Disclaimer: I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.

Author Note: Hey all! I am updating two chapters today. This chapter is the short one; it is basically a brief overview of the letters that Christine wrote to Erik (but obviously never sent) to keep herself sane whilst kept locked in the house by Raoul.

I thought that this might just piece together a little bit of what happened to Christine when she was taken by Raoul, seeing as I didn't mention her for quite a few chapters, so it's not crucial to the plot. The action chapter will also be updated today!

Thank you SO much to all those who reviewed; TMara, RosieLilyIce93, BiancaR, PhantomLilac, Filhound, You Are Love, grandma paulla, KitKat, Helena, MissFleck734, angelicdamnation, Oliver Grey and Anna. I'm so glad that you enjoyed the chapter and that you like Erik's daughter :-).

Now I will pass you over to the letters of Christine...

Thirty Five- This Hour Shall See Your Darkest Fears
(The Giry Residence)

It was dark, darker than usual due to the blanket of clouds shrouding the moon and dark enough that Erik was forced to light candles in order to sit and read. As he settled into the armchair, clutching the thick bundle of dog-eared, tattered letters, he could not help but look up at the dark ceiling, as if he could somehow see through the sturdy oak beams and into the room where his daughter was sleeping. He had wanted to keep her in his arms, to feel her warmth and smell her sweet baby scent, but Antoinette had told him that Erika needed to be put down to sleep after an exhausting day- for what would happen if Erik fell asleep and dropped the child on her head?

Erik had relented after Nadir, too, had pressured him, though he knew that he would not be sleeping this night, not when Christine was in the dark, alone, near dead if her words to Antoinette were accurate. To think, all this time he had not known- Erik threw the letters down before the angry force of his hand could rip the delicate paper into shreds, taking a few seconds to calm himself down before he dared to bend and pick them back up from the floor, where they lay scattered. He had wanted to throw Erika into Nadirs arms and charge off to the de Chagny residence as soon as he had read that heart-destroying letter, craving the blood of a fop, desperate to see the fear in his eyes as he arrived, bloodthirsty and angry, but Antoinette had barred the door and refused to let him go.

"If we let you go after her in this state you will get yourself killed and not be able to save her!" Antoinette had stayed firm, even when he became angry and started to bellow at her to let him past, reaching such hysteria that he began to scream at her- he had never been so moronic as to berate and curse Antoinette in such a fashion, always scared to destroy the odd sense of love and respect she held for him, but he needn't have worried; she had not been angry, merely stern. "Calm down, for goodness sakes Erik! You are making Erika cry, and you are being unreasonable! If- please pardon how blunt this will sound, for you know that I care for the girl as you do- she has not died after all this time, one night will not make any difference. Now stop being so dense and comfort your daughter!"

Erik looked down at the huge collection of letters in his lap, still not quite able to comprehend them. There were so many of them; as if she had written to him every day, pouring out her heart onto the paper, her tears mingling with the ink, only to add it to another pile of words she could not send. Had writing to his name been a source of comfort to her? As he picked up the first letter on the pile, his eyes lingering on the tear stains and the elegant curls of her writing, he felt fear clutch at his heart. Did he want to read these letters? Did he want to look inside the soul of Christine de Chagny and feel her heartbreak, know her sorrow, cry her tears?

He knew that the words on these endless pages would break him, but still he lifted the letter and began to read.

'Dear Erik,

If I could send this letter, I would plea- beg for your aid, or for your forgiveness. I would somehow tell you exactly how I am feeling- I would manage to describe how my heart feels crushed, how my eyes leak tears without me even noticing, how whenever my mind dares to linger on what I have done in my short life I begin to shake, and tremble, and I have to curl up like a child until the images disappear back into nothingness. But there is no point to such descriptions, for I am trapped in this dreadful house, which I once called home, and my words are also imprisoned.

But I will still write. I will write what I would say to you if you appeared at my window again, how it would feel to look upon your face and to smile- I would love to smile! I will write away the worries, the time, the heartbreak and continue to hope that one day I might be able to share these words of madness with you.

I will write how I felt that night at your opera house- it is improper for me to say such things, but you will never read this. The events of that night are scorched into my mind, as if branded there with the heat from your kisses. You awoke me that night- each kiss, each touch, each murmur of my name sent sparks under my skin, waking my heart from its cold slumber, freeing me from whatever meaningless existence I had fallen into. You managed, that night, to take a dull, stupid, idiot of a girl and make her feel precious again. You always do that to me, Erik; you make me feel as if I am worth your time, as if I am your equal.

That night has changed me- you have changed me. You would be proud of whom I am now; I scream at Raoul if he comes near me, I bite the men who come to sedate me. I even threw that silver candlestick at one thug and sent him sprawling to the ground. I like feeling powerful- I like the rush that courses through my veins as I dare to say no, as I fight back. I am fighting, Erik, fighting with all I am. I will hold on, I will break through- but at the same time I keep wishing that you would appear and save me. How wicked I am. Christine.'

Erik felt the glow of a blush die down from his cheeks and removed his mask with one trembling hand, wiping away the tears that had escaped his eyes and fallen onto the deformed skin. If only he could be with her now- to fight alongside her. She was right- he felt proud in an odd sense, but also shattered. He had failed to protect her, failed his self-given mandate, failed his first good purpose.

A few of his tears dropped onto the letter, and he hastily put it aside, sifting through the letters. He knew what he wanted to read now, so when he came across it and the happier tone of the letter he nearly broke down sobbing.

'Dearest Erik,

Today I was lifted by news, wonderful news, news that was enough to take me out of the depression I have felt since Raoul was parading Aureilé and their son around the garden outside last week. I had suspected it for a while, but today my desperate hopes received wonderful confirmation- I am going to have a child. But that in itself is not the greatest fact of the matter; it is that the child is yours, ours! I am certain of it, for Raoul and I have not been intimate for quite some time.

Oh Erik, if only you could see me now. I am sobbing over this letter, happy tears I assure you, and I look like a fool but I am past caring! I sit for hours on end picturing what he or she might look like, how musical they will be- how can they not be a virtuoso, with yours and my father's blood in their veins?

Raoul is smug and clearly rather dim-witted, for he clearly is under the misguided belief that this child is his. Perish the thought. It is laughable, to see him strutting about the place as if he had just beaten all the odds or claimed the prize- how wrong he is. I will delight in telling him that our child, our perfect child, is not at all tainted by his repugnant de Chagny blood. He tried, when he and I both found that I was pregnant, to win me over with his meaningless words, but I threw the wash jug at him and he has not tried since. It is rather obvious that he will kill me and keep the child if he is a boy, or kill me and the child if she is a girl. In fact, I am positive that the presence of our child inside me has already saved me from various "accidents". I am safe, for now.

You will be an excellent father, Erik. I pray that we will be excellent parents, together. Christine.'

Erik stared down at the letter for a long time after he finished reading the words, his eyes fixed on the tear stains spread generously over the thin paper. These letters- Erik felt, for the first time, a swell of joy in his heart. Either he was a fool and could not read properly, or... his eyes lingered on the word 'together' and an odd, misplaced sense of relief filled him. It would appear, from the tone and the content of the letters, that Christine cared for him in such a way that made his previously unrequited love suddenly seem stronger and brighter.

He hurriedly moved to the next letter, eager for further proof that he and Christine might share a mutual affection for one another, but found another melancholy letter of despair.

'Erik,

Are you coming for me- did you awake after that night we spent at your opera house and know that I had not willingly left your side? Or do you now loathe me- call me a whore, a beast whenever you recall my name? I have convinced myself of both in the last few days and I now I cannot stop myself from worrying.

I also keep recalling some words my father used to say to me, though I had long forgotten them until a day or two ago. 'Love prospers when a fault is forgiven.' He used to say those words when I had been rude or badly behaved as a child but had then gone running to him in a fitful state of tears and hysteria- he said that he knew I was sorry, that I meant my words, and thus he could forgive me. But Erik, you cannot see or hear me- you do not know the extent of my guilt, of how sorry I truly am for all the pain and hurt I caused you. Do I deserve forgiveness and your love? Do you even love me still? I highly doubt it, after everything. I am torturing myself with the endless questions that cannot be answered, over and over, until I cannot speak and my head feels thick with the words I cannot hope to voice. They are words that I would sob out at your feet.

I feel sick and dizzy quite often these days, more from exhaustion and stress than pregnancy. I have been considering names for our child too; Gustave for a boy, after my father. I wonder, what was your father called? But for a girl I am unsure; it must mean something, so that whenever we say her name it means something special to us. I do not know.

If you were here I would ask you. If you were here, I might hope to be forgiven.'

Erik closed his eyes and hunched in a little on himself. The letters, the words, the clearly distraught state of the woman he loved- it was starting to take its toll on him, his breathing shallow, his heart thumping erratically inside his ribcage until he feared that the fragile bones would shatter. He knew he could take no more, no more of this heartache and torture, and yet he found himself reaching out for one last letter, one last insight into Christine's mind until he put these horrifying scraps of paper out of sight for good.

'Erik, Erik,

I am scared. The time for our child to be born looms closer, hanging over me and becoming an event to dread rather than to hope for, and Raoul is clearly preparing for what I know will result in him gaining all he wants and me losing. The servants are gone- he has dismissed them, leaving only me, Raoul and the Comte and Comtess in this horrific place- and Raoul is locked away in his study for hours on end, plotting and scheming with his monstrous father. I am frightened but have no idea as to what horrors they are planning.

I feel the child kick and for that brief second I am consumed with love for the baby, the child inside me, and I feel calm. But only for that second. I am sure that he or she is strong and healthy, for the kicks are strong and I take them to mean good health. I am still determined to bring Raoul crashing down when he finds that the child is not his- then, even if I die at his hands, at least I will have shown him that I did stand up to him in the end. I found myself mourning for the Raoul I fell in love with just this morning- he is dead, that sweet, gentle man who rescued my scarf and slept outside my bedroom door to guard me from monstrous men. How wretchedly ironic that the monster is now him.

I will only have the Comtess to assist me when the child is born, but I am not scared of that. No, what scares me is how the Comte has warped and twisted Raoul's sweet mind and turned him into this cruel, cold man whom I barely know.

It is late now, dark and quiet, and in this darkness I cannot hold up my childish hopes. I know, now, that you are not coming for me, that I cannot expect you to, just as I cannot expect your love. But I want it- oh I want it! I remember when I miscarried my first child- how crushed I felt, because all my happiness and hopes to live rested on that child. This will sound awful, so forgive me for saying such things, but I know that- whilst I will love our child- I will still not be happy. For happiness and light and hope I need you, Erik, and only you can rescue me from this despair I have fallen into. They say that to love someone is to let them go, but I love you to the point that my heart will break and I cannot let you go; I must have you beside me.

Erik, Erik, I am a pitiful wreck without you. Why is that I can only realise how disastrously I love you when it is too late? Oh God. Forgive me, Erik, forgive me.'