Thank you for your reviews! So we begin chapter 10! So exciting! And also the end of the poem! Anyway, I hope you guys love this chapter!

"So from the world of spirits there descends

A bridge of light, connecting it with this,

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,

Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Haunted Houses

Erik

Erik stood solemnly with Christine in his arms and took her away from the theatre, too numbed by the events of the evening and by Nadir's words to even consider that someone might see them as they descended into the cellars. Silence had filled the room as Nadir had continue to stare at him, explaining what it all meant, but Erik heard none of it. He saw Nadir's lips move and he felt Christine's short breaths, but his mind was completely detached. He moved as though through a tunnel, heard noises as though from miles away, and saw things with impaired vision. He staggered into the house on the lake and deposited Christine onto her bed before sinking onto the floor beside her.

She was meant to hear you. She was always meant to hear you. And she was so beautiful, so beautiful, as if she had been dead. Lying there, sleeping soundly on the bed, she was the most angelic thing Erik had ever seen. And this creature… she was meant to hear him? Meant… for him? It seemed impossible.

This little blond Swede—a girl he had almost passed over during rehearsal, one who had been hardly remarkable at all, who had distinguished herself not all until Erik had given her his music… this girl, she was what tethered him to the earth, what forced him to remain all these many years here in this Opera House… This beautiful, vivacious, generous girl… and yet one who was deeply depressed, lost in the bowels of her own darkness, caught in her own web of defeat… one who had wanted to take her own life, not a few hours before…

You died so that you could save her.

He hadn't died as much as he had been killed, something which felt totally different… and killed because of what he couldn't help. Could it be that it was all meant to happen… for her? What could it mean?

She is the reason you were born.

His life had been a travesty as soon as it started. Could it be enough to say that it had all been worth it… for her? Did he have to be born with such a face, in order to be born for her?

You cannot move on until you have saved her.

Was fate playing one final, awful trick on him? How could he save her, when he, himself, had succumbed to darkness in life, when he himself was ugly and hideous and despised, when all he wanted was to possess her and make her his own and win her over to his own darkness… how could he save her? She needed light, needed love and normalcy and happiness… all he could offer was music. He could offer passion, but it was a passion that burned, and not because it was struck by fire from heaven. It must be a sin, all of it, everything he wanted for her… and if he wanted to save her soul, if he truly loved her… mustn't he protect her from all of this, and let her go and be free of him?

If he saved her, he would be able to cross over. And yet… Erik couldn't bear the thought. There would never be anyone else like her, not in any life he lived after this. There would never be someone whose very soul was tethered to his own, someone who truly belonged to him. How could he leave her? How could he cross over? Would he have a choice? If he didn't want to cross, would he be forced to? How much damage would it do to her soul to be haunted by a ghost for the rest of her life?

He couldn't let go of her. He wouldn't. He needed her. He needed to belong to someone.

Christine stirred, and Erik quickly stood and backed away from her. Had he really just been sitting before her contemplating putting her soul in danger? When she was so very alive and he was so very dead? He edged along the side of the wall, wondering if she would try to hurt herself if he left her alone now, trying to decide if it was best to just melt through the wall and far away from her…

Christine opened her eyes with a little moan of pain, and Erik watched silently as she brought a hand to her forehead and pressed where she must have been sore. She blinked several times into the darkened light of the room before sitting up a little and looking around. She cast her gaze about wildly for a moment before resting on him.

They stared at each other, and all Erik could think was that she belonged to him—or he belonged to her—either way. They were bonded.

"Erik." Her voice was low and scratchy.

Erik stood locked against the wall, unable to speak. G-d, this creature, this girl… and he was going to own her soul and she wouldn't even know that he had condemned her to hell…

Christine unfolded herself from the sheets, stood, and steadily walked towards him. He pressed himself as far into the wall as possible without disappearing. She continued until her tiny forehead was directly beneath his nose, and she raised her head to look into his eyes. He inhaled the scent of her hair.

"I will not thank you for saving my life," she said.

Erik clutched at her shoulders at the very thought of what she had meant to do.

"Christine," he breathed. "You must never try to do anything like that again."

She scoffed. "Yes? And what if I do?"

"I shan't let you. Erik will always be there to protect you."

"Oh? And if I leave the grounds of the Opera House?"

He squeezed her shoulders in sudden fear. "Christine, you cannot."

She raised her chin. "What if I do?"

He stared into her eyes. "Then—I shall keep you down here."

She glared at him, and then stole away from him to lean against the doorpost. Erik turned to face her, missing the scent of her hair beneath him.

"Why would you even make the effort?" She asked after a moment.

"Christine—" Erik almost felt like laughing, although it was completely inappropriate. How shocking that she truly did not understand the depths of his feelings. "If you were to die, the entire world must also lie down and disappear with you. Without you there is nothing."

She stared at him, clutching her hands together absentmindedly at his sides, and as her eyes began to roam away from his he knew she was looking at his mask. He refrained from closing his eyes. He needed to face this, to face whatever was coming next…

"Erik," she began uncertainly, and then stopped.

"Yes, my dear."

Christine locked eyes with him, and his heart jumped. Tears began to obscure the beautiful blue. "Erik, do you know what it is like to want to die?" She buried her face in her hands and began to sob, her body crumpling in on itself as she leaned heavily against the wall. "Oh, do you know? Do you know what it is to be empty?"

"Yes." And it was all he needed to say in that moment, before he enveloped her in his arms.

Christine returned to sleep not very long after she began crying, and Erik ventured upstairs to see how badly the damage of the chandelier was going to affect the Opera. The managers were of course in great consternation, and the Opera was going to have to be closed for at least the next two weeks. Erik considered this positive news. Two weeks might be enough time to get Christine back on her feet again and coax her into the limelight once more.

He prepared a meal for her when he returned and then occupied himself by tidying up things that had never been dirty and organizing books that did not need organizing. Christine slept for many hours, and eventually Erik slipped into a comatose state of meditation on a chair in the Louis Philippe room. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Christine intoned his name in the hallway.

"I ate," she said, standing uncomfortably by the doorway. "Thank you for preparing it. I suppose you were also the one who left those meals beside my bed last week?"

He nodded slowly and Christine sighed. "I should have known. I don't know why I thought any of those girls would even give me a second thought." She entered the room and gingerly placed herself beside the fire, looking at him.

Erik remained silent. What should he do? Should he tell her his plan, tell her that he would rather endanger her soul than be without her?

Christine cleared her throat. "Was it a very bad accident?" She asked quietly.

He blinked, and she blushed. "What?"

"Your—the—such a face," she said. Erik clenched his fingers as his stomach tightened. He had hoped that maybe she would have forgotten, that maybe she had been too dazed to remember anything… no. The look on her face made it clear that she remembered everything.

"No."

"You were—born that way?"

The hesitation in her voice made him cringe with anger. "Yes, I was born this way. What else would you like to know?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Where the scars on my back came from? Why my arms are laced with cuts? Why there is a bullet wound in my chest?"

Christine's face crumpled and it made him even angrier. He stood from his chair and threw up his arms.

"What! What is it that you want from me, Christine? Don't give me your pity, I don't want it!"

"I don't offer you pity, Erik," she said softly. He dropped his arms and instead crossed them over his chest.

"You seemed to pity yourself that night," he said bitterly, "caught in the monster's touch, having to look at his awful face."

Christine regarded him for a moment before coming to stand beside him. He took a hesitating step away from him.

"I'm sorry I violated your trust," she said. He simply shrugged. He didn't want to let go of his anger. Without it, he was too vulnerable to her…

"It's true, Erik," she said. "You are very ugly. You might just be the ugliest person I've ever seen."

He balked. Had anyone—had anyone ever had to gall to tell him such a thing to his face? Certainly not if they wanted to live! A thousand obscenities flitted through his mind, things he had never dreamed of saying to Christine.

"How dare you—"

"I don't care much for beauty," she said, cutting him off. He pressed his lips together in a fine line. "I was told I was beautiful, and I was used for it. I don't put much stock in being pretty. At least you're genuine, Erik. You might wear a mask, but you are genuine about it. People, other people… they wear masks and they never take them off, ever, and it's not until they hurt you that you even realize they were wearing a mask. Don't forget that I've seen monsters. I've seen real monsters, and you are not one of them. In the end, all those pretty faces upstairs… they are so much uglier than you. Your soul is beautiful."

He felt tears running underneath his mask, and it was so ridiculous, because her words were precious and he yearned to believe them, but… "You don't know anything about my soul," he whispered. And even worse, he didn't know what he planned to do to her soul…

"You always say that, Erik. I know there are things in your past… but I don't care. You are here, now, with me, and you've taken care of me… there is good in your soul, I know it."

Erik felt a strange sadness welling up within him, and he didn't understand why. He should appreciate these words, should be yearning for her to say more… but something stopped him. Erik fingered the labels of his jacket, the same one he had died in, the one with the horrid little bullet hole under the left pocket.

"Oh, Christine," he said finally. "You don't know me at all, not really. All I am to you is a ghost… You speak of being used—I, too, was used. I've always been used. Not a single person in my whole life has ever just seen me for me. I was… a living corpse, a circus creature, an architect, musician, performer, a court advisor, a mason… and then again a corpse, a ghost… I was even a husband once. That was just another role that I played, so that someone could use me, so that I could be useful to someone… no one has ever really known me. No one has ever wanted me because I was me. I have never had a friend, not really… even Giovanni…"

He trailed off, knowing that he was speaking of people long dead, events that had happened before she had even been born, before she had even been considered! What was the good of telling her this, anyway? Now that someone was finally accepting his face, now that someone was finally telling him that it didn't matter… why was he pushing her away?

He was tired. His soul was aching. He was too tired to play another role, too tired to accept her blind faith, to pretend and pretend until she truly did leave him when he showed even a hint of himself. All he wanted, after all, was to be loved for himself… that was all. And it had always been too much to ask. Erik turned away from her then, his heart to heavy to bear, and walked steadily out of the room, clutching at his chest. He knelt by the river and stared at the reflection of his black mask. Without knowing why, he lifted the mask away from his face and stared into the water.

Hideous. As it had always been. Hideous and monstrous… Erik was beyond self-loathing, was beyond wanting to harm himself, beyond wanting to die again… all he wanted was peace. He wanted love. He wanted to belong. He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to get up on the stage in the middle of Faust and ask the audience why he was unlovable. Why nobody could ever look past the skin on his face. He was so different than the desperate young man who had married Emily, hoping that in the heart of a blind woman he could find peace. Now all he wanted was for everything to be over.

And Christine—even she was no different, it seemed. He was meant to save her, not the other way around. Him, meant to rescue someone else, never someone else meant to rescue him, meant to cradle him and comfort him… He loved her, but what did it mean? When he had no intention of saving her, none at all?

After several minutes of staring into the water at his rippling reflection he acknowledged that Christine's face had appeared beside him in the water.

"I'm sorry I betrayed your trust that night, Erik," she repeated, and he looked into her eyes in the water. "I never want you to think that I am using you. I was wrong to remove your mask—but I wasn't wrong in wanting to know. I wasn't wrong in wanting to know you—was I?"

Erik dipped a hand into the water and destroyed their reflection. "No, you were not. The only thing you ever did wrong was trusting me…" It didn't matter anymore, that he had thought that she hated him, and it wasn't worth it to bring it up.

Christine laid a hand on his shoulder and bent down to sit on the ground next to him.

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing," she said. "Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls, or goblins, or shoes? Or of riddles, or frocks, or of chocolates? No—what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in head."

Erik stared at the little hand on his shoulder, and Christine sighed.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…"

"I don't understand," he said finally.

"The story I grew up on," she said. "Of Little Lotte and her big dreams. My father always told me that I was Little Lotte—and so Little Lotte I became and Little Lotte I have remained. Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing… she let her mind wander… I think my father meant to do me a kindness, but when he died and I went to the orphanage, I thought of everything and nothing. My mind would wander. I've never really lived in this world. I've never wanted to live in this world. I was Little Lotte, and I could dream of frocks and chocolates even when I was in the orphanage, with all those horrible men… and I could dream of an Angel of Music who could take me away and make me want to live…"

Her meaning was plain. Erik swallowed hard. "I am not an angel, Christine."

Christine shrugged. "I don't care what you think. I know you are."

"I'm dead. I'm a ghost."

"Erik." Christine laid her palm against his cheek and pulled him around to look at her. "Don't be used. Don't be a ghost. Become something different. Live, and become. Become my angel."

Erik unsteadily grasped the hand against his cheek and squeezed it. "Christine," he said solemnly. "You must promise me that you will never try to harm yourself again."

Christine gave him a small smile. "Living is so hard, Erik. I fear you are much better at it than I."

He looked into her eyes, and in the depths he saw his dead wife, lying there in all her beautiful splendor, but he didn't know if he was seeing Emily or Christine.

Erik mistakenly thought that Christine's thoughts of suicide would be quenched by her failed attempt, but he quickly saw that even here in his home she was desolate and withdrawn. She would go from being contented and happy to completely self-loathing and despairing within minutes, exhibiting a sort of mood change that rivaled even Erik's worst tantrums. He tried to sing to her, tried to play for her, tried to make her sleep more or less, to take her on walks, but she remained curiously distant from him. She had said that he was her angel, but she had also said that he, a ghost, was better at living than she. Erik was terribly frightened that in a fit of rage she would try to hurt herself again. He took to standing constant vigil by her bed while she slept, and even when she thought he was gone he would just hide in the shadows and watch her until he had decided that enough time had passed. She seemed constantly in need of his attention and affection, but was sorely lacking in the ability to return it. He prevailed. Just being able to be near her, to be the only one to take care of her, was enough.

Every day he forced her to stand up in front of the mirror as he stood behind her, and he pointed out every feature on her face that made her unique and beautiful. He would brush out her long hair for her and let it fall through his fingertips, praising its silken splendor. He composed song after song for her and played them each night as she fell asleep. If she didn't know before that he loved her, there could be no question now, none at all, although the words stuck in his mouth and clung to his tongue every time he felt the urge to tell her. Telling Emily had been easier, because she belonged to him. And although Christine's soul was bound up with his own, she might still reject his love. He didn't want to say it out loud; it made everything too final. It would make it much harder when he had to leave her, for her own good…

If he left her. Again, that horrid little decision laid waiting in the back of his mind, and he couldn't stand it. He needed her so badly… Ah, Christine…

Erik sighed and ran his fingers over his mask. The two weeks were almost over, and Erik did not feel as though he had made enough progress at all with her emotional stability, and had hardly had time to practice any music with her. He had not been upstairs in some time and was also mildly concerned about the health of the viscount and the state of his memory. Currently he stood waiting by the door to the house on the lake, keeping time on the floor with his heel while Christine changed. He had offered to make her a picnic on the roof, and she enthusiastically agreed.

When she came he offered her his arm and they ascended to the roof, which was slowly being bathed in the red light of the sunset over Paris.

"Oh Erik," she said softly. "It's unbelievable."

"Yes," he answered solemnly, taking the basket he had prepared and spreading out its contents under the shadow of Apollo's Lyre. "Paris keeps changing but the view from up here is always beautiful."

Christine gracefully sank to the floor and tucked her skirts underneath her. "What did Paris look like when you first built the Opera House?"

Erik stared out onto the vast city as it stretched out before him, and remembered only that he had once been on the roof with Emily, and they had sat on the roof for hours as Erik had described ever last detail of the view, until it was so dark that he was merely picking out images from his own imagination.

"It looked quite as it does now," he said after a moment. "Desolate. Cruel."

Christine blinked up at him, and he instantly regretted his words.

"Forgive me," he said coolly. "I only speak of my own bitterness."

She stared at him for a while before he sat down beside her and began to pour the wine. "How old were you, Erik?"

"When?" He handed her a glass and began slicing up the cheese.

"When—when you—"

"Twenty six."

Christine blushed at his curt tone. "Twenty six," she said softly. "You were so young."

Erik shrugged. It never made him happy to bemoan his fate with anyone. Why did he need the pity of others, as if he himself had not realized how wretched his own existence was?

"Why did they kill you?" She asked.

He stared at her. The very impertinence of the question struck him, but at the same time he could not be angry with his Christine. He gestured vaguely towards his mask and looked away from her again, slicing the bread slowly, knowing that this last thing he kept from her must be kept forever, even after she knew about the Khanum and Persia and Javert—this thing must be kept from her for always.

"It couldn't be just because of the mask," she said impatiently. She stayed his hand, and he met her eyes. "Erik—please tell me what happened to you."

He felt her fingertips on his own and dropped the knife, instead lifting his other hand to slowly stroke the back of her slender hand.

"Christine," he whispered. "None of it matters, can't you see?" He laced his fingers with hers and slowly lifted it to his chest. "It beats no more, that is true, but even when alive, it beat only for you."

She blinked in confusion. "But your wife—"

"No." He silenced her with a quick gesture. He brought her hand up to rest between his neck and his shoulder, and pressed it there and felt its warmth. "There is no one and nothing but you, my dear Christine. My darling Christine…" I love you.

Tears were beginning to form in her eyes. "Oh, Erik," she said softly, beginning to stroke the back of his neck of her own accord. "I thought I had been dreaming of death my whole life but I never knew until now that all I was seeing was you."

Erik closed his eyes and allowed her to continue to stoke his poor dead skin.

"It's funny really," she whispered, and he felt that she was closer than she had been before. "I wanted to die, but I had no love for death. And now I want to live, but I am in love with the dead."

Erik's eyes flew open, and in that moment Christine's blue gaze was directly in front of him, blocking out all else from his vision.

"Christine—" A lock of her blond hair fell across their faces and they shared a nervous laugh, before Erik slipped his hand up her neck to rest on her cheek. "The skin of an angel," he said softly. "May I—" he faltered. Her eyes fluttered closed, and his mind railed against him, warning him not to do this, not to destroy her soul by binding her to him in this way—and yet she was so beautiful. "May I kiss you?"

A breath left Christine's lips, and Erik was nearly paralyzed by the sensation of that soft wind hitting his chin. If he could only lift his mask a little, perhaps he could press the lightest of kisses to her cheek- and she wouldn't even feel it! I love you, he thought, but he might have been shouting it, too, it wasn't clear—and he felt the tremor of her fingers against the hair on his neck, and the tickle of her curls against his wrist—and suddenly everything was done, because Erik heard the door to the roof open and he propelled himself away from Christine as quickly as he could, burying himself in the cold stone of the back of Apollo's Lyre. Christine suddenly shifted backwards, her eyes searching the roof vainly for him, her arms still held up as though he were still in them—and he wondered what she would have said, how she would have answered his question. Was it true? Did she really love him? And if she did, what did it mean? When she didn't know all of the cruel things that marred his soul… and yet, did it matter? That was all in the past… could he be redeemed? Could he be loved?

And after the fog of her scent passed through his mind Erik remembered that someone else had opened the door on the roof, and he looked around to find this intruder.

Of course. Erik was a damnable fool for not having more closely monitored the viscount's health. It was only poetic justice that the viscount should interrupt this moment, now, as he seemed to interrupt all important things when it came to Christine. And with that boy limping around the roof as he was, seemingly almost to have regained his full health… what would he remember? Erik weighed the option of possessing him again, or stealing Christine away from the roof, but didn't know how to accomplish either without the other one seeing, and the frustration at being interrupted in this singular moment boiled until Erik could hardly contain his fury.

"Christine!"

Christine whipped her head around, utterly confused.

"Monsieur?" She asked faintly.

"Christine, whatever are you doing up here all alone?" The viscount approached her, taking in the sight of their half-eaten picnic, and Christine stood suddenly, her face flushed.

"Raoul," she stuttered. She looked all around the roof for him, but Erik remained hidden inside of the statue. "I—I am glad to find you well once more."

"Indeed?" He asked. He stared at the two glasses on the ground. "Is there someone else here?" He asked slowly.

Christine blushed, and took both of the viscount's hands and led him away towards the edge of the roof. Erik clenched his own hands in his exploding anger.

"I am by myself. You see no one else here, do you?"

Raoul looked pointedly at the setup for the picnic and then back at Christine, but then turned away from the blanket and said nothing further.

"Why did you come to the roof?" Christine asked after a pause.

"I wanted some fresh air. It's the first time they've let me out of the infirmary."

"You were ill for quite some time."

"Yes," he said, and Erik felt a deep sense of foreboding at the way that he looked at her when he said this. "Do you remember anything, Christine, from when I was ill? I'm afraid I can hardly recall any of it."

She shrugged. "I already told you—you seemed perfectly fine until the very end."

The viscount nodded. He looked about the roof once more, and Erik knew that the boy was not as stupid as he had hoped.

"You're quite sure that there is no one else here with you, Christine?"

Christine stuttered again. The girl was no good at lying. "Yes, Raoul. I am all alone here."

"I fear there are things happening here at the Opera that are not good for you," he said. "I would like to take you away from here for a while."

"Away?" She asked in a strangled voice. "I couldn't leave the Opera House, I couldn't—"

Erik gripped the insides of the statue as hard as he could to keep himself from screaming.

"I don't think you should perform in the next Opera, Christine. I think you need some rest."

"What makes you think that? Do I look so pale, so sickly?" A thin edge had entered her voice, but the viscount took her by the shoulders gently.

"No, you look beautiful. It is not you that I fear, but rather those that may target you."

"What do you mean, Raoul?"

Yes, boy, what do you mean? What do you know?

Raoul hesitated, stroking the edges of her neck softly. "I'm not sure that I can say yet, Christine. But I think I was poisoned."

"P-poisoned?"

Idiot boy! "Yes. I cannot account for what happened to me in any other way."

"But Raoul, who would do such a thing?"

"Someone who wanted to keep me away from you."

Christine gazed at him for a second, and then looked back towards the picnic. Surely she was not thinking of Erik! Erik longed to throw his voice into her ear, to pull her back to him. Surely she was not doubting him now! He would not have loved ripped from him again, not again, not like this!

"I can't imagine that there is anyone like that. No one bothers about me here."

Raoul laid his hand on her cheek and Erik seethed. "Please tell me that you'll consider my offer to take some time off at the Chagny estate."

Christine shrugged. "The Opera has been the only home I've known since my father died. I am not eager to leave it now."

"At least promise me you'll think on it."

"I will." She said, but her voice wasn't very convincing. The viscount sat with her for some time, talking of his travels with his brother, and as night fell, Christine began to yawn.

"You are tired," Raoul said, jumping up and offering his hand. "Allow me to escort you to your dressing room."

"Oh, thank you, but I am not going—" Christine stopped very suddenly, and the viscount tightened his grip on her hand excitedly.

"Not going to your room, Christine? But where else could you be going? If you aren't leaving the Opera and you aren't going to your room—"

"What is it to you?" She asked sharply, pulling away from him. "I need make no account to you, M. le viscount!"

"But to someone else, perhaps? Someone who made this meal for you?"

"No!" Christine shook her head wildly. "No, Raoul, you're wrong! There is no one else here!"

"Who are you hiding from me, Christine? Let us see—" Raoul strode over to the setup and pulled the napkins from the glasses. "Perhaps a name, perhaps a seal?"

"No," Christine was nearly in tears. "Raoul, please—"

Erik's heart began to pound wildly in his chest. This damned boy, this damned boy… and there was nothing he could do but sit in this statue and watch! He wanted to beat him to a pulp for even daring to touch Christine, for even looking at her.

Raoul fingered the edges of the napkins, smoothing the embroidery over his palm. He examined it closely, and then looked at Christine, and then back at the napkin. Erik frowned, and tried to imagine what the boy thought he was seeing. The only handkerchiefs he owned belonged to Emily, as he had no need of napkins, having had no nose to speak of… But the boy did not know Emily, could not have known Emily. The boy had been born only shortly before Erik died; they had never crossed paths. Erik had had a passing acquaintance with the boy's parents, but there was no way…

"These initials... Christine where did you get these napkins?"

Christine trembled and said nothing, reverting to a comatose-like state of despair that Erik found all too familiar. The boy approached her with one.

"E. G. D. Do you know who these belonged to?"

Christine shook her head slowly. Why was he asking this? How did he know? How did he know?

"These napkins belonged to Emily Garnier. Please Christine; tell me how you know her."

"I don't," she said, and a tear ran down her cheek.

"How did you come by her napkins…?" The viscount examined the napkins once more. "You must have found them in Opera storage."

"Storage?" Christine asked faintly.

"Yes. Well, after she died I'm not sure what happened to her things…"

"But why Opera storage?"

"Because of Erik Devereux."

No. Christine's eyes widened and Erik's heart stopped. It was not possible, but the boy knew. Somehow, he knew. And as he opened his mouth to speak, Erik made his decision. He darted out of Apollo's Lyre and grabbed Christine to him, hoping the dark would shadow them sufficiently. Keeping his face averted from the viscount's look of fierce shock and outrage, Erik descended with her as quickly as possible, knowing that after this there would only be running and hiding. And that he would do anything and everything to make sure that the boy could never get to Christine again.

Well. That was a long freakin chapter. There was a whooolllee lot of Erik thinking in this chapter. There were a lot of blocks of text. I suppose I would apologize but I'm not really sorry. I think they were important. I hope you liked the chapter though! I'm trying to keep up the tension. I really really like the way these characters are developing, personally. (Feel free to agree or disagree… in a review!) Surprisingly I even sort of like my Raoul. He's so young and innocent. I like it. I'm trying to channel book Raoul, anyway.

So I hope you liked this chapter despite its length. I hope you're still interested! Sorry it's been a while since my last update : (. Don't worry, I'm still sufficiently obsessed with phantom. No stopping here. I also really like this story so it definitely needs to get finished. Please please please tell me what you thought of this chapter!

Thanks! You guys are the bestest.

~IceCliff