A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) I'm glad you guys enjoyed that! And now...

XXV

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They lay entwined as the sun played peekaboo in its ascent through a dense canopy of leafy branches. At the onset of his quiet lamentation, Erik had lost control of his rigid composure, his quiet tears breaking into rasping sobs, and Christine had joined him in her own outpouring of emotion. She knew happiness for his return to himself, along with great relief tempered with faint regret for everything that had brought them to this moment. But the joy to hold him again – to hold Erik – superseded all else.

It was an exhausting release, the spending of such tremendous feeling trapped away for so long, and every fiber deep into her bones felt sated and heavy, though her soul felt light, as if it might float away with the chill morning breeze. Her face was wet from her tears, her neck and curls drenched with his, their clothes damp from the dew. Yet once exhaustion gave way to silence, neither made a move to break apart from the other for a peacefully satisfying time.

When Erik did at last shift his body, separating himself from her arms, Christine watched him go, also sitting up. She sensed he needed a moment to collect himself after his violent deluge. His motions were edgy, tense, lacking his usual fluid grace.

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing, and drew his fingers against the side of his tunic. Alarm drummed through Christine's veins when she saw red spotted his fingertips that he pulled away to glance at.

"You're bleeding again!" she cried softly in dismay.

He pulled the hem of his tunic up, revealing a streak of cracked red against his pale ribs, the scab having torn. "It is nothing." He waved aside her concern. "I am accustomed to pain much worse than this trifle. In my delirium, I must have fallen on a sharp rock or dead branch."

Her lips turned down at the thought of all he suffered in his past, to so carelessly dismiss his injury, and she knew in part some of his recent anguish was due to her rash decisions often instigated by fear, much of which she now knew to be groundless. He had never harmed her, as theatre Phantom-lore had warned, only wounded her feelings. And the physical intimacy they discovered with one another had been bliss.

"What I cannot fathom…" His words took on the same stunned wonderment of before. "…Is how I stand here as whole as a man in my natural state could ever be considered, with no broken ribs, no recent gashes nor bruises to further mar my flesh. Save for this nuisance, and I have no recollection how I came by it."

Christine frowned at her first full look at his injury.

"It must be deep to break away like that and bleed again. It should be tended."

"It requires no stitchery. A splash of what is in my flask will suffice."

Recalling the fiery potency of his foul spirits, Christine did not doubt his claim.

"How can I think this more than a fantastic dream," he mused and shook his head, "when every wound inflicted on my body that night has vanished with my waking into this era?"

Christine's eyes went wide. She had not considered the enigma, having just learned of the mob's brutal retaliation toward him; but she had seen every inch of his bare skin in the lantern's glow to know that he was correct in his assessment. Save for the most recent gash along his ribs, there were no wounds that were fresh, all the scars on his body pale as if they'd been there for quite some time.

Her cheeks warmed to flame as a highly intimate image of their night together at the inn flashed behind her eyes, of her hands and mouth on his body. And though his gaze sharpened curiously on her face, he did not question.

"Are you saying that we are only asleep and sharing the same dream?" she asked in doubt. "How is that even possible? Because I assure you, every bit of what I have experienced in this century feels extremely real."

He nodded. "I agree. Each day forms a cohesive pattern, one step to the next, unlike the filmy cobweb of dreams. Which poses the next possibility. Death."

"Death?" she gasped. "You truly believe we might be…dead?"

His lips twisted in a thin smile at her bare utterance of the word.

"Fear not, my angel. I highly doubt death is the force that brought us here. I would not be granted the privilege of sharing the realm of angels with you, and I cannot imagine heaven consists of an ancient epoch in time rife with danger."

Her heart ached to hear him speak with such self-debasement. Did he believe himself undeserving of God's mercy because of the night of the Don Juan? Or was there more to it than that?

"I have many questions," she began then hesitated, uncertain which to ask first.

"In that regard we share the same sentiment."

"We could take turns." She offered the suggestion, wishing to keep the atmosphere tranquil when the subject was anything but trivial.

Huffing a breath, he strode to the edge of the stream. He folded his long length into a crouch and immersed his hands into the water to wash them. One hand lifted to his face, his slender fingers touching the bottom edge of his mask. Christine held a breath, waiting. He seemed to reconsider, however, dropping his hand away. Giving one brisk shake of both hands to free them of water, he again rose to his feet.

Certainly after such an upheaval of emotion, that dratted piece of leather, salty and wet with tears, could not be comfortable against his fragile skin.

"Erik? Perhaps -"

"You pose a feasible solution," he cut her off, as if knowing where her mind traveled. "What is your first question?"

Perhaps now wasn't the time to bring up the mask. She sorted through the many curiosities whirling inside her mind, but was as yet unsatisfied to end the current topic. "First, I wish to know what else you can tell me about all this. We ruled out dreams and dying. How else do you think this could have happened? Us being here? I mean, I know it was because of the stones - for me, at any rate. But how did you get here as well?"

"In this, my dear, I too am at a loss. The witch's grimoire seemed to point to a possibility, though I will have to research further into its text."

She hardly thought such a feat essential since it had been decided they would both remain in this medieval time.

"You think it might have been magic? Witchcraft?"

His nod came distant. "Perhaps."

"Before two weeks ago, I believed such things belonged only to fanciful opera tales or to the dark stories of the North I heard in my girlhood."

"No child's tale this." Behind the mask, his eyes took on a faraway look. "In my travels, I've had the experience to know that there does exist dark forms of magic."

"Your travels?"

His hesitation was brief. "Another time."

Curious about his mysterious past, but thankful he was agreeable to tell her at some point in time, she sought for other possibilities to explain their present conundrum. She recalled recent conversations with Tobias, as well as the servant girl at Chateau Martinique.

"What of the Fae? I've heard they can be quite wicked." Two weeks ago, she never would have believed she would be holding such a bizarre conversation. Of course two weeks ago, she would never have believed it possible to slip through time.

Erik snorted softly, his attention going to the trickling stream. "It is difficult to accept that faeries belong to nothing more than tales of that name, though in this century their existence appears to be common belief. Indeed, within the present Vicomte's family at the chateau, a story has evolved with regard to the impish forest creatures, one in particular."

Alert to his admission, having heard the legend before, she shifted position to sit up a little higher and look at him more closely.

"Erik, how is it possible that you possessed another man's memories?"

"Possessed – an apt word." He turned his head to look at her. "I have read accounts of demonic possession, and suppose this incident is not far removed, as I have oft been called a devil."

She frowned in disagreement at his derisive words. He had made many mistakes and countless enemies in their century, it was true, but toward her he exhibited kindness and gentleness as well.

"It is all very unsettling," she said, "to wonder where the true Le Masque has been all this time, for surely he must exist to be renowned as a leader to that band of ruffians. And he must also wear a mask – but do you truly look and sound so much like him that everyone is fooled?"

When Erik remained silent, deep in contemplation, she again spoke.

"You don't think he will suddenly emerge from wherever he's been hiding, do you?" She glanced nervously at the thick cloak of nearby bushes, as if the fearless rebel leader might suddenly tear from them and attack in retribution for stealing his life.

"I wish I could give you the answers you seek, my dear. However, I cannot yet understand what has happened to bring us to this place. Can barely conceive the truth of the situation - that we presently exist in this archaic epoch of time. That I have been living another man's life for more than a fortnight past…"

Christine pondered his quiet words that still held a ring of curious disbelief. She certainly understood the shock to find oneself dwelling in a previous century. It had taken her more than a day to believe, and nearly a week to accept. Added to that, he had just come into the perception of his true identity, and in truth, had been playing a masquerade without any knowledge of doing so.

Erik retraced his steps, lowering himself to rest his shoulder blades against the trunk of a tree across from where Christine sat. His movements were less erratic than before, his usual grace returned, but from the way his eyes narrowed in a wince and he pressed his fingertips to his temple, she could tell he still suffered from the effects of the latest dark spell.

He lifted his hand to his brow, rubbing against the mask.

"Does your head still ache?" she asked in concern.

His shoulders lifted in a mild shrug. "I have grown accustomed to it."

"If you wish to remove your mask, please go ahead and do so." His eyes snapped to hers, steely grey in warning, but she plunged onward. "I wouldn't mind."

"I am accustomed to the mask as well."

Accustomed to pain, accustomed to the mask. If he would just realize that she wished only for his comfort.

"So then, Mon Ange, where do we go from here?"

One side of his mouth flickered up slightly at the familiar endearment. "I am as yet uncertain."

His indecision gave her hope, and she acted on that. "We have no true reason to return to the campsite. Those men don't appreciate you, and only Tobias and Eustace offer you the respect you deserve. But they can get along without your leadership surely. They did so before you came to this time; they can do so again."

"I will give the matter consideration," he said. "At present, there are three options that I can see. I will know more when I further study the grimoires."

"How can those dreadful books possibly help us?" She couldn't keep the trace of suspicion from her words.

He rested the back of his skull against the tree and closed his eyes.

"Rest easy, ma damoiselle, if you truly have no wish to go back through the stones alone, I'll not force you. But should the need present itself and we must return together, I would prefer to understand in full the method by which such an act can occur."

She stared at him in shock, her heartbeats quickening. When the silence stretched, he tipped his head forward to look at her.

"Christine?"

She swallowed thickly. "It's only that you called me that when, when you were him. I mean…"

"I know what you mean. It is unfortunate, but the memories of the opera house are muddled with the previous weeks, both hazy, neither predominant. I cannot recall the entirety of either time, as yet, and have no guarantee I ever will. If it troubles you, my calling you by that name, I will desist from it."

"No," she was quick to say, "it's not that. I rather liked when you said it and thinking of myself as your damsel. I only worried that you had forgotten yourself again."

His features relaxed slightly at her admission. "I assure you, for what it's worth, I am the Erik you have always known."

She smiled. "It is worth the world to me."

His gaze fastened to her lips, his eyes then lifting to hers. She wished she could read the depths of what they spoke, but his expression was incomprehensible.

"Shall we go back to the cottage, my dear?"

She had no true desire to return to that dark hovel of another man's pain and neglect, but sensed his eagerness to pore through the witch's grimoires, and reluctantly nodded her assent.

Erik pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand to assist her. Once she was upright, Christine did not let go. He gave her hand the barest squeeze and she smiled.

"You mentioned three options. Besides going through the stones and remaining at camp, what is the remaining choice?"

"We stay in this century and seek a life elsewhere, outside of Brittany and away from Paris."

"That sounds like the best idea."

"Perhaps…" He did not sound as certain. "Do not forget, with no trade, no theatre, and no money, life will be very difficult. No one in this century would hire a man in a mask. Even in our time, there are few who would, and those few in all likelihood would bear motives that are suspect." He frowned, as if at a memory. "The leader of bandits whose existence I have possessed had the right idea – to pilfer what is owed him in order to survive."

Christine did not wish to think about his life of thievery, for at some point, all thieves were usually caught, weren't they? She shuddered to think of what they might do to him, especially in this barbaric century that burned people alive for the mere suspicion of witchcraft.

The outlook of all three options was hardly promising – to return to their century where he was wanted for dead; to return to the campsite where his men wanted her dead; or to strike out on their own in an era neither of them was familiar with, by laws and by customs, where one wrong word could see them both dead.

Christine shuddered and held more tightly to his cold hand.

xXx

Madame Giry told her daughter goodbye for the day, closing the door on Meg once she left for rehearsal at the small bistro where she recently obtained work as a dancer in a line of near-amateurs. The position was beneath what Madame wished for her well-trained daughter, but it helped to bring needed income, since Madame had not been as fortunate to find work yet. Of course, with her daily task, there had been little opportunity to do so.

Not sparing another second, she grabbed a basket she'd prepared and concealed beneath her cloak, donned that and her matching black hat, and exited the small apartment. With only one room, the sleeping area cordoned off with a suspended blanket, it wasn't much, but it was better than nothing, which is what some of the theatre dwellers were left with after the Opera House disaster. Madame counted herself privileged to find this space for her and Meg, even cramped as it was.

She hailed a cab, barely able to afford the coins it took daily to get to her destination, but the expenditure was necessary. Their apartment was more than ten blocks from her old abode. Followed by the treacherous journey beneath ground, Madame, for all her well-earned strength, would be too exhausted after such a walk to perform what tasks she must by the time she arrived to her final destination.

As the horse trotted along the road, Parisians strode along either side, mostly commoners, busy about their day, while wheeled conveyances carried the upper crust of society. The rich, yeasty smell of bread lingered in the air due to the bakers who'd risen before dawn to prepare their morning offerings. On occasion, she would hear a distant piano or song in practice as her hired wagon passed the frequent bistro, which led her to thoughts of how Meg was faring, and then to Christine.

She frowned at the recollection of the Vicomte arriving on her doorstep a little over a week ago, looking careworn and unkempt, as if he'd ridden all night without stopping.

"Where is she, Madame Giry?" he'd jumped in as a greeting. "Is she here?"

"Who? Christine?" Madame asked in confusion.

"Of course, Christine!" he quietly exploded and shoved a hand through his unruly blond locks. "Forgive me, I'm at my wit's end. She disappeared from my cousin's chateau one night almost a week ago, telling the servant tending her that she was going for a stroll. I have had men search the area for days, with no trace of Christine. I had hoped…I had hoped she might have returned to Paris."

"She has not been here," Madame said with an equal amount of concern, though, in truth, the news did not come as a huge surprise.

Had she not known the Phantom's current situation, she might have suspected his involvement in the girl's disappearance. Yet, for once, Erik was innocent.

Madame had harbored reservations when Christine first told of her acceptance to Raoul's proposal. She had not seen in the young woman the desire and dedication toward the Vicomte necessary to make a good marriage. But she had kept silent, only warning Christine to be absolutely certain, not feeling it her place to do more than offer advice and caution where needed. Christine was a woman now, and had been raised with some level of independence to make her own decisions. Perhaps, she had realized her mistake and fled.

Her thoughts of last week jarred to a close with the sudden stop of the wagon. She paid the man his fare and made the pretense of entering the shop. Once the wagon moved away, she hurriedly changed direction toward the back stage entrance of the opera house, the door there unlocked as she'd left it. With the theatre's loss of production, the managers in ruin, no guard was there to nightly check the doors. Making her way through the empty hull of the deceased theatre, she walked past the auditorium of charred seats and the skeleton of the destroyed chandelier to the entrance that took her to the fifth cellar.

Retrieving a lantern, Madame slipped through the mirror door. Nothing had changed beyond the walls or beneath the floors, save for the absence of torchlight and flames from candles in the lowest cellar, a sign that had always signified its ghostly resident was lurking close by. Once she approached the quiet home of the renowned Phantom, she made her way to the recessed bedchamber, in which stood the massive bed wreathed in black.

Bandaged there, beneath its silk sheets, lay the renowned Opera Ghost.

Before his reign of terror ended, he had taken down the theatre in one crazed act of violence, the finale showcasing his revenge. Madame had been justifiably angered by his reckless cruelty, and at first opportunity, she ventured below to confront him – only to find him badly beaten and insensible, the victim of a bloodthirsty mob. Unable to drag him from the edge of the lake and to his bed, she recalled his rare mention of the one man he trusted – a Persian who lived in Paris.

With the intent to seek him out, she had been surprised to find a short, husky man, perhaps ten years her senior, with a peculiar red hat and odd clothes, waiting near her office. Wariness turned to relief upon discovering the Persian, who introduced himself as Monsieur Khan. He had heard about the opera house catastrophe and suspected Erik's involvement, there to find out more, Erik having told him of his association with Madame Giry.

Together they returned below, the two of them managing to get Erik into bed. The stab wound on his back, between the ribs, had been the worst of his injuries, though the chill of the icy lake had stanched the flow of blood, and quite surprisingly, there appeared to be no fatal internal bleeding, the blade having just missed his organs, according to Monsieur Khan's grave assessment. The gash on the good side of Erik's brow must have caused his unconscious state. His wreckage of a face she had not seen since the night they met as children, when she brought him to find this subterranean dwelling. Besides an instinctive flinch that stemmed from mild revulsion as much as pity, she set to work, helping the Persian as she could in tending Erik's wounds.

What she found most strange was that fresh soil had clung to his clothes, and what appeared to be the needles of fir trees – neither of which belonged to an underground cave. Indeed, it appeared as if he had rolled downhill out of doors. His clothes were also odd, a costume from a former time, centuries past, and not what he'd worn on the Don Juan stage.

Yet with his life in the balance, such peculiarities were disregarded and ignored, as she and his Persian friend struggled to keep the erstwhile Phantom in this world.

Since that night, almost two weeks ago, the man had not awakened.

Thus, when Madame walked into the dimly lit bedchamber, to see his eyes fixed on her, she could not refrain from a startled gasp.

Those steely grey orbs narrowed, and though it caused him clear pain, he lifted his hand to cover that side of his face.

"Woman – what have you done with my mask?"

It came as no surprise that would be the first thing he asked.

"I am sorry, monsieur. It was destroyed."

"DESTROYED!" He tried to sit up, only to immediately wince and fall back to the pillow, pressing one broad hand to his bandaged side. "You dare to remove and dispose of my mask?! Foolish wench! What gave you the right?"

She was accustomed to his name-calling and firmed her shoulders. "It was ruined by the fire."

"Fire? What fire?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "The fire you created when you cut down the chandelier."

"Chandelier?" He gave her glare for glare. "Gods' blood, what the devil are you on about? Are you daft? Where are my men? Where is Eustace?"

Eustace? Was that the Persian's name – Eustace Khan? She wondered what men he spoke of; the Phantom was notorious for being a recluse.

"If you mean your foreign friend, he helped me carry you up the steps and hoist you into that bed, then bound your wounds."

"And where is the oaf now? No doubt playing the drunkard with wine absconded from our last raid."

Raid?

"I have no idea where he is. Are you not concerned with what your vengeance has inflicted? To the theatre? To the audience?" She took a stabilizing breath, daring to breach precarious territory. "To Christine?"

"I have no knowledge of what you speak? I know of no theatre, no audience, no Christine."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"For that matter, I have no knowledge of where I am – or who the devil you are!"

His expression, what she could see of it where the linen did not bind both sides of his face, appeared in earnest, his eyes cold, little emotion to them.

Perhaps she only misunderstood. "Of course you know me, monsieur. I have aided you for the past ten years in your tenure as the Opera Ghost, and Christine…" She did not wish to push him too far, only needed him to come to himself. "You abducted her the night of the Don Juan opening – surely you must remember that."

"I told you, I know of no such person. Bring Eustace to me – now!"

He had the appearance and voice of Erik, but the cold, blank eyes that regarded her held no recognition.

She must seek out the Persian - Eustace Khan. Before he had left that night, Monsieur Khan told her his place of residence if he should be needed again. Perhaps he could help puzzle out this matter of the Maestro's bizarre forgetfulness.

xXx

A/N: This requested scene was a long time in coming, but I felt it needed the appropriate point of story to make its entrance. My research shows that amnesia, with that term being used - and the understanding of it - did not come about until the 1880s- and 19th century in story is year 1871, so I am trying to approach this as they would see it... Also, I want to clarify - they did not switch bodies - only places in time. Le Masque went to the 19th century, Erik to the 16th century. To refresh on exactly what happened, please refer to Chapter XV, in Lillith's POV. :)