Author's Note: I have not deserted this story! Hope you all are excited to figure out who these characters are!

She had to have replied by now, he thought, his tapping absentmindedly over the keys of the piano backstage of the Theatre du Palais.

It had been two days since the Mr. Mossay had written the letter. And already, his old persona was returning to him. To those who knew Victor, this was quite a shock. His clipped tone and erratic behavior was a surprise. He spent all of yesterday locked away in his dressing room, and only ventured out once to demand stored wine and a new pen.

He had to remind himself he was no longer at the Opera Garnier. He was no longer a specter that terrorized the weak-minded.

Tonight was another act for the upper class. Another performance where he would perform, and then become cornered by people who boasted they understood art. As if they understood! He scowled at the thought of the pompous ladies hanging off his every word just to recite to their friends' things they would never understand.

His fingers waltzed down the notes to the lower keys. His eyes glanced up to look at Le Eploque and focus on the article. French Pianist Attracts the Eye of Famous Garnier Couple. He read the article, all the while fuming at the mention of Christine and de Chagny. There was quite a bit about him, perhaps not directly, but by the title of Opera Ghost.

The Garnier would still be the finest Opera House and the one which serviced him well. But he had already found a new life here. While staying in the depths of the Garnier, he learned every secret passage that the Theatre du Chalet had. Not nearly as many trap doors or secret passages, it was a perfect theatre for keeping a mandatory profile of a pianist – not a singer.

"Ah, Victor, you're still here!"

He quietly shut the lid of the piano and turned in a fluid motion. Mr. Mossay strode past a stagehand carrying a ladder to fix one of the flies. In his hand was a letter.

"I am," he said, standing perfectly still, waiting for the news.

"I have received a letter from Lady de Chagny regarding what we spoke about," he said, folding and refolding the letter.

"I take it the news was not promising?" He asked innocently. If Christine was smart, she would have denied the fool any chance at making money off her name.

"Indeed," he growled, "she has refused. She sends her regards and her wishes for privacy on behalf of her family." He recited the words sarcastically.

"Pity," he remarked, no longer interested.

"Is it? You wanted such an outcome, Victor, just as much as I did…" he said, crossing his arms over his large chest.

"I respect Lady De'Chagny," he said simply, holding out his hands in an open gesture.

"I take it you have had the pleasure with meeting with her?"

"Yes, she and I stumbled onto one another by chance after the performance. She is a woman who has gone through much. To have her sing after everything she has gone through … "He dared not show the slight twinge of pain he felt from saying that.

"Oh Victor," Mr. Mossay said, laughing at his remark. "Romantics and chivalry will get you nowhere."

"I do not find what I said romantic," he replied, his thumb rubbing against his fingertips in quick motions. "Lady de Chagny is no ordinary woman. I say it again, Monsieur, she is a woman who has gone through much. I recall your pity towards her as well as my own."

The conversation was indeed different than the one they had a few days prior. He could not place the new drastic and upsetting attitude in Monsieur Mossay's voice. Perhaps he was not the only one hiding behind a façade.

"Very well, there is nothing more to be said about the matter," he said, moving past Mossay. "I shall see you tonight at the performance."

"Lady de Chagny will sing again, Victor, don't worry!" Mossay called from behind him, gleefully.

Not if I can help it, Erik thought, exiting the backstage. He strode down the hall to his dressing room. Entering it, he locked it. Heading to the desk, he retrieved a sheet of paper and pen and began to write a letter. Over the years, he had perfected his writing to resemble nothing of his original script. Forgery was something he was quite fond of, the act of duplicating a script used by someone else. He had come across a style of handwriting he was fond of, and it seemed to fit Victor's personality well.

Minutes later, he was done. Resting the pen on the desk, he glanced over what he had written.

Dear Lady de Chagny,

It has come into my knowledge that my Manager, Monsieur Mossay, has asked of you to perform alongside me in the future. Knowing quite well of your past as an Opera singer at the Garnier and the strange occurrences that befell upon you and your husband. It pains me to see that he has overlooked such a thing that perhaps still rests heavily on your mind.

Your denial does not crush my spirits in the slightest. I respect your decision and back your choices with full knowledge of its effect on my Manager. I may not hear the end of it from him, but I shall urge him on your behalf that such an event shall never take place.

Regards,

He was pleased with what he had written. It showed no sign of implore or deep longing to have her join him onstage. It was a service to her, and a service to him. Folding the letter, he placed it into an envelope and sealed it. Placing his hand over it, he looked down at the ring on his pinky finger. It was the same ring that he had given her that night.

The ring had been kept in a drawer with things he had salvaged from his home, all having to do with Christine. He would never be able to part with it. And out of blinded lust, he kept it with him these past five years.

It was hardly a minute since they last saw one another. But there she was, standing before him in the wedding dress with her hands clasped together. What could he say to her? What did she have to say to him? Was she staying? Was she…

The thoughts continued to race, until she lifted her hand and removed the ring from her finger. She slowly held it out to him.

It pained him that she wanted nothing more to do with him. The ring was a present. The ring was the only piece of him, besides her voice, that would remain with her. Would that not be enough? Or perhaps her Viscount would damn any bit of him to remain?

His left hand took the ring, their fingers brushing in slight contact. His left hand instantly clasped over hers, holding her still in shock before she could move away.

"Christine… I…" he could not finish the words. She knew what he was going to say, it was too evident in his eyes. But he knew that she did not share the same feeling. The look in her eyes was not love, it was pity.

Her other hand closed over his and slowly pulled her hand free. He kept holding on until her fingers slipped from his loosened grip. That was the last time he remembered touching her hand…

He stood and grabbed his coat from the chair, slipping it on with a flourish. Pocketing the letter, he grabbed his cane and his hat.

Erik no longer existed to Christine…

The letter arrived that evening after dinner. Christine and Annaliese were attending to Cecilia by reading her a story before she drew in for the night. Tonight, it was the story of Cinderella. While Christine and Annaliese played the roles of the stepmother and step sister, Cecilia was Cinderella.

"And so, Cinderella was locked away in the cellar," Annaliese exclaimed, dragging Cecilia by the hand to the closet and shutting her inside. Cecilia started giggling. "The prince was to arrive any moment now, and he was going to have the other slipper."

Christine, who was standing next to the door, caught Raoul entering from the corner of her eye. She scowled playfully and marched to the door, falling into a bow. "Good day, your Highness, I speak for my daughter when I say we are honored by your presence." Christine quickly broke character to press the little girl's bed-slipper into his hand.

"Oh?" Raoul asked, tucking away the letter for the time being. Christine took notice of this, but he reassured her that it was to wait until after they had finished. He started recalling the story of Cinderella and the place they were currently at in his mind. "I have come to find the maiden whose foot fits this slipper!"

"Ah! Then you must see to my daughter," Christine said, and with a flourish gestured to Annaliese. Annaliese nodded, quickly falling into a curtsey.

"Then please," Raoul said, taking Annaliese by the hand and sitting her down on the bed. "May I ask for your foot?"

Annaliese stifled her giggles as Raoul removed her cloth slipper and tried to fit Cecilia's small one on her foot.

"I do not understand!" Annaliese said between breaths. "My foot must have grown overnight!"

"Nevertheless, the slipper does not fit!" He looked to Christine. "Do you have any other ladies in the household?"

"No!" Christine exclaimed. "Just my daughter and I, your Majesty!"

"And me, papa!" Cecilia exclaimed from inside the closet. "I'm in here!"

"Who said that?" Raoul asked playfully, looking around the room.

"Me!" Cecilia cried.

Raoul smirked and strode to the closet, opening the doors. Cecilia reached her hands up to Raoul, and he picked her up and carried her over to the bed. "Ah! Let us see if the shoe fits!"

He bent down and slid the slipper onto Cecilia's foot. When it fit, she squealed in delight. He picked Cecilia up, twirling her around.

"My princess! I have found you at last!" He said, pressing his nose to Cecilia's. She kissed his cheek.

"And, so," Annaliese said, "the Prince and Cinderella were married and they lived happily ever after."

"Yay!" Cecilia cried as Raoul placed her down. She quickly crawled into bed, closing her eyes and waiting for her kiss. Raoul bent down and kissed her tiny lips. Christine followed and kissed her forehead, then smoothed back her hair. Raoul took Christine's hand and led her over to the door.

"You have a letter, Christine," he said, reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving the item he attended to give her.

Christine slowly took the letter in her hand and read her name silently. Making their way to their bedchamber, she handed the letter back to him. "Please," she asked, "read it to me."

Raoul nodded, opening the doors and leading Christine inside. Closing them, he opened the envelope and read the letter.

"Dear Lady de Chagny," he began, "It has come into my knowledge that my Manager, Monsieur Mossay, has asked of you to perform alongside me in the future." Raoul continued on with the letter while Christine moved to the window to watch the setting sun.

"…but I shall urge him on your behalf that such an event shall never take place. Regards, Victor Lerik." Raoul finished, folding the letter. "Well, it seems Monsieur Lerik respects your wishes, Christine."

Christine said nothing. Raoul discarded the letter on the bed and moved to stand behind her, moving his arms around her waist and kissing her neck. "What's wrong, Christine?"

"There is nothing wrong, exactly. I am relieved, I am grateful, and I am… confused," Christine said, placing her hands on Raoul's.

"I find nothing that Monsieur Lerik has written confusing," he ventured, his voice low as he looked out over their property.

"And you are right; he seems to have taken my side."

"Do… do you still have your doubts?" Raoul asked quietly.

"Raoul, I will always have my doubts," she said, turning around, placing her hands on his cheeks. Raoul pulled her close, kissing her forehead.

"It's not him, Christine," he said quietly.

Christine rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. "That's all I needed to hear you say. You're right, Raoul, it's not him. I'm glad it's not."

He reached up, tipping her chin and kissing her passionately. She brushed herself against him, urging herself deeper into the kiss. Raoul picked her up and carried her to the bed, more than happy to make love to the one woman whose heart belonged to him.

Louis Kavire raised his cigar to his mouth and pushed a folder across the table to the two gentlemen he had arranged to meet. The two who had stopped him on his way back from the unaccomplished interview with the de Chagny servant.

"Here you are, gentlemen," Louis said, watching the one on the right (Monsieur Ames) take the folder and open it. "Every article I have ever written regarding Christine Daae and the affair of the Opera Ghost."

"Excellent, Monsieur Kavire," Monsieur Debaunchet said, looking over Monsieur Ames' shoulder at some of the articles. "My employer thanks you for this information you have provided us."

"As I said," Louis said, removing his cigar from his mouth for a moment. "It's going to cost you."

"And as I said," Monsieur Ames replied, "you will be paid."

"Are you researching this affair?" Louis asked.

Monsieur Debaunchet smiled. "Our employer has been researching this affair for quite some time. He is missing a few pieces regarding the Opera Ghost affair. But thanks to you, the research shall come to a close."

"Your employer," Louis asked, tapping his cigar out, "is he related to Christine Daae?"

"No, he is not related to Miss Daae," Monsieur Debaunchet replied with a smile.

"Can I ask who he is?" Louis implored.

"His name is Joseph Saruge," Monsieur Ames replied, looking through an article regarding the performance of Il Muto. "We cannot tell you any more than that, Monsieur. His life is shrouded in secrets; the name we provided might not even be his real name. But it is the name we have been given and the name we use."

"I see," Louis said, raising the cigar to his mouth once more.

Monsieur Ames was reading each article with great interest. "This Opera Ghost," Monsieur Ames mused, "did you ever find out how he was able to do all this?" He looked up to Louis.

"He knew the theatre like the back of his hand," Louis said, removing the cigar from his mouth. "Crazy, I know. But theatrics help in that type of setting."

Monsieur Ames nodded, flicking a page to another article. "Now, tell me, in your personal opinion… do you think this Opera Ghost was in love with Lady De'Chagny?"

Louis thought about this for a moment. "Well, Monsieurs, that's a difficult question. I could never really tell if he loved her or not. There was no evidence. But, it does make an interesting story… the Viscount, the chorus girl, and the deformed freak. She was young, beautiful, and her voice was a treasure."

They nodded. Monsieur Ames closed the folder. The two of them stood, collecting their gloves and hats.

"Monsieur Kavire, we thank you, and our employer thanks you as well. If we need anything more, we trust we shall keep you informed," said Monsieur Debaunchet.

Louis stood, reaching out his hands to each of them. "And, when shall I be receiving my payment?"

"Soon," Monsieur Debaunchet replied, "very soon."

Raoul ran a finger down the side of his wife's naked body, relishing in the fact that their love making was so blissfully passionate. Christine was asleep in a gentle slumber, her head on his chest and her fingers curled around the base of his neck.

At times, he would sit alone in the darkness and ponder on how he was so fortunate to be alive. To be a father and a husband to two women who meant the world to him. He wouldn't want anything more.

Christine murmured something and dragged her hands downward towards his chest, a hand over his heart. He reached up and clasped it within his own. He inspected the wedding ring on her finger. Thoughts started to race through his head. But he dismissed them, knowing well that what he was thinking of was in the past. It was dead.

"Raoul," Christine murmured softly. He looked down at her, wondering if she was awake.

"Christine?"

She did not reply, she was dreaming. Dreaming of what? Sometimes she told him of her dreams. Not all of them were happy. He sighed, and stared up at the ceiling.

Where are you? Why is it that you are not near, but continue to linger… like the Phantom that you are? Will Christine ever be free of you? Will we ever be free of you?

These questions plagued Raoul until sleep took him.

He often thought of living above. And when he met Christine, he swore that he would get that chance. If not for her, but for him—proof that the damned could get a glimpse of heaven!

So, he had purchased a flat on the far side of town. The grey bricked two-story was not only a perfect size for him to wander in complete darkness but to keep to the privacy that he adored. The flat was gated property so there would be no trespassers.

Though, half of Paris knew where he lived (because of his famed status), they knew better than to try to cross the threshold of his domain.

Erik stood looking out the window (in the shadows) on the second story, watching the crowds disappear into the night. He was not wearing his mask. He did not wear it in the comfort of his home. Since it was only him living there, he had free reign. And why hide when the world could not see you?

The lamp lighters were making their way to the lamps. He turned from the window and made his way to his piano. Scattered on the lid of the piano were stacks and singular compositions he had created over the years. Grabbing one at random, he placed the wine glass on the top of the lid and the random composition on the music rack. Sitting down, he glanced for a moment at the title he had given it.

L'engouement d'un stigmata

The title made him hesitate.

This was one of shorter pieces he had created when his identity to Christine was more than just the Angel from her dreams.

He took the music off the rack and crumpled it up. He tossed it to the side of the room. The memory of how the composition came to be slowly began to fill his mind.

"That is enough for today, Christine," he said, as Christine finished the aria Libenstod from Tristan and Isolde. "You have improved much."

Christine's eyes closed and she pressed her hands together in prayer. "Your praise means so much to me. Thank you," she said, opening her eyes and lowering her hands. She returned to her vanity, sitting down upon the chair.

"You deserve such praise, my child," he replied, leaning against the wall across from the mirror. He was well out of view. If he was to approach the mirror, she would see him.

At times, when he was present with her, he felt as though he was living two different lives. One of complete fantasy and one of horror: One was an Angel of great beauty and the other was a demon twisted in darkness.

But how he wanted her! He wanted to hold her in his arms, run his fingers through each curled strand of hair, and press his cheek against her perfect skin without her flinching in fear. He wanted to preserve her, and her voice, like the Emperor from the Chinese tale did to the Nightingale.

"Angel?"

Christine's voice brought him back to current state of things. He was a monster, still, tricking a beautiful girl into thinking he was more than what he would ever be.

"Yes, Christine?"

"Could you answer a question of mine?"

He hesitated. But then, she was so obedient to what he demanded of her. How could he not oblige her?

"Of course," he replied, "I can deny you nothing."

She nodded. "My question, Angel, is… who are you? You are the Angel of Music, but I find myself over the months creating stories in my mind of who you were. Were you created by God?"

He found himself laughing at her question. Was he created by God? And who was he? Was he always an angel? Was he once a man?

Her eyes went to her reflection in the mirror, and he pressed himself harder against the wall. He knew she could not see him, but the reaction was instinct.

"You laugh, is my question foolish?" She looked down from the mirror and to her feet. "I'm sorry, please forgive me."

"Christine," he said sternly, "never a question you ask me is foolish. Never do I want you to be afraid to ask me anything."

She nodded. He continued.

"Angels were once humans, chosen by God because of their impact on mankind. My memories fade as time goes on. And so, I have no memories of who I was once, they are all gone."

"Oh," she said, "I should have known."

"It is impossible for you to know, Christine," he said softly. "Your fantasies, my child, what were they?"

She blushed, biting her lip and clasping her hands together. "I … thought you were a minstrel. And that you would sing for Kings and Queens."

"That is a lovely thought, my child. You are kind to think such a thing of me." He replied, crossing his arms.

"You have a beautiful voice," she whispered back.

"Thank you, Christine," he said warmly, "as do you. In time, your voice shall be the most exquisite of any on the earth."

"Do you really think so, Angel?" Her eyes were wide with delight.

"I know so," he replied. "And you shall join me in voice, to sing amongst the angels one day." He damned himself for saying that.

"I would gladly sing with you, my Angel," she replied, closing her eyes.

He remembered those moments so well. No matter how deceitful and treacherous each one was, they were exquisite. It was astonishing that such a girl could grow into the woman that she was now.

It was time to let those memories go. It was her choice that gave him the strength to continue his life as a man of importance. He was the Angel of Music, in human form.

He placed his fingers on the keys and began to play. He closed his eyes, swaying his head in tune with each note. If he thought the melody was promising he would take a break from his playing and write it down on the parchment.

When Christine had left her dressing room, and he was sure she was gone, he exited the mirror. He took a seat at the vanity, feeling the warmth from her body still lingering. He smoothed his fingers over the polished wood, treasuring the spot where her fingers once were. And then he looked in the mirror, the mirror which held her beautiful face. He lifted his fingers and traced the outline of his reflection. Dejected, his shoulders sunk and his fingers slipped slowly down from the mirror.