one else would have suspected a thing. But no-one else also knew of the horrible pain and suffering Madame Giry had a part in inflicting upon Christine.

Patrick called to Meg from the kitchen, just as Madame Giry leant forward quietly, "may I have a word?" Christine nodded silently and followed her to her bedroom. Madame Giry shut the door behind them."I did not think you would be back. At least not so soon. Did you-"

"-see him?" Christine finished. Madame Giry shifted uncomfortable, both angry and grieved over the situation she had been forced into.

"No, Madame, I did not."

"May I ask why?"

Christine sighed, "I do not think it is time, and you were right; I really am in no condition for any reconciliation with ghosts of the past." She sat on the bed. "What I don't understand, Madame Giry, is how you could have harboured such a secret from me, when you knew the toll it was taking… how much I wished, prayed that he was alive. How could you do that?"

Madame Giry stood before her, "I do not condone my actions, Christine, but you must know – it was in part to protect you. Because of all the pain the Erik has inflicted on you, and you on him, that is why I did what I did. I didn't tell you that terrible lie, that he was dead to keep you away from him, or to hurt you. He couldn't bear being near you, and I could see that you couldn't rest knowing he was still out there, somewhere. He came to me, the morning after you returned to the Opera House… he had seen you there, and it nearly killed him." She gazed remorsefully at the tears making their way down Christine's pale cheeks. "He didn't _want _you to come looking for him Christine, so in the interest of self-preservation he gave me a slip of parchment and asked me to post it in the morning _Epoque; _I owned him as much, one last favour to an old friend. I thought it would give you some closure, some _peace of mind,_ after all he had put you, and Raoul through. If I had known the devastating impact it would have had upon you I question whether I would have had the strength to go through with it," she paused, and knelt in front of Christine. "Christine, _cherie', _he doesn't _want _to be found. And I can never forgive him for hurting you… you don't _know_ him Christine, you don't _know _all that he is capable of-"

"-and he doesn't _know_ how much I _love_ him, Madame Giry. I tried to deny it, believe me I did, but," she paused, wiping away her tears, "I feel hollow without him. He was my father when I needed him, my friend, my teacher, my angel… but he is infinitely more. His past doesn't matter any more, all that matters is that I find him. I must know, Madame Giry, I must."

Madame Giry sighed, hanging her head in acceptance of the one thing she had hoped to prevent. Erik had nearly destroyed this girl once; she would not allow him to again. It was time he faced the consequences of his actions.

"We need a plan."

At that precise moment Meg came bursting through the bedroom door, screaming wildly and waving a piece of parchment in the air. "Maman! Maman! A telegram just arrived from the Opera House!" she squealed, "I got the part, Maman! I got the part! They want me to perform at the next showing – next week!"

Christine and Madame Giry smiled sadly at one another. "Perfect," Madame Giry murmured beneath her breath.

XxXxXxX

"-I didn't think you would be able to accomplish quite a feat, Miss Giry, but it seems we've undermined your dancing capabilities. Well done!"

Meg blushed at the praise, stretching her nimble ballet limbs in her warm-down. Though she didn't speak much English, she understood enough to be able to accept their praise graciously. She stood to see her mother and Christine approaching. "Maman!" she cried, "did you see?"

"Oui, ma cherie', you were magnifique!" She kissed her daughter's cheek. Christine smiled proudly at her friend's accomplishment; in just six short days she had managed to perfect the dance sequence required for the next performance of _Night-side Phantasia;_ the Prima Ballerina had quit after a heavy reprimand from their Maestro over her clumsy footwork during one rehearsal. Christine smirked as her thoughts trailed to their _Maestro, _it certainly sounded like Erik hadn't renounced the old ways. Her heart twanged painfully. It wouldn't be long now; Madame Giry had purchased tickets to the opera again, to support Meg in her debut performance on the London Opera House's stage. The performance was tomorrow night. It wouldn't be long now; before the ghosts of the past would be brought back to life… it wouldn't be long.

XxXxXxX

"-oh, Monieur Raynaud, are you _quite _sure you will not accompany us?" Meg queried, pouting a little and twirling a lock of her golden hair about her little finger.

Patrick smiled, growing used to their playful banter, "I am quite sure, Mademoiselle. Accompanying you would undoubtedly be the _greatest _and most _pleasurable _highlight of my evening, but I'm afraid it would be simply be impossible."

"Oh," she sulked, "well _you're _no fun." She turned her attentions to Christine, "Really, Chrissy, you ought to have made him come." Christine glanced over at Patrick, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before he turned away from her.

"Perhaps you should have invited Monsieur Raynaud a little earlier then, Meg, rather than presenting him with the proposition of going just as we are _leaving,"_ she winked at her friend. It was a lie and Christine and Patrick knew it. She didn't want him there any more than he wished to spend the night in her company; not when she knew what scenes might arise. The managers had guaranteed Erik's attendance that evening, and Christine was sure she wouldn't like the two of them to meet; scenes might arise unpleasant to more than just her. Besides, Meg seemed to be growing fonder and fonder of Patrick; between dance rehearsals, she had spent more time with Patrick than she had with Christine. While she missed her friend's company, she wasn't worried; if Patrick could make her happy than who was she to begrudge her for it?

"Yes, I totally agree," Meg said, interrupting her thoughts. "Oh well. Shall we go then?"

The carriage ride to the Opera House was a silent one. Christine couldn't find the courage to speak, as she sat idly playing with the midnight-blue satin of he dress, attempting to hide the shaking of her hands that threatened to betray her nervousness. She was completely lost in her own thoughts. She had not had the time, nor the resources to shop for a new dress, instead opting to borrow Meg's with a few minor adjustments here and there. Madame Giry sat opposite her, wearing her usual black garments and stern face. When they finally arrived, Meg was first to jump from the carriage, giving her mother a quick hug and racing up the front steps with a cry of "wish me good-luck!"

Madame Giry smiled after her, and then continued to gaze at Christine who had not moved. "Christine?" she asked gently. Christine's head shot up, panicking at the mention of her name, before she realized that they had arrived at the Opera House and began calming down. She was completely on-edge, like an antelope that's realized it's being stalked by a lioness. "Are you ready?" Christine nodded silently, her mouth was as dry as parchment as she stepped out of the carriage behind Madame Giry and began the long walk up to the front doors of the Opera House.

The bustle and glamour of the Opera House never ceased to amaze her, and Christine began to feel some of the tension drain from her muscles at its familiarity. She still believed it could never rival the Opera Populaire in all its glory, but it was a comfort none the less. She breathed deeply, trying desperately to steady her nerves, but it proved to no avail. With every flash of white or twirl of a black cloak, she felt her heart rate rise, the dizzying sensation threatening to take over.

Meg had disappeared, found her way backstage to prepare for the overture that would begin in half and hour. Madame Giry peered over the crowd.

"Madame Giry?" Madame Giry whipped around to receive Mr. Martineau, who made his way briskly across the lobby in his enthusiastic mannerr as usual. "A pleasure as always," he said, clapping his hands together. "How is Mademoiselle Giry this evening? Quite well I hope, and in form?"

"Yes, Monsieur, she is very much looking forward to this evening's proceedings. She has been working very hard."

"Excellent, excellent." He smiled as dollar signs flicked into his eyes, the thought of this evening's revenue quite palatable. "I don't think Monsieur Deveraux has had the honour of meeting with your daughter as of yet, but I'm sure that he will find her quiet well accomplished and suitable, if not more. He is a very peculiar sort of man, very hard to please – a real task-master!"

"Yes, from what I have heard I should very much like to meet him," Madame Giry said cryptically.

Mr. Martineau nodded in agreement, looking over the milling crowds, "I'm sure you would… - ah! Speak of the devil, there he is now!" And he disappeared through the crowd, seeking out the familiar white mask and black evening wear attire of his money-making maestro.

Christine's heart rate increased, suddenly realizing how foolish this would all appear. Madame Giry placed a hand on her arm to placate her. "Shh, Christine, everything will be alright." Christine wished she could believe her.

A few moments passed without any sign of them, and Christine believed Mr. Martineau had either forgotten them, or was unable to attain his maestro. Christine hoped it was the latter. She was both happy and disappointed when she saw him burst through the crowd, dragging a very annoyed and disgruntled looking Erik behind him. Christine froze; he had not yet seen her.

"Ah, Madame Giry. Madame de Chagny, it is my very good honour to introduce Monsieur Deveraux."

Christine had prepared herself, both emotionally and mentally for this moment. But it seemed as though every wall she had erected for him crumbled the instant her eyes met with his, and she knew, she knew that she would and could never be prepared. His deep amber eyes blazed with a furious yellow the moment they lighted on her chocolate orbs and in that moment words seem to fail him. Christine stared, her mouth slightly agape, not caring that she was being improper in front of Mr. Martineau, for Erik was staring back at her with equal intensity, his gaze never faltering. The world seemed to disintegrate around them.

_No! _Erik's mind screamed at him, but he could not move, his heart threatened to leap out of his chest and his breath caught in his lungs, his eyes smoldering with desire as the one thing he had ever longed for stood before him. Christine was too busy drinking in the sight before her.

He was just as she remembered him; the signature white mask, contrasting brilliantly against his ebony hair. The unmasked side of his face was perfect in every sense; everything from his strong, chiseled features, and high aristocratic nose, to his dark furrowed brow and brilliant gold eyes. It was his eyes that were exquisite, the one thing apart from his voice that had captivated her above all else. He was dressed from head to foot in superb evening wear, a crisp white shirt and gold cravat and the familiar black opera cloak.

Madame Giry looked between the two, deciding to be the first to take the initiative.

"Monsieur Deveraux," she nodded curtly.

The spell seemed broken in that moment, the connection all but dissipated. The eyes that had been staring at Christine with such desire; such _love_ only moments before, now hardened, staring at her coldly through icy orbs.

Christine faltered and opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to it.

"A pleasure, Madame de Changy," he said though gritted teeth, bowing curtly and pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles as society deemed proper. His eyes blazed furiously yellow, the pupils almost like slits as he gazed meaningfully at Madame Giry; _his betrayer_. The fury was evident in his posture; his back was stiff and rigid and he held his hands in clenched fists at his sides.

"You must excuse me," he bowed curtly once more to Mr. Martineau and the women, turning on his heel and sweeping off into the crowd; his opera cloak trailing behind him in an ominous fashion. His mind triumphing over his self-control whilst his heart screamed painfully, _No! _

"I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse Monsieur Deveraux there; he can be a little abrupt sometimes." Martineau shrugged, unable to offer up a more thorough explanation for his Maestro's odd behaviour.

Christine stood silent as a ghost, the pallor slowly draining from her face as she fought to comprehend what had just happened. This was not how it was supposed to happen, it was all going wrong.

_Well what did you expect? _Her mind mocked sardonically. _Did you expect him to sweep you up into his arms? Kiss you as though nothing had ever happened? As though the last two and a half years never happened?_

No, I didn't expect anything, I-

_Sure you didn't… you broke him Christine… it's no more than you deserve._

"No…" she whispered.

"I'm sorry?" Martineau queried, staring oddly at Christine. She looked up at him.

"I'm sorry – would you excuse me?" and without waiting for his reply she disappeared into the massing crowds amid the baffled look of Mr. Martineau, and the understanding gaze of Madame Giry.

Christine fought her way though the crowd as politely as possible, trying her best to repress the urge to shove pompous women in evening gowns to the floor in order to clear an easier path through the masses. She assumed this was the direction Erik had headed, though she had no idea where it led. She was adamant though; she would not lose him so readily, not when she'd just found him again.

Finally she burst through a gap in the crowd and found herself shunted through a side door into a deserted hallway. The hallway was dimly lit, with only every fourth gas lamp alight, and a cold draft swept past her bare shoulders, making her shiver uncontrollably. Had Erik come this way? She leant her head against the walls and screwed her eyes up in frustration, _why was this going all wrong? _The faint ethereal sound of music floated down the hallway, and Christine's eyes flew open the moment the first note reached her ears. Gathering her skirts she followed the ghostly music transfixed, one foot following the other as the music drew her onwards. A small sliver of light spread across the carpeted hallway from an open door ahead, the music seemed to emanate from beyond the door and grew louder as she cautiously approached. She stood outside the door, her eyes had grown wide with wonder at the emotional quality of the music within, the heart-wrenching sorrow portrayed in a repeated pattern of notes and rests. Christine didn't know how long she stood outside the door, an age seemed to pass before the music suddenly ceased and Christine was wrenched back to her senses.

Suddenly the door was yanked open sending Christine spiraling into the hallway with a cry of fright. Erik stood framed in the entrance, an ebony-gloved hand placed upon the handle, his face half-covered in shadow.

"Christine," he breathed. That word was almost the undoing of him.

Christine stared back at him in wonder, still unable to fully comprehend the reality that he was really and truly there, standing mere meters away from her. "Erik," she whispered.

Erik suddenly withdrew into himself, his back stiffing and his eyes hardening, scrutinizing her in every possible way. Christine took a step back from him, unexplainably frightened by his steely gaze, backing up against the wall. This was it, there was no where to run.

"Madame de Chagny," he nodded curtly in her direction, peering around the doorframe, "you appear to have lost your party." He spoke with a coolness of tone that sent shivers up and down her spine. This was not the way she had imagine it. The way he regarded Christine, with impartiality, without feeling, hurt her more than she could describe. He showed no regard for her presence what so ever. He was silent, simply studying her as she fidgeted under his gaze.

"Erik, I-"

"Monsieur Deveraux if you'll please. What do you want Comtess?" He cut in, making his annoyance evident.

Christine stared up at him with hurt in her eyes. Erik's heart screamed painfully at him, but his mind remained as rigid as steel; he refused to give in.

"I-" words seemed to fail her. What could she possibly say that would erase the past, allow her to break through the cold and steely barrier he had erected between the two of them. She wanted nothing more than to fling herself at him that moment, telling him how sorry she was, how much she loved him, how she'd believed she could never love another… but she didn't. She took in his angry and annoyed expression, his lack of recognition with hurt in her eyes, pleading for some indication that he still loved her.

"I am a very busy man, Comtess. I do not have time to play children's games."

She winced at her title, and swallowed hard, her mouth parting slightly in an attempt to find words to express everything that needed to be said. There was so much between them, and she knew, she _knew _she'd broken his heart. But he'd broken hers too, be it willingly – knowingly - or not she had mourned his death, damnit! There was so much she needed to say, but he did not seem as though he wished to hear any of her attempts at explanation.

"Well, Comtess?" Erik was growing impatient. _Please Christine, just go. Please, not now, just go…_

"Don't call me that," she said bitterly. "I am no Comtess."

Erik was taken aback for a second, had she left the boy? He quickly recovered. While he was intrigued why she would not allow herself to be called by her marriage name, he would not allow her to get the better of him.

"My apologies, _Madame,_" he smirked sardonically, "I really must be going-"

"-No!" Christine cried, staring frantically into his eyes, searching for any sign, any remnant of his love for her, any _recognition_, But his eyes were closed to her. She grasped at his sleeve, "No Erik, you will not do this to me again!"

"Again?" he whispered coldly. He looked down at her small hand clasped about his sleeve with disgust. "How did you find me?"

"I-I didn't know until I saw you in town," Christine confessed, following his gaze and retracting her hand slightly.

Erik slammed a fist into the wall, cursing loudly over his own inadequacy. What was she trying to do to him? Why couldn't she just leave him alone?

"I was wrong, Erik, I-"

"You what? You're sorry, is that it? Well sorry isn't good enough Christine! You… you have no idea…"

"I know I hurt you-"

"You don't know what hurt is! You don't know what it is to suffer Christine," he snarled bitterly. "You know nothing of pain! I'm sure your precious Comte was of _great _comfort to you whilst you mourned over my ugly demise. A great relief I'm sure it was," He loomed over her, his eyes menacing as he spat furiously. "Did he hold you? Whisper sweet nothingness to your ears?"

Christine closed her eyes as a frustrated tear worked its way out from under her lashes and trailed down her cheek. Erik's heart constricted painfully, screaming at him to stop, but his mind egged him forwards, demanding some sort of penance for her crimes; demanding its revenge.

"Why?" she whispered weakly, "why are you doing this?" The dam broke then.

"Why, Christine? Why?! As I recall, it was _you _who walked out on me! You killed me that day Christine, you tore out my heart and left me living long enough to see you trample on it! I was NOTHING because of you! I gave you EVERYTHING and you reduced me to NOTHING!"

"You can hate me for what I did Erik, but I hate you for what you've done!" Angry tears now spilled down her face as she stared at him defiantly.

"Ah," he laughed cruelly, "so young, naive little Daae has finally grown some character. I thought it would never happen."

Christine couldn't believe what she was hearing; how could he speak to her so cruelly?

"Well I hope it leaves a bitter reprisal in your mouth, Christine, I hope you choke on it, as you let me choke. "_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies,"_" he sang in a mocking sing-song tone. Christine turned abruptly from him, choking back the sobs as she shook uncontrollably. Erik's mind roared with approval, as he loomed menacingly above her, "You see, you were right all along Christine, I _am _a monster!"

She whipped around furiously, beating her fist against his strong chest. The muscle in his jaw twitched, as his eyes widened in anger.

"You gave me no choice that night! You threatened to kill him; you _were _a monster!" she screamed, her small fists clenched at her side. "I thought you were dead!"

The emotion overwhelmed her, and she fell back against the wall, anguished sobs racking through her body. A flicker of guilt raced through Erik's mind. He longed to put an end to it all, longed to take her into his embrace, and wipe away the tears. He knew though, he knew that if he allowed her back into his life, he would gladly give her his heart – just to have it torn out and shattered once more. There was a deathly silence between them, as Christine fought to steady her breathing.

"You gave me no choice that night, but if only you knew…" she whispered heart wrenchingly, "if only you knew..."

Erik turned his back on her, fighting the urge to comfort her in that moment. He closed his eyes in resolution, until the sound of her sweet voice broke his reverie.

"I believed you were dead. Please don't put me through that again, Erik, please…" her confession was so honest and she stood behind him, tears trickling down her cheek as she pleaded with him, but for what he didn't know. "I won't survive it…"

He kept his back turned to her. "I was. I loved you Christine and you killed me," Her hand rested on his arm. Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks, as all the pain they had inflicted on one another culminated in one final conflict.

"I'm so sorry Angel, I-"

Erik growled in frustration, yanking his arm free from her grasp, "Don't call me that you wretched girl! I am no Angel, and never was!"

"-I loved you too."

She saw his back turn rigid as his head slumped forward. She reached out to him, her fingertips slowly sliding up his back and over his shoulder, willing him to turn and face her. _Oh God, Christine, please just go… just go._ Erik sighed wearily, his heart thumping painfully within his chest and his breath hitched in his lungs at the feel of her caress. _My God Christine, you will be the death of me. _

"Please Christine, what do you want of me?" he said wearily.

Christine was shocked to see this sudden change in her Angel, from the terrifying Phantom to this broken and dejected man. He seemed to age before her eyes, as old as the world itself. She turned him gently around, her hand winding behind his neck; he was too tired and weak from her intoxication to object. His heart thudded wildly at her proximity, _No! This was all too simple, she couldn't… he couldn't… _Suddenly she was standing directly in front of him.

Christine gazed levelly into his eyes. "You can hurt me all you want, and you can hate me. But I love you," she whispered softly. "Only you,"

Erik stared down at her, her lips were slightly parted and he breathed the familiar scent of lavender. A raging torrent of emotion was waging war within him, his utter love and devotion of the woman before him battled the hatred and cruel reality that he was sure she didn't really know _what_ she wants. _No, I can't._ He turned away from her, desperate to put as much distance between them. If he didn't get away from her there was no telling what he's do. He needed to protect her.

"Please go, Christine," he started to walk away, "I can't have you around me."

She watched him motionlessly for a moment, before her heart and mind screamed for her to take action; to stop him from walking out of her life again. This was it, there was no turning back now. She walked after him and caught him by the arm.

"No Erik," she flung him around and pressed her lips to his fiercely. Erik's heart threatened to leap from his chest as the intoxicating feel of her lips took hold. For one agonizing moment nothing happened, he was solid and immovable against her; as rigid as stone. It was all over. Christine was about to pull away, when Erik pushed his lips against hers with equal pressure and urgency. His entire being narrowed in that moment as he reveled in the feel of her flesh on his, the searing heat of her kiss, the one thing that had haunted his dreams for two unbearably long and empty years. It was all so simple, it couldn't be real. He felt her open up to him, and could barely suppress the shock of tasting her suddenly, so deliciously warm.

His hands went automatically to her waist, where he clutched her in sheer desperation. He knew he was signing his death warrant, as he felt her lips part, inviting him, enticing him inside. She felt his tongue flick past her lips, entering the warm crevice; the union with his tongue sent an electric shock through her entire body, and she shuddered, clutching at his shoulders in desperation. Erik's grip tightened on her waist as his mouth ravaged hers mercilessly. She pulled against him fiercely, desperately craving to vanquish every inch of space between them. Both of his hands crept up her neck, tangling furiously in her hair as he delved deep within her, desperate to explore every crevice of her, needing her, wanting her. She groaned almost fearfully as she fell back hard against the wall, trapped beneath him as they both fuelled their passion's fires. If he left her now she would die.

Erik's hands dropped behind her back, crushing her to him as her hands clutched at his neck, at his head. "Erik," she whispered coarsely, as his lips trailed down her neck, eliciting a gasp of shock from her. Erik sucked and nipped at the skin where shoulder met neck, his breathing ragged as he drowned in the essence that was Christine. He loved her so much it hurt, why was she back? Was this just some cruel game, to satisfy some sick pleasure of hers? His grip tightened painfully on her arm. She groaned fearfully; frightened by the height of his passion as she stood crushed between him and the wall. Two years ago she had fled from his passion; his obsession, his devotion had frightened her, but not now… now it was the thing she craved above all else, and she welcomed it with open arms. Erik growled in frustration, he hated her for abandoning him, for haunting his dreams, for torturing him with the sweetness of her kiss. Oh god, how he hated her. He stopped his assault on her neck, and trailed back up to her lips, where he crushed himself against her, bruising her tender flesh as he attempted to suck the very life from her. Christine went limp in his arms, but he couldn't stop himself. Her head was spinning wildly, and hot tears dashed from her lashes down her face, smearing against his cheek and mingling with his own furious ones.

_Look at your pathetic weakness Erik… One kiss from her and you're ready to forget all that she's done to you… All that she __still__ will do to you… _

Erik crushed himself against her, attempting to drive the voice from his mind, to bury his self-doubts once and for all. This was_ his_ Christine…

…_are you sure? How do you know the boy's not waiting for her at home…? _

This was _his_ Christine, he kept repeating… she wouldn't betray him… not now…

…_She has once before… _

He faltered in his assault of her. "Erik?" she whimpered, trying to get him to look at her. _All that she __still__ will do to you… _"Damn you" he hissed, wrenching his hands clear from her waist, and stepping abruptly away from her as though she were poison. Christine mouthed wordlessly, her head still spinning wildly from the intensity of their unleashed passion. She stared up at him with immense hurt in her eyes, her fears of rejection manifesting in front of her eyes. "Erik, what-?"

"Damn you Christine," he hissed violently, standing to his full height, "I won't let you do this to me, no, not again."

Christine stared at him in utter bewilderment, "What? I don't-"

He rounded angrily on her, "This is _my _life now,_ Comtess_, and you have no part in it!" He spat furiously. Christine's eyes welled with tears.He straightened his jacket, and turned on his heel, striding purposefully away from her. _Please don't come after me, Christine, I won't have the strength… _

"Erik!" she cried desperately after him, tears of rejection falling down her cheeks. She suddenly felt so unwanted, so…_ dirty._ What would he think of her? Erik stopped mid-step, taking a deep-breath, his shoulders stiffening.

"Please, Erik… I love you."

He closed his eyes, the words he had longed to hear for so long reverberated through the hallway. No! He had a career now, a chance at a normal life… he couldn't risk Christine destroying it. He turned slowly to face her, gazing at her coldly.

"You don't know _what_ you want, Christine. Go home," he said icily, and vanished through a side door, leaving Christine alone in the hallway. She blinked after him, the full weight of his words breaking upon her shoulders as she broke down, sliding down the wall in a fit of anguished sobs. _Oh, God Erik, will you ever trust me again?_

**A/N: Poor Christine... Unfortunately I'm in the predicament of being uncertain of whether I should continue this story and frankly whether it's worth my time. 14 chapters and 33 reviews doesn't really match up, and besides my love of writing, the only reason I write this story is for the reviewers who have had the decency to write me over suggestions and who have been supportive and encouraging. Feedback is what makes a story worth writing; why write a story if people aren't going to tell you what they think? So, I'm leaving it in the reader's hands now, so please review.  
As always, cheers.  
- Wing**

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	16. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

**A/N. I know Meg's real name is Marguerite, but a few chapters ago I made the mistake of calling her Megan, and I thought it was rather silly to change it now. So, Meg is an abbreviation for Megan.**

**Chapter Fifteen.**

Madame Giry wrung her hands in worry. Act one of the opera had begun half an hour ago and Christine had yet to return. The lights had slowly gone out around her, and she stood in the dark and deserted entrance hall alone, there was no one in sight. A cold draft swept past her face, and she squinted, struggling to see in the dim light. A faint light flickered on ahead, and Madame Giry walked onwards. "Christine?" she whispered. Her stomach constricted painfully, tightening in an ominous fashion at the absurdity of the situation; weren't there usually door-men at Opera Houses? _Where had they all gone? _She found herself standing in front of a heavy set gold and glass door, and pushed it open with a creak. She took a step inside; the hallway was completely void of all light. Madame Giry shuddered at the cold draft emanating from within the hallway, and turned quickly to go back. The door behind her slammed with a bang that reverberated off the walls.

Suddenly a skeletal white hand wrapped itself fiercely around her neck, cutting off her supply of oxygen; the strong, bony fingers ready to snap the fragile bones in her neck should she attempt to struggle. Madame Giry's gasp of fright was cut short as she struggled for breath.

"Antoinette," a deadly cold voice whispered close to her ear, "I should kill you right now."

Madame Giry stood deathly still, struggling to speak against the deft, yet skeletal fingers that held her at their mercy.

"You w-won't," she managed to choke out, recognizing the voice.

"Oh yes?" the voice sneered, "a simple twitch of my fingers and I could snap your neck clean in two… so tell me… what would tempt me to do otherwise?"

Madame Giry's face was turning an ugly purple colour, and the veins in her neck bulged beneath his fingers. "B-because… C-Christine would never… f-forgive you…"

The skeletal hands relinquished some of their pressure, allowing some oxygen to flow to her brain: he was toying with her, and she knew it. She was completely at his mercy now.

"What makes you think I would care?" He hissed.

Madame Giry felt her vision start to swim, "you… l-love her, Erik."

Suddenly he ripped his hands free from her neck with a ferocity that sent her spiraling to the floor, gasping and choking for breath. A candle flared to life in the darkness as he loomed over her.

"Erik, please," she choked.

"Why did you bring her here?" He demanded, his yellow eyes blazing with fury. "I warned you, Antoinette, and I will not be made a fool of… not now. Anyone else and I would have killed you for your betrayal!"

He paced the hall as he spoke, lapsing into his own dark thoughts, trying to calm his murderous temper. When Madame Giry recovered the proper use of her voice, she stared up at Erik in anger and defiance; this was not the first time she had fallen victim to one of his murderous tempers.

"It was your carelessness that led to her discovery of you, Erik… not any betrayal on my behalf." She glared up at him as she rubbed her neck gingerly, her eyes flashing dangerously, "Do you honestly think I would wish you on anyone - especially Christine? Who I think of as my own daughter?!"

"And just what are you implying, _Madame?_" Erik snarled back at her, his white mask livid in the candlelight.

"Look at you, Erik! A murderer! I have spent years fearing you, justifying you, mourning your terrible past, but no! The mobs were right all along. Here you stand, having just threatened the life of the closest thing to _friend _you've ever known. You really are nothing better than a cold and cruel, unfeeling thing," he stepped menacingly towards her. Madame Giry stared back defiantly at him, she was sick of being afraid of his unpredictable nature. "Do not make more of a fool of yourself, Erik," she snapped. "You and I both know you won't go through with it; even _you _couldn't live with that on your conscience."

"I owe you _nothing!_" he spat.

"You owe Christine _everything_."

He laughed bitterly; it was a cruel sound. "I wonder, _Madame,_ how you came to _that_ conclusion."

"You stole her life!" His fists clenched at his sides, the nails digging into the flesh of his palms. "And yet you threw away every kindness, every chance you ever had at earning her love, really _earning _it, on your own vengeful, miserable self-pity and murderous vendetta against the _world's _cruelty. She's better off without you." She glared at him levelly, her stern voice cold and unfeeling, "you don't deserve her, Erik."

"And yet she is here," he stopped still and whispered coldly.

"You led her here," Madame Giry muttered bitterly.

"_I _led her here? I let her go!"

"You trapped her first!"

Erik glared at her, his eyes bulging as he fought to control his anger. Madame Giry stepped towards him, "you trapped her with your haunting music; your demon face-" he raised a hand automatically to his mask, "-and your angel's voice."

"She chose the boy-" He hissed through gritted teeth.

"-you left her no choice. My god, Erik, you threatened to kill him; to force her to live with the knowledge of his blood on her hands. You're a murderer!"

"Oh," he whispered sinisterly, "I am so much more, Madame, if only you knew. Buquet was not the first, and will certainly not be the last. His blood was not the only to be shed by my hands. The world assured itself of th-"

"-You've experienced terrible things in your lifetime, Erik, but they falter in comparison to the atrocities you've committed – you've ruined people's lives-"

"-several people's, Antoinette." He whispered quietly, stepping towards her, "Hundreds, thousands… I do not know; I ceased to count. Husbands, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, children… all met their ugly demises at my murderous hands." He stepped menacingly towards her. "Does that frighten you?"

Madame Giry stared back at him with equal intensity, "No."

He snorted, his eyes flashing a dangerous yellow, like a cat being caught in a spotlight. "Why?"

She sighed in exhaustion. How many times would she be caught up in the darkness of the world in which this eccentric man lived; would she ever truly escape him? "I do not believe, deep down, that you are still that same man, Erik."

"I am a murderer as you so _eloquently _put it," he sneered.

"And so you are!" He turned away from her. "Everybody has a past, however dark and horrific…but Christine has changed you. I see it, even now." He refused to answer.

"I now know why Christine ran from you; it was in fear." Madame Giry whispered into the darkness, attempting to reel Erik back from the dangerous chasm of murderous insanity he was slowly creeping towards. "I pitied you at first Erik, I saw how desperately you loved her… but she _feared_ you Erik… and she can't forget you." Erik's hand clenched and un-clenched at his side. "Damnit, you selfish, self-pitying coward, what you did to her is irreparable! How could you be so callous and _cruel?_"

Erik's eyes blazed at the impertinence of being called a "coward". It was a rarity that Madame Giry ever found the courage to speak against him, and he flexed his skeletal fingers, fighting the urge to simply kill her and be done with it. But no, she was right. After the great service she did him when he came to the Opera House even _he_ couldn't live with her death on his conscience.

"Whatever you did to her has changed her, Erik! And for some ungodly reason that I will _never _understand, despite all the lies, the betrayal-"

"-a funny thing; betrayal!" Erik hissed, grinding his teeth together.

"-The betrayals," Madame Giry continued a little louder, hoping to drown out the horrendous sound of grinding bone. "Despite everything you've put her through, she still loves you."

"She does not know what it is to love and have it slowly kill you. Perhaps now she will get a taste of the poison she deals so readily!"

"You've ruined her. She can't move forwards she can't move back; she left her life, her _home_ in Paris behind because she couldn't deal with the insurmountable grief she felt over your pitiful _demise_; she was racked with guilt-"

"-as she well should be! I gave her everything, and in return she gave me nothing."

"You both stole parts of one another; it's time you faced what you started all those years ago in the chapel, Erik. You must face her!"

Erik turned coldly towards her. "No."

"She needs you."

"I can't. I won't. I offered her _everything_ once, and I _refuse_ to be the one burned again. It is a game I will no longer play."

She grabbed him by his lapels and shook him hard, "you still love her!"

"She made her choice!"

"Don't be a fool Erik!" She hissed under her breath, her lips pursed so tight they formed a thin white line on her old and weathered face.

His eyes glazed over with ice once more, and he looked down at her hands with disgust, prying them from his lapels and wiping his hands down his jacket as though she were some disease-ridden vermin he'd just trodden on.

"I thank you for your concern, _madame,_" he whispered silkily, slipping once more into the dangerous, yet self-protective fortification of his phantom persona, "but my personal affairs are no longer any business of yours. Let us hope that we never meet here again. An Opera House is a dangerous place; you never know what, or _who _could be lurking behind the scenes, or in the hallways." Madame Giry's eyes widened in sudden fear for Christine, it had never crossed her mind that Erik might actually _hurt _her.

"Erik, what have you done?"

He smiled sinisterly at her, "Enjoy the performance."

"Where is she Erik?" she called after him as he walked away, "Erik!"

But with a twirl of his cloak he was gone. Madame Giry shook herself mentally as her hand slowly trailed up her neck to where his skeletal hands had threatened her with death only moments before. She winced, as her fingers grazed the welts his fingers had left upon her tender, weathered flesh. Her heart was beating frantically, as vivid images of Christine lying deathly cold in a hallway, the same skeletal imprints upon her neck and her eyes wide and staring, fought their way into her mind. She walked silently to the door, and yanked it open, stepping out into the formally darkened entrance hall that was now bright and warmly lit. She shuddered involuntarily and began her search for Christine.

XxXxXxX

An age seemed to pass before Christine's eyes as she sat hunched against the wall, her arms wrapped tight about her knees as she rocked herself back and forth. She was the lonely girl crying in the chapel over the devastating loss of her father once more; only this time there was no comforting voice in the darkness to console her. She felt cold and empty, hollowed and gutted. The tears had dried long ago, leaving hard tracks down her cheeks and she stared into the darkness of the faintly lit hallway. The dim lights began to flicker.

"Christine?"

Madame Giry breathed a sigh of relief as she approached her cautiously, aware that Christine had missed the first half of the Opera, and that the intermission would in all likeliness, bring people down the very hallway in which they stood.

"Christine?" she asked gently, kneeling beside her. Christine continued to stare into space, not seeing anything but reliving her childhood; the traumatic death of her father over and over in her mind. She was a little girl again. Madame Giry bent over her, concern etched into every wrinkle of her lightly lined face.

"Erik, did he? Has he-?"

"Gone," Christine whispered softly. What Madame Giry was really going to ask was whether Erik had _hurt_ her, but she decided to leave it. Christine was already badly shaken up as it was.

"He left me, Madame Giry," she said vaguely, her voice dull

Madame Giry, knelt back and assessed her; the smudged rouge and lip stain, the khol-streaked cheeks and the light bruises on her neck, and could only guess at what had occurred in this dark and grimly lit hallway. She frowned in anger and concern, automatically forgetting the near-death encounter she had just endured; what had he done to her? She laced her hand around Christine's arm, "come," she whispered, gently tugging her to her feet, "let's get you cleaned up – the intermission is almost over."

Madame Giry could hear the impending footsteps of the Opera's audience coming their way, and hastily looked about for a bathroom or vacant room, where she could hide Christine from their inquisitive stares. A door lay ajar up ahead, and Madame Giry quickly ushered Christine inside, closing the door firmly behind them. Christine gazed about the room in awe, her attention drawn to the copious amount of books shelved high above her head, and the beautiful piano in the corner. Her eyes fell to the floor, where they widened as she took in the sight of a large red stain that spread across the floorboards. She shuddered as the livid memory of Joseph Buquet hanging from the Opera's rafters; his neck protruding at an odd angle and his eyes wide with fright jumped to her mind. She fervently prayed that the stain wasn't blood; some terrible monument of a grotesque crime. Madame Giry stood behind her, her gaze too was focused on the red stain. Christine stepped over it, towards the desk, where a large ream of parchment resided, and began to idly leaf through the pages; her eyes devoured music score after music score, and she gasped, her eyes lighting on the manuscript title _Night-side Phantasia;_ this was _his _room! A mannequin head rested to the right of the desk, a black leather mask tightly secured about its head; why hadn't she seen that before?

"Christine," Madame Giry whispered, reminding her of her presence, "I do not think we should be here."

"This is his room," she whispered softly, her inquisitive fingers shifting through the piles of parchment on his desk, as she breathed in his familiar masculine scent. She picked up a tattered copy of _Faust_ and began examining it, when her eyes glimpsed something entirely more alluring. Her breath hitched in her lungs as her eyes lighted on a familiar face, a familiar scene. Gently, with her fingers trembling, she tugged the loose piece of parchment free from within the leather bound folio, her heart thudding so loudly she was sure it echoed within the room.

A pair of large doe eyes gazed back at her sadly from within the drawing; a drawing of _her._ She gasped as she recognized the scene. She was looking back over her shoulder, facing directly out of the portrait, while a young man dressed all in black, with prominent cheek bones and a monocle obscuring his eye stared after her quizzically; the detail so fine and exquisite it took her breath away. The slight slumping of her shoulders, the dullness in her eyes were captured perfectly – it all made sense now. Christine almost laughed bitterly; she hadn't been crazy when she had thought she'd heard someone whisper her name; he _had_ been there. He'd watched her walk right past him. Madame Giry stepped forward to stand behind Christine, "oh my," she whispered, recognizing the chocolate coloured gown Christine had worn at the premiere of this very same opera.

"He knew I was here, Madame Giry," Christine said dully, "he knew I was here and he didn't say a word."

"He thought he'd let you go, Christine. Maybe it's for the best."

Christine continued to stare at the picture. Madame Giry placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "come, let's get you cleaned up."

Christine allowed Madame Giry to steer her out of the room, but not before she silently pocketed the drawing, gazing back on the room with a look of intense longing.

The lights began to flicker once more as Madame Giry emerged with Christine from the bathroom, her hair and make-up fixed and looking as fresh as ever. They made their way silently back to their seats, and waited for the second Act to begin. The first time she had seen this opera Christine had waited with bated breath, openly wondering who the composer of such beautiful music, such grandiosity could possibly be. Now she knew, and she sat and watched and listened with a fuller understanding; it was as though she was seeing the opera for the first time through new eyes – and it chilled her to the bone. The story was an unmistakable, yet slightly altered retelling of her own life, the terrible love triangle she was subjected to, torn between the dangerous, yet passionate intensity of one man, and the kindness and security offered by the other. Ultimately it was the perilous jealousy of the one, of the ruthless betrayal of the girl that led to his downfall. Christine watched her life play out before her eyes, as she slowly came to understand. Meg's words from that night echoed in her mind; _"-Oh, but I cannot believe that girl could have been so cruel. All that man ever did was love her unconditionally, and she betrayed him ruthlessly… what do you think Chrissy?" _

"If only you knew, Meg," she murmured quietly, watching her friend twirl about the stage, "If only you knew…"

She turned her head towards the grand tier; gas lamps burnt dimly in every box, every box bar one. Her eyes roamed the boxes until they came to rest on the one that stood out above all others; Box Five. From a distance it was shrouded in darkness and looked completely unoccupied. She gazed intently into the darkness, and felt a chill run all the way down her spine. She shuddered and she knew then, she knew that he was watching her. He _wanted _her to know.

The Opera finished to tumultuous applause as usual, with Christine and Madame Giry lingering in their seats as the audience filed their way out of the theatre. Christine's eyes remained firmly locked on Box Five, though the gas lamps had brightened to reveal there was no one occupying the box, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was up there, watching her. Madame Giry nudged her.

"I know this night has been terribly difficult on you Christine, it was never going to be easy…Erik… he…" she trailed off, seemingly unable to express what Christine felt in her heart. She swallowed. "Shall we go and find Megan?" Christine nodded silently, following Madame Giry out of the theatre.

XxXxXxX

Erik stalked slowly back to his quarters having safely seen Christine and the Girys exit the theatre. Now that Mademoiselle Giry was to be the Prima Ballerina for the company, barring Christine and Madame Giry from the theatre would be next to impossible without a sound reason and plausible explanation. _Christine…  
_Oh how he loathed and loved that girl with every fibre of his being. She was his essence, his inspiration, and he was only just learning how to live without her. Leaving her had nearly killed him, but if he didn't leave her, she would have left him all over again. It was a dangerous game that he could no longer risk partaking in; it had destroyed his life once before, and in all honesty, he couldn't afford to burn down _another _opera house.

The thought of their passionate encounter in the hallway brought warmth to every part of his body; he had barely recognized the Christine that had stood before him, desperately pleading for his love and devotion once more. She had grown, not only physically, but mentally. She was stronger now – he had sensed it. It was as though she were two different people; the girl he had loved was just that, a girl. So young, naïve and innocent, and it was her innocence that attracted him to her and her fervent and unwavering belief in the Angel of Music, that had made their fantasy seem so real. She had believed in him without question… they could have been happy if it hadn't have been for that _boy! No, _Erik reprimanded himself, _don't think on it. It's over now._

But Erik couldn't stop his mind from straying back to the hallway and the growing sense that this wasn't really the end at all. The way she had groaned almost fearfully made him cringe with repulsion at his animal-like behavior. He knew he loved her, but was love enough to save them? He couldn't risk dragging them both into the hellish darkness; he wouldn't wish that on anyone. And there was always the voice…The voice was always there, always whispering in his ear. It was a though a demon had possessed his body, and he wasn't sure who was in control. He didn't know if he could protect her from the voice. He didn't want to _lust_ after her, he was a famous composer now and could have any woman he chose, but he only ever wanted Christine, and would only ever want Christine, No… he didn't want to lust after her, he wanted to _love_ her.

_It doesn't matter now, _he reminded himself, _it's over._

He turned the corner and slipped through a side door, coming out into _the _hallway, where he and Christine had been earlier. He shook his head and opened the door to his quarters. It swung open, and Erik halted in the doorway. There was something different about the room. He sniffed the air and caught the faint scent of lavender still clinging to the it. He froze. _No, no, no, NO! _His mind screamed frantically as he noticed the papers on his desk had been shuffled through. _She had been here! Why hadn't I locked it?? _He darted across to his desk and began frantically sifting through the papers, searching to see if anything was missing. He tossed aside his tattered copy of _Faust, _and his eyes fell upon his battered leather-bound folio.

His yellow eyes narrowed.

He lifted the folio from the desk and began thumbing through its contents. There were various sketches of the Opera House, both London and Paris, some preliminary designs for architectural plans, sketches of people, cast and crew of the opera. He shuffled right to the back, where a large parchment envelope concealed more of his more _personal _drawings. He flipped the lip up and extracted the sketches carefully, examining each piece that was committed to memory to ensure that none had been removed. His heart constricted a little as he looked over the drawings. A young girl sat lighting a candle in a chapel, two young ballerinas twirled their ribbons on stage, a young teenage girl sat looking forlornly out a window. A fifteen year old girl sat gazing at a tombstone, a sixteen year old girl made her singing debut in _Hannibal…_ Erik sighed with relief, they were all there. He replaced them back in the envelope, and was about to flick the folio shut, when he noticed a drawing had been removed from the folio. He himself had removed it earlier in the day when he had looked at it, but he had placed it just inside the front cover. He swallowed hard. The drawing was gone. _She has taken it! She knows it was me that night!_

"Damn you, Christine," he cursed under his breath. He yelled with frustration, throwing the folio to the floor, where the sketches fluttered across the room, scattering themselves across the red stained floorboards. A wide-eyed girl stared back at him innocently. _Will it ever be over? _Erik already knew the answer.

XxXxXxX

The once warm summer night felt cold and empty, Christine sat gazing morosely out the window of the carriage as they made their way silently back to the house. Madame Giry gazed at Christine with worry, wondering just _what _exactly had occurred in that hallway between her and Erik. She had never seen two people love each other so passionately, and yet they were determined to destroy themselves. Both were prideful, and both were reluctant to give in to the other. What chance could such a couple possibly have? She turned her gaze to her daughter. Meg sat opposite her and Christine, her shrill voice piercing through the would-be quiet atmosphere of the carriage, as she loudly exclaimed over the evening's performance.

"-and then they told me they were anxious to see me perform after the running of this opera is over. Isn't that great?!" She finished rather excitedly. Christine hadn't heard a word; her thoughts were entirely occupied elsewhere. Her mind kept straying back to that hallway, and Erik's bewildering behaviour and change of mood. Meg frowned in annoyance, "Maman? Haven't you been listening?"

Meg's voice broke through Madame Giry's reverie. "Oh, yes my dear. That is wonderful news; you look towards having a rather prosperous career," she hastily answered.

Meg sat back in her seat, seemingly satisfied with her mother's response. They were silent for the remainder of the journey. As the carriage pulled to a halt outside the Girys' house, Madame Giry retracted some coins to pay the driver. Meg leaped from the carriage and ran up the front steps, anxious to tell Patrick of her news. Madame Giry turned her gaze on Christine, touching her arm reassuringly, "Christine? We're home." Christine nodded silently and descended the carriage steps, aided by Madame Giry's steadying hands.

"Patrick!" Meg squealed the moment she stepped foot inside the house. "Patrick?"

Patrick's blonde head of curls popped around the doorway, his green eyes sparkling as a large grin spread across his slightly stubbled face.

"Ah, there's my little Prima Ballerina," he chuckled. "So, how did the evening go?"

"It was unbelievable!" She threw herself into his arms, wildly babbling about the success she had experienced as prima ballerina that night. He set her down, grinning.

"I take it then, _Emmeline,_ that the evening went according to plan?"

Meg scowled up at him, slapping him lightly on the arm for the use of her much hated middle-name, despite the fact he stood a good head-and-shoulders above her.

"Yes, _Fitzwilliam_," Patrick winced at the use of _his _middle name. "The evening was splendid." She retorted sarcastically, "and if you wish to live with all your bodily parts still attached and in full functioning order, you will _never _call me Emmeline again."

Patrick held up his hands in defense, "point taken."

"I'm pleased to hear that – you're a quick learner Fitzwilliam." she teased.

Patrick considered her for a moment, and for a moment Meg thought she had gotten away with it. Suddenly Patrick lunged at her, "right, I believe several warnings have been issued in accordance to the use of my highly detested English middle name," he said in a mock serious tone, pinning her arms to her side. "It seems said warnings have all but been complied with…"

Madame Giry entered the house, and Christine quietly stepped out from behind her. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Meg wrapped up in Patrick's arms, in what could be considered a most compromising position. Madame Giry uttered a small _"ahem."_

The moment Patrick caught sight of them he hastily disentangled himself from Meg's arms and coughed awkwardly. "Madame Giry." He looked at Christine. "Christine," he muttered uncomfortably.

"Monsieur Raynaud," Madame Giry nodded with a wry smile. Patrick's face took on an interesting crimson hue. Meg coughed and smiled wickedly; a cough that sounded strangely like _"Fitzwilliam!"_ Patrick noted. He narrowed his eyes at her as she shrugged innocently. Meg turned her attention to Christine, who hadn't yet said a word.

"Chrissy? Are you quite alright?" she peered closer at her friend, "you look awfully pale."

Christine's eyes widened like a deer caught in the spotlight. "Is something wrong?" Three sets of eyes turned their attention on her, she suddenly felt trapped, and silently begged for Madame Giry to release her.

"I'm sure Christine in just tired, cherie'" Madame Giry nodded authoritatively, "aren't you Christine?"

Christine nodded wordlessly. Madame Giry looked at her insistently.

"Y-yes, I am. I'm sorry Meg," she walked up to her friend, "you were brilliant tonight," she kissed Meg's cheek.

"Thank-you Christine," she said softly, "that means a lot to me."

She gripped Meg's hand lightly in response, then quietly excused herself. She mouthed a silent, _"thank-you" _to Madame Giry as she made her way back to her room. Christine sat on the bed as though she was in a daze, slowly removing her clothes in a pre-programmed mechanical fashion, as though she was merely going through the movements. She felt gutted and suddenly weak, the emotional toll the evening's events had brought upon her, striking her suddenly. She collapsed against the pillow, her head spinning slightly as exhaustion took over. She was beyond tears; she felt dried-up and lifeless. She threw her dress to the floor, a slight crinkling emanating from the folds where it landed on the floor. Christine pushed herself up, and bent down to retrieve the single piece of parchment she had hidden in her dress during the evening. Slowly her delicate fingers unfolded the thick parchment, revealing to her the disappointed and defeated girl caught so miraculously and true on the page. She was still that girl. There was no hope.

"He might as well be dead to me," she whispered softly, gazing at the intricate details sketched into her face. If he no longer cared for her, why had he drawn this? Christine's curiosity was sparked. It couldn't be over; this drawing was a testament. He _must _still care for her. Her thoughts strayed back to the hallway, remembering the intensity and passion of his kisses. A blush quickly crept up her neck, as she felt the ghostly memory of his fingers skimming across her arms, gripping her waist with such ferocity. Never in the entirety of her marriage to Raoul had she ever been touched with such fervor; her skin still burned where his lips had been. It seemed as though Erik was the only one who could elicit such a reaction from her, the only one who held the key to unlocking the passion within her. Why had she let him walk away from her once more? Why had she let him push her away? _Like you pushed him away? _Her mind mocked. She cursed inwardly for her weakness, this was a dangerous game that they were both caught up in once more, and she refused to be weak. She had to fight lest she lose him forever. _This was worth fighting for._ She looked at the drawing again and smiled bitterly.

"It isn't over yet, Erik. It's only the beginning."

XxXxXxX

Patrick was the first to rise the next morning. The sun was already beating down mercilessly upon the house and the temperature was quickly rising. He walked down the hallway, passing Christine's room on the way. The door was slightly ajar, and he caught a glimpse of her heavenly form through the crack it created. She groaned slightly and shifted beneath the light sheet, her brown curls splayed about her angelic face. He heard the tell-tale crunch of paper as she shifted her head. _Was she sleeping on-? _Patrick shook himself and closed the door. It was time to put that chapter of his life behind him.

He continued down the hallway until he came across Meg's room. The door was closed and he could hear her light snoring emanating from within. He opened the door, the sunlight streamed through the semi-grimy window panes; falling upon her golden head and making it shine with even greater luminosity. He smiled to himself; she was by far less elegant than Christine. The sheets were scrunched about her form, her blonde hair was tousled and she slept sprawled across the bed, her mouth full-blown agape and… Patrick peered closer, a small dribble of drool dripping from her mouth and collecting at a small pool beneath her chin. He smirked to himself, wishing he could capture this moment forever. Despite her obvious lack of elegance and grace she displayed when she _wasn't_ dancing, Patrick found himself warming to her. There was something about her bubbly and lively nature that intrigued him; she had no shame. She was willing to be outgoing and adventurous; something he found immensely attractive. She wasn't classically beautiful as Christine was, but pretty in her own unique way. He smirked thoughtfully to himself before closing the door and continuing out into the kitchen.

He heard the sound of crunching gravel from outside and it was only moments before there was a soft knocking on the front door. He hastened to open, lest the women be woken and found himself face-to-face with a message courier. The message courier was a young boy of around twelve; his face was already streaked with sweat and grime, despite it only being mid-morning.

"Bonjour," Patrick greeted in his usual French, "Puis-je vous aider?" The boy cocked his head slightly to one side.

"Err, good mornin' sir. I have a letter for Miss Giry," he said, shifting awkwardly under Patrick's gaze, "from the Opera House, sir."

"Oh," Patrick raised his eyebrows, reverting back to English. "Thank-you, I will make sure she receives it."

The boy handed him a gold-trimmed parchment envelope. Patrick continued to stare at it as he handed the boy a couple of francs. The boy's eyes lit up, despite the French money. "Thanks sir!" He gave a quick, clumsy bow and ran off down the steps and out onto the street.

Patrick closed the door silently just as Meg emerged from her room fully clothed. "Who was at the door?" she enquired.

"Just a bo- I mean… a message courier," Patrick replied distractedly, handing her the envelope. "This just arrived for you."

Meg took the envelope from his hand, her fingertips slightly brushing his, and observed it. "It's from the Opera House."

"I know." He watched as she tore the envelope open and read its contents, her expression turning from bemusement to that of glee.

"They've invited us to a ball!"

"Hmm?"

Meg handed him the letter. He turned his green gaze to it, his eyes roaming the elegant scrolling of the lettering;

_Dear Miss Giry, _

I offer my congratulations on your recent success at last night's performance. In light of the recent success of the opening week of Night-side Phantasia, _we are holding a ball in honour of Mr. E Deveraux, to commemorate his achievement. We cordially invite you and your family to attend the ball, to be held at the Opera House a week from Saturday and to commence at 6 O'clock. We hope to enjoy the pleasure of your company there. _

Sincerely yours,

_Mr. M Martineau, Mr. C Faurster._

Patrick looked up into the huge grin adorning Meg's face, her blue eyes dancing with glee. "I'm going to go and tell Chrissy, she'll be just as excited!"

He smiled with amusement as Meg dashed down the hallway, his green eyes lighting on the invitation once more. "I highly doubt that," he smirked to himself.

"Christine! Christine, you must wake up!" Meg jumped excitedly onto her bed, her blonde head bobbing wildly up and down in excitement. Christine slowly opened one dopey doe-brown eye.

"M-meg?" she yawned.

"Chrissy! I just had the most wonderful news!"

Christine struggled to sit up as Meg chatted away excitedly.

"Good heavens, Meg, slow down; I can't understand a word you're saying! What did Patrick get?"

Meg took a deep breath. "Patrick just received a letter from a message courier that was addressed to me from the Opera House, and they've invited us to a ball!"

"A ball?"

"Yes, Chrissy; a ball!" Meg replied, shaking her head with slight annoyance. "The managers are holding a ball in honour of Mr. Deveraux; the composer of the opera."

"Mr. Deveraux? E. Deveraux - Erik?!" Her heart fluttered beneath her chemise.

"Oh," Meg replied distractedly, "is that his name? Well, yes. The ball is a week from Saturday and we are all invited! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Yes," Christine replied, slumping back against the pillows at the thought of encountering Erik once more, so soon. Since when had he been one to be caught socializing? "Yes, I suppose it is."

_Perhaps Red Death will make an appearance after all, _she thought grimly. _It isn't over yet._

_

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**A/N: I'd just like to thank all my reviewers for the overwhelming feedback I recieved for the last chapter; you've all given me alot of inspiration to continue on with. Thanks to; Dottie, Lady Wen, Lothiel, Phantom Phoenix, Lair Lover, L, CarolROI, Jenni, DevilsChildLover, Zeeksmom, Catoftheopera, Scully35, gershwin9, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Cassiopeia Lily, phantomphorever, XScarlet MuseX, miffster, Marieena, Winter Arani, Angie38 and of course, free2bfroody. I hope I didn't miss anyone; thanks guys. Hope you're enjoying the direction this story is taking, hope to hear from you, and as always, Cheers!  
- wing**


	17. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

**A/N Okay, this chapter really drained me to write, but prepare yourselves for my LONGEST chapter yet. Phew! I was originally going to divide it into two seperate chapters, but then I felt the dramatic impact was lost if it wasn't kept as a whole. So, enjoy!**

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**Chapter sixteen.**

"You look beautiful Christine."

Christine turned to find Madame Giry standing in the doorway gazing at her. She smiled, "just one finishing touch…" She reached over to the mantel-top where a pair of light, feathery wings lay, and attached them securely to the back of her flowing white gown.

"You look like an angel," Madame Giry smiled. Christine grinned, "Well, I'd rather hope so as that was really the point. Is Meg ready?"

"Almost!" came a cry from the opposite side of the hallway. She emerged from her room carrying a length of black, fluffy material, "now who wants to attach this?" Christine smirked at her friend's antics, indicating for her to turn around so she could attach the tail to her cat costume. They all stood before the full-length mirror and admired their handiwork.

"Yo-ho, yo-ho… a pirate's life would be…" Patrick emerged from the shadows of the hallway, his rough voice lifted in a light sing-song fashion. "Well aint ye a sight t' see!" He growled, drawing his black mask down onto his face. "So, my dear ladies… are we ready to go masquerading?"

XxXxXxX

Christine descended the steps of the carriage gracefully, her white feather mask tucked securely beneath her arm. A pirate, a cat, and a stern ex-ballet mistress descended the steps after her, all staring up at the Opera House with awe of its splendor. The managers had truly gone out of their way to make the evening impressive and majestic. Everything from the balloon lights, to the red and gold streamers that unfurled out from the tier balcony over-looking the entrance to the Opera, to the thirty or so footmen, who escorted ladies and chauffeured carriages, screamed of grandiosity. They slowly made their way up the front steps, securing their masks into position, following the rest of the guests through the foyer into the grand hall. Everything from knights, gypsies, witches and vampires, to fairies and animals of all sorts surrounded them, as they were ushered inside. Christine wondered if Erik was already there. When the heavy-set double gold and glass doors swung open before them, Christine's breath fell away as she took in the marvelous sight before her. Drapes of rich reds and golds clung to the marble walls, emphasizing the black and gold tapered candles which burned in ornate candelabras and wall sconces. A large, glittering chandelier hung above their heads the candle-light sparkling off each crystal surface to project an array of colour throughout the room. Christine stared up at it and couldn't help imagining it crashing down upon her; she shivered at the thought. A minor orchestra was fitting their instruments at the front of the great hall; preparing for the evening's festivities. She looked across at Patrick, whose countenance was suspended in awe, and she wondered whether this was the first gala even he'd ever attended.

Christine turned and saw Mr. Martineau and a man she assumed to be the other manager of the Opera standing by the doorway, greeting their guests. Meg caught their attention and proceeded over to them, smiling widely. Christine and the rest of the party followed.

"Ah, Miss Giry," Martineau nodded enthusiastically, "a pleasure as always, I'm glad our invitation found you well enough."

"Indeed sir," Meg curtsied prettily. "I believe you already know my maman, and Christine de Chagny?" Martineau nodded in polite acknowledgement, "a pleasure as always." "-and this is a friend of ours; Patrick Raynaud." The two men bowed to one another.

"Thank-you for the kind invitation," Patrick said, giving them one of his charming smiles.

"Oh, I don't believe you've had the pleasure of meeting my co-manager; Mr. Christian Faurster," Martineau said, indicating the man standing silently to his left. The ladies curtsied while Patrick gave a short bow. "This is the charming Miss Giry, our new Prima Ballerina, her lovely mother and friend; Christine de Chagny."

Faurster nodded. Christine gazed at him for a moment, noting the cool gray eyes set in hard chiseled features. He had dark brown hair that fell slightly into his eyes, a straight aristocratic nose and prominent cheeks bones. He smiled warmly at them with a serene quality, "a pleasure to meet you all. I hope you enjoy the gala."

At that moment, the orchestra struck a chord, summoning up a song and filling the hall with festive music. Christine thought this would be the perfect opportunity to seek out Erik, and she looked at Madame Giry with a meaningful glance. She nodded silently. Patrick turned to Meg, "would you care for a dance, mademoiselle?" Meg blushed a little, taking up his proffered hand, "I'd love to."

Christine slipped silently into the crowd, taking in the beautiful décor and costumes that spun in an array of colours around her. She saw many beautiful and elegant costumes, and wondered whether she would even recognize Erik if she saw him. Somehow he had always managed to melt into the atmosphere whenever he had wanted to. He could enter a scene so quietly that most people would remain ignorantly unaware of his presence until he chose to alert them to it.

She had just reached the catered food area when she thought she heard her name whispered, and turned wildly around to see if anyone had called. There was a lot of conversation and noise; could she be sure she had not simply imagined it? Or misheard someone calling another of a similar name? She stood idly by the table, her eyes roaming the crowds, devouring each masked face and costume with her eager eyes.

_"Christine…" _

Christine jumped; she had not been imagining it this time! She turned all the way away, desperately searching for the source of the ethereal voice.

"If this is a game Erik, it's not funny," she murmured beneath her breath.

_"Christine…" _

"Merde!" she cursed, slamming her palm down upon the table top, causing several guests to jump in alarm near by. "Just show yourself!" she hissed.

"Comtess?" Christine froze at the use of her Parisian title, the note of surprise and utter disbelief lightly masking the icy quality of the voice. She spun around. A pair of critical, cool green eyes looked her over contemptuously.

"Why, if it isn't Christine de Chagny," the woman almost laughed at the sight of her, throwing aside formalities. Christine paled a little as her eyes fell upon the fiery red hair, fair skin and cruel eyes of the Dutchess of Cornwell; one she had hoped never to encounter again. Her red hair was twirled into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, with large green feathers protruding from the firm knot, her neck decorated with an array of diamonds. "I never expected to see you here. I knew you were _abroad,_ as the Comte phrases it…, but _really _Comtess… _another _opera house?" She smirked, her thin red lips curling in malice.

Christine narrowed her eyes, catching her full implication and curtsied graciously. "Madame de Martineau; the surprise is mutual, I assure you."

"Yes," she drawled, "Richard's brother Michel is always issuing us with invitations to these sort of _gatherings_; we're here by special request. Besides, it is of no consequence to me, Richard and I have been in this part of the country for three weeks now; _I_ wanted a break from France and _he_ had business with the estate in London."

"I see," Christine responded absently, her eyes still roaming the crowd for Erik; the source of the ethereal voice.

"Yes. It's not all work though," she laughed mirthlessly, "I've been undergoing music tutelage."

"Oh? I didn't know you sang."

"_Play, _actually," she smirked. Christine frowned. "Piano."

"Oh."

"Yes, the man is _quite_ brilliant… has quite a touch." Christine's eyebrows quirked briefly; were her cheeks usually that pink?

"Ah, speak of the devil…"

Christine lifted her gaze and felt the bottom of her stomach drop out from within her, and her heart constrict painfully within her chest. Erik strode powerfully towards them; the very crowd itself seeming to part before him. Christine bit her lip to stifle the gasp that threatened to betray her surprise as her eyes devoured his appearance. Her eyes suddenly began to sting with welling tears as she recognized the outfit; how could he wear something so mocking in front her? He wore tight dark maroon pants with polished knee-high leather boots, and flowing white silk shirt parted to reveal his chest, a black cummerbund and maroon jacket with a high collar. A black leather belt with silver fittings adorned his waist, on which a scabbard hung to his left, its silver skull hilt glinting maliciously in the candle-light. His black hair was slicked back from his face, which adorned a black mask, and a black cape draped across his shoulder and trailed majestically behind him. As Don Juan he was the epitome of strength and masculinity. Christine bit her lip and tried not to notice how Erik outshone all the other feeble creatures in the room, who could only dream of possessing his eternal grace and charm. In those few seconds it took him to cross the hall, Christine felt her resolve start to crumble. The way he moved and carried himself almost overpowered the room; he was both master and commander – the world was his throne, and everyone knew it.

He stopped before the two women, his yellow eyes shining coldly behind his black mask. His mouth was quirked in a slight display of amusement as he took in the horrified expression on Christine's face.

"Comtess, may I introduce to you Monsieur Deveraux?" Her eyes sparked with malice as she too, recognized the outfit. She watched Erik's gaze fall upon Christine, his yellow eyes blazing with repressed anger as her mouth fell open with utter disbelief. The very air between them became alive and charged as they stared at one another.

"Erik?" Christine choked out, her voice rising on a note of growing incredulity. "_You're _Madame de Martineau's new music tutor??"

His eyes hardened, "indeed," he replied stiffly.

Madame de Martineau's hand flew to her mouth in mock surprise, "Oh? Are you at all acquainted with one another?"

Christine opened her mouth to reply, but her words stuck heavy within her throat. Somehow, having representatives from both worlds acquainted with one another made the whole situation seem surreal and other-worldly.

"Vaguely," Erik replied for her, the corner of him mouth twitching.

Madame de Martineau smiled with glee at the hurt look in Christine's eyes as she stared up at Erik.

"Now, now Erik, I was just telling the dear little comtess here of our music lessons," she simpered, "there is no need to be unsociable and taciturn," she said laughing, running her hand up his arm in a flirtatious manner. "You _must _dance with the young Comtess here, I insist." Erik turned his cool gaze on her, the corner of his mouth quirking again.

"Only if it will appease you Cornelia, my dear." Christine's hands balled into fists at her sides at the sound of the endearment. Erik stiffly held out his elegantly-gloved hand to her, his mouth set in a grim line of resignation as his eyes assessed her coolly. "Comtess?"

Madame de Martineau stared down at her mockingly, her sharp features narrowing slightly as if daring her to take him arm. Christine stared back at her with equal intensity, the mutual loathing of one another settling heavy in the air as she reached out to take Erik's arm with cool determination. She would not allow this woman to get the better of her again.

The orchestra struck up a chord, a slow romantic song played richly on the cello and other stringed instruments. Erik hissed at the sound of an off-tune instrument amongst the players, his arm winding its way about Christine's waist, as her fingers slowly traveled up his arm to entwine with his gloved ones. His movements were fluid and languid, but his shoulders were set stiffly, his gaze averted. Christine painfully resisted the urge to rub her fingers down the tense muscles of his back, as her hand rested on his shoulder. The silence was like a thick and suffocating smoke between them, and Christine felt herself drowning in his presence once more. Being so close to him again and feeling the comforting feel of his arm around her once more was intoxicating. Her fingers burned from his touch, the heat searing through the thick leather of his gloves, seeping through her fingers and traveling down her arm, filling her body with warmth. She couldn't help but notice how perfectly they moulded into one another.

She looked up into his face only to see him glance at her with cold indifference, holding her no closer, nor touching her more than the dance deemed necessarily.

"Erik?" His cool gaze traveled down to her face once more.

"Comtess."

His cool indifference hurt her more than he could know, but inside, the darker side of Erik's persona roared with approval. If she loved him a tenth of how much he loved her, she would be suffering immensely indeed. He fought hard to repress the cruel smirk threatening to don his lips as he moved her about the dance floor. Christine turned her head and saw Madame de Martineau gazing levelly at her, the scornful smile upon her face unmistakable. Christine felt her anger flare up within her, how had she managed to worm her way into Erik's life? She looked about her at all the other couples on the dance floor, the way they spoke cheerfully with one another, completely at ease and comfortable… Christine's hand tensed on Erik's shoulder. He was playing with her, holding her at length to torture her with the nearness of his presence. Her mouth fell open; this was a game to him, his smirk betrayed it! _Stupid! _She cursed herself, she should have known! If it was a game he wanted, it was a game he would get.

She stroked her hand down his shoulder and felt his muscles twitch involuntarily, knowing it would provoke and anger him. The grip on her fingers tightened almost painfully. "I had no idea you were so well acquainted with Madame de Martineau, Monsieur Deveraux," she purred lightly, brushing her bare fingertips against the base of his neck.

"Indeed, she enjoys my music and I enjoy her money. She is also married to the brother of my manager, Mr. Michel Martineau."

"The _great_ Erik Deveraux," Christine quipped thoughtfully, "-former Phantom and _Angel _of Music- turning parlour tricks for the amusements of rich women." He remained stubbornly silent as Christine leaned up to whisper scornfully in his ear, "I didn't know the Phantom had a price."

He swung her out from his body, his foot work light as air, yet his expression a barely contained storm of emotions. Christine pressed on, knowing she was about to unleash his full unbridled fury upon herself, yet unable to stop. She was pushing him to the limit, and yet she watched the destruction with morbid fascination.

"I must confess I was surprised to find you at _another _opera house, Monsieur. I rather thought you might have grown some spine and desisted from scaring little ballet girls with things that go bump in the night."

"Such as yourself?" Erik growled through gritted teeth. His hand increased its pressure at her waist as the tempo of the music changed, quickening to a swift pace. He swung her outwards, winding her quickly into himself with accordance to the dance. His strong arms were wrapped about her small form now, and his lips rested irresistible close to her ear. She fought the intoxicating haze of nonsensical euphoria from her mind, and he whispered menacingly into her ear, "No precious Vicomte here to protect you now, princess." She ducked beneath his arms, being drawn upwards to face him, "oh, the sweet irony of it all," he hissed.

"You will let me know, Monsieur, if you happen to come across a deranged psychopath lurking somewhere in the vicinity of the stairs, will you not?" She spat back angrily, "I hear he likes to make an entrance."

"How is it Comtess, that we happen to keep running into one another? I thought I made my intentions perfectly clear?" He pushed her back as he led, spinning her under his arm and drawing her back inwards like a puppet on its string. "Could it possibly be that you're stalking me?" He stared intently at her, his mouth twitching upwards in mock amusement.

The back of Christine's head came to rest upon his chest. "Don't flatter yourself – it isn't worth the effort," she scoffed. "Besides, I'm sure you know _all_ about stalking, Monsieur, as I recall that is _your _area of expertise."

Erik growled as he flung her down, her hair barely skimming the ground before he pulled her up again, flinging her into his body where he held her tantalizingly close. He proceeded to encircle her, and, like a predator encircling its prey, he lavished in his seductive power over her.

"Still a petulant child," he mocked shaking his head silently, "your childish antics bore me. You will never learn, will you comtess?"

Christine gazed at him in cold bewilderment.

"You long for your play toy of old, Christine, but we cannot have everything we desire," his eyes flicked quickly over her body and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

"You're weak, Christine." The way he whispered those words, so cold and unfeeling, sent slivers of ice down her spine. "That's why it was so easy for me to manipulate you, even as an adult, you still cling to the childhood fantasies of the Angel of Music, as though in some way that will bring your precious _papa_ back to you." Christine's eyes suddenly burned with tears of hatred as he spat those hateful words; how could he speak to her so cruelly?

"Well the world is cold and cruel to _everyone_, Christine, and you are not extraordinary enough for it make an exception." She had ceased to dance, her muscles seized in upon themselves at the sound of his hurtful words.

"H-how dare you," her words quivered with barely suppressed rage, as angry tears threatened to envelop her vision. "I _hate _you," she snarled unexpectedly.

Erik laughed mirthlessly, as his lips curled in malice and… victory, "Ordinarily that would have killed me to hear you say that, Christine and yet now, somehow I can no longer bring myself to care." She tried to back away from his blazing eyes; his hands which had moments ago filled her with warmth were cold as ice, strong and skeletal and reminded her of death. He seized her in a fierce grip, dragging her reluctantly close to his masked face, "you're dueling in a game you cannot win. You see, you can not comprehend that you no longer hold me in your power, Christine." And with that he pressed a rough kiss to her lips. One brief, crushing kiss… he branded her with the violence of it, leaving a bold warning upon her lips. And before it had even begun, he pushed her from him, releasing her from his skeletal grip and disappearing soundlessly into the dancing crowd.

Christine stood shaking in the middle of the great hall, feeling terribly alone despite the masses of people around her. His words had been so callous, so cruel… and how could he tarnish to memory of her father so? She hated him in that moment, hated him with every fibre of her being… and yet, as she tried to calm her shaking nerves, she knew that he was right. He was right! She _had_ been naïve, weak, and selfish! All these things she could admit to, but she was no longer a child! Was this part of his game? Did he think by saying horrific things to her that he would eventually drive her away? No, she would not give him the satisfaction of winning again… he wanted her to run, to cry, to beg his forgiveness. She was done begging. Quickly she pivoted on her heel and stormed after the direction of the masked man.

Christine quickly found Madame de Martineau –Cornelia- again, and true to her fears Erik was by her side once more.

"Oh, little Comtess… are you quite alright? You almost look on the verge of tears."

Christine lamely muttered something about confetti being in her eye before she suddenly felt very foolish for pursuing Erik. She turned to go when Cornelia, sensing her apprehension, called her back.

"Oh, little Comtess," she simpered, winding a serpentine arm about Erik's waist to afford Christine a good view of her seeming power over him. She lavished in the bewildered glare of Christine, as she noticed Erik took no objection to her advances. "You will join us tomorrow evening, will you not?"

Christine averted her gaze from Erik's impassive face and plastered a fake smile across her lips, "tomorrow evening?"

"Yes, some friends and acquaintances of mine of having a little musical gathering, a _soiree _of sorts. Surely you will join us? I know of your… _triumph_ on the Parisian stage." Christine darted a look at Erik whose face and eyes remained passive and expressionless. Cornelia followed her gaze. "Monsieur Deveraux will be there of course as my _special _guest." She placed a possessive hand on his arm, despite the disapproving looks of the women around her. She reminded Christine of a snake; slithery and sly, poised to attack at a moments notice.

Christine smiled graciously, "of course."

"Splendid," she retracted a small card from her silk-lined purse and handed it to Christine, her eyes glinting maliciously. She replaced her mask and hung on Erik's arm, "Come now, Erik, let's leave the little Comtess to enjoy the rest of the party," and they walked off together, Cornelia's laughter still ringing in Christine's ears.

Christine stood numbly on spot, staring at the card clenched in her fist and watching their retreating forms. Erik did not even steal a glance over his shoulder as he left; it was as though she were invisible. Suddenly Meg appeared at her side, dragging a panting Patrick behind her,

"Christine…who _was_ that?" Meg's voice held a certain tone of awe as she peered over Christine's shoulder.

"Who was what?"

"That _man_ Christine," her blue eyes were transfixed on Erik as he moved Cornelia about the dance floor with a rhythmic swaying motion. Patrick coughed awkwardly at Meg's outward display of pleasure. Christine smiled ironically at her friend who hadn't recognized the infamous Opera Ghost, and probably never would; then again, who would? "Who is he?"

"_That, _Meg, is your charming maestro, Monsieur Erik Deveraux."

Meg's gasp of surprise was audible, even in the loud and overly crowded room. "No, surely not?"

"I assure you he is."

"But he's so _handsome,_" Patrick coughed louder this time, trying desperately to make his presence noted. Christine stared at her friends in amusement. Meg ignored him.

"Who's that woman dancing with him? Probably some snobbish, stuck-up English woman," she added sullenly. Christine snorted. "No, she's French."

"Oh?" Meg frowned, "probably some snobbish, stuck-up _French _woman-"

"-okay, enough already!" Patrick sighed dramatically, bringing the conversation to an end.

XxXxXxX

Christine sucked in a large breath as she gazed about at her surroundings; what was she doing here? The address printed neatly on the card had found her standing in front of a summer villa on the outskirts of London; the tall stone pillars that supported the large open balcony were entwined in luscious green vines which contrasted perfectly against the rough-cut texture of the house's stone work. She was quickly asked to produce her invitation by a footman before being ushered inside. The large oak doors closed softly behind her as the sound of a gentle piano tune drifted throughout the house, mingled with the many voices of those who had also been invited to attend.

Christine followed the sound of the music and found herself standing in front of an elaborately constructed parlour. There were long tapered candles in large, shining brass candelabras all along the wall which emphasized the numerous portraits hung high above them. At least twenty people had gathered already in the parlour, and she looked about her at all the cliques formed in little circles across the vast expanse of the room. Christine suddenly felt very lost; what on earth was she _doing_ here?

"Comtess," Christine spun around to find Cornelia standing behind her, a broad smile sweeping across her face, never quite reaching her eyes. It was a smile that was cold and calculating and sent shivers down her spine. Christine bristled under her scrutinizing stare. She plastered another fake smile across her lips.

"Cornelia, what a… lovely party you have gathered here."

Cornelia's eyebrows quirked slightly, "yes, I really must get things underway though. Comtess." She nodded and walked off. Christine was not remorseful for her lack of presence in the slightest.

Christine stood idly beside the door, watching the scene unfold before her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Erik through a small gap in the crowd, and her breath hitched involuntarily in her lungs. Gone was the vindictive anger he had sparked within her the night before, now replaced with a cool neutrality of the situation. Although his words were laced with spite, she was sure he was deliberately setting out to hurt her with the hope of pushing her away from him. Christine had never really boasted much of a spine when it came to her former teacher, too fearful of his fits of temper. Oh, she was afraid of his black moods to be sure. But one thing she now lacked from those years ago, when the blissful fantasy of the Angel of Music still ensconced her, was her innocence, naivety and indecision. Suddenly thrown into the carnivorous world of Parisian aristocracy, she was subject to heavy critique and disdain, and had been forced to grow-up very quickly. Having tasted the bitterness of Raoul's world, she now wondered how she had ever come to desire such a life. Dear Raoul…how had she managed to warp their childhood memory into something unrecognizable? Well, gone were the days of indecision; she knew what she wanted, and for once in her life she wasn't afraid to go after it.

Whether Erik chose to acknowledge it or not, they had both entered into a dangerous game; the stakes were high and only one would emerge victorious. Christine fervently prayed it would be she who was the victor, for if she won, they both would.

Erik had yet to note her presence, and Christine was content to sit back and observe his actions casually. The way he mingled between the groups of women, with cool flattery and pleasant gestures amid many flutterings of delight, painted an astonishing picture of her maestro that Christine had never thought to witness; he was the epitome of everything charming and amiable! Christine could almost scoff at the sight if it wasn't so shocking. If she wasn't so adamant that he knew nothing of her presence in the room, she would have sworn that every one of his gestures were deliberately aimed at punishing her, for it sparked deep within her an impossible resentment and jealousy for the life of normalcy he now apparently led. Did he really need her as much as she needed him?

She watched on in bitterness as she saw that snake-of-a-woman, Cornelia approach Erik from across the room and slip her hand onto his arm in a gesture of intimacy. He bent down low as she whispered something indiscernible into his ear.What angered Christine more was that he seemed to neither reject her advances, nor treat them with surprise – as though this was a familiar thing.

Christine didn't have long to stew on this thought as she was suddenly approached by a middle-aged gentleman. "Bonjour, Madame." He greeted in French, dipping into a formal bow.

"Bonjour Monsieur," Christine answered back prettily.

"I have not seen you here before Madame; is this the first time you have attended one of Madame de Martineau's social gatherings?"

"Oui," Christine nodded, wondering why this man had approached her so suddenly.

The man dipped his head, "I must confess that you intrigued me the moment you set foot in the parlour-" She winced slightly at his over-confidant tone and he continued hastily, "-it's refreshing to see a bright new face, Madame"

Christine studied the mysterious gentleman's face; he had brown hair swept back off his forehead, a small mouth, and glasses from behind which kind brown eyes smiled at her. She extended her hand nervously, "Please, it is mademoiselle, sir."

"Oh? Even better." He took her proffered hand and pressed a swift kiss to her knuckles, "and may I enquire as to what my enchantress' name is?"

"Christine de Ch-," she stopped herself mid-sentence and coughed awkwardly, "-Daae, sir. Christine Daae."

The gentleman's eyes widened then narrowed skeptically, "_Christine Daae,_ did you say? Former Christine Daae of the Opera Populaire?"

Christine was a little taken aback by his abruptness, but nodded slowly, "Indeed sir."

"I have heard much about you mademoiselle, and none of the praise has been exaggerated, I assure you."

"Oh?" Christine's intrigue was sparked; who could possibly be talking about her in London?

"Yes, I was even honoured to attend your stage debut in Hannibal… I did not recognize you just now - was that almost two years ago?"

"Nearly three," Christine admitted.

"And where are you performing now? Here in London?"

"I'm… not performing anywhere," Christine confessed, "I don't sing anymore."

"Good heavens! Why ever not?"

Christine's eyes dropped to the floor, "my teacher, he…" she looked across at Erik once more, "he died."

The man suddenly looked very uneasy, "Oh, I am very sorry to hear that." There was an awkward silence where neither knew what to say to break the ice. He coughed uncomfortably, grasping at any means of diverting the conversation away from the depressing topic of death. "But surely a voice such as yours, mademoiselle; a pure and refined instrument, should not be kept in the dark." Christine noted his modest use of flattery and smiled briefly. She studied his face a little more closely and noted the light wrinkles about his eyes which betrayed his age. She watched as his face lit up, a mischievous glint entered his brown eyes as his gaze fell upon the piano at the front of the parlour. Christine followed his gaze and felt the bottom of her stomach drop out from within her. _Oh no…_

He turned back to her with an enthusiastic smile, "Well, this _is_ a soiree after all! Come! You shall gift the audience with a rare sight into heaven with a short rendition."

"No!" Christine said automatically, "no, monsieur, I really cannot sing anymore!"

"We shall see, mademoiselle, we shall see." He took her reluctant hand in his own large one and led her up to the front of the parlour. Christine watched in horror as curious gazes followed their sporadic movement across the parlour up to the piano. Cornelia's green eyes followed her every movement, like a snake rearing to strike, and Christine was thankful Erik was no longer by her side, though silently praying this nightmare would end. She glanced about her, panicking, searching for any sign of him, but he was not there. The circle of Cornelia's closest friends who gathered around her, one of whom Christine had met in Paris, (though she was a little less flustered and embarrassed now), stared up at Christine, their curious glances mixed with nervousness as they turned to Cornelia. She remained silent and calculating.

"Monsieur," Christine began weakly, feeling her knees wobble precariously beneath her skirts.

"Come now, mademoiselle, even if your voice is a tenth of what it was it will surely be a rarity for most of those gathered here tonight who wouldn't know a top C if they heard it – I guarantee it," he smiled encouragingly at her, flexing his fingers in expertise. Christine's head was swimming with the familiarity of the gesture and she caught Cornelia's eye as she stared contemptuously at the pale comtess who looked as though she were about to faint.

"Mademoiselle," the gentleman interrupted, placing himself in front of the piano. "I believe you are well acquainted with this piece, yes?"

Christine looked over his shoulder at the title emblazoned across the top of the parchment manuscript. Her heart gave a little flutter. _Faust. _Christine felt her entire body shake; and was conscious she probably wouldn't have the strength to produce a single note, no matter how soft or off-pitch. Surely this would be her downfall, and if Erik were indeed present to witness, her performance would leave him in no doubt of the probable train-wreck her voice had become without use or vigorous practice.

"Please, monsieur, I cannot sing-" she protested weakly once more.

He held up a hand to silence the crowd, "-Messieurs, Madames, Christine Daae will be singing a short rendition from the opera, Faust."

He struck a chord on the piano, then gently eased himself into the introduction, cuing for the beginning of Christine's aria.

_Oh, how strange!_

The first note that escaped her lips was shaky and lacking confidence, but she soon found herself relaxing as the familiarity of posture and breathing took hold.

_Like a spell does the evening bind me!_

She closed her eyes as the tension eased out of her body. Her hand fell upon the gentleman's shoulder as she braced for the onslaught of memories, an onslaught which strangely enough, didn't come.

_And a deep languid charm_

_I feel without alarm…._

XxXxXxX

"I said you would get your damn opera, Martineau!" Erik hissed, "but if you don't desist in your infernal pestering I cannot promise I won't tear it up the moment I-" he stopped mid-sentence. Music was filtering in through the open parlour door, and Erik felt his blood run cold. The first thing he recognized was the song; it was a scene from Faust, but then, then voice hit him. It was shy and shaky at first, reluctantly coerced into song by the gentle ministrations of the pianist. Erik felt his muscles stiffen, his eyes narrow, and his breath stop in his throat. The most innocent, remarkable, angelic voice floated out onto the balcony where he and Martineau stood, and Erik knew then beyond doubt, who the owner of the magnificent voice was. He was vaguely aware that Martineau was staring at him, his attentions also captivated by the angelic voice. His face paled as he peered around the balcony door and caught sight of Christine standing by the piano.

"Good Lord, is that little Miss Giry's friend up there? What's her name – Christie?"

"Christine Daae'," Erik muttered darkly.

"My God, that girl has a magnificent voice. You should audition her for your new opera, Deveraux."

Erik was positively seething, "I'd say she's a little flat in the upper register."

"Oh come now, Deveraux, give the poor girl a chance – she's not a professional singer!"

"Indeed," Erik said through gritted teeth, "one might wonder though, who constructed such a fine instrument."

Martineau ignored him, "just think what you could do with a voice like that; especially if she was under your tutelage."

Erik felt the anger rise up in him. "I have much better things to do with my time, as you very well know Martineau, than wasting it on teaching young girls to croon!" he snapped viciously.

Martineau shrugged helplessly, and moved closer to listen. Erik seethed at his impertinence, reluctantly stepping quietly into the parlour after him. He watched with a sense of bitter detached pride as Christine captured the hearts of all those in the audience.

_With its melody enwind me  
And all my heart subdue…_

As Erik watched with morbid fascination she seemed to lose herself to the music, and he felt his spirit drift upwards to join her by the piano. _Your soul will always belong to the theatre, Christine. _Her voice reached within the very depths of his to caress his black soul with the promise of eternal beauty and light. It had been so long since he had heard her voice in his head, and now she was standing mere meters away from him, her voice ringing as true and as pure as it always had. Erik felt his relentless grip on his anger start to dissipate; the one last vice he had clung to, to keep her from his heart. If he could resent her, feel anger towards her; he could hate her. Erik looked up at the man who sat beside her at the piano; deft hands gracing the ivory keys, and felt his stomach tighten into an unforgiving knot. _He knew this man. _

Erik felt the hatred boil deep within him once more, but Christine was no longer the source of his anger; his own pitiful self and inexplicable actions were. Why did he insist of driving her away from him, when she came back time after time to prove her love for him? Why couldn't he let go of his anger, and allow himself to take her into his arms, as they both desperately craved him to do? Had he driven her into the arms of yet _another _man? He looked about himself in disgust.

None of the pathetic women in the room would ever rival the eternal beauty and grace that his angel possessed. She was perfect in every way, from her chocolate-brown trellises, to her pale ivory skin, and captivating doe eyes… but that voice… the voice that he had wrought from within that petty ballet rat to produce a beautiful and captivating swan. She was truly an angel, and yet there were imperfections in her song, from lack of regular practice and use. Undoubtedly that infernal _boy _had tried his best to squash to music from within her soul. But it would never truly be gone; this was one thing that the boy could _never _possess; her voice, her song, her _soul _belonged to _him, _and _only _him.

A dark bitterness rose within him, that it was not he who sat by her side, he whose fingers danced across the ivory keys. Her voice had been an inspiration to him for so long, but now, now it was nothing but torture. He could no longer listen to her angelic voice, without seeing her with the boy, feeling her betrayal cut through him like a knife. He staggered slightly; she had now given her song to another man… and had inadvertently committed the ultimate betrayal. His one last remaining hold over Christine had cruelly been ripped away from him, like everything else he had come to depend upon in his lifetime.

She came to the end, her last note spiraling into the chilling silence of the room. Dimly she was aware of the piano concluding its accompaniment as she steadied herself against the gentleman seated before it. Her head was spinning from the thrill of music, and her heart pounded madly from her breathlessness.

Erik watched on bitterly as she threw a hand out to steady herself, her hand coming to rest upon the gentleman's shoulder. He helped her upright, placing a delicate hand about her waist in a manner that spoke of intimacy. He rubbed her shoulder soothingly, bending down to whisper in her ear. Erik had seen enough.

"Are you quite alright, mademoiselle?"

"yes, I think. Just breathless."

A dazzling light caught her eye from within the crowd, and she felt the colour drain from her face as she stared into the eyes of her former maestro, the light reflecting off his brilliant white mask.

"Erik," she whispered, her brown eyes lighting on his smoldering golden gaze, His cold countenance had been expelled from his body, and she saw his heart laid before her in that stare. And then he was gone. There was a moment of silence, where the whole room seemed suspended in time, and then they erupted into applause.

"My dear," the gentleman spoke softly, "you have a voice that would captivate London. Allow me to introduce myself mademoiselle; I am Gaston de Chateau; formerly of France."

"The composer?" Christine replied distractedly; her eyes scouring the parlour for any sign of Erik.

"Composer," he nodded slowly, "and musician. And… vocal tutor if you would allow me the great honour. It would surely be a crime to keep a voice such as yours free from the stage of London," He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, "London will fall at your feet." _Just give me your soul and I will give you the heart of Paris, Christine. _The familiarity of the words struck a sudden chill in Christine's spine.

She backed away, "I'm sorry monsieur, I need-"

He held up his hands quickly, "I understand. I do not expect an answer straight away." He reached within his jacket and extracted a card from an inner pocket, "here is my card." Christine took the card from his outstretched arm hesitantly, where he captured her hand in his own, "It was a pleasure meeting you mademoiselle," he purred, brushing his lips against the soft skin of her knuckles. "Until me meet again."

"Yes, excuse me!" Christine dashed away before Monsieur de Chateau had a chance to detain her any longer. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head as she wound her way through the crowd now gathered in the parlour.

The band had resumed its position at the front of the parlour, and had started to play a soft waltzing tune. A space was cleared amongst the crowd and several couples took to the floor. Christine turned back to see if Monsieur de Chateau was watching her and immediately collided with a tall form, stumbling clumsily.

"Oh, excuse me mon-" Christine looked up. A pair of cold yellow eyes stared down at her calculatingly. "Erik," she breathed fearfully.

His hand shot out abruptly, making Christine jump slightly with surprise. "A dance madame?" he whispered silkily.

"Erik, I –" she looked at him. "What?"

"A dance."

Christine nodded dumbly, utterly confused with the whole situation and the emotions running torrents through her body. Erik took her hand in his and led her out amongst the dancing couples, quickly adjusting his movements to theirs. For a long time he did not say anything, but she felt the tension in his body and saw the unreadable expression in his cold, glassy eyes.

"Tell me, Christine," he spoke at length, the words hissing out from between his gritted teeth, "was it all a game to you?"

Christine stared back at him blankly which only set about to fuel his anger. "A game Christine!" he demanded in anger and annoyance. "Did you miss toying with your poor Erik?" His hands trailed down her body, clenching her hips in a painfully fierce grip. "Did you delight in mocking him with your presence, your kisses? Was it fun to see him struggle with the belief that you might actually _care _for him?"

"You should not be the one to speak of games, Erik." She muttered darkly, wincing slightly at the pressure about her waist.

"No?"

"No." she stared back at him in defiance. "I've seen you with Madame de Martineau – do not even _attempt _to hide it. You both seem to be _very _well acquainted with one another."

Erik's yellow eyes flared, and a cruel smirk twisted his lips. "Your powers of observation astound me, my dear. But what business is it of yours, _little comtess_?" He said, throwing Cornelia's words at her.

Christine refused to answer as she felt Erik's hand travel up her spine. He looked at her, hungrily devouring her with his eyes, imagining her in the hallway once more. Christine felt the heat rush to her cheeks under his intense gaze.

"Oh, you are a sly one, aren't you?" he whispered suddenly, his hand explored her back, her waist, the nape of her neck.

Christine stared up at him in fright, "stop it, Erik. You're frightening me."

"Yes," he mused darkly, "I've always been very good at that, haven't I?" He paused, his eyes smoldering once more. "Tell me, Christine, why can every other man so easily take what should have been rightfully mine!" He hissed dangerously, the shadows of insanity creeping up behind his furious eyes. He reached a hand towards her throat, "your voice," he hissed. The tips of his cold fingers brushed against her neck and Christine felt herself shudder involuntarily.

He let his hand drop to her shoulder, "even now you recoil from my touch! Do I repulse you that much, Christine?" he cried in frustration and disbelief.

"Erik, I-"

" –I did not see you shrink from the touch of Monsieur de Chateau!" He spat, his anger fuelled by his frustration.

"Monsieur de Chateau? Gaston, he-"

"Oh, so it is _Gaston_, now?"

"Erik-"

Erik, however, was consumed by utter rage now, his hands shook uncontrollably and he looked down at her contemptuously; his eyes ablaze with irrepressible fury. He looked her in the eye and sneered cruelly, "I wasn't aware the Comte had taken in a common _whore_ for a wife, otherwise I'd have advised him better on his choice-"

A sharp slap silenced the chatter in the room. Even the music ground to a stop as curious gazes turned in their direction. Christine glared at Erik, her small hands clenched into fists by her side. "You… how dare you," she hissed at him, her small form shaking in barely controlled fury, "I _hate _you." Though she had whispered the words, they emanated throughout the entire parlour, reverberating off the walls as a collective hush went around the room. A red mark slowly flourished across the unmasked side of Erik's face, as he recovered from the shock of being slapped. His entire body stiffened and he looked down at her with sheer coldness and utter contempt.

"Forgive me, madame," he whispered icily, straightening his evening jacket. "I had not wished to offend you."

He then turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlour. Christine watched him leave, her heart pounding loudly within her chest, her gaze suddenly falling on Madame de Martineau who sneered smugly at her. Christine suddenly felt very claustrophobic in a room filled with people who she didn't know. She needed to get out of there. Throwing propriety to the wind, she spun around and fled out the side door of the parlour, fervently wishing for the nightmare of an evening to cease, and to find herself waking in her comfortable bed; the whole evening's proceeding having only been a dream.

But the nightmare was far from over.

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**A/N Okay, I promise ALL will be revealed in the next chapter; we're finally getting to the resolution of everything. Please take the time to review, as this chapter was really difficult for me to write, and I really would love to know what you thought. So PLEASE review... A special thanks goes to my reviewers for chapter 15; Lair Lover, miffster, Luckii Jinx, Catoftheopera, scully35, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, MimaEtcy, Lady Wen, Miss M. Paroo, Ayesha, and of course, free2bfroody. I love you guys; your reviews make my day. Until the next chapter, which should be out sooner than this one. Cheers!  
- wing. **


	18. Chapter 17

**A/N: 2007 is here; my first chapter for the New Year; Looooongest chapter yet! Hope everyone's having a great holidays and had a fantastic Christmas! Cheers!**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

**

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Chapter seventeen.**

Christine flung the double oak doors open, allowing them to crash into the sides of the walls as the night air rushed her face. The moon was riding high in the sky and a million stars shone like diamonds amongst the sparse clouds that threatened to obscure their beauty. Christine, however, paid no attention to the sky.

"Erik?" She called, her heart still thumping wildly with anger. She felt the veins in her neck pulsate as she fought to repress her rage. "Erik?!"

A footman peered curiously at her from within a carriage seat across the drive, "are you alright Madame?" he called nervously.

"A man," Christine demanded shortly, "there was a man with a white mask – did you see where he went?"

The footman was only young; a mop of messy brown hair obscured his crystal blue eyes that were set in a freckled face. He didn't look more than sixteen, and Christine suddenly felt very old, despite the knowledge that he could not be more than two years her junior. The footman screwed up his eyes thoughtfully, "yes. He's Monsieur Deveraux – the composer, right?" Christine did not answer him, her impatience served only to fuel her frustration. "He took his carriage back to the Opera House, Madame."

"Can you take me there now?" She indicated to the carriage he was sitting astride.

The young footman nodded, and Christine picked up her skirts and ran down the steps and across the drive to the waiting carriage, the stones crunching noisily beneath her white slippers The ghostly whispers of music followed her footsteps from within the parlour, but Christine paid no heed to their call. She snapped the door closed and nodded to the footman, who whipped the reins of the horses and the carriage lurched forward.

She sat back in her seat, her mind wildly replaying the events of the last two days, and found she could no longer purge the imagine of Cornelia de Martineau's serpentine limbs entwined about Erik, from her mind. She felt the anger and hatred fester within her; never before had she felt so angry. This time she would not allow Erik to push her aside. She was sick of dealing with his torturous games, his vile temper and his wild emotions, she was sick of being a puppet on his string. Everything was a game to him, so much so that he could no longer distinguish between what was real and what was not – he could no longer recognize them for what they were.

Christine refused to be one of his pieces; a pawn on his chessboard. Tonight he had changed the rules, and he had to accept the consequences – this was one game she could no longer afford to play. She _would not_ play. She needed answers from him, and tonight she would make sure she got them. He had toyed with her enough.

Twenty minutes later saw the carriage slow to a halt outside the grand London Opera House. Christine lurched out of the carriage and pulled a small pouch of coins from her purse, throwing them up to the young footman without even bothering to count how much money was inside.

"Merci!" She called over her shoulder as she hurried up the steps, stumbling slightly over her skirts in her haste. Two doormen heaved the heavy front doors open, and Christine stepped quietly into the deserted entrance hall. The bright lights of the well-lit entrance hall glared in her eyes after the semi-darkness of the carriage, and made the whole scene seem otherworldly and surreal; as though in a dream. She quickly made her way across the vast expanse of the room to the side-door she had entered the night of Meg's debut in _Night-side Phantasia. _Casting a nervous glance around, she quietly slipped between a gap in the door and made her way down the passage. The lamps had been extinguished, allowing only a few lit candles to flicker pitifully in the darkness, casting grotesque shadows of the wall sconces across the wall and floors.

"Erik?"

There was only silence. Christine suddenly felt very unsure of herself and reluctantly felt some of her anger and resolve crumble.

"Erik?" Her voice echoed off the walls. As she rounded a corner, a faint glow emanated from an open door up ahead, and Christine knew she had found his quarters at last. She clenched her fists at her side, readying herself for what she had prepared herself to do. She wiped her sweaty palms down the front of her skirts, straightened her shoulders and breathed deeply; praying for confidence.

"Erik!" She rounded the corner of the door, clenching the frame tightly for support, "Erik, we have to-" The words died on her lips.

Suddenly all the hatred and anger that had lain festering within her was dispelled from her body. The hairs along the back of Christine's neck rose at the sight of the upturned furniture and devastating remnants of what had formerly been Erik's room. Torn reams of manuscript lay scattered about the room, fluttering in the slight breeze that brushed past the curtains concealing the half-opened window. A dark shadow was cast across the room as a lifeless dark form lay sprawled across the wooden floor boards, in the place where Christine knew the boards were stained crimson red. She felt her blood run cold. "Erik…?" The body didn't move.

"Oh my God – somebody help me!" Christine fell screaming to her knees beside Erik's still body, "Erik!" She cried, shaking his cloaked shoulder roughly. She rolled him onto his side and noticed how pale his face was, his lips were tinged purple and blue. Christine felt the bile rush up her throat at the sight of his dead body, and hastily grabbed a nearby basin and wretched, half choking on her own fluids as she fought to repress the sobs.

"Somebody! Please! Help me!!" She choked out, wiping the back of her hand against her mouth, pushing the putrid smelling basin from her; her heart constricting with panic, making breathing seem an impossible feat.

She lowered her head to his slightly parted lips to see if he was breathing and felt the slightest wisp of air tickle her sensitive hairs. "Erik, please! Please wake up!"

"Help me!" She screamed again.

Suddenly she heard frantic footsteps thud down the hallway, and a shadow loomed in the doorway. Christine turned frantically to face whoever it was and beg them to find a doctor. Her eyes fell upon a pair of brilliant jade green eyes set in a tanned and weathered face. Long black hair framed his face to his chin, and the man breathed one word slurred heavily by some foreign accent, "Erik."

"Please, help me," Christine pleaded, gripping the lapels of Erik's jacket in desperation.

The man rushed forward and fell to his knees beside her, his fingers quickly finding their way to the spot on Erik's neck where he fervently searched for a pulse, his jade eyes narrowed in concentration. His skin was as cold as death. He felt a sluggish pulse beneath the tips of his fingers and some of the tightness relented from his chest. His jade eyes fell upon a smashed vial beneath Erik's desk, and the man felt his stomach lurch sickeningly. "Oh no."

He lunged forward and grabbed hold of Erik's left arm, feeling the muscles beneath his fingers begin to twitch.

"What are you doing?" Christine cried frantically, "is he alive? Who are you?" The man ignored her pleas as he yanked the sleeve of Erik's left arm upwards to reveal his bare forearm. Christine had to stifle the gasp as her eyes devoured the bare flesh of Erik's left forearm, grotesquely riddled with bruises of all shades; from rich purple and blue, to sickening yellow and green. The flesh was hideously marred and scarred, tiny blue veins pulsated beneath her horrified gaze and long, ugly purple streaks ran the length of his arm, from the crook of his elbow, which was dark purple and black in colour, to his wrist. There were at least thirty fresh puncture wounds on his skin.

The man gripped Erik's arm fiercely, as his face contorted with a pained expression, "not again Erik.." As soon as those words left his mouth Erik's entire body began to shake.

"-What's wrong with him??" Christine felt herself descending into hysterics again, her breath choked in her throat and she felt as though she were drowning; who was this man, and how did he know Erik? "Why is he shaking?"

The man's shoulders shuddered and slumped as he sighed deeply. "This man is not shaking, he is convulsing. My name is Nadir Khan, I am an old friend of Erik's and the man is suffering from a morphine overdose."

Christine's heart seized upon her and all breath left her body. She felt as though she had been winded as her eyes widened in fright. _Morphine? _

"Shouldn't we get a doctor?" She turned wordlessly to the Persian man, whose eyes were frantically searching the room for some unknown object.

"No, a doctor would ask questions… too many questions…" He lunged across at the desk, yanking the drawers out and rifling anxiously through their contents. "Come on Erik," he muttered under his breath, all the while keeping a firm hold on Erik's left wrist. "There!" Christine watched on in a mixture of paralyzing panic and bewilderment as the Persian man pulled a small vial and what looked like a syringe from a hidden compartment in the bottom desk drawer. He held the tiny vial up to the candle-light and injected the needle into it, slowly drawing the serum into the syringe. Just as he was about the plunge the needle into Erik's arm, Christine felt her voice return to her.

"What are you doing?!"

The Persian turned his brilliant jade eyes on her and spoke calmly and evenly, "I'm giving Erik an anti-dose serum; if I don't give it to him now he could die." Christine nodded dumbly and watched on as the Persian administered the anti-serum into Erik's blood stream. She watched as Erik's convulsions slowly became less violent, and she felt his muscles relax under her touch. The Persian breathed out heavily beside her. "Is he going to be alright?"

"Yes," he answered shortly, "I think so…. We must move him to the bed; the convulsions will return again."

Christine nodded silently and struggled to her feet.

"Now, just take his feet there… yes… that's right, and on the count of three we'll hoist him up. Alright, one… two… three!"

Erik's dead weight fell down hard upon the bed and the Persian proceeded to remove his shoes and outer layers of clothing, wrapping his body tightly in blankets. Christine gazed down at Erik's limp body atop the bed, her brows furrowed with anxiety, tears prickling uncomfortably at the back of her eyelids. Whatever the Persian had given him, Erik's muscles had ceased their convulsions. His brow was damp with perspiration, and Christine placed a cool hand against his pale and clammy forehead.

"He's deathly cold!" She exclaimed in surprise, despite the sweat trickling down his forehead.

"Yes… we must purge his body of the morphine," the Persian said grimly, "his body will go into a state of withdrawal… the side-effects can be… I will understand if you do not wish to see it, mademoiselle."

"'I'm staying," she said with determination, ignoring the slight trembling of her figure. The Persian smiled at her attempt at bravery.

XxXxXxX

The hallucinations began that night as Erik fell into a fitful sleep. Christine and the Persian retained a constant vigil over the masked man, as his body spasmed and his muscled cramped painfully. The Persian reached over for the box containing the ampoules he had retrieved from the doctors and administered the Laudanum. Christine watched Erik's muscles stiffen then relax under its effect.

The Persian peered down anxiously at her, concern etched into every line of his hard, weathered face. "Mademoiselle?" Christine looked up at him, noting the look of confliction adorning his dark olive features. "There is some… _urgent business _that must entail me away for a while, that I cannot put off any longer. I have given Erik a dose of Laudanum, which will help him sleep and lessen the cramps. Other than that, there is nothing we can do for him until morning. Is there anything I can do for you? Will you be alright alone with him?"

Christine nodded silently, "yes, I want to stay with him."

He nodded grimly, and picked up his cloak from the floor, slinging it about his shoulders. "If he starts to vomit, be sure to replenish his fluids, and keep him warm. I shall return in the morning." He donned his hat and turned to go.

"Nadir?" Christine smiled gratefully at him, her hand resting lovingly on her angel's wrist. "Thank-you."

The Persian nodded silently before casting one last pitiful look at Erik, and leaving the room.

Christine sighed reverently and allowed her head to fall back against the bed, her brown eyes were trained upon Erik's face as his chest rose and fell; slowly and evenly. As she listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, she finally allowed the repressed sigh to escape her lips. His sporadic breathing had ceased for the time being. Her heart, however, still clenched painfully within her chest. _Why had Erik yielded to his opium-induced vice? _

A sudden dagger of guilt plunged its way mercilessly into her heart; twisting and ripping so much she couldn't breathe. _All those awful things they had said to one another… had that driven him to this? To find the will to end his own life?_

One stubborn remorseful tear worked itself free from her lashes and trickled down her cheek. She had sworn to herself that she wouldn't cry. Gently she reached for his hand, like a child in the dark reaching towards a loving parent to protect her from her nightmares; she clutched it fearfully in her own.

She knelt reverently by his side throughout the night, fighting off the fits of sleep her body screamed for her to mercifully yield to. The Laudanum had driven the convulsions from Erik's muscles, which remained stiff and his skin burned as though in fever. Christine stripped the sweat-soaked blankets from his bed, attempting to bring down his body temperature. She noted the sweat trickling in rivulets down her angel's face, disappearing behind the white mask. Christine felt her forehead crease in a shallow frown, reaching hesitantly towards her angel's face. There had been only two occasions where she had removed Erik's mask, and neither outcome had been pleasurable. Though his morphine vice had him in the grips of fever, she still feared the repercussions. Swallowing the lump in her throat her fingers hovered about the mask in a moment of indecision, before she let her fingers slide ever so gently about the edges of the mask, tenderly working it off her angel's face.

The sight that befell her was a gruesome one indeed. The sweat had collected in tiny pools about his hollowed cheek, and Christine noted as her stomach unclenched itself, that the skin had turned white and grey from the moisture – he truly did look as though he had been in a grave for months. The skin blended seamlessly from glistening grey, to twisted and ravaged red. She shuddered involuntarily, and knelt at his side, softly running the tips of her fingers across the expanse of his marred flesh. She pulled the bowl of cold water towards her, wrung out the cloth and ran it gently across his ravage cheek. Erik groaned softly under her ministrations, and she paused fearfully at the thought that she may be hurting him. She wrung the cloth out again and let it fall back into the bowl, the water slightly spilling over the sides, and leaned back on her heels.

"Maman…" Christine's head shot up as the word barely brushed past Erik's lips. _Was he awake? _She peered closely at him and noticed the erratic fluttering of his eyelids.

He was barely conscious, his mind straddling the void between conscious awareness and the hallucinatory prison of his mentality. Christine pressed a cool hand to his forehead as he mumbled incoherent words, his skin felt clammy and his pallor was of a sickly constitution. His body spasmed beneath the blanket as he fell into a relentless onslaught of nightmares, some testaments to his horrific past, others hallucinations of the darkest kind.

"Maman! The face will come back! I don't want it to come back! I want you to make it go away for ever!" Erik sobbed like a little child. Christine's eyes widened in horror, and she quickly reached for Erik's hand once more. His bony fingers clenched about her small hand in a desperate, vice-like grip, and Christine had to bite down hard upon her lip to stop herself from crying out in pain.

His eyes fluttered open for a moment, but his hallucination had him in a vice. His stomach seized painfully as his legs twitched, kicking out against the foot-board of the bed. Light perspiration was forming on his brow once more, as his torso trembled beneath her administering fingers. The Persian had warned her that Erik would be susceptible to severe swings of body temperature; where half an hour ago had seen his flesh as cold as ice, his skin now burned as though in fever. She placed a hand against his sweat-soaked shirt and felt his body convulse. Quickly she lunged for the bowl at her side and held her angel's head above it as his body convulsed again, sending the hot liquid contents of his stomach rushing up his burning throat with sickening regularity. She quickly wiped away the putrid-smelling bile, gently running a cold cloth across his parched lips.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, the heat searing through his silk shirt, warming her cheek as she watched the rise and fall of his chest closely for any sign of further convulsion. His convulsions and seizures had left him momentarily, and she gazed down upon his naked, albeit peaceful face with weariness and love. It was a gruesome face to be sure; the grisly details enhanced by the fever and flickering quality of the candle light which cast grotesque shadows across his distorted features. Christine sat on the floor next to the bed, knees and ankles tucked beneath her skirts, her feet beginning to numb with the familiar tingle that came from sitting in one attitude for so long. The bowl of putrid smelling liquid still sat by her side, its wafting stench almost making her gag and yet she sighed in sadness. She shifted her position slightly, reverently kneeling next to her teacher and cautiously raised a hand to his face; hovering hesitantly. She spread her fingers wide, delicately tracing the familiar contours of his face from the puckered and bubbled skin, to the abnormal lumps, scars, and the slight caving-in of the right side of his nose. She felt Erik shudder slightly under her touch, a tear slid slowly down her cheek.

"Maman?" Erik suddenly whispered into the silence of the room. "Maman, why are you crying?"

Christine felt her heart break a little, as she leaned in to take up his hand once more. "Shush, Erik, I'm not crying…"

"Yes you are! All I ever wanted was a kiss, maman… just one kiss…"

She stared at him in wonderment, slowly lowering her face to his and brushed her lips along the marred side of his face, pressing faint kisses to the red and ravished flesh. She trailed her kisses across his face, where she hesitated before pressing them lightly to his own. He sighed contently, falling back into the delirium of his restless sleep. He would never remember the first time she kissed his ravished face.

XxXxXxX

"Christine?" There was a soft knock on the door before the Persian entered. Christine gazed about her in surprise as soft, dappled light shone hesitantly through the window. It was morning. He looked down at the young Comtess kneeling vigilantly by her maestro's bedside and shook his head in wonder. Even enduring the horrible way in which Erik had treated her, she still stood by his side with fierce loyalty and utter devotion. _Oh, what a fool you have been, Erik. _

As he ventured closer he fought to repress his involuntary revulsion as he saw that Erik was no longer wearing his mask, and his grotesque deformity was exposed to the room. He had only seen his face on the few unfortunate incidents where he had caught Erik by surprise not wearing his mask, and knew he should be well used to sight by now, but he was not. And as the Persian's stomach gave another sickening lurch, he knew he would, and could never prepare himself enough for the sight of Erik's exposed face. The Persian's admiration and respect for the woman before him grew tremendously as he watched her look upon his ravished face with love and adoration, and internally wondered how she could look upon him and not feel repulsed. He knew above anyone that Erik deserved to find love and happiness, and he fervently prayed that Erik would learn to swallow his pride and accept that Christine was the one who could make his life complete.

As he approached her he noticed the dark circles beneath her bloodshot eyes; _had this woman slept at all during the night?_ "Christine," he reproached gently, "you really should get some sleep; I will stay here with Erik while you rest."

Christine smiled at him gratefully, "Thank-you Nadir, that's very kind, but I want to be here with him when he wakes up."

The Persian nodded silently, "is there anything I can do?" Christine looked over at Erik's still form, "No, he's finally settled d-"

"-I meant for _you." _

"Oh. No, thank-you, but I am fine."

He turned to go, "Nadir?" he stopped. "W-what happened to him?" He looked down upon those wide, quizzical brown eyes trained firmly on him own jade ones.

The Persian sighed, drooping his shoulders wearily and drew the chair from Erik's desk beside the fireplace. He knew she would ask the question, sooner or later.

"Firstly, you should know that I have known Erik a very long time. I first encountered him in Persia, when I was daroga of Mazenderan a long time ago – before you were born even."

Christine nodded, silently encouraging him to continue.

"When you left Erik, news traveled quickly of the destruction of the Opera House, and I was bound, by a promise I had made long ago, to return to him."

She shifted slightly, tucking her feet neatly beneath her skirts as her hands fell to her lap; her face turned to him.

"After you left, I found him a miserable and inconsolable wreck. His home was completely destroyed, not only by the mob, but by his own raging lunacy." He glanced uneasily at Christine before continuing. "He had tried to take a pistol to his head, but for some unknown reason he couldn't pull the trigger, perhaps hoping against hope that one day you would return to him."

The Persian sighed, twisting his large, calloused fingers together, staring in the dismal remnants of the fire. "So he turned to morphine, quickly becoming addicted to those long hours in which he would cease to feel anything, no loss, no love, no anger – nothing. The doses quickly escalated to a suicidal level, and one day I returned to his lair to find him unconscious near the lakeshore, his heart barely beating; he was half-dead. I decided then that I would bring him back from the brink, for it was because of my lax attitude towards his then-small indulgence, which nearly had him killed." The Persian took a deep, shuddering breath, "it was then I vowed to purge his body of its dependence, but I could not bring him back from the cavernous void of despair that was his mind…"

He let the sentence trail off into silence within the dark room. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of Erik's laboured breathing. He stood to his feet once more and paced the room, running a tanned and calloused hand through his long black hair.

"I thought I had seen insanity in a man before… but this… this was other-worldly. His mind was so dark, his utter self-loathing so complete that he punished himself severely for what he deemed his _impure thoughts_ regarding you, mademoiselle."

Christine's eyes flicked over Erik's face again, as the dread and self-doubt slowly seeped its way into her mind again. There was silence for a long moment, where neither dare speak and even Erik's breathing had settled to a low rasp. Candles, whose wicks had burnt low during the night, still flickered dimly about the room, casting odd shadows upon the walls. At length Christine spoke, voicing the one thing she had been coming to dread; her greatest fear.

"You needn't worry, Nadir. He doesn't love me anymore…" She said this so quietly that the Persian had to strain to hear what she was saying, and even then he wasn't entirely sure he had heard correctly.

He looked at her uneasily, "did Erik say this to you?"

"…No, but-"

"-then I believe you are grossly mistaken." he sighed as he rubbed his eyes wearily, "I always told Erik his pride would be the death of him." He looked into the exquisite girl's eyes, eyes that could draw you right in and smiled; finally coming to understand how Erik had come to develop such a dark love and dangerous obsession for the exquisite girl;_ she could be no more than eighteen. _"Erik has loved you from the first moment he saw you."

"… but, the things he has said," Christine shook her head sadly, "he either treats me with contemptuous indifference, or acts as though he hates me."

"Not you, mademoiselle. He hates himself. His love for you nearly killed him." Christine bowed her head in shame. "But I do not blame you, Christine. Anyone put in the same situation would have acted just as you did. What Erik did was very wrong indeed."

Christine didn't say anything for a while. "Why does he keep pushing me away Monsieur Khan? How can I get him to trust me again?"

"I-it's not _you _he doesn't trust, mademoiselle. He doesn't trust himself with you." Christine's brows furrowed in confusion. "He fears what he became down there, alone with only his thoughts and demons. He fears going back there. He-" the Persian swallowed nervously, "He fears what he may do to you."

"Erik would never hurt me." Christine said defiantly.

"No, but you must understand that he ceased being Erik. Please don't be alarmed in my telling you this, mademoiselle, but Erik's morphine-induced persona had him convinced that the only way to purge himself of his grief… was to kill you and your husband, Raoul de Chagny."

Christine froze, her mind reeling at the thought of Erik turning his murderous temper upon her. Suddenly a shadow of a memory flickered through her mind, as her thoughts reeled back to a stormy spring night, a mere four months or so ago, and an ethereal voice that had whispered to her on the wind. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror as she realized Erik had been outside the de Chagny manor that night; and how near she and Raoul had come to death.

"Thankfully the morphine's effects wore off in time for him to realize what he had set about to do that night, and he knew, for your own safety, that he could no longer remain in Paris. That's when I believe he employed the help of your dear Madame Giry."

This was all too much for Christine to take in and she felt her head spin wildly, making her feel dizzy and sickly all of a sudden. She put her head between her knees and breathed deeply, trying desperately to suppress the nauseating clenching and un-clenching of her stomach. _Erik could have killed her. _

"Mademoiselle? Christine…?"

"I'm fine, really." She took a couple of deep breaths, desperately attempting to steady her shaking nerves. "It's just a headache," she lied. Truthfully, the thought of her Angel being capable of harming her frightened and nauseated her, but she wouldn't betray this in front of the Persian.

"You have been awake too long Christine," he knelt in front of her, touching her arm lightly in concern. "You must rest, I will stay with Erik-"

"-but-"

"I won't hear of anything else. You are no use to anyone if you're exhausted." He looked down at her sternly before adding in a gentler tone, "please, I insist, I will wake you if there is any change."

Christine nodded silently, her tired body finally yielding to her exhaustion. The primal cry to sleep was far too loud to ignore, and she found herself being lead to a guest's quarters by the Persian.

Once inside the emotional and physical drain of the past three days overwhelmed her, and she did not even stop to remove her clothes before falling in a heap upon the bed, the sweet bliss of sleep ensconcing her safely.

XxXxXxX

Christine felt a terrible sense of panic when she woke. The room was pitch black, and there was no sound bar the soft hooting of what she presumed to be an owl. A feeling of claustrophobia overtook her, and she pressed out with her hands in alarm, only to find nothing but vacant air about her. Steadying her breaths, she slowly rose from the bed, her hands fumbling blindly along the wall until she stumbled across the door-knob. Breathing a sigh of relief, she yanked the door open, her eyes gently adjusting to the soft light of the gas lanterns adorning the walls of the hallway. Smoothing down her wrinkled skirts and rumpled hair, she quickly retraced the path she had taken with the Persian, until she found herself facing a familiar scene.

The door to Erik's room had been closed, bar a small crack which Christine peered anxiously through before she quietly stepped inside. The Persian had yet to note her presence as he sat, bent vigilantly over Erik, his dexterous fingers administering another dose of what Christine presumed to be the Laudanum.

"Monsieur Khan?" she asked nervously.

The Persian man turned at the sound of her voice, a reassuring smile gracing his lips but not quite reaching his eyes. "Ah, mademoiselle, I see you are awake."

Christine walked to his side, placing a hand on the Persian's shoulder. "How is he?"

"I am pleased to say that he is going to make a full recovery. That is, if we can manage to reverse his dependence upon the Opium."

Christine pressed a hand to her heart, feeling some of the tension joyfully leave her body in a wash of relief. _Her angel was going to live!_ She smiled down at the Persian, whose jade green eyes stared back hollowly into her own. "I don't know how to thank you Nadir," she suddenly realized how tired he looked. "Nadir, what time is it?"

The Persian smiled wirily at her, "it is 2:35 in the morning."

Christine's eyes widened in horror at the thought of having slept that long. "Good heavens! Why did you let me sleep that long?" He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "Come, I will stay with Erik the remainder of the night while you rest."

He smiled ironically; _Erik seems not to have acquired a lover, but a little nurse! _The Persian got wearily to his feet and packed the remaining ampoules of Laudanum away in a case. "I have already administered a dose of Laudanum, Christine; there will be no need for more tonight."

She nodded as he tucked the case beneath his arm, gazed silently at Erik, and left the room.

She turned her attention back to Erik and watched the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest with gratitude, silently praising the Lord for every blessed breath her angel took. Slowly she slid down on her knees, tucking her arms around them as she hugged them to her chest. Her chin came to rest on the top of her knees and her eyes remained firmly trained of his chest… _in… out… in… out…in… out… _

Only twice did he stop in his rhythmic breathing to cough, choking on the fluids that had coated his lungs, and still Christine sat reverently watching the rise and fall of his chest. _In… out… in… out… in… out… _She could almost have written a tune to it, and in her head an old lullaby her father had sung to her repeated constantly, drumming up the ill memories of singing by his bed-side as he slowly died. "_When I am in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you…" _

Christine blinked back the tears as a soft note escaped her lips… _in… out… in… out… in… out… _her notes trembled slightly as the overwhelming grief threatened to envelop her, but still she sang on. This was nighttime. _This was their time._

"Thank-you papa."

XxXxXxX

A new day dawned warm and bright upon the streets of London. The city folk threw open their windows in the hope of enticing in a non-existent breeze in what would soon be known as one of the hottest summers experienced. Yet despite the suffocating humidity of the evenings, one lone fire in one lone fireplace had burnt steadily though the night.

Christine's head lolled about her shoulder uncomfortably. A bird twittered noisily from beyond the window pane, which served to trap the stifling heat within the confining walls of Erik's room. The fire had burnt out long ago, and only a few sparse embers glowed where they lay in the heavy grate. A soft moan issued from the bed, and Christine felt the heavy fog slowly lift away from her brain. She opened one bleary brown eye as her foot cramped painfully beneath her tucked up legs, where she had retained a constant vigil all night, resorting to sleep on the hard floorboards. She must have dozed off some time in the early morning, for her neck was stiff and cramped in one position. Another low moan echoed through the room, and this time Christine's eyes flew wide awake. _Erik! _

She crawled across the room hurriedly, coming to rest by her angel's bedside. She peered at his sweaty face, and whispered ever so softly, as though the slightest noise may send him back into his comatose-state; "Erik?"

His lips parted slightly, his mouth as dry as parchment attempting to form the words to express his fervent desire… _water._ She reached across for the wineskin, and held it to his lips. A small trickle of water wound its way into his mouth and he swallowed gratefully. "Erik?" she whispered again, "Erik, can you hear me?"

A low mumbling was all the assertion she needed. As he slowly regained consciousness he sluggishly opened one stormy gold eye to find an extremely upset albeit formidable Christine glaring down at him with a mixture of grief, worry and… anger.

"Christine!" He whispered in alarm, as his memory slowly returned to him; his anger and shame at her finding him in such a state, flaring within his chest. "Christine! What are you-? Get out!"

Suddenly a small white hand whipped out of nowhere and came colliding forcefully with his bare cheek with a resounding slap! Christine's face was red with anger, her small fist were shaking as she glared at him. Her lip quivered slightly as she attempted to retain her resolve.

"Christine, what did you-?" Erik lay in shock, his anger festering beneath his skin as he fought tooth and nail to retain some ounce of his self-control. His utter shame and humiliation spurned within him, the primal desire to protect himself from her sudden intrusion upon the darkest part of his life in the interest of self-preservation.

There was a deathly silence in the stifling confines of the room, where Erik sat hunched over on the bed, refusing to meet Christine's eye, his face burning with shame at the exposure of his weakness.

"How dare you!" Christine suddenly cried in anguish, before flinging herself unexpectedly onto the bed; her small fists beating mercilessly upon his chest. "How dare you, how dare you, how dare you!" She sobbed repeatedly.

Erik fought to get a hold of her flailing fists, the pure shock overwhelming his distorted features, and he realized with horror that he wasn't wearing his mask. Utter shame forced him to abandon any attempt to restrain the hysterical girl lying on his lap, as his hand flew automatically to his face and he looked around desperately for his mask. His hands quickly found it lying on the bedside table and he hurriedly replaced it before grabbing Christine forcibly by the wrists, his worn and cramped muscles screaming in protest.

"Be still!" he commanded angrily, holding her thin white wrists in his bony grasp. He let her head droop to his bare chest, propriety out the window, as her body quivered on top of him. "How could you?" She whispered hollowly, her voice thick with tears, "how could you almost go and leave me?" Erik felt his voice choke up in his throat. The last thing he remembered before the ensconcing bliss and hallucinatory prison was the needle. _Oh God… how had he let Christine see what he was reduced to?_

He released the pressure on her wrists and she lay still upon him, her head burrowed into the folds of his shirt. Her shoulders quivered slightly as she cried silently; the emotion she had fought back as she tended to his illness flooded her body. Erik felt as though he were frozen; paralyzed by fear and indecision as the bare skin of his chest burned where her face touched him. His hand hovered in the air above her head of curls, _Just this one last indulgence, just this once… than she will be free of me forever… _His fingers lightly fell to the gossamer curls as he breathed her scent and closed his eyes; his weary and abused body longing for the sweet bliss of sleep to come; luring him into its soft embrace.

Erik's eyes shot open as he felt her inquisitive fingers slowly creep across his chest, and yet… for some reason he did not stop her; perhaps paralyzed by his fear. He hissed softly as her fingertips slowly grazed over one of his numerous scars; the welts amid the hard scarred flesh were remnants of payment for his wicked crimes, his lust for her… a tribute to his insanity.

He closed his eyes again as her fingers explored every crevice of his bare chest, reveling in the feel of her bare skin on his. Her crying had ceased as she took in the sight of his mutilated flesh with morbid fascination. There was no hiding from her now, she had seen him in his weakest hour, and still she had not run away. He opened his eyes wearily; feeling so tired, always so tired… and found her staring at him, an endless sadness displayed in her eyes. "Show me," she whispered.

_Damn you, Christine… your curiosity will be the death of me… and yet I can deny you nothing…_

He blinked hesitantly, his insecurities welling inside him as he slowly took her hand in his own and guided it over his wounds; some self-inflicted, some remnants of his life with the gypsies. Each had its own story, its own crime. Perhaps his whole life had been a crime… a crime against mother nature, humanity, God and everything he stood for… perhaps he was never meant to survive those nine months he lay festering in his mother's womb. Perhaps the greatest crime was that his mother had committed – by allowing him to live.

She sobbed heavily into his shoulder as his hand found its way hesitantly to her head. The tears fell thick and heavy and mingled with his own salty ones – he was crying!

"If only I had known! Oh God, I'm so sorry Erik!"

"Shh," he whispered, choking back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

_What was he doing?_ They had both hurt one another beyond measure, the grief, the remorse and regret was insurmountable. He looked down at her quivering form in his arms; was this what his cruel games had reduced her to? He had wanted to punish her, yes, he admitted it; he wanted her to suffer for all the pain her leaving had caused him… but she was just a child then! A sixteen-year-old child still afraid of things that go bump in the night; terrified of his fierce possessiveness and sheer ungovernable jealousy. By God, he had tortured her fiancé before her eyes – no wonder she had run from him! And he, in an effort to scourge his unclean and animalistic hunger for her from his festering body, to drown out her voice, his self-loathing… his hatred of the world, had turned to morphine. Oh what sweet bliss was governed by that wicked drug, encompassing him in a world without feeling, without thought. He had stolen something precious from this child, an innocence that had shone through the darkness of his mind and captured his heart now seemed extinguished. This fate was no more than he deserved.

"Promise me," she whispered suddenly into the damp material of his silk shirt, "promise me you'll never do anything like that again!" She nuzzled into his chest as he softly stroked her hair, barely touching the gossamer curls. He stared down at the chocolate lock curled tightly about his spindly fingers. _Could it possibly be that she truly did love him?_ _Even knowing what she knew now? Murderer, thief, unscrupulous extortionist, contemptible drug addict…_ He so wanted to believe it, to believe in her. How many nights had he dreamt of holding her in his arms like he was now?

_"Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him…"_ he whispered hoarsely under his breath as he absently stroked the curls in Christine's long hair.. She lifted her head and gazed up at him, her doe brown eyes still swimming with tears.

"Don't leave me again, Erik, please…" He gazed at her pleading expression, the ice around his heart slowly melting. This was everything he'd ever dreamt about, all he had ever wanted; and all he had to do was reach out and take it. "Trust me," she pleaded, her small white hands gripping the fabric of his shirt in desperation.

He had not yet said a word bar the cryptic message mere moments before. She buried her head in his chest again, expecting to be rejected at any moment. "I love you," she whispered helplessly, "I just wish that you would believe me…"

For a moment there was only silence, and she knew he was about to turn her away once more, to bury himself alive in the coffin of his mind; the morphine his undertaker. Slowly, ever so slowly his thin white fingers found their way beneath her chin where he lifted it gently. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and encapsulated within his golden orbs was a silent plea for help; a heart-wrenching plea for help. She shuddered involuntarily, and perceiving it to be disgust, he tried to push her away from him. Christine's hands quickly found their way to his face, her fingers feeling the cool contours of the mask in comparison to the soft flesh of his face. She stared at him intently before pulling his face down to press a soft, searing kiss to his lips; a kiss that would decide and seal their fates.

This was untainted and pure, and conveyed nothing of the animalistic hunger they had devoured one another with in the hallway those many weeks ago. Christine felt his heart pounding painfully beneath her palm as it rested against his chest, and she slowly broke away and -like the convicted at the gallows- she awaited her fate.

His eyes remained closed as he reveled in the velvety feel of her lips on his. His face was an array of emotions; an internal war raged within him as he fought to repress his inner demons. Was this some cruel joke his deceiving Opium vice was taunting him with? If this was indeed some figment of his imagination, Erik knew that when he woke, there would be no preventing his swift and immediate decent into madness… madness that not even the Persian himself could salvage him from. A monster condemned to suffer in Hell, should never be gifted a view into Heaven.Erik feared the man he became down there; neither living nor dead, yet with no conscious decision nor freedom of thought. He was tool to the destruction of the Opium vice; a slave to its bidding. There was only so much a man could suffer through, and Erik was just that – a man. He knew that if this one last chance at salvation was eternally denied him; there would be no coming back.

At length he opened his eyes slowly, stormy gold meeting chocolate brown, and reached out hesitantly for her hand, wishing and praying for this vision before him to be real. When he felt the tips of his fingers touch solid flesh, Erik fought to repress the sob that wracked through his body, as he watched with wonderment as his cold, thin fingers interlaced with her hers in what would be an eternal promise. _She was his!_

"Oh Christine…" he choked out painfully. Even then her name sounded beautiful carried on the rich timbre of his voice. She closed her eyes and gripped his hand as though he might evaporate from sight. There was no need for further words; those two words breathed through tears was all the confirmation of his love that she needed; she had opened Pandora's Box and unleashed the fury within; Erik's desperate love and overwhelming passion; there would be no turning back.

His head drooped shamefully as he buried his forehead in the crook of her neck; inhaling the sweet scent of lavender in her hair. His face was moist from the tears he was shedding as he gripped her arms painfully tight.

"Forgive me Christine…"

Christine held him to her as he wept pitifully into her shoulder, feeling his body quiver beneath her.

"Forgive your poor Erik…"

**

* * *

A/N: Did everyone have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year?? Wow, I am officially in my last year of High School! Yay!**

**Sorry this chapter took so long to get out; but I found this "revelations" chapter a difficult one to write, and it's such an important chapter too. The angst is over for the time being. Please let me know what you think, and how you feel about the turn this story is taking. If there are any loose plot-holes you've spotted, or questions you need answered, please let me know. Your feedback is desperately needed and greatly appreciated!! Cookies for the 100th review!!**

**Thanks to my reviewers for the last chapter;**

**Scully 35, Ayesha, Luckii Jinx, a fan, Miss Marian Poo, miffster, allheart, lady wen, phantomphorever, Marieena.. and a special mention to my friend Free2bFroody who is in London at the moment watching Phantom at West End.. whistles lucky!!**

Until next time, Cheers!  
- Wing


	19. Chapter 18

**A/N: I don't know if anyone is still reading this, but if you are I am profoundly sorry for the long delay between updates. I've been on a bit of a Year 12 hiatus, and now that mid-year exams are over, I've had time to get stuck into a bit of writing. So here it is, and thanks for being so patient!**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

**Chapter eighteen.**

**London.**

There was no sound, there was only silence. The only movements bar the faint rustling of the curtains were the slight rise and fall of Erik's chest as he looked down at his beloved angel cradled softly in his arms with wonderment. Her small hand was curled tightly about his thin white fingers, the sunlight dancing off and enhancing the milky quality of her skin.

Christine lay atop Erik's bare chest, facing away from him, her brown eyes widened in contentment and fear; contentment that she should have her masked man again, and fear that her newly found happiness should be cruelly ripped away. Ever so lightly she felt one of Erik's long white fingers curl about one of her gossamer strands, twisting the lock of hair between his fingers lovingly. She was afraid, she was afraid of the uncertainty, she was afraid of her feelings, she was afraid of the insatiable passion she felt unlocked deep within her soul; the intensity of which frightened her.

Erik closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling her sweet scent, allowing it to fill him until her was sure he could take no more; the sheer proximity of her burned his skin and ravaged his soul. She smelled like lavender and sweet summer flowers. "Christine…? He swallowed as Christine slowly lifted her head off his chest, his skin instantly screaming for the lack of warmth,

Christine turned her enchanting doe eyes upon Erik's face, the stormy gold of his own blazing behind the hard contours of the mask mixed with another unmarked emotion; insecurity and uncertainty.

She faltered at his expression, her dread filling every inch of her with a sudden coldness. "Erik…?"

"I appreciate your concern for me, however.." he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "I understand why you said what you did. And I don't want your pity Christine…"

Christine stared up at him through incredulous eyes, "you think this is all out of pity?"

"I came to accept a long time ago, that no-one could love a monster… a _thing_… as abhorrant as-"

He was cut short as Christine captured his lips forcefully. His eyes momentarily widened in shock, before he settled into the warmth of her kiss. This seemed all too unreal for him, like a vivid opium-induced dream. _It wouldn't be the first… _he mused darkly. Christine pulled back, "what's wrong?"

Just then, the door creaked open to reveal Nadir leaning casually on the door-frame. Christine yelped and removed herself from Erik's bed, blushing furiously as the Persian's eyebrow quirked in amusement.

"Ah, Daroga… my betrayer."

A smirk crept across Erik's lips as they curled into a grimace. His muscles were cramping mercilessly beneath the blankets again, shooting searing pain up his legs. Erik felt his forehead dampen under the effort of concealing his afflictions. It had been enough that Christine had seen his pitiful displays of weakness, but he was no stranger to pain. At least his body had not betrayed him this time; he was desperate to cling to any scrap of dignity he could lay hands to; at least he could suffer through this in dignified silence.

"You are a very fortunate man, Erik."

"Some would accredit _this _to fortune?" He sneered, grimacing from the struggle

"You're _fortunate_ that you have someone who obviously cares very deeply for you. If Christine hadn't found you when she did, I have no doubt that you would be dead at this very moment." He frowned and took a few carefully measured steps forward, looking sternly down at Erik. "You owe her your life, Erik."

Erik felt the back of his neck warm, the sweat now trickling into his eyes. He had never owed anything to anyone before. The situation he now found himself in, indebted to another, was alarming and unnerving for him.

"Monsieur Khan," Christine got to her feet and pulled a slip of parchment from within her bodice. "could you please deliver this to Madame Giry? The address is on the envelope." Nadir raised an eyebrow. "It is merely telling her I am safe and well, and not to worry."

He nodded understandingly, "this shouldn't take long."

Erik began to cough and splutter, the control he had been holding over his body giving way to an onslaught of chest spasms that rendered him breathless. He lay back against the pillows are Christine brought him water and a dampened cloth. Once his breathing had steadied she allowed herself to kneel reverently by his side.

"You never told me, Christine…"

She frowned as she tended him, "told you?"

"W-what you are doing here… in London…" Erik rasped between breaths.

Christine shied away. Erik noticed the darkening of her eyes, how her complexion drained, turning a sickly pallor.

"What is it?"

"It doesn't matter…"

"It matters to me!"

A violent coughing spasm wracked through Erik's chest, as he fell back in a fit against the pillows.

"Shh," Christine filled a cup with water and brought it to his bedside, holding it to his parched lips, "Monsieur Khan said to keep your fluids up; the cramping is a direct result of dehydration."

He lay back against the pillows and sighed with weary eyes. "This does not mean that you get out of telling me…"

Christine smiled, "I know, and I will… when I'm ready."

He looked up at her, "I do not like you seeing me so…"

"…ill?"

"Helpless."

"Why ever not? It's comforting to know that you're real, that you have faults… I suppose it humanizes you in a way…"

"If this is what it means to be human, then-"

"-No," Christine brushed a kiss against his palm and pressed it to her chest, "_this_ is what it means to be human." Her hand crept across his face, her fingers gently tracing the edges of the mask, seeking approval. His squeezed his eyes shut and gave a small nod as she gently pried the mask from his face. The skin beneath the mask was hot and itchy, yet he could forebear the discomfort - his exposure he could not. Her soothing hands ran the damp cloth across his forehead, his cheek, his lips until he felt some of the irritation leave his skin. It felt wonderful to have his face bear to the cool air, yet he cringed internally every time he felt her bare skin touch his – as though it were some perverse crime, like his deformity could spread and infect those who came into contact with it. His eyes opened in wonderment as she placed a feather light kiss on his ravaged cheek and replaced the mask.

He gazed at her warmly, and then raised his arm to gather her close, breathing into her hair – small shallow breaths that somehow comforted her. Christine curled up beside him, entwining her fingers with his. She could hear his heart beating beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. It was a reassuring sound, the rhythmic thumping of his heart; _duh-dum duh-dum duh-dum… _

"I like it," she whispered quietly.

"What?" he murmured into her hair.

She brushed a kiss across his knuckles, "the sound of your heart…" He smiled warmly into her hair, but offered no reply.

It was a nice sound, the sound of life, a sound that held all the promise in the world. It was a sound that held a _future._ She felt him draw her closer to him and closed her eyes, and once more thanked God and all the heavens above for saving her angel.

XxXxXxX

The air was cool and crisp against Christine's cheeks. Dawn was just breaking over sleepy London, the coolness in the air soon to be sucked from the sky by the sheer heat of the sun. She pulled the thin shawl about her shoulders tighter as she moved about the rooftop, the sky clean and bright. She stopped at the edge of the rooftop and peered into the street below. A light flickered in the house opposite, the drawn curtains yielding no silhouette of its inhabitants.

The tiny hairs along the back of her neck prickled as she heard the sound of the door closing and the tell-tale rustle of a cloak. Surely enough, Erik's breath tickled her ear moments later. "Christine…" he whispered. He inhaled her lavender scent slowly, feeling his grip on reality start to slide at her proximity. She felt the shiver run down her spine, shuddering involuntarily. Without turning around, she sighed in contentment and allowed her head to fall back softly against his chest, and felt his arms wrap around her possessively, tugging the cloak about them both. She loved the feel of his arms around her; he made her feel safe, like she had never felt before.

Erik breathed deeply. The last time he had followed Christine to a rooftop he had found her enfolded in the arms of her boy-lover, singing words of promise and love. Oh how his heart had ripped in two then, the sheer want of revenge curdling his blood. He had been frozen, powerless. But now it was in _his _arms that she sought comfort. He nestled his face in the crook of her neck, tracing the curvature of her neck with his lips leaving a trail of kisses in their wake.

"Erik," Christine gasped, "you really shouldn't be out here, the doctor said –"

"I know what the doctor said," he replied impatiently, "but I know what the best medicine for me is…"

Christine smiled, and turned about in his arms. Erik's lips quickly descended on hers, eliciting a slight gasp from her before she melted into his embrace. They stood locked for several moments, the entire world seeming to grind to a halt as he pulled her tighter to him, deepening the kiss so that she moaned ever so slightly into his mouth.

"Erik," she pulled away from him, fearful of prying eyes, "maybe we should go back inside?"

"Why?" He tried to pull her back to him.

"It's just… people are waking now. What if someone sees us?" She felt his muscles tense and his jaw stiffen.

"I see." He was silent for several moments as he stepped away from her. "If you are too ashamed to be seen with me, then it is best you go."

Christine's eyes sparked with amusement at his irrational reasoning and she fought to repress a small smile as she reached up to pull his face down to hers, her lips playing faintly upon his and eliciting a fire deep within him. It was not worth wasting what precious time they had on arguing, "I'm not going anywhere." Erik's hands wound about her waist as he lightly touched his forehead to her own, still incredulous over her desire to be with him. "Erik, your stubbornness will be the death of _me._"

A shadow flickered in the corner of Christine's eye. She turned abruptly to see the curtains quickly drawn in the house opposite. A sudden chill worked its way down her spine.

"What is it?"

She frowned; sure she had seen someone standing in the window watching.

"N-nothing" she said, "Can we just go back inside now?"

He nodded silently and held is arm out to her, and receded into the shadows.

Cornelia de Martineau drew the curtains once more, the candlelight flickering shadows across the room. She smirked as she watched their retreating forms on the rooftop and turned to gaze at the parchment lying atop the desk; the drying ink shining in the candlelight. She let the curtains fall once more…

_It appears we share a common goal once more… Comte_

XxXxXxX

"I should be the one helping you…"

"Nonsense. Now lie back." She pressed down on his shoulders, forcing him to lie back against the pillows.

"I do not need to see a doctor."

"Erik, you almost died!"

"It would not be the first time," he muttered darkly.

Christine frowned with disapproval, and started to unbutton his shirt, slowly sliding it off his shoulders. He hissed as her hands grazed his scars - he was still uncomfortable with being so revealed. His skin was damp from perspiration over the efforts of walking to the roof this morning. His body had yet to recover fully, and any physical exertion left him shaky and weak. Christine dabbed at his forehead with a wet cloth

Christine was just about the remove his mask when there was a short rap on the door. Erik quickly pulled the covers up over his torso as Christine opened the door.

An elderly man with sparse patches of white hair and thin, half-moon spectacles stood holding a black leather medical bag in the doorway.

"Dr. Charles Zweigger," he extended a hand to Christine, his speech slurred by some heavy foreign accent. The man had a thin, weathered and worldly look about his face. His eyes shone through their sunken cavities, as he smiled briefly.

"Bonjour doctor, please come in."

As he stepped over the threshold and took in the havoc of the room, his eyes quickly fell upon his patient. Christine noted his initial surprise over the presence of Erik's mask, which he quickly covered with professionalism. He noted silently the impropriety of the situation, as his eyes flicked back and forth between Christine and Erik, noting the absence of any wedding bands. Christine followed his gaze and shifted uncomfortable. _What must he be thinking?? _She saw Erik's jaw tense and his eyes harden. This was not going to be easy for either of them.

Dr. Zweigger settled himself by Erik's bed and began unpacking his medical supplies. A frown was etched solidly into his features, as though his brow were carved of stone. Erik sat rigidly to his side, his arms crossed defensively across his chest.

"I am to understand that it was morphine, sir."

Christine winced at the severity of the Doctor's tone. Though he attempted to mask it, his voice was laced with stern disapproval. It was quite apparent that he considered any self-inflicted afflictions unworthy of his time or consideration. Dr. Zweigger held out his hand for Erik's arm. When Erik refused, he cast his steely gaze upon Erik's own.

"Come now Sir, I have seen a lot worse than you, so do not attempt to drown yourself in self-pity. Mr. Khan has informed me of your… circumstances, and I give them no heed. Do not embarrass yourself even more so in front of the lady by refusing my requests, it only serves to enhance your shame"

Christine bit down hard to stop herself from gasping. Never had she seen anyone speak to Erik with such disrespect and insolence. He could see the murderous look flame in Erik's eyes as he stared at the doctor. Christine had to commend him, there were few who could hold Erik's gaze without fear. If he did indeed possess some, then he masked it well.

What surprised Christine even more was when Erik reluctantly held out his forearm to the doctor. Dr. Zweigger frowned as his old calloused fingers explored the welts and puncture wounds disfiguring Erik's forearm. The intensity of the blue pulsating veins had waned a little. Dr. Zweigger sighed disapprovingly.

"How long have you been using?"

There was a brief pause. "Five years," Erik hissed reluctantly through gritted teeth. "Though it has crossed my path before in the past."

Dr. Zweigger said nothing as he removed an ampoule from his medical bag. "You will be unable to rid yourself of the vice if you do not have the willpower sir. If you do not have it, tell me so at once for I am wasting my time here."

Erik took one look at Christine, their gaze locked as he explored the vast depth of her brown orbs. He nodded in ascent, "I have."

Dr. Zweigger injected a syringe into the ampoule and withdrew a small portion of clear liquid. He flicked the syringe lightly with his finger. "Withdrawal has to be very gradual," he spoke now to Christine as he administered the serum into Erik's bloodstream, "when he has recuperated fully from this, he may be able to start treatment. In ordinary cases it could take a few weeks, perhaps months. He may need to go into a special sanatorium. Even following all these precautious, not everyone is able to defeat their…" he glanced at Erik, whose eyes were beginning to glaze over, "…inner demons.

As Erik's head hit the pillow, his eyes rolled back and he was still. Christine could not think of when she had seen him more relaxed and content. She felt very alone at that moment and shivered despite the warmth of the room.

The doctor closed the lid on a box. "He will regain consciousness in a few hours." Christine nodded mutely as he handed her the small box. "There are fourteen ampoules inside, each of a progressively lower concentration. They are individually marked with the date of which they must be administered. Administer only one a day and I will return in two weeks."

As he walked to pass her, he turned about on his heel and frowned empathetically at the young woman staring reverently at her lover, "he is like a dog in need of weaning mademoiselle. If we do not free him of the opium vice it will destroy him… and from what I can judge, you also in the process." Christine smiled sadly at him as he donned his hat.

"Good-day to you mademoiselle."

XxXxXxX

**Paris.**

"… It can't be! Are you sure?"

"Most definitely-"

"-but the mask, was there a mask?"

"I am sure! How many do you know of, who wear a mask that conceals half their face? It is him, I assure you."

Raoul dragged a hand through his bedraggled hair, his eyes blood-shot and furious. He looked half mad.

"He's supposed to be dead! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!! And this time, he'll stay dead!"

"No! Do not be so stupid Comte; you know just as much as I do, that he cannot be so readily killed. If you want to exact your revenge, I suggest we plan this _very _carefully."

Raoul narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "And what makes you think I won't kill him straight away?"

"She would never look at you again." Raoul lowered his gaze, his nails digging hard into his palms as he clenched his fists tightly. "Who are you fooling Raoul? You _need_ me…"

"And what interest is it of yours? I have not forgotten… Cornelia."

"I care only for your well-being Raoul." She advanced on him, coyly winding a serpentine arm about Raoul's shoulder. She felt the rigid muscles in his back tense at her touch. "I can see what her absence is doing to you…" Her hand roamed his chest, "so much anger…"

Raoul's eyes rolled back as her fingers slid behind his neck, rubbing the knotted muscles and stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. It had been so long since he had been touched so by a woman. "After what I did, I cannot blame nor feel anger towards her…"

"But they found one another once more…" her hand came to rest on the triangle of bare skin his ruffle shirt had left uncovered. Her fingers snaked their way down to the first button and deftly unfastened it. "Even death could not separate them. What if she doesn't want you back?"

Raoul's eyes snapped open as his fingers caught her wrist forcefully. "Careful," he whispered dangerously, "I have eyes for only one woman."

Cornelia took a step back from him, "who are you kidding? You _need_ me…"

Raoul struck as quick as a cobra, his fingers fastening tight about Cornelia's throat. "The only thing I _need_ is Christine! And I _will _get her back… one way or another…"

He released her and Cornelia narrowed her eyes as she watched him stalk from the room, her fingers tentatively rubbing her throat. _We'll just see about that._

XxXxXxX

**London.**

"How are you feeling?"

Erik was buttoning a silk shirt, tying the cravat firmly about his waist. His hair was still damp and hung about his face; his skin had yet to return to its usual pallor.

"As well as can be expected, my dear." He tried to rise, but Christine pushed down firmly on his shoulders.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Erik looked up at her with piercing eyes, gripping her wrists and pulling them lightly off his shoulders, "work."

"It has only been two weeks! The doctor said-"

"-I know what the doctor said," Erik brushed past her into the bathroom, "but _I_ have an opera in need of completing, and an orchestra in need of rehearsal." He emerged moments later with his hair neatly slicked back, and his mask firmly in place. He smiled in amusement as Christine stood before him, her small hands on her hips in a mark of disapproval. "You're not going to let me go that easy, are you?" She stuck out her bottom lip in defiance, "I see…"

Her teacher smirked and slowly stepped towards her and reached out with his hand, searing her palm with his touch. All speech was silenced as Erik, in a single elegant motion, pulled her tightly towards him. Christine smiled despite herself as she was swept into his arms, feeling his warm breath tickling the fine hair about the nape of her neck. As his strong arms encircled her tiny waist he elicited a slight gasp from Christine, and she flung out an arm to steady herself. His lips quickly captured hers in a searing kiss, and Christine felt all resolve crumble within her, as she closed her eyes and let the flood of sensation that threaten to overwhelm her sweep her away.

As Erik slowly broke the contact she felt the warmth leave her, only a light tingling sensation reverberated in her body. Her eyes remained closed as she whispered with intense longing and resentment, "I _hate _it when you do that."

She opened her eyes to see a flicker of a smile cross Erik's face as he nuzzled her neck, nipping lightly at the skin, "And dare I ask if you feel the same way about this too, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, that too." She sighed, conceding defeat, "fine, go to work, but if anything happens you have only yourself to blame."

He smirked and slipped his vest on over his shirt, "I'll take that under advisement - you know where to find me."

Christine turned, "actually I d-" but the door had already closed behind him. She sighed, "what _am_ I going to do with that man."

XxXxXxX

"… you said something that morning." Christine spoke softly, not wanting to ruin the quiet moment she and Erik were sharing, as dusk quickly crept over the London streets.

"I said many things that morning," Erik murmured, absently stroking the head of curls that lay in his lap, a book perched upon his knee. Christine sat reverently at his feet, content to laze and watch the light slowly fade from the room, and listen to smooth voice of her Angel as he read from ancient books in foreign tongues. They had sat like this for most of the afternoon; Christine drifting in and out of sleep as her teacher patiently read the original Persian print, and translated each passage for his angel. She liked the rich sound of the words pronounced on her masked man's delicate tongue. She yawned, pulling absent mindedly on a stray thread from her dress.

"No," she considered thoughtfully, "this was something else. You said it in barely a whisper, like a thought that had strayed out loud."

"There have been many of those too."

"I remember a rose… and a nightingale… it was beautiful, whatever it was…"

Erik sighed, closing the book silently. "Ah yes," he conceded, "_Night after night the nightingale came to beg for divine love, but though the rose trembled at the sound of his voice, her petals remained closed to him." _Erik's voice shook a little as he said this.

"An old Persian fable, one of many that I know of."

"You never speak of Persia," Christine mused. Erik's stroking of her hair ceased. She frowned, "what is it?"

"I do not speak of Persia. You must know that I can never go back there," Erik's tone hardened with apprehension, "for reasons you cannot comprehend."

"I do not understand-"

"-you are not ready to understand, child. It was a dark time; and would only serve to frighten you."

She removed her head from his lap and knelt before him, her brown eyes trained firmly upon his stormy gold one, "in some way I understand your unwillingness to tell me of your life before Paris, Erik, but I am no longer a child. You _will_ have to trust me with your secrets one day."

He allowed himself a small smile as he recognized the favour she was doing him by not prompting him further. "Soon," he conceded, "but not now." His hand once again fell upon her hair, and the need to reassure himself that this moment was indeed real.

The room had become too dark to read from natural light, so Christine and Erik contented themselves to sit silently in one another's presence, each reveling in the feel of the other. After a long while Christine stirred once more.

"Erik?"

"Yes my dear?" Erik purred, twisting a chocolate brown lock of Christine's hair about his long tapered fingers.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you." She nervously twisted the hem of her dress between her fingers as Erik's hand stilled on her hair, listening intently.

"Would you…?" She began tentatively, "have you ever wondered…?" She paused as her head rested against his chest, listening to the melodic beating of his heart beneath her. Her own heart began to flutter wildly as she began to comprehend the enormity of what she was about to request. Erik frowned and turned her face towards him, his smoldering gold eyes searching her face, "what is it?"

The intensity of his eyes made her lightheaded, as his hand fell to her neck, where he lightly brushed the tips of his fingers against her skin. The man swallowed. "Tell me," he spoke again, his timbre smooth and low.

Christine breathed in deeply, her stomach fluttering wildly from not only his caress, but the thoughts that raced through her mind – dreadful, dangerous and yet… _exciting_ and _passionate _ghosts from the past that could be resurrected.

"Would-you—ever-consider-teaching-me-once-more?" She almost gasped as the words tumbled from her mouth in one breath, too late to be taken back. Her eyes clouded with fear as his hand jerked back from her neck, as though he were burned, his face remaining impassive and closed to her. After a few agonizing moments he gave her a long, half-distant look, as though he were studying the shape of her face, and rose from the chair. He stood with his back to her, silently staring at the wall opposite, before turning his head slightly to gaze at the piano in the far corner. Christine watched on, fearfully wondering what he was thinking. She had thought this was what she had wanted, to bring to life something they had shared so long ago. She was afraid to speak and as the silence stretched on, she was filled with a painful, impossible desire for him to say something, anything, to give some sort of recognition, be it 'yes or 'no'.

"I don't know," Erik said after a long, long silence. There was no hardness in his voice, only a quietness that sent shivers down her spine.

She swallowed, "why?"

"_Why?"_ He echoed her words quietly and turned to face her, the infinite pain and sadness welling within his eyes startled her. "My music is my _soul_, Christine… and I gave you the pitiful remnants of my soul willingly once before, only to have it cruelly ripped away…" he turned away from her. "And still," he mused darkly, "and still you ask more."

A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. _Could he..? Dare he…?_

He watched apprehensively as she rose from the floor and walked calmly towards him, her mouth set in a grim line, yet her eyes warm and welcoming. The confidence of her words shocked him, as she reached out to place her palms against his face and the smooth contours of his mask. "Yes, I do still want more." She felt the passion ignite within her at Erik's apprehension and desperation, yet she pressed on, knowing this was something they must overcome… together. "I want all of you, Erik, not just pieces. I want your heart, your mind, your music… _and _your soul." She lightly traced a finger along the edge of his mask, feeling his heart beat madly beneath her. Laying a palm on his chest she drew his ear down to her lips, and murmured softly, "_all of you, Erik."_

She drew back to see the fire ignite within Erik's molten eyes, as the obsession he had harboured for her for so long clawed at his insides, desperately trying to break free. He inhaled sharply as Christine's hands found their way inside his jacket, encircling his waist as she pulled shyly at the cravat tied about his waist. As the flames licked higher within, Erik felt himself brought to the edge of pain and felt he could bear no more. As the dam broke he desperately captured her lips in a ferocious kiss, whispering hoarsely against her skin, "you will be the death of me, Christine."

Christine managed to free his shirt from its bounds, and felt Erik's hands travel the length of her wrists to her neck, slowly entangling within her trellises. His fingers gently tugged the white ribbon that restrained her haphazard locks, and ran his fingers through her dark curls, allowing her hair to spill about his face. The scent of lavender overwhelmed his senses, driving him over the edge and he moved his attentions to her neck, carefully lowering his mouth to the soft skin there. He felt her shiver in delight, or fear, he did not know. Christine pulled his lips back to hers, her entire body awash with emotion and overwhelming sensation; things she had never felt before. Erik felt extremely satisfied when he felt his angel moan softly into his mouth, and resumed kissing her as if he had waited a lifetime to do so, and could continue to do so for eternity.

"Erik," Christine pulled away to study his face; his eyes wild with desire for her. Her angel frowned in protest and lowered his head to recapture her lips, but she neatly dodged his advance. Laying a palm against his chest, she smirked lightly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You still have not answered my question."

Erik stared at her incredulously, baffled by her antics. "Christine…"

"It's a simple question, monsieur."

"But, I-"

She smoothed the tips of her fingers over his stomach and ribs, as her hands crept about beneath his shirt. His eyes rolled back and closed momentarily, before he sighed in defeat. He lowered his lips to her ear, "whatever you desire _mon ange…"_

Christine drew back and her lips gently enveloped his own in a sweet kiss, she whispered softly into his mouth, "that is one of two things…" The shock of her tauntingly light caress sent shivers through Erik's spine as he slowly deepened the kiss, feeling the heat of Christine's body sear through his thin shirt as he pressed her closer to him.

A sharp, short rapping unexpectedly sounded across and the room and moments later Madame Giry burst through the door. Her face was sternly arranged as her grey eyes quickly swept the room. She frowned excessively as she took in the sight of Christine enveloped in Erik's arms, one hand wound about his waist, the other clinging to the silk lapels of his jacket

"Madame Giry!" Christine yelped in shock, pulling out of Erik's grasp and attempting to straighten the creases in her dress awkwardly.

"Antoinette," Erik seethed at the incredibility of her timing, his irritation at the disturbance thinly veiled.

"I was told I could find you here, Erik. Christine, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Christine assured her, breathing deeply and attempting to straighten the fly-away mess of curls that was her hair. However, no amount of hair-straightening could conceal her red, slightly swollen lips and the unmistakable flush that spread across her face and down her neck.

"I did not kidnap her, if that is what you're thinking, Antoinette." Erik sneered, re-tying his cravat about his waist. Madame Giry glared steely at him and ignored him.

"Erik was very sick," Christine offered, grasping at a means of distracting her from the present situation, "I hope Monsieur Khan delivered my message."

Madame Giry nodded and Erik's fingers unconsciously wound their way about the puncture wounds on his left forearm. "I see," she murmured quietly, the disappointment in her voice unmistakable.

"There are worse things to come." Her demeanor changed swiftly from disapproval to concern. "There isn't much time. Erik, you have been discovered. Do not ask me how, for I know not how they came to discover your true identity, but the Parisian police have been alerted to your presence. You cannot stay here…"

Christine stifled a gasp. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. Erik rose to his full height. "Does anyone else know?"

"No, they came to the house looking for Christine first. I did not alert them to your whereabouts, but it shan't be long before they come here. You must leave."

"But where?" Christine felt her stomach tighten with fear and panic, "where can we go where they will not follow? We can't go back to France…"

Madame Giry gazed at Erik. He paused for a moment, dragging his hand through his dark hair as his mind worked furiously over every possible scenario. His eyes hardened in cold determination as he lifted his gaze to Madame Giry, and spoke with no warmth to his voice, "we must disappear."

"And go where?" The shrillness in Christine's voice could not be masked, as she felt the dream she had been carefully constructing around her and Erik, crumble to pieces at her feet. She felt the tears well in her eyes, "if we cannot stay in London, and we cannot return to France – where shall we go?"

"Do not worry, my dear, I will have everything arranged shortly." He donned his hat and his cloak, "stay here and out of sight. I will return shortly."

He spun on his heel and stalked towards the door, "Erik!" Christine flung herself into his arms, breathing heavily as Erik's hands hesitantly encircled her petite shoulders. He breathed in her scent and felt something wet brush against his cheek, she was crying.

"Shh, _mon ange,_" he brushed a gloved finger against her tear-streaked cheek as she stared up at him through watery eyes, silently begging for him not to go. She kissed his palm and held it to her face, wanting to impress every feature of his face, his eyes, his lips into her memory forever.

"Be careful," she whispered frightfully. A sad smile tugged at his lips as he nodded and bent down to give her a swift kiss, "I will." And then he was gone. And then there was silence, ever present silence. Christine felt her heart break a little.

XxXxXxX

Erik walked swiftly along the side of the dark alleyway, his cape billowing around his ankles from a sudden gust of wind. He slipped silently into the shadows, tilting his head slightly to listen for quiet footsteps, rustling leaves, anything that might betray another person's presence in the alleyway. He turned and beckoned to his companions, holding a lone finger to his lips to assure their silence.

Christine ducked around the corner and tucked her small frame into stone beside Erik, her heart was pounding heavily within her chest, and she shivered in spite of herself. The very air around them seemed alive and charged with energy, the thrill of fleeing raced through her body like an electric charge. She turned her gaze towards Erik; every muscle in his sharp face was contracted in a keen sense of heightened awareness. She suddenly found herself wondering if this was how he looked and felt when he stalked and killed people. She shivered at the thought, and pushed it as far from her mind as possible – disgusted with herself.

"Antoinette," Erik addressed the third member of their party, "the Persian will return to the Opera House. You must tell him what has transpired; he will know where to find us. I dare not tell you, it is better that you know as little as possible."

Christine grasped her hand in farewell, "Please tell Meg that she's always been my dearest friend, and that I'm sorry I couldn't say good-bye."

"Rest assured I'll tell her." She pulled Christine into a tight embrace, "oh _ma cherie_ we will miss you. Take care."

"Antoinette," Erik stepped towards her and placed a small wrapped bundle in her hand, "take this, for yourself and Meg."

Madame Giry gave a short half-smile, "just make sure nothing happens to her."

Erik and Madame Giry shared a brief moment of understanding, "We must go. I will take care of her, rest assured nothing else matters now."

The metallic trill of a sword unsheathing reverberated through the night air. Erik's head whipped around, "No, you're absolutely right…" a voice drawled from the opposite end of the alleyway, "nothing else does matter, does it… _Phantom?_"

XxXxXxX

The metallic click of loaded guns echoed through the darkness, and they knew they were surrounded. Erik hissed at his incompetence; he had let his guard down for one brief moment to walk into an ambush! He cursed beneath his breath, extending an arm to shield Christine behind himself as the faceless person stared out from the shadows, his entire being cloaked in darkness. He indicated to Christine as he stepped out of the shadows, his eyes a cold, icy shade of blue, "restrain her."

Christine's eyes widened in disbelief, "Raoul?"

Two officers attacked her from behind. Erik reacted with lightening-fast reflexes as quick as a cat, unsheathing his scabbard, the silver blade of which glinted menacingly in the moonlight. He deftly disabled one of the men with a clean slice of his sword, the man's body falling to the ground with a heavy _thud._ Christine gasped in fright as the keen edge of the blade quickly came to rest against the throat of her attacker. Erik breathed heavily, his eyes shining an iridescent yellow in the darkness of the alleyway. The man's eyes widened in fear. The irrepressible desire to kill seared hot within his veins, as his skeletal hand flexed expertly on the hilt of his weapon. The thrill of the kill seemed all too familiar to him. His eyes quickly flicked to Christine's, which were overwhelmed by fear. He faltered, fear _of_ him, or fear _for _him? He had murdered. _He had murdered before her eyes. _The cock of a rifle in the hands of a nearby officer reminded him, and for a split second he hesitated. Suddenly, a great force came down hard upon his back, sending him tumbling down hard onto the grimy cobblestones. He quickly turned himself around as the boot of his attacker collected him soundly in the face, the man's strong arms viciously coming down upon the hand that still held the scabbard.

Erik was dimly aware of Christine's screams of protest as she was quickly apprehended by two of the remaining officers. Erik snarled viciously as the fury within rose up inside of him, and with one powerful push, he managed to dislodge his attacker, a murderous gleam in his eyes. He then quickly pounced upon the man, effectively pinning him face-down beneath his weight, as his hand fumbled for the discarded scabbard. As his fingers found the silver hilt, the sharp tip of a sword dug into the crevice of Erik's throat, momentarily paralyzing him.

"No," Raoul shouted, as several officers rushed forward to detain Erik, Raoul's blade still keenly marking his prey, "this one is mine."

The man squirmed his way out from beneath Erik, as a cruel smirk donned his lips, "ahh… Monsieur Comte de Chagny…" Erik whispered without turning around, "It is an honour. I might have wondered when you would come crawling back…"

Raoul kicked him hard in the small of his back, sending him sprawling across the cobblestones. He skidding to a halt, and turned to face the boy he had cornered on the end of a death string merely two years ago. He was slightly taken back by the appearing. The once round, boyish face had lost its charm and appeal, now appearing hollowed and pale. His bright blue eyes had been diminished to a cool gray, and he no longer possessed the youthful golden locks that had aided in his boyish appearance; his hair was now slicked back, and a short trimmed moustache adorned his upper lip. Erik's eyes quickly flicked from Raoul to Christine and back again. The pure look of fear on her face told him all he needed to know. She was afraid of him.

"Phantom," Raoul spat, pointing the tip of his scabbard once more at Erik's chest.

"Come to arrest me, have you Monsieur?" Erik leered, his eyes flashing. "Turn me in to Scotland Yard perhaps?"

"Among other things," Raoul narrowed his eyes coldly, his voice calm and measured.

Erik's eyes quickly flicked around, taking in the gravity of the situation and sizing up his opponents. At least eight officers surrounded his party, two each restraining both Madame Giry and Christine.

"Yes… I am sure that I could answer many questions that have plagued them for years."

"Oh, I am in no doubt of that," Raoul conceded. "I rejoiced in the news of your death, Monsieur, yet something within me knew it was too good to be true. Christine could never _truly_ be free of you, and alas, I was right. I see you are very much _alive_-"

"-your powers of observation once again astound me…"

"-And now, who am I to deny to Parisian people the revenge the have so longed for upon the _infamous _Opera Ghost…" Raoul leered, the tip of his sword tracing the curve of Erik's neck.

Christine whimpered behind him, "please Raoul, please don't do this…"

Raoul turned of her, "my sweet Christine… does it pain you to see your 'beloved' angel crawl before you like a dog?!"

He released his grip on the Erik long enough to punch him soundly, his fist connecting so hard with the man's face that a stream of blood gushed from his nose. Erik grasped the mask, furiously pushing it firmly back into position, his breathing laboured as he fought through the blood and pain – having not yet fully recovered from the morphine overdose.

"If you hurt her," Erik coughed, his chest spasming in pain, "I _will_ kill you."

Raoul's eyes flared in barely suppressed rage, "how stupid do you think I am, Phantom…?! Unlike you, I would _never_ dream of hurting her." His fist collided with a sickening crack against the side of Erik's face. His temple exploded in pain as he heard Christine scream out in protest.

Tears were now streaming thickly down Christine's face, as she flinched with every blow Raoul delivered Erik. Tightening his grip on Erik's throat, he roughly kneed the man in the ribs, causing him to crumple in pain. Ordinarily Erik would have killed the boy where he stood, with little to no thought for his own safety. But with so many officers surrounding them, he could not take the chance of Christine, nor Madame Giry being caught in the cross-fire. It was a risk he would never take so long as he drew breath. Every breath would be Christine's… even his last.

"You thought you could take her from me again?" Raoul's fist collided with Erik's face once more. "You thought that I would never find out?" Blood was now gushing from Erik's face as Raoul kicked him fiercely. Grabbing a fistful of hair, Raoul yanked Erik's head back and sneered into his face, "you're not so tough now without you torture chamber or your lasso, are you?" He pushed Erik forward onto his knees, spitting on him as he kneeled before Christine.

"And you," he turned viciously on Madame Giry, "how long have you been helping him? How long have you been his accomplice?"

"Leave her out of this," Erik choked through the blood that was congealing in his throat.

Raoul smirked, "perhaps you should have thought of that before _you _got her involved, _phantom." _He turned back to Madame Giry, "Please, enlighten me… I really am intrigued."

"Raoul, please don't do this," Christine pleaded from behind her restraining officer.

"Quiet!"

"Monsieur de Chagny?" The officer restraining Christine spoke as she struggled to free herself, "we cannot stay here. We must take that… thing… back to the lock-up."

"No, I want this woman to be incarcerated as well - for aiding and abetting the kidnapping of my wife…"

"No Raoul, please!.. You can't do this to them!!"

"Watch me," he whispered dangerously, indicating for two officers to arrest Erik, "Take them away!"

"No!.. No!" Christine screamed as Raoul dragged her out of the alleyway towards the carriage, "Please Raoul, don't! I love him! I love him!... Erik!! Please don't do this, please…!"

"Oh, I am not the one doing this," Raoul whispered as he slammed the carriage door to stifle her screams. "My dear, _sweet_ Christine… _you _are."

**A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers for the last chapter;  
ktswaz, Evelyn Stone, LoveofOpera, draegon-fire, phantom-jedi1, Marieena, CatoftheOpera, Lady Wen. Luckii Jinx, mooneasterbunny, Friendofphantom, Ayesha, Lair Lover, Fumblepaws, and Free2bFroody. Cheers guys!**


	20. Chapter 19 part one

**A/N: Okay, hopefully it works this time, please tell me of any inconsistencies you find. Thanks.**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

**France. **

Christine de Chagny gazed hollowly out of the window of the moving carriage, refusing to meet the eye of her husband sitting opposite her. The sound of horses' hooves beat out her death march across the beaten track. The silence inside the carriage was stifling.

"Christine," Raoul murmured softly, reaching out to place a kind hand on his wife's arm.

Her eyes slowly moved down to look upon his hand touching her bare skin with revulsion. She quickly yanked her arm free from his grasp, as though she had been burned.

"Don't touch me," she seethed quietly through gritted teeth.

She had never felt so much animosity for any one person in her entire life. Raoul's actions in London had been inexcusable, cruel and heart-less. Whoever this man was before her, he resembled nothing of her husband.

She turned away from his look of shock, staring pointedly out the window of the carriage, as the familiar French country-side rolled slowly by. She felt hollow, silently praying that Erik was alright, and that they had not tortured, or worse, killed him.

Hot tears stung the back of her eyes, threatening to spill down her face and betray her weakness. She would not allow them to do so. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as she imagined Erik strung up like a rag-doll, filthy men goading and tormenting him, just one word resting upon his lips in a silent scream; _Christine..._

"Christine, look at me," Raoul pleaded. "I know you think what I did was irrational, but you'll see that it was for the bes... I did it for us..."

She shot him a filthy look, turning her steely eyes upon her husband. "There _is_ no _us_, Raoul," she spat each word with as much vehement anger that she could muster. "I don't even _know_ you anymore, monsieur."

He pulled his hand away from her, clenching it tightly as it rested on his knee. He felt his anger spring to life within him once more, like a beast that could not be contented. _She would soon see..._

"I _do_ love you, Christine... and you'll soon see that your _angel_ was nothing more... than a murderer..."

XxXxXxX

It was nearly nightfall when the carriage rumbled to a halt within the lush de Chagny estate. The weary driver descended the steps, as the household servants came to greet their master's return. Several stable-hands tended the horses, leading the tired animals away for some much-deserved rest and grooming.

Raoul slowly exited the carriage, and turned promptly to offer his hand to his wife. She stared coldly at his civil gesture and refused, pushing his arm out of the way as she descended onto the gravelly stones of the drive-way. Several whispers broke out amongst the servants at their Mistress' odd behaviour.

Christine noted the stiffness of Raoul's back, and the pink hue that crept up his neck and flourished across his face. She had embarrassed him. He nodded curtly to his steward, who promptly informed him of the business he had overlooked whilst on his travels. Christine eyed Lucian warily, fully aware of the man's sly nature and under-handed mannerism. Lucian sneered as he greeted his mistress after he _long _travels. She could not find the strength to muster a response. Soon afterwards, Raoul dismissed herself and the servants.

The servants showed her inside her room; she did not fight them, though thought this a rather dubious and unnecessary task for she knew perfectly well where her old room was. The layout of the de Chagny manor had not changed. It was still… _perfect_. She noted that the servants were careful not to leave her alone, undoubtedly by her husband's strict orders. Her anger and disappointment was piqued, when she realized Adele was no longer among the company, and her heart ached with sadness.

Christine quickly dismissed the new maid with a wave, declaring that she intended to bathe… in _privacy. _However, the moment the maid closed the door behind her, she heard the tell-tale _click_ of a lock, and knew she was a prisoner. She quickly crossed the length of the room and pulled fervently on the handle of the balcony doors. They rattled feebly, but refused her admittance. The windows, too, were bolted shut. Frustrated she let out a cry and fell to the bed, hot angry tears spilling over her eyelashes, washing away the grime that accumulated with travel.

She tucked her knees beneath her chin, rocking herself soundly as sob after treacherous sob racked her body. She was alone, all alone and nobody knew. Madame Giry and Erik were in prison and it was all her fault. How had she gotten herself and the ones she loved into such a tangled mess? _God deliver me… how could Raoul be so cruel?_

The light from a single lamp flickered low on the table next to her, bathing the room in orange light and casting odd shapes and shadows on the walls around her. Christine drew some small comfort from that lone candle, whose scent reminded her of her beloved angel. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and was caught suddenly by the vast array of colours that sparkled around her. It was then that she noticed that although she no longer wore her wedding band, the princess-cut diamond of her gaudy engagement ring still adorned her left hand. Disgusted with herself, her fingers clawed desperately at the metal, wrenching the ring from her finger she flung it across the room with all her might. The wretched object bounced off the wall and landed on the plush rug, staring up at her mockingly.

An overwhelming sense of grief flooded through her being, as she prayed silently to God, hoping that he would hear her desperate pleas. _Dear God in Heaven, deliver me from this hellish place. I no longer want to be here if it means losing him and hurting all of those I care for. I love him too greatly!_

She turned her grief-stricken eyes upon that lone candle once more, focusing on the little flame as it danced for her, its movements hypnotic and calming.

XxXxXxX

Erik groaned and shifted his bruised body on the cold stone floor. His muscles screamed in protest to the movement and he attempted to focus his eyes. Several dark, blurred lines came into focus. _How ironic, _Erik thought grimly, pushing himself up into a sitting position. _After all the things I have done in my life, I have ended up right where I started; in a cage. _

The guards had certainly not been kind to him, but at least they had allowed him to keep his mask. He stared around at the three bare walls and bars, wondering how long he had been unconscious. Icy fear gripped his heart as his thoughts immediately turned to what had become of Christine and Antoinette. If that _boy_ had done anything to harm Christine, he would _kill _him.

_Oh Christine…_ even now, as he huddled inside the dank cell he thought he could smell her sweet lavender scent wafting through the bars of his cage. He closed his eyes, trying to recall the feel of her skin on his, her sweet kisses, the taste of her… he growled in frustration as he felt the thread of memory slowly slip from his fingers, the overpowering stench of the prison impeding upon his thoughts. A distant memory floated to the surface of Erik's tortured mind; a young man stood enveloping a girl in his warm embrace atop a snowy rooftop. Their faces shone with happiness as they sang to one another, words of promise and love. Erik's heart ached painfully within his chest, the dread and betrayal seeping through his veins like poison. He shuddered, causing spasms of pain to rake across his chest, rendering him breathless. He wrenched his thoughts to the present, pulling himself out of the shroud of darkness that was his own despair, and pushed that one bitter memory to the dark recesses of his mind. Christine belonged to him, _loved_ him, he was sure of it. Honesty shone through her eyes every time she looked upon his face and reassured him of her love. But how could he reach her?

He must escape. He was a dead man, to be sure, if he remained here. They would most likely kill him in prison before he ever saw the inside of a court room – tried for his crimes as the Phantom. There was no question about it. His face had always made him a target for cruelty behind bars; people were afraid of things they did not know, did not understand. He had to prepare himself, both mentally and physically for the abuse he was to, undoubtedly, receive. They would try to break him and turn him into some kind of animal. To _them_ he would never, could never, be human. Oh, but how he would resist them. For the first time in his miserable existence he felt he had a future worth fighting for.

Christine.

XxXxXxX

The sound of a gentle tapping on her door filtered through the air. Christine did not trouble herself to look up as Raoul quietly slipped into the room, leaving the door open behind him.

"Christine," he murmured, hoping she would acknowledge him. She did not, but continued to twirl a small ribbon of black satin between her fingers, watching transfixed as the smooth material flowed over her pale skin. Raoul did not move as he watched her movements cautiously, afraid to startle her out her reverie. After several minutes he felt he could bear the stifling silence no longer, and cleared his throat.

"Lunch is served."

He took a deliberate step towards her, attempting to narrow the physical and emotional distance between them. "Are you hungry?"

She refused to look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the piece of material in her hands.

He glanced about the oddly cold room, his gaze coming to rest upon a shiny object the nestled innocently in the plush cream rug. He narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, retrieving the small object. It was his engagement ring.

"You have not eaten in days," he noted coldly.

Her brown eyes briefly flicked to his face, and then darted to the open door. He observed her actions with cold indifference and began to walk in evenly paced steps around the bed, coming to stand before the large windows which over-looked the immaculate lawns of the estate. Christine's body twitched as she watched his slow, deliberate actions, calculating the possibility of reaching the door before he did.

"You're not a prisoner here, you know," he noted at length with cool civility.

"No?"

"No. This is, after all, your home."

"Then why are there locks on the doors?"

"… Merely for you own protection…"

Christine felt she knew where this conversation was tending. Unwilling to hear her husband, she leapt from the bed to run to the open door.

"SIT DOWN!"

It wasn't a scream; more like a loud command. However, his authoritative voice, and anger involuntarily made Christine sit down upon the bed quicker, a scarlet hue creeping up her neck. Her body was still and trembling.

"Now," he spun on his heel to stare down at his wife. "Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, you _are_ my wife, Christine. You are the Comtess de Chagny, and as such, your actions hold consequences. _Heavy_ consequences, as I have no doubt you're aware."

Christine narrowed her eyes. "_What _consequences?"

"Word has reached me of your… _infidelity_ with that _thing_-"

Christine bet her lip, desperately trying to hold back the retort that threatened to escape her lips and anger him further.

"-as such, your actions have compromised our good family name. If word had gotten out-"

His words washed over her, meaningless sounds that only added to the raging cacophony of emotions that welled within her. A memory as clear as daylight burst forth from the dark recesses of her mind, dragging her back into the prison of her thoughts, her nightmares.

_She felt as though she were suffocating, a large hand clapped down over her mouth as the smell of cheap whiskey filled her nostrils; the stench was unbearable._

_"Ahh my pretty, why do you scream so? There's no-one here to save you…"_

_The shadowy figure leered over her, she couldn't see his face, but the smell... like death, and liquor... breathing heavily in her ear, as he pushed down on her, barely allowing her to breathe..._

_"...Christine...?"_

"...Christine!"

She shook her head, hot tears prickling at the back of eyes as the feeling of helplessness overwhelmed her. He had not been there to save her.

She stared up at him, her brown eyes swimming with tears. A metallic taste filled her mouth as she bit her lip. He looked down at her with bewilderment. The confrontation she had longed for aching within her very being.

"… what of _your_ infidelity, Raoul?"

She breathed shallowly, hot tears spilling over her eyelashes, tracking down her cheeks. "That night. I was all alone… and he… he nearly-" she choked on the word. "-he nearly _raped_ me… and _you_, you weren't there to save me…"

Raoul could not bear to look at her.

"You left me to the mercy of that animal!"

He felt the shame of his actions sear through his veins, feeling the pain of her words sting him as well as any physical blow. Oh how he had regretted his actions that night… how he had failed her. It was no small wonder why she then sought the comforting arms of her former teacher; the one man who had been with her through all.

He turned his startling blue eyes to look at her. There on the bed sat his wife, the one woman he had ever truly loved. Everything about her appearance made clear the turmoil she was going through, even the small trickle of blood at the corner of her lower lip.

Christine trembled as her mind conjured images of all the horrors her angel could be enduring. She needed him, and he needed her.

He knelt at her side, taking his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing at the tender skin.

"I'm fine," Christine whispered hollowly.

"Christine…"

"I said I'm fine!" She pushed his arm away from her.

He fell back on his knees; his cool eyes assessing his wife as she cried softly into her chemise.

Though he felt no regret or guilt for his actions as far as the Phantom was concerned, believing his imprisonment to be rightly justified, he could not help but feel the sting of rejection and betrayal course through him. Could he truly be shocked that now, after fate brought these two together once more, that their desires and emotions would still linger? The very thought of that monster's hands roaming his wife's body, eliciting pleasures from her that he had been denied so long made his blood boil with anger, festering within his chest like poison.

His hand clinched tightly about the handkerchief, crushing the fabric in his fists. The sound of Christine's crying still echoed in his ears, but all he could see was the image of that _murderer, _wrapped in the arms of his beloved as he possessed her body in ways that Raoul was never permitted to.

"Tell me Christine, and I want the truth from you… did you intend on leaving me for that… that murderer?"

She refused to look at him, her sobs sounding louder and harsher than ever.

He grabbed her by the arms. "Well… did you?!"

Her tear-stricken face peered out from between her raised wrists. Raoul's grip on her arms was fierce.

"Do you love that monster?" He shook her roughly. "Tell me, do you?!"

Christine nodded her head weakly. Raoul felt the bottom of his stomach drop away, his pain of her betrayal turning into a festering hatred.

"How _could_ you? How could love a man as vile, as he? He is a monster and a murderer! In case you have forgotten!!"

He flung her wrists from his grasp, as though he had been burned.

"What about Piangi?! What about Buquet?! You cannot tell me you're willing to accept their deaths?"

"You don't understand Raoul-"

"-oh I understand perfectly. He's manipulated you into believing that he is something other than the vile, dangerous monster that he is!"

Christine wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, her demeanor changing quickly to ice. "That _monster_ is the man I love."

She stared up at him coldly, her cheeks still shining where the tears had left silvery tracks in their wake. Her dark eyes burned with a sudden passion and sadness for the man she claimed to love. Raoul stared back at her through incredulous eyes.

"You just don't get it. I loved him long before I ever loved you. And no matter what you say, I will always love him. Nothing you do can, or will, ever change that."

His brilliant blue eyes narrowed slightly at her words, a look of immeasurable hurt flicking across his face as he stood and regarded his wife with cool, calculating eyes.

She turned away from him, and whispered sadly; her words ringing out through the air as though she had shouted, "he would never have left me alone that night."

Raoul swallowed hard as he fought to suppress the rage bubbling beneath his skin, boiling within the pit of his stomach and spreading to every fibre of his being. Her words rang in his ears; mind-numbingly torturous.

Turning swiftly on his heel, he stormed out without another word, slamming the door shut and locking her within its confines. He paused on the opposite side of the door, the miserable sobbing of his wife striking him at the heart. His hand tightened around the door handle; oh, how he wished he could be there to see the phantom writhe beneath his grasp, to free Christine from his lecherous vice. But he knew he must be patient, for if his plan had any hope of success, he would have to tread very carefully.

He stared down at the engagement ring clenched tightly in his fist; oh, how he wanted to destroy it! To squeeze the pliant metal between his fingers until he had flattened it into a worthless, meaningless trinket, unfit to grace any finger - least of all, his undeserving wife. It took a vast deal of willpower to swallow back the retort the choked his throat and walk away from the door, leaving his wretched wife to cry for her demon lover in solitude.

_He would get his revenge, rest assured._

XxXxXxX

"…why monsieur, you look as though you have seen a ghost."

Raoul paled as he looked upon the gruesome face of the Phantom. He had never seen the man in such a reduced state; his clothes were torn and bloodied, revealing several large gashes that tore into his skin. He smirked despite himself, feeling the sweet taste of vengeance flood through his being.

"Forgive me Monsieur Phantom," he whispered coldly, "I did not know you at first. Your face, you see – it really is quite monstrous."

Erik dismissed the Comte's pathetic attempt at intimidation, assuring the boy that he had had far more cutting words sent in his direction.

Raoul smiled broadly showing a row of perfect white teeth, "oh, I have no doubt of it."

Erik's wild yellow eyes suddenly stilled, becoming very grave. "What have you done with Christine?"

The Comte chose his words carefully, "She is safe… from you…"

Erik rose to his full height, towering over the Comte despite the bars separating them. "If you have hurt her-"

"-hurt her?!" Raoul's voice rose to counter Erik's deathly quiet tone. "I am not like you, phantom! I would rather _die_ than hurt Christine. She is _my _wife!"

An evil smirk crept across Erik's lips as he fixed his yellow eyes on the young man, "_your wife?_ But she does not _love_ you, monsieur…"

Raoul had been expecting this turn of tactic, the phantom wished to hurt him, but he would not give that monster the satisfaction of seeing him a broken man.

He leant towards the bars, his voice barely above a whisper. "We shall see monsieur. When I am through with you, there will be nothing _remaining_ for Christine to love."

Erik's eyes flamed a brighter yellow, the intensity of his gaze boring through Raoul's.

"Let's just say that you will finally make good on your name monsieur; 'The Living Corpse.' Though, dare I say we could reduce it to just 'corpse'?" He smirked and nodded to one of the guards who smiled darkly and brandished his club.

"Have a pleasant evening."

Erik clenched the bars tightly in his fist and grimaced. _This is going to hurt._

XxXxXxX

The sound of scuffling footsteps on stone roused Erik from his semi-conscious state. A new prisoner was being dragged down the passageway, the sound of his cries and protests pilfering the air and echoing off the stone walls.

He groaned, unable to muster the strength the raise his head. Two guards watched his closely from their station across the passage. Erik was accustomed to bars and cages; people leering at him from beyond the bounds of his confines. Their disgusted stares mattered little to him.

As his hazy state of mind lifted, Erik felt an acute pain in his left hand, as though his bones had been replaced with white-hot needles. He pulled himself up into a sitting position against his straw pallet, feeling gingerly the bones in his left hand. He winced as he identified several broken ones, and a few dislocated fingers. He bit down hard on the ragged material of his clothing as he attempted to reposition and straighten his fingers. The pain was unbearable, but necessary if he wished to ever be able to use the hand against. He was no stranger to pain after all, but it was still pain.

He listened to the quiet voices of the guards as they patrolled the corridor, occasionally clanging their batons against the metal bars of the cells. Erik's cat eyes slowly and deliberately followed the movements of the guards as they changed posts. He traced their footsteps with his eyes as he assessed their every movement, sizing up their body sizes, weight, weaknesses, and analyzing their patrol patterns.

He was left to the turmoil of his own thoughts for several hours, before a gravelly voice intruded upon his thoughts. He raised his head.

"Is this 'im?"

Two guards stopped before him, speaking in rapid French, and twirling their clubs between their fingers as they cast a critical eye upon their prisoner. Like a caged animal, Erik watched them vehemently, anticipating any sudden movements that they might make towards him.

"Indeed it is. 'e's the Comte's special case…"

_Is he now? _Erik grimaced.

One of the guard's spoke with a gravelly voice, turning to his smaller companion, his interest piqued. "I wonder what's under 'is mask?"

Erik froze. The smaller of the two guards leered down at him, his features arranged in a mixture of disgust and loathing.

"Dunno. Probably somethin' 'orrible…"

"I'd reckon. Still… let's 'ave a looksy."

The guard with the gruff voice reached down with his fleshy fingers to grope for the mask, and sate his sadistic pleasure. Erik reacted with lightning reflexes, ignoring the pain in his hand. He seized his arm and twisting the guard's hand so quickly and with so much force, that a sickening crack was heard as the man's wrist snapped clean in two. The guard shrieked in agony and fell to his knees. His companion roared with fury, kicking Erik aside as his club came down squarely across his back and shoulders, sending Erik sprawling to the ground. He spluttered as all the wind was knocked clean from his body, leaving him gasping for shuddery breaths, as blow after blow shattered down upon his back and chest. As he waited silently for the sickening crack which would render him unconscious. He was not disappointed.

When Erik awoke, he found his legs chained to the wall. And his mask… they had taken his mask. He rolled over in agony, the straw of his pallet crunching mercilessly against his bruised ribs; he had no doubt that several of them were cracked and broken. Gingerly pressing his fingers to his rib cage, he hissed as white hot pain seared throughout his entire body, making his shudder in an attempt to conceal his pain. A quiet moan escaped his swollen mouth, and he struggled to open his eyes.

The dark stone wall of his cell slowly came into focus as Erik attempted to raise himself. He stared angrily about him, watching as the prisoner opposite him shrank away in fear. He must have looked a truly gruesome sight.

"Why do you turn away, messieurs??" he hissed. "Why not feast your eyes upon the Devil Child! Many before have had to pay a hefty fee to see this face- and here I am giving you a showing for free!"

His tirade ceased only when a bout of coughs racked through his chest, rendering him breathless. He fell back against the straw pallet and stared up at the ceiling, wondering where Christine was and if she was safe.

A seed of doubt crept into the back of his mind, as he thought of Christine locked up with that _boy_ day in and day out. Would she forget about her poor Erik, chained in squalor, rotting in the bowels of a prison cell? _No!_ He still had hope, not all was lost. _Christine loves me… she loves me…_ He repeated the words over and over like a silent mantra long into the darkness, desperate to believe in their truth.

_Oh, Christine…_

XxXxXxX

"That monster!"

The brandy glass shattered against the wall. Raoul fell back with a growl, slumping in the armchair as he rubbed his weary eyes. _What had happened to his Christine? _He rubbed the wedding band marking his left hand unconsciously, letting his fingers roam the smooth surface of the metal. He had felt his heart tear in two when he saw Christine no longer wore her wedding ring. _She has denied me once more…_

She is my wife!

_Oh, but she was never yours… _A small voice in the back of his mind whispered scornfully.

I knew there was a reason why Christine did not return my letters… even she couldn't be that cruel. He's brainwashed her – turned her against me!

_Who are you fooling? She was already objecting to you long before she walked away from you._

I can't believe that…

_Why not? You and I both know that it is true... she won't even let you touch her..._

She's just... angry with me. She'll soon see.

_Will she? All those long, empty nights she spent alone she ached for him… thought only of him…_

No, she wouldn't...

_She does not love you…_

_  
_Then why did she choose me?! Why did she leave with me that night?!

_Did she willingly...? Did you not force her?_

No! I'd never... she - she was distraught, confused...!

_Because she realized she loved him!_

She couldn't! She's my wife!

_But she has already given herself to the beast… such a sin cannot be repented…_

Then I'll kill him! And it will be like it was... before the nightmare began...

_Do you really believe that?_

Yes, he protested weakly.

_But she loves him! SHE LOVES HIM!_

"No! It's not true!"

Raoul crumpled to the floor, raking a hand through his bedraggled hair as he shook with the silent sobs that racked his body. Those three simple words echoed endlessly through his mind, tormenting him in the most excruciating way. He sobbed hollowly, his fist clenched about the engagement ring digging circles in his palms.

"It can't be true…!"

He slammed his fist against the floor, angry tears spilling down his face as his heart filled with wretched despair and hatred. _Why must he love her so much??_

"She… my… Oh, Christine!"

XxXxXxX

Day turned to night and several hours passed as Christine sat in silence within her room, the events of the previous day leaving her emotionally drained and hoarse. She had screamed and pleading with Raoul to listen to reason, but to no avail. She was a prisoner. She was _his_ prisoner.

_How did it come to this? How have the tables turned so abruptly?_

She tugged gently at the long gold chain about her neck, bringing forth a secret that she dared not even reveal to Erik. From the midst of her bodice, a tarnished gold ring emerged. The plain surface dully reflecting the candle-light that danced in the lamp on night-stand.

_No!_ Her mind screamed frantically, _you cannot give up; you cannot give up on Erik!_ But what could she do? She was trapped within the room – Raoul had made sure of that, locking the door as he came and went.

Suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway.

"Christine!"

The door flung open and the walls quivered with rage, as Raoul stumbled into the room, his eyes bloodshot, emanating an air of drunken fury.

Christine rose warily from her vanity, tucking the golden ring back inside her bodice, and turned to face her husband. Her courage faltered at the gleaming look in his eyes.

She waited for him to speak, as he approached slowly. Barely contained rage quivered from every pore of his being as he took slow, deliberate steps towards her.

"It's time to stop playing games, Christine…"

Christine regarded him apprehensively, sensing his barely suppressed rage.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Her heart pounded wildly in fear and her voice trembled slightly, as she took in the wild look in his eyes.

He stepped around the bed menacingly, until he stood right before her. She stepped back, fully aware of their close proximity. A knowing, bitter smile broke the corners of his lips, enhancing his drunken, deranged look.

He paused and sniffed the air, drawing in the sweet smell of her lavender scent. "Do you have any idea what torture it is to have you here…"

He stepped towards her menacingly; every step he progressed towards her, met with another she took back. _Oh God, what was he going to do?_

"Do you have any idea… what it does to me… to have your little, _seductive_ voice… whisper in my head… all… day… long…" He said this through ragged breaths, the stench of the brandy overwhelmed Christine as she tried to distance herself from him.

Before she could suck in another frightened breath, he had her by the shoulders, backing her up until the impact of the wall stopped their progress. As he slammed her against the wall, she felt all the breath forced from her lungs, leaving her pinned. With his fingers digging into her delicate shoulders, Raoul leered down at her.

His lips came within centimeters of hers, and she almost gagged on the stench of his breath.

"Tell me, Christine…" He panted, pressing himself against her. "Tell me… that you… love me."

He pressed his lips roughly to hers, pushing past her teeth in his impatience to taste her. Anger, love, penned up desire and betrayal, all melted together in one brief, crushing kiss.

"You want me Christine…tell me you want me!" he growled.

She turned her face from him, whimpering.

"TELL ME!"

"No…!"

He unleashed a growl of fury, slamming her back into the wall with even more anger. Time and time again he was denied his marital right! No-one would question him if he took her to bed right now; no-one would ever think anything of it. _Dare he?_

Christine gasped when, in one fevered motion, her sleeve was wrenched from her shoulder. Raoul clapped a hand over her mouth, his lips instantly upon her milky soft skin.

"You're mine Christine," he whispered menacingly. Christine's breath hitched in terror. "You belong to me…," he paused, "but I wonder, if I took you right here, would you be thinking of your monster throughout the course of it?"

Christine freed her hand and lashed out at him with as much force and anger as she could muster. Her eyes widened, and then hardened as she stared as Raoul's face grew dark and even more furious. He cocked his head to the side, straining his neck while his eyes bored holes through hers. He seemed to retreat inside himself.

"You must know, Christine," he whispered dangerously at length, "that when you act foolishly there are consequences." He shook his head defiantly as he felt Christine quiver with fear, feeling the sting of her rejection and betrayal as acutely as ever.

With a growl of rage he flung her around, watching as she stumbled across the room and fell to the floor; her eyes wide like saucers with fear. She had never seen him so angry; the very air around him seemed charged with anger and generating waves of fury.

The stench of brandy wafted from his breath and he stalked towards her, "I would have done _anything _for you!"

He screamed the words desperately, feeling all the injustice and hatred of the man who claimed her heart bubble to the surface. He felt the rage boil through his veins, as he reached down for Christine, pulling her to her feet.

"I loved you more than anything, and you betrayed me for _him_!"

Terrified, Christine tried to pull from his grasp, but his grip upon her shoulders was too fierce.

"Raoul, please…!"

"You let that… _THING_… touch you!" He raged.

"No! I didn't! I swear!"

"LIAR!"

He drew back his hand and Christine clenched her eyes shut as she felt the sharp sting of his backhand collide with her cheek. She crumpled to the floor, tears leaking from her eyes as white lights sprang before her eyes.

He dragged her to her feet once more and slammed her against the wall, pinning her small frame beneath his as he bore down heavily upon her. Hot tears spilled down Christine's cheeks as he pressed himself against her, unable to fight back. Raoul's hands clenched her shoulders painfully, his thumbs digging into the crook of her neck as moaned despairingly, "I would have given you anything, Christine, anything!"

His face crumpled in grief, "but you left me! And you chose him!" he spat.

He released her, looking down at his hands as though he had been burned. Tears were now glistening on his cheeks. Christine's face was frozen in shock and fear as she watched him stagger back, a man drunk to the point of confusion.

"You left me Christine… you left me…" he murmured the words over and over again, shaking his head as tears trickled down his face. He raised his eyes to her face, and she gaped as the hurt and rage filled him, overpowering his senses.

Shaking his head, "I would have given my _soul_ to love you!"

"Yet you say you love him." He shook his head defiantly, her betrayal like a red-hot poker piercing his heart. Bitterness seeped into every syllable he spoke.

"Well now, my dear, _sweet_ Christine… if I cannot have you, then you too will know the torment of being denied!"

As he stalked from the room she heard the tell-tale _click_ which confirmed that she'd been locked within once more. She continued to stare at the door as she slowly slid down the wall; a horrible bruised and weeping mess.

* * *

**A/N: That is the end of part one, I hope you have the complete picture now. Thanks for reading. **


	21. Chapter 19 part two

**A/N: Installment number two, remember, please let me know of any faults you may find in the chapter. Thanks. **

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are stricty the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.

**Chapter nineteen - part two. **

The morning dawned clear and bright over the de Chagny estate; birds twittered from tree to tree, sharing the fruits of their explorations with their younglings. A gentle breeze swept across the lawn, ruffling the trees in a friendly greeting, the skittering sounds of the leaves feeding nature's music.

Yet all was still and lifeless within the manor.

Raoul had risen early from his study, his appearance unkempt and unshaven. He felt weary, his eyes were blood-shot and an acute headache raged within. Horrific scenes from the night before tormented his mind, as the alcohol-induced fog had slowly lifted from his brain. His reality was far worse than any nightmare. What he had done…

He swallowed the bile burning in the back of his throat, as hot tears of anger and regret prickled at the back of his eyes. _He'd struck her… he had struck Christine. He had almost _forced_ himself on her! _Raoul briefly caught his disheveled appearance in the passage-way mirror. _What kind of monster was he?_

With an animal-like fury he lashed out at his reflection, shattering the mirror and sending shards of glass scattering across the polished floor. _Oh God…!_

He stared down at the blood trickling from his knuckles, snaking down his fingers in crimson rivulets and disappearing into the folds of skin of his palm. _Christine…_ He glanced up at the foot of the staircase, willing to see his wife, to let her know how sorry he was for all that had transpired between them. His shame was overwhelming; how could he face her now, when he had become the very thing he had been fighting against all these years? He would easily forgive her infidelity with that _thing_ if it meant he could keep her with him for the rest of his days. If only she would forgive him, and all that he had done…

Turning his back on his wife, he pulled on a cloak haphazardly, shrugging his arms into the sleeves. With one brief glance back at the stairs, he swallowed his resolve and silently left the manor.

XxXxXxX

"Ah, Monsieur le Comte… to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Raoul fell silent as he approached Erik's cell, his eyes cold and wary. He knew this man was crafty, deceitful, opportunistic… in short he could not be trusted. He was not prepared for the sight that befell him. The view of Erik's bruised and deformed face made the young Comte retch, and he had to choke back the bile that rose violently within his throat as he looked upon his nemesis. He averted his gaze, the smallest flicker of guilt flitted through his heart. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

"Why do you turn away, Comte?" Erik hissed through bruised lips. "Do you not find my face interesting – to your liking?"

Raoul struggled internally to find the strength to lift his eyes to Erik's face, as his felt small threads of resolve slip from within his grasp. The memory of Christine cowering before him, the fear in her eyes, the things he had said… and worse, _done_ to her… He choked back the bile that rose at the thought of his behaviour.

Somehow he knew that Erik would be able to read the guilt written across his features, and he would suspect… and then what would he do? He had not found the courage to face Christine. _Would he ever? _He wasn't sure why he had returned to the prison, to see the man who taunted and tainted everything pure in his life. Was it his anger and remorse that had driven him to confront his wife's lover… or was it guilt….? At length he managed to compose his features and look on the phantom's face in its entire monstrosity.

Erik flung his arms wide, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs, as he smirked through gritted teeth. "Yes… my accommodation is _very_ comfortable, thank-you for enquiring. However," he cast a steely and sardonic look at the small guard, whose companion had not returned to the prison. "The hospitality could be better."

The Comte said nothing. Erik paused as he surveyed Raoul's oddly quiet countenance. "What? No hug?"

Raoul turned to the prison guard, "leave us," he commanded quietly.

Something in Raoul's air seemed troubled, and Erik surveyed the boy under his scrutinizing yellow gaze. Raoul felt the heat of his gaze burn his skin, refusing to meet his eye.

"Don't tell me…" Erik mocked softly, "that you feel… remorse?"

Raoul's eyes snapped to Erik's face. "Not for you," he said heatedly.

Erik stilled and narrowed his eyes, "No…?"

A deathly chill swept up Erik's spine as he saw the flickers of shame and guilt pass fleetingly through the young Comte's eyes. The guilt was not for him.

His voice grew grave and deep. "What have you done, de Chagny?"

"Nothing!"

Raoul cursed himself internally, instantly realizing his mistake in answering too hastily. Erik took a step towards him, the yellow orbs blazing in the darkness.

"Did you hurt her…?"

The wretchedness that entered the young man's eyes was enough of a confirmation for Erik. The boy lifted his gaze to his nemesis, guilt, fear, and remorse etched into every feature of his unshaven face. His eyes prickled with tears.

"What was it, Comte?" Erik spoke in a tone so soft and cold, like Death incarnate. "Did she _refuse_ you?"

Raoul paled and averted his gaze. Erik slammed his hand against the bars.

"Answer me!"

Silence.

"Did it kill you, Comte, to know that she no longer wants you?" Erik seethed, his voice quivering with barely suppressed rage.

Raoul continued to stare at the floor, choking back the tears of guilt and remorse that threatened to betray him.

"Tell me…" Erik gripped the bars so tightly that his knuckles shone white, his entire being trembled and pulsated with murderous fury. The bloodlust stirred within him, making his heart beat loudly within his chest as he imagined his death hands wrapped around the boy's treacherous neck.

"Tell me… how did it feel to see the woman you _claim_ to love, quiver before you in fear?"

A deranged gleam entered Erik's eyes as the boy refused to look at him, and he fought to keep his voice low and even, every syllable laced with hatred.

"Did you enjoy seeing the fear in her eyes, the tears streaking down her cheeks!?"

Raoul raised his furious eyes, "you should know! You haunted her dreams for _years_!" He spat the words vehemently.

Erik's unnerving yellow eyes did not relent staring into Raoul's as he took a step back from the bars, a smirk slowly creeping across his distorted features. The action only seemed to enhance his monstrosity as his eyes seemed to bore right through Raoul's, into his very soul.

"Then we are _both_ monsters, monsieur."

Raoul suddenly flung himself against the bars, his grip upon the cool metal so fierce his knuckles shone white. "I am not like you! I am _nothing_ like you!"

"No?" Erik whispered quietly.

"She…" desperation now emanated from Raoul's eyes and he clenched his fists around the bars, his gaze faltering. "She… she… she was _mine!_"

"Ah, there we have it…" Erik approached the bars slowly once more, bringing his distorted face mere centimeters from Raoul's. "The thing you lack the ability to comprehend; truth."

The Comte's head fell to his chest as waves of emotion crashed over him. A single tear leaked from the corner of his bright blue eye, and traced its way down his cheek.

"I… I didn't mean…" He choked on a sob. "Oh _God… forgive me…_"

Erik brought his hideous face within mere centimeters of the Comte's, this voice quivering with barely suppressed rage. "God does not repent

"No? Perhaps not now… but does it kill you to know that it was in the arms of her _angel_ that she sought comfort when she left you…?"

" …stop…"

"Oh, I bet it does…" Erik continued to speak in a deathly quiet tone. "I bet it tears you up to know that she'd rather be with a "hideous beast", like me, than with a _coward_ like you…"

"…stop!"

Erik's skeletal hand shot out as quick as a cobra through the metal bars, crushing Raoul's throat beneath his death-grip.

"You hurt what is MINE!" he roared.

Raoul struggled to breathe, his face turning an ugly shade of purple and his blue eyes bulged. A sadistic smirk twisted Erik's hideous visage as he leered down at the boy struggling in his grasp.

His white lips came within inches of the boy's ear, "and you will _die_ for harming her!"

Raoul's eyes widened, petrified.

A whip suddenly came slashing down through the air, drawing a bright red line across Erik's already severely scarred skin. Crimson blossomed across his back, staining his filthy clothes a darker shade of red. He hissed, but was unrelenting in his grip. Raoul felt the room start to darken as his lungs screamed in fury.

"_I said let 'im go_!"

The sounds of heavy footsteps echoed off the stone walls as a second and third guard raced towards the commotion. Raoul was beginning to go limp in Erik's skeletal grip. A single thought burned bright and clear in his mind;

_A soft hand cupped the marred flesh of his deformed face, softly stroking the ragged skin._

_"When will you let go of your hate, Erik?"_

_Erik's golden eyes hardened, and his muscles tensed despite her gentle ministrations._

_"When it has ceased feeding my desires. When it has ceased being the pillar of my survival…" Erik's molten eyes glowed with desperation, "when it has stopped nourishing me…"_

_Christine sighed sadly, her doe eyes disappearing behind her thick lashes._

_"Love can do that too…"_

Erik shot a look at the small guard who cocked a rifle aimed at his head. He felt Christine's sweet voice pull him back from the precipice that was his murderous insanity. The light was leaving the young Comte's eyes and the third guard brought his whip slicing through the air. Erik caught hold of it before it could remove any more of his flesh, and wrenched it free from the guard's grasp, throwing it aside.

"Oh no," he snarled, leaning menacingly towards the cage bars. "Christine was _never_ yours!" He threw Raoul from his murderous vice, and he toppled back, slumping to the floor as ragged breaths tore at his chest. He clawed desperately at his throat, fighting for breath.

Erik stepped back slowly from the bars, his golden eyes blazing furiously. "My voice binds her to me, monsieur. Her soul belongs to _me_! You can kill me, but she will be bound to me forever!"

He felt some of his rage subside as he watched on in satisfaction, as the turmoil and torment of his words crept through Raoul's mind.

"Well then… Monsieur," he rasped between breaths, each word tearing at his throat. "If it is your _voice_… which binds you… to Christine… then perhaps I shall… take it… from… you…."

XxXxXxX

**London.**

"Mademoiselle Giry?"

A young woman with golden blonde hair peered curiously around the door frame; her bright blue eyes stared quizzically up into a pair of equally startling jade ones.

"Oui, do I know you Monsieur?" She paused as she studied the dark-skinned man before her. Something about him seemed strangely familiar. "Wait… you've been here before."

The Persian dipped his hat in acknowledgement, his cool jade eyes shining from beneath the dark brim

"Indeed. I have come with grave news. May I enter?"

XxXxXxX

"_What?_ But how?" Meg's voice rose with shock as the Persian recounted all that transpired.

"In her attempt to help an old friend and mademoiselle Daae."

"Christine! Is she alright?" Patrick stepped behind Meg, placing his large hands anxiously atop her shoulders.

"I cannot be sure, monsieur. She was not apprehended with the others…" His eyes flicked to Meg's face, "she is with a certain Comte."

The image of several charred letters floated to the surface of Patrick's mind, and the memory of a young woman running terrified into his arms at a sea-side inn. He swallowed.

"Than her fate may be decidedly worse," he muttered darkly, his grip upon Meg's shoulders tightening painfully.

Meg turned to look at him, "Patrick?"

He averted his gaze guiltily from her face and stared at the Persian. "What can we do?"

"We must free them. The de Chagny boy has had them incarcerated in a Parisian prison. I do not yet know which one. But if we do not free them there is no doubt that Erik will be led to the gallows." He turned his grave eyes upon Meg's face, "and consequently as will your mother, along with him."

"No!"

"_Erik_?" Patrick narrowed his eyes, the name foreign to his ears.

"Yes Monsieur, a man as brilliant as he is dangerous." The Persian nodded gravely, "but a friend no less. He and Mademoiselle Daae are…"

A flicker of comprehension flitted across Patrick's face, as his eyes grew hard. "He's the Phantom, isn't he?"

"That is one among many names he has been known as, Monsieur. But contrary to that, he is a man. Nothing more, nothing less."

"_He_ is the reason my mamman is in prison!"

"_He_ has come to the aid of_ you_ and your mother many times before," the Persian interceded, "even if you have not known it. We must help them."

Patrick's eyes quickly darted quickly to Meg's panic-stricken face and back. "I have heard Christine speak of him… she loves his greatly."

The Persian nodded candidly. "They both do. Fiercely, like none I have ever seen before."

Patrick stared at him, weighing his options. Finally he answered gravely,"We'll do what we can."

XxXxXxX

**Paris.**

Christine heard the sound of footsteps approaching and assumed it to be Raoul. Remembering his frightening the night before, Christine felt her blood run cold as she pressed her back up against the bathroom wall opposite the door. The resonant _click_ of a lock sounded, as Raoul entered the room. A pale line of light flooded beneath the bathroom door as he lit a candle, his footsteps coming to a halt where Christine imagined her bedside to be.

The silence of the room was broken only by her shuddering breaths, and then the sound of a glass, smashing against the polished floorboards. Thousands of razor sharp shards fell to the floor, scattering in all directions.

A horrible animalistic and primal yell thundered throughout the room, and Christine had to clench her eyes and mouth shut in an attempt to keep from crying out.

Christine heard him run from the room, doors crashing open and close as he thundered about the house like a wild animal in his desperate search for her. Several cries of alarm could be heard from the servants' quarters as Raoul paid no heed to the racket he was making, as he stormed down the corridors.

Suddenly his footsteps approached the bathroom door. Christine stared intensely at the door, her bottom lip quivering as it stood as the last barricade to shield her from Raoul's fury. There was no-one here to save her now.

Christine watched in horror as the doorknob began to turn. Not yielding, Raoul began to jerk it, side to side in his attempt to gain admittance. The door then began to bang forward, and backward, but still it did not yield.

"Christine!" he screamed hysterically, his fists banging hard upon the door. Christine froze in fear, afraid of his alcohol-induced temper. "Christine!"

Christine's eyes prickled with tears as fear clenched her heart in an icy grip, numbing her thoughts. Raoul continued to pummel the door with his fists, his shouts becoming more desperate and increasingly louder. Christine could hear the panicked shouts of the servants, as they wondered what could be making such a raucous.

As Christine sobbed, he continued to bang on the door, each thump progressively louder, screaming her name over and over. Cold fear spread to every inch of her body, making her shiver as she listened to the desperation and anger in his voice resonate around her.

"Christine!" Raoul bellowed. "No!"

She searched about frantically for anything to defend herself with, should Raoul succeed in breaking down the door. Nothing. There was nothing. Panicking, she glanced up at the small window through which ghostly streams of moonlight filtered, sizing up whether she could fit her small frame through it. She concluded she could. Stepping carefully up onto the rim of the ornate bathtub, she searched for a means of opening the window. There were no latches, nor hinges. She would have to break through.

Just as she stepped down and seized the candelabra from the vanity the sound of fists banging on the door halted. Christine hefted the candelabra in a defence position, ready to strike at whoever came through the door. However, the sound only ceased momentarily before a larger sound blared through. He was throwing his body onto the door. He was going to break it down!

_Oh, God! _Christine thought frantically as she climbed atop the bathtub and began breaking out the panes of glass in the window. She timed each strike of the candelabra with each thud from the door, so that Raoul would not suspect her escape. Finally she smashed the remaining glass, and using all her strength, hoisted herself up through the hole. She cried out as a stray shard of glass snagged the skin of her arm, drawing a deep red gash across her pale skin.

Groaning from her efforts, she hung by her fingertips from the window sill on the opposite side of the wall, her feet scrabbling for any form of edging. There was none. An overwhelming sense of panic gripped her as the blood trickled down her arm, falling in droplets to the ground two storeys below.

Glancing frantically around, she noted the balconies on either side of her, wondering whether she could swing herself onto the balcony of the adjoining bedroom. Her grip on the window sill was lessening as her weight bore down hard on her limbs. She tried desperate to swing her body to the side, hoping desperately to latch a foot around the balcony railings.

_One… two… three…! _She managed to hook her foot on the railings and steadily pulled her other foot across, so that her body bridged the gap. Carefully she stretched her hand to grab the pipe running down the length of the balcony, and pulled herself to safety. Breathing heavily, she pushed the sweaty hair from her eyes, fear still pulsing quickly through her veins.

On this part of the house, a large ivy-like tree grew closely up and around the building. And it was close enough to reach.

Christine pulled herself over the balcony railings, her skirt snagging on the metal and proving cumbersome. She wrenched the material free, tearing a jagged rip across the hem. That was the least of her worries. The sounds of Raoul's efforts to gain access to her still pilfered the air, as several lights burned brightly from the servants quarters. She silently prayed that no-one had seen her escape.

As she struggled to find a path down the tree she heard the lock burst out, and the door swing open violently. Deciding she would risk the fall, she jumped from her position in the tree nearly a storey above ground level, and fell with a thud. Pain shot up through her legs at the moment of contact and she staggered forward, willing her screaming muscles into action. Her body shivered in fear as she ran through the grounds, listening as the sound of Raoul screaming her name carried across the night air.

Only one thought kept her going as her tired and aching muscles screamed in exhaustion; _Erik._

**A/N: Phew. Please drop me a line to let me know what you think; this was a hard chapter to get out… lots of Erik next chapter!**


	22. Chapter 20

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the long delay! I have been exceptioanlly busy with my year 12 exam period, and I had a pretty heavy workload, (Japanese, English, Further maths 1, Further Maths 2, Maths Methods 1, Maths Methods 2, Physics, Chemistry and Japanese - 9 in total!) I'm exhausted, but elated to be finished! So, to celebrate I present you with the next installment, and assure you the next one is well on the way! **

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.  
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**Chapter Twenty**

_Two months later_

"I have found him."

Patrick and Meg turned to stare at the Persian, as he closed the door with an ominous thud.

Patrick removed his hand from within Meg's, gripping the arm of his chair apprehensively. The sound of Nadir's boots thudded quietly across the scuffed wooden floor boards, his demeanor dark and foreboding. He reached within his jacket pocket and retrieved an old faded photograph and a slip of parchment, and threw them upon the countertop.

Patrick stared at the photograph, his mouth tracing the words printed neatly upon the parchment, his eyes widened first with shock, which was quickly chased away by horror.

"What – there? No, you can't be serious."

His voice wavered as he continued to stare at the photograph, unaware of the Persian's jade eyes gazing shrewdly at him.

"We cannot possibly! What are we going to do?"

Nadir's eyes flicked briefly to Meg, cold bewilderment etched cleanly into every contour of her pale face.

"I think I may have a plan."

XxXxXxX

_Two months previous_

Adrenaline coursed through Christine's veins and her heart hammered wildly beneath the thin material of her chemise. Blood ran steadily from the gash across her arm, trickling in crimson rivulets that flowed down her arm and fell from the tips of her delicate fingers. Ragged breaths tore at her lungs, and yet she urged her body through the pain; one pure, clear thought giving purpose to every breath, every stride.

_Hold on Erik… please… just hold on… _

Fleeing across the lush de Chagny grounds, Christine had quickly plunged herself into the deep forest bordering the Eastern-side of the estate. Barely conscious of the presence of the dirt road that wound through the forest, she blindly dodged trees and fought through the thick bramble that threatened to slow her progress at every turn. 

Except for the crunching sound of dead leaves beneath her feet, the forest was deathly silent. The darkness crept up around Christine, suffocating her presence as she battled her way through the dense forest, vines and thick bramble snagging the pale flesh of her arms, and tearing jagged lines across her milky skin. Fighting through the pain, she ignored the steady flow of blood that seeped from her wounds, staining her dress and leaving crimson droplets in her wake.

Christine could feel her muscles starting to wane, as her lack of energy and general sense of hopelessness shrouded her sheer determination. Suddenly the hairs along the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, and fear washed through every fibre of her being. _Somebody was here… in the forest with her!_ Blindly she turned to flee the sound of a creaking branch, unable to see the shadowy figure leap from his mount atop a regal black stallion. She did not travel far, however, before a grimy hand shot out to entangle her. She screamed shrilly, but the sound was stifled as a set of thick fingers snaked their way about her mouth. Nearly cutting off all breath, Christine forced herself to calm down enough to survive. Her nostrils flared, taking in precious oxygen frantically. Her assailant was going to kill her!

Christine was dragged harshly across the darkness of the forest floor, dead leaves and twigs ensnaring haphazardly within her flaxen locks, and found herself shoved against the trunk of a tree. She grunted at the impact, as all the air was knocked brutally from her lungs. Suddenly she found herself free from the hands of her captor, and instinctively she turned to flee. Rough hands found her throat again, however, and shoved her once more into the tree trunk. She could feel her flesh bruising beneath this attack, and attempted to stifle her cries of pain. The man lifted her until her toes barely brushed the ground. Helplessly she clawed at the hands about her throat, darkness beginning to cloud her vision.

"Victor!" a man's harsh voice barked, "that is enough!!"

Just as she thought she would slip into unconsciousness, the hold released. Christine crumpled into a pile, only able to see the faint outline of the man's feet as she gasped for air – bloodied fingers stroking her own injured throat as if they could open up the air passages even more. Unprepared for the blow that would follow, Christine could not help but scream as the toe of those boots crushed her ribs with a brutal kick. She was tossed onto her back by the momentum, and found she could scarcely move against the pain that exploded within her mind. The resounding click of a revolver barely registered in her mind, and she faintly believed the bullet was intended for her.

"Victor, God damn it! I said let the girl go!"

Christine grimly saw the assailant's boot move away from her face, and the outline of man with a revolver to his face through her blurred and darkened vision.

"The Comte will have your head for what you have just done to his wife!"

"After all the trouble that worthless whore has caused us? I would be doing the Comte a favour-"

"-that is _not _your place to decide!" the second voice hissed angrily.

The assailant chuckled darkly. "Put that revolver away, Oscar, we both know you're far from being a big enough man to use it." He crouched down beside Christine's limp body and grasped her face roughly. Turning it toward himself, he began to laugh.

"What is it about you, Comtesse, that has my master's tongue wagging, hmm? What untold secret?" His hand roughly grazed the inside of her thigh.

"No, no." she whimpered, again attempting to free herself from his hold.

"Victor!" Oscar barked again, "I will _kill_ you where you stand if you don't step away from the girl!"

Victor glanced briefly over his shoulder at the revolver pointed squarely at his forehead, before returning his gaze to Christine's limp face. "Pity," he whispered darkly, removing his large hand from her thigh, and standing to his full height.

Oscar glared as Victor strode over to his horse and hoisted himself up into the saddle. "If you think you can handle her, Oscar, be my guest! But watch out – she's a feisty one!" And with one last mirthless laugh, Victor rode off into the darkness; the underbrush of the forest crackling in his wake.

Oscar shook his head sadly and approached the young woman slowly, afraid of startling her. Seeing her in no fit state to fight back, he gently scooped her slight form into his strong arms and carried her over to his brown mare. Setting the girl as securely as he could within the saddle, he hoisted himself up behind her, tucking one hand about her waist while the other clasped the reins. Kicking the horse into a slow walk, he guided the young Comtesse out of the forest, her head lulling against her chest as she slipped into unconsciousness.

XxXxXxX

The warmth of summer sunlight replenished the colour in Christine's cheeks; she opened her eyes wearily to the bright sunlit warmth of her bedroom. The first thing she noticed was that she had been bathed and her clothing changed. She looked up to see Raoul standing across the room from her, gazing out the large paneled windows, his back turned pointedly towards her. Christine felt her fear return, its icy grip around her heart relentless as it constricted even more, sending slivers of pain shooting through her body. Terrified, she quickly sat up, curling in upon herself, and drew her coverlet protectively around her small frame. She felt a throb of pain in her neck and ribs. The memory of what had almost happened struck her and she shuddered, a silent tear slipping from beneath her lashes and trickling down her bruised cheek.

Raoul made no conscious reaction to her movement, but continued to stare ominously out the window; she had never seen him so withdrawn before.

It was a long time before either of them spoke, but when Raoul finally did, it was with a cold finality that numbed Christine to the core.

"It was foolish of you to try and escape me, Christine." He turned to face her, his cold gaze flaring briefly with some unnamed emotion. "Now your masked lover will pay for your disobedience."

"Erik?" Christine cried weakly, "no, Raoul…. Please, you cannot hurt him! Raoul – please!"

He turned viciously upon her, his face screwed up in anger, frustration and hatred. Each emotion simultaneously chased their way across his face, and his cold grey eyes narrowed into mere slits.

"Perhaps you should have considered the worth of his life, before you acted so foolishly!"

Raoul stooped to retrieve his coat from the settee at the foot of her bed. Twirling his silk cravat idly, he spoke absently – more to himself, than Christine.

"I cannot be held accountable for my actions…"

Christine was suddenly filled with the strength of panic and, immediately reanimated, she threw herself from the bed and fell in a tattered heap at her husband's feet.

"No! Raoul, no! You won't hurt him! You can't!"

He felt as cold as ice as he stared down at his philandering wife, openly pleading for the life of her monstrous lover. He did not let her shift an inch.

"Oh, but I can. So very easily, and with _so_ much pleasure."

She stopped moving again and looked up at him with a new sense of abhorrence that made her feel she could coldly hate him for all eternity being so cruel.

"I truly despise you!"

With a sudden ferocity Raoul grasped Christine's wrists in a Death-like grip, pulling her harshly to her feet so that he could stare coldly, albeit heatedly into her eyes. His gaze stung and burned her flesh, and she felt them ravish her body with a savage mixture of love, hate, rejection and betrayal. His grip upon her freshly bandaged arms was so severe, that he tore open the healing wounds; crimson flowers blossoming over the clean white bandages.

"You do not know the meaning of the word!"

Not letting go of her wrists, he slid his other hand down from her face to her neck, and cold fingers gripped around her throat.

If it was possible, her eyes went even wider. She struggled against his furious grip then with all the energy she had left, as if for her life, and started to sob in pounding terror, gasping for breath amid choking tears.

Raoul ignored her crying and pressed the two hands he held to his chest over his heart, while leaning down more closely over her. "Love? Hatred? What would you know of these things? All you can conceive is treachery and betrayal!"

He released her then and she fell in a wretched heap once more at his feet. Her hands clawed feverishly at his coat, as desperation flooded every pore of her being. _Oh God! Erik!_

Unmoved by her pathetic display, the Comte yanked the fine material of his coat from within her iron grip and sneered down at her.

"Raoul – please!" she whimpered quietly.

Not caring to watch her disgusting display of betrayal and deception any longer, Raoul stormed towards the door, savagely yanking it open and slamming it behind him with such force the house seemed to shake to its foundations.

Christine stumbled over to the door, her pale hands flailing against the unrelenting wood. She fought against it, twisting and pulling madly to try and free herself from the confines of her prison. All coherent thoughts had left her mind as she panicked and cried frantically, "No, no!"

Raoul sighed heavily, his heart twisting in upon itself as hatred began to spawn where love had once flourished. His bare hands pressed softly against the mahogany of the bedroom door, as he heard Christine's heart-wrenching sobs echo throughout the hallway. He swiped his hand angrily across the cold surface.

He turned furiously to guard stationed slightly to his right. "You, Victor!"

Victor was a burly man of six foot. Dark, unkempt hair fell slightly into his black, soulless eyes, shrouding his gaze in shadow. He was one of Raoul's henchmen; needlessly vicious at times, but effective in ascertaining information from unwilling clients.

"If you ever lay a hand on my wife again… if you so much as _look_ at her the wrong way, I will know. And then you will pay dearly… with _more_ than just your life!"

Victor eyed the young Comte through his darkened gaze, a sadistic smirk tugging at the corner of his misshapen mouth.

"Yes sir."

XxXxXxX

_Two months later_

Meg sat before Nadir and Patrick, her heart fluttering wildly beneath the thin chemise of her ragged undergarments. She fingered the tattered material nervously, the beginning of a light perspiration trickling down her back. She stared apprehensively at the Persian, who held her steady gaze with his bold, green eyes.

"You are a very brave woman, mademoiselle Giry. Your mother would be very proud of you."

Meg nodded slowly, swallowing the lump that formed in the back of her throat. They had rehearsed their plan until every detail had been analysed, again and again. She knew the part she was to play, the words she had to say, the subtle movements of her body which would expose the physical weakness of her male counterparts. It was the one bargaining chip they had, and she could not afford to back down now.

Yet despite all their preparation, Meg felt as through she were walking into this situation blind, not knowing what her next step would be once she was inside.

The carriage rolled slowly to a stop, and Meg felt the bottom of her stomach give way, her heart hammering so loudly within her breast that she was sure the two men opposite her could hear her fear.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Meg?" Patrick asked her, his voice tinged with doubt and concern. Meg barely heard him, as her mind and eyes were desperately trying to process her surroundings.

"Meg?" he enquired again.

Meg shook herself mentally, before grasping Patrick's hand reassuringly.

"Yes… I will be fine. Don't worry about me." She responded with as much confidence as she could muster, although barely convincing through a small, trembling voice. _Why had she agreed to do this?! _Patrick and Nadir descended the carriage steps, and Patrick held out his hand to help Meg out of the carriage. She grasped his hand tighter than was necessary, and he felt the tension and apprehension in her fingers.

"Meg," he whispered, drawing the frightened girl closer to his body. She rested her forehead against his strong chest, desperately trying to quell her erratic breathing. Patrick looked quickly at Nadir, who, seeing the need for the young couple's privacy, turned and walked a few feet away.

"Meg," Patrick called again, placing two large fingers beneath her small chin and raising her soft blue eyes to meet his cool green ones. "Are you sure you're alright? You don't have to do this, you know… I'm sure there's another way…"

"No." Meg shook her head harshly, "there is no other way – you and Nadir said it yourself! No. I have to do this. I _want_ to do this… for mamma and Christine…."

Patrick nodded slowly, then suddenly consumed by an overwhelming appreciation for the remarkable girl before him, swooped down to claim her lips in a soft, reverberating kiss. Meg gasped in surprise, slowly melting into the soft feeling of his lips moving against hers. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer in her need to feel him, and his reassuring presence.

Slowly they broke apart, and stared at each other, wonderment filling their eyes. The corners of Patrick's mouth twitched upwards in a small smile as he gazed at the remarkable young woman before him. Meg smiled.

"Be careful," he whispered as he mournfully untangled his arms from around Meg's waist.

She pressed a faint kiss against his unshaven cheek, "don't worry. I will."

He turned back to Nadir, "It's time."

Meg parted from the company of the two men, stepping out onto the dimly-lit street and following the turn of the cobblestone path as it wound around a decrepit building and snaked its way down an alleyway. As she turned a corner and the alleyway widened out, Meg suddenly found herself confronted by a sinister stone building, shrouded in darkness and shadow.

The structure had no windows, only small openings covered in heavy cast-iron bars. Meg's nose and eyes burned from the painful stench and sulfur fumes which rose from the ground. The sounds emitted from the large building were deafening as well as frightening – screams and moans; hysterical laughter; cries of pain. Never in her life in the Corps de Ballet had Meg ever witnessed such a daunting sight.

It was now completely dark except for the scattered lanterns set high above the cobblestone streets. A pale moon floated softly overhead, occasionally concealed by wispy clouds that offered no rain. There were homeless people huddled in the alleyway, their shallow breath rasping through the night air and adding to the ominous atmosphere. Prostitutes lined the streets here, in this poorest and most underhanded part of Paris, waiting desperately in shabby bustiers and cheap, gaudy jewelry for business with any customer who paid. Meg shuddered at the thought that she, too, was pretending, even though through disguise, to be one of them.

She fingered the ragged material of her skirt apprehensively. Nadir had produced the best substitute for a prostitute's attire he could manage. Meg now stepped nervously towards the asylum's gates, clad in nothing but a revealing burgundy corset, tattered lace undergarments, stockings, a frayed skirt, and paper-thin wrap. The wrap was not necessary, really, considering the humidity of the warm summer night, yet she clung to it desperately. The other prostitutes exchanged confused glances and whispers as they watched Meg walk past them and to the large cast-iron gate that encircled the asylum. Their sunken eyes traced her footsteps, confusion and bewilderment marking their features.

Before Meg had a chance to change her mind and flee before she was noticed, a young, smirking guard opened the large entrance doors only a dozen feet in front of her. She clutched the bars in frozen anticipation as he sauntered over to where she stood. All the lines she had rehearsed with Nadir seemed to remain trapped within her throat, although her mouth was open, desperately trying to speak. After noticing that the man approaching her was hungrily drinking in every inch of her nimble dancer's body with his filthy gaze, she casually made an effort to cover herself with the scant wrap. At the moment Meg finally began to say something, the tall guard had already reached the gate to unlock it, speaking to her first.

"I bid you welcome, _mademoiselle_." He emphasized with a mocking bow. His face displayed a pleased smirk, as if he had been expecting her. When he began to open the heavy gate, she pulled it shut towards her with both hands. It felt safer that way. Although the man was taken aback, he didn't remove his stare that bore into her.

"Wait - I have come…I have been paid to…" She stammered. "What I mean to say is that I have been paid to conduct…business here - with one of your inmates. The dues have already been p-paid by a very important and…_wealthy_ patron of this establishment."

"Oh yes?" The guard replied with the same cynical smile. "And who might this _wealthy patron_ be, hmm?"

Meg lifted her chin a little higher. "The Comte de Chagny."

The young guard's smirk faltered. He leaned closer to Meg, his eyes narrowed and his gaze bore into her.

"The Comte de Chagny, eh?" He stepped away, thoughtfully stroking his cleaved chin. "Very well – I wouldn't want to keep your… _business_ waiting. This way."

With tense limbs, she walked past the guard with as much distance and speed as possible. Through the vestibule he silently followed her, and Meg could swear she could feel his eyes upon her, searing her bare skin with his lustful gaze. Surely enough, he brusquely placed a large hand strategically below the small of her back, then traveled down lower. Meg's entire body tensed at the uncouth touch, but she did not want to stop moving, her fear clamping an icy hand painfully around her heart. An overpowering, foul stench almost caused Meg to step backwards as she stepped into the entrance of the asylum.

XxXxXxX

Meg's slender throat rippled as she swallowed hard. She watched as the first guard walked over to another older, more disheveled looking one just exiting a cell who eyed her intriguingly as the man whispered into his ear. He nodded slowly as a dark smirk crept across his lips and then waved the younger man away.

"So… my friend tells me the Comte de Chagny has sent you into our midst… a wee little lamb for the slaughter." He approached her slowly, every step careful and measured. "Mmm, forgive the terrible cliché, _mademoiselle_…"

As he neared her soft, supple body, he felt a heat spread throughout his limbs, as his imagination soared over what was concealed within that scantily clad body. Being a guard in Paris' most dark and dangerous asylum did not lend itself well to the attentions of female relations. _How long had it been since he…?_

The guard now stood mere inches from Meg, the rosewater scent from her hair wafting enticingly towards him. He breathed deeply, sending the hair along the back of Meg's neck on end - prickling uncomfortably. She shuddered and stepped away from the man, disgusted by his close proximity and what appeared a general abundance of uncouth behaviour that seemed prevalent amongst the guards.

With as much bravery as she could possibly muster, she spoke directly into his repulsive face. "The Comte de Chagny sent me, monsieur, just today. He has paid me handsomely already, and in exchange I am to see the man he conceals here."

Their eyes seemed to remain locked on one another for hours; like two predators encircling each other, testing each other's weaknesses, waiting for an open opportunity to attack. The guard gazed at her shrewdly, while he secretly contemplated why his patron would do such a thing. _Another torture device, perhaps? The Comte is certainly a disturbed man; inflicting all manners of rigorous torture upon the beast. And yet the thing will not yield. Perhaps the weakness of the flesh will betray his humanity… and his humility. _

"Genius," he breathed darkly, his lips once more curving in a cruel smirk. 

He removed a metal flask from within his coat pocket and took a swig of the amber liquid the swilled within. His eyes squinted as he took another haphazard draft from the flask, liquid dribbling down his chin and unkempt mustache. Licking his lips to remove the few remaining droplets, he dropped the flask within his pocket once more.

"I suppose the Comte has his _reasons_ for everything." He took a few moments to think. "How else would you know of that deranged beast he hides here, had he not told you so?" He smiled darkly, his teeth a horrid shade of yellow; stained by cheap alcohol and cigarettes. "Come along, then. I will take you to him."

Meg cringed as the guard wrapped an arm callously over her shoulders to lead her to the stairway. She attempted to shrink away from his touch as the foul stench of his alcoholic breath blanched the air and slammed her senses, but he dragged her body closer to his. Upon approaching the beginning of the stairs, he quickly grabbed a lantern from the wall and held it in front to light the path. Meg's heart raced both from the unknown of what lay ahead and the tight grip that the man guiding her had on her arm. His cold fingers were clamped in a vice-like grip, numbing her arm from the lack of blood flow. It seemed the descent down the dark passageway of the asylum would be infinite. Meg's breathing became heavier and more erratic as the guard tugged her along, eager for her to keep to his pace. She clutched the slight wrap tighter about her shoulders, unwilling to betray their violent trembling. The guard looked back at her constantly with a sinister smile as he pulled her down deeper into the eerie darkness.

"How m-much further, monsieur?" Meg's trembling voice echoed off the cold stone walls.

The guard merely smirked at her. After what seemed like an eternity, the pair finally reached a long, narrow passageway. The dim light he held with his other hand illuminated only a few feet ahead of their steps. The cries and moans of violent and despairing inmates reverberated throughout her being, clawing miserably at her heart. _What kind of Godforsaken place was this? _

For a brief moment, Meg felt a heavy sense of relief as she finally saw a distant yet faint light ahead of her. The man's grip tensed on her arm with a greater intensity and urgency. Before the light became any clearer, Meg barely had a moment to gasp as a large, coarse hand clamped hard over her mouth. All cries for help were obstructed by his sweaty grip, as he swung her small body aggressively into the damp stone face of the wall. Her eyes widened with fear as the man pushed himself against her, resting his weight against her light frame in an effort to keep her immobile. 

"Oh, come now, pet. I only want to play." He hissed. "You act as though you have never even been in the presence of a man… in need." Her eyes widened with panic and fear at the beastly face that confronted her own so closely. He smiled darkly as one finger roughly caressed a pale cheek. His breathing was ragged and his voice filled with lust. Her entire figure was now trembling uncontrollably as her eyes flew down and then back up into his fixed stare. _He was going to rape her!_

Once her body finally unfroze, she struggled against his weight, pummeling his broad chest with her small fists. They had no effect on his heavy body, but her resistance served no purpose other than arousing him to greater heights.

"Feisty one, aren't you?" He whispered, roughly nipping and bruising the tender flesh of her exposed neck. "Your master should have taught you to behave more properly in the presence of a gentleman."

Freeing her mouth momentarily, she spat with as much abhorrence and animosity as her small body could muster, "You are no _gentleman_… swine!"

Clamping his hand once more across her mouth, her cries of disgust and fear were momentarily muted. Never before had he felt more stimulated than when violence fueled his passion. Meg tried desperately to turn her face away from him, but his hand clasped the sides of her cheeks tightly and still so he could kiss her full and brazenly on the lips. She almost gagged at the foul embrace, as her hands struck out at anything they could reach. The man released her lips briefly, trailing his tongue down her neck and bare chest.

"Oh, why do you fight me so, my sweet? Is this not like the attentions you have received in the past…?" His hands wandered slowly over her body, stopping to rest momentarily on her breasts that rose and fell with each quickened breath. She whimpered against his foul touch. "I'm sure if you relax… you might even _enjoy_ it."

"Besides, how can I be expected to waste _all_ of this perfection on some ghastly, worthless animal?" He tore eagerly at her bustier, "Don't you agree my dear?"

He kissed her roughly again, sucking on her lower lip while furtively burying his hand into the top of her corselette in search of something to satisfy his growing desire. He halted as a sudden thought sprang to mind.

"Unless… yes, of course! That would explain it!"

Meg's mind raced at an even greater pace with his words. Had she been discovered? Searching his face for explanation, she shook her head numbly in confusion, desperate to escape the fear that now consumed her.

"Yes!" The guard slammed his palm against the wall behind her, an evil smile alighting his face as dark thoughts encircled his mind. "Yes, it all makes sense now! Our clever little Comte would only send the best for our mutual friend, would he not?"

Meg's stomach grew tighter and tighter. "No… I-I do not understand." She blinked her eyes quickly, releasing pent-up tears down her cheeks.

"Do not toy with me, _coquette!_" His voice hissed harshly through clenched teeth. Meg cowered under his fiery gaze, a festering anger leaping into his eyes. "That explains your unwelcoming demeanor! You've never _had_ a master, have you?" He pushed her back harder against the wall, roughly pulling her golden mane back, reveling in her pleading cries mingled with sobs. "You are a virgin, are you not?"

Her eyes flew open in terror to look at his demon face consumed with lust and greed. _Oh, God! Help me! _Her body noticeably tensed even more.

"Ah, I see." The guard chuckled darkly. "That is all the answer I need. I'm sure the Comte wouldn't mind if I took a little something for myself. I have, after all, been a great deal of service to him in concealing the monster." Before he could lower himself upon her again, a strong voice rumbled throughout the dank passageway.

"That would not be wise, monsieur!"

Meg's heart skipped a beat and her breath faltered. _Could it be…? _

The Persian stepped forth from the shadows, his cold jade eyes blazing furiously in the darkness. 

The guard's head snapped around, but he maintained his crushing weight upon Meg's slight frame.

"Who are you? I have not seen you here before!"

The Persian narrowed his eyes, his large hands silently balling into fists as he saw the bruises blemishing across Meg's exposed neck. The crack of his knuckles echoed off the stone walls. "I am in the personal employ of the Comte de Chagny, and my business here is none of your concern-"

"-How did you get in here?"

"_Also_ none of your concern!" He leveled his green eyes on the filthy guard. "I suggest you take your hands off the girl monsieur. The Comte will not look kindly upon any _interference_ with her, I assure you. She was brought solely for the monster… untouched."

The guard swallowed heavily, his breathing ragged and uneven. Quelling the passionate fire that consumed his lower regions, he stepped reluctantly away from Meg, who cowered against the wall, her entire being shaking with suppressed terror.

"If he did not pay so handsomely, I'd have no heed for the Comte's _orders._" He returned his festering and lustful eyes upon Meg, devouring her flesh with his gaze. The guard chuckled darkly, "consider yourself fortunate, girl. Or not. That young Comte… he has a very sick mind."

The guard retreated into the shadows to retrieve his lantern from where it had fallen. The Persian quickly shot Meg a look, concern etched into his tanned and weathered face. "Are you okay?" He mouthed silently. She dragged a hand across her cheek, wiping the tears away and nodded mutely. The Persian's gaze hardened as he stared at the guard beckoning the young girl forward. He made to follow.

"Ah-ah. You cannot pass through, monsieur… I will take the girl alone."

"I think not." The Persian stepped towards the guard, boldly staring down at the slighter man with a menacing gaze. "I will come with you, to ensure the Comte's prize arrives as she ought."

The guard stared up at him, vehement anger blazing in his eyes. The Persian inclined his head slightly, "unless you wish to speak with the Comte himself. I have heard he has a filthy temper when disturbed."

"Fine," the guard conceded, "this way."

Nadir beckoned for Meg to follow him, allowing her to walk slightly to his left so that he could keep a close eye on her.

As they came around a corner in the dank stone passageway, Meg had to stifle a horrified gasp. The sight that befell her was a gruesome one indeed. She saw the muscle in Nadir's jaw clench painfully, and his eyes narrow in disgust.

Soft moonlight was filtering in through the high barred window, illuminating the form that sagged, with arms outstretched, and head hanging limply against his chest. His wrists were bound in shackles and chained to opposite ends of the small, bare cell; his ankles bound also with chains that cut into the skin like dull knives. Through the soft illumination of the moon light Meg and Nadir could see that the man wore only a pair of black raged trousers, and a once pristine-white shirt that was now completely shredded from his numerous beatings. Meg felt her lower lip tremble as she took in the battered and beaten visage of a man who had once made life at the Opera Populaire a living nightmare. She stared at this man, the Phantom, _Erik_….his clothing and skin stained with blood, his open wounds still festering and weeping, threatening infection.

"Allah above…" The Persian whispered, staring at his friend in horror.

Erik's dark hair hung limp about his face, covering it completely. The stout guard leered down at his prey, dragging his head up with his fist in his hair, but Erik refused to bite back. Smirking, the guard let his head drop to his chest again, slapping a rough hand against the non-disfigured side of his face.

"Behave yourself," he said gruffly, beckoning for Nadir to follow him.

Tears now welled heavily within Meg's eyes, yet none escaped. She was in too much of a state of shock and disbelief to even blink. _How could Christine's husband have been so cruel? How could _anyone_ be so cruel to another human being?_

She turned as she heard the guard slam the bar door closed behind her, watching and listening fearfully as the heavy thud of his booted feet faded into silence, taking her savior, Nadir, away with him. Assured that they were alone, Meg stepped hesitantly toward the grossly disfigured man.

Beneath the caked on grime; the dried blood and dirt, Meg could faintly make out the gross visage of the man who stood slumped before her. She had, of course, been exposed to his deformity before, but at a distance, and never as severe as he appeared now. Though shamed by her thoughts, Meg wondered internally what Christine ever saw in the man hung so piteously before her.

Erik stirred from his semi-unconscious state, aware of another's presence in the cell. His bloodied eyes cracked open, but refused to focus. The slender form of a female blurred before his vision. Just as Meg arrived only a few inches next to him, he shrank away from her. A low, guttural sound, that Meg mistook for a moan echoed throughout the cell. His shoulders shook slightly, as a cold mirthless laugh pierced the cool night air. Meg stared at him in shock, wondering whether the torture had robbed him of what little sanity he had possessed.

"You are wasting your time, mademoiselle." He paused for a moment to catch his breath, pain shooting through his body as his broken ribs tweaked painfully. "I do not know what the Comte paid you, but you do not want to be here. He is a very sick boy, you see, who takes pleasure in all things abhorrent. Tell him what you will, that I enjoyed the _pleasure_ of your services… but do not stand and openly gawp at my monstrosity. I do not want some common whore."

"Monsieur, I am not a common prostitute. I am Meg Giry."

If it were at all possible, Erik seemed to sink further still within his chained confines. He watched with morbid fascination as a crimson stream of blood slowly snaked it way down him arms, disappearing in the folds of his ragged shirt.

"Meg…" the same seemed foreign on his tongue. As though savouring the word, he stood in silence; the tension in the air threatening to suffocate the occupants. Slowly he cracked open one swollen and blood-encrusted eye to stare at the petite blonde girl dressed in rags befitting none other than a common street prostitute. And then he began to laugh.

"Why, if it isn't little mademoiselle Giry! Well, I can see I am descending more into my insanity!" Erik quipped thoughtfully, a dark chuckling reverberating throughout his ribcage, "Of all the people I never thought _you _would appear in my delusions… but for what reason I cannot think."

Meg stared at the madman uncertainly.

"Monsieur le Fantome, I assure you it is I who stands before you… in flesh and blood."

He continued to stare blankly at her, as though staring through her… her presence barely registering within the web of madness that had begun enveloping his thoughts.

Summoning all the courage that resonated within her small body, Meg slowly lifted one hand to gently push away the dark hair the concealed both his deformed and beautiful features. The moment his blood-encrusted eyes met with hers, all the life seemed to drain from his body. His eyes blazed, suddenly alight, as conscious awareness came rushing back to him.

_Mademoiselle Giry… Meg Giry… she is here! WHY is she HERE?!_

"Mademoiselle Giry – what are you doing HERE?!" Erik's ragged voice hissed through clenched teeth. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?"

"Shh, Erik. I am here with the Persian-"

"Nadir!"

"-we have come to free you."

"How did you find me?"

Meg hesitated, "I do not know, monsieur. It was the Persian… investigated, spoke to people. I'm not sure how he came upon you."

"There are too many prisons – how did he know I was even in France?"

"Monsieur… Erik. This is no prison…" She glanced hesitantly upon at his grossly disheveled and disfigured form. "You're in an asylum."

Erik drank in her words, too shocked to fully register their meaning. _The boy… the boy had him… COMMITTED?_

Erik's head snapped up. "Christine! Is she-?"

"We do not know. She is being detained at the de Chagny estate as we speak!"

Erik's feral eyes widened in shock, and his eyebrow arched in sarcasm and cynicism.

"And how do you suppose you'll free me? I am at present chained to the walls… unless you intend on taking them with us?"

"Don't be stupid."

Meg reached up into the pile of golden curls atop her hand, her nimble fingers plucking a long metal pin from within her tresses. Bending the tips slightly, she pushed the pin within the lock on Erik's shackles, her deft finger manipulating the internal mechanisms of the latch.

_I have to admit, the girl has guts. _The corner of Erik's mouth twitched upwards. "Where on earth did you learn to do that?"

Meg's eyes briefly flicked to his before returning to the lock. "You don't grow up in an Opera House, monsieur, without learning a few underhanded tricks."

Several seconds later, the first shackle yielded, freeing Erik's bleeding wrists.

XxXxXxX

_Two months later_

From the shadows he watched, intent green eyes noting the unusual activity taking place within the normally tranquil de Chagny estate. The first oddity came when an older looking gentleman, portly is stature, came rushing to the location carrying a physician's bag. He cautiously side-stepped the guards stationed at their post by the main entrance to the manor. The door had flung open in a haphazard manner, where the man was quickly ushered inside the foyer. Patrick's brow creased with confusion. _A physician?_

Nearly an hour went by… and nothing. No visible activity occurred within the manor, but the security surrounding the perimeter of the estate had been doubled. Patrick shifted uneasily from his position within the dense underbrush of the forest. Stocky men stood guard at every entrance, one some several feet from his position; polished metal revolvers hung sleekly at their waist sides.

Patrick shoved his gloved hands back into his pockets. His head fell back against the rough bark of the tree trunk, where it rocked back and forth in frustration. _This was an impossible mission – it was suicide!_ Something within him stirred, reminding him, _forcing_ him to think clearly.

Finally, the door opened once again, the physician mumbled some parting words to whoever was concealed within the shadows of the doorway, before going on his way. The shadowy figure in the doorway lingered, his eyes quickly glancing at the guard to his right, nodding slightly, before pushing the door closed.

Patrick thumped his head uncomfortably against the trunk once more. He turned back towards the estate, his eyes scanning the horizon as he selected his victim and traced his every movement with his intent gaze. He looked to the moon, gauging the time to be somewhere around eleven o'clock. He could not afford to stand by and wait any longer. It was time for action.

Patrick needed answers and the reassurance that Christine was alright.

* * *

**A/N: I'm dreadfully sorry about the long delay between updates, but now that I'm finished exams (and High School for that matter!) I have all summer to work on this phic. If there are people still reading this phic.. I'd love to hear from you. Thanks.**


	23. Chapter 21

**A/N: Dear readers, once again i am sorry for the long delay, but my internet has been down since the 11th of December, and has only just been fixed today. One good thing did come of this absence, and it is that I have now 2 chapter updates for you. And this is my longest yet. I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year - I know I am dying in this Australian heat; it is around forty degrees! Thankyou for your patience.**

**Chapter twenty-one.**

_One month previous._****

Her body trembled in the still night air, jerking and twisting, the sheets ensnaring her slender form; tightening, constricting… A pale hand clawed at the material, clenching it tightly within her fists, as sweat drenched her nightgown, soaking her curls. Christine's eyes fluttered wildly beneath her lids, her mind once again caught in the fits of her nightmares.

_… Raoul laughed again sardonically. "The Phantom of the Opera? Is that what they called you? Only a façade for a depraved and repugnant man without a chance in even the lowliest of society. Why, even the gypsies found you too atrocious – what makes you think Christine could ever love you? You are nothing more than a discarded piece of waste that nobody else wants to deal with. I am doing the world a favour in taking your life…"_

Erik twisted from under Raoul's grasp, continuing to struggle against the two guards and taste vengeance upon this wicked creature. Undoing his leather belt, Raoul strode briskly behind Erik and bound his hands tightly together. He jerked Erik's head up by his hair, breathing hotly into the marred side of his face as he spoke.

"But remember this, phantom, as you lay dying, suffering and alone, may the last thought in your head be of her with me – her husband… Her thoughts will not linger on you for long, my friend, when she lies so warm and yielding beneath me!"

"No, Raoul! Please don't!"

_Raoul's eyes blazed with fire. He choked the knot of the noose longer than necessary, seething at this potent and impervious being that seemed impossible to destroy. He backed away slowly, his eyes searching Erik's face for any sign of fear or submission, but he was unsuccessful. Erik was defiant to the end. His gaze flickered to Christine – eyes of a man that carried all the love in the world with only a single glance._

"Erik, no!" Christine cried, her expression painted with torment and angst. She frantically looked over to Raoul, grasping his stiffened arm with hands that shook uncontrollably. "Please, Raoul… no!"

In another part of the manor, the Comte lay unconscious and unaware of the horrific part he played in Christine's nightmares. Last night had found him within one of the estate's luxurious guestrooms. Rich fabrics in tones of red and gold covered the windows and bed. Dark mahogany furnishings filled the space; every piece hand carved and exquisite. The room was fit for kings, yet lying there, atop the rumpled but still made bed, was Raoul. In such a complete state of dishevelment, he lay sprawled across the bedcovers. Barefooted, his shirt unbuttoned, and wearing a pair of wrinkled trousers, he was almost unrecognizable. The previous evening's glass of brandy had turned into several, until a whole tumbler had been drained and he had passed out in that very position. The Comte had not ever bothered to undress himself, or cover himself in sleep. The empty tumbler of brandy sat on the bedside table, an entirely empty glass set beside it.

So blissfully unaware was he, until the sound of a woman's screams shattered the subdued atmosphere of the manor. 

Raoul jerked awake; his head rolled from side to side as his heavy, red-rimmed eyes slowly blinked open.

_Had he just heard…?_

A woman screamed again. _Christine._

Agitated, he stumbled uncoordinatedly from the bed, wrenched the door open and staggered down the hallway towards Christine's bedroom and the source of the screaming. Christine was fast within the clutches of her nightmare by the time Raoul burst through her door and clambered over to her bed.

"No, Raoul! Let him go.. please," she sobbed hysterically, clawing her hands wildly in the air. Her usually tranquil doe eyes were flung open, wild and frantic. Her gaze was glazed, as she saw not Raoul leaning concernedly above her, but his cruel hands ripping the life away from her most beloved angel. "Please Raoul, don't do this!"

Raoul's heart sunk as he realized he was the source of his wife's pain. Again. Whatever hell she was currently existed in was all due to him. Desperately he reached out and grasped her flailing wrists, trying to deal with her as gently as possible for fear of reopening her wounds. Whatever he tried, he could not break her from the fierce grip her nightmare had on her. Holding her arms down, he deftly straddled her hips, frantically trying to ease the convulsing of her body. Several of the servants had gathered outside her bedroom door, awoken by her screams, and anxious to see what was going on.

"Christine! Christine, wake up!"

_…Raoul hovered above Erik as his upper body sagged downwards in response to the excruciating blow, yet was still held up by the two guards. The noose constricted painfully against his throat, crushing his windpipe._

"The devil's child shall be sent back to where he belongs! That angel in hell is your proper title now, beast!"

Raoul grasped Christine's face roughly in his hands. "Christine, wake up!!"

Christine's eyes flew open, sweat trickled into them, the saltiness stinging and bringing her out of the hellish realm that was her nightmare.

"Raoul! Get off me! Don't touch me!!" She shrieked hysterically as his murdering face hovered above her, his grip on her arms unrelenting. "You killed him! You killed him! You murderer!!"

"What? What's the matter with you? What are you talking about?" Raoul struggled to fully comprehend what she was saying. He shook his head irately and blinked repeatedly; anything to banish the cobwebs cluttering his mind. "I didn't kill anyone!"

"Get off of me!"

"If you calm down, I will let you up!"

Christine's flailing stilled long enough so that Raoul could clamber off her, his body shaking partly from his lack of sleep, partly from the huge quantities of alcohol he had consumed, and partly from the reality of Christine's visions. He took a hesitant step towards her, but she drew back fearfully, wrapping the drenched coverlet around her trembling form in a protective manner.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Christine." He hissed through gritted teeth, aware of the spectacle he and his wife were creating in front of the servants.

"Don't come any closer!!" She screamed, gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned bone white.

Raoul rounded angrily on his gawping staff. "Don't you people have to work to do?!" He barked. They looked taken back, but scattered almost immediately. He slammed the door behind them. Christine's screaming wasn't doing wonders for his already splitting headache. "Will you be quiet!!"

Christine shuddered involuntarily and curled her small frame into a protectively ball. Harsh sobs wracked her body, leaving her to gasp for air as the vision of Erik's broken neck seared into her brain. _Oh God, he can't be dead._

"Christine… Christine, look at me…" Raoul's voice, softened, was distant in the background, fading in and out of her consciousness. A firm, but gentle hand upon her wrist jerked her back to the present. She stared coldly at his fingers entwined about her wrist. "Let go of me."

As though burned, he jerked his hand away from hers. "What is wrong with you Christine?"

"What have you done to Erik?"

"Christine…"

"What have you done to him!"

Raoul turned away from her, his breathing laboured as his hand curled tightly into a fist.

"Did you kill him Raoul?! _Tell me what you did to him!!"_

"What _any_ man would do given my circumstances!" Raoul's voice thundered throughout the room, causing Christine to withdraw within herself once more. "Do you think that I savour some sick, abhorrent sort of pleasure knowing that MY wife lusts after another? But not just any other… no, a torturer! An extortionist! A _murderer _for God's sake! An evil man not fit to besmirch the streets of this fair city, and let alone to _bed_ my wife!"

"How_ dare_ you! I did no such thing!"

"Oh no? But how many times have you in your _dreams_, Christine? Do not think for one moment that I know not of the secrets of your slumber!" He stepped towards her, slowly but surely. His footsteps burning a path in their wake, his eyes alight with a raging fire born of jealousy and hatred. "I know what fierce desires burn beneath your flesh and in your heart… even as you lay in my bed. The very thought of it _sickens _me, Christine. You torture me, little wife; I long to throw you from my sight, which is no more than you deserve, and yet I cannot give you up!"

Tears now flooded unrestrained down Christine's pale and lifeless cheeks. "Please Raoul… please… just let him go! Do what you will with me, but please, let him go."

Raoul's breath felt hot against her cheek as his words hissed softly in her ear. "No! I can't let him go… you will go back to him, Christine. I know you. He will come for you…" His voice softened as he ran his fingers through her moist curls. "I can't lose you Christine… not to _him._ You will love me, and all will return to the way it ought to be… you'll see…."

Christine turned her face away from him, her eyes cold and hard. "I will never love you again, Raoul. Nor will I ever forgive you."

Her words cut him deeply, the sting of her blow bringing tears, unbidden, to his eyes. He blinked them back furiously, rising to his full height. He made as if to say something, but decided against it; swallowing the cruel words that rose so easily within his throat. Without another word he left the room, leaving his wife to her internal torment, trembling upon what was once their marriage bed.

XxXxXxX

The hairpin clamoured in the latch for a moment before finally unlocking the apparatus. The last heavy shackle fell to the floor, dragging a large weight of rusted chains down with it. Erik stared at the young girl before him, dimly amazed at her boldness and brilliance.

"I confess I did not think you could do it, mademoiselle." Erik whispered dryly, dragging himself to his feet. He shook slightly on his legs, the strength in his muscles waning from the loss of blood. Meg reached out a tentative hand to steady him, her fingers lightly brushing the bruised and battered skin of his forearm. He recoiled slightly from the unexpected touch, and then cursed himself inwardly as he observed the fleeting look of hurt flit across Meg's pretty features. "I'm sorry mademoiselle. I am… unaccustomed to people touching me."

Meg nodded silently.

The pair stared at each other for several long moments, when suddenly, a loud commotion from outside the cell door echoed down the stone passage, causing both of them to flinch from their reverie. Erik seized Meg protectively, pulling her closer to him, despite his evident weakness. Grasping her waist, he pushed her behind him like a mother protecting its young and stood resolutely in his place. Meg held the back of his arms tightly; fear coursing through her veins as a pair of steadily angrier voices thundered down the passageway.

"You imbecile! I told you there were to be NO unauthorized visitors!"

"But sir, the girl was sent by-" A second voice yelled desperately.

"-you ignorant fool! It is a ploy!"__

Suddenly the door of his cell flew open. Through the darkness it was almost impossible to make out any clear distinction of the three figures that loomed in the entryway, but their presence received the attention of everyone in the room. Meg let out an involuntary gasp, and stumbled back slightly. Once again, the stout guard's lustful gaze, mingled now with anger and humiliation, devoured the bare flesh of her body. Erik shrank under their harsh gaze, feeling his remaining energy drain from his weary, beaten and broken limbs.

"Come to kill me have you?" He sneered.

The guards turned to eye him with expressions marred with contempt. "There were to be no visitors to your cell, swine! The Comte-"

But what the Comte's explicit orders had been, Erik had never heard, for at that moment, the Persian's jade eyes appeared, glowing, in the darkness of the shadows surrounding the three guards. They quickly darted from Erik's, to Meg's and back again. A small smirk twisted Erik's lips; _so the Daroga has a plan after all…_

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, gentleman, but the lady and I weren't quite finished. So, if you'll excuse us…"

The three guards stared in morbid fascination as the monster with the macabre face clutched the beautiful golden angel in his filthy, lustful hands. Erik murmured a quiet pardon in Meg's ear as his bruised and calloused fingers crept slowly across the soft mounds of her breasts, which heaved with every ragged breath she took. His golden eyes blazed furiously behind his grossly disfigured visage, tempting them, toying with them, mocking them. He knew the stout guard wanted her, he could see the lust swell within him, see the hungry look burn within his dark, soulless eyes.

"Erik!" Meg whispered in his ear, as he turned her harshly in his hands, ripping the sleeve of her dress to expose her pale shoulder. He pressed her against his chest as he peered over her shoulder with sneering eyes at the guards. She reached a timid hand within her bodice, her small fingers curling about the soft strip of hide, leathery and thin, and began to pull. The rope burned her skin as she tugged it haphazardly from its place of concealment. Erik stared wide-eyed, his lips curling into a nefarious smile. It was the Punjab lasso.

"Really, my dear; the items you ladies procure astounds me," he murmured quietly into her hair.

He lowered his face to the crook of her neck, scanning the room behind her. Unable to contain his lustful longing any longer, heightened by his sense of humiliation, the stout guard took careful, measured steps towards him, his eyes wild with vehement anger, and his pistol hoisted heavily within his sweaty hands. Nadir, positioning himself just behind the remaining two, bent over as if to rub his ankle and gave the most unperceivable of nods.

"Unhand the girl, demon"

It was now or never. With deft fingers, Erik grasped the loop of the lasso and spun the girl away, throwing her to the ground. He whipped the rope above his head and loosed a cry of fury, feral eyes blazing, chains clanking, and hurled the lasso towards his prey. The rope fell effortlessly around the stout guard's throat, then was pulled taut – abruptly silencing the man's cries of surprise and cleanly snapping his neck.

Meg's eyes squeezed shut and she let out a terrifying gasp as the first man's body hit the cold stone floor. 

Erik's eyes flew to his Persian friend; Nadir had already felled the jailer who had dared to lay his filthy hands upon Meg with the dagger he had concealed at his calf, and was lunging at the second, his coat tails whipping about his body. Erik watched the scene unfold as if in slow motion. Nadir was maneuvering the guard closer. If the man would just take a few more steps inwards, he would be within the punjab's reach.

Nadir grunted in pain as the man lashed out with a concealed knife, ripping a jagged streak across the Persian's shoulder. Blood leached from the wound, the crimson flow soaking the sleeve of his white shirt. Meg's eyes flew open at the sound of Nadir's groan, just in time to see the lasso go flying from Erik's person and cinch tightly about the third guard's throat. This time, his prey's neck did not snap as nicely as the previous kill's. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Meg watching in horror as the man struggled against the rope like a trout hooked by a line, the monster at the other end dragging him forward with a power altogether unreal from such a haggard, severely beaten body. And then Erik threw the man to the floor and pulled the rope… pulled and pulled, choking the breath from the fallen guard and with it, his life. The man's face turned an ugly shade of purple and the veins bulged and pulsated within his neck, and Erik stared down at him with a vehement rage that consumed his every thought. Time ceased to exist for him, as he watched with satisfaction, as the life left the man's face… choking…

Meg opened her mouth to scream in horror, but no sound came out. Blood stained her hands now; ugly, red… never to be washed away. Erik loosed the lasso from the dead man's throat, and she saw that it was broken and ruddy, angrily streaked with the mark of death… forever haunting… just like Buquet. She covered her face with her hands, tears of terror spilling down her cheeks. She did not want to be here. She did not want to witness this hideous sight. Death. That's all this man ever brought… _death._

Meg blinked and turned to the grisly scene again, only to see that Erik was now finished with the man, and was hunched over retrieving his lasso.

"Get up, both of you!" he ordered, stowing the lasso at his waist side. Struggling to his feet, he reached down and lifted the young girl to hers, then hobbled into the dark path to his right.

"But Erik! The exit is to the left!" he heard Meg cry. "We do not know where that path leads!"

"We cannot go out the way we came in; that path leads only to death! Can't you hear the guards' cries? Your presence did not go unnoticed!" Meg listened and sure enough, the shouts of the alerted guards echoed through the dank stone passage. The Persian took her hands and dragged her along, stumbling, in pursuit of Erik.

"Hold off, my friend, I know where it is we must go!"

Erik allowed him to pass begrudgingly, the Persian hoisting the lantern before his face to light the way. Erik saw no need for the lantern, as he was perfectly capable of seeing in the dim light. Years of living five storeys beneath the opera had procured for him rather extraordinary eyesight.

The sounds from the staircase behind grew louder and louder. "Come on, Erik!" Meg grabbed Erik by the arm before he collapsed under weakened legs, taking no notice of the heavy weight that now bore down unbearably upon her slight frame. The Phantom's face was drawn and wan, and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow and soaked through his ragged shirt.

"We must go through the underground canal that leads into the city. Listen for the sound of water!" Nadir's calls echoed dimly off the stone walls, the pale light of the lantern flickering on ahead as they made their progression down the passageway. Erik's ragged breathing came in short gasps, and the thought struck her that several of his ribs must be broken. Pulling his arm around her shoulder more securely, she steadied him as best she could. It was clear that he had more resilience than any other man ever created.

They traveled down the black passageway slower than they would have liked, for Erik's weakness hindered them from moving faster. Stumbling, Erik leaned heavily against the stone wall, his face grimacing in pain as he clutched his throbbing side.

Catching his breath, Erik clasped Meg's shoulder and continued onward. After only a few minutes, the sounds from the back passage grew fainter and fainter. The darkness of the tunnel covered their bodies and surroundings entirely, and it was assuredly of no comfort to Meg. Suddenly, a strange and welcoming sound began to resonate in between the stone walls. Erik stopped Meg abruptly, raising a finger to his lips.

"Nadir! Do you hear that?" He turned his head sharply, listening intently.

Meg eyed the man curiously. "Yes… water! Let us keep moving, it must be up ahead!"

Nadir continued to run ahead, his lantern bobbing dimly in the darkness, illuminating only a small sphere about the man himself. Although the sound grew louder in pursuit of it, Meg began to grow disheartened upon not finding its source. Sweat now trickled profusely into her eyes, mingling with the saltiness of her barely suppressed tears, before spilling down her cheeks. Her small figure shook under the weight of supporting Erik – the man for whom she had risked everything; the man who she had seen murder, not once, but twice before her eyes mere moments before. She shuddered at the thought, causing her and Erik to stumble slightly.

"Nadir!" Erik panted, leaning on Meg for support. "How many levels below ground are we?"

The Persian man halted in his tracks, "Three."

"Where in Paris are we?"

"South-eastern suburbs."

Erik clutched at the rough stone of the wall, each ragged breath he took sending bolts of pain searing throughout his chest. "The subterranean tributaries of the Seine run at least five levels below ground level in this part of the city. We must continue moving downwards. Keep moving!"

The faint shouts of the guards met their ears once more, coming now from both ends of the twisting stone paths. Soon, they would be trapped within the passageway, fighting back to back if they did not move with haste. Erik pushed onwards, refusing the support of Meg and taking lead of the Persian. He turned another corner and shuffled further, then stopped to stare down at the damp stone floor. It was a trap door of sorts – an ancient one with thick hinges and an iron latch – presumably a sub-level dungeon where those, society and those within the asylum wished to forget, were hidden. He stretched out his jagged fingers and reached for the handle. It would not open. Pulling at the door one-handed, he juggled the rusted latch to no effect. The door was locked.

"Be of use, Nadir!" he ordered.

The Persian grasped at the latches, driving the pointed end of his knife within the rusted bolts… chipping away. Nadir flipped the knife about in his hands and fell hard against the door, driving the hilt of the knife into it several times until, finally, the old stone began to crumble ever so slightly from under the latch and hinges; exposing a weakness.

"Hurry Nadir!" Meg's frantic voice echoed through the darkness.

Finally Erik and Nadir managed to fling open the door, and lower themselves through the floor. The air below was damp and heavy. Breathing deeply, Nadir reached up for Meg, slowly lowering her to the loose stone of the floor below.

"You're welcome, my friend!" the Persian exclaimed as he helped Erik pull the heavy door shut."

"Save tales from your brief career in heroism for another time, daroga," Erik stated dryly, pushing on through the darkness. The distinctive sound of water was undeniable now. They were getting closer.

It was not until another five minutes of walking that they finally reached a small set of widened steps that wound their way down to a steep stone embankment. Nadir hefted the lantern once more, peering warily into the darkness that seemed to stretch before them midst the rushing sound of water. Walking cautiously towards the water's edge, Nadir once more held the lantern outwards to assess the situation. The canal was not anything like the waterways beneath the Opera Populaire, the same channels that had first delivered Christine to her precious angel – the same ones that had guarded Erik's dismal isolation from the world he claimed to loathe. The water spiraled in all directions; surging into obscurity at a brisk, almost dangerous current.

"What are we going to do?" Meg's voice wavered slightly in trepidation, relieved that the darkness shielded most of her fear from her companions.

"It is obvious, isn't it Mademoiselle Giry?"

"Surely we're not…?" The look in Erik's eyes was all the answer she needed. She swallowed the lump building in the back of her throat. "H-how?"

The Persian stepped forward, "this canal runs right beneath the city, with street access by way of several man holes placed along its length. The current here is strong, it will carry us… but it may separate us. We can't allow that to happen, so we must stick together. Mademoiselle Giry?"

"Y-yes?"

"You will come with me. Erik, though injured, I trust you can manage on your own."

"A fair concession, Daroga."

Nadir set the lantern aside, and crouched down on the embankment. Cursing silently under his breath, he found a groove to steady himself with his foot while he slowly eased himself into the rushing water. He sucked in a lungful of air in shock as the full force of the frigid liquid hit his body. He pushed back his hair and swore silently, motioning for Meg to join him.

"Don't worry, mademoiselle, the cold soon passes."

Erik quickly lowered himself into the frigid water, the temperature soon numbing his wearied muscles and providing some sort of relief for his broken and aching bones.

"Daroga! This is by far the most lunatic plan you have ever devised!"

The Persian merely grimaced as Meg soon joined them, hissing audibly as the cold water slammed her slight frame. Drawing her arms tight about his neck, Nadir turned and nodded to Erik. He pushed off from the embankment and was immediately swallowed by the water's overwhelming current.

"Hold tight mademoiselle!"

XxXxXxX

The roar of the water as it rushed through the waterway was deafening. Several times their bodies were thrown against the harsh stone walls, tearing jagged gashes in flesh and bruising bone. Erik hissed sharply against the pain as his hand was crushed against the jagged rock. Raising his head above the suffocating water, Erik's yellow eyes blazed as a small cone of light beamed down from the dark tunnel's ceiling several metres ahead.

"Nadir!" he shouted above the roar, as the current dragged them ever closer.

The Persian had already spotted their exit; a series of metal handles embedded into the jagged stone. The daunting ladder – only a few feet away from reach – seemed to be the only outlet to safety. Yet even a few feet could feel like a mile with the strong current against them.

"I see it!"

Nadir hoisted Meg up further out of the water's reach, binding his muscular arm around the top of her thighs as he dragged another powerful arm through the water. His booted feet lashed out behind him, slowly dragging their bodies across the face of the current. Erik was floating a few feet in front of him. With a desperate lunge, Erik felt his bruised fingers snare the first metallic rung. Once he felt the cold iron beneath his fingers, he constricted his powerful grip and pulled himself towards it. Quickly slipping his forearm under the metal to relieve the mounting pressure in his hand, he bit down firmly on his lip to harness the intense pain searing throughout his broken fingers.

"Nadir!"

He held out his hand for the Persian. If he missed they would be separated, with no way of knowing where they may end up. Meg wrapped her arms tightly about the Persian's neck and leaned into his shoulder. He kicked out against the lashing water, all power in his legs completely deadened from the water's icy encasing. Reaching with an outstretched hand, his fingers briefly snared Erik's before the current dragged them apart.

"No!"

Meg threw herself from Nadir's shoulders; the added momentum allowing her to grasp Erik's outstretched hand. The Persian clutched desperately at her ankles. Breathing raggedly, Erik winced as she grasped his broken hand. The pain was almost excruciating and he knew it would only be a short time before the pain controlled him completely.

"Meg, quickly… reach up for this bar!"

Grimacing under the extra weight the Persian's body, dragged by the current, forced on her own, Meg reached an outstretched hand to clutch the bar, grasping the iron between her fingers with all her might. She could hear Erik's laboured breathing, as he tried desperately to drag his friend to safety, the frigid water still lashing his body. The distance between each rung seemed like an eternity to Meg, as she heaved her body forwards. Erik finally was able to grasp Nadir's hand, and using their combined strength, pull him to safety. Although she was telling her body to move, Meg's limbs felt foreign to her. Her left leg trembled briefly before slowly rising to meet the next step.

"Keep… moving…!" Erik hissed brokenly through gritted teeth, urging on their slow progression to the final rungs of the ladder. Slowly they progressed, until finally they arrived at the top where a round metal grate was the only thing hindering them from the surface ground. Meg clung tightly to the bars, her teeth chattering wildly and uncontrollably. Erik pushed himself up to lift the heavy barrier out of the way, his own fingers so numbed he could barely feel the metal beneath them. Slowly Meg pushed her way into the light of the outside world. After she reached the welcoming ground of the cobblestone street, Erik quickly followed and Meg turned to the Persian on her knees, grasping his forearms and shirt in an effort with all that was inside her to lift him up to safety.

The moment their bodies collapsed on the hard, cobble stoned street, Meg fell to her knees, tears of relief steadily leaking down her cheeks. Her two companions sat beside her, breathing heavily.

"We cannot stay here long," the Persian grunted, breathing warm air into his cupped palms. Meg was shaking profusely, despite the warm humidity of the night air. Her blonde hair, plastered to her forehead, was in complete tangles and dripping. Nadir lifted his arm and gathered her close, willing his body heat to transfer to her. Meg gasped slightly at his forwardness, but settled into the shared warmth of his embrace.

"Erik," he began suddenly, weariness etched into every syllable he spoke. "Have you retained ownership of that mansion… the one in the woods?"

There was a short pause. "Thornhill?" Erik grunted against the pain searing in his ribs.

"Precisely."

"It has been vacated for many years, Daroga. I have not been there since I was a boy… but I believe it is still legally within my possession. Why do you ask such questions?"

"Because, my friend, that is precisely where we are headed. We need some place inconspicuous – well concealed. A place nobody knows about, nor could place a connection to you. The Comte will presume you have hidden yourself within the city, as he knows of no other place, and is aware you have enough sense not to attempt a return to London. No, that would be too easy for him. Thornhill shall serve as your sanctuary."

"_That_, my friend, Thornhill has never been." Erik stated dryly, flexing the fingers in his good hand.

"I am aware of that, Erik, but as it is we have no other alternative."

"What of Antoinette? And Christine – I want her with me!"

"Patience, my friend. I have located Madame Giry's whereabouts, and we will be working to recover her as soon as we see you to safety. As for Christine, if all goes to plan then she shall soon be free from the clutches of her husband… if she so chooses."

"_If she so chooses? _She _will _come back to me… if that _boy_ so much as-"

"-Then you have nothing to fear, my friend." 

"Daroga…" Erik seethed dangerously. The Persian got wearily to his feet.

"There is nothing you could possibly do for mademoiselle Daae in your present condition, Erik. It would be foolish of you to think otherwise." He gazed intently at Erik with his cool jade eyes. "We have risked much to free you, my friend, especially mademoiselle Giry…

Come, we must get off the streets. I have an apartment in town where we may hide in safety… for the time being. It will not be long before they come looking for you."

XxXxXxX

_Present day_

The room was dark. No lamps or candles lit the space and the curtains remained closely drawn, but even in the darkness the devastation was clear, the room was in complete shambles. The broken shards of a glass lantern littered the floor, chairs lay toppled over, and the contents of Christine's wardrobe lay discarded in a furious mess. 

Christine lay sleeping in her bed; her young body finally giving in to exhaustion after too many long restless nights spent in tears and worry. Her arms were free of bandages. While the wounds had healed cleanly, her forearms were now streaked with ugly red scars. She quietly hoped that they would pale with time; the red contrasted so terribly against her beautiful pale skin. Her body twitched and convulsed beneath the covers, her sporadic movements jarring her muscles. She was dreaming again.

Dreams had become her lifeline. Much as they had been in the period of her marriage, it was her dreams that allowed Christine's mind freedom, allowed her union with Erik… allowed her her sanity. No longer was she constrained by Raoul's belligerence, his threats. No longer was she imprisoned by his iron will, or by her own poor choices. In her dreams Erik, once again, sat beside her.

A dark shadow slowly crept across the bed linens, bloodshot blue eyes watching her in sleep, his breathing keeping perfect time with every steady breath that escaped her lips.

"Erik?" she asked, her voice low and husky with sleep. She hadn't been sure if she was really seeing Erik's form sitting at the edge of her bed, dressed in his traditional black trousers, his white shirt neatly pressed, and the chin beneath his mask perfectly shaved. He sat with his legs crossed; one booted foot balancing elegantly atop the other knee as he stared intently at her, his gold eyes ablaze within the darkness. _Was this another dream teasing her with the false allusions of her angel?_

_"Mon Ange…" _he whispered quietly, his voice rumbling deep within his chest. She sat up and felt for his arm.

"Erik… you're alright! Oh God, I've missed you so much…" she whispered fearfully, still groping wildly for his arm.

He grabbed her roaming hand and entwined their fingers._ "I could never leave you, mon ange… Nothing will keep us apart… I swear to you!" _He pressed a feverish kiss against her palm, holding her small hand to his chest, where she could feel his heart beat longingly for her. She moved closer to him, desperate to feel his warmth, to touch his face… his lips.

"What happened, how did you escape?!" Her hands found the smooth contours of his mask, and she stroked the exposed side of his face longingly. "Please tell me that you're real… please, tell me that I'm not dreaming."

He smiled and leant forward to capture her lips, slowly pushing her small frame back down into the bed, where his mouth gently consumed hers, prying her lips open.  
_  
"Mon amour…"_

_That voice, that unearthly voice… My Erik…_

Raoul leant over his wife's trembling body, his anger receded and his heart ached with longing at her look of pure innocence. She was still beautiful, her chocolate tresses splayed across the pillow, her lips parted and inviting…

He bent down low, his lips gently brushing hers in a chaste kiss. When she did not draw back in disgust he took it as an invitation, and gently delved within the warmth of her kiss, softly kneading her tongue with his own, willing for her to come to life within his arms. "Oh, Christine…."

Her heavy eyelids began to open, as Raoul tasted her, allowing his longing to fill him. He pulled back slightly to look at his wife's face. His blue eyes softened as she returned his affectionate look, her chocolate orbs swimming with desire…

_His _blue _eyes? BLUE?!__****_

"Raoul!" she gasped, her hands flying to his chest where she pushed with all her might. "What are you doing? Get off of me!"

Her small fists pummeled his chest, fear gripping her insides as he used his weight to push down on her body, grinding her into the mattress. 

"Christine!"

"Raoul, get off of me! Please… I can't… you can't…!"

Comprehension slowly dawned across his aristocratic features. "It wasn't _me_ you saw, was it?! It was _him!_" His harsh voice rang out through the still night air, anger and rejection laced in every syllable he spoke. She could smell the alcohol on his breath, the sour stench making her choke and gag as he sneered down at her face. "Answer me, damn it!"

She whimpered beneath his crushing weight, throwing her head from side to side to avoid his looming face, her eyes clenched tightly shut. 

"Were you thinking of that _monster_ Christine? Were you dreaming of _his_ touch?" He dragged his hand across her face, over her forehead and pressed her head down hard against the pillow, yanking her head back and exposing the soft flesh of her neck. His eyes burned savagely as he lowered himself to her neck, biting and scraping his teeth across the soft flesh, leaving bruises in his wake.

"Raoul, stop! You're hurting me!"

He ignored her plea, refusing to let her up. He used his position and weight to keep her pinned, his hands coming to her arms where he grasped her firmly in his hurt and anger.

"Why?" He hissed savagely. "Is this not what your demon lover does?"

"No! Raoul, stop this, please." She sobbed. "You're drunk!"

He paused in his assault of her, wrenching her face to meet his so that he could stare her in the eye. "Oh, I'm drunk alright. But the alcohol does not fuel my _need_…" Christine was sobbing almost uncontrollably now. He stared deep into her swimming orbs, a satisfied smirk curling the corners of his lips maliciously. He tugged at the sheer material of her chemise, exposing the soft, creamy skin of her shoulder and traced her soft contours with his tongue. She shuddered as his hot breath swept across the rising mounds of her chest. Suddenly, as though coming to his senses, Raoul shoved away from her and staggered from the bed.

"What? No! I will not become that man for you!" His eyes grew wide and erratic.

"W-what are you talking about Raoul? Please, just leave me alone!"

"_You_ did this to me!" He cried hysterically. He hunched over with his back to her like a wounded animal, his words festering with hatred and a new sense of self-loathing. "It's all your fault! You made me this way!"

Christine crawled to the far side of the bed, grabbing fistfuls of bed sheets and pulling them protectively in front of her as she continued to cry.

Raoul's shoulders stopped shaking with anger, and she watched him drag a hand across his face, trying desperately to hold his tears of frustration and betrayal at bay. "Why Christine," he began hollowly, refusing to turn and look at her. "Why am I such an awful person that you could never bring yourself to _love _me?

What the hell is wrong with me?"

Silence.

Without warning he lashed out at her, sending her sprawling from the bed.

"Look at me! What the hell is wrong with me that you hate me so much?!"

_How was she expected to answer such a question_? When exactly was the moment that their innocent love disintegrated into the mutual animosity they now felt towards one another? Where had her childhood friend gone, with his boyish good looks and charm? The sweetest boy she had known, with the mildest temperament and the most carefree smile? When had the saviour of her scarf from the sea died… to be replaced with the cruel and heartless man that she knew now?

_Where had it all gone wrong? When?_

Christine shivered from her position on the floor, and tugged the sheet closer around her body. Tears still spilled freely down her cheeks. Ugly blue and purple bruises blemished across the tender skin of her neck. She winced every time she strained the lithe muscles in her neck.

"I love you Christine." He whispered the words so quietly, that Christine wasn't entirely sure she had heard them at all. "I've _always_ loved you. But you hate me, don't you? "

More silence.

"H-how did we get here? What's _happened_ to me…?" He shook his head sadly and rose slowly from the bed. The bare muscles of his back rippled as he stooped to retrieve his shirt and vest from their resting place on the floor, and shrugged them on haphazardly. Still, he refused to look at her. Her quiet sobs echoed in his ears.

"Goodnight, Christine."

XxXxXxX

Patrick's eyes slowly traced the movements of a burly guard, whose wanderings were bringing him ever closer to Patrick's place amongst the underbrush.

He silently prayed that Meg and the Persian had managed to free this man, Erik… the _Phantom _from his imprisonment. Whatever this man was to Christine, it was evident that she loved him so greatly she had been willing to sacrifice herself to a life of emptiness and heartache in order to preserve that love. She could never love him, nor learn to love him. Patrick had come to accept that. No, whatever this man was to her, he was her soul mate and Patrick would be damned if he allowed that de Chagny braggart to imprison Christine in a marriage against her will. She did not deserve that. Though risky and dangerous as this plan was, it relied heavily upon the two rescues occurring at the same time. If one succeeded whilst the other failed, both Christine and Erik could be placed in serious jeopardy. 

Patrick froze. He could hear the soft rasping of his breath in the still night air. His pulse raced within his veins, his heart hammering so loudly within his chest he was sure the guard nearest him could hear. He crouched down lower amongst the dead leaves and bramble, desperate to conceal himself from the approaching guard.

A twig snapped.

The man's head whipped around at the sound; eyes narrowed, silently scanning the dark forest to his left. Alert and tense, his hand clutched the handle of his metal revolver. With slow, deliberate steps, he inched his way closer to the bush behind which Patrick concealed himself. Every muscle in Patrick's body contracted as he watched the guard's slow progression. Any second now he would happen upon Patrick, and then there would no escape. He only stood a chance if he could take the guard by surprise. 

Suddenly, throwing caution to the wind, Patrick flung himself around the bush, unsheathing his boning knife with a slight metallic trill.

The men's eyes locked, wide with surprise.

"Merde!"

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Patrick watched the scene unfold before his eyes, as though he were a spectre outside of his own body. The guard drew his revolver, and for a brief, chilling moment, he believed his life was forfeit.

In an instant, Patrick's arm flew around. There was a brief glint of silver and a searing bolt of pain as a knife blade plunged into flesh.

The guard's body convulsed, blood drained from his face as his eyes grew wide with shock. With a violent thrust, Patrick ripped the boning knife upward. The man groaned in agony as heat spread throughout his abdomen. Patrick watched as blood trickled from the guard's mouth, his chest slumping forward against him. He took a step back; the ruined man's body collapsing to his knees. The air was still and silent bar the faint gurgling of the man as he crumpled to the ground at Patrick's feet. His hands clawed at his abdomen as blood gushed in systematic spurts from the jagged gash in his flesh. Eventually the scraping of his hands stilled, and his lips parted in a silent scream.

Patrick stared down at his blood drenched shirt in horror; a crimson stain upon his soul that nothing could scourge. The stench of death rose up around him; he was a _murderer._

The hands that clutched the boning knife trembled as bile rushed up his throat. Doubling over, his body convulsed, sending waves of vomit to choke his throat until he was sure there was nothing left inside of him. _God, what had he done?_

"I'm not sure you know what you're getting yourself into, Monsieur Raynaud."

The Persian's cool jade eyes assessed the young man before him, stern, yet kind.

"I know."

"Do you monsieur? It is not all gallantry and heroism. You may be forced to take another man's life. Are you sure you can live with that on your conscience?"

Patrick lowered his green eyes, troubled thoughts plaguing his already wearied mind. With a cool resolve that surprised even him, he answered with a determined nod.

"I can. If Christine is in danger, than I will do what I must..." 

_What I must…_

Patrick stood over the dead man, his eyes riveted to its horrific image, the ugly face of death. His body still trembled from the violent ending of life and he cringed at the return of the unwelcome sensations. Swallowing the bile that rose once more in disgust, he fought to steady his breath.

Bending over the dead man's body, he pulled the knife from the lifeless mass, wiping it clean on the man's shirt. It was then that he felt the cool night air as it met with the warm stickiness of his hand. It was one sickening image he would be forced to carry with him. But it had been his decision and his alone. He wiped the blood from his hands, scrubbing aggressively in his eagerness to be rid of the vile substance. Once satisfied, he returned the blade to its sheath at his waist and immediately turned his attention back to the body. Grabbing the man's limp wrists, he slowly dragged his body back into the forest with him, dumping it amongst the thick bramble and thorns.

He needed a diversion.

Panting from the exertion of carrying the man's dead weight, Patrick's brilliant green eyes scanned the length of the estate. A large wooden building jutted out on the horizon, a dark shadow looming above the estate grounds. The de Chagny stables.

He kept to the outskirts of the forest as he wound his way through trees and thick underbrush, creeping like a shadowy wraith towards the stables. Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder, he pressed his cloaked body flat against the wooden wall, quietly maneuvering himself towards the entrance.

At least eight horses were sheltered in small stalls within the stables. Patrick crept diffidently towards the horse in the stall nearest the entrance.

The animal whickered nervously, as though it could smell the blood and stench of death that clung so vigilantly to Patrick's clothing. He reached out hesitant fingers to stroke the softness of its velvet nose, willing his touch to calm and reassure the animal. The horse jerked back, the smell of Patrick's blood-encrusted fingers sending a bolt of fear surging through her powerfully muscular body. She was a beautiful honey-coloured mare; well kept and groomed. A fine animal bred solely to bear the hides of nobility. After several apprehensive moments, she eventually settled into the softness of his caress, allowing him to run his nimble fingers up the bridge of her nose and down the powerful arch of her neck. He smiled, murmuring quietly to the mare. "Good girl."

He walked silently past her towards the end of the stables, where he saw there was a back entrance to the structure. Returning to the animal's stall, he began loosening the bolts that held the latches steady on the enclosure doors, working his way towards the back of the stable. Once he had assured himself that all the stall doors would give way with a little force he leant back against the warm wood of the rear entrance.

Sweat trickled in rivulets down the nape of his neck and disappeared within the cotton folds of his shirt. Patrick blinked his eyes slowly, willing the frantic hammering of his heart to slow, and his breathing to steady. The smooth metal of the revolver's handle felt warm and sweaty beneath his palm. Settling himself around the back of the stables, he crouched down low and slowly raised the revolver above his head. Clinching his jaw, he squeezed the trigger. The resulting bang thundered though the stables and ricocheted throughout the deathly silence of the estate. The de Chagny horses reared; rising up on their hind legs and screeching wildly. Shouldering the gates to their enclosures forcefully, the horses stampeded out of the stables, kicking troughs and feed bins over in their wake.

Shouts of alarm echoed across the grounds as the horses trampled the perfectly manicured lawn, the whites of their eyes wide and glistening in the pale moonlight.

Patrick sheathed his knife at his side, maintaining his firm grip on the metal revolver as he quietly crept out the back entrance to the stables. He prayed fervently that the men who scattered from their posts and who were now desperately trying to reign in the frantic horses did not inadvertently discover the body of the guard he had killed mere moments ago. Like a ghost he crept across the grounds, keeping low to the grounds, his dark cloak whipping silently about his ankles as he moved with stealth towards the high outer stone wall of the manor.

Patrick's green eyes narrowed as he counted windows in the darkness. _Third balcony on the left… east wing… _Flattening his body against the cool stone of the outer wall, he kept to the shadows, moving with as much stealth as his stocky Irish build would allow. Lifting his gaze, Patrick chose a narrow ornamental balcony, barely wide enough to stand on. Detaching the rope that clung to his waist, he threw the coil over the railings, tugging the end back to the ground. Knotting the rope adequately, he began his ascent… two storeys of sheer stone. With only a sliver of white amongst the stars, the few lighted windows that surrounded him now served only to cast a faint golden sheen on the wall he now pressed himself against and the lush grass below.

Climbing atop the railing on the opposite side of the balcony, Patrick lunged across the abridging distance, landing with cat-like grace on what he deemed to be a larger and sturdier balcony. Two floors below of vertical nothing. Traversing the natural juts in the stonework, Patrick crept onto the third balcony. This was it. Removing a small metal tool from his inner pocket, Patrick stooped before the lock which imprisoned Christine within the estate. After several minutes, his nimble fingers finally disabled the mechanism, where it fell with a soft _clang _to the floor of the balcony. Patrick's blood ran cold. He shivered and gave the door a slight push to check the hinges. It inched forward soundlessly, the broken latch detaching itself from the inside wall.

Christine stirred at the faint sound, her eyes fluttering open.

Patrick remained on the balcony, the rope in his hands. His black cloak merged with shadow. There was a movement inside the room, and a candle flickered alight. Patrick's fingers coiled around the rope, his other hand moving to the boning knife at his side.

It was her.

The silhouette of a cloaked man, his hands clutched about a lasso greeted Christine's weary eyes. She shook her head to ensure she was not dreaming, for surely this could not be real. Her heart hammered wildly beneath the thin material of her chemise.

"E-Erik?"

Patrick stilled at the sound of her heavenly voice. It _was _her.

"Christine!"

"W-who is there?" Her voice trembled with a mixture of disappointment and trepidation.

Patrick slowly emerged from the shadows of the balcony, his usual stocky and gentle visage cutting a striking contrast to the man who stood before her. Shrouded only in black, his blonde curls slicked back from his forehead and his green eyes alight with some unnamed emotion, Christine felt her heart swell within her breast.

"Patrick!"

He swept her into his arms, her slight frame pressed firmly, yet securely against his broad chest. She breathed in his familiar scent, clinging to his dark shirt with her small fingers.

"Oh, God! I can't believe you're here!"

She pulled back to look at his face, prying her hands from his shirt. A crimson imprint pulled away with her. She stared with horror at the blood staining her cream palms.

"What? Oh God… Patrick! You're hurt!"

"No," he placed a reassuring hand atop her chocolate curls. "Shh, it is not mine…"

His eyes told it all. He had murdered a man to get to her… to save her. She shuddered involuntarily. _Erik…._

"Erik! Where is Erik?!"

"Hush, Christine." He pulled away from her, picking up a small case and tossing it upon her bed. "The Persian and Meg have gone to free him. I will explain all to you later, but for now we must leave! Quickly, grab only what you must, there isn't much time!"

XxXxXxX

"So, Daroga, tell me of your plans to free Antoinette from her unlawful imprisonment." Erik unfolded his long frame gingerly upon the couch, stretching and flexing the cramped muscles in his arms as he pulled a steaming Persian concoction across the table towards him. He wrinkled his nose slightly as the putrid smell of the herbal medicine wafted towards him.

"I have discovered that Madame Giry was taken to a holding prison close to the city centre. As soon as we see you safely to Thornhill, Allah willing, Monsieur Raynaud shall then accompany Mademoiselle Giry and I back to Paris."

"_Monsieur Raynaud?" _He took a casual sip, concluding that the brew tasted far worse than it smelt. __

"The man who is assisting Christine in her escape."

Incredulity sparked deep within Erik's piercing eyes, "You sent a _stranger_ to ensure her safety?!" He slammed the mug back down upon the countertop, causing some of the green liquid to slop over the sides.

"A _stranger_ he may be to you, Erik, but a _friend_ he has been to Christine and Mademoiselle Giry. He has aided her in escaping the Comte before; he knows what is at stake."

"_Before? _What aren't you telling me, Daroga?"

"It is not my place to disclose."

"Daroga!"

"If you wish to know, than you must consult Christine on the matter; I shall serve no part in this."

Erik seethed and continued to glare at him, the veins in the side of his neck pulsating as the knuckles of his good hand turned white as bone.

"If your incompetence brings Christine to any sort of harm, Daroga, you will pay with more than just your life!"

The Persian shook his head, weary of his friend's murdering antics and violent threats. "With any luck Mademoiselle Daae will join you at Thornhill…"

Erik lapsed into silence, the steam from the Persian brew rising in the space directly before his face.

"If I may ask, what exactly do you plan to do with the girl once she is with you?"

Erik shot the Persian a dark look from the corner of his eyes, not bothering to lift his head from the abhorrent herbal remedy. "Not that it is any concern of yours, Daroga, but I plan on making her my bride." He stated dryly, his golden eyes flashing dangerously.

"In the eyes of society and the law, mademoiselle Daae is still the legal wife of Raoul de Chagny."

"I am aware of that! Since when do I care for _society_ or the laws of common men?!"

"Perhaps you do not, but mademoiselle Daae may. Do you not think it wise to consult with her feelings on the matter?"

Erik's yellow eyes narrowed in the darkness as he glared at his old friend.

"You've got some nerve, Daroga."

The corner of Nadir's lips curled up in a small smile of victory. "Yes… I flatter myself I do. And yet we'd be all the worse for wear without it, my friend."

XxXxXxX

Escaping the de Chagny estate undetected had been difficult. After scaling down the stone outer wall, Patrick and Christine had fled across the grounds, the sound of stampeding horses still echoing in their ears. Patrick hoisted the revolver within his large hands, ready to fire should another guard stumble unknowingly into their path. As they neared the edge of the forest, a low guttural voice shouted out across the grounds.

"Stop where you are!" The metallic click of his revolver echoed in the silence.

Patrick pushed Christine ahead of him, into the underbrush of the forest. "_Go!" _he mouthed silently. Her eyes widened in fear, yet she obeyed him immediately, scrambling through the thorns and bramble. Patrick straightened, keeping his back turned resolutely towards the approaching guard. Silently he reached down to the boning knife concealed at his waist, slowly removing the weapon from its leather sheath and clutching it to his chest.

"Turn around slowly. Let me see your hands!"

Patrick let the revolver fall to the ground with a dull thud. Raising his eyes to the sky, he murmured a quick prayer for forgiveness, hunching his shoulders.

"I said turn around!"

With stealth to surpass even that of a cat, Patrick pivoted on his heel with lightning speed, hurling the knife straight at the guard's chest. The blade pierced the man's flesh with surprising accuracy – burying itself right to the hilt just to the left of his breastbone, where his heart beat erratically, and then ceased to beat at all. A low guttural moan racked the stillness of the air, as blood began to seep from the man's wide open mouth. He fell with a sickening dead weight, crumpling in a heap upon the ground.

Patrick stared down piteously at the man's bloodied corpse and leapt forward to retrieve the knife, throwing himself into the bushes in pursuit of Christine.

He caught up with her just as she neared the clearing where he had concealed two horses. They would ride the horses back to the city, where they would transfer to a carriage. Soon the Comte would be alerted to his wife's disappearance, and then the pursuit would begin. By changing to carriage, their chances of being tracked to their new destination would lessen drastically.

"Patrick?"

Christine's timid and weary voice wavered in the stillness of the night air. Only the sound of hooves beating against the dirt track broke the eerie silence that had descended the moment she and Patrick had set foot within the carriage's stifling confines. He raised his head from its resting place, his green eyes boring into her timid brown ones with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Where exactly are we going?"

He frowned, threading his fingers through his golden curls. "The Persian seems to think that this man of yours –Erik- owns a house outside of the city, well concealed within the forest."

"Erik owns a _house_?" Incredulity sparked within Christine's brown orbs.

"That is what his friend believes."

"But he never said…"

Patrick cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly. "Forgive me for speaking so candidly, Christine, but I doubt I would be wrong is assuming that there is much you do not know about this man."

When Christine failed to supply a response, Patrick allowed his head to thump back softly against the carriage wall, returning his gaze to the country-side that slowly rolled by.

Christine remained silent and spent the remainder of the journey thinking about Erik. Questions ate at her mind like acid, _why did Erik have a house?_

Her mind kept relaying Patrick's words;_ much you do not know about this man… _How much _did_ she really know about Erik?

She knew she loved him. Heart and soul.

It was almost a different world as they continued to venture past the main city's borders and into the Parisian countryside. The unending fields were lush with wheat and interspersed with symmetrical grape vineyards. A few grand chateaus were scattered over the rich soil, owned primarily by wealthy noblemen who desired a residence outside the mixed-class and crowded life of the city. Yet these homes were by no means examples of typical "country" living. These majestic estates were erected from gold and the finest materials, stocked with a household of staff, and encircled with massive tress to guard against common onlookers. The lights from the chateau windows sprinkled in the night sky sporadically like stars.

Suddenly the carriage veered off the road onto a narrow, beaten track. The carriage rocked and jarred dangerously along the unkempt road, causing Christine to clutch onto anything she could to prevent herself from being thrown from her seat.

In the distance sat the faint outline of a darkened estate resting at the end of the winding track, guarded by old and crumbling stone pillars. As the house came into view Christine's heart plummeted. It stood on a hilltop surrounded by woodland; a large and imposing old structure that rose on the horizon, eerily majestic in the night sky – just like the man who owned it. Christine felt her heart trill with excitement and awe – was Erik going to be joining her here?

The carriage came to a halt outside the rusted iron gates, as Patrick peered out at the ominous sight. Swinging the carriage door open forcefully, he helped Christine down the steps and turned to pay the remainder of the fare to the drivers, plus a little extra to buy their silence. They stared at the young woman inquisitively, as she stood rooted to the spot, awe-struck by the regal aura that seemed to exude from the place. As the thumping of the horses' hooves died in the stillness of the night, Patrick placed a comforting hand upon Christine's shoulders, "shall we?"

As they made their way through the rusted iron gates, Christine felt an imperceptible chill race up her spine. Their footsteps crunched across the loose gravel of the driveway, as they came to stand before the old oak doors of the estate manor. Patrick pulled a small metal tool from within his cloak pocket and inserted it into the old brass lock of the door. Grunting with exertion he heaved the heavy wooden doors open, an eerie creak rattling through the night air as he swept cobwebs from his face. Deep red and purple drapes and furnishings were evident under the inch of dust that coated the place, as soft moonlight flooded through a large glass window opposite, bathing the foyer with an eerie silver sheen. Christine sucked in a large breath; it was no where as large or extravagant as the de Chagny mansion, but there was a regal aura to the place. Despite the dust and disarray sprawled before her eyes, it was evident to Christine that this was once a beautiful home. _Why then, had Erik cared so little for it?_

As Patrick explored the lower level, Christine padded softly over to the antique staircase. The stairs creaked and groaned beneath her feet as she made her slow progression towards the landing. Family portraits hung high above on the walls, dusty and cobweb ridden. The stairway split into two landings, rich carpet coated in a thick layer of dust stretched before her as she turned left and continued out across the landing. She paused outside of the first heavy wooden door, turning the blackened brass handle forcefully within her hand. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a magnificent room. A large four-poster bed presided over the room, a settee at its foot, rich rugs laid snugly over polished floorboards. A large, ornate fireplace stood out opposite her, gloomy in the darkness. Dust swirled in spirals in the pale sliver of moonlight that threaded through the musty curtains. Christine sighed to herself, knowing that with a little cleaning, love and care, this room could truly be spectacular. The dark, rich wood of the furniture reminded her of Erik. Everything about this room reminded her of Erik; it seemed to emulate him perfectly. Exiting the room, she quietly closed the door behind her and could hear Patrick rustling around downstairs. After opening several more doors, Christine had so far discovered that an old and beautiful bathroom was located at the far end of the hallway, two smaller bedrooms, which she assumed were for guests, and a beautiful old study filled with shelves of dusty old volumes. Yet of all the doors she had opened, none had revealed anything that even remotely resembled a music room. It seemed this entire house was devoid of the one thing its master esteemed above all; music.

In the study Christine had discovered a cracked and decaying painting, of a striking stone manor set against a beautiful forest backdrop. A small brass plaque ornamented the bottom of the wooden frame, the letters barely distinguishable under the thick layer of grime. She wiped her fine lace cuff across the plaque, scrubbing back some of the dirt to reveal an ornate scripture. Her brown eyes narrowed slightly, as she held the painting up to the moonlight.

_Thornhill Manor._

_Thornhill…_in some distinct way the name suited him; it possessed a rich and regal power within that one word. Everything about this place was dark and mysterious, much the same as the man who owned it…

Erik.

**TBC**

**A/N: No more school! Just awaiting university placements to be issued.**


	24. Chapter 22

**  
Chapter twenty-two.**

Three dark figures, hooded and cloaked, walked swiftly along the side of the looming building, their capes billowing around their ankles from a sudden gust of wind. An ominous figure swathed in black swept to the front of the group; his commanding presence undeniable. He towered over his companions, with broad shoulders and a gaze that stung like fire. He turned his neck to glance further down the way, as they approached the corner of the cracked path, peering out from the inside of his scratchy hood, watching for any tell-tale signs of movement.

Pressing his bruised frame into the stone, he tilted his head slightly in the hood to listen for quiet footsteps, rustling leaves, anything that might betray that they were being followed. He beckoned swiftly to his companions, who joined him shortly. Across the cobbled stone street were the three horses the Persian had secured for transportation, yet the three waited silently with bated breath to discover whether a trap had been set. After several long and anxious moments, Erik swept across the street, seizing the reins of the dark stallion that would bear him to Thornhill. After stroking the soft velvet of the animal's nose reassuringly, Erik leapt upon his mount, beckoning for his companions to follow, as he kicked his horse into a fast trot, weaving in and out of the alleyways to avoid the main streets.

As the horse's hooves beat rhythmically down the cobblestone street, Erik turned his thoughts back to the situation at present. His sharp eyes scanned the neighbourhood for any telltale movements – the flash of clothing, a slight shifting of shadows, the rustling of a bush. The night was still and silent around them, the silver sliver of moonlight barely illuminating their path. As the horses bore them out of the city, Erik hunched down low upon his steed, riding ahead of Nadir and Meg, golden eyes ablaze in the darkness as he lead them down an overgrown and unkempt dirt track that snaked its way away from the main road. Thornhill manor rose like a ghostly silhouette upon the far horizon, and Erik felt his heart beat unsteadily at the thought of what he would find within. _Had Christine escaped? Was she safe? Would she be waiting for him with the warmth of her embrace that he had been denied for so long? _

Only time would tell.

The soft glow of candlelight flickered through the grimy panes of the parlour windows. _Thornhill manor. _Erik's golden gaze lingered on its warm glow, heat spreading throughout his entire body as his heart beat erratically and painfully within his chest. He eased his horse to a walk, pulling the hood of his cloak deeper around his face. The Persian drew his horse to Erik's side, gazing levelly at his friend, who regarded the house with a mixture of disdain and contempt for the life he once lived there, and fear and hope for what he may now find within. Nadir surveyed the stillness of his friend's countenance, his granite-hewn features; hard and chiseled; which if one were to observe only from the left hand side could be deemed handsome, were drawn in some internal war. Erik's brow was so deeply furrowed, that the slant of his eyebrows only enhanced the squareness of his forehead; already made square by the horizontal sweep of his raven-black hair. His gold eyes blazed wildly under his hard gaze.

"Erik," Nadir's deep voice cut the suffocating silence of the night air, as he turned his head within his cloak to ensure that Meg had arrived behind him. He lowered his voice. "We should not linger. If Monsieur Raynaud did indeed succeed in acquiring Christine, it is imperative that we hasten our departure - for Madame Giry's sake. "

Erik's gaze hardened imperceptibly, as he flung one booted leg over the saddle of his horse, and landing with a soft thud; the loose gravel of the driveway crunching under his weight. His sharp eyes remained riveted on the heavy oak door that stood as a barrier between him and fate. The Persian stepped forth to assist Meg in demounting her horse, as she, too, stared awe-struck at the regal aura exuded by the old manor.

Erik stood tall and erect before the heavy wooden door, his breath hissing softly in the night air. He extended his right hand towards the blackened brass handle of the door, squeezing the metal in a death-like grip as he ever so slowly turned it within his palm. The mechanism clicked open, sending chills racing down Erik's spine.

_Foolish boy! He did not lock the door – his incompetence and stupidity could have cost Christine her life! _

He crossed the threshold of the door-way as silent as a wraith, his cloak whispering ever so slightly across the surface of the marble tiles. A small sphere of soft candlelight flooded through the parlour door, causing Erik to halt in his advance. A young man, no more than thirty, sat within the parlour; dressed in black trousers, his white shirt hanging from his lean, muscled frame, and his young, boyish face perfectly shaved. He sat with his legs crossed; one booted foot balancing atop the other knee as he stared intently into the empty grate of the fireplace, his blonde curls falling haphazardly into his intense green eyes. Erik felt the snake of jealousy coil around his heart, the beat of it own thundering throughout his ears. He felt his blood curdle. 

Without hesitation he advanced on the man, tearing the Punjab lasso from its place of concealment at his hip, and with a quick flick of his wrist, he whipped the rope about Patrick's neck and pulled it taught, forcing the young man to his knees. Patrick gasped with shock and horror as he beheld the face of the man that stood before him. He paused in disbelief, his mouth gaping in mute astonishment as the creature snarled, choking the rope tighter. The dark angel fixed him with an icy glare, his cold eyes snapping in bitter irony.

"You should learn to bolt the front door, monsieur. I could have been anyone!" He loosed his death grip upon Patrick's throat a little, allowing the man to breathe. The Persian and Meg entered the house behind him, hooded and cloaked. The young girl gasped with horror as she beheld the scene before her. She was about to run to Patrick's side, before a firm hand from Nadir placated her, holding her back.

"Erik!" The Persian snapped harshly. "Unhand him!"

Erik glanced momentarily over his shoulder, before his eyes flicked back to Patrick's choking form. "You are lucky, monsieur, that I did not come here to kill you. Now, tell me - where is Christine!"

XxXxXxX

The sound of a loud commotion downstairs startled Christine from her silent reverie, as she sat morose and subdued within the room she had affectionately deemed as Erik's chambers. Voices from the parlour grew louder in intensity and anger, and she felt her heart skip a beat and her stomach plummet away. The sound of a deep, rich voice boomed throughout the downstairs quarters, filtering through the heavy wooden door. _Could it be? Erik…?! _

"Erik," she breathed. Suddenly, as if the single word was a prayer for his deliverance, she flung the chamber door open; rushing down the hallway where she flew to the banister, gripping the railing so tightly within her little pale hands, her knuckles shone pearly white like bone. Through the dim light of the parlour, it was difficult to make out any clear distinction of the three figures that loomed in the entryway; hooded and cloaked; one of whom was making increasingly angrier and louder demands of Patrick, whilst the other spoke to his companion; his voice low and deep in an effort to calm him. Erik's appearance was the picture of a man consumed with anger and desperation – his body was rigid, his raven hair wild beneath his cloak; his countenance burning like fire. He grit his teeth together tightly and took short, shallow breath in an effort to contain the frenzied ire that grew steadily inside him. 

"Where is Christine!"

Christine felt an involuntary chill race up her spine, as she once again caught the rich timbre of a man's voice which belonged, undeniably, to her angel.

The tall man growled and stepped forward.

"Erik!"

Erik started at the sound of his name and glanced up at the woman upon the stairs. His hood fell away, revealing his unmasked, macabre face.

"Christine," he murmured under his breath.

The young woman flew down the stairs and threw herself into his arms, the impact so forceful that Erik staggered back to maintain his balance. Her hands fisted around his torn shirt fabric as she sobbed against his chest.

His bruised and battered arms enveloped her, ignoring the pain jarring his ribs as he crushed her thin form against him in a long awaited embrace.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her lips to his face again and again. "Thank God!" she sobbed into his neck. "You are alive, and you are safe! Oh God, I was so afraid that-"

Erik's mouth quickly came down upon hers, silencing her words with a hard kiss that had behind it all of his own fear and fury he had suffered in their time apart.

With green eyes alight and wary, Patrick watched the scene unfold with incredulity. _So this was the man for whom Christine, and through her – he, had risked his life for? The man who had threatened his life mere moments ago? _Morbid fascination ensured the fixation of his steady gaze upon the two lovers, as he saw with a sickening clarity, the horror of Erik's abhorrent, twisted features. Yet she embraced him, with a warmness and tenderness that seemed beyond all earthly bounds. Meg had thrown herself into his embrace the moment her eyes had sought him out in the gloom of the parlour, yet his eyes had remained intently fixated on the newly reanimated Christine, as he watched her over Meg's shoulder. He saw new life breathe into her, and she came to life beneath the passionate ministrations of her former teacher.

The Persian caught his eye, beckoning he and Meg to quit the parlour, where Erik and Christine may rejoice in their reunion without the presence of prying eyes. Victory was not yet fully theirs, not while Madame Giry remained incarcerated, but as for Erik and his ingénue; fate had seen them suffer more than they ought to – now was their time to salvage what little peace they could, to grasp at what little happiness and relief their situations had afforded them.**  
**  
Engulfing her arms around his waist, Christine pinned her tear-stained cheek against Erik's own. He closed his eyes and pressed the unscathed portion of his face fervently against her, dwelling in the indescribable sensation of flesh against flesh. As she lifted a hand to cradle his opposite cheek, he swiftly turned his head to capture her palm with his lips. Christine united his lips passionately with her own, a small cry escaping her mouth at the realization that she had not lost her beloved angel. More than anything he wanted to wrap her in his arms and tell her all would be fine, but he could not do that, even if it was the truth. Before she could tell him how much she loved him, he pressed a finger softly to her lips.

"Hush, mon amour… I am here now."

Gently, he replaced his finger with his lips, softly claiming hers in a sweet kiss that seemed to cleanse his very soul. How was it that one kiss could wash away all the pain he had endured? One kiss could make him forget… make him feel… make him human. A soft moan grew at the back of Christine's throat, as she sighed in pleasure, snaking her arms about his neck and drawing him closer, drawing him inwards. Hesitantly, Erik allowed the tip of his tongue to run along the bottom of her lower lip, begging for entrance. She eagerly complied, pressing her body firmly against him in her need to reassure herself that this was indeed, real. She tore her mouth away from his, her breathing low and ragged.

"Oh God, Erik! I thought I lost you!" She pressed feverish kisses across the marred side of his face and along his jaw line, returned to his mouth where she eagerly delved inside, her hands balled in fists as she tugged desperately at the ragged material of his shirt.

"I love you, I love you! Oh, God… Erik, I love you so much!"

His eyes flew open at her unbridled and unrestrained passion, his entire face clinching with the overwhelming emotions that consumed him. He had almost given up… almost lost the one thing that meant the world to him. Inside, his heart was breaking.

He threaded his fingers into her hair, pulled her mouth to his and kissed her so deeply, every nerve in his body trembled with energy. Finally, he felt her relax against him and sigh, her lips moving against his neck.

"I have missed you so much," she murmured.

"And I you." He buried his face in her brown curls and rested there, knowing there would never be another peace as complete as this. It was with great reluctance that he pulled away, resting his forehead gently against her own so that he could look her deeply in the eyes. "And the Comte… did he hurt you?"

Scenes from her imprisonment in the de Chagny estate swept across her mind's eye, causing her eyes to mist over with barely suppressed tears. She shook her head defiantly, trying to place as much truth and conviction as she could manage in that one syllable. "No."

Erik detected the slight waver in her tone and was unconvinced. He placed two fingers beneath her chin and brought her watery gaze to meet his. "Tell me." It was then that he noticed the ugly red marks that spattered her wrists and forearms. So consumed was he by his passion for her, that he had not noticed, however blatantly obvious it was.

"What is this?" he growled sharply, grasping her wrist firmly, but gently.

"Nothing!" She tried to pull from his grasp.

"Nothing?! Tell me, Christine."

"I-" she sucked in a deep breath. "I tried to escape..."

"And?"

"I broke through the window and cut myself. That is all."

"No…" he pulled her gaze to his again. "That's not all, is it?"

"That's it, I swear!"

"Don't lie to me, Christine! Tell me what he did to you!"

Christine's eyes clouded with fear at the fierceness of Erik's gaze, a gaze that stung like fire. _He would KILL Raoul if he knew! _"Please Erik…," she whimpered into the ragged folds of his shirt. "You can't go after him. I'll not have you lying dead at my feet after so long without you."

Erik felt an internal war rage within him. His sheer want of revenge against the Comte curdled his blood and seeped within the very pit of his stomach. Yet his love for his beloved angel clenched around his heart, willing him to stay and protect her. For the time being his heart won out, swearing that he would exact his revenge upon the foolish boy when he was least expecting it. Revenge, after all, was a dish best served cold. He sighed into her hair, "you _will_ tell me, Christine." It was not a request, but a command. The Comte would pay for all he had done, and seeing the fear that shone from his beloved's eyes, he knew the boy had committed grave atrocities against his _wife._

_Wife._ The word chilled him to the core, refueling his anger and hatred towards the boy. _Christine is still his wife! _

But she belongs to ME! 

He pulled away from her.

"What's wrong?" Christine's brows furrowed in confusion.

"I… I need to bathe." He suddenly sounded exhausted, and his demeanor was one of defeat. Slowly he clambered up the stairs, wincing as the broken bones crunched painfully with each step. Christine watched from the foot of the stairs, confusion and hurt splayed across her face at his sudden abruptness. _Oh God, what happened to him? _

XxXxXxX 

"Erik?"

No answer. Christine knocked again. "Erik, it's me."

"Come in."

A rush of hot air and steam flooded out when she opened the door and she squinted inside, peering into the fog. Erik was there in the bathtub, head tilted and eyes closed, his arms resting on the metal sides. His bony shoulders and back were spattered with ugly bruises and cuts, some of them red and angry from neglect. Christine winced as she noticed some of his ribs jutted out at odd angles. There was no doubt that several of them were broken. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hugged the towels to her and stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind her.

"Erik?" she whispered, settling on her knees at his side. His arms rested on the metal sides of the tub, and Christine felt a sharp jolt of pain and horror as she noticed his left hand for the first time.

"Oh Erik, what did he do to you?" she whispered sorrowfully.

His eyes cracked open as she gently took the hand cradled at his side. Her fingers gently wrapped around his broken ones and she lifted them to her lips. A lone tear trickled from the corner of her eye and fell upon his crooked hand, searing a path across his raw skin.

He carefully extracted it from her grasp and turned from her, his mouth pursing thinly. "Nothing that should concern you, my angel," he snapped.

Christine lowered her head. "Erik… please allow me to work on your hand," she whispered quietly. "I have seen many dislocated and broken bones in my time at the opera. If I do not straighten the bones, you may never be able to use your hand again."

Erik knew Christine was right, but he loathed how helpless he felt. He had never had anyone to care for him in the entirety of his life. It was something he was unaccustomed to… he did not like feeling so dependant. Reluctantly he held his hand out to Christine, where she took it and pressed a faint kiss to his palm.

"Thank you."

Christine left the bathroom the gather her supplies. Ice from the ice box, a leather strap, bandages and several small splints, and carried them upstairs. Erik was waiting patiently for her when she arrived.

"You know this is going to hurt…"

"I am no stranger to pain, Christine, just get on with it."

Christine handed him the leather strap to bite down on, and allowed his fingers to numb somewhat in the ice. Finally she set to work, her nimble fingers determining the positions of the bones in his thumb. With a sickening crack that sent shivers racing down her spine, Christine thrust the first joint back into place. Erik's grunts of pain were muffled against the leather strap, yet her stomach clenched painfully at the excruciating pain she was causing him. "Forgive me," she whispered, before cracking the second bone into place.

This continued for the following half hour, until all the bones in Erik's fingers had been realigned, strapped to splints and bandaged. She took the strap from his mouth and ran a loving hand across the marred side of his cheek. Perspiration ran in rivulets down his forehead, where she brought a cool cloth to wipe the dirt and grime from his face.

"I'm sorry."

'You did what you had to," Erik panted, "Do not apologize."

XxXxXxX

When Christine returned to the bathroom, she found that Erik had wandered to his bedchambers. Christine still could not believe that this entire house, _Thornhill,_ had belonged to Erik, and yet he had never sought to use it. When she arrived in the doorway of the room he had already discovered a set of clothing and mask preciously stowed away in the closet, and was busy struggling through a row of buttons on his crisp, white shirt. He had yet to replace a mask upon his ravaged features. Christine smiled at his unusual carelessness.

"Damned things," he muttered in frustration, forgoing the top two collar buttons and folding up the cuffs over his slender wrists.

Christine's eyes swept over his ill-fitted clothing with concern. "I did not think it was possible for you to be any thinner, Erik. You've lost a considerable amount of weight."

"You would too, if you were imprisoned within an asylum for two months!" He snapped harshly.

Christine caught her lip between her teeth, mentally chiding herself for her blunder.

Erik sighed and held out his hand to her. She eagerly complied and was swept into his arms. He pressed a kiss upon the top of her unruly curls, breathing in her scent. "Forgive me, mon ange."

Christine nodded silently, feeling the tears threaten to wash down her cheeks once more. "Erik?"

"Mmm?"

"What has become of Monsieur Khan, Patrick, Meg and Madame Giry?"

"Nadir discovered that Antoinette was imprisoned in Paris. He, Monsieur Raynaud and Mademoiselle Giry set out immediately to free her. I daresay, having learned that they are indeed quite a formidable team, that it shan't be long before the entire party is joining us here at Thornhill." He stroked her flaxen curls softly as he relayed this information to her, wondering at their silkiness.

She nuzzled his neck. "Erik?"

"Mmm?"

"Will we really be safe here?"

He pulled back from her slightly with surprise, gently lifting her chin to meet her eyes. "Of course we will, mon ange, I won't let anybody hurt you."

"But what about London? Your career? The life that you built for yourself… Raoul has taken it all away!"

"No," He grasped her shoulders forcefully, his golden eyes searing her skin with his penetrating gaze. "He hasn't taken it all away! Don't you see, Christine? I can compose anywhere…. But my life, my _home_… is with you."

The thumb of his good hand softly stroked her pale cheek, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"You came back to me, my little songbird. Nothing else matters."

Her breath stilled within her chest.

"Kiss me, Erik."

He stared at her in surprise before his gaze softened and he leant down to capture her lips in a sweet kiss. She reveled in the feel of his soft lips moving against her own, and her arms instinctively encircled his waist, careful not to place pressure on the few broken ribs.

Erik gently pulled his face away from hers, and swallowed hard, looking first to her eyes before his gaze fell to her mouth. He brought his hand to her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip as he watched it quiver beneath his touch. His own lips parted; doubt and joy warring inside him with the overwhelming need to claim her.

Every ounce of restraint lost, he gave into his growing desire and captured her lips in a blistering kiss. He moaned into her, as his tongue once more entered and was greeted with equal fervor. In a tidal wave of emotion and desire, she fell back against the settee, his body leaning over hers as he held her as a drowning man clings to a single piece of floating wreckage. To lose her now would certainly be the death of him, and it had almost been too late. So much time… they had already wasted so much time ensnared by guilt and doubt. The walls had come crashing down. She loved him, craved him, _needed_ him. It was all he ever wanted, and he was powerless to resist her. He pulled back from her face and stared at her, his golden eyes ablaze with a passionate fire so intense, she thought she would surely burn under his gaze. His passionate, dominating control was overwhelming, and she succumbed. Tasting, joining, and loving as they became lost in one another.

He broke their kiss and she whimpered at the loss. "Oh mon amour… if I should die now, I would die a happy man…" For several long moments he held her face before him, drinking in the emotion he saw in her eyes. She looked on him as a lover; a woman in need of him and his love. "I l-love you Christine… mon ange… I have been such a fool, about so many things. Forgive me… Forgive your poor Erik."

"Hush now. There is _nothing_ to forgive." Exposed and vulnerable, he could only hold his breath as she tenderly pressed her hand to his ravaged features, caressing the crags and twists that stretched across the entire right side of his face. And then her mouth fervently traced the paths her fingers had laid upon his sensitive skin, banishing the sorrow from his stricken soul with her gentle touch.

His eyes blinked shut, his entire face clinching as if determined to close his senses off from the entire world and focus solely on the beautiful creature that cradled his face so lovingly. Inside, his heart was breaking.

Erik stood up, pulling Christine with him. He gathered the light material of her chemise in his hands. Pausing for a moment, his eyes locked upon hers, seeking her approval. She nodded. He slid the thin white cotton from her small frame and drew her to him. Her body was perfect… soft, warm, and beautifully flawed in ways that made her all the more real to his touch. Every single inch of her was at once familiar and foreign. The dim light from the candle flickered off a dull metal object hung about his beloved's neck, moving with the rise and fall of her chest. Erik's fierce gaze was drawn immediately to it, his heart clenching painfully within his chest.

Recognition flooded through his being and his eyes widened a little with shock and disbelief. _No… it couldn't be…_ Christine followed his gaze, her eyes fixed upon his face, desperately trying to discern some sort of reaction from her angel. His eyes rose to meet hers, and she nodded almost imperceptibly, her fingers slowly entwining with the gold metal band that had hung secretly about her neck for what seemed an age; a secret longing to come out.

"You kept my…" His voice shook with barely suppressed emotion, and Christine felt her heart break a little at the helpless look of disbelief and adoration that filled his eyes.

Slowly his thin fingers skimmed the soft skin of her arms, traveling up over her shoulders and tracing the outline of her collarbone. One lone finger traced its way down her neck, tenderly encircling the wedding band he had given Christine all those years ago. He stroked the pliant metal lovingly, so many unnamed emotions swelling within his chest. Christine's pale fingers encircled his own, lifting the ring from its secret hiding place, its chain trailing a burning line up her neck as she removed it from her person. His hands folded gently atop hers, pulling the ring from the chain and gazing at her lovingly.

"You kept the ring… w-why?" His voice choked with emotion.

She stared into his loving gaze, wonderment and adoration pouring forth with his smouldering golden eyes. "Because I never forgot you… I never stopped loving you…" She hesitated, "I just took me a little longer to realize it… and the day I came back for you is the day I was told you were dead."

Silent tears spilled down her cheeks and her brow furrowed in despair. "It's you. It's _always_ been you! And… I thought I had lost you!"

He took the ring from her, pushing the metal band onto her finger with sheer determination. "Never," he whispered possessively. He brought her hand to his lips where he pressed a faint kiss to her knuckles, skimming over her silky skin with revere. "I will never leave you."

Slowly, he laced his fingers through hers, falling to his knees as Christine pulled him down with her onto their bed. Her hands skimmed up his legs and torso, freeing his shirt that he had struggled with so hard to put on from its confines, and lifting the silken material from his body. Tossing it aside, she pressed her mouth to his naked flesh and tenderly kissed each of the criss-crossed marks upon his skin, trying to heal wounds that had long ago scarred. He shivered violently.

"Erik," she breathed, as he hovered above her.

He kissed her forehead tenderly, and clasped her hand within his. "I have been a monster all my life, Christine." Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, making her heart race wildly within her breast. "Nobody has ever loved me, not even my own mother – no, let me finish. But you, you came to me… a beacon of light in my darkness, and gave me hope. Hope that I… that I could be loved. That I could be saved… that I could live as a _normal_ man…" He took a long, shuddering breath. "I love you Christine, with all that I am. Everything I am is yours. All I ask of you is to make me human again. If you could accomplish this one thing, Christine, then I swear that I will live every day of my life for you…" Erik's eyes met hers, apprehensive and entreating her to answer.

Christine found that she could not speak, for she was certain that if she opened her mouth, she would weep and never cease. He loved her. He _loved_ her… and she needed him. They were like two sides of the same coin; bound by music, their souls had fused together the moment their voices had risen as one. He was hers, and she was his. Everything she was belonged to him; heart, mind, soul, and finally… body. Gently she took Erik's face in her hands and kissed it over and over… his sunken cheeks, twisting flesh and deformed nose… until love gave way to longings so furious, they could only glory in their joys and sorrows. The reality of their union was no longer a distant thought – some unspoken ideal dreamed of but never attained. Time seemed to cease altogether as they became a single soul, a fact that had always been true yet never consummated. To feel the bareness of each other's skin, the life of each other's breath, and every movement of each other's bodies – was a sensation beyond measured time or comparison. And when the fires abated and blood once more stilled, Erik wrapped his arms around Christine's trembling form, where she laid her cheek against his chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart; _a sound that held hope._

Erik kissed her forehead and pressed his lips to the top of her curls, breathing in her heavenly scent as they lay entwined beneath the sheets. "I love you, Christine."

She smiled contently in the darkness, closing her eyes and welcoming the blissfulness of sleep.

_Yes, it was a sound that held hope. It was a sound that held… a _future

* * *

**A/N: Hmm... where have all my faithful readers gone? Are you still out there:(**


	25. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-three.**

The moon had settled low above the horizon, breathing its silver sheen down gently upon the Parisian country-side. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains, breathing life through the darkened passageways of Thornhill manor. But even in the darkness of the bedchamber he could see her, her pale shoulders moving with the rise and fall of each breath, her mussed curls splayed seductively across his chest. Christine lay asleep against his chest, her cheek pressed against him, her breath fluttering over the scars rippling his skin. Her right arm was thrown protectively around his stomach, and her right leg was entwined rather intimately with him.

Sleep would not come to Erik. He held his Angel possessively throughout the night, guarding her as if the demons torturing his thoughts would reach out and rip her from his life forever. He watched every small movement of her body with fierce yellow eyes.

Admittedly, he was exhausted. Sleep beckoned him to her side, wrapping dark tentacles around his mind, calling him into her oblivion; she was a dangerously clever mistress. He blinked his eyes slowly, settling his gaze upon his angel's form. He was too afraid to move, too afraid that the beautiful creature that lay cradled in his arms would prove no more than an apparition, and he would further be condemned to the darkest hell he had ever known. The places where her body touched his burned like fire. How many times had he had this dream? How many times had he envisioned her, the very picture of perfection, draped lovingly across his body as she slept, her lips curved in a knowing smile? How many times had that warmth been cruelly torn from him as he had awakened to the emptiness of his life, of his reality? Erik shuddered. The last two months had been a torment like he had never known; he had envisioned her often, always the same, her loving eyes gazing upon his grotesqueness with nothing but adoration… and acceptance. But the vision always ended, torn from his mind by the cruel realities of day.

He heard Christine sigh against him, shifting slightly. His eyes raked across her skin, before he finally allowed them to settle and fall close. As though sensing his disturbed thoughts, Christine's arm tightened around his midsection. She inhaled deeply, the scent of his skin filling and comforting her.

He lifted his head to see her sleep filled eyes peer up at him briefly through her lashes. Gently, he ran the fingers in his right hand through her beautiful chocolate tresses… it felt like Heaven against his skin.

_It had all been real… she was his… _

Christine inhaled his masculine scent once more, pressing his lips softly against his chest and she snuggled closer, instinctively towards the warmth of his body. 

Erik closed his eyes. _This was no dream. _

XxXxXxX 

Morning dawned clear and bright over Thornhill manor. A pale stream of morning light filtered into the room, the heavy curtains having been drawn back from the windows, and settling of the tangled form of two figures; so intertwined it was difficult to distinguish them. Erik ran his long white fingers over the soft contours of Christine's face, tracing the line of her jaw, brushing feather-light caresses over her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her lips; all the while drinking in the beauty of his angel, where the soft sun of morning shone upon her fair skin. Sighing deeply, Christine drew the sheet up over her shoulders and snuggled further into the softness of the bed in search of a return to sleep. It was only as she attempted to focus once again on sleep that her senses naturally began to awaken. She stirred from her slumber, her eyes peeping open to reveal those beautiful chocolate orbs Erik adored so much. She smiled up at him.

"Mmm, what are you staring at monsieur?" She murmured softly, closing her eyes again and enjoying the feel of his light caress.

His hand stilled on her cheek, where his thumb stroked the soft velvet of her skin. "Words cannot possibly surmise. Though I venture to say only the most beautiful creature on earth." He tilted her chin up to his and gave her a soft kiss on the lips.

Christine stirred beneath his gentle ministrations, snaking her leg over his. His heartbeat quickened as that all too familiar ache tugged within him. The arm, which lay draped across his chest, constricted, squeezing him to her chest in a reassuring embrace.

"Mmm, what was that for?" He asked.

"For loving me… I still can't believe that you're real, that we are here – together, after so much time apart."

Her lips purred against the base of his throat where her mouth rested. She watched him as his musician fingers danced and skimmed across her soft skin, exploring her body in the morning light. She captured his roaming hand within her own, where she brought his pale, yet muscular hand to her lips, reverently placing small kisses upon his knuckles. As her lips brushed over his bruised skin, her gaze upon Erik's beautiful and grotesque features was unwavering.

He stared at her in wonderment, his fierce yellow eyes melting into a warm shade of molten gold; a liquid amber. He smiled as he leant down to capture her lips in a deep kiss, where he ran his tongue softly along the edge of her lower lip, seeking entrance. She accented and he delighted in delving deep within her, tasting her, eliciting a moan that seemed to reverberate from the deep recesses of her body. He smiled in dark satisfaction, pulling away slightly to gaze upon his angel. "I love you, Christine."

"I love you too, Erik. I can't believe how much time we have wasted… or how I could have ever thought I could live without you." She rested her cheek against the scarred planes of his chest, breathing in his masculine scent, her eyes wide and fearful. When she finally ventured to speak, her words trembled from her lips in a breathy whisper. "D-do you really think there's a chance for us, Erik?"

His hand paused atop her head; his heart wrenching within his chest. He said nothing as long moments of silence settled between them. The mere thought of a future without her left him breathless. How could one be forced back into the darkness, when gifted with a taste of heaven? When his slightly trembling hand finally returned to its caressing, her eyes fell shut. Some questions were far too painful for words. They were both caught up in a dangerous game, where one slip could see them both condemned to a life of torment. He felt tears spring, unbidden, to his eyes. Erik clenched them painfully, wrapping his right arm around her bare shoulders, and tugging her small frame to his possessively.

"I let you go once, mon ange, I will not allow that to happen again so long as I draw breath. You are _mine!_" He growled.

She pressed a tear-stained cheek against his flesh, seeking out the rhythmic beat of his heart that offered her so much comfort. _She wished it were true. _He was so solid beneath her. So solid, so real, and so safe. She closed her eyes, softly stroking the small wisp of hair that spattered his chest. She nudged her face against his ribs and felt him flinch.

Christine caught her lip between her teeth and pulled away from his embrace, wrapping the sheet around her slender frame. "Oh, I'm sorry Erik…" she cried softly, inspecting the large bruises that flourished across his ribs. Suddenly she was struck with a deep sense of mortification. She had slept on him, with her full weight pressing down on his cracked rib all night long! Erik smirked a little as she jumped away from him, horrified. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, and reached for her hand.

"Do not concern yourself with me, mon ange, I have suffered a great deal more in my life. Besides," he cocked his head slightly, a wicked grin curling the corners of his mouth. "I happen to be blessed with _amazing_ stamina."

He watched with amusement as she quickly averted her gaze, a slight pink colouration washing over her cheeks and skin. He loved her innocence; her modesty. Her eyes roamed the room, taking in every square inch of detail. In the three days of Erik's absence from Thornhill manor, Christine had occupied herself with cleaning the main rooms on the second storey. She smiled to herself. After all her cleaning, the chamber really did look remarkable… old, but majestic… _historical._ A sudden thought struck her mind.

"Erik?" she murmured, turning her ardent gaze upon his grossly disfigured visage. His golden eyes stared back at her, his gaze never wavering in its intensity. An involuntary shudder ran the length of her spine; she always felt he was studying her.

"Yes."

Her fingertips traced the creases in his upturned palm. "What is this place? Monsieur Khan said that it belongs to you?"

He did not answer right away. Christine's fingers continued their stroking motion along his bruised skin as he contemplated an answer.

"Indirectly… yes."

"Indirectly… I don't understand."

He sighed heavily, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before resting his chin upon it and smoothing his hand over her haphazard curls.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. You have known great tragedy, mon ange, but you remain so young, so naïve to the atrocities and depravities this world has to offer." His hand stilled upon her curls, as he breathed deeply, his grip upon her shoulder inadvertently tightening. "I think the time has come, Christine, to tell you of my past… who I _really _am." His eyes became distant, despite being keenly aware of her presence beside him, her hand now lovingly stroking the marred flesh of his right cheek.

Christine could scarcely believe what she was hearing; Erik was trying to open up to her… to share the ghosts forever haunting his darkened mind. She had always hoped… but never did she actually think she could convince Erik to trust her enough to share his innermost thoughts with her…

"I suppose it all began with my mother. She was a malevolent woman; cold, callous, and cruel, and she loathed me almost as much as I loathed her. From the moment I was born, she cursed me – she could not even look upon the face of her son, so disgusted was she by my… appearance."

He paused, then finding strength in the acceptance Christine granted, he unburdened himself for the first time, confessing the horrors that made up his childhood. "There was a young woman who would visit with my mother; she was a friend of sorts and the only person apart from Father Mansart who treated me with a scrap of kindness and dignity. 'Marie' was her name, and she took pity on me – bringing me all manner of books and intricate toys to wile away the dark hours when I was kept, locked up like an animal within the attic. She told me once, frustrated and angered by my mother's latest antics, that her friend would not allow herself to think beyond the possibility of caring for some 'mindless animal'.

You see, my mother was a selfish being by nature; spoilt, pampered and doted on as a child. The only daughter of foolish old parents, her every whim and desire had been indulged. My mother would constantly retaliate against Marie's disgusted reprimands, screaming angrily that 'her child was a hideous monster,' and somehow the thought that I might be exceptional in any other way only filled her with terror."

His eyes darkened as he gazed out across the room, suddenly overcome with an anger and hatred he had not felt for years. "She quickly found that she could not _beat_ me into submission, though she often attempted to do so. I had a 'will of iron,' which she could not bend, and a spectacular temper which frequently reduced her to violence. You can't understand the horror and humiliation, Christine, of having a mother who could not look upon her only flesh and blood without abhorration. You had the tender care of a father and mother that showered you with kisses and taught you how to open your heart to others. My mother gave me a cold mask and a lifetime of enduring pain."

"Oh Erik." Christine whispered sadly. She kissed his upturned palm and held it to her cheek. "What of your father?"

"_My father_?" a silent, humorless laugh escaped his twisted lips. "My father was monsieur Charles Deverall. This," he said, with a wide sweeping arm, "was his estate. As you are probably guessing, my mother and he were unmarried. A fleeting summer romance in Rouen had seen to my conception…" He smiled in irony. "I am the bastard son of a rich nobleman.

Apparently my presence, locked away in the attic grew too tiresome for my mother to tolerate. I was still a young boy when she sought out my father, who was until this stage completely unaware of my existence. Much to his relief, I am sure. Oh, my mother wished me dead for years, hoping that one night God would forgive her the wickedness of her past life, and relieve her of her burden. She brought me here, to my father's estate. As you can imagine, he would not own me. He exclaimed that it was abhorrent – a depravity even – that he could be thought to have sired such a hideous _creature_." Erik clenched his eyes against the overwhelm pain these childhood memories stirred within him. "I will remember that day as long as I live. He refused to support my mother, and furthermore, he turned us from his house."

"That's awful."

Erik turned his head,"Charles died several years back, unmarried and _childless… _Yet I remained; his deformed, bastard son. How he lived I know not. But perhaps his conscience ate away at his mind through those long, empty years, for in one last grasp at what I suppose to be redemption he bequeathed the entirety of his estate to me."

Erik laughed bitterly.

"Naturally I declined accepting any title, having at this time inhabited the cellars of the Opera House for several years. Since he would not own me I refused the name of 'Deverall', opting instead for, and adopting the name 'Deveraux'. However, I returned once to this estate; only to dismiss the household servants and close the gates on Thornhill forever."

His eyes grew dark, the fierce yellow fading to a dull amber as he stared of toward the open window.

Christine had listened quietly, her chocolate orbs slowly filling with tears. "I cannot believe that anyone could be so cruel…" She finally spoke, at length. "…especially to their own _son." _

She buried her head within his chest. "Oh Erik, I cannot take away the pain of the past, though I wish I could heal the scars on your soul." She clasped his hand once more. "What your parents did was unforgivable." 

Tears immediately threatened to spill over her eyes, but she fought them back. Erik did not need her tears. He needed her love, and her acceptance.

She leaned in hesitantly, softly kissing his jawline and his mottled cheek, before pressing her lips gently to his. She felt him stiffen, and then relax under her gentle ministrations, calling him back from the dark and dangerous recesses of his black mind. Erik intensified the pressure, slipping a hand around her back. Their mouths caressed one another for several moments when Erik broke from her, breathing deeply as he gently massaged the soft skin of her shoulders. His fierce yellow eyes stared into her own swimming orbs, boring into the depths of her soul.

"_You _are all I need, Christine." He growled darkly, drawing her mouth to his own again. "The rest of the world be damned…"

Needing the reassurance and acceptance that only Christine could give, he wrapped his arms even tighter around her slight frame, vanquishing every square inch of air between them. Breaking their heated kiss for want of air, Erik immediately captured her roaming hand and brought it to his lips, his stormy eyes settling upon the gold band that clung to the fourth finger of her left hand. _She would be his! _He marveled at how small her pale hands looked within his, and yet how they seemed to fit perfectly together. Like one.

The tender look that softened Erik's eyes called out to Christine's soul, and she wept internally for all the torment and loneliness he had endured at the hands of the world. He was a genius, and had he been born with a face that mirrored the strikingly handsome visage of the left-hand side, he would have been celebrated amongst men, instead of shunned by them. Christine unconsciously clasped Erik's hand tighter. He frowned slightly at the sudden pressure.

"Erik, I still don't understand…" Christine's voice broke the silence that had descended between the two. "Why did you never seek to use Thornhill? Why shut yourself off from the world and condemn yourself to a life of solitude, when a life above ground was yours for the taking?"

"You must understand, Christine that I do not have happy memories of this place. Besides my mother's house, this is the place where I was scarred and humiliated the most – made to feel like no child should be forced to feel. Granted, it was the gypsies who tormented and abused me physically; vile creatures that they are. I suffered some of the worst atrocities known to mankind at their ruthless hands. I proved quite an attraction for their traveling fair. The Devil's Child… they called me. Crowds paid handsomely just to get a glimpse of my hideous visage. Day after day I was thrown before the gawking masses, abuse spat at me from beyond the confines of my cage… my prison. When the laughter and scorn became too much to bear, I would resist… but my captors had methods of making me… somewhat less _subversive_."

A small gasp escaped Christine's lips.

"Yet beyond the memories haunting this place, something else bound me to that opera house."

"What was that?" She whispered quietly, tears spilling down her cheeks. She pressed her tear-stained cheek against his chest, just above his heart. The familiar rhythmic thump comforted her.

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Your naivety amazes me Christine. It was _you._ You captivated me. I first saw you, when you were just a child… in the chapel. Do you remember what you called me then, Christine?"

"The Voice," she whispered with a soft, sad smile. "My Angel of Music."

"Yes."

He thought back to the moment he first saw her. He was a young man at the time, and she merely a child, sad and frightened. He remembered that unmistakable look in her eyes, that emotion that called out to him, speaking to the overwhelming emptiness within his own heart; she too was lonely. He had loved her then, furiously, passionately, eternally. It had seemed as though God had finally gifted him one mercy in life – the possibility of love. From that moment on, she became as intrinsic to his survival as breathing. Looking at her now, her wide tear-stained eyes gazing upon him sorrowfully, he couldn't help but feel it was fated that they would inevitably end up here, in each other's arms.

"I knew that once I saw you, I could never leave you. And so it is, even now, to this very day." He kissed the top of her unruly curls

Christine settled once more within his arms, pressing faint kisses to the multitude of scars that criss-crossed the broad planes of his chest; careful not to miss a single one. He sighed and hissed softly as he drew her deeper into his arms, pulling her lithe body against his sturdy frame.

There was a long moment where neither dared speak, and a heavy silence settled between them. Tentatively Christine ventured to speak.

"Erik, I did not think that you would ever let me in." She rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I feared that you would close off that section of your heart to me; claim one small piece for yourself where you may harbour all your darkest thoughts and desires out of reach." Her small fingers dug unconsciously into the taught flesh of his shoulder while she spoke, leaving small half-crescent imprints on his firm skin.

"I feared we would not be equal, for I have given you _all _my heart, and as much soul…"

Erik mulled over her words silently, feeling his fierce grip upon her shoulders soften. He knew she was right. As minutes passed in silence, he could not help but wonder… how would Christine respond to the _real_ horrors of his past? She knew he was a murderer; the deaths of Piangi and Buquet had seen to that truth beyond dispute. So how then, could such a small, innocent creature find the capacity to forgive, and perhaps more importantly _accept _a history such as his?

He shook his head bitterly; he already knew the answer to _that _question.

She wouldn't. _She couldn't. _

She had run from him before. 

"Erik?" She asked tentatively. Her hand stilled in its movements across his chest. Her small fingers suddenly prying at the silky folds of the sheet, as she twirled the material within her hands. He could tell she was anxious.

Erik felt an involuntary chill race up the length of his spine, causing him to shudder. He clenched his eyes painfully, willing the sudden erratic beating of his heart to calm; the blood pounding in his ears was drowning out all other sound.

This was it.

"Erik, tell me about Persia…"

Those few words broke his heart.

He shook his head mutely, feeling as though his heart had torn in two. "No."

_Why Persia? Why must it ALWAYS come back to Persia?!_

"No?"

"No."

She pulled herself up onto her elbows, trying to look at him, but his eyes were clenched shut. She reached out to him.

"Erik, please…"

"No!"

He roughly pushed her arm from his chest, shoving the covers off his body and swinging his legs out of the bed. In a blink he was sitting at the edge of the mattress ready to leave.

"Erik wait!" She grabbed at his hand. He shook her off.

"You will _never _be satisfied, Christine!" he muttered darkly, dragging his haggard hand through his wild raven hair. "Is it not enough that you strip me of my mask, that I divulge to you the most intimate and painful experiences of my childhood? You won't be satisfied until you have me naked and vulnerable at your feet, groveling on all fours like a beast!"

"No Erik! Please hear me out. Please just listen to me!"

He stilled momentarily… finally reaching out to the bed stand for the white half-mask he had deposited there the night before. Placing the leather securely on his face he leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees and breathed deeply.

His barriers were back up.

Christine climbed to her knees behind him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as she continued.

"Please, Erik. I want you to open up to me – I don't want there to be any barriers between us, including this one." She placed a hand against the cool leather of the mask.

_You don't understand, Christine. My past would destroy us. _

"I can't. You won't understand…!" 

"Then _help _me understand, Erik."

Though she better understood his past, and what made him who he was, the fact remained that Erik was a murderer. An assassin. _A master of torture. _He was possibly the greatest and most efficient killer that had ever lived. If this young woman, this pure being of light knew the depths of darkness that possessed his soul, she would surely run from him in terror. He could not risk losing her.

_If you shut her out, you may just end up losing her all the same, Erik. _

She stared up at him mournfully, her chocolate eyes wide and entreating. 

"Oh Christine," he cried, allowing his head to fall to his hands in defeat. "If you knew who I truly am… of the horrors I have committed… you would leave me, and I would not blame you."

He grabbed her hands, suddenly impassioned. Tears shone through his furious yellow gaze. "Christine… why do you not already fear me? You know that I have blood on my hands! You know I have a dark stain on my soul that nothing can erase."

In answer, she slowly drew his hand to her lips, turned it palm side up, and placed a kiss at its centre. She pressed the palm of her hand flat against the side of his cool leather mask.

"I know you, Erik. I know the type of man you are, and the type of man you have the potential to be…. Our pasts may shape us into who we are, but they do not define us." She paused, taking his large hand within her two much smaller ones. "Do you know what I see when I look at these hands?"

"I see the beautifully strong… talented hands… of a musician and artist." She kissed the tips of each of his fingers, her gaze never breaking from his stormy eyes. "I love _you, _Erik. Not for the man you were, but for the man you _are… _the man you _could be." _

Erik's eyes were glued to her soft lips. His breathing grew deeper; his heart raced wildly within his chest, slamming against the confines of his ribcage, that he was sure that at any moment it would burst free. 

_Could it be? _

"I do not want you to tell me of your life in Persia because I am afraid of you. Or that I am beginning to doubt my love for you." She ran a soft hand over the hardened skin of a particularly brutal scar, the pads of her fingers tracing the contours of his shoulder blades. "I want you to tell me, Erik, because you trust me. I'm not like your mother, Erik. Nothing you say now could make me love you any less." 

"Please," she whispered, replacing her hand upon his cheek. "Trust me…"

Erik turned to her. She was easily the most beautiful creature on this earth. The morning light illuminated her from behind, giving the illusion that a heavenly aura surrounded her body. She _was_ an angel, there was no illusion. She was _his_ angel.

He ran his thumb over her quivering lower lip, drinking in the beautiful emotion shining through her eyes. She leaned her face into his light caress, willing him to trust in the love and acceptance she offered without restraint. His heart constricted painfully within his chest.

His hand dropped away.

"I will tell you, Christine." He murmured sadly, turning away from her once more. "But I am afraid you will despise me for it."

His fingers clenched the hard contours of the leather mask hiding the horrors of his macabre face. "Some things are better left in the past…"

**TBC **

A/N: Reviews… please? 


	26. Chapter 24

**Chapter twenty-four. **

"…are you afraid of me, Christine?"

He was gripping the back of the heavy-set mahogany chair with one hand, the other was held out as if to encompass the room. A long silence stretched heavy and thick between the masked man and his ingénue. Christine felt her eyes make an inventory of his face, the shadow around his masked eye and the line at the corner of his mouth. His black hair fell wild over his white mask and his chest rose and fell quickly, with each breath. His stormy eyes snapped to her face, as if sensing her probing gaze. Despite her best efforts, she could not conceal the fear that pooled into her swimming orbs.

Christine lifted her gaze a little, her eyes raking over the bare skin of her former teacher's naked torso, tracing the raised scars that snaked across his broad shoulders with wide eyes, and the ugly bruises that spattered his ribcage. Christine searched for a word, a sentence, anything, but one thought kept running through her mind… _Erik is a murderer…_

But she had already known that… what had changed. _Was _she afraid of him? _No._ He would never hurt her… _would he? _

For a time there was no sound but his ragged breathing, loud and painful. She averted her gaze as she felt a heaving sob wrack violently through her small body, her pale hands trembling so violently that she clenched them tightly behind her back.

She watched Erik close his eyes and inhale deeply before he spoke again. His voice was deadly, but calm and controlled. "Well, Christine?"

His shadowy form hovered before her blurred vision like a silent wraith, his yellow eyes blazing brilliantly in the morning sunlight. She swallowed against the lump that formed in her throat as tears spilled gently down her pale cheeks. As she fought desperately to control the violent trembling that threatened to overtake her body, her lips parted and she exhaled slowly, her voice wavering as a breathy whisper fell from her lips.

"No."

Erik laughed. It was a strange, echo-less sound, more like a sob. Then he turned away towards the window, as if he did not want to see her. Between them, the old floorboards gleamed where they had been polished by too many treading feet. He kept his back turned to her as a small tear slipped free from his dark lashes and disappeared behind the cold exterior of the mask.

"Well… my dear, _sweet_ Christine… perhaps you should be…"

XxXxXxX

Erik leaned forward in the wingbacked chair, his fingers steepled against his lips in intense study.

How long had he sat there, simply staring at the floorboards? Minutes? Hours, perhaps? The soft rush of air from Christine's breathing was the only thing to betray the presence of another living soul within the manor.

The house was as quiet as the grave; the only sound to be heard was the occasional creak of the walls rendered by the gusting wind outside, and the soft, cadenced ticking of the still-working mantle clock in the library.

But, where to begin on a tale that would irrevocable bring with it more pain and unanswerable questions?

…_I must start somewhere… _

"You may be surprised to find, Christine, that it was monsieur Khan who first brought me to Persia…" Erik cleared his throat. "I met Nadir when I was living amongst the gypsies in Russia. He came to me with fantastical stories of an eastern land where word had reached the khanum of my unparalleled talents for magic. You see, by this time I had traveled widely, young and overconfident in my abilities, I exploited my many talents for the benefits of a well-endowed crowd." He smiled bitterly. "I was a selfish creature; I took all that I wanted, simply because I could. The khanum had sent Nadir – then the Daroga of Mazenderan – to fetch me to Tehran, and intrigued by the power of the Persian court, I agreed to accompany him back."

Erik stared out across the room, his eyes unfocused and glazed as he absently roamed the dark and barren wasteland of his inner mind.

"'The Lover of Trapdoors'… that is what I quickly came to be known as in Persia, Christine. It is a name I have long sought to scourge from my memory. You'd think I could _coerce_ my mind into forgetting… think I wouldn't remember after all that I have been through, but I remember everything… _everything_… I was cursed with these extraordinary powers of recall…."

His golden gaze hardened.

"_I_ was the Shah's favourite, as well as the khanum's – the shah's mother. I believe they found my bluntness _refreshing_, for I stood before the throne and declared myself an equal. I had resolved by then, to never allow myself to be subjected to the rule of another." A faint smirk tugged the corner of his lips. "It was as though life in Mazenderan palace was a game. I was quickly employed as an advisor, magician, and royal architect among other things. I built them a grand palace – some of my finest work; a jewel of genius that has yet to be rivaled by any other architect. But soon my repertoire of talents was cast aside as the khanum came to realize that my greatest dexterity… was for death.

_That_ is when the killings began." His glowing yellow eyes snapped to her face, which he noted had turned deathly pale. "If you wish me to stop, tell me so now – I will not spare you any details." Erik growled brusquely, his fingers clenching and unclenching the material folds of his black slacks.

"No," Christine whispered, her voice wavering with a mixture of trepidation and fear. "I want to know."

"Very well." He muttered, clenching his hand in a tight fist. "I was encouraged by the khanum to kill for sport; she demanded that each murder be _fresh_, creative. Men condemned to die – some innocent, others not – would be brought into a courtyard, armed with a long pike and broadsword. I was granted only my lasso to separate me from what seemed a certain and swift death. Yet the khanum soon found that a lasso was all I needed. By that time I had become… somewhat of a master of strangulation... and each one of my adversaries was felled with a strategic flick of my wrist and a quick snap-"

Christine's sharp intake of breath resounded throughout the room like an ominous clap of thunder. She immediately clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the cry that threatened to burst forth from her body. The rippled muscles along Erik's back immediately stiffened, and she saw his head turn slightly towards her. He watched her reaction with a disturbing amount of satisfaction, and emboldened and empowered by the sudden physical manifestation of her fear, he continued.

"-I did not think twice as I tore the life from their pathetic bodies, and at first I took some sick, abhorrent pleasure from savouring the power I wielded over them. Despised and hated by my mother and father, time after time I would envision _their _bodies, _their _faces twisted in agony as I dealt the final death blow. As much as I wanted them to love me as I child, I hated them with a passionate intensity unrivaled by any other man…" His voice grew cold and distant.

"The khanum, however, was a callous woman who soon grew tired of my prowess with the Punjab lasso. She challenged me to build marvelous contraptions and devices intended solely for torture. I had not thought to encounter a mind as corrupt as mine, but I soon came to see that her depravity ran deeper than the darkest pits of hell. She sought immense pleasure in death and indulged in malicious – if not insane – fetishes of every kind, always centred about pain and humiliation."

Erik sat back on the bed and silently contemplated the hands that had wrought so much death and destruction.

Then the blackness stirred within him once again-the memories of feelings that had long been repressed, feelings that always came after he killed…

He raked a hand through his disheveled black mane, cursing his weakness… staving off the darkness. His eyes were dark wells of fear – wide and unfocused – as though he saw plainly before him the very horrors that haunted his every waking moment. When he spoke next, his words were hollow; the wretched despair that clung so vigilantly to his heart stole his breath as he slumped forwards.

"The evil that exuded from her was like a black river of disease, poisoning all who came into contact with her… I felt its venomous tendrils coil about the withered thing that beat feebly within my chest, blackening my heart…

Until then I had not realized the depth of her madness, nor the source of her great fascination with me. At first I put her evident interest in me down to arrogance. What else, other than my great efficiency as a murderer would recommend me to the most powerful person in all of Persia? But it was exactly that which spawned her infatuation; a depraved lust born only of my macabre appearance and dexterity at murder."

He shook his head bitterly, for no matter how greatly he tried to shut away his despair, wretchedness still wrapped its corpse-like fingers bout his throat, clutching at its prey with an unyielding grip.

"Every life I took brought her obscene amounts of pleasure…" His eyes darkened. "almost _sexual_… and soon she began to demand more gruesome, hideous deaths.

We had entered into a malicious game, she and I, where human beings were the pawns. Upon completion of my torture chamber, _the one monsieur le comte had the terrible misfortune to stumble upon,_ the khanum amused herself with executing all manner of prisoners within her grasp, including those arrested merely for petty thievery or slander against the shah. She sought deep satisfaction in watching a hundred men die horribly slow and painful deaths, and, when she saw I would not break, her depravity sank to new depths."

Erik glanced at her face, taking in her red, puffy eyes and trembling mouth. Her tears were strangely comforting; for the first time, he felt as though he was no longer alone.

"The next day I was summoned to her chambers, the khanum brought before me a girl; young and beautiful, but most of all… _innocent. _Her innocence radiated from her like the first breaths of heaven. She was an odalisque, a slave of the royal harem who had completed her training as a concubine, but not yet been chosen to serve in the royal bed. You see Christine, in Persia there is no greater honour for the shah to bestow upon a _favoured _servant than the gift of a harem virgin… the gift of a _wife…" _

Erik's fingers dug deep in the taut flesh of his knee.

"Though I fought against it, I could not hide the ravening hunger I felt towards her then; the sheet lightning that struck without warning, shocking in its savage intensity." He hissed. "I wanted her. I had never felt the warmth of a woman's touch… and somehow the khanum knew this. Though it did not take me long to see the evil, the malice and the sick pleasure my union with the girl would insight within that vile woman, for the girl had been told of the horrors that lay beyond my mask… and through her undisguised terror, knowingly sought death over the reality of laying with me. The khanum had sought to torment me with the one thing I could never truly have in the hopes of driving me further into the depths of my madness, and confronted with the vicious reality of my revulsion, she very nearly succeeded!"

He turned away as Christine sobbed silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. One hand angrily swiped her wet eyes; the other clutched her throat as she tried to steady her breathing.

"I demanded the girl be removed from my sight, and when I saw her next, she was entombed within the very instrument that _I_ had constructed to amuse the khanum; that little slave girl was made to suffer the same fate as so many before her. The khanum's lust for death knew no bounds. I was later informed that she was just fifteen years old. _She was just a child!_

I cannot begin to convey to you the depths of my despair, Christine, nor the strength with which that darkness bound me. I viewed my own death with an intense and dark satisfaction, a habit I took to when hashish and opium had robbed me of my senses. Oh, those drugs had such intoxicating influences; time would telescope inwards upon me and the faintest sound would be heard as a deafening roar; ecstatic euphoria would be succeeded by intense physical desire and a savage need for violence. Though I am by far an unreligious man, the thought of ridding myself of the world did not bring the immense satisfaction I craved so desperately… rather, I envisioned the khanum leering over my mangled body; the final victor of the silent war that had raged between us. I knew then I could not take my own life.

Before I came to Persia and fell under her malevolent influence, I had never killed purely for pleasure. Granted, I felt satisfaction after killing Javert, but only to secure my freedom. But with her drugs and her insatiable desire for novelty she awakened within me my sleeping hatred of men, releasing a demon of savage ingenuity which I could no longer control.

I am a loathsome thing Christine, a shallow wreck of a human being; twisted and evil… In short, she turned me into a monster…"

XxXxXxX

A dark fog descended upon the pitiful masked man, it hovered about him; dark and impenetrable as he struggled uselessly to extricate its icy, merciless hand from his soul.

_Then came the worst of it—the overwhelming blackness of mind that washed through him, overshadowing all other senses: despair, hatred, and detestation of the world and all that was in it. But most prominent was the self-loathing he harbored—a monster, a slaughterer that would rot in hell for his deeds._

The knowledge of a hundred men's deaths stained his hands red, brandishing him for the monster he was.

_He had killed and killed again… each time severing a link to his humanity, allowing an icy layer to form a shield around his heart, so he wouldn't have to think…wouldn't have to feel… _

But the horror never went away!

Christine could feel the tears streaming down her flawless cheeks, at the overwhelming look of complete and utter self-loathing and hatred that consumed her beloved's every feature. She could see now the horrors of Erik's past. He had believed he was in control, and was using the shah and his mother for his whims. But in the end, _he_ was the one that had been cruelly used. They took his brilliance and twisted it for their own diabolical purposes. She could see it! But how could she make him see it too? _How could she heal him? _He was such a broken man, both haunted and terrifying at the same time.

Consumed by his inner demons, Erik turned sharply at the sound of her choking sobs, his eyes snapping to her face.

"Why are you crying? Do you fear me _now_, Christine?" He reached out and easily caught her fragile wrist in his strong grip and pulled her towards him. She stumbled and fell against his strong frame, her wrist twisting agonizingly. He held her there against his body, bending forward to brush a hard whisper into her ear, "do you see now the life you have condemned yourself to, Christine? The type of man to whom you are bound?"

Although the bare skin of his chest had burned beneath Christine's touch, the fingertips of his good hand were surprisingly cool as he traced the marks of the tears upon her face. His eyes burned with unshed tears, as his gruesome face contorted with a mixture of shame and wretchedness that bordered on anger. A dark shadowed hovered behind his eyes, overpowering him. He shook his head slightly, the pressure of his fingertips growing in intensity as he clutched her face, blinking back hot tears. He growled bitterly, "I do not _want _your tears, Christine, be them of pity _or_ fear."

Erik pulled away from her, his bare hands gripping the hard wooden edge of the dark mahogany desk so tightly, his knuckles turned white. His shoulders shook slightly as he attempted to control his wavering voice, his next spoken words driving daggers of ice through his already withered heart. "You should leave now, Christine - I will not stop you."

Christine stared at her angel's retreating form, his words shocking her into angry disbelief. "Leave you? I'm not going anywhere!"

He broke then, rounding on the young woman with a desperate and animalistic ferocity. "Then you are a fool!" he violently snatched her left hand and wrenched it upwards, brandishing the golden wedding back before his now tear-stricken face. "_This _is who I am, Christine! Do you really want to pledge the rest of your life to someone who once tortured and murdered purely for the entertainment and amusement of others? How can you of all people bear to look at me now, knowing the atrocities I have committed… the hundreds whose lives I've cruelly ripped from their-"

Erik's harsh words were immediately silenced as his angel's hands pulled his face down and her lips gently brushed the corner of his mouth, just under his mask. His entire being went rigid under the soft burn of her body, the shock of her tauntingly light caress driving all common sense from his mind. He felt the tears free themselves from his lashes and slip beneath his mask as her small fingers speared through the raven locks that brushed the nape of his neck, holding him firmly to her lips. He sucked in a breath as he felt her love sweep through him, bringing warmth to every corner of his body and driving back the mind-numbing cold that had crept within his veins. He felt the anger that had festered and crawled beneath his skin threatening to burst free begin to recede as he lost himself within the healing power of her kiss.

As her lips played upon his, fire slowly consumed him until he felt the edge of pain. The flames licking higher, he threaded his fingers in her dark tangles of hair and tried to press his mouth desperately to hers. _Oh God! How could he have ever thought, even for a moment, that he could ever let her go? She was the only one who could save him!_

Before the fire could be quelled, Christine abruptly pulled away. His eyes were clenched shut as his chest heaved beneath her, his breaths coming in short, swift, gasps. Another small tear slipped from beneath his dark lashes and trailed down the hard curve of the leather mask. She placed her trembling hand against the smooth skin of his flawless cheek, as she softly touched her forehead to his own.

"Come back to me, Angel…" Her voice wavered slightly as she ran her other hand over his scarred shoulders coming to rest at his neck. Erik shuddered against her, involuntary tears now trailing freely down his face as he convulsed against her soft body. "Let go of your anger and your hatred… and come back to me…"

Her small fingers traced the curvature where the cool leather met his hot, sweaty skin. She watched for a reaction, but he remained frozen as she slowly pried the mask from his macabre face. She placed the palms of her hands flat against his face, marveling in the grotesque and the beautiful.

"Erik, look at me." She mustered all her feelings of strength and resolve as she waited patiently for Erik to look at her. He needed to see this as well as hear it. Ever so slowly Erik opened his eyes, small rays of golden light so thick with unspoken emotion they threatened to bring tears once more to Christine's eyes. She choked them back.

"I too, see something in your eyes, Erik. I see regret, remorse… and guilt. I know the violence and the horrors you have been subjected to… the type of life into which you were brought. All your life you have been treated as though you were some sort of animal, incapable of possessing anything akin to human feeling. You were beaten, broken, humiliated." She searched deep within his swimming golden orbs, seeing the fragile, broken and lonely child that they held within.

"_You are not that man anymore, Erik_! I know there is good in you – I have seen it. God teaches us forgiveness… trust in that. Trust in _me,_ Erik. Trust in my love for you. Just please, you must let go of your hatred..."

Christine's lips hovered mere centimeters below his own; her warm breath glided softly over his clean-shaven chin and brushed his half-open mouth is a salving kiss. Her palm remained pressed firmly against his flawless cheek, as her brown eyes widened; searching and entreating his own. Erik's eyes flicked over Christine's face, as the darkness and self-doubt slowly seeped its way into his mind again. There was silence for a long moment, where neither dare speak and Erik's breathing had settled to a low rasp. His face was an array of emotions; an internal war raged within him as he fought to repress his inner demons. He felt as though he were on the edge of a precipice, desperate to cut the bonds with which his hatred had imprisoned him for so long. _What he craved more than anything else, was freedom._

With a whispered prayer for forgiveness he leapt into the abyss, descending on her mouth like a starved man, desperately claiming her lips for his own. His groan filled her with a desperate longing as she felt him let go of his anger and insecurities, and in turn she opened to him without any urging on his part. He pulled her down onto the bed beside him, as a powerful and desperate longing took hold of his body. Her mouth was warm and moist, and she tasted of apples as her sweet tongue melded with his and sent his head reeling. Her kiss breathed life into him, and he clung to her like a drowning man clings to a single piece of floating debris; survivors of a shipwreck thrown out to sea.

_All I ask of you is to make me human again, Christine... If you could accomplish this one thing, then I swear that I will live every day of my life for you…  
_  
Suddenly, the masked man wrenched away from his angel's intoxicating embrace and stared at her heatedly, the molten gold mingling with his unabashed obsession for her as his breath thundered through his chest. She lightly traced a finger along the edge of his mask, feeling his heart beat madly under her palm.

Forcing his fervor to cool, he spoke again, his timber smooth and low. "How is it that you can forgive me for my past, Christine?"

Christine watched bemusedly as shock suffused his features. She drew him to her again, clutching the taut flesh of his naked torso. "Because I _love you_."

The Phantom had been the first to incite any sort of desire in her young body. Strong, powerful, terrifying and possessive, he had stirred feelings so terrible and passionate that they had been buried deep when she thought him lost to her, only to rise up in her dreams like wicked wraiths. Even Death had not been a force powerful enough to tear them apart.

They were destined.

Erik's breath caught and he swallowed against the lump in her throat. Her eyes darkened to a deeper shade of brown as she stared at him, trying to infuse in her gaze all the love and acceptance she could muster. She needed to believe that Erik was a different person to who he was under the Khanum's influence. She _had_ to.

Erik's brow furrowed and he broke the concentrated stare, Christine's hand dropping to his side. Moving off the bed towards the dresser table, he was careful to sidestep her trembling frame as he lifted the silk shirt Christine had disposed him of the night before from the countertop.

"The damp air makes you shiver," he said absently, despite the bright sunlight that encompassed the room. Erik pulled the shirt over her bare shoulders, tucking up the sleeves awkwardly, and then raised his arm to gather her close, breathing into her hair – small shallow breaths that somehow comforted her. Christine curled up inside him, and pretended they were happy and unburdened by troubles.

A long and empty silence descended between them.

"Erik, tell me something." Christine breathed.

"What?"

She drew his large hand into her two smaller ones, pressing her lips of the bare skin of his knuckles. "What made you finally leave Persia?"

"The game lost its luster," Erik said after a long, long silence. There was no hardness in his voice, only a kind of muted note that made Christine's heart tremble. "The Shah soon realized that his _court magician _was too powerful for his own good; he was convinced that I would betray his secrets to Persia's enemies." He paused again, and then added grudgingly, "it was widely known, however, that I cared little for politics or the gains of war…"

"How did you escape?"

Erik gave her a long, half-distant look, as though he was studying the shape of her face. "With monsieur Khan's assistance. He was, after all, the Daroga of Mazenderan, and.. well, let's just say that I had been of service to him… and in turn, he felt he was _honour-bound _to me…"

Silence.

"Erik?"

"What?"

Christine clenched her eyes shut as she softly stroked the back of his hand. When she spoke her voice trembled in a faint whisper. "Are you sorry for the murders?"

A deathly silence settled between them. Erik did not move, but when Christine met his eyes, she saw an infinite pain there, beyond tears.

"Yes Christine, I am…"

**TBC **

**A/N: Well, I think I will be winding down to the ending of this story soon, but there will be a few more chapters to go, at least. There are a couple of Kay quotes here that I've been dying to use; her take on Erik's past was brilliant ********. However, this wasn't exactly how I envisioned this chapter would turn out... so please, review! **

**Thanks to all those who reviewed the last chapter and brought a smile to my face;  
Foible, Phantomized, sophiagin, MickPink, Froody, Passed Over, shewillbeluved3, carol, Mirror to my Soul, Mirror of a masked soul, and draegon-fire. Much love to the reviewers.**


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