Twenty seven thousand page views! W00t! I love you guys!

Now, if I only had a review for every page view…

(Ahem) Anyway, I apologize for the tremendous break, as it has been a really awful few months.

On the plus side, I'm singing Cherubino from Le Nozze di Figaro on my singing lessons now and my teacher says that the top notes are turning out best. Now, if only my passagio would stop giving me trouble… I'd have the arietta under my belt in a month. But alas, things aren't that easy – she said that she expects us to finish it in May. Oo

I fell in love with Lord of the Rings again, started learning two new languages at the same time and should have updated at least a week ago, but don't worry – the fic IS plotted out this time, but there isn't enough time for me to get it into the PC. Well, I hope to be done by New Year and then maybe start a new one, but then again, who knows? Novel-length fics are very draining and difficult and I might only continue with one-shots from then on.

But until that time comes…

X X X

Chapter XXXV

X X X X X

It was a long conversation, perhaps the longest they had ever had. How strange that it was destined to take place over the phone.

They talked as old friends, mainly Christine ensuring Raoul that everything was all right and Raoul asking if she hadn't yet been besieged by photographers and reporters attempting to get her "opinion" on the latest gossip. Fortunately, she hadn't been, she assured him, though she adamantly refused to reveal her location just yet.

"I will return, Raoul." Christine said gently, firmly. "I simply needed time to rearrange my thoughts and I couldn't do it back home." Again, she thanked him profoundly for all he had done for her and assured him that it was her fault alone that this had happened, not his at all. It was the complete truth, the dark part of her told her, and it was time to start telling only the complete truth. She was no longer a reporter, but that didn't mean she was going to abandon that one thing. The truth.

The young Viscount was feeling greatly relieved. Christine was no longer as morose as she had seemed when they had last met; it seemed that she had acquired an inner peace. Was it because of the articles? Or because of the separation? In any case, it had done her good, clearly. And she had told him everything that he wanted to know, save for the few crucial questions he was saving for last. He knew about the lessons now and about how she had been bound to secrecy. But the how was still missing.

"Just be careful, please." He implored her one last time. "These people can corner you like a pack of rats."

"I know."

"Christine… won't he find you?" They were getting to the matters of most importance – Raoul wanted these answers. He knew that Christine wasn't a person that could be rushed or pressed into telling the truth; that was simply the way she was, breakable. But with care, perhaps he would be able to finally persuade her to let him see.

There was a pause on the other end of the line; obviously, Christine was considering the possibility. Then, finally, she answered. "Eventually, yes. But I cannot avoid him forever, Raoul. I will face him when the time comes."

"Wouldn't it be better if I stood with you then?" the Viscount suggested. He knew enough of Erik to know that the composer was not the most understanding person in the world.

But Christine had obviously made up her mind. "Thank you, but no. it isn't your problem and I would have excluded you from these troubles, had it been possible. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I feel I've gotten you into this situation somehow. Or at least poured oil into the fire." For a moment, he paused. "You love him, Christine, don't you?" he asked sadly; there was a silence on the other end that he didn't bother waiting for. "I'm not angry with you, don't be frightened. But I would like to hear your answer." So that I can make peace with myself and forgive you and keep on loving you without the pain.

Christine was hesitating. It was a question she had asked herself what seemed a zillion times over, in different variations, all returning to the simplest of answers: yes or no. "I cannot, Raoul." She said sadly into the receiver. "I wish I could. I wish it…"

"Christine, stop." And she did, abruptly, because of the strange tone of Raoul´s voice. It wasn't filled with anger, but it was firm and it felt like a parent or an older brother chiding her. "Love is a difficult concept to grasp. Tell me what you feel when you think of him."

"Why are you asking this of me?"

"Because I love you, Christine." It was the simplest of answers. "And I feel a warmth when you are near; what brings you joy gives me life; what saddens you kills me from within."

It sounded like a line from a romantic opera, but Christine understood it. It was truly the emotion that filled her when she was with Erik; his dissatisfaction with her brought her anguish; when he was happy with her, she felt like she could soar. But she had never connected that notion with anything beyond singing, the art and music that they shared.

Can you take up the burden that might break your back during the journey through life?

Can you unconditionally love a shadow?

And his face…

The horror of it was no longer fresh and fear was not present in her heart when she remembered the frightful mask of death and the catlike eyes that had gazed into hers with blind love. Not all of him was terrifying, though his soul was burning with an incinerating flame, from which one could draw life… or be killed by it. And she had basked in warmth for long enough to know the cold of the gray world that lay beyond.

Was this love? No, that wasn't the question. The question was: could the fire be directed, perhaps somewhat tamed, so that it wouldn't be a wild storm but a flame that could warm the world?

The task had been appointed to her, it seemed. In a moment, she wondered whether Erik loved her for herself and not for her voice. But in that, the equity between them was maintained, because she loved his voice without question.

She couldn't have saved Mrs. Valérius from her fate. But here, she could save a beautiful soul from the chains of madness, which would undoubtedly follow soon enough, if his solitude wasn't breached.

No, she couldn't answer the burning question with a simple yes or no. but she realized that in the end, it didn't matter.

"Christine?"

Words would not suffice. An hour later, perhaps, it would have seemed strange to her, awkward, even, but now, she didn't hesitate to open her mouth to sing, even though she was using falsetto and her voice was shaking.

I attempt from Love's sickness to fly in vain
since I am myself my own fever and pain
No more now, fond heart, with pride no more swell
Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebel

For Love has more pow'r and less mercy than fate
to make us seek ruin and on those that hate.

Silence on the other end of the line. Christine didn't even have the will to call out Raoul´s name, but when he finally spoke, she had the feeling that he was smiling sadly. "You see, Christine? You speak through his language; you answer the call. Does he love you?"

"Completely." This time, she didn't hesitate.

He is music. And music gives her back her father, her talent, her happiness.

You must let the shadow of her go.

"Christine…" he could hardly bring himself to saying it, knowing that he was making the noblest and stupidest mistake of his life. But it was for her and so it would bring him content… in time. "I will always be here for you when you need me. Always, as your friend. But you… you must make peace with him. For all our sakes."

Silence. And then… "Thank you, Raoul. You have always been the best thing that has ever happened to me."

But though she couldn't, even the Viscount could tell that was a lie.

X X X X X

The reporters were truly like a swarm of insects once they discovered where Christine was to have her premiere. Every time she left rehearsal, at least half a dozen of them was waiting in tow, trying to lure any kind of truth from her, any information. Nadir had called her once, warning her that Erik had discovered her hiding place – or so it seemed. But there was no sight of him in the following weeks and Christine grew wary. She had learned from him how to evade unwanted eyes.

Finally, she had called Meg, who was overjoyed to hear from her and told her that everything about the funeral had gone well. All of Mrs. Valérius´ possessions were to go to Christine, the house including. Christine accepted the news, knowing that she would have to deal with this eventually. The pain of loss had subsided in the long weeks of hard work. She had unwillingly learned what it felt like to work on Erik's schedule, day and night, keeping everything running like clockwork.

At times, she felt as if his eyes were watching her, but he never appeared. And so, she came to the management of the opera house with a proposal: that she would give a concert, along with several other artists, if she could get in touch with them. The management agreed and so she called Covent Garden, where Richard and Moncharmin immediately showered her with warm greetings and offers for a contract, which she declined, for the time being. Instead, she asked if there was any kind of possibility that artists she had interviewed or met there would want to travel to Australia to have a concert with her.

At first, they were stunned, but even more stunning were the results they received when they asked the performers about it.

Those she had interviewed after the premiere of La Grue agreed with obvious enthusiasm, partly because Christine Daaé was a world-class house name now, partly because she had been very polite even when she hadn't been. Piangi agreed as soon as word reached him that Delibes was in the repertoire of the local orchestra and that he could show off the arias he had learned long ago but never had a chance to perform.

And, to everyone's astonishment, Carlotta agreed as well.

There had been a sneer on her face when she did, but a satisfied one. No one that saw that expression of superiority was naïve enough to assume that her consent was anything more than her seeing a chance to outsing Christine Daaé in her own opera house, which would have been regarded as a great victory by some.

The contracts were signed, the date was set and the performers started practicing.

Weeks later, the news was already all around the operatic world; some of the most famous house names of the world had agreed to sing in Sydney, some that Christine hadn't even met, partly because they saw the potential for a great concert, partly because they wanted to return into the center of the professional opera attention.

In a month, the concert was the most anticipated cultural event of the year and if Christine thought that the activity of reporters would have subsided by then, she was dead wrong. Quite the contrary, reporters observed the rehearsals like a pack of jackals or a flock of vultures, depending on their level of viciousness.

Only one question repeated itself constantly: would Erik come and see this grand debut himself?

Christine answered all with a neutral: I cannot say. Which, coincidentally, was a complete truth. She had no idea what had happened to Erik, but she sometimes heard his voice in her dreams. She and Nadir remained in touch; the Iranian was also growing worried and so Christine decided to send him a ticket to the concert, for which he was grateful.

"If he is to show up, it will undoubtedly be at the concert." Nadir voiced into the telephone. "And Christine, please be wary. If he intends to speak with you, he might not wait for the time to approach you conventionally. He is… creative."

Christine understood that more than he thought.

And so, as the preparations were long and there was the Christmas break to consider, in the end, the opera house decided to do something even grander than a simple concert – to merge it with the carnival season and pay homage to the theater of ancient Greece, where actors had worn masks to signify their mood. The singers weren't entirely enthusiastic about singing in masks, but gave their consent when they were told that the masks would be adapted in whatever way they required.

When Christine heard about that, a feeling of dread entered her mind. She saw what potential use that might have, should Erik choose to make an appearance, but she couldn't change the minds of the management in any way. Still, she felt that at least she knew just what to expect.

The program was decided, in the end, to be famous arias only, so that the general public would recognize the particular pieces. There were twelve soloists in total, who would be performing some of the most well-known and well-loved pieces of the standard operatic repertoire in an all-night-long program that would be spectacular, or so the advertisements claimed.

Carlotta, who had a broader but more limited voice than Christine, picked her own parts to be the more dramatic ones, to display her "maestoso" voice and would sing from Aida, Giulio Cesare, Il Trovatore and Così fan tutte, among others – and, to mock Christine, perhaps, the Moon Song from Rusalka, which everyone knew very well.

Christine saw the attempt to compete with her and didn't care about it. Carlotta didn't concern her, nor did these diva squabbles. She dreaded the moment when Erik would appear; she had convinced herself that he would and that he would watch the concert.

She was also given the choice to pick her own songs and so she chose those close to her heart at the moment; Elvira from I Puritani, Micaela from Carmen, the title role from Linda di Chamounix; all songs that were sad but not filled with mourning, all of love and despair. And, at the urging of the management, she took up the most famous opera aria of all, the raging storm of the Queen of the Night, to be the grand finale of the entire concert.

Of course, not all the most famous works were simply arias – duets, trios and a few choruses were to be a part of the performance as well. And in that, Carlotta saw a chance to finally deliver the killing blow to her younger colleague and requested the song of the veil from Don Carlos – a piece for a mezzo-soprano, but one that the diva's voice could handle through its sheer power (or so she believed). The chorus was not a problem. But the page, Tebaldo, who was to sing with her, the very same role Christine had rejected due to Erik's fury, was now being offered to her, for Carlotta threatened to walk out on them if Christine didn't accept.

She didn't make a fuss out of it; she accepted. Why refuse? But in return, she asked for the "honor" of singing the Flower Duet from Lakmé with Carlotta. The Spanish diva, who didn't have the role in her repertoire and had the darker voice, accepted for this time. After all, it couldn't top her crushing revenge in the form of the grand aria of Eboli.

And so each day, Christine felt more and more like Olympia from Offenbach's opera, whose song she was performing as the opening number; a pretty singing doll, only to be winded up and admired. Anxiety was bubbling within her, because she could almost feel Erik's presence during the rehearsals, and perhaps the others felt it as well, for they were working more efficiently than ever.

And whenever she sang their duet from La Bohéme with Piangi during rehearsal, she felt that during the night, Erik's voice was singing the replying lines to her.