8 months the Enemy

Disclaimer: We don't own anything phantom related. Although we wish we owned Erik…

"Argh!"

Erik smiled inwardly as his sword sliced into the boy's arm, and danced forwards to finish him off, but Raoul was apparently more able than Erik had first thought, for he pushed himself up out of the snow and lunged at him. Their blades met once again with a resounding clash. They pulled away then locked again. They boy was desperate to finish it quickly now, Erik could tell. He leapt in with reckless charges, each one accompanied by the hiss of the sword, each one slowly driving Erik backwards. He could feel a gravestone at his back, and slipped around it with a swish of his sodden cloak. Raoul's sword rang resoundingly off the marble, missing him by a millimetre. Snow showered down into Erik's face, and with a cry of rage, the Phantom stabbed hard at Raoul's stomach as the Vicomte came round the stone. Their blades met again with a hiss of metal on metal. Erik felt the blow glance off the skull crosspiece of his smallsword. He pulled backwards, making Raoul come at him.

And tripped. He had not seen the snow covered stone. Ankle twisting hard underneath him, Erik toppled into the snow, turning his shout of pain into a shout of rage as Raoul swung his sword down to no doubt take his head off. Hearing Christine's gasp of fear, he paused for a moment. In that moment Erik had reached up, seized Raoul's boot and pulled hard forwards. Unprepared for that move, the younger man was pulled off balance, barely keeping his feet in the treacherous conditions. His blade, deflected, ripped Erik's shoulder open, crimson blood splattering the snow. Stepping forwards, an apparently surprised expression on his face, Raoul swung the sword back with two hands. The point pierced the masked man's cloak, shirt and finally his side. Erik felt his vision darken for a moment, the pain blinding him. Raoul took a step back, now intent on returning to Christine. He turned to run, but Erik, desperate, launched his sword forwards into the back of Raoul's leg.

Raoul fell with a yell of pain, the sword point still embedded in his calf. He let go of his own sword and fumbled around to yank Erik's blade out of his leg, trying to stand as he did so. He almost fell again, barely able to push himself up.

Erik lay behind him, groaning as he tried to pull himself together. Blood streamed down his side, soaking his dress shirt and trickling down his leg as he forced himself to stand, hand pressed tight over the wound. His mask had come loose in the fall and he fumbled it back into place. Hesitantly reaching down for his sword with his injured arm, he sensed Raoul turning back and clenched his fist tight. The black glove was coppery with his own blood.

Raoul didn't see the punch coming. He thought he had killed Erik with that wound, and he was turning merely to admire his own success. Instead, a black gloved fist pounded into his jaw, breaking the milk-coloured skin. What had been a swordfight broke down into a common brawl.

Erik clawed at Raoul's throat, trying to wrap his hands around it, to choke him, whilst Raoul rained blow after blow on his face, struggling to free himself. The Vicomte gasped, eyes almost popping out of his head as Erik finally got a hold and squeezed hard. He stopped punching.

After a moment, Erik took a shaky breath to calm himself. It wouldn't be good to kill the boy in front of Christine, despite the fact that he was a miserable fool. Slowly, he loosened his grip on Raoul.

"Go," he said, and the voice that spoke sounded strange to his own ears. "And may it be war upon you both."

Shakily, Raoul stood. Christine ran to him. Breathing hard, he limped over to his horse with his arm loosely around Christine, whose face was chalky white. She began to weep.

"It's okay Christine, you're safe now," he murmured as he mounted tentatively. The grey horse cantered off into the darkening light, leaving the graveyard silent except for an occasional moan.

Erik groaned, sprawled shivering in the snow, eyes half closed. His shirt was plastered to his side with scarlet blood. The colour of the roses to his angel. How ironic, he thought bitterly. He could feel it, taste it, sickening and foul in his mouth as he sat up, head reeling. Something in the air told him a storm was coming. The snow began to fall heavier, melting as it touched his burning face, feverish with pain and anger. He would kill that boy!

He staggered upright, pain searing through his side. It was tearing at his guts, ripping through his brain. He lurched forwards, weaving in and out of gravestones, the agony threatening to take over his consciousness. Knowing he couldn't fight it for much longer, he stumbled falteringly towards the church. He was barely up the steps before it came for him, and the pit into which he had been so unwilling to slip overwhelmed him. He fell, head landing heavily on the stone with a dull thud as everything went drunken and dark.

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Madame Giry looked out the small window near Christine's dressing room as she heard the grey horse clatter through the entrance. In the harsh blizzard it was difficult to see, but she knew Christine had gone to the cemetery and that Raoul had left shortly after, so she hurried down to the steps with her cane in hand. Still, she was quite unprepared for the scene that met her.

"Madame Giry!" Christine cried as she pulled the horse up. Raoul was slumped on the horse's neck, apparently unconscious, and the pair were shivering terribly.

"Christine!" Madame Giry called, hearing the fear in her voice. She ran to them, taking in Raoul's inert form and the blood on his shirt. "You did well Christine, you have got him back before it is too late," she added as people began to crowd out of the building, attracted by the commotion. Firmin and André pushed through the crowd.

"Madame Giry, I do hope nothing is amiss?" Firmin called, concerned.

"It's the Vicomte de Chagny Monsieur! He's been injured!"

Raoul was carried inside by Piangi and one of the stagehands, who laid him in one of the dressing rooms, where his wounds were wrapped. Christine sat quietly beside him, and by the time she was calm enough to speak, he had sufficiently regained consciousness to recount what had happened to the appalled crowd.

"It was the Phantom," Raoul said shakily, grimacing. "The Phantom of the Opera."

As he spoke, Madame Giry slipped towards the door. No one but Christine saw her go, the middle-aged woman with a finger to her lips and a cane in her hand. The door closed quietly behind her and Christine turned to Raoul, crying again.

"Do not cry," he murmured, wiping away her tears with one of his pale, slender fingers. She kissed his hand, then let her head rest on his chest, exhausted. The two of them fell asleep, Raoul with an arm around her tired body.

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Madame Giry hesitantly pushed open the graveyard gate and stepped inside, shoes crunching in the snow. She was wearing a black cloak and the wind tugged at the hood that hid her face. Stopping just inside the gate, she listened. The only noise was the whine of the wind as is played around the gravestones. Shivering and looking around warily, she followed the lightly covered hoof prints to Gustav Daae's gravestone. The footprints of the three had been covered by the heavy snow, but now and then she could still see them, faint in the pale moonlight. The blood was more visible. Behind the gravestone it stained the snow a deep red, and Madame Giry thought of Erik. Where was he now? He was injured, the Vicomte had said as much, but how badly she did not know. Why, he could have been back in his lair by now. But somehow, she knew that was not the case.

As she turned to walk on, Madame Giry almost tripped over and long silver object in the snow: A sword, with a skull on it, very much similar to the one which sealed his notes to the managers and various members of the opera. She bent to pick it up, moving quietly so that she would hear if anyone approached. The sword convinced her, if she had needed convincing, that Erik was still around. But still there was silence.

"Erik?" Madame Giry risked calling out. She thought she heard a moan coming from the church, but she wasn't sure. "Erik," she called again. Yes, it was definitely a moan. Hurrying through the snow, the ballet mistress wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. Of course Erik would go to the church; he wasn't stupid enough to be caught out in the storm.

The door to the church was slightly ajar, but all was dark inside. Lighting a candle in the doorway, Madame Giry ventured in. The guttering light made little impact in the gloomy darkness, and if she hadn't been looking she wouldn't have seen the dark shape slumped in the far corner.

"Erik! Is it you?" she called, making her way over to him. He gave no answer, but she knew it was him. Who else would be laying half conscious in a church at this time of night?

Setting the candle down on a chair, Madame Giry knelt beside the figure. She placed a hand on his shoulder to roll him over, and felt the congealing blood beneath her fingers before she saw it. Gently, she rolled him over onto his side.

"Aaah," he gasped in pain, an agonised look on his face. Folding her cloak and resting his head on it, she rolled him over completely. "Who…?" he whispered, his voice rasping in his throat that was in desperate need of water.

"Don't worry Erik, it is me, Madame Giry. Raoul said you were injured," she said gently.

"Ah, the Vicomte de Chagny," Erik muttered, opening his eyes slowly.

"He did this?" she asked although she already knew the answer.

"Who else? Bested by a mere boy."

Madame Giry sighed and patted his uninjured shoulder like she would to a child. Opening her bag, she pulled out a bandage and carefully began to bandage his shoulder wound.

"Leave that, it's the side that troubles me," Erik muttered, closing his eyes again.

"Your side?" she asked worriedly, bringing the candle down for a closer look. The left side of his shirt was sticky, and he grimaced as she moved it away from the deep jagged-edged cut. It did not come free easily, and Erik groaned as she finally eased all of the fabric away. "Hold still," she murmured as he let out a deep sigh.

A/N: Please leave a review if you've read! It's very disheartening when you see a story getting read but not reviewed-it makes us wonder what we're doing wrong.