Hello~ I am back with Chapter 2! I actually have this typed out til about Chapter Seven-ish and I don't intend on updating so fast. The only reason why I updated so fast is cuz I'm such a reviews addict. Be good and make this FIVE reviews? And more follows? Someone put me on alert? Pretty pleaseeeeeee~ l0l

You may scroll past all my rambling if you wish?

I promise to update faster if you do the above! And Erik will give you roses! What? Oh sorry, he says the roses are reserved for Christine. /begging Erik to satisfy the phans/ Sigh, at least he conceded to giving me a rose garden so that I can give you guys roses. He refuses to help though. Living his life 24/7 with Christine. Random fact: when I bought cappucino before choir the other day, I swear he was scolding me for drinking something so heavy and ruining my voice, which my friend said sounds like a noble visual kei singer's. Yup, your authoress is a fem!Kamijo.

Kamijo is from the band Versailles btw.

Thank you so much to The newbie phan and Grandma Paula! Your reviews make me happy beyond belief!

/floats up to heaven as she died from happiness/

In here, we get to see the miserable fop kind of tortured. Yay~ Hmm hmm now that he is in this situation...I think after all this is said and done I surely will review and revise this story-I am in the midst of revising it as we speak. No, it is not ending at seven chapters, this is but the beginning! Along the way you will see references to POTO lyrics, as well as Notre Dame de la Paris songs and Louis-Enketsu no La Vie en Rose lyrics. Yes, I am a Versailles fan(aka Descendant of the Rose). What inspires me to write this is Within Temptation's A Demon's Fate, The Truth Beneath the Rose, Angels, Blue Eyes...Waga Routashi Aku no Hana from ALi PROJECT...its all the pretty Japanese songs and some English Symphonic Metal included l0l. Sorry for all my rambling, I'm just so happy. And with that I give you the fruits of this inspiration...Chapter two.

Chapter Two

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.

Maya Angelou

~X~

With the gracelessness not befitting a woman like her, Christine swung herself over the saddle of the dappled brown horse, dressed in a hunting crop she had procured from Raoul's closet. She gave a laugh to herself, her a thief like the Phantom. Erik would be pleased. Erik…she gave a sigh. His name itself led to a swell in her heart, his eyes, oh those eyes that both threatened and adored….

How she missed her musical voice! That rich, dark, seductive baritone that wafted around her, as gentle as a lamb and yet as rich and rollicking as the thunder that flashed across the sky in a thunderstorm, like those as they lived by the sea…

Mon Dieu.

Her fiancée had only been dead for a mere month or so, and she already was the whore they had labeled her to be, looking for a new man! Surely, she was no better than those common ballet rats with their endless frolics with the managers in the backstage wings, or with those stagehands. She shuddered, thinking of the worst, Joseph Buqet, common and brutish with a common stench of cheap alcohol and stinking brandy on his breath. And she had killed him indirectly, remembering a night, before Il Muto, praying in the chapel, where he had entered, having stalked her all the way down there, to leave her naked to the eye, almost taking her against her will on the hard cold floor. It was then that Erik had arrived, giving a threatening glare, pushing him out of the chapel and bringing her back to the dressing rooms.

And she remembered how she had lain in his arms, the cold leather against her skin, his cloak around her. She could just barely discern the faintest hint of a blush in his gruff voice, as he promised her safety. She giggled faintly to herself, riding on to Austria.

And the next day, Buqet had been dead.

Dead as a doornail.

She was pretty sure that that was a punishment for the grotesque lies of the Phantom he had told, for the night before. Suddenly, the happy thoughts left her, and almost seemingly seeing the blood of all that Erik had killed for her on her hands and deciding it was best to concentrate on the journey ahead, she pushed all thoughts from her head, spurring the horse on.

Erik was seated on the edge of the precipice, looking at the majesty of the Swiss Alps before him. Having been trapped in a dirty hut as a child, and then coldly sold to gypsies before being 'chained' in his own underground prison in the Opera Populaire, he had never seen the majesty of the world. Nor had he seen any semblance of love and mortality, nor anything of the outside world, except Christine's dark tales of the North, as she talked to him through the walls. That innocent child…He finally understood the idea of her Catholic God, the holy trinity and the Virgin Mother Mary, as he looked over the edge to the cities of Switzerland below. The view stole his breath away, and he could imagine the young Daae and her father, as they traversed these lands. How they could had made the acquaintance of that insufferable boy was still a mystery though.

Patting the nickering horse on the snout, he tied the stallion up and decided that the sunset was reason enough for him to rest on this long journey.

Night had fallen, and in the night, darkness prevails. Under the cloak of the night, a little boy of barely thirteen crept. His eyes shone like the moonlight, accustomed to the dark around him. A gypsy child no doubt, and he had been conditioned to thievery and lies. Spotting the finely dressed male propped against the tree, and with a fine stallion, cravat and clothes no doubt, he thanked Fortune for the windfall he had gotten and crept silently up to his prey…only to find himself trussed up in a trap, and the man stirring to face him with the clear green eyes of a cat.

Damn it.

Erik stirred at the rustling of leaves, having expected bandits and the like to loot him at his most vulnerable he had set a trap. His eyes refocused on the dark before him, finding a young scrawny child trussed up like a turkey ready to be roasted for Christmas dinner.

Then he did a very un-Erik like thing. He laughed. His dark gaze traveled over the pitiable form of the boy itself, chortling gently to himself as he gave a devilish smirk, cutting the trap down and making sure the boy had not made of with any of his possessions. Having done that, he let the child go, only to perhaps realize his folly in doing as such…for it would perhaps bring a brigand of those damned gypsies after him!

Scowling at his weakness that he had not just killed the child as he had done with every other inconvenience, he saddled his horse and rode off.

Christine emitted out a groan as she dismounted the horse. Days of riding had left her loins sore, and her back and whole body aching. And yet she had but barely passed the border into Switzerland. She wondered where Erik could be now, as she spotted a little band of merrymaking gypsies in the nearby clearing. Dismounting with as little grace as she had when mounting, she made her way over to them.

She herself was shocked at her own boldness, when she was in the Populaire she would perhaps have cowered away from them. But this set of people gave her the air of honest people, dealt a heavy blow from Fate themselves. Almost like Erik in regard, she mused, walking over to them.

A young boy casually sauntered up to her, a scrawny child of around twelve. With his gleaming eyes and tanned skin, she was reminded of another male, of another male who probably had the same fate as this child had, if not worse. She bent down to ask of his name, and all she got back was a saucy reply of "Miguel, my fair lady."

Upon inquiries, she found out that few travelers had been through these barren lands, yet one of the travelers he had described piqued her interest.

"…He was all scary ma'am, with that black around 'im. Was trussed like some turkey I was! He went that a way, ma'am, are you looking fer him? P'raps he be some unlucky man running away from a wedding, huh."

Miguel snorted at his own joke, trying to calm his nerves about the man that he had met the night before. Never had one induced such fear and horror into him, not even his uncle with the heavy whips. He remembered those haunted grey eyes that blazed into the very core of his soul…the boy shuddered, thinking if he were to sauce this woman any more, somehow he would meet an untimely end. Giving a vague point to his east, he nodded.

"That direction, ma'am."

Erik had been hiding in the hollows of the branches above, watching the band of gypsies, when his breath caught. A graceful swan had entered the company of ugly ducks, with her graceful, powerful dancer's body like a rose amongst thorns, a queen amongst her subjects…his queen. He would recognize that mass of auburn curls anywhere, tied in a low ponytail that exposed the graceful skin of her neck, which had browned slightly as she rode in this unforgiving sun. It was almost his undoing as he felt the temptation to slither down from his treetop vantage point, to scoop her into his arms and escape like the phantasmal creature of the night that he was. And yet he remembered her fear, her eyes, that confusion at the cemetery…Memories and emotions clouded his better judgment as he leapt across the trees, unsaddling his stallion and escaping.

Christine sat on the banks of the river, dipping her feet into the crystalline waters. It had been days since she last took a proper bath. Letting the cool waters slide over her bare skin, she hummed a song under her breath, and finding herself alone, she began to sing.

Think of me,

Think of me fondly,

When we've said goodbye,

Goodbye.

The word hung in the air like a pregnant silence. She had never ever said goodbye to any of those two. Erik…Raoul…she would never be able to decide. And she never had to, right? Since she was a child, her dark Angel, with his smooth melodious voice that soared over her and captured her soul wholly, had intrigued her endlessly. Skipping a few stanzas, she fondled a leaf carefully, smiling to herself.

We never said,

Our love was evergreen

Or as unchanging as the sea…

But if you can still remember,

Stop and think of me…

The aria from Hannibal, Chalmeau's pompous piece of work. And yet to Erik…how had he found he singing like that beautiful? She sighed, sloshing the water slowly over her shoulders.

Think of all the things we've shared and seen,

Don't think about the way things might have been

Think of me,

Think of me waking,

Silent and resigned,

Imagine me,

Trying to hard to put you from my mind…

Recall those days,

Look back on all those times

Think of the things we'll never do…

There will never be a day…

When I won't think of you!

She threw out the last note, her voice cracking, as she gathered up her towel and her soap, exiting the river. Her clothes hung on a branch, and she tugged them down and pulled them on, only for her eyes to meet a pair of familiar, green eyes.

Erik. The very one she had been singing to.

Erik perched in the tree, like a panther across the branches, watching Christine.

It was almost perverted, the way that he watched her, creeping silently. At first, he had only meant it for her safety, but he had found himself inexplicably drawn to her voice.

Certainly, he told himself, she must be singing for that boy.

And yet when she sang that line…

Don't think about the way things might have been…

Her glance heavenward…no…into the trees…did she suspect that he was there? Could she see him watching? His breath caught, and he descended silently as his escape, only to find himself behind her clothes…and then meeting her eyes.

"Christine."

Raoul sat up with a start. He was sitting in this foreign bed, with these foreign sheets… A cackle came from the darkened corner, and he could all but make out the visage of a man, a scrawny, rumpled fool. Yet something in the other's laugh made him feel uneasy, as if that the other had an upper hand on him.

"Welcome, Vicomte, to the world of the living. Welcome, Vicomte, once again to the light…" The man mocked his prey in a singsong voice, having heard the rumors of him, his wife and the infamous Phantom.

Raoul blinked, reaching to his side for his gun. Finding his pocket empty, his eyes shot up to meet a pair of cold black ones, and in the other's hands a twisted chunk of cold metal. His gun. An heirloom worth over a thousand francs. And that filthy brat had it in his hands. Now that Raoul had gotten a proper look at the other, he realized that his captor was not much older than he was. Yet his sleight-of-hand ways and cunning left Raoul a tad bit uneasy…

"What do you want?" he demanded brusquely. "I'll have you know I can have you locked up for a variety of things, boy. For I am Vicomte Raoul de Changy."

The other man just gave a smile as wide as the Cheshire cat's, and slid down to the other's bedside.

"It is simple, Raoul. Very simple."

His green eyes looked downward in a polite movement, before he started to question himself. He didn't need to do this, having seen her much more times than this, and in that lacy chemise she wore as she came down to his lair…and yet for propriety's sake he averted his eyes downward, away from her. A blush covered Christine's face as she began to dress, pulling on her clothes with hurried pace, turning her eyes coquettishly to the other to confirm his presence. The blush staining her cheeks grew as she looked at the unmasked side of his face that now faced her, the green eyes barely registering her presence, lost in a daze of his own fantasy perhaps…

"Erik…"she murmured.

He shook his head wearily.

"No more games, Vicomtesse, please."

Christine faced him with a look of anguish, her feelings barely discernable.

"Games? Erik, what games have I played? After all this while, when Raoul died, that night, I could have sought anyone else out and yet that day at the cemetery…Mon Dieu, monsieur, do you not believe me?"

The words struck him like a ton of bricks, a bolt of the blue. The fop. Dead. Somehow, he never knew that victory could come so easily to him. With a hesitant voice, he softly murmured and "I'm sorry" to Christine, before looking at her again. She was crying.

"Don't say things that you don't mean, Erik."

He blinked, wanting to reach out to her, and yet a shadow crossed his mind. She was crying for that boy! That boy who lay cold in his crypt, his gilded gold coffin…Wordlessly, he spun on his heel, and left, shaking the leaves out of his cloak and stalking off.

"Erik! Erik wait!"

Something in his voice made him want to stop and turn back for her, and he heard her running footsteps. He broke into a steady but swift brisk walk, knowing that once he had gotten back to his stallion, there would be no way that she could catch up, nor any way that he would ever see her again, and he could start a new life…

Wait.

At the cemetery, she was not wearing a ring.

And she had just said that her Vicomte was dead by then.

Erik spun around, his grey green eyes facing the woman he was running from, in her virginal beauty, damning himself for being weak for her. He couldn't! He mustn't! He had to keep up this façade; this mask…turning away once more, he walked the last few paces to his horse, adjusted the saddle and leapt on. It was only then he was acutely aware of another presence beside him, astride a dappled mare.

"Take me with you, Erik. I am alone, and I was never married to Raoul. I just couldn't…not after how I left you…please."

Her brown eyes, framed by long lashes which were wet from tears, and against that devilishly perfect alabaster skin…With her long locks and the figure hugging form of her riding clothes…the gentle swell of her breasts and her curves…his breath caught once more, and he gave a slight nod, gruffly telling her to follow, hoping it would hide the lust in his voice. He could already feel the fire in his veins from touching that exact same damnably luscious and tempting body during his bedamned opera! His fingers, over her taut, strong muscles…he wouldn't fall, not again to her games…

Christine could but barely discern his true emotion in his voice, hidden away from her. Already she was nineteen and yet still acting like a giddy child, when he spoke to her like that! She could not deny the passion she had always felt that radiated from him, the minute she had broken the mystical spell that was the Angel, and stared into those haunted eyes as he had flung her aside, pacing about the cave yelling.

A prying Pandora.

A lying Delilah.

Was that all she had seemed to him? A vixen, a lie, when before she had left, she had pledged her love to him and made a promise to return?

Her mind was a tumult, and riding beside him, she looked at his face, a smooth, perfect visage with his strong jawline and handsomely chiseled features. Heavens above, she almost thanked her God for giving him that imperfection. God only knows what kind of person he would have been with his tempers, slight arrogance, and talent and with a perfect face. Such a man would have been out of her league, barely giving a passing glance to a lowly ballet rat like her. And she would have ended up with her childhood friend, that Vicomte, and would she have been happy?

No…never.

There was a clatter of hooves as Erik stopped, and she realized that she had just said her response out loud.

"Yes, Christine? Did you say something?"

xXx

As much as he tried to pay closer attention to the roads before them, he could not help but steal passing glances at the woman riding beside him. Fate had certainly been kind in its design to murder off that blasted fop at such a young age, and leave this goddess to him. He could see her drawn, harried face that she was intently deep in thought. He wondered what, but decided that maintaining the air of professionalism would be for best, and kept riding forth. He slowed the pace slightly for her sake, as he could see her grip on the reins beginning to loosen with her depth of thought. Fearing for her safety, he rode closer to her, ready to protect her from any mishap. He almost laughed, mocking himself cruelly for playing her knight in shining armor, when it was that blasted boy who had always run about doing as such, to rescue Christine from him! He remembered her, in the days underground, the first time he had brought her to his home. She had taken his hand when he told her they were to go before those managers looked for her, and yet on the boat ride back, she had been sobbing endlessly. When asked why, she had choked out that she was afraid of him leaving her, begging him to stay. That night, they had not bonded as teacher and student, but as a man and a woman, sharing companionship and chaste kisses in each other's arms in her dressing room. He had not deflowered her then, for his own sake and his sense of propriety. Christine opened up like a flower to him, and they both delighted and relished in the joy of simple speech with each other, lazing in bed as she told her father's dark tales of the North, and of little anecdotal memories of her past. What had struck him the most then, was how she had only viewed Raoul as he childhood friend and crush that she had gotten over, and nothing more than that and a slight annoyance, treating her like a breakable piece of fine Royal Doulton china. When two more nights had passed with Christine not appearing and them slipping into the safety of the shadows of the two way mirror should anyone enter her room, he had finally released her with a torn dress, her lusting for his fingers and a promise to return. Then only, had he sent his trusted aide, Antoinette Giry, to announce his protégé's return, along with a few notes he had written while his love slept.

Her soft dulcet tones snapped him out of reverie and riding as he slowed, hearing her voice. No? Never? Could she be speaking to him to deny him only after half a day of riding? Could she have found him and his silence to be the most disagreeable companion a la Darcy? In measured tones, he spoke.

"Yes, Christine? Did you say something?"

She shook her head prettily; her dark ringlets buffeted by the light wind that now blew.

"It's nothing, I was just thinking of a life…if I never met you, if you had a perfect face, and if all that you were was a pompous, perfect person of high aristocracy, would you have fallen for me? And I began to worry of having a life with Raoul…I would have never been happy, no…never ever."

At Erik's startled gaze to her, she had begun to regret even saying anything, regretted even spilling her heart. All he had since that fateful night of Don Juan was to keep his aloof, professional air, not even showing any signs of neither affection nor care, nothing more than being her teacher. How she had wished, beyond belief, for him to awake that want in her again, awake her inner beast, as she shrugged the shoulder straps of Aminta's dress down, facing him on that stage, lighted in hues of red. Red, the blood of passion, the lifeblood, the color of roses, all swimming before her eyes that night as she faced his clear eyes that reflected the lovely, lovely hues of red, gleaming golden in that light. So much so, her memories would blend into the current situation, with his eyes on her and hers in reciprocation. And yet…her heart ached for the man she wanted. Him. Had he freed himself from his past, his ghosts, and his sins? Could she have him, as whole as a man? She wanted to reach out to him, in these tension filled minutes, for him to draw her over to his horse, to send this other one away that they may ride together.

Tension hung in the air, so thick that not even the sharpest sword could cleave it in two. He could easily tell her the truth that he loved her, or he could continue his façade of being her Angel heaven-sent. Finding no way out of this and having been at a standstill for a few minutes, he mentally kicked himself and the horse physically, as they began to move again, this time to a place to spend the night as the day drew to a close. An old abandoned caravan, a common sighting in the ruins of the mountains, served as their resting place and hiding place for that night as he heaped blankets after blankets on each other for her, making sure that she was comfortable tonight. At the door, he placed a single layer of stale hay that lay in the caravan, covering it with a blanket. In a dramatic swoop, he ridded himself of his cape, aware of the girl's eyes on him and his figure, which although much hidden by his layers of clothes, still showed slightly. Without a single word exchanged between the both of them, they got ready for the night ahead, Christine loosening the laces on her riding boots, and sliding them off to walk around in her black socks and riding gear. He sighed, wanting to remove his coat, vest and cravat, but with her around…sin was lurking heavy in the air, waiting to strike, as she dragged her heavy pile of blankets with much effort closer to him.

"You'll be cold, mon ange."

"I am sure that I will be fine, Christine. This is much warmer in comparison to my underground cave."

"I insist," she said, with a little petulant pout to her lips, wanting to care for him even if her did not care for her at all.

"Have some decency, child."

She shook her head. "Mon ange, I need it not. After all those rumors, have you not heard them, mon ange, I am the Phantom's whore! This is but a continuation of the rumor, and a pledge of myself to you…did you not realize? That night which you dragged me down once more to your lair? Even in your anger, you kept looking back. You kept looking back as if you were worried to hurt me. And as I left, I looked at you, a final gaze, I saw you pure and whole, as I heard the first crack of the mirrors, I could tell, Erik! For God's sake I could tell that you had released the hold the darkness had on you. And I wanted you…"

She let out her breath, having half screamed that in a breath. Had she not said enough? He still faced her, and what more with that lackluster, emotionless masked side! She almost wanted to scream in agony and frustration, before she saw his eyes, smoldering as he slowly turned to face her, as her hands moved with a mind of their own, slowly ripping him of his mask again.

For the next few seconds, time seemed to slow to a crawl for them as Erik instinctively rushed to cover his deformity with his hand, and Christine lunged forth to catch that same hand and place a kiss on his lips. With animalistic strength and the looming, mocking voice in his head that reeked of her pity, he shoved her aside, growling.

"Temptress…you mock me so! It changes NOTHING! The feelings you have for that boy…your precious Vicomte, don't mock me, Mademoiselle, there may be no audience waiting this time, but do cease in your futile attempts to-"

At that very moment, he was directly aware of a certain presence, clinging to his clothes and sobbing softly.

"Do you really think that way, Erik? Has this godforsaken darkness really BLINDED you beyond living? Seeing? And that you may mistake me for some godless chit and vixen…am I not your pupil?"

So that's what it was.

The damned lessons! The pretense, of the angel! The angel, the only angel he knew, was crying before him, alone again.

"Pupil."

He spat out the word like it was scum, a bad taste lingering in his mouth.

"Always about the damned lessons, eh Christine? Have you never stopped to think-"

" Is that what you truly believe of me? That I've never seen you as anything more than a tutor? Look at me Erik, how I wept for you, DAMN YOU, MONSIEUR, FOR YOUR BLINDNESS TO THE TRUTH!"

"The truth which you speak of is but a lie," he countered, through clenched teeth. "You could never hope to love a man, no, a MONSTER like this! This," he said, picking up the mask with a flourish, "is but a semblance of how I would actually care for this godforsaken world. A sort of kindness, no, a sense of propriety, that they may not have to feast their holy eyes on the Devil's Child…"

She shook her head violently, crossing the floor in a leap as she pulled him close, her fingers, her palms pressed on his shoulder-blades, slipping her arms around him as if it was the most natural and normal thing to do.

"Tell me…"she said in a hushed and heated sigh, placing a little kiss on his lips, "that my feelings here are a lie."

Erik sat on the floor of the caravan, letting out a whoosh of breath.

"Liar," he murmured, reciprocating the kiss.

Christine melded with him with a heady sigh, her brown eyes locking with his golden-green catlike ones.

"Mon Ange…" she smiled, resting her head against her Angel's wide chest, snuggling into him. "Rest with me tonight…" she murmured, yawning slightly before lacing her fingers together, rested against him. He sighed wearily, pulling the blankets over them.

"Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Erik."

Erm! Review! Review! Thank you I love you. Erik shaped cookies? Or would you like free Punjabs for killing all those Raoul lovers? Hmm? Any Phans out there?