A/N – This chapter is very Raoul sympathetic because I just got back from seeing Phantom again and I'd forgotten just how wonderful Matt Cammelle is. So, this is largely based on his interpretation - and yes, he does stroke Celia's hair a lot in his performance!

Thank you so much to all my reviewers - hope you enjoy :) But is this too far-fetched? Is it all just too coincidental? Please let me know!

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Erik crouched in the corner, his face turned away from the light, his hands covering his face, his heart pounding and his mind moving frantically.

How was it possible? By what cruel twist of fate could they have ended up in the same country, when she had all the world to choose as her playground? And the same hotel? What God could be so malevolent as to find amusement so?

Aware that his distress was threatening to overwhelm him, he rose unsteadily, looked frantically around, and began, with the frenetic speed of panic, to throw his few belongings back into his suitcase. There would be time enough to press the inevitable wrinkles caused by careless packing out of his clothes when he was ... oh God, anywhere but here ...

A sudden faintness swept over him and caused him to sit down sharply. Her face rose before him, and he buried his face in his hands, cursing the weakness she inspired in him.

A knock at a door halfway down the corridor had him on his feet with a sudden bolt of panic, nervous energy pulsing through him and rendering inactivity quite impossible. He crumpled a shirt into the suitcase and slammed it shut, struggling to keep his fingers from trembling long enough to fasten the lock. In a fit of frustrated anger at his failure, he hurled the suitcase halfway across the room, where it burst open, distributing his few possessions over the furniture.

Erik drove his fist into the wall in a mix of frustration, anger, and an overwhelming wave of desperate misery, sinking to the floor as he finally, for the first time in the most agonisingly painful six months of his life, gave in to the overpowering tide of blackening anguish which was threatening to claim him once and for all.

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Rose Banks sighed and tugged ineffectually at her painfully tight bun. I hate this job, she thought miserably, forcing her face into a porcelain smile as a client walked by, throwing her a curt nod. And still - she glanced at the clock and groaned silently - three hours to go.

She closed her eyes for one moment, hoping to ease the tension behind her eyes and the ache in her temples. She opened her eyes and groaned inwardly, forcing herself to smile brightly again as a man dressed in expensively tailored, tasteful evening wear made his way up to the desk, his hat drawn low over his eyes in such a manner as to render any view of his face quite impossible.

He spoke, with a very faint French accent. "Room 279, please, I would like to settle my bill."

He moved with fluid grace, distinctly feline, but he seemed hurried. Nothing unusual there, then, she thought with mild irritation, but as she searched through the files for his bill, watching him from below lowered eyelashes, she realised that what she had at first taken for impatience was actually acute distress; he was shaking from head to foot and his fingers were clenching convulsively around the handle of his small suitcase.

Rose found the room in the files and looked up in surprise. "But sir, you've booked in to stay another month."

"I know," he said shortly. "I'll cover the difference if necessary." He withdrew a wallet from a pocket in his cloak and waited expectantly. "If you'll forgive me, mademoiselle, I am rather in a hurry."

"I ... hope the service has not been lacking in any way?" Rose asked anxiously, confused. "If there's any way we can persuade you to stay ..."

"I thank you, no," he said curtly. "I find urgent ... business calls me away from town."

"Oh ... all right ..." Rose murmured, still slightly confused over the man's inexplicable attitude. "Sir, are you all right ... would you like to sit down?"

The man's fist thumped down on the desk. "I thank you for your concern, I am quite well! But I am in a hurry and I should like to pay my bill and be on my way as soon as possible!"

Rose recoiled and began hurriedly to tot up the bill. "I'm afraid I'll have to charge you for the extra month," she mumbled, not looking at him and shrinking back in her seat as if she feared a violent reaction.

The man sighed, perhaps in regret at having frightened her. "That's quite all right," he murmured, his hand moving restlessly on the counter. Rose handed him the sheet of paper nervously, snatching her hand back as soon as his fingers closed around the paper and staring down at her hands. He barely glanced at it before tossing a wad of notes down onto the reception desk and counting them swiftly. He laid the correct sum on the desk - in a surprisingly short time, for a foreigner - and gently dropped a pound note beside it.

"Thank you for your help," he said gently. "And please do forgive my abominable rudeness."

By the time Rose looked up to thank him in astonished gratitude, he was gone.

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Christine was curled beneath the sprawling branches of a twisting old oak in the hotel grounds, sketching a tree in the distance and rapidly coming to the conclusion that she should stick to singing as her only artistic accomplishment. She looked up and smiled as she saw Raoul coming towards her; but her smile quickly faded as she realised he was frowning.

"What is it?" she asked with concern.

He looked up at her and gave her a fleeting smile. "I'm sorry," he murmured, brushing a lock of hair away from her cheek.

"What is it?" she repeated, nervousness beginning to spread through her.

He laughed and sat down under the spreading oak tree, motioning for her to join him. "Something's come up," he said. "I have to meet a business contact from Paris in an hour."

Christine looked up at him in dismay. "Oh, Raoul!"

He sighed and passed a hand across his face. "I know. I'm so sorry. There really is nothing I can do about it; there are problems back on the estate I have to sort out." He touched his hand lightly to her cheek. "I'll make it up to you," he promised anxiously.

Christine slapped his arm lightly and laid her head back against his chest. "It's not your fault," she conceded with a half-smile.

They sat together in silence, Raoul's arms protectively around Christine, as they watched the light dapple over the trees. Finally Raoul heaved a sigh and ran his fingers gently through Christine's hair.

"I have to go," he whispered. Christine made a little noise and turned her face towards his chest.

"No ..." she murmured sleepily. He laughed softly and stroked her hair.

"Come on," he whispered. "I'll walk you back to the hotel."

"No ..." she murmured, sitting up with an effort. "I'll take a walk around the grounds before dinner, I think ... you will be back for dinner?" as an afterthought, looking anxiously up at him.

Raoul nodded and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Of course," he assured her. He rose slowly, stretching, and offering her his hand to help her up. "You'll be all right?"

Christine laughed and pulled her hair back in an unthinkingly graceful motion, brushing the grass off her skirt. "I'll be fine."

Raoul kissed her once more and set off back to the hotel, leaving Christine alone under the oak.

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Erik closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold brick of the building behind him, his head throbbing with what had started out a mild ache in his temples and which was now threatening to become a migraine.

He opened his eyes again and watched Raoul kiss Christine lightly, the easy contact of long familiarity and gentle affection. He was aware of his hands twisting convulsively in the material of his cloak as he watched Christine settle into her husband's arms and lay her head against his chest, closing her eyes and moving sleepily against him. She looked so happy ... his heart wrenched.

This is what you wanted, he told himself savagely, standing very still, his body quite rigid, refusing to allow himself the luxury of weakness. This is what you wanted. You wanted her to be happy, and now she is. You wanted her to be a diva, and now she is. You wanted her to be secure, and now she is.

I wanted her, his mind whispered in hopeless response.

He slammed his fist against the brick wall in anguished frustration, barely feeling the pain.

She is secure. She is happy. He loves her. The words repeated like a mantra in his head. Secure. Happy. He loves her.

I love her.

This time the force with which he slammed his fist against the wall split a gash along the length of his hand. He stared down at his hand and the blood seeping from the wound in anguish - always more blood. What sort of life would that have been for her? Darkness and blood, the two things she feared above all else ...

Erik stared at her with despairing longing, his hands clenched desperately in his cloak. He saw Raoul shift her from his knee to the ground, saw him take her hands in his and help her up. His hands tightened on the folds of his cloak in pain as Raoul bent to kiss her, gently brushing his fingers through her hair.

He barely watched Raoul for three steps after he had left Christine, his eyes drawn automatically back to the lovely young woman who now stood alone under the towering spread of an oak. The whole effect was so Caspar David Friedrich that it made him catch his breath, and for a long time, he stood very still, watching Christine drift aimlessly from one tree to another. She looked desperately alone and heartstoppingly lovely in the twilight, just the angel he had always known her to be. He fought the urge to go to her - just one last conversation, one more - and instead, hidden in the shadows, his hat pulled low over his face, he watched as she drifted slowly towards the hotel, disappearing from view as the heavy door closed behind her.

He took one deep breath and stood motionless for one long moment in a futile attempt to still the tremor of his hands. Then he lifted his case and began to make his way slowly towards the road where he might catch a cab.

Had he been less distressed at watching Christine and Raoul together, he might have been watching where he was going a little more carefully.

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Erik pulled his hat low over his face and, steeling his courage to step out into the crowd, forcing down the instinctive agoraphobic panic, gathered his suitcase more securely under his cloak and left the protective curtain of the shadows.

Keeping his head bent, he hurried through the unbearable crowds, barely looking where he was going, until he felt himself collide with another person.

"Oh ... forgive me, Monsieur ..."

Her voice sliced through his mind with sudden blinding fireworks of recognition. He looked up, and as their eyes met, he felt the ground melt away from beneath his feet. For a moment, they stared at each other, each too shocked to speak, then, as Christine made a move towards him, he forced back an overwhelming sensation of dizziness, and, sweeping his cloak around himself, disappeared.

Christine found herself reaching out to empty air, a name unspoken on her tongue.

She glanced wildly around the crowded street, her hands still outstretched, her eyes seeking in vain.

"Erik?" It came out as a strangled whisper, barely a whimper, more a plea for help than anything else ...

Her head began to spin painfully; she saw the world blacken slowly, felt herself falling backwards as if in slow motion, and felt his arms close around her just before she passed into merciful oblivion.