Phantom of the Opera 1. Consience Choice

Summery- What makes a monster and what makes a man? And who, if anyone, has the right to make the judgment? ((Sorry I know it's a crappy summery but I swear the story's good! rated pg13 for multiple reasons, PLEASE R&R!))

Disclaimer- The Phantom of the Opera belongs to ALW, Leroux, and…well some other ppl too I guess but unfortunately I am not one of them! As far as I know…hmm shakes herself out of it oh…yeah, well…carry on…

A.N. Her name, Ange, is French for Angel and is pronounced like Angie...I think... lol anyway I hope you enjoy this...

Of Monsters and Men

By: Woodstock

For Lulu, Squishy, Shibby, Tears, S.B. Lass--oh for the love of Gerry it's for ALL THE TARTS!

My tartie little darlins… I adore you!

1

Conscience Choice

Erik collapsed in a drenched shivering mass against the left facing wall that made up the narrow alley; he had been a fool… He had built himself a world within the opera house, fashioned from lies and deceit…and fear, especially from fear. A world he had ruled with an iron fist, or so he had thought, but now as he sat in the pouring rain, disillusion washing over him, he knew how very wrong he had been. They had been disobedient from the first, questioning his authority, his power, he should have known that the tighter he squeezed, the more would slip through his fingers.

"Christine…" he couldn't bare thinking of her. He wanted to hate her, it ate at him, taunting him with it's promise of peace if only he would… but he couldn't, he loved her, damn him, damn her, damn the world and everything in it, but no matter what…he loved her. She was his angel, his light in the darkness, the one thing that made him want, more than anything ever in his whole life, and the wanting had, and still did, even yet, course through him a swirling torrent that directed his thoughts and actions…he had been weak, he had let emotion control him, he had let the very thought of her reign over his mind and seize control of him, she'd turned him into a mad man, and he had let her. Oh Christine, sweet innocent Christine… innocent! There he had said it himself; she was innocent of all of this! How could he blame her? How could he not?

His head hurt terribly and he didn't know why, he was cold, wet, unmasked and…lost… He knew the catacombs better than any sewer rat, knew every twist and bend and hidden passage as well as if they had been of his own design, he should have been able to hide easily... Yet they had invaded his underworld,his sanctuary, easilyand by their sheer number and force had driven him out!He the master, he the soul confidante of its many secrets, he who called it home…! They had driven him out of his hellish cathedral and he had allowed it, as though he was a common thief he had allowed them to drive him awayfrom everything he knew…

His escape had very nearly been a failure, twice he had found himself a rabbit in their snare and twice he had played the cornered beast, though he had not escaped unscathed. He supposed they had hit him in the head, or perhaps he had hit it himself during his escape…and while this was not the only injury at this moment it seemed the most urgent. He had always been able to depend on the workings of his mind, even when he'd admitted to himself that his love had driven him half crazy, the gears in his head had still turned beautifully, creating a brilliant means to even the most impossible ends.

Now his thoughts were clouded, no more than that, they were a jumble of incoherent hazy bits, memories of times when things had been worse, thoughts of how much better it could have been, images of Christine and the way it had felt when she has kissed him, the way the already ignited fire inside him had exploded in a bursting fury of passion and longing…and then she has touched him, his face, without hesitation, without fear…_without fear_.

"You fool!" he screamed at himself as tears began again, (he had never been one for restraining emotion), "she didn't want you, she _pitied_ you…she never _wanted_ you…"  
"But I want…"  
"No one cares what you want!"  
He shook himself mentally, "my god…" he really was insane. Christine had--no! No he had to stop this! Stop himself, he had to take control…if he could just _be in control _then…"Think damn you! _Think_!" But the more he thought the less it made sense and the less it made sense the more frustrated he became and the more frustrated he became the more his head hurt and the more his head hurt… He shook himself furiously. "Christine…" he groaned, feeling as though the wall was giving out on him, when in reality he was giving out on the wall…he tried to stand and crumbled like paper in a fist, tired once again, falling flat…he tasted the bitter salt iron of blood and knew no more.

Ange dropped down into a chair, removing her ballet shoes, and then, very tenderly, the bandage on her left ankle, she hardly recognized the swollen bruised flesh that attached her skinny but muscular leg to her dainty foot. "It's not fair!" she moaned in self pity, "it's just not fair!" She felt the limb up and down gently with her fingers, massaging the tense torn muscles, "why does Aunt Marg always have to be right…I _hate _when she's right!"

Her Aunt's voice echoed in her ears as she let down her tight bun and commenced brushing her long light brown mane. "You mustn't press it; do you want to ruin any chance you have of it healing? Ange listen to me for once…you must be patient with yourself!"

"Damn it I don't want to be patient!" She shouted at her reflection in the mirror, sounding less like a famed ballerina and more like the street retch she felt like just now. It was hard to feel like a prima donna shut up all the time in a Parisian town-house with ones Aunt but Ange managed it well. She didn't, however, do a very good jobof keeping the loathing from her eyes every time her Aunt mentioned Ami, her own daughter, and the conservatory. It was _her_ conservatory, in the Parisian Conservatory of Ballet she was the reigning queen…and now because of one accident, one misjudgment, she had been unceremoniously dethroned and cast out.

No one told her that in the one year that had past since she had become a self-pitying world loathing little brat, one simply didn't speak that way to a girl who had been dancing since before she could walk, who had been a lead in the conservatory since she was four, who had lit up thestages of France since before many others her age could even run without faltering! No, surly not. Anyway they were used to it; Ange Marie Marriott was almost as famous for her temperamental nature as for her dancing. She was selfish, arrogant, stubborn… and the best.

No correction, she _was_ the best, now…now she was nothing. Wiping away tears of frustration she rewrapped her ankle in a fresh bandage, ((after three hours of intense physical exertion in a windowless airless room the other was a bit…soiled)) and rose, wincing as she put pressure on the offending limb. "Ignore it…" she told herself, as she headed from her relatively spacioussecond floor chamber down to the rest of the apartment, it wasn't small, or quaint, but to a girl who had associated with royalty and held her own it might as well have been a dirt hut. Her Aunt was away for the summer doing her "social duty," which really meant the fifty three year old widow so accustomed to attention in her younger prettier days was bored. She accepted invitations to stay with friends who were just as old and bored as her, living lavishly, but this was all expected of her, she couldn't let them down now could she? No, certainly not. She had invited Ange, but of course the scorned little diva refused, she had no desire to answer their questions or endure the staring and the rumors… she had no stomach for such things. If nothing else she at least had the run of the house while her Aunt was away and surprisingly, Ange enjoyed her alone time, oh there was the butler and the maid, but she required their assistance very seldom and so when they disappeared she took no notice… This night however it was not in fate's cards that she would be content to lay about, tibble Champaign and loose herself in a good book; tonight she needed some fresh air and a little excitement. Nothing was so exciting to a shut in young ballerina as Paris at night… So pulling on her cloak, a lovely winter green thing more meant for decoration than actual warmth and drawing the hood about her face to hide her youth and relative beauty she stepped out into the dreary night.

Often on summer nights before her accident, when the conservatory's students were let out for summer holiday, which only lasted about three weeks, Ange, her cousin Ami, and their friends would go to the Opera Populaire, of course they hadn't usually walked there as Ange did now, they had ridden in style in a fine carriage, dressed in their finest array and treated like princesses, at least when they went to see an _Opera_. Every once in a while however she and her friends would either become daring enough of bored enough that they would sneak out, it was in this way that Ange had become quite familiar with this particular section of Paris, the streets leading to and from the Opera house especially. She strode lightly up the street, taking inthe damp night air and the noise all around her, Paris was never exactly quiet, not even at night, the entire city seemed to hum with a spirit, a pulse that beat through everyone, native and stranger, that ever walked her streets…and yet something was off, Paris was not herself tonight. Something wasn't right, Ange, without knowing she knew, simply knew, and a pang in her chest told her what it might be. Suddenly she was off at a sprint, and though she wasn't usually foolish enough to leave the main roads at night she took a back street and up an alley, the quickest short cut to the Opera, it ran straight through from this street, past the back stoops of a dozen or so little shops and businesses to the Opera house. She could smell it before she could see it, a burning sensation on the back of her throat when she breathed, how could she not have noticed it before? It couldn't be! It simply couldn't be! And yet it was, she could see the smoke rising before she could see the building itself but she knew it was…and then quite suddenly she stumbled, she started to cry out but her cry was bitten back as she hit the pavement and her jaw slammed shut.

"Damn…" she murmured as she sat up, inspecting her palms, her eyes having adjusted to the darkness long before this moment, they were indeed scratched but not badly, wiping the mud from her now spoiled cloak she began to stand, trying to regain composure. What had caused her to stumble? Beyond her natural grace that had made her into a young prodigy, she had years of training from the very best ballet tutors that the world had to offer and even slightly impaired Ange was anything but clumsy…so what had tripped her?

Turning and looking down she realized not what but _who_, and then upon further inspection, she gasped, "oh," she breathed in shock, her hand over her mouth, "my god." She was not shocked at the sight of a man lying in an alleyway, nor the fact that the man was covered in blood that was oozing from a gash on the left side of his forehead, but instead his face. She, so accustomed to beauty, to perfection, had never seen anything so frightfully hideous in all her life.  
While one side of the man's face felt perfectly normal, the other side made her stomach lurch so extreme was the disfigurement. The skin was hardly what could be called skin at all, red and blotched with purple that made it looked bruised, which perhaps it was, but it also looked infected, yes that seemed the right word, infection. The skin was pocked, uneven and littered with what resembled blisters or boils and if she was not much mistaken that was his jaw bone she sawexposed from the diseased flesh. "My god…" she said again, unable to tare her eyes away.  
Her world was one of strict perfection, if it was flawed it was unacceptable, only when refined down to the ultimate artistry was anyone or anything allowed passed without swift chastising punishment, this was the only way, the imperfections of the world were cast out, forgotten, nothing mattered except perfection. Ange knew this all too well and believed it, yet here she was face to face with the complete opposite of everything she knew to be true and yet she found herself pitying the poor creature. She knew all too well her society's abhorrence for such obvious imperfection and knew also that had it been one of her fellow dancers or her Aunt in her place they would have fled… As much as she wanted to her damn conscience held her firm, rooting her to the spot, she dropped to her knees, never minding the mud that was seeping into her already ruined dress. The figure lay motionless, he was white as a sheet beneath the blood and filth that covered him and his lips were colorless except for the line of blue nearest their parting, fearing the worst she bent low over him, listening for breath, two fingers pressing the vein of his neck, relief flooded her as she felt a pulse…he was alive! She didn't bother asking herself why she cared either way as she tore a strip off her skirt that wasn't muddy and pressed it to the wound over his head, hoping to slow the blood, his flesh felt likeice beneath her fingertips. He was alive but he wouldn't be for long if he remained here…she had to help him, she didn't know why she felt so obligated, he was probably a brute, or a drunk or… She stood, resolving that she must find someone to help her; if she could get him back to her house she was certain she could help him… She hurried out of the alley toward the Opera.

Even though she had been expecting it, the site of her beloved Opera in flames made her freeze mid-step, the blaze, for the most part, was under the control of the fire brigades but the damage was evident, the Opera was a ruin of it's former glory, blackened and charred, smoke still rising from it's ashes. People ran everywhere, some dressed in their finest array, now blackened with soot, many of them woundedall hurrying away from the scene, performers still dressed in their ruined costumes stared wide eyed at what most of them considered their home and if not that certainly their livelihood. Officers were everywhere, some on foot, some mounted, talking with survivors or scanning the remains of the Opera house, each looking grave.

Surprise streaked over her paled face as she spotted someone she recognized, two people actually, if she had been in a more stable frame of mind she wouldn't have been surprised, yes of course Christine Daae and Meg Giry would be at the Opera. They stood close together as they spoke to an officer, as if clinging to each other for support. She approached them quickly without thinking, "Christine! Meg!" she shouted, a few quick paces separating the space between them. She was slightly taken aback at their rush to embrace her, the last time they'd seen each other it hadn't been on the best of terms…

"Ange! What are you doing here?" Meg cried, hugging her tightly.

"I...I well…the Opera!" she replied, her voice coming almost as weak and breathless as Meg's had been.

"You weren't inside were you?" Meg asked as she pulled a little back from her.

Ange found herself nodding though she'd never been one to lie, "I…I was…"

"Oh isn't this horrible!"

"A tragedy to say the least! I was terrified!" Ange agreed and then found Christine hugging her tightly, tears in her eyes.

"Oh Ange I just… it was so horrible I…" Christine sobbed.

"There there…are you alright?"

"Yes," she pulled a little away nodding and wiping her tears away, "yes I sent Raoul home, I was just speaking to this—" she glanced around for him but the officer obviously had more important things to do than listen to three baby women cry to each other.

She nodded as if this all meant something to her, "Christine I—"

Madame Giry interrupted them, "Meg, Meg dear we ought to leave..."

Meg turned embracing her mother tightly, "Yes Mama, ChristineI mustsee you againas soon as possible.We need to…" she eyed Ange, "_talk_."

"Of course, very soon" they embraced again and the two Giry women were gone.

"Christine…"

"Ange I must go, Raoul will be worried… do you perhaps need a ride? He left his carriage so I—"

Ange's eyes suddenly widened, "Christine you _can_ help!"

"I can…what?" The prima donna looked confused.

"Help, you _must_ help oh you must!"

"Help what?"

She shook her head grabbing Christine's hand and beginning to pull her to the alley, "come, come you must help me...!"

Christine allowed herself to be dragged into the alley by her friend, completely at a loss, unsure whether or not Ange might have perhaps inhaled too much smoke, she knew Ange well and she was not the type to act so frantic. They stopped abruptly and for a second Christine didn't know why, she followed Ange's eyes to the ground…and the tattered remains of her world came crashing down around her. She turned white as a sheet and gasped, almost fainting she clung tightly to Ange for support, "_Erik_…" her mind screamed, "Is he…is he…?" She couldn't say the word, she simply couldn't.

"No he's alive! Christine you must help me I must get him back to my home…he's badly wounded and—"

But Christine wasn't listening, he was alive, her heart, which had seemed to stop, began beating again, yes of course she would help, she had to, "oh Erik poor pitiful Erik!" she thought, tears threatening, she stopped, but wait, was this not the man who had caused all of this tragedy, all this pain a grief, he was a murderer, a mad man! He deserved what he got! No she would _not_ help him, she would turn him over to the police she would…but Erik… "Of course Ange, of course I'll help you." Was it her conscience that had said that, or was it actually her will that Erik get away with what he had done? He had already suffered so much, she thought, rubbing tears away as they hurried from the alley to fetch the carriage, she'd give him this, she could do him this one kindness, no one would be any the wiser.

Erik never once stirred as together they lifted the lifeless body from the mud, heaving it to the waiting carriage, for two delicate looking young ladies they did this without much difficulty, as frail as their slim bodies appeared they were dancers and not being physically strong was not an option. They laid him down as gently as possible across the seat. Ange knelt on the floor of the carriage, holding him in his seat as Christine started the team into motion (it had been Raoul's intention to drive the carriage as they fled Paris so there was no driver, he had assumed Christine would pay someone from the Opera to drive her home). She drove the carriage as smoothly as possible considering the circumstances, trying not to allow herself to think, it was impossible… The taste of his kiss lingered in her mouth even now and though she had made her choice and _would not_ turn back on it seeing Erik again had…affected her. He would live, he had to, and Ange would make sure of that, the idea of Erik's dying was not one she could bare; a world without Erik was that much poorer and that much uglier and she could not stand the thought of it. She would never see him again, she would make certain of that, but just knowing that he was out there, that he was well, perhaps at last she could be at peace… she could put to rest the ghosts that haunted her life once and for all.

They lurched to a halt before Ange's door and lugged him up the steps to the nearest bedroom, a spare just inside and to the left; they laid him gently down in the bed. Without thought Christine found herself touching his smooth left cheek gently, "Christine?" She heard Ange questioning from behind her.

She turned to her, "his skin is like ice," she said covering it up quickly.

Ange nodded, "I know what to do, I…I've read books."

Although this wasn't very convincing it seemed to satisfy Christine, she embraced Ange quickly, "he'll be alright."

Ange found herself returning the gesture, "of course…will you?"

Christine smiled, "of course, now that Raoul and I—"she stopped, "well I better get home."

"Yes, I'll see you soon?" Christine nodded and was gone, leaving Ange alone to her patient.

Ange stared at the lifeless form before her, her actions in the past hour had been spontaneous and thoughtless but now it was time for reason, here she was, alone in a house with a man, badly injured and by this time probably dying and she had no idea, none, what to do. She struck a match and lit the lamp at the bed side, her nose wrinkling as she turned back to the figure on the bed, now in this light his flaws were more evident than ever. He was, otherwise, a fine specimen of a man as far as she could tell, and this fact made the flaws more evident and perhaps more revolting… He was too skinny perhaps almost malnurished, but she was used to slim men, in the conservatorymen were held to just as strict a diet and lifestyle as the women, perhaps even more. He was broad shouldered, long and lean, not what you might call healthy but he looked somehow…strong. The undamaged side of his face was fine, even handsome… It just didn't make sense, how someone otherwise so physically perfect could be so horribly flawed, in her world things like this just didn't… she shook herself out of it, "This man is _dying_ Ange," she scolded herself aloud, "don't just stand their gawking you twit, _do_ something!"

Some things were obvious, she moved to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it she gently removed the rag from his head; the blood had clotted and thank god for that but the wound needed to be cleaned and covered… Since it was no longer bleeding profusely however, more urgent was his wet freezing state. If he remained much longer in those soaked soiled clothes he would surly catch his death… Ange shut her eyes, no; no she drew the line at stripping. There had to be another way, there _had_ to be something else she could do other than _that_.

She drew in a deep breath, let it back out slowly, and shook herself mentally. Why was she being so squeamish! Gingerly she reached down and began to unbutton his shirt, this should have been nothing, she'd _lived_ at a ballet conservatory for most of her life, she'd _seen_ naked men before, they _studied_ the human body, and yet the idea of stripping this man before her made her feel ill. Perhaps it was because she'd never been the one removing their clothes, or perhaps it was his face, whatever she reason she would stop acting like a tenderfoot this instant and do what must be done.

She unbuttoned his shirt fully, exposing to her that he had more wounds than just his head, now she realized why his shirt had been so bloody as well, how could she not have realized there was a gunshot wound! Luckily it had missed the vital organs; instead it had veered to the right, striking his right shoulder, and while this was dire enough to command her immediate attention it could have been much worse.

Taking a pair of button nose scissors from the bedside drawer she began to fish for the bullet, she tried to steel herself from it but the thought of what she was actually doing caused bile to rise in her throat, finally, when she was beginning to think perhaps the bullet was no longer there, or perhaps she had somehow missed it, she felt the brunt of the scissors touching against something other than flesh (she couldn't see much for the blood) she removed the bullet, rather cleanly for an armature and--

It was just at this moment, when she was beginning to feel a rush of hope that maybe she really could do this that fate decided to deal her a rather nasty hand, of all the moments for Erik to wake, this was the worst. He let out a shout of pain so piercing that Ange's first reaction was to cover her ears with her hands. His body, suddenly alive, writhed in pain… a thought shot through her head "if he moves he'll upset the wound and bleed to death!" having no idea where she'd pulled that thought from she immediately restrained him. "Shh…shh…it's aright! Really it's alright!" He didn't seem to be listening, his eyes were shut tight, his mouth a thin line as he bit back another outburst, "relax," she soothed, "you mustn't move…"

His body lost none of it's tension but he ceased struggling, he didn't seem to have the ability to voice the questions she knew must be streaking across his brain and at the moment Ange wasn't intent on answering them, her mind was elsewhere. To be exact her mind was in a small case in her Aunt's upstairs study where she kept a fair stock of liquor, which sheremembered learning somewherehelp ease the pain, or at the very least would loosen his tense muscles. "I'll…I'll be right back... _do not_move," she said in a warning tone. With thattore from the room and up the stairs to the study, practically leaping upon the liquor case. She sifted through the bottles, finding a bottle of brandy she raced back down the stairs and to the room. Her patient was laying very still, his eyes open for the first time, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. He watched her approach him as if she were the undertaker and not the rather frail looking young woman she was. She held up the bottle for his inspection, the look of complete loathing in his piercing green eyes making her blood run cold and all her self confidence abandon her, "brandy," she said, her voice betraying her fear. She sat down on the edge of the bed and removed the cap, holding the bottle to his dry lips she tilted it slightly, letting it run down his throat, he stared at her all the while, his eyelids sinking lower and lower every second. Once she felt he had enough to make him relax without turning him into a drunk she set the bottle down and returned to her work. Removing his arms from the sleeves of his shirt, she wondered why he wasn't resisting until she looked back at his face realized he had fallen once again unconscious. She lifted the dead weight of his torso andlifted freethe ragged remains of his shirt fully, tossing the ruined garment away in discust she came to the part she had been dreading…thank god he wasn't awake.

Forcing herself to think of what she could do to sterilize the wounds rather than what she was doing she removed his boots, then his socks and at last his pants, tossing them all in a pile on the floor beside the bed. Ignoring the thought that she was in the room along with a naked man she then went to the chest in the corner and took out two of the big blankets usually reserved for the winter months and covered him up to the chin.

Now for the wounds, she had noticed while removing the clothes from his lower body something she hadn't before, his left leg, from the knee down, was turned at a rather odd angle and upon closer inspection she saw that bruises had already begun to form around the knee, knowing at least this sort of injury well she immediately set about setting his knee, using some of her own fresh bandages to wrap it she inspected her work, "not too terribly bad" she decided. As for the gash on his head and the gunshot wound she had to refer back to her Aunt's study and the few books she owned on this subject.

By the time she was done, the wounds tended to, cleans andwrapped the sun was beginning to peak in through the window, Ange, exhausted, collapsed in the chair she'd placed beside his bed, and the conscious world fell away entirely...

A.N.- Upon re-reading this chapter I realized it's a bit wordy and not exactly the most enjoyable bit of reading, but you see I had a lot to explain and many events to cover in such a brief time that I felt it best to get it over with. For being such troopers and getting through it I shall reward you with the next chapter tomorrow which will be much less wordy and much more interesting I promise! Please please review! I don't care if you hated it…compliment me on having the guts to post it or something just please REVIEW!


	2. Flaws

Summery- What makes a monster and what makes a man? And who, if anyone, has the right to make the judgment? ((Sorry I know it's a crappy summery but I swear the story's good! rated pg13 for multiple reasons, PLEASE R&R!))

Disclaimer- The Phantom of the Opera belongs to ALW, Leroux, and…well some other ppl too I guess but unfortunately I am not one of them! As far as I know…hmm shakes herself out of it oh…yeah, well…carry on…

A.N. Ahah cookie! steals and eats YUM! Thank you so much for the reviews; they are honestly my favorite part of posting my junk on And thank you for your suggestions; they're always welcomed and appreciated, on that note Juliana I usually prefer to keep my writing to myself until posted but just for you I've brought two very dear friends of mine aboard the good ship Woodie (no wise cracks please tarts!) and they're going to edit this story from now on (shout out to Tears and Squish!). Remember I did call myself on wordiness you guys I know it's one of my flaws lol; anyway you should have seen my grammar/spelling last year. It was atrocious! I'll try to break up my paragraphs more in this one…funny someone who reviewed a different one of my stories said that my paragraphs were too short shrugs Oh and as for the pronunciation thing…that's the way I was saying it…but I wasn't sure how to explain it lol, ty very much again to everyone hugs

-Woodie

Of Monsters and Men

By: Woodstock

_For Lulu, Squishy, Shibby, Tears, S.B. Lass, Dawn, oh geez it's for all the tarts!_

_My tartie little darlins… I adore you! _

2

Flaws

"_Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?" Christine moved toward him slowly, almost as if she were floating rather than walking, her words piercing him to his very core. Every word, every second and every step she drew closer, his heart seemed to race and stop at the same time, "God give me courage to show you, you are not alone…!" All at once she was so close to him; he could feel the heat of her body, smell her sweet fragrant scent. He could do nothing but stare at her, waiting, for what he didn't know but he felt as though he had been waiting an eternity. Of all the things he'd imagined her doing, what she did was the last thing he expected; what he most longed for, and exactly what was needed… she kissed him. _

_Gently at first, a chaste kiss and he was so surprised he didn't readily comply, he felt himself soften too and time seemed to stand still; passion and a feeling he couldn't place ran through him stronger than he'd ever felt any emotion before. She pulled away slightly, locked her eyes with his and then kissed him again, deeply, reflecting his passion with hers, her hand gently resting on his cheek. It was a lover's kiss, the kiss he had always known they would share and then… then he knew what he must do…He broke away from her abruptly and she could only stare, tears coursing down both their cheeks…Joy, that was it the unrecognized sensation. But such emotions were not meant for blackened souls like his, no. He would let her go, she and the boy. He had to…he loved her._

Erik awoke abruptly to such pain that he cried out in pure agony, his head throbbed as though someone were pounding against it with a smith's hammer, his whole body ached, nothing made sense. He tried to open his eyes and found he couldn't; he tried to move and a pain shot through him so intense he cried out again; he tried to speak but nothing escaped from between his dry lips excepta groan. "My god…" he thought desperately. Perhaps he was dead. Yes, that was it. They had killed him and this…this was hell. God knows he deserved it.

Ange awoke with a start; something had woken her. Just what it was, she wasn't sure but she was certain it had been something. It must have been late morning judging by the sunlight streaming through the window. Why had she slept in so late? And why had she fallen asleep in an extremely uncomfortable chair in the spare bedroom? When she saw the man in the bed, it all came flooding back to her with horrifying clarity. The Opera, the fire…she had found this man, brought him back here, nursed him, and… He was awake! She bolted from the chair and moved to the side of the bed, sitting down on the edge of it, "morning," she said quietly, unsure, "um…how are you feeling?"

Erik heard the voice, soft, not melodious like Christine's, but feminine…and just now it was the voice of an angel, he forced his eyes open.

The man's eyes fluttered open and he gazed up at her with a look of such pleading and pain that her chest ached, "that good, huh?" She lifted the bottle of brandy once again to his lips, he started to take a sip but shook his head slightly. "No?" she questioned.

"Water," he said with great effort. God, for an angel she certainly was daft! "Water you fool! Not brandy! Water!" he screamed at her in his head, the ability to speak had once more escaped him.

She rose from the bed, left the room, and returned a moment later with a glass of water, she lifted it to his lips, he drank it thirstily and when it was gone, he looked as though he wished for more. "You must be hungry." she said aloud, although it was more to herself than to him. "Are you hungry?"

Erik was about to nod but stopped, evidentally this wasn't hell. Yet, if this was heaven why was he in so much pain? No, no, this wasn't heaven, and perhaps this girl was no angel… What if it was all a trick? What if…? But the girl was already gone to fetch him food. Erik had never had much of an appetite, at least not one befitting a man of his size and build. In the months he'd spent working on Don Juan, he didn't remember eating at all although he supposed he must have eaten _something_. Mme Giry had probably at one point forced some food upon him. Forthe entire weekpreceeding Don Juan's opening, he found that food didn't mix well with the nervous state of his stomach. Yet, this morning the thought of food made him ravenous. "No," he told himself sharply. He was being foolish again, allowing his emotions to control him, "don't trust her," he told himself, even as he watched the doorway, waiting for her return. "Trust no one," the only words of advice he'd ever been given in his childhood, probably the only words that hadn't been spit at him in disgust. "Trust no one…" he repeated firmly.

He wouldn't be so weak again, his years beneath the opera had been the best of his life. He had been alone, yes, and in the dark, but he had been safe, hidden away from the world that hated him so. He had been able to grow, learn… He had found his music, the thing that so invaded him, stole away his soul and changed him. It made him who he was, the artist, the architect, the voice… the genius, as Mme Giry called him.

Yet no matter what he learned, what he did, no matter how he changed, he was still the monster he had always been. And the world still despised him, shut him out; they wouldn't listen. He had thought Christine—but no, the angel's voice that had come to him, seeming to understand, to care, had been false. He thought she heard him, his music, he had seen in her a kindred spirit and he'd thought she'd seen the same in him. Yet, his voice had fallen on the deafest of all, she had seen nothing in him but a monster, she was as blind as the rest of them. The world only wanted to betray him, just as they always had and he would not let them, not again.

Ange was at a loss, "why me?" she cried aloud, "why do things _always_ happen to me?" Why couldn't someone else have found the man in the alley? Why did she have to be responsible for _everything_? "You stupid twit, you brought this up yourself!" she scolded as she raided the cupboards for something that seemed right to feed to a sick wounded man, "you could have just left him, or informed the authorities, but _no_, you had to take it upon yourself to bring him _home_!" Ange had never been one for strays; she simply didn't have time to waste tending to others affairs! She had much more important things to worry about, and now just look at her, a walking contradiction!

She set a slice of buttered bread on a plate along with a bit of cheese and stared at it, her nose wrinkling. Even a street rat, which he surely was, probably was accustomed to more than this. "Well," she thought picking up the plate and heading back to the room, "this isn't a bed and breakfast. Beggars can't be choosers." The thought never occurred to her that he'd never actually _asked_ for any of this.

Erik watched the girl re-enter carrying a miniscule amount of food on a plate. He merely glared at her. Maybe she would get the idea and leave him alone. The last thing he truly wanted was to be alone, but neither did he want the company of one of _them_. She was one of them, he could tell, even though her hair was disheveled and her clothes were wrinkled and covered in mud. She walked with her nose tilted ever so slightly up and there was that cold superior look in her brilliant blue eyes. Yes, she certainly was the kind to shun him with swift unbridled prejudice.

Ange crossed the room, trying to ignore the look, almost a look of disgust, in his eyes that so unnerved her. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she placed the plate on the bedside table, "can you…sit up?" she questioned, her voice shaky, betraying her. The look on his face changed from dislike to ridicule. Sit up? Was she completely dimwitted?

"Of course he can't sit up you dolt." She thought, clearing her throat nervously, "no, I suppose not well, I'll help you…" she moved to do so but he didn't seem particularly keen on the idea. "Come on don't be foolish you _have_ to sit up, you can't eat lying down."

Erik glared at her, who did this insolent little tart think she was? Apparently someone infinitely important in her own little world, well, he was far too used to being the one in command to let this little nymphet treat him this way…

It was at this very moment that realization struck our young hero; he was struggling to sit up, intending to leave this place and leave this retched girl in peace when he found he couldn't. _Helpless_, the word hit him like a bucket of ice water in the face, he was completely helpless. It was like being in that damned cage all over again only this time there were no bars holding him in, but his own body. He was a soul trapped within the limitations of his broken physical state! This feeling he hated above all else, he could bare pain, hate, even loneliness, but helplessness? No! He had sworn the day he'd escaped that he'd never be vulnerable to the whims of man again and now…

"Mousier?" He blinked and looked at the girl, "Mousier, are you alright?"

"No, you dunce I'm not alright, do I look alright?" he thought exasperatedly.

She seemed to read his thoughts for her face became suddenly stern, "Don't look at me like that...come now just--" He struggled, but putting weight on his right arm sent a shot of pain like fire through his shoulder and down his arm until his very fingertips ached. "_Stop,_ you're going to hurt yourself, don't be a fool, let me help you." He sighed heavily, resigning to the fact that whatever he might wish at this moment, it was physically impossible for him to sit up on his own. He consented at last and she put an arm behind his back, lifting him until he was at last in an upright position, leaning against the headboard.

It was over breakfast that Erik begun to feel the weight of curiosity begining to overpower his will to have as little to do with this girl as possible, "Where am I?" was his first question as he took the bread from her hand, insisting on feeding himself.

Ange, expecting the inevitable interrogation answered, "My home."

"Who are you?" He said rather sharply, for someone who hadn't been able to speak moments before he had found not only his voice butthe bite in his barkwith remarkable speed.

"Ange Marriott." She replied, waiting to see if her name meant anything to him. It did not, he must not be a performer then, everyone in the Opera Populaire knew _her_ name.

"How is it that I came to be here?" None of it made sense, the last thing he remembered…it was all a bit hazy but he certainly didn't remember coming this place or meeting this girl.

"I brought you."

"You?" he ran his eyes over her, making her uncomfortable, there was something about those eyes that seemed to see right through her, his voice was disbelieving.

"Well I had help of course, Christine—"

He gave a start, "Christine?" _What about Christine!_

Ange raised a brow, "Yes, Christine Daae you know her?"

Erik's blood ran cold, "fool," he thought, "do you have a death wish?" he seemed to stare hard at the girl although it wasn't her he was seeing. "Yes," he told himself, but he didn't. If he were to be truly honest, no matter how bad he hurt, from his shattered heart to throbbing head more than anything he wanted to live, live freely, or as close to free as he could, and if this girl hadn't recognized him immediately then… "I…I know _of_ her." He said quickly.

"So…then you must have worked at the Opera?"

"Something like that, yes." He didn't like the way this conversation was heading, she was getting to personal, to close to the truth…. "Why have you brought me here?" he asked, turning the questions back to her. How could it be that this girl didn't know him? It _had_ to be a trick. What person who knew Christine didn't know of her damned angel of music or the phantom?

Ange blinked as if she hadn't heard him correctly, why? She was still trying to figure that out herself…"I…you were wounded and so I…" she rose quickly, scooping up his pile of dirty laundry, "I have many things to do and I haven't time to waste on the likes of you, as for why I brought you here… You were, you _are_, severely wounded. What respectable person, finding someone in the state you were in when I found you wouldn't do the same?" With this, she turned sharply on her heal and left Erik in a slight state of shock and bewilderment. Who on earth was this girl!

Ange flew from the room as though the devil was at her heels. No man, ever, had this effect on her. She'd met royalty, been _courted_ by handsome wealthy nobleman, conversed with some of the greatest artists of the day and she hadn't so much as blinked. Yet this man, this nobody, this mere nothing, hardly what you could even call human laying helpless in a bed, made her positively quiver! How could this be?

Christine Daae stared at her reflection in the mirror. She stood poised before it as if waiting, and indeed she was.The foolish girl in her clinging to the idea that her angel…phantom…whoever he was, would be with her no matter where she went; that he would follow her into the very bowls of hell if need be. Surly then he would be with her even here, in the De Chagny manor outside Paris. She shook herself mentally, "let it go Christine."

He was not an angel, not a phantom, not _super_natural but natural-- no perhaps natural wasn't the word… In any case he was mortal, with a mortal's limitations and she knew exactly where he was, he was with Ange in her townhouse, in the bed they had laid him in the night before.

Christine's mind wandered, over thoughts of the past and the choices she'd made, not only of Erik, although her heart ached to know how he was, "please God, let him be alright…he _must_ be alright." She thought of her earlier life and the choices she had made. Had she been wrong? Becoming a dancer at the Opera had given her everything she'd ever dreamed of: fame, fortune, love like in fairytales… Yet, somehow those things weren't what they were cracked up to be.

She heard his voice in her head even now, even here, remembering when she was much younger and she had first heard the voice of her angel. He was suddenly with her, his voice, ethereal, beautiful, sang in her head once again. Her mind raced with memories that seemed to have been so long ago…The first time she'd heard his voice, the first time he'd sang for her, the first time _she'd_ sang for _him_… she remembered the flaws in her underdeveloped voice, it almost made her smile. The voice, (for at the timehe was that and nothing more) had been so patient with her, surprising because patience didn't seem to be part of Erik's nature in later years. "Erik…" She whispered, a cry catching in her throat.

She shook herself mentally, would it always be like this! Would he always haunt her mind?Here she was in one of the finest houses in Paris with one of the most sought after young men in France downstairs waiting for her. It was a world of light and life, free from Erik's darkness and eternal solitude, yet her mind was still caged, firm and unshaken in the hands of her Phantom… why could he not just let her go! "Yes, Christine blame him," she berated herself, "as he lays helplessly in a bed probably near death… blame him!" She was shouting now, screaming at her reflection in the mirror, "who is the one who can't let go now!" She let her head drop into her hands, sinking to the floor, tears flowing freely. "How could you blame him when you are just as guilty? When your hands are just as bloody?" a voice said in her head. Not Erik's, not hers, but a voice that had been there all along, drowned out by music and fantasy, reason, conscience perhaps? She wasn't sure, but it was as clear to her as though it had spoken aloud. "How can you?"

A light tap on her door sent the voice away and brought Christine back to reality, "Christine?" The longing to fling herself into her lover's arms overpowered the shame of her tears. The door opened slightly and Raoul's blonde head appeared through the crack, "Christine?" The site of her on the floor sent propriety from his mind and he raced to her side, enveloping her in his arms, "It's alright Christine, he's gone, he can't harm you, no one can harm you…" He whispered comfortingly.

She pulled away quite suddenly, staring at him as though he'd cursed at her, "Oh god…" she thought, "How could he—. " Didn't he understand? Hadn't he seen…? When trying to describe _the phantom_, the words manic, grim and yes, even violent sprang to mind, but when describing _Erik_, Christine would call him unfortunate, lonely and… there had been moments when he had looked at her, like a beaten dog, so hungry for one friendly word or kind glance, and moments when she knew he would do anything, _anything_, to please her.

Yet she looked into the eyes of her fiancée, his beautiful warm blue eyes and she didn't care. She ran her hand along his flawless cheek and kissed him. He was perfect. No darkness, not a drop of sinister or grim in his entire being… "Christine, I love you," he whispered against her lips. Christine forgot to reply.

A.N.- Well there's chappie two! Sorry it took so long I got sidetracked! Isn't my editor teriff? Everyone give a round of applause for Squishybeer! claps and cheers loudly. Sorry if the R/C stuff made you a bit sick breaks into song "…you will understand in time!" trust me! smacks forehead oy that's in Poto too… "Touch me…trust me…" HEY HANDS OFF! There will be absolutely no touching of the Woodstock! cough um anyway… go, go review! NOW! Please? I'll…let you throw large objects at Raoul? Doesn't that sound fun! Tries to heave a large cinder block in the marvelous-magic-pansy's direction… teeheehee.


	3. Ties That Bind

Summery- What makes a monster and what makes a man? And who, if anyone, has the right to make the judgment? ((Sorry I know it's a crappy summery but I swear the story's good! rated pg13 for multiple reasons, PLEASE R&R!))

Disclaimer- The Phantom of the Opera belongs to ALW, Leroux, and…well some other ppl too I guess but unfortunately I am not one of them! As far as I know…hmm shakes herself out of it oh…yeah, well…carry on…

A.N. Sorry I'm making you wait so long between chapters, please accept my apologies and my thanks for being so patient with my index finger, you must forgive her… 'dexie is a perfectionist. Anyway here for your viewing pleasure is chapter three! Upon finishing my outline I've found that I left out some key elements in the first two chapters which will become very relevant later on but as I myself am impatient to get well into the story I'm pressing on, flaws and all… Sylvie will suddenly appear in this chapter as though she had been there all along because she should have been introduced in the first place to help Ange tend to Erik seeing as she is an ignorant stuck up ballerina and wouldn't know what the hell to do about a gun shot wound lol. I realized how obviously ridiculous that was only after I'd reread the chapter for like… the 10th time…I apologize shakes head in shame Anyway just pretend that the old French maid has been there all along ok? As I said I shall fix it all in good time. Also my editors aren't around right now, which is one of the reasons I haven't posted this yet, so there might be some errors… I'll update it later!

-Woodie

Of Monsters and Men

By: Woodstock

_For Lulu, Squishy, Shibby, Tears, Dawn, S.B. Libbey-- oh geez it's for all the tarts!_

_My tartie little darlins… I adore you! _

3

Ties That Bind

Sylvie surveyed the remnants of the man's clothes, his spoiled shirt held between one thumb and fore finger and his stained pants between the other pair, an expression of disgust on the old maid's face that made her look as though she had just sucked the juice from a lemon.

"Is there no hope of salvaging them?" Ange asked, more occupied with her reflection in the mirror before her than the task at hand.

"There is always hope when it comes to mending Mademoiselle, but it would be tedious and time consuming— I think I have something better."

"Such as?"

Sylvie left the sitting room without replying, and while this ought to have been considered unacceptable behavior from hired help, Ange thought nothing of it. In her Aunt's opinion Sylvie was more of a beloved sister who happened to wait upon them than an actual _servant_ and the old fussy woman was used to being treated as such.

Having nothing better to do Ange resigned to a chair and a book, though she was much too preoccupied to actually read. _He_ had been here three days already and she hadn't yet asked his name, there hadn't been an opportunity… The first day he had spent there he had drifted somewhere between the conscious world and the beyond and after that he had seemed to do nothing but sleep, deep heavy sleep that made Sylvie fretful. It had been only since that morning that he seemed to return even somewhat to reality, though it seemed unwillingly.

Now she had taken to avoiding him, afraid, though she wouldn't admit it, after that morning's outburst. Perhaps the infection was a new development… that must have been it, for it seemed he hadn't realized until that moment that there was anything odd about his face at all. When he did realize this he his clapped his hand over the offending features and screamed at them to get out, to leave him, calling them the foulest things Ange could ever remember hearing.

Her short fused temperament getting the better of her Ange had returned the act with equal wrath until she was red in the face. Never in her life had she gotten into a yelling match with anyone as inferior as that foul loathsome—she turned the page of her book so roughly that it tore. Neither had she ever lost… not that she had lost this one, but she couldn't very well call it a victory, had his voice not gone horse when it did he might have indeed bested her.

Why was she even putting up with it? After the way that piece of filth had spoken to her—she should have turned him out, no matter his state! It wasn't her fault nor her affair and she simply refused to allow such an insignificant wastrel to disconcert her so.

She rose quite suddenly, marching from the drawing room and down the corridor in such a fury that one would have thought she had gone quite mad. Then, just as she was about to push open his door she stopped and stood quite still, the heat of anger draining from her cheeks and her resolve with it. Instead she felt almost nervous, how was it that such a creature could have such an effect upon her? All at once she was quite intrigued.

Ange pushed the door open slowly, peaking her head in the dimly lit room, expecting to see the man asleep once again… he was however quite awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as though it were telling him a great secret. She pushed the door open the rest of the way, wincing as it creaked loudly on its hinges, yet the man seemed completely oblivious. Ange cleared her throat once, he didn't so much as blink, she knocked on the door and cleared her throat again but to no avail. At last she grew bold, crossing to the chair beside his bed and tapping him on the shoulder, saying rather loudly, "you ought to respond someone might walk in and suppose you had died."

He jolted as though stunned, and turned his eyes on her, so cold and hateful that it almost made the girl wince, "and _you_ ought not to intrude where you are so clearly not wanted."

She returned his glare, "I'll go where I please and do what I please in _my_ house thank you, and you would do well to remember that _I_ am mistress of this household and as such my will and word is law." He scoffed but didn't reply, returning his gaze to the ceiling. "Who are you?" He glanced at her again, seeming somehow disgruntled. "It's a reasonable question to ask someone abiding in my household so don't look at me like that, I merely want to know your name."

"Erik," he responded at once, as if he was in a rush to be over and done with it.

"Erik," she sniffed and to his raised brow replied, "It doesn't suit you."

"_Ange_ doesn't suit you." She glared at him, not willing to admit that this was indeed true.

Before their tempers could raise again Sylvie interrupted, accompanied by fresh clothes for the invalid. "Where did you get these?" Ange questioned, inspecting them almost as warily as Erik himself. All the scrutiny they were undergoing would suggest they were something far more sinister than an innocent white shirt and a pair of faded black trousers.

"My husband God rest him," Sylvie replied, speaking not to Ange but to Erik, "seemed about your size and I suppose you can put them to better use than he can."

Christine hurried up the walk toward the Giry residence; it was a site for sore eyes after a long walk in the unseasonably dismal rain, she stepped around a puddle, careful not to soak her shoes or the hem of her cloak. Meg had sent three notes to her already, begging her to come, and Raoul had been nothing but pleased that the opportunity had arisen for her to get out of the house. Yet Christine had found herself dreading and even avoiding it, and though she felt guilty she could not help the knots in her stomach as she went up the steps and pulled the door chain. She had been trying, unsuccessfully; to rid herself of any thoughts pertaining to the opera and all that had gone on therein, how could she possibly do so if she was constantly being presented with people and things that reminded her of it? Every person, every memory was like a cord that bound her to her past, and until she could forget, until she could let it go, she could not be free.

The door was opened by an ecstatic Meg who pulled her inside; hugging her with what Christine thought was far too much zealous considering the circumstances. "You came!"

"Of course!" Christine said putting on a wide smile, "how could I resist coming to see my dearest friend?"

Meg took Christine's soaking hood and hung it on the hook, "I assumed you'd be too busy or, well preoccupied after—"

"Never too preoccupied for you Meg," Christine said as the two headed into the parlor, "but where is Madame?"

"Oh, Mother's out, I wanted to speak to you alone anyway." She replied, sitting down in one of the large overstuffed wingback chairs, Christine sat opposite, running her hands absently over the worn upholstery.

Within minutes things were just as comfortable between them as always and Christine found herself marveling that she had ever doubted Meg as being her closest and dearest friend and confidant. They chattered away for hours, comforting and confiding in each other, but when the time for Christine's departure drew near, Meg grew suddenly quiet and something about her countenance became unsure. "Meg what's the matter?"

She shook her head, "I'm not sure I should… I didn't even tell Mother, I was so sure she would disapprove and take the matter into her own hands, but you see…" She rose suddenly, moving to the fireplace and took a small box from the mantle. Christine recognized it at once; it was an ornately carved wooden box about the size of a card box which she knew to contain Meg's precious things. "I have something which belonged to… that is, when I found it I knew at once that you must have it, that I should give it to no one else." She returned to her seat, took the little brass key from her pocket and opened the box, then passed it to Christine.

It was obvious at once which item was meant for Christine, on the very top of the pile of cards, trinkets, and little gifts, was a kerchief wrapped package. Glancing at her friend skeptically she lifted it from the box, surprised at how light and thin it was, and unwrapped it gingerly. There nestled within the layers of cloth was of all things, the phantom's white mask!

A loud gasp escaped from between Christine's lips and her hand flew quickly to cover them. Paling considerably, she stared at the mask as though staring into the face of the Phantom himself. "Erik…"

"Christine?" Meg was at her side in a second, squeezing her hand, "Christine are you alright?"

Christine's eyes lifted to Meg's, vague and far away, "I…" she shook herself mentally, "Meg where did you find this?"

"In the phantom's lair, after—oh Christine I'm sorry, I should have known it would upset you but I just thought…"

"No, I'm alright, really, thank you for keeping it safe for me I…but why didn't you turn it over to the police?"

Meg shrugged, "It didn't even cross my mind, I knew giving it to you was the only thing to do. I would have given it to you when we met outside the opera that night but you seemed so shaken and then Ange turned up and I couldn't give it to you in front of _her_."

"No of course not." Christine said vaguely as she stared at the mask.

Meg gave her hand an extra squeeze, her voice when she spoke next was so low and pained that it startled Christine, "Christine, you must forgive me."

She looked at her kindly, "whatever for?"

"For not believing you, it just seemed so outrageous—"

Christine smiled, "there were times I didn't even believe it myself…"

"I can't imagine what it must have been like," her eyes widened and she moved closer to Christine, looking eager, "what was it like Christine? What was he, _the phantom_, like?"

She blinked, a little stunned by her friend's curiosity, what was it like? It was like having someone inside your head, knowing all your thoughts, all your darkest desires and greatest fears, it was like the sweetest dream turning suddenly into a nightmare, it was like being held captive by your own fantasies. What was it like to wonder if you were insane? And then hope you were because you couldn't imagine life without the voice, without the guidance. What it was like to become dependant on something you were sure must be a figment of your imagination, but knew in your heart of hearts was real…? How could she explain to Meg what that was like? "He was… strange, dreadful, and," she smiled, "wonderful."

"Oh Christine, you must have been so frightened!"

"Yes… and no, he was powerful, demanding, quick to anger and jealousy, but there were times when he was as gentle as one could imagine, and kind in his own, peculiar sort of way…" He had wanted to give her everything, no matter what the cost; he would do anything for her, _anything_.

"I can't imagine what it must have been like to be in the hands of a murderer, a monster…"

Christine blinked, it wasn't like that! Wasn't she listening? He wasn't a monster; he just didn't understand... the way his mind worked was different from other people. "There were times when… I cannot even explain, he was so hungry for the smallest hint of human compassion…"

"It's not a wonder, who could love such a creature as that?"

The color rose in Christine's cheeks, how Meg could say such things about someone she knew nothing about was beyond Christine. Her friend had such a caring understanding demeanor, at times it had almost annoyed Christine, and now… "It's getting late, I must go," she said quickly.

"Oh, I haven't upset you have I? I knew I shouldn't have bothered you with questions—"

"No Meg, that's not it at all, I promised Raoul I wouldn't be gone long."

Meg nodded as if knowingly, "he dotes upon you so Christine."

Christine smiled, "you have _no_ idea."

Some time later, nearly an hour, Raoul found Christine walking aimlessly through the rain as if her head was no longer attached to her shoulders. He scolded her for her foolishness but when he realized that it wasn't doing any good he simply lifted her into the carriage and hurried her home to a warm fire.

After the excitement had passed and Raoul had gone out for the evening, (Christine had insisted that he go without her), she sat alone by the fire, wrapped in as many blankets as Raoul could force upon her, she allowed her mind to wander. During all the hubbub of getting her inside, out of her wet things and fed (hot soup that the cook had tried to spoon her until Raoul had waved her away) no one had noticed her slip the mask into the pocket of her fresh dress.

Now that the house was empty and quiet she felt it was safe to remove it from its hiding place and have a better look at it, running her hands over the smooth clay surface almost lovingly, even at this close a distance Christine could hardly believe it hadn't been made from a mold, so flawless was the craftsmanship, if she closed her eyes and ran her hands over it she might have been able to swear it was a real cheek, except that it was too cold and stiff.

Doing so she found herself remembering what his skin had felt like beneath her hands, the one cheek soft, perfect, the other… but it hadn't mattered, in that moment it simply hadn't mattered. "Erik…" she thought, tears threatening, she would not cry, she _would not_ cry… "My poor Erik." She longed to know of him, he had been so pale when she had left him, so very pale and cold almost… lifeless... She choked at the thought. "Well," she turned the mask over in her hands, "I must return this mustn't I?"

The voice of reason was screaming in her brain, begging her to think logically, to remember Raoul, to remember the danger, to think of what the consequences might be… but all she thought of was Erik's face that night. "One more time…" she thought, "just to be sure he's alright."

TBC...

A.N. I hope you like. I know you're probably getting annoyed with me jumping back and forth from Erik to Christine and wonder why the hell I even have Christine in the story but you'll just have to bare with me to find out won't you? P Three cheers for my awful editing skills in the absence of my editors! As for the thing where the spaces are like… magically gone… that keeps happening when I convert the files, sorry bout that! Please please please R&R I beg of you! -Woodie


	4. Battle of Wills

Summery- What makes a monster and what makes a man? And who, if anyone, has the right to make the judgment? ((Sorry I know it's a crappy summery but I swear the story's good! rated pg13 for multiple reasons, PLEASE R&R!))

Disclaimer- The Phantom of the Opera belongs to ALW, Leroux, and…well some other ppl too I guess but unfortunately I am not one of them! As far as I know…hmm shakes herself out of it oh…yeah, well…carry on…

A.N. Yes another chapter, two in a row woo! I'm probably going to do another right after this one, if my muse visits me again tonight; he insists that I do my piece by this story. Lol. Enjoy!

-Woodie

Of Monsters and Men

By: Woodstock

_For all the tarts (I luv ya!)_

4

Battle of Wills

Erik was restless, no, that wasn't even the right word, there was no word to describe the ache inside him, the longing to escape… yet there was no hope, he was completely helpless to her whims.

"Hold still… my god…" Ange muttered, tugging at the bandage around his arm with a bit too much zealous than was really needed. Sofie was out, not that Erik had inquired as to where the shuffling little maid was but he was certain that if she had been about she wouldn't have permitted the yelling match that had preceded this moment without intervening. He couldn't understand what it was about this girl that drove him to the lowly practice of bickering back and forth… no one had ever dared argue with him, not Madame Giry, or Christine… His hands clenched into fists at his sides, oh to have the full use of his body again! He would teach this insufferable bint a lesson she wouldn't soon forget… how he would have loved to wrap his hands around her dainty little throat…

"There, finir," Ange said, surveying her work, as she wrapped up the soiled bandages and discarded them.

At this moment there came a light, almost feeble knock on the outside door. Ange never received guests while her Aunt was away, and upon the very rare occasion that someone did call, Sylvie answered the door. Therefore Ange didn't readily answer, but after a few moments during which the knocking persisted, much too both Ange's and Erik's annoyance, she did so.

Christine was all too relieved when after several minutes the door didn't open, "she must be out," she thought, turning on her heel, it was a sign, she was not meant to do this—

"Christine!" Christine wheeled about on the third step, toward Ange who looked overly happy to see her.

"Ange, I knocked and no one answered, I thought you must be out…"

"No, just tremendously busy," Christine took this as an indication that she wasn't wanted and began to turn away again but then Ange added, "not to busy for a friend though of course, come inside." Ange held the door open and Christine stepped inside, removing her own hood and placing it on the rack she followed Ange, assuming that she would lead her into Erik's room she was disappointed and yet… relieved, when Ange continued past the shut door, down the hall to the drawing room.

Ange seated herself in one of the large wingback chairs and Christine sat opposite, "it's a relief just to be away from that infernal lunatic," Ange vented, giving Christine a look when she smirked.

_So he's alright then,_ she thought, relief sweeping over her, "so I take it he survived the initial ailments then?"

"I'm beginning to wish he hadn't."

_Typical Erik_ Christine grinned"I feared the worst for him when I left."  
"It is not a blessing but a curse," Ange found herself grinning as well, what could Christine find so grand about all this? How dare she smile at her expense, how dare her good nature rub off on her! "But come let us speak of something else, how are you?"

"Quite well," Christine lied, "and happy, Raoul is such a dear," she extended her hand to Ange, allowing her to inspect the ornate ring that adorned her dainty finger.

"Engaged!" Ange exclaimed, she found nothing exciting or romantic about an engagement, not surprising, Ange never found excitement or romance about _anything_, because of this she had become quite the actress, "how splendid Christine!"

Christine beamed, "who could believe it, me and a _Vicomte_!" her demeanor changed a bit, the natural glee that had radiated off of her felt suddenly flat.

"Christine? Are you alright?"

"I must see him." She said tonelessly, her eyes becoming dark and far away.

"See…whom?"

"Him."

Ange blinked, "you mean Erik?"

Christine rounded on her, "how do you know his name is Erik?" she positively demanded.

"I asked, Christine are you quite well?"

"Ange I've thought of little else except Erik these past days and now… well… I simply must see him."

"Very well, I'll take you to him, although I warn you, you won't find him agreeable."

"I must see him, _alone_."

Ange raised an eyebrow, "oh? Why?" this was all too queer, Christine was not known for being clever, and it was quite obvious she had known this man before now, but then why had she not said anything the night of the fire? This was too queer, she was at something, and Ange, damning her curiosity, knew she would have no rest until she was to the bottom of all this. After a long moment in which Christine did not answer, Ange conceded, "very well, but take care, there is little to distinguish between his bark and his bite."

"I am warned," Christine replied as though Ange's words had slipped in one ear and out the other. With that she exited a room, looking as though she were walking in a dream, and moved down the hall to Erik's door. She pushed it open cautiously. The room was lit only by the sunlight which streamed obscured by the curtains, through a window on the far wall, and it smelled starkly of stiff liquor and drying blood. The figure upon the bed lay stiffly, and half naked, a blanket thrown carelessly so that it covered neither his bare chest nor the rolled up pant leg revealing a leg completely hidden within bandages. His eyes were shut and his breathing was easy, assuming then that he was asleep she resisted the urge to race to him and take him up in her arms. Instead she moved slowly so as not to wake him with her footsteps and settled lightly into the chair beside him, "poor Erik," she whispered softly, staring down at him, "my poor Erik."

"You're not there," his voice came, thick and disjointed with sleep, "you're not really there…"

"Erik it's me, its Christine!"

"God, she's driven me mad…you would torment a tortured soul?"

"Erik please, you're not mad," she reached out her hand to stroke his cheek, his reflex was fast, taking hold of her wrist so fast it felt as though he'd struck her.

His eyes burst open and he bolted upright, "Christine! Dear God Christine…but why?" he released her wrist, looking suddenly afraid; his eyes darted to the door and then back to her, questioningly, pleadingly.

She shook her head quickly, "no, no one knows, not even Ange…"

He turned abruptly cold toward her, "why have you come?"

"I had to see you I… I had to."

"I told you to go, never to return, you were so willing to be rid of this _distorted soul_ that _preyed_ upon you and now you had to _see_ me? I will not be made a spectacle of by any person, not even by one I love so dearly as you."

"Erik," he seized a hold of her wrist so suddenly and roughly that she nearly shouted, "What do you think—"

She saw a second later exactly what he was doing, he examined her ring, his eyes alight as they always were when his gaze fell upon something beautiful. "Leave me," he said quietly, returning her hand to her.

"I will not."

"If I cannot have you, I do not want you, leave me!" He shouted in an all too familiar tone, the one that sent chills down her spine and made her blood run cold, how could one man be so kind, and then turn and be so cruel?

She reached into her pocket, drawing out the mask, still wrapped in Meg's kerchief, "perhaps you now know what it is to be haunted?"

"I know better than anyone," he returned, bitter.

"Better than I?"

"Have you come to berate me? If so, spare us both, you have already condemned me, is that not enough?"

"Erik," she touched his cheek gently, "I have come not to berate, neither to condemn, nor even to make a spectacle of you, but simply to assure myself that you are well and safe, and return something to you."

He had melted at her touch like a child to the gentle hand of their mother; the lamb had overcome the lion within Erik once again. She placed the package in his hands and, stroking his hair, watched as he opened it. His reaction was not at all what she had expected; it was as a man pleading his guilt before a court, such remorse, such self-loathing..!

She couldn't bare the look upon his already wretched face, "Erik, all that lies in the past."

"Nothing haunts so as the past."

"It is forgiven, _forget_."

"I cannot, this is a dream and I shall awake and find you gone, or worse I am awake and you shall leave me nonetheless!"

"It is true, I cannot linger, Raoul--" she ignored the sound not unlike a growl that escaped from his throat at the mention of her fiancée, "Raoul and I are to go out tonight."

"You will not return." He said firmly.

"Is that your will?"

"My _will_ is that you would stay entirely."

"I cannot, but I will return if you wish it."

"You cannot grant what I wish, but yes, please, promise you will come back?"

"I will."

"Promises are ties that bind."

"Then I am bound to you."

For a brief second, Christine thought he almost smiled, her breath caught in her throat, had she ever seen Erik smile? "Take this with you," he said, pushing the mask back into her hands, "if it should be discovered with me… but no one would be suspicious of it in your possession." She bent to kiss his cheek but he moved away hastily, "goodbye Christine."

She pressed a hand again to his cheek, "rest now, Erik, I will return in a few days time." She watched as his eyelids slid closed at last and lifted the blanket so that it covered him entirely and then moved back to the door.

Ange moved away from the door and had just enough time to slip back down the corridor before Christine exited the room. Behind the thick oak door she had caught only bits and pieces of the conversation, and she supposed they had spoken their last in whispers for she had heard nothing, but the dull mummer of voices. Whatever she had or hadn't heard she'd gathered this much, Christine and Erik were obviously somehow involved, and whether Raoul knew this or not she wasn't sure, although Erik had spoken of him with such disgust they must have met on at least one occasion…

There was something dark and deep rooted here, and Ange had felt almost as though she had interrupted something private and sacred listening in. Their exchange of dialogue was a mere tête-à-tête, a cover for the much deeper running conversation they were having in some other form beyond vocals. If anything these tidbits had only served to obscure the truth still more and increase her curiosity.

A.N. This chapter was a bit… difficult, I'm trying to humanize the phantom some without removing the mystery or turning him into Mr. Sensitivity over there point to Raoul in the corner in a body cast its becoming quite difficult… if he's too mush lemme know I'll change it! Thanks, please R&R! And remember I don't have my beloved editors around to save my butt so be kind about the errors, thanks.


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