Author's Note: I'm so sorry this chapter has taken me so long to post. It took me a while to work out how I was going to handle this part of the story, and I hope I've handled it successfully. I now have a much better idea of where this story is going, so hopefully there won't be anymore four month gaps between updates!

Once again, I would like to thank everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far. I really appreciate your support, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

To summarise the last chapter, as it's been so long: It is the night of Raoul's twenty-first birthday party, and Christine has just triumphed in a special gala performance of Hannibal. Erik has gone to her dressing room with the intention of inviting her to the party, and has ended up confessing his love for her.

Chapter 10: The Mirror

1.

Erik raised a pair of trembling hands to his lips. He covered his mouth, both in shock and the vain hope of stopping the words after they had already escaped.

Once, long ago, he had watched a performance by a ventriloquist. The man had thrown his voice into the mouth of a wooden doll, giving it a different turn of phrase, a different tone and personality to his usual voice. Erik found himself thinking he was very like that doll.

It was as if someone else had spoken the three small words - I love you – words which he had not uttered in a very long time. Or had he ever uttered them? He couldn't even remember.

And as he stared at Christine, as he watched her expression change from shock to disbelief, and finally embarrassment, he knew that it was true.

He loved her.

Suddenly everything made sense.

His first instinct was to flee. To run from the room and out of the Opera House, disappearing into the night. But a kind of morbid curiosity made him stay. He felt as if he was somewhere outside his own body, watching an opera in which he and Christine were the protagonists. And, perversely, he wanted to know what would happen next. He waited for Christine to say something.

"You love me." Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but the bewilderment in the three words pierced the disbelief and fear which was clouding his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said, backing slowly towards the door. "I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn't mean it."

"You didn't mean it?"

Erik was startled by the hurt in her voice.

"I didn't mean to say it. I'm so sorry, Christine. Please, forget I ever said anything."

"Nonsense!" Christine no longer looked confused. There was something in her eyes which Erik did not quite comprehend, a strange sort of determination. "You can't just leave. You can't say such a thing to me and then run away." She folded her arms in front of her chest. "I won't let you."

"Don't you see?" Erik could hear his voice rising to a hoarse cry, and he hoped they would not be overheard. "I have no choice. I know you could never love me in return. The contrast is too stark." His voice broke, and his next words emerged as a pathetic whimper. "It isn't possible…"

There was silence in the dressing room. Erik stared at the wall beyond Christine, not daring to meet her eyes, as fresh tears flowed beneath the surface of his mask.

Then he felt a light pressure on his cheek, the softest, gentlest caress. He stared at Christine in wonder, hardly daring to move, as she stroked his face.

"What are you doing?"

Her hand moved over to his mask, resting lightly on the cold, artificial cheek.

"You say you love me." Christine's voice trembled, and he sensed that she was very close to tears. "And yet you hide your face from me. You don't trust me."

He gently caught her hand and lowered it from his face. "That's true, Christine. And I'm sorry. The fact is, when it comes to my face, I can't trust anyone."

"What's wrong with it?"

He would have to tell her the truth. He looked at her anxiously, expecting instant rejection and yet daring to hope for understanding.

"It's disfigured," he said simply. "I was born this way. I learned a long time ago that hiding my face was the only way I could live amongst society."

Her eyes were searching the exposed half of his face, as if she was looking for a hint of what lay beneath his mask. His swollen lips felt more bloated and conspicuous than ever, and he fought an urge to cover his mouth with a hand.

"I knew there must be scars…" Her voice was gentle.

"I'm more than scarred, Christine. Throughout my life, people have found it very hard to look at me. I find it painful to look in a mirror myself."

"Why?" She lifted her hand to his face again, tracing the outline of his mask with a fingertip. "What happened to you, Erik?"

Again, he flinched away from her touch. "Nothing."

She looked at him sternly, and once again Erik was struck by the odd nature of her character, the strange combination of naiveté and perception.

"I don't believe you," she said.

He sighed. "What would you like me to say, Christine? Do you really want my entire life story? Or just the unpleasant highlights?"

"I want to know who you are."

"You know who I am."

"No I don't. No one does, not really. You're always pushing people away. Including me."

"Don't you understand, Christine?" Erik stalked away from her, pacing restlessly around the room. "Everyone who has ever seen my face has reacted with disgust, or fear, or pity. I don't want you to see me that way, Christine."

She took a step towards him, and he saw real anger in her eyes. "Do you really think so little of me, that I would judge you or blame you for the way you look?"

He shook his head. "That's not what I meant…"

"It is! You think that I'm some pathetic little ingénue who would faint at the sight of a few scars."

"Please, Christine, you're not listening to me…"

But Christine was near to tears. "I thought we were friends. Do you really think I care about you so little that I'm incapable of seeing past your face? After everything you've done for me, do you honestly think I'd reject you if I saw you without the mask?"

He sighed. "Yes, Christine, I do. I'm sorry."

"Then show me. Please, Erik. Remove your mask, and let me prove you wrong."

At a loss, Erik merely stared at her. He saw the hurt and anger in her eyes, the wet trails in her makeup where tears had fallen. She was trembling with emotion, and suddenly he realised that he was on the verge of losing her forever. His foolish words had destroyed their friendship.

"If you would only trust me, Erik," she said wearily.

Silently, he looked at her, studying her face and searching her eyes. Could he trust her? Erik had not trusted anyone enough to show them his face for many years. There was Antoinette, of course, but that was different. She had seen him, and he had had no choice in the matter.

He looked at Christine's face, at the sadness and the courage there. She was a brave woman, braver perhaps than he knew.

"I can look at it, Erik," she said gently. "Whatever you're hiding, I can look at it. Trust me." She caressed his cheek a third time, brushing a wayward lock of hair behind his ear. "You shouldn't have to hide your face from anyone."

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, for he knew that her request was foolish, that showing her would be a mistake and there could only be one outcome. And yet…

Hardly realising what he was doing, Erik raised a shaking hand to the ties of his mask. Christine's eyes widened with apparent surprise, and she smiled at him tenderly, encouragingly. Overcome by nerves, Erik dropped his hand to his side.

"You'll run from me," he said.

Christine took both his hands in hers. Squeezing them gently, she looked into his eyes. "I won't run."

"You promise?" He sounded like a frightened child.

"I promise, Erik." She released his hands.

Erik reached for the mask a second time, hesitating briefly as his fingers met the smooth porcelain. Then, before his courage could desert him, he lifted the mask from his face. Cool air struck his skin and made him gasp.

He forced himself to look at Christine, to learn her judgment.

The world seemed to slow down, like a sequence from a dream-like ballet. He watched as Christine's face grew as still, pale and ghostly as a face in a photograph. Then, suddenly, she gasped.

It was nothing more than an intake of breath, barely audible. And yet it was enough.

Unable to look at her any longer, Erik tore his gaze away and found himself staring into the dressing room mirror behind Christine. His own, impossible, unmasked image stared back at him.

He had not forgotten the extent of the damage; how could he? But the contrast with Christine's beautiful face made it seem much, much worse, as if a gargoyle was leering over the shoulder of an angel. He stared at his reflection, at his grotesquely swollen lips and his macabre, distorted skull. He realised with a jolt that he had removed the wig as well, for there was his hair, sticking up from his head in wild, untameable patches.

He looked from his own repulsive face, to Christine's lovely and appalled one.

His fingers went limp, the mask slipping from his grasp. His other hand shot up to cover his face. Then, with an anguished sob, Erik turned his back on Christine, wrenched open the door, and fled down the passageway.

"Erik, wait!"

He heard Christine shout after him, but he did not dare stop. He could not bear to look at her, to see the horror and terror and pity in her eyes.

And so he fled from her, running down the claustrophobic backstage corridors, to find a dark corner where he would be safe.

2.

The last thing Christine saw before Erik fled was the mask hitting the floor. It didn't shatter, but the sound it made as it struck the carpet was enough to bring her back to her senses.

The harsh noise of Erik's sobs echoed down the passageway. Christine hesitated for a second, then seized the mask and set off in pursuit.

Although she soon lost sight of Erik in the maze of passageways, Christine kept on running. She could not think what she had done to make him flee. Had she perhaps gasped? She could not be sure. Whatever her reaction, it had been enough to make the colour drain from that extraordinary face, enough to cause his features to contort with shame. And, before she could summon the strength to speak, he was gone.

She glanced down at the mask in her hand. It seemed to glare at her coldly, a dreadful, soulless thing without Erik's face to animate it.

Sobbing, Christine called his name again, but received no answer.

3.

Erik had taken a wrong turn, and now he was lost.

Anxiety flared up from somewhere deep inside his chest, causing his heart to pound. His mind, normally so sharp, was numb with fear. He had run such a long way, trying to find somewhere safe, a place to hide. But nowhere was safe, he knew that. Not without his mask. And now he was lost.

There was a door just ahead – perhaps a door which would lead him outside, into the cover of night? Erik threw his weight against it, forcing it open clumsily, and dived into what he hoped would be comforting darkness.

Then he realised, with growing panic, that he was not outside.

The Grand Foyer blazed with light, and he was surrounded by people, people dancing and laughing to the accompaniment of a string quartet.

He had stumbled, unmasked and unannounced, upon the Vicomte de Chagny's birthday party.

A dancing couple whirled past him. With a startled cry, he reeled out of their path and dived behind a marble pillar, flattening himself against the wall in an attempt to hide in the shadows.

But there were no shadows here, and the wall was a mirror.

His stomach heaved. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down the back of his neck. He was suddenly terrified that he was going to vomit or faint, right there in the middle of the Grand Foyer, with two hundred people to witness his humiliation.

With a moan of despair, Erik sank to his knees. He closed his eyes, not daring to open them again lest he see his own reflection taunting him once again from the mirror. And he did not turn around in case the party guests saw him. The rational part of his mind pleaded with him, telling him that no one would see his face as his hand was pressed tightly to the distortion. And yet he could not bring himself to move, and soon he would be discovered. The string quartet would falter, and everyone would stop dancing and turn to stare at Erik Carriere, the monstrous manager of the Opera.

Someone touched his shoulder. Erik gave a yell of fright, but he did not dare turn around.

"Erik? Are you all right?"

It was Madame Giry's voice. Erik felt something close to relief. It did not matter if Antoinette saw him. She had always helped him, regardless of his appearance. Erik opened his eyes and peered at her over his shoulder.

"What happened?" Antoinette stared at Erik, a concerned frown on her face. "Where's your mask?"

Erik shook his head. "I don't know. She…I must have left it in the dressing room."

"Whose dressing room?"

"Christine's."

"Did Christine take your mask?" There was a note of anger in Antoinette's voice.

"No." Erik's hunched shoulders convulsed in a sob. "She asked me to remove it. She said I could trust her and for a moment I thought that she might be able to look at me, that she might be able to see the man behind the…the…"

"Hush," Antoinette's voice was firm. She patted his shoulder gently. "Don't say it, Erik. You mustn't think ill of yourself. Hush now."

Erik struggled into a sitting position, resting his back against the mirror. He glanced nervously around the foyer.

"Is anyone…looking at me?" he asked. His voice sounded ridiculously small and frightened, but the thought was a terrifying one.

Antoinette smiled. "A couple of people, but I get the impression that they think you're a party guest who has had rather too much to drink."

Erik sighed with relief. Some of the terror had subsided, but he still felt nauseous and weak. He trembled, gathering his cloak tightly around himself. He was uncertain whether he would be able to leave the foyer under his own strength.

"Antoinette, I feel rather unwell. Please would you help me outside? And find me a cab?"

"You aren't seriously thinking of going home alone in this state?"

"Please, Antoinette. I need to get away." He closed his eyes tiredly. "I need to be alone for a while."

Antoinette looked ready to argue. But then she sighed and helped Erik to his feet. His legs were shaking beneath his weight, but with Antoinette's assistance, he managed to walk out of the foyer and down the Grand Staircase. He kept his hand over his face all the while, determined that no one else would see him. An image of Christine's pale, horrified face flashed through his mind, and he shuddered, vowing that he would never show his face to anyone again.

While Madame Giry went to find him a carriage, Erik concealed himself as best he could behind a marble statue of George Frideric Handel. Aside from the statues of famous composers, the entrance hall was empty. It was only a little after midnight: the Viscount Raoul had just turned twenty-one, and Erik knew that everyone would be too busy enjoying themselves to consider leaving the Opera at such an early hour. If Erik listened carefully, he could still hear the voices and laughter from the Grand Foyer, and the sound of Monsieur Reyer's string quartet. He recognised the music immediately: it was the overture to Offenbach's La Vie parisienne. Parisian life. Once, in his youth, he had danced to it. Now it was as if the music was mocking him, tempting him with a life which he could never have.

He sighed. What was he doing here? He was a fraud. An ugly man pretending to be someone elegant, educated and refined. The look on Christine's face had told him everything he needed to know. He did not belong in this world of beauty, amongst the great composers and musicians, the aristocrats and patrons. He was not certain where he belonged anymore.

Another, more percussive sound joined the joyful sweep of the music. It was the sound of high-heeled evening shoes on the marble steps of the Grand Staircase.

Erik withdrew even further into the shadows.

"Erik?"

It was her voice. Of course it was her voice: she had pursued him from the dressing room. He watched from behind the statue as Christine reached the foot of the staircase and looked frantically around the foyer. Some of her hair had escaped from its combs and fallen into her eyes. She brushed it away with a tired gesture. Erik saw a gleam of white in her other hand: his mask.

Erik knew he could not remain hidden. He had to speak to her, had to reclaim his mask.

"Christine."

He saw her jump at the sound of his voice as he stepped out from behind the statue. For several minutes they stared at each other in silence. Christine was weeping, and a part of Erik – the part that loved her, despite everything – longed to say something comforting. But in the end, all he could manage were two harsh, clipped words.

"My mask," he said, holding out a hand.

"Oh, Erik! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean..." She trailed off and looked at him wretchedly.

"My mask, Miss Daae, please."

Christine hesitated for only a moment, and then held out the mask. Erik snatched it from her grasp and turned away, slipping it over his face. When he turned around again, Christine was still gazing at him.

"Erik…"

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked coldly. "Haven't you already satisfied your curiosity?"

Christine looked ashamed. "I'm sorry, Erik."

"For what? That you've hurt me, or are you perhaps sorry that you've seen my face?"

"Your face doesn't matter to me." Her expression was stern and determined, and yet he could hear the tremor in her voice. "Whatever I did to hurt you, I'm sorry."

Erik closed his eyes on tears. He would not cry. She would never see him cry again.

"I know you are, Christine," he said. "And I'm sorry too."

"What do you mean?"

He gave a short, humourless laugh which was more like a sob. "I was right all along, wasn't I? I knew that you wouldn't be able to look at my face, and yet I allowed myself to hope that you could. I expected too much of you."

"But I can look at it, Erik." She took a step towards him, and gestured in the direction of the Grand Foyer. "I'll prove to you that your face changes nothing. We'll forget this ever happened. We'll go to the party…"

Her words caused him pain, for he wished they were true. He wished he could return with her to the Grand Foyer, and dance to La Vie parisienne. But instead he held up a hand, pleading with her to be silent.

"Please stop. You have nothing to prove to me. You owe me nothing. I taught you to sing, and you've become a great success. And that is the end of it."

"What are you saying?" But he could tell by the tears in her eyes that she already knew.

"I think it would be for the best if we didn't see each other anymore," Erik replied. "I'm the director of the Paris Opera, and you are a singer in my employ, and neither of us will ever speak of this again."

"But you're my friend…" said Christine. She gave a sob. "You said you loved me."

He wanted to agree with her, to confirm that it was still true. But he knew he could not. He knew it was better to end it now; his heart could not endure anything else. And yet he could not bring himself to deny it either. So he remained silent and helpless as Christine wept before him.

He was saved by the return of Madame Giry, who hurried back into the Opera House, looking flustered.

"Your carriage is waiting," she said. "You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get one at this hour…" She noticed Christine, and her eyes narrowed. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," he said, glancing at the ballet mistress. "Everything's fine. Miss Daae was just about to return to the party."

Christine shook her head. "Please, Erik. Can we talk about this?"

"I have nothing more to say." His voice sounded so cold, even to his own ears. "I have to go. My cab is outside."

She reached out and grasped his arm. "Please don't leave, Erik."

"Goodnight, Mademoiselle." He pulled himself free from her grasp and turned his back on her. "Antoinette, will you please see to it that Miss Daae gets a ride home? It's very late."

Madame Giry stared at Erik and then at Christine. She nodded.

"Erik…"

He heard Christine's last tearful plea as he walked away, but he did not turn around, even though he longed to with all his heart. He knew that no good could come of it. And so he kept walking, out of the Opera House and into the night. And Christine's sobs grew fainter all the while, until he could no longer hear her.

Stepping into the waiting carriage, he allowed himself one last glance up at the grand façade of the Opera House. The statues, grotesques and gargoyles seemed to stare at him mockingly.

In the moment before the carriage drove away, Erik wondered if he could ever bring himself to return.