I am very new to this fandom, please review, be gentle. I tried to create something different from the typical approach I was seeing to Erik x Christine stories. I hope you enjoy.

Prologue:

"How did you find me?", the tall figure in the corner of the room demanded.

It certainly hadn't been easy, she could attest to that much, if she hadn't known him so well she might never have done it at all. But his methods were just unique enough that she had been able to follow a bread crumb trail of tiny clues straight to him in only half a year's time. The littlest slips, a piece of paper with music scribbled on it and then left behind in the waste bin when he moved on, he had left enough notes around the opera house that she could have picked his handwriting right out of any sample shown to her.

And eventually those unintentional hints had lead her to the top rooms of this forsaken tower on the banks of the Tiber, an unlikely hideout for him, but then again he was clever enough to realize that the first place anyone would think to look for him was underground.

Despite the change in altitude the interior of his new home wasn't a vast improvement over the first and the decor was as macabre as ever. All of the furniture was dark and ornate, black, grey, the occasional hint of a deep, bloody shaded crimson. Night had fallen and now the only light came from a few sparse candles, burning low, rendering more of the room out of her view than in. She could discern just enough to know his back was to her, his long arms folded around chest in such a manner that made him look as though he were bracing for something painful, she thought she caught the hint of slender fingers thrumming impatiently against a thin upper arm.

"No one betrayed you, if that's what you're asking", she replied rather more harshly than she had intended. It wore on a person, the intensity of his distrust, and the long journey had left her weary, she was struggling to be patient with him tonight.

He responded in kind, reacting to her severity with an embitterment that shocked in both it's depth and the swiftness with which it arrived, "I should hope not", his voice, that uncommonly beguiling tenor, came frigid and lifeless, almost unrecognizable, "And I suppose it does not particularly matter how you arrived, Madame Giry, my question to you", he turned to face her, so abruptly she almost jumped, and she could see his mismatched eyes narrowed in suspicion, "Is why you have come?".

She sighed and ran her fingers through her graying hair, she really couldn't have expected him to make this any easier on her. Perhaps one with a lifetime of practicing the fine art of interaction would have offered pleasantries, would have perceived her unease and attempted to alleviate it. But never had he experienced such a thing and he truly seemed to have voided himself of the reflex that guided people to ease the suffering of others. Which begged the question as to why she had sought him out at all and perhaps it was a poor plan, but with no alternative in sight he could very well be the final hope. And regardless, this was a rather special case for him.

"To save a life", she told him pointedly.

She could not see more than the edges of his face and yet she sensed rather than perceived a raised brow.

"Kind of you", he answered dryly, "But if suicide were an option we wouldn't be having this conversation", he waved a gloved hand in dismissal, a forced laugh accompanying the gesture.

"Not you this time", she shook her head, and stared harder, willing him to understand.

"Then who-", he stopped cold, all of her pointed stares, why she had sought him out specifically, seemed to click in to place, she could practically hear his brilliant mind piecing it together.

"No", he spat.

He turned his back on her once more.

"Erik! You must know-", she began, ignoring his flinch at the use of his name.

"Know what madame?", he cried, "And to what end? Return? Risk my life for one who cares nothing for me?", he shook his head, "No. I put that behind me. I'm done".

But he hadn't let it go, and that was all too obvious. He had always been lean, but she could tell he had lost a significant amount of weight, his clothing fluttered with the barest gust of air as they hung loose on his frame. There were stacks upon stacks of paper strewn across every available surface, but no pile had received the marked care he gave to an actual score. Some of the keys of the piano in the corner were chipped where they had obviously been struck far too hard, far too many times. Nearly all of the other furniture was gathering dust and upon one of the sooty tables sat the scorched carcass of a rose that he had clearly set on fire.

He wasn't done, he didn't know how to give up.

"Cares nothing for you, you say?", she pressed. Genius or not he didn't understand people the way she did. She knew what a young girl besotted looked like and perhaps she hadn't chosen him in the end, but loving someone and thinking it viable to spend your life with them were two different things. Certainly the events of the most recent weeks that Meg had disclosed to her may speak otherwise.

"She left", he said and the answer was quiet, but bore the finality of a death.

"She returned".

"She what?", he demanded, his voice catching over the words as it so rarely did. Shock, she thought.

"Just after you left actually. She returned to perform, and she certainly got her wish, more than she bargained for. The old managers left, said they couldn't take anymore, and the new one took advantage of her devotion to her art", she frowned, saddened by the way such a young and great talent had been manipulated.

"Meaning?".

"She's being worked to death. People come from all over to hear her sing, and it seems they will pay anything, You did one thing right, she's a phenom, most of us have never seen anything like it. But the more they pay the more the managers push for her to do. You know how she is, she can't say no to anyone".

Throughout the course of her explanation his angrily tensed shoulder had gradually dropped in what she assumed was either guilt or concern. A twinge of remorse flickered through her, as much as she hated to pile any more damage upon the mass of emotional scarring he already bore she had come to help Christine, and it was clear to her he would not intervene on her behalf without some extremely concentrated convincing.

Now that his temper had cooled a little he could truly hear her.

"Please don't take this for theatrics, or exaggeration, or whatever else you might", she pleaded, "They are killing her. She exhausted, sick again every time we turn around, she barely eats, barely sleeps. And Meg told me that when she does-" Madame Giry forcibly cut herself off. Uncertain whether revealing such a personal thing was a betrayal of her young friend.

At her abrupt silence his lip curled and she knew that it did not bode well. He was always so quick to make assumptions, regardless of whether he had all the information pertinent or not. She knew why, it was because he had lived so long in such a manner that quick judgements were essential for survival. Perhaps such snap decisions did not serve him well in Parisian society but they would have been a life line wandering through some god forsaken desert with bandits, and refugees, and who could fathom what else.

Even given that, right then, she just wanted to shake him by the shoulders and exclaim that the entirety of the world was not bent upon his demise. Where she cruel she would have told him that his assumption that Christine could not care for him once she saw beneath the mask was what had truly pushed her away. Of course the poor girl had been surprised, anyone would have been, but truthfully, it needn't have been the catastrophic event he had turned it into. She occasionally wondered how events might have played out if he had kept his emotions in check, calmly explained instead of letting fear consume him.

But then if he had done so he might not be Erik at all. Whether it aided him or not that terror of others was so deeply ingrained she doubted it could ever be eased or undone or taken away. And now he flashed wicked teeth as his mouth twisted into a snarl, he had turned around once more to advance on her.

"Go on?", he prodded in a falsely sweet whisper, his lovely voice changing again, "Or is there a hole in your cleverly fabricated story? Some flaw in whatever tale you concocted to force my return?".

She rolled her eyes at that, "What would the purpose be?", she cried.

"Publicity", he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "The 'haunted opera house' is missing it's main attraction isn't it? That's why you need me, to make up for in novelty whatever you people lack in quality".

Her mind turned first to Christine when she had begun her career as Prima Donna, so afraid but so determined. And she had held her head high despite everything and sung with her Valkyrie's voice, and the theatre had gone silent, quieted by wonder alone. Displaying something none would have believed she possessed until that opening night, strength. With no one to lean on, or catch her if she fell, she had shone with her own brilliance.

And then she pictured that same girl, who had been so powerful on stage, curled in on herself in her bed, still wearing the costume she had not possessed the energy to remove, her breath coming scant and shallow, her eyes clamped shut against pain, a shaking hand, a weakly fluttering pulse. All the while rasping on overworked vocal chords that she was fine and they shouldn't bother with her.

She could never manufacture something like that.

"How dare you!", she sprung to her feet, "Forget how little faith you have in me, how dare you insult our work! Insult her! What I stopped myself telling you? Meg wrote to me that her condition has worsened after my departure, she sleepwalks now Erik! And do you know what she does?".

"Do tell!", he sneered.

"She wanders the catacombs! Looking for you!", even though she could not see his face she sensed that his fierce expression had dissipated, but he had pushed her and now she would tell him, "My daughter tells me they found her near the lake one night and no matter what they tried she would not wake and Meg asks her why she goes there and she says 'I have to find my angel, he will know how to fix this, he will help me'".

For a moment his eyes shone suspiciously in the half light and in the next they went cold once more, "In sleep only", he said bitterly.

"The subconscious doesn't lie, you know that, it's incapable of it", she reminded.

"Even if she did want me there it's no longer my concern. She made her choice, now let the Vicomte protect her, it's his duty isn't it?", it was impossible to miss the resentful edge in his words.

To his statement she shook her head, "Raoul went away. They had a row three months ago. I think he had always believed that once they married she would stop performing. One evening something about when she can put Opera behind her slips out. Well you can imagine how little she cared for that, he tried to tell her it wasn't a position befitting a lady and she told him she would rather die an old maid than give up her career. He says he should let her do just that for how little gratitude she is showing him and stormed out".

"You expect me to believe that?", he challenged, more willing to call her a liar than allow hope.

"She isn't like you remember. Maybe she would have gone along with Vicomte's wishes if she were, but everything that has transpired altered her. I'm not sure of how to describe it to you", he would understand for himself if he saw first hand, "But she can't protect herself from these business men, they made her sign all manner of contracts after she was no longer shielded by The Vicomte. They took advantage of her horribly from the beginning, she's a reasonably bright girl but she's no lawyer and she couldn't afford one at the time. By the time she was able to hire one they had her bound up good and tight, the attorneys say there is nothing they can do for her. Don't you see? You're the only one who can stop them".

"Madame I-", he began, and she could feel that he would decline, knew she must not let him.

She put a hand to his shoulder, very slightly, but nothing got his attention like physical contact, it's foreign nature.

"For her sake", she plead, "The Phantom of the Opera must come back".

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