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 notmove," 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!