A/N: Okay, change in stride here. Christine's unconscious… -mock sigh of disappointment- Oh dear. Might have to write another chapter from Erik's POV. –snaps fingers- DARN!

Well, alright. Just to be consistent:

Ch 7.

She saw darkness, all-consuming but serene. There was no pain, only peace. Occasionally she would catch a snippet of conversation, but the words were little more than distorted, jumbled sounds. And then the darkness would claim her again, wrapping her in its seductive, inviting embrace. This was all Christine saw for the next three hours.

The end.

-giggles- Naw, I'm not that mean. To those of you who have been complaining about the length, see what I COULD do? Haha, I jest. But let's skip to something a bit more interesting, eh?

The REAL chapter 7:

Every few moments his head would jerk up compulsively to glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, only to discover that a mere fifteen seconds had passed since the last time he had checked. His pacing did not falter, however, with the routine glimpses; he used his footsteps to tap out the steady rhythm of a recent composition, his fingers twitching, instinctively moving over a phantom organ. Erik's irritability and restlessness were only amplified by his self-designated restriction from music. Although Christine was unconscious, he was convinced she could hear music in her sleep. Many nights he had soothed her with a gentle lullaby when she would toss and turn in her sleep; nightmares of her father's death had plagued Christine during her first few months at the opera house, and her angel had always been there to chase the demons away. Now he dared not allow himself to sit at the piano in Nadir's living room, knowing full well he could not control his emotions once the first few notes bloomed from his fingertips. If Christine were to hear his tormented music while trapped in the confines of her unconscious mind, he feared he would become the source of her nightmares, not the remedy.

It seemed like hours before the door to the study clicked, but it had hardly been twenty minutes. Erik jumped involuntarily at the sound, his head whipping around eagerly.

"How is she?" he asked immediately, moving to stand within an arm's length of Nadir should the need arise to strangle him. The Persian would not meet his gaze for several moments, and when he finally did, his emerald eyes were dulled with pain.

"Sleeping soundly, just as you left her," Nadir admitted elusively. Erik's temper sprang like a coiled snake; he gripped his old friend by the shoulders, his fingers digging into Nadir's flesh.

"Damn you, Daroga! You know what I mean!" he roared, giving the Persian a jarring shake. "What's wrong with her?" Despite himself, his voice wavered dangerously, threatening to break.

Nadir's eyes hardened as he stared into Erik's, and his jaw tightened slightly. "If you'll kindly release me, I will prepare some tea and bring it to the living room. Then we will discuss her condition." The déjà vu between Nadir's directions and the command he had given Christine a few hours ago momentarily dumbfounded Erik, and he could do nothing but nod numbly and release his friend. Nadir studied him intently for a few more seconds before sweeping off gracefully to the kitchen as if nothing had happened.

Erik trembled violently, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was torn in two— a part of him ached to return to Christine's side, to caress her hair and hold her cold body against him. But curiosity got the better of him; he needed to know what was ailing his beloved. Passing his hand over his face, he sighed shakily and stepped past the door to the study.

Nadir's living room was very similar to his own in its décor, but he noted irritably that it was a great deal tidier. An ornate Persian rug covered most of the hardwood floor, but aside from that solitary decoration, the room was surprisingly European. Two armchairs were nestled into the corners surrounding the fireplace, and a plush divan ran the length of an entire wall. A glass coffee table sat just in front of the divan, holding only a cigar case and a worn copy of Shakespeare's Othello. And then, of course, there was the piano…

Erik looked resolutely away from the beckoning ivory keys, clenching his hands into fists. He perched on the very edge of the divan, eyeing the cigar case hungrily. Fortunately he only had to wait a few endless minutes before Nadir returned, carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits. He set it gently on the coffee table before Erik, and proceeded to pour tea with a slow, steady hand. Instead of calming Erik's bristling nerves, however, the stalling movements only prodded his temper.

"You try my patience, Daroga," he hissed.

Nadir gave him a startled look, as if seeing him for the first time. "Then I am doing you a favor, am I not? They say patience is a virtue."

Erik was on his feet in a split second, his eyes flashing venom. The Persian was quicker, reaching out to snatch his wrist as he reached for the Punjab lasso. He laughed emptily, shaking his head. "You underestimate me, Erik. Sit down. Think. If you kill me now, what will become of the girl?"

In reality, Erik hadn't been thinking. By this point, his capacity to reason had been drowned out by rage— at Fate, Christine, the restrictions of mankind, and himself. The Daroga was right, of course, but he would not openly admit it. Instead he wrenched his hand from Nadir's grasp, bringing his face within centimeters of the Persian's.

"Tell me what's wrong with her," he demanded again, his eyes burning.

Nadir's eyes softened slightly, the amused expression disappearing from his face. "I shall tell you all I know, Erik. But please, have a seat." He gestured to the divan, and Erik had no choice but to comply. Nadir nodded his approval before settling in the armchair across the room, folding his hands in his lap.

There was a brief silence as the Persian pondered how best to present his findings to Erik. Then, quite suddenly, realization dawned on his face, and he looked up at his old friend with his head tilted slightly to one side. "You let her go." A brief, puzzled silence ensued before he elaborated, "Christine Daaé… she married the Vicomte. I saw the announcement in the paper. And then, not two weeks later, in the obituaries…" His eyes widened slightly. "She returned to you?" Erik studied his knees intently, refusing to meet his gaze. Nadir swallowed and licked his lips before continuing, very softly, "Was it your child, Erik?"

Erik's head shot up like lightning, his eyes narrowed to slits. "What did you say?"

Nadir leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his palms together. His eyes danced along the intricate pattern of the Persian rug, but Erik could sense that his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he responded, "I don't believe I've ever spoken to you of my mother."

Erik's patience finally snapped, and he rose to his feet again. "Goddamn it, Daroga! If you can't answer one single question—"

The Persian's eyes glittered like jade fire. "Sit—down!" he commanded, his voice resonating with power without increasing in volume. "I am explaining."

"No! You're describing your bloody childhood to me while Christine—"

Rubbing his eyes in frustration, Nadir interrupted swiftly, "My mother was the midwife for our tribe in Persia." Erik slowly sank back onto the divan, quelling his temper for the moment. "She taught me everything she knew. I assisted in bringing countless children into the world…" Nadir lowered his eyes as they brimmed with pain. "Alive and dead."

Erik could do nothing but stare at his friend blankly, unwilling to register the connection between the midwife in Persia and his beloved in the next room. "What does any of this have to do with Christine?" His voice no longer retained any of its former anger, but was tight and thick with dreaded anticipation.

Nadir swallowed, refusing to meet Erik's imploring gaze. "From what I can tell, she very recently miscarried a child."

The air slammed from Erik's lungs as if he had run into a brick wall. His heart picked up pace until it was throbbing against his ribcage. He could not breathe, nor think, as the stunning revelation sank in. The Daroga continued to speak to him softly, explaining the situation, but his words became jumbled in Erik's mind.

Only one coherent thought could pierce the haze of his incredulity. Raoul's child… Countless haunting images crashed upon him, eating at his soul until he wanted to scream. The wedding night… his lips on hers, traveling to her pale neck and down further still… Christine's gasps and sighs of pleasure at the gentle probing of the boy's tongue… matching smiles of embarrassment as clothes pooled at their feet, before desire once again glittered in their eyes… a white canopy bed in the corner of the room… sweat-slicked limbs entwined with Egyptian cotton…

He shook his head vehemently to rid himself of the loathed images. His chest heaved with furious gasps for air, his eyes dripping with poison. The urge to kill had never gripped his soul with such a firm, hot hand. A child… Raoul's child. Damn heaven and hell, earth and sky… He wanted the satisfaction of spilling the Vicomte's blood! He would have devoted the rest of his life to hunting and killing the boy for spilling his foul seed within Christine's perfect form. Directly or not, he was the reason she now lay unconscious in a stranger's home. Raoul could have died a thousand gruesome deaths by Erik's skilled hand, and it would not have been a sufficient punishment.

He did not even recognize the firm pressure on his shoulder until Nadir barked his name. He looked up into the Persian's pained eyes, his own brimming with tears.

"Is she in pain?" he asked brokenly.

Nadir pressed his lips together and nodded somberly. "When she wakes, she will be. She is very thin, Erik, and very pale. I do not believe she has eaten in quite awhile." He sighed, releasing Erik's shoulder. "I will prepare some eshkeneh. It would do us all some good to have hot soup in our bellies." He paused, giving Erik a quick once-over. "She will not wake for quite some time. I administered a sedative which should allow her to sleep peacefully for another hour or so. And you, my friend, need to clean up." He gestured to a washroom on the opposite side of the main hall, and then to a small laundry room beside the study. "The tub and shaving supplies are in there, and I have hot water on the furnace. Take as much as you require. Supper will be ready at eight." And with a polite dip of his head, he strode out of the room.

Erik alternated between being irritated at Nadir's honesty, and appreciating it. Eventually he sighed, rose to his feet, and traipsed into the main hall. He knew Nadir would be frustrated with him for doing so, but he pulled the door to the study open with a soft click and stepped silently inside. The Persian had covered Christine with a thick down comforter, he noted gratefully. Moonlight filtered through the shuttered window, illuminating her pale face with an eerie blue tint. Her shallow breathing was the only thing that assured Erik that she was indeed alive.

He sighed heavily, falling to his knees beside her. Christine's long, slender fingers peeked out from the edge of the blanket, and he could not resist enveloping them in his.

He did not even register the first few tears that trickled down his cheeks. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, kissing the soft, smooth flesh of her hand. "Why didn't you tell me?" His heart gave a painful wrench— he knew damn well why not. He had not allowed her a moment to speak before attacking her with bitter sarcasm and doubt. It was his fault… this was all his fault.

It had not been money Christine was after… she needed medical aid. But he had been so absorbed in his own damn self that he had not paused to consider the fact that she might be in need of immediate assistance…

Fool! Coward and fool!

He pressed his forehead to the back of her hand as sobs clutched his lungs. "Forgive me… please forgive me…"

From the kitchen, he heard the clanking of pots and Nadir's inquisitive call. "Erik? Did you find everything you need?"

He brushed away his tears angrily and flashed Christine one last apologetic glance before climbing to his feet and responding in the affirmative. Perhaps Nadir was right, as usual… perhaps a hot bath would help to cleanse the guilt caked around his heart.

A/N: Ahh, angsty Erik. Nothing quite like it, is there?