Author's NoteThis story evolved solely from the epitaph on Christine's tombstone at the end of the movie: Countess. In order for that to be true, she would have had to marry the Count deChangy, not the viscount, which was Raoul's title. The auctioneer in the prologue, could not afford to get such a title wrong. So Raoul began and ended the story as the viscount. Since we know his father, the count, was still alive ("My parents and I are honored to support all the arts."). Personally, I think the idea that Christine marrying Raoul's father is rather squicky, so that epitaph begged the question of who was the count after Raoul's father? That was the man Christine had to have married and had children with, who carved roses upon her tombstone, and that's why I decided to write this story.

So have no fear, gentle readers. This is, indeed, an EC story.

As for how Christine knows Erik's name from the movie, I mentally insert it in between the time he drags her out of the boat after escaping the chandelier drop and the time she comes down from his bedroom wearing the wedding dress. I can so easily see an exchange when he shoves the dress into her hands of "But I don't even know your name!" "Erik. My name is Erik." or something like that happening.

In this chapter, I do know that Nile crocodiles do not eat their young, however since the story takes place in 1871 (when they didn't realize that) and since I like the mental picture the phrase makes for the character involved, I decided to run with it anyway. My apologies to any croc lovers out there.

Chapter Four

Paris in the daylight was a rare sight. Erik sat back against the leather seat of the count's carriage, letting the images beyond the window flow past him without comment. The world appeared completely different, so alien and austere. So utterly unlike what he was accustomed to. At one time, he had moved in the daylight. Now it was time to do so again.

The last time he'd passed through these streets, his state had not been much better than it was now.

The circus he'd been sold to as a boy was intolerable. When he protested he was the heir to a count, a viscount in his own right, they beat him for being a liar. When he protested his abuse to the paying customers, they starved him. He learned quickly, fell silent, watching and studying them. The beatings lessened, but the only shows of kindness came from his tormentor's pet monkey, Napoleon. It, at least, would play with him more often than it would bite him.

It had been a vicious two years in that cage. But as he remained quiet, their practices relaxed. Only one man came to beat him back and pull off the hood for the customers instead of three. He was left alone for hours, giving him time to study the lock and to exercise and build his strength for the day he would need it. The haggard old fortune teller once gave him the stuffed toy monkey. He managed to hide the few tiny possessions he could gather, all the coins they'd missed. His fortune, his means to go home after he escaped.

Erik never doubted that he would make the opportunity to escape.

Then the circus arrived in Paris. It had been the chance he'd been waiting for. His parents kept a townhouse here. Erik remembered it, he's stayed there. He knew he could find it. So he strangled the bastard who enjoyed beating him for no reason and discovered the witness to his escape. But Antoinette Giry was a kind soul and hid him away when few others would.

When she tucked him amongst the forgotten props, she'd insisted that he couldn't leave, that the gendarmes would hang him for the murder.

"But my family is here," he'd insisted.

"No one can help you against murder."

"Papa can help against anything."

Antoinette had looked unconvinced and told him in a strong mother voice to stay there and be safe.

It was a question that had plagued him for several days. Was his father powerless against a murder charge? Finally, he decided he had to go and find out for himself, so he sneaked out of the building the same grate he'd entered. He'd taken one of the old costumes for clothing, a hooded cloak shielding his face from casual view. It had been a long walk, something he was unaccustomed to after his captivity. His feet throbbed and his shins felt twisted into tight knots by the time he reached the fine house.

As a son of the family, he had thought nothing of walking up to the front door and banging the heavy bronze knocker to announce his presence.

His heart pounded in his chest. Two years of degradation and humiliation were over. He was home and the world could return to normal. He would have his father and his studies and his toys again. Tears burned his eyes as he stared at the door and willed it to disappear and allow him entrance.

The heavy door swung open and an elderly man in the dark green livery of the deChangy family stood there, blocking the way. After a moment, the doorman sniffed and made a face and looked down as if a pile of manure had landed on his shoe.

"I am Erik deChangy," Erik announced. "Where are my parents?"

The servant merely planted his very polished shoe in the middle of Erik's chest and kicked him away from the door before closing it.

Erik closed his eyes against the remembered ache in his heart that had nothing to do with physical act. His fingers curled tight, wondering if that man were still alive today and if they'd meet upon reaching the townhouse. He doubted it, but the thought of the servant's expression brought a chilling smile to his face.

"I'm so very glad to have you home again, Erik."

The dream of hearing those words had died along with the pain from kick, so many years ago. Erik looked at his father evenly, not hiding the horrid side of his face from view. Marcel deChangy sat opposite him, watching him as intently as a novice musician watched his first conductor. The constant weight strained at Erik's ability to be civil, his weary nerves stretched thin from exhaustion.

"How is Mother?" Erik asked, ignoring the platitude.

"Quite well. She hasn't been the same since you disappeared. And Raoul --"

"I've seen my brother recently." Nearly killed him as well. The thought flickered a Dark smile over his lips.

The count frowned deeply. "He never mentioned it."

The thought of getting his pampered brother in trouble amused him for a moment, but Erik could feel the Dark swelling up inside him again. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The temptation was strong, and his ability to resist it so new.

"When?" the count demanded.

It would be such a small bit of Light to assure his father that he'd seen Raoul, but Raoul had not seen him, but it would also be a lie. It had been obvious to Erik that Raoul had some suspicions about his identity at the graveyard. But he'd seen the full spark of recognition in his younger brother's eyes when Christine ripped off his mask and wig on stage. Raoul may have barely been walking when they'd last met as children, but Erik knew how unforgettable his face was. Seeing the crests stolen from his parents' carriages adoring the front rise of his music room was merely extra confirmation, Erik had no doubt.

"Erik," his father pressed. "When did you see Raoul?"

He took a deep breath, but did not raise his head or look at the man. "It's of no consequence, sir. None whatsoever."

XXX xxx xxx XXX

"It is so good to see you again, Christine." Mme. Giry pressed her cheek against hers and beamed at her. Christine felt so much better since finding them in a small hotel. Raoul had stood back, except for paying for lunch and a few new dresses for each of them. He'd been the perfect host and friend. She loved him dearly for his consideration.

But it was also time to go and Christine found it hard to part from the Girys. Even though this place was no more home than the deChangy townhouse, these two friends made it the only home she could have right now. She clasped Meg's hands after hugging her one more time.

"I'm so glad he didn't hurt you," Meg said, tears darkening her eyes. "I was so frightened last night when I saw him."

"Him? You saw the Phantom last night? When? Where?" Meg glanced at her mother. Raoul stepped closer to Christine, drawn by the excited tone of her voice. "Meg, what happened?"

"I was with the gendarmes," her best friend admitted slowly. Meg tightened her grip on her hands. "Christine, we couldn't find you. I was so frightened. When I demanded he tell me what had happened to you, he --" She swallowed hard and glanced away. The scare she'd had reflected plainly on her fair face. "I thought he'd killed you."

Christine pulled away. "He wouldn't do that. How could you think such a thing?"

"You have to understand, cherie," Mme. Giry spoke up. "We were frantic. And he was so desperate, to do what he did. Can you fault us for being worried?"

She sighed. "Of course not. I'm just surprised, since you know him better than I do. He simply could never hurt me."

Raoul scowled from beside her, but said nothing as she finished her farewells and promised to see them both again soon.

As Raoul drove the carriage across Paris, Christine sat quietly beside him, thinking on the changes in her life. She had no doubt that Raoul would insist on the wedding proceeding with the most haste Society would allow. The thought made her stomach tighten too tightly.

At least him driving the carriage made it difficult for him to do more than glance at her. At least neither of the Girys had asked when the wedding would be. At least she could stop thinking about engagment and marriage for this moment.

Raoul stopped before the townhouse, pulling up behind his father's coach with the Count deChangy's coat of arms emblazoned on the doors. He frowned as they had to wait for a servant to appear to take the reins from him. "What's my father's mood?" he asked the youth who finally appeared.

"Quite jubilant, sir. He's shouting to bring down the roof, I daresay."

Christine took Raoul's hand to descend, noting his frown. "What's wrong? Why is it bad your father's in a good mood?"

"It's not a good mood," he growled in return, striding towards the door held open by another servant. She had to lift her skirts and nearly run after him to keep up.

They stopped in the grand foyer to find servants bustling everywhere. Several maids hurried up or down the stairs. The clatter from the kitchen at the rear of the house was audible. Several menservants stood in the archway, looking apprehensive.

What struck Christine as completely odd was the fact there was no sound of voices, even amongst all the hustle and bustle.

Raoul headed toward the parlor, where the most people were gathered. Christine trailed after him, lost without his direction.

His parents were there. The countess sat in a chair, her face pale, a maid holding a tray with a bottle of smelling salts hovering nearby. The count stood, leaning on the mantel, lost in momentary thought.

If Christine had to guess, she'd think there'd been a death in the family, the room was so silent and somber. Why would the count be "jubliant" one moment and now so absolutely still? She didn't know.

The countess noticed them and reached out to her son. Raoul crossed and took his mother's trembling hand without a second thought. "What's happened?"

"Your brother's come home," the count said. His tone was conversational, but the words slammed against the servants' bustling and seemed to still it instantly.

"Brother?" Christine repeated, looking between the three of them.

Marcel deChangy straightened and stalked his son. "He said you'd met. Recently. And you didn't tell me."

"Really, sir," the countess spoke up, pulling on Raoul to move him to her other side, protecting him from her husband's ire. "Given the terrible events of the last evening, he's hardly to blame for such a thing escaping his mind."

"It's all right, Maman," Raoul said, not moving from where he stood. "I wasn't certain it was him until last night. And I wasn't going to buy your good graces with the news after your lecture and you left too abruptly this morning to even greet you in passing, let alone give you any news."

Christine watched as the count's face grew slightly red with anger, but it was also obvious that Raoul had truth behind his words. "You will welcome him home when he comes down from his bath." He looked to his wife. "We will all welcome him."

"Of course we will, my dear," the countess replied. Her voice held all the motherly affection of a Nile crocodile. Christine shivered at the image. "We're all very glad to have him back after all these years."

"You never mentioned you had a brother, Raoul." Her quiet comment echoed in the room. Even the servants stared at her, then Raoul. Christine flushed as she glanced around at everyone.

"My brother was--is some seven, eight years my senior," Raoul explained, his voice thinner and more strained than she'd ever heard it before. "Shortly before my first birthday, he ran away. So we were told by his nurse."

"Lying bitch," the count muttered. "I never believed her. Erik would never leave of his own volition. We were too close, he and I. Upon investigation, it turned out that a gypsy band had been in the area when he disappeared. They must have stolen him, it's the only explanation. I have spent more than twenty years, hunting down every stinking gypsy band in Europe, trying to find my son."

Christine moved closer to put a hand on his arm, sympathizing with the man's loss all these years. She understood what it was to suddenly lose a dear loved one. He gave her a genuine smile and patted her hand.

"For years, I've been assured repeatedly that he was dead." He looked pointedly at his wife but his gaze softened as he looked back at Christine. "But I could never believe that. A deChangy bears the scars of such encounters, he does not roll over and give his belly to them. And time has proven me right."

"Excuse me, Monsieur le Count," Charbonneau, the butler, said from the doorway. "Dinner is ready."

"Go in," he told Christine, sweeping it out to encompass his wife and younger son. "I'll see what's keeping Erik."

He kissed the back of her hand politely and left, his step that of a man half his years. It did her heart good to see some good come out of the horrible night of the fire after all.

The moment of shared happiness ended abruptly as Raoul claimed her arm and brought his black cloud of displeasure over her. They were almost to the dining room before the truth struck her.

His missing brother's name was Erik. Raoul had not known his brother until last night. Her Angel of Music, her maestro was the rightful heir to the deChangy title and fortune, not Raoul.

XXX xxx xxx XXX

Bathing in hot, steaming water was a treat that Erik found he relished after all this time. His skin still tingled beneath the silken robe as the man chosen to be his valet escorted him around his appointed chambers.

The sitting room was furnished, every flat surface filled with little things he'd made as a child. He took down the small Roman ballista, surprised to see it again after all these years. He remembered the long hours carefully carving each piece. How many times had he wound the string around and around until it had actually worked? He didn't recall anymore, but the boyish delight when it successfully launched hat pins across the nursery to catch his nurse unaware came back all too quickly.

Erik smiled at the memory and replaced it on the shelf. The dour woman had never been happy with her employ, but she'd stayed the longest of all his nurses. Until she and the gardener dragged him to the gypsy camp and sold him as a freak.

He should have used bigger pins.

Finding all his childish little gadgets, even the ones only half-completed, collected and displayed with such care touched him strangely. Erik paused, uncertain what to do with the odd sensation churning inside him.

Why had he been rejected so violently if his things, his room had become something of a shrine to his boyhood?

The table beside the upholstered chair held books on architecture, design, the great masters of various arts. All books he would like to read, had he known they existed. He ran his fingertips over the leather binding. Purchased in his absence, on topics his father knew fascinated him.

It had been a servant who flatly repulsed him, not his parents. It had been servants who sold him into captivity.

Should he have persisted in seeing his father? In his memory, the rejection still loomed absolute. He'd killed a man, after all.

And last night, he'd unquestionably burned down a theater and kidnapped a woman and nearly killed at least two men, perhaps hundreds of people. And yet, his father had all charges dismissed with a simple phrase: You have the wrong man. Even though he was truly guilty, he was a free man now.

Could Antoinette have been so very wrong all those years ago and his childish belief been right?

Erik moved into the bedchamber where the valet had lain out clothes for him for the evening. He moved so quietly, the servant startled away with an audible yelp and then quickly muttered an apology, refusing to look at his face.

"Go."

The valet proved he was a well-trained servant and merely bowed slightly and beat a hasty retreat. Erik glared after him as he picked up the shirt. Alone was far better than being stared at in private.

As he dressed, Erik debated on changing his plans and staying. Perhaps he had been wanted by his family all this time. Perhaps the devious servants had all be dealt with appropriately. Perhaps he should forget Vienna and stay.

But, no. Raoul would be in residence here in Paris. Would he have brought Christine with him? Of course he would. Erik frowned at the memory of his brother sitting guard outside of Christine's dormitory door. Raoul would trust no one but himself to keep Christine safe now.

"Safe," he muttered under his breath and chuckled. As if he could truly ever hurt her. Erik paused in the buttoning of the fine linen shirt.

If Raoul had her here, that meant she would be at dinner. His breath froze in his lungs at the thought even as his desire for her welled up far lower.

Would he be able to keep his resolve to give Christine her happiness with his accursed brother?

Would he be able to keep his tenuous hold on the Light?

He finished dressing quickly, knowing without thinking that Darkness still had too tight a control on his soul. He could slip far too easily, far too deep before he knew it. He couldn't stay when he was so dangerous. Not around Christine. He would not risk her, his greatest achievement in so many ways.

The realization burned his eyes. Beyond his ability to comprehend, he loved her. He still wanted her in every way possible. How could he be in the same building with her again, knowing her inherent sweetness and not crave her? Knowing that he'd given her away and could never have her again?

Alone, he could walk through the door, find his way through the servants' corridors and be gone before anyone would notice. It would be so simple. So easy. He would never have to risk losing to the Darkness.

The door opened without so much as a scratch to ask permission. Erik turned to see his father filling the doorway. "Are you coming down for dinner?"

Erik heard the unspoken questions behind the words: Are you leaving already? Did you leave the first time because you wanted to? Will you give me a chance?

Odd, that he understood what was meant rather than what was said so clearly. It did not feel like a new ability, just one that he'd never consciously thought about before.

He met the count's eyes, so like his own. Leaving now would destroy the one man Erik had loved as a child. Staying would risk the woman he loved as a man.

The path of Light refused to be easy.

Erik drew a breath and looked away, letting his gaze fall upon the abundance of books gathered for him in his absence.

His chest ached at the choice. Darkness urged him to utter destruction, yet chuckled at the thought of tempting Christine back into its grasp.

Standing there, looking at his father, his hand on the leather face of a book, Erik realized the strangling truth that without Darkness there could be no true choice for Light. To leave was not only destructive, but cowardly. In his entire life, he had never taken the coward's path.

The count approached slowly, as if afraid Erik would bolt if there was a sudden movement toward him. Erik drew himself up, rooting himself in the spot against the misconception and his own indecision. His father put a hand on his shoulder. Erik looked at it.

"Everything will be made right. I swear it to you. Just give me time."

"What is 'everything'?"

"Those charges. The opera house. Your title --"

His title. Erik remembered the announcement on stage that Firmin and André were pleased to present their new patron, the Viscount deChangy while the rightful viscount stood in the rafters, watching. The first sight of his younger brother striding across the stage boiled the blood in Erik's veins.

Yet, over the passing months, hearing Raoul proclaimed as the viscount stung less and less until it was barely a dull ache compared to the other wounds to his pride and authority.

The count squeezed his shoulder. "I know you're not the monster the papers claim you to be."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're my son."

Once again, Erik heard clearly what was not spoken. This room had been furnished to appease the man the count dreamed his heir would become, filled with gifts for that imaginary, perfect son. And now he would be expected to play that role.

"Why was I left to my fate?"

"I have searched for you from the very hour I received word of your disappearance, I swear to you. We were told your ran off, with the gypsies."

"I was sold to them by my nurse. For two francs." Erik wasn't certain what caused the look of horror on the count's face, the idea of the sale or the paltry amount that a viscount commanded all those years ago. "At least you knew I would never run."

"Then don't run now, Erik. Be all that you should have been from the start and put that ugliness behind you."

Did he dare believe that was possible? Yet Erik craved it with his entire being, to become a man Christine could honestly love, a man whose only fault lay only in the monstrosity of his face.

Erik nodded slowly and walked with his father out of the room, down to the dining room for dinner.