PhantomsHeart: Of course Erik wouldn't really kill Christine. He can barely bring himself to touch her when she's awake haha. He'd lose his nerve…poor shy thing. And when I'm done with the fedora, you're most welcome to fight Erik for it. I hear he's a mighty good thumb wrestler, so watch out.
No One Mourns the Wicked: Erik's trying desperately to be aloof. It doesn't work haha. Thanks!
Kat: Will try to keep up with the regular updates. Unfortunately I have to knit a Harry Potter scarf for a local bookstore that's planning on having a party when the next book comes out, so we shall see how long I can keep up my multitasking…
EmilyWillow: Yes, little Christine gets a taste of her own medicine. It's about time she sees how she unknowingly tortures poor Erik. Thanks for the praise, I'll do my best to keep it up.
Cyn: Ah, a new reviewer! Welcome…and trust me, reviewers are more worthy of love than I am. Yes. Christine is a whore. Not really, I just took great pleasure in randomly typing that. I don't know if you've read any of the reviewer responses on the top of my chapters, but I believe Maat brought up that point before, and I gave my reasoning. If you're curious, I suggest looking at that. On second thought, I don't much care if the people of Paris thought Christine was a floozie…she tortured Erik, she can deal with a bit of flames heehee. You're like me, we make up words: Beauty and the Beast-esque (which it was ;) But please don't be hatin'…updates will come soon bwah haha
Dove of Night: Haha! I shall most definitely take a look at your Erik! Christine throws off his groove in my story. Thanks for reading!
Carolinus the Opera Ghostess: Oh, there shall be much Erik-happiness when he gets his current little plan going…
Soccernat11: (salutes) Aye Aye, Cap'n! I will continue as I work up wickedness and deviousness for the lovely Erik, who could do with a bit more sneaking around. It makes him happy.
Red Rose, Black Ribbon: Thank you kindly! Yes, this is my first story, so I love to see new reviewers, especially fans of the slightly darker Erik.
LadyStrider77: Glad you like it (wink). Hope you'll stick around to see how it turns out…considering I really don't know for sure the final shape it will take haha.
Mianne: I think it's phantabulous that you enjoy my little tale…I must give all credit to the genius of Leroux. I only took the characters and made them dance to my tune. I am the master of puppets! Dance, Erik, dance! (gets punjabbed)
AJNemo: Erik has picked a card and decided upon torture at the moment. Mind games are fun.
Tryptophan: My younger brother, who is in the room, is questioning my sanity as I laugh myself to tears over the statement "Cease this mindless porkchoppery!" I tried to keep it in, but my lungs were going to burst XD As for my writing style, sadly I hold no control over it. I just sit down and type, and whatever comes out is what I post…so don't give me too much credit for any sort of planning haha. And a fan club! (stares in awe) No way, I'm not worthy! But I do appreciate the love of reviewers; it's what feeds my imagination (grin) Thanks for the lovely review, it's much appreciated! And you should get a badge proclaiming your new guardianship…
Kagome1514: My dear, I will have you know that tonight (gestures dramatically) is officially devoted to reading your fics! Perhaps I can get inspiration from your writings to fight off the ever-present writers block!
Clever Lass: Thanks for giving it a read! I'm glad you found my story, and I hope to hear what you think about my future chapters (if I can ever get my mind off of martial arts and back onto writing)
Mianne: (gasps) A loyal reviewer? My thanks! I'm glad you enjoy it, and I hope to hear your opinions in the future as well. People like you keep me in line haha (wink)
InuLvr7: Alas, I have no editor (sigh). Thanks for reading, new reviewers make me happy!

Hoping to perhaps get another update before I have to do vacation bible school next week…but if I cannot, please hang in there! I will be sure to jot down ideas as I force small children to make macaroni pictures shaped like Jesus.

Chapter Ten: The Seeds of Madness

The search had continued nonstop for almost a week and Raoul was at his wit's end. Dust and grime had been tracked into his given room in mucky footprints, a testament to his nervous pacing. Dirty clothing lay strewn about the floor; he could not bother himself with washing them when he could be looking for his fiancée. Madame Giry had convinced him to bathe the dust from himself countless times, however. She had been quick to proclaim that he looked as if he had crawled through hell and back. It wasn't far from the truth.

Numerous times during his hunt, Raoul had found himself wandering into the ruined lair of the Opera Ghost. He did not expect to find Christine there, especially after the third time he combed through it. Somehow he was simply drawn to the place.

The exterior of the eerie underground home had been marred with black sooty streaks from the flames that had been set to it. The windows overlooking the lake had been thoroughly shattered; not one piece of jagged glass remained. They seemed to gape like open wounds. The inside of the house was in no better shape. Furniture lay broken and torn, priceless works of art were thrown haphazardly about, and splintered pieces of musical instruments lay scattered throughout the rooms. Everything was covered in ashes. The only thing that remained was the pipes of the organ, which were twisted and warped from the heat of the flames that had been set to it.

The house seemed to cry out in pain and fury, its haunting air sending shivers down Raoul's spine. The air was stagnant and choked his lungs, making it hard to breathe. And yet he had returned time and again to roam the halls in search of something, perhaps a clue as to where Christine had been spirited away to. He had discovered no note explaining her absence, and the house certainly revealed nothing. It only seemed to echo his moan of defeat the last time he had stalked its depths for his lost love.

His body had finally succumbed to fatigue, and his numb feet had dragged himself back to his room, where he found himself at the moment. He laid sprawled across his bed, muddy boots hanging off the edge as he stared blankly at the ceiling with gritty eyes. His muscles ached and tingled as numb limbs regained feeling.

Mere weariness had long since been replaced by exhaustion, and Raoul had ignored it for as long as he could. Now, when he finally let his guard down, everything caught up to him. His eyes stung as hot tears of frustration formed. Scrubbing at them angrily with the back of a grubby hand, he took a shuddering breath.

Searching the Opera aimlessly will not bring Christine back. He has her; I know it. But I cannot do anything unless I know where to look!

It didn't help that everyone else believed him to be a raving lunatic. Madame Giry and her daughter kindly provided fresh clothing and food for him, offering comforting words when he reached all new heights of despair. But he knew they thought him mad. He knew Madame Giry had some mysterious relationship to the Opera Ghost, and had expected her to at least entertain the idea that his obituary could be an elaborate scheme to capture innocent Christine. She had merely shaken her head at the suggestion, telling him gently that not everything in life had to be a conspiracy.

Talk of the mad hunt for Christine Daae had not ended with the immediate search party members. While wandering through the cellars, Raoul had heard the ballet rats gossiping above him as they warmed up for rehearsal. Their shrill twittering voices easily reached him where he paused right below the stage.

"I think she simply grew tired of him and ran off to find another man. He is rather handsome, and he has money, but if he's not giving her what she needs-" Obnoxious giggles interrupted the lewd insinuation. Raoul had wondered if he had ever felt the need to physically harm someone so strongly in his life.

Just because they lived together didn't mean they slept together. I rarely ever stayed in my house over night the whole time she lived there!

He had realized the danger of keeping Christine in his home while they were unmarried. The aristocracy would certainly look down upon it as sinful, but Raoul could not send her away to live with his relatives after he had just won her. At least I know I've done nothing wrong. Everyone else can think what they please.

And worrying about it now won't bring Christine back.

He sighed heavily in defeat; for now. No matter the odd stares he received or the gossip that followed him, however, Raoul de Chagny was determined not to give up. He had fought for Christine once and triumphed; he would win her back again.

All he could do was recover his strength and continue his hunt for the phantom.

XXXXXXXXX

Sleep. Sleep is lovely. I've missed sleep.

Those were the first thoughts that greeted Erik as he awoke the next morning. Or he supposed it was morning. It didn't much matter. Not like I have any appointments to keep.

For a few moments he simply laid there in the dark silken sheets, staring at the ceiling and thanking his insight to get a real bed. The coffin had been burned and rendered useless anyway. Beds are just much more comfortable, he thought in his happy haze, although I suppose it does take away from the theme I had going. But I do live in a grave. Perhaps a coffin added to that would be overdoing it.

He had been so exhausted that he had barely taken time to strip down to his pants, tossing the rest of his clothing haphazardly about the room. The mask remained on, yet he still slept better than he had in months. He sighed and stretched his whole body slowly, reveling in the glorious feeling of rested muscles. The knots and tension that had steadily built up and resided in him during his relapse into chronic insomnia had been greatly relieved; the few hours of rest he had managed had worked wonders.

With a groan he sat up and sung his bare feet over the edge of the bed. Stretching once more, he took off the skull mask and scrubbed at his eyes. When he took his hands away he noticed black smears on them. The makeup that had darkened his eyes remained on.

"Ew. Smooth, Erik," he grumbled to himself.

Tossing his mask to the side, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled to the bathroom to wash. The crispness of the cool water on his face managed to sweep away the aftermath of sleep, clearing the happy fog his mind had settled into and leaving him alert.

His newfound energy and motivation rushed back to him, replacing his flat golden gaze with a mischievous glint. Today was the day that his fun would begin anew. The frustration and anger of the night before had vanished, replaced with the burning desire of old.

He needed to get out and show the fools that crawled through the depths of his Opera that he meant business.

Quickly dressing himself in a crisp new suit and cravat, he hopped slightly in place as he pulled on his leather boots. He stalked to his wardrobe and chose a pure black cloak, twirling it around his broad shoulders and securing it swiftly. Rummaging through the many suits and cloaks, he suddenly paused. Beginning at one end and moving to the other twice, he slammed the door in frustration.

WHERE is my fedora!

I can't go terrorize people without it. I need it. It's my trademark. It'd be like going out without my mask. His mind buzzed angrily as he pouted slightly, biting his lower lip.

What a beautiful beginning to the day.

Snarling and working himself into quite a temper, Erik stormed out of his room and slammed the door behind him. He stopped in his tracks when he realized he had forgotten his mask; he had to ruin his grand entrance as he went back into his room sheepishly and donned the black silk mask he had become accustomed to wearing.

Once again in the sitting room, Erik searched under every piece of furniture for his fedora. With no luck, he crossed his arms across his chest with a rumbling growl. His stomach echoed it and he stared down in surprise.

I'm hungry? How long has it been since I was hungry?

Deciding not to question it, he allowed his anger to melt away at the prospect of food. His feet automatically led him down the shadowy hallways to the kitchen. A glowing, warm light flooded from within. Christine's doing, he thought as he stood in the doorway and squinted slightly to let his eyes adjust.

When they did, the sight before him made his anger flare once again into life like a stoked fire.

"What are you doing with my fedora!" Echoes of his deep snarl reverberated around the small room.

Christine stood before him, frozen in shock. The black fedora was clutched in her little white hands and she looked down at it after a moment as if she had only just realized what he had said.

"I-I was just cleaning up a bit…"

Stalking forward swiftly, Erik snatched the hat from her hands and glared menacingly down at her. His gaze made her take a step back from him before she regained her composure. She met his fury with her own. Her eyebrows knit together and her beautiful chocolate eyes hardened as she opened her mouth to protest against her unfair treatment.

"Well pardon me, monsieur! I was simply keeping house for you, considering you've been asleep for two days. Forgive me, good monsieur, for being so entirely bored out of my mind that I must resort to doing your housework like your servant. And by all means forgive this unworthy soul for touching your sacred fedora," her voice dripped with sarcasm.

His eyes narrowed at her tone, but she met his glare for what seemed like hours, her red lips pressed together in a thin line. Her chest heaved with emotion and her dainty hands were white-knuckled as she clenched them. He applauded her façade, for he could detect the slightest tremble to the edge of her lips.

He found it increasingly difficult to maintain his hold on his anger; it seemed to slip through his fingers like water: the harder he tried to keep his grip on it, the more it disappeared. It was replaced with another emotion that had nothing whatsoever to do with wanting to argue with the captivating young woman before him; an emotion that made his blood burn pleasantly in his veins and his breath catch in his lungs.

It scared him much more than his temper ever had.

Christine's expression softened and she frowned slightly, appearing confused about something she had read in his eyes. Determined not to reveal more than he desired to at the moment, Erik turned smoothly and donned his fedora as he made his way to the pantry. Grabbing a croissant and secreting it in his cloak pocket, he took great care not to meet those curious chocolate eyes as they followed his every movement. He needed to put some distance between them before he did something he would regret.

Since when have I worried about being too close to her? Isn't that what I want?

He wanted her with him; he needed her to be by his side in order to survive. He had taken her from her home with the vicomte to be his own, his little songbird, caged underground for eternity. But he hadn't taken into account the dark emotions that such power over her drew forth.

And she could certainly try to keep her innocent doe eyes to herself, he thought moodily. Having her eyes on him certainly didn't send thrills through his heated body. Of course not. That would be silly.

"Erik?" the questioning tone of her wavering voice drew his eyes back to hers against his will.

His blood seemed to roar in his ears as he took in the innocent curiosity in her stare. Sweeping over gracefully to her, he took her hand delicately in his own and brushed a polite kiss upon it.

"Forgive me, I'm…not exactly a morning person," he said smoothly, still bowed slightly over her fingers.

Christine shivered. It wasn't in fear, and Erik knew it. Peering up carefully from under the brim of his fedora, he caught a glimpse of the same dark look that was in his eyes reflected in hers.

It was gone in an instant as she hastily recovered her composure.

"It's not morning," she pointed out, her voice wavering minutely as she slid her hand out from his.

Straightening to his full height, he shrugged almost apologetically.

Changing the subject quickly as he backed away he asked, "I'm going on an errand; would you like anything?"

"I'd like to be released," she responded automatically, but with little conviction in her voice.

"As would I," Erik mumbled as he departed, eager to remove himself from her spellbinding gaze.

Christine was left to stare at his retreating form and wonder what on earth he had meant.

XXXXXXXXX

Since the beginning of time, darkness has held a fascinating influence over the uneasy and weak of mind. The prospect of the unknown and unseen breeds phantasms in the mind; shadows become the grasping hands of the dead reaching forth from the grave, silhouettes form demons in the gloom, and any noise resembles the rattle of dry bones or the death cry of a creature.

Darkness is uncertainty. Darkness is fear.

Darkness was Erik's lover. Her soft caresses soothed his anxious soul; he took solace in the oblivion of her embrace.

Everyone was made equal in darkness.

Everyone, perhaps, except the vicomte.

Erik had spent the better part of an hour simply trailing the man through the cellars of the Opera House while leisurely enjoying his breakfast. Growing tired of the vicomte's graceless fumblings through the gloom, Erik contented himself with catching the latest news of the Opera. Although he could just as easily have infiltrated the office of the ignorant managers, it was less work to simply listen in on the ballet rats. And Erik was all for being economical and efficient.

Brushing the last of the crumbs of the croissant from his gloved fingers, he had settled himself along a rafter in a shadowy corner of the dormitories. Stretching out along the beam on his back and resting his head in his interwoven fingers, he waited until Madame Giry allowed the young dancers a short break.

Rushing back to their rooms, the slim girls stopped along the way to tiredly rub at painful feet.

"I swear, Madame Giry is working us with a vengeance," one particularly inelegant ballet rat moaned in complaint as she removed her shoes.

"Quiet, Adele. We could be doing much worse than this. Poor Meg is still running around searching the cellars at the request of the vicomte," came the sharp reply of a slightly older girl.

"But he's mad!" whined Adele shrilly, "The Opera Ghost is dead and all he's managing is to work Madame Giry into a fury with his ravings, which she takes out on us!"

"The Vicomte de Chagny doesn't believe the Phantom is dead," the older girl pointed out. "He wouldn't keep hunting for him if he didn't. And what does it matter if he's mad? He has influence, so they do what he tells them."

"But the phantom-" Adele began, only to be pinched sharply by a passing blonde.

"Don't talk about him! It's bad luck, and two girls have already sprained an ankle," the passerby hissed before continuing on her way.

Nimbly rising to a silent crouch, Erik peered down at the steadily emptying dormitory.

They still fear me, do they? The realization sent warm shivers down his spine, drawing a smirk to his face.

Suddenly he paused…The insolent boy's ravings?

Like a hunter smelling weakness in his prey, Erik's eyes narrowed in pleasure as he felt his blood course through his veins.

The hunt had begun, and suddenly the role of predator was once again restored to the golden eyed creature of darkness.

XXXXXXXXX

Raoul had achieved little sleep since the initiation of the search for Christine. His vision had begun to fade at the edges, and his drooping eyelids waged a constant war with his determination to continue combing the cellars.

Unfortunately, with his fading vitality came fading assistance. The police had apologized profusely to him before retracting their services, assuring him that they had done all that could possibly be done. Except find Christine, he thought dryly.

At least Meg had remained loyal to his cause. She still brought him fresh clothing and warm food, but she no longer relieved him in his search. She had an opera to prepare for.

"I'm sorry," she had apologized sincerely, "but I just don't see how Christine could still be here if we haven't found her yet. Perhaps she is already at home waiting for your return."

The hopeful suggestion did little to soothe the vicomte.

With a crash Raoul found himself tangled in discarded beams of wood from the Opera's recent reconstruction. Recalling himself to the present, he stood and brushed off his clothes, although it did little more than cover his hands with more grime. He picked up his fallen lantern and made sure the flame still burned inside before cautiously resuming his mission.

His lethargy tugged at his limbs, making it difficult to take each step. More than once he almost dropped his lantern from numb fingers; that made him shudder: he did not know how he could find his way back without the flickering light.

A cold wind rippled through his cloak and he tugged it closer around him with his free hand. He had become used to this; the Opera House was surprisingly drafty in the lower levels, and random winds sapped the warmth from his shivering body.

He was not, however, used to the voices that traveled on that wind.

Echoing sighs seemed to reverberate from every direction, causing Raoul's tortured mind to twist the shadowed shapes before him into ghouls and specters.

A clattering noise behind him plunged Raoul to the fringes of panic as a moaning wind extinguished the shuddering flame of the lantern.

Darnkess enveloped him, and his mind howled although he clenched his jaw painfully to keep the noise trapped behind his teeth. He stood completely still, his eyes opening and closing madly as if unbelieving that they were actually open.

"Why so silent, good monsieur?" a mocking voice taunted from the darkness to his left.

Spinning spontaneously to face it and drawing his sword, Raoul's chest heaved as he fought to capture the breath that refused to enter his lungs properly.

"Wh-Who's there!"

"It is I," the voice whispered in his right ear. He could feel its breath along his neck, and he felt bile rise in his throat.

Taking a quick and uncoordinated slash towards where the voice should have been, Raul stumbled in the darkness and almost lost his balance completely.

Ringing laughter pummeled his senses from all sides.

"Afraid…?" The voice took on a husky whisper. Raoul didn't need to see to tell a pointed grin followed the words.

"I am not afraid! You are the coward! Show yourself," Raoul challenged. His hands trembled as he held his sword before him in the pitch black.

"You know where I am," the voice breathed down his neck. The swinging slash Raoul made towards it did not make contact with anything but air.

"WHERE!" Raoul had grown tired of this game; his nerves were frayed and at the breaking point.

"I am -here-," A thousand voices repeated the last word around the room.

Raoul shook with a combination of terror and fury.

"Wh-where is 'here'!"

A moment of deafening silence reigned when Raoul only heard the frantic beating of his heart against his ribs.

"Where?" he questioned again, more confidently.

………Inside your mind………

His eyes widened in surprise, then clamped shut in terror. The young vicomte crumpled to his knees, clutching his head in his hands and squeezing it as if it could drown out the voice that had come to reside within his skull.

"No…NO…NO…" he whispered frantically, rocking in the darkness, "Not you…not you…"

Erik's soul sang with the sound of broken crying from the defeated form before him.

He had sown the seeds of madness in the mind of the vicomte. Patience, now, he advised himself as his catlike eyes gleamed in anticipation.

Let the boy be his own undoing.