****1 Year Later****

Christine woke crying, her hand clutched around a golden band that wasn't there. Disoriented, she blinked a few times until she realized where she was. The walls weren't the dark granite of Erik's masterpiece home, but the light stone of the small maison that she and Raoul shared; the flickering on the walls was caused by the softly crackling fire, not by the hot, flickering candlelight that had adorned all of Erik's walls and corners. She was home, safe, sound, and six months pregnant.

This face was made obvious as her child, unhappy by Christine's sudden, jerky movements, woke suddenly and kicked about for a while. Christine moaned softly, certain that her liver by now must be black and blue. She put a hand to her abdomen, rubbing gently, and shut her eyes.

"Hush, little one. Hush now..." Whether the baby was able to hear it's mother's soft, sweet voice, or the methodic rubbing was soothing, the bulge in her belly heaved over once more, and then settled contentedly back down.

She was very thankful that Raoul had not woken with her; he lay fast asleep on the mattress next to her. He had come home late tonight, and he had been tired. Late, he had told her tersely on his arrival home, because of work, and a new client, but Christine had smelled the pungent odor of rum on his breath, distinctive and venomous. He had really been out drinking, Christine knew, and whenever he drank, Raoul became cruel.

About three months ago, Raoul had started to change. Where he had once been gentle, loving, and extraordinarily kind to her, he had become harsh and cold. Christine remembered the first time he'd actually struck her. He'd come home so late that night, reeking of alcohol and cheap tobacco, and she had questioned why he was so late. When she'd worriedly pressed the question further, he had turned on her, and she had taken a step back, startled and frightened by the deadly, frigid anger in his eyes. She'd pulled back, but not fast enough; his hand had shot out, and slapped her hard in the side of the face. She'd fallen to one side, curling protectively around the tiny bulge of her advancing pregnancy. Thankfully, he had stopped then. The next few times, he hadn't, and Christine had learned to be very cautious of his moods.

Of course, he always apologized afterwards. Sometimes he even cried as he held her close, furiously stroking her hair as he sobbed his apologies. Then would come the gifts; the next night he would suddenly remember her favorite chocolates and bring some home for her, or he'd buy a necklace or ring he'd just happened to see as he passed by a jewelers which was so conveniently located down that avenue he so rarely took... Of course, she'd said nothing, only took the gifts, showed insincere but great amounts of gratitude and pleasure over them, and tried harder to watch his moods next time.

The last time had been the worse so far; the bruise on her face still hadn't healed... She sighed as she tried to go back to sleep. That would mean she would unable to go to the festival tomorrow night. She's really been looking forward to that...Sleep came very slowly.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Erik had meant to die after Christine had left. He spent nearly two months writing his own funeral march, and putting his affairs-what little there were-in order. He didn't want to live anymore, not without his angel. Erik had meant to die, instead he had gained a wife.

He shook his head slightly, mind replaying the events that had happened this year, and yet still seemed a fantasy dream. Two months ago, as he had been adding the last notes to his requiem, he had heard someone in the labyrinth. At the time he had ignored it, figuring it was Morel, the rat-catcher, and so he was taken completely unaware when the sound of the skiff hitting his side of the shore signified a visitor.

Irritated, he'd risen and gone to see what fool had come in search of the Opera Ghost, and had been shocked to find a young woman lugging the skiff industriously onto his shore. for a second, he had imagined it was Christine, and his heart had raced in overjoyed astonishment. It fell again, however, when she had turned to him.

It was not Christine.

It was not Christine, but an attractive woman with the look of the aristocracy about her features, and the flash of madness in her eyes. Her own expression had dropped to unnerved shock to find him watching her, and then, very slowly, to his outright amazement, a look of profound joy skipped across her features as she saw who he was.

"My God!" She had run to him, literally throwing herself into arms that he had just barely gotten open in time to catch her with. He had pulled her close by reflex, the impact of her small body against his jarring him back a few steps. "My God!" She had exclaimed, again and again. "My God! You're real!"

His guest-as he had discovered later-was one Maurissa de la Mare, a young comtesse from Nice, who had come to Paris as part of her arranged marriage. She had learned, through some distant connection to the Populaire, or Erik and his tragic story. And, she had claimed, had fallen desperately in love with him.

In love! With him! Erik twisted over on his bed, unable to sleep. She lay next to him, curled up, and snoring peacefully. He didn't think he'd ever be used to this. She didn't flinch from his unmasked features, didn't shudder with disgust at his touch... He'd never met anyone like her. While he didn't love her-or at least not that consuming, raging fire he had felt, and still did feel, for Christine-he was somewhat fond of her, and she loved him!

Gently, he reached out a hand to pull her close, shutting his eyes.

"Erik?" Her voice was drowsy.

"Hmm?" He questioned softly, opening his eyes to look down at her. She was watching him again, blue eyes deep but tinged with a mental instability he knew of, but wasn't bothered by.

"I love you."

His breath caught a moment, surprised as he always was whenever she said that. Ever gently, he pulled her closer.

"I love you, too..." He whispered back, wondering if maybe he spoke the truth...