The Usual stuff: Yeah, I don't own these characters; credit there goes to M. Leroux and in this case Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber. At least I can manipulate them in my own little world. :)

Side Note: Yes, wendela, you're absolutely right. I had Christine know Eric's name just because it's awkward as all get out to refer to him all the time as "The Phantom" and I didn't end up writing that part in. (And many thanks to my buddy Susie Q)

ANYWAY... as Freidriek Nietzsche once said, "The author must keep his mouth shut when his work starts to speak." (although I'd still like to know how well my work articulatesfrom an unbaised source (i.e., not me))

This Authoress, signing off...


The solitude of his home left Erik alone with his thoughts, a mixed blessing. His plans had all come to naught. Tonight was to have been the night he claimed Christine for eternity, but nothing had gone according to plan. Not much had gone according to plan for a long time now; Christine had that effect. Christine. His mind cursed and caressed her name. All those walls around his heart for nothing, she shattered them all when he first heard her lift her voice to the heavens. That small smile or that impish glint in her eyes melted his resolve. And when she said his name…

No, none of that now. Erik nearly screamed at his traitorous mind. Have you forgotten she left you for the Vicomte? Treacherous snake left you for dead, the minx would rather be wealthy and pampered by a handsome face. An unmarred face. He resumed his mask of confidence; hatred would keep him sane. But Erik knew that the loathing would soon fade, it always did, but a temporary relief was all he could muster on his own.

His window of opportunity had dissipated as soon as Christine fell ill so Erik set his mind to plots again. He scarce took in his direction, moving automatically through the dark, twisting passageways. Hopping over one of his carefully laid traps, he reached his destination. It was a small room only occasionally used by the opera's maintenance staff or those seeking a secluded corner. Nothing truly set the room apart from a closet but under Erik's hand an invisible door swung open. Here he kept what could not withstand the humidity of his home near the lake as well as other objects placed for easy access for when he surveyed the opera's rehearsals, insuring his commands were well-adhered to. Pausing briefly, he strained his ears for any unwelcome visitors. Smirking slightly, he resumed his search.

Erik had survived on his own for most of his life and absorbed much of basic first aid, from stitching vicious cuts to cleansing infections on his imperfect face. Reaching up involuntarily, he lightly ran his fingers over the bleached white mask; so many bad memories, so many screams. He recalled another time fingers had stroked that mask… then Christine had ripped it away. Wrenching his hand away, he snatched a small bottle from the cabinet and slammed the door.

Don't lose the anger. Don't let her get in. Erik knew in his heart that Christine had already saturated his soul. He wanted to forgive her, to believe those smiles, to have that true unconditional acceptance he had dreamt of. He wanted to understand how she got under the mask he presented to the world, how her laugh could dissolve his blazing fury, how a single glance could drench him with both hope and despair. His cogitation drifted from Christine to the well-trodden subject of self-loathing as he darted around the corners of the unending catacombs.


Christine prayed silently for relief as her stomach heaved again, bringing up nothing but air and occasionally bile. Madame Giry comforted the child to the best of her ability but no amount of soothing words could slake her need for inner peace. Why is he so confusing? How does he do this to me? Her mind switched then to her other problem. Is this the real Raoul? Can he truly be so blind, so selfish? Nothing made sense anymore. In her feverish state, the pounding questions blurred together in one collective drone, leaving her more distressed that any mere aliment.

She mumbled in light delirium, "Maybe I'll go to the Americas and leave it all behind."

Mme Giry glanced at Christine curiously before registering the feverish effect of disorientation. What was going through the girl's head she could not begin to fathom, perhaps it was safer that way. Shushing her quietly, Mme Giry felt for her temperature again as her brows furrowed in worry, Christine's body was not cooling. All that was left was to wait for the fever to break, nothing else could be done.

She patted Christine's hand gently before rising to exit the room; it was going to be a long night. Upon returning to her small office, she gathered what supplies she could.

"Good evening, Madame Giry."

She uttered an undignified squawk as Erik's voice shattered the silence. He emerged from the shadows in a manner that would seem menacing to most but Mme Giry allowed herself to relax her heightened nerves.

"I hate it when you do that."

His mouth quirked into a brief half-smile, "I know."

Were he any other being besides the aloof and maniacal Phantom of the Opera, she would have used her short stature to tower over him as she'd so practiced with disobedient ballerinas, but here she could only roll her eyes at the antics of this strange acquaintance. "How can I help you?"

"Give this to Christine." He stretched out his hands: one held a small packet of herbs and the other a tiny vial. "It should help."

Mme Giry hesitated, hands wavering over the items; this was the man obsessed with Christine yet avoided her religiously for the past three months. His countenance had changed since she had last seen him, his confidence still shaky yet his air of command had reinstated itself since the last time he'd visited her, after the Masquerade Ball. What was going on inside his head? She did not know what to think. In the end, she took the items out of concern for Christine. Erik nodded solemnly but his expression was otherwise as unreadable as marble.

Perceptive as always, she called out to him before he evaporated into the veil of darkness, "I suggest you talk to her."


The sheets twisted around Christine as she squirmed in an uneasy sleep. She was on stage, resplendent in her costume and the warm glow of the gas lights. Raising her voice, she was Aminta once more. Piangi sang his next lines…only the voice did not belong to him. Instead it was Erik himself who dashingly swung the cape around his shoulders, singing, rather glorifying, his art. Stunned, Christine fought to fall back into character. The brazen passion in his voice was unmistakable, stealing her breath away with each perfect note. She commanded her thoughts away from his striking figure and powerful voice to avoid missing her cue. This was her moment to shine. Responding with equal ardor, she sang out her lines with all the backing of her heart, just the way he had taught her. His step faltered slightly but as always his emotions were heavily concealed; her only clue was the fire in his fierce sapphire eyes. Ascending the stairs, she felt minor trepidation, fully realizing Raoul was watching along with several armed men. She glanced up at Erik again and found herself nearly consumed by fear. Would her prediction come true? Would Erik capture her, never again to see the light of day? In her distress, none of her thoughts formed any coherency. Desperate, she reached up and removed his mask, his face for the audience to behold.

Oh, and behold they did. Shrieks, frightened murmurs, rumbling footsteps while the mob rushed for an exit. The sounds were crashing down around them, each another dagger of betrayal wedged into Erik's spine and another scar on his face. Something snapped then, something snapped in his mind. Furiously and frantically, he worked the trap door and nearly dragged her back to his kingdom of music, all the while cursing his blasted luck; happiness was again just out of his reach.

Christine jerked out of the dream, grimacing under what it could mean and wondering vaguely what could have happened if she'd gone through with the Phantom's opera. Fighting her sagging eyelids and the clouds that hazed her mind, she sent up a brief prayer of gratitude, never wishing the fate of the dream-Erik on anyone.


"I suggest you talk to her." Erik's mind repeated Mme Giry's words as he strode down the winding paths. He then made his best effort to evict the advice from his thoughts. Fool woman, what does she know about this? With Christine, nothing is simple. Talking. Talking would possibly be the worst thing he could do. He'd drop his guard and Christine would know she was forgiven; then he would only be crushed again. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. Still, maybe just maybe… with a will of iron, he pushed any light of optimism firmly out of his head.

His stony features reflected his inner resolve as he opened the door to his lair once more, pleading that sleep would claim him soon and release him from this depression.


Raoul paced nervously in his opulent manor. Had his mother been alive, she would have complained that he would wear through the Persian rug but the memory fluttered into his mind only briefly, pushed aside by more pressing matters. The plans he'd made that night had all come to naught; Christine would still be haunted by the Phantom and he would have to continually delay planning their wedding to accommodate her whims while the Phantom still roamed free. Raoul ran a hand over his face, surveying his options. The longer Christine impeded on readying for matrimony, the more stage time she would see; the more productions she participated in, the less higher levels of society thought of her; the less the general public praised this woman of the theater, the less inheritance he would receive from his ailing uncle. He was devoted to Christine, down to his soul, and he felt he could never care for anyone as much as he adored her, but his financial future was at stake with her scandalous behavior.

Audibly ordering himself to relax, he sank into the couch and reached for another glass of brandy. Resting his head, he closed his eyes and prayed silently that Christine would recover soon, fearing for her frail body. She'll be all right. After failing to convince himself immediately, he rose and ordered his coach.


Unable to escape his depression and annoyance, Erik observed through the mirror: Mme Giry had done as he'd asked and Christine fell into an easier sleep. Soon, Mme Giry slumped in her chair, the fatigue drawing at her strength. Erik, much accustomed to days without sleep, watched the pair for a few more moments before marching off with a swish of his cape.

He stalked around the grandeur of the Opera Populaire, regarding everything in turn and making certain all was in its proper place. He stopped when he found something obviously out of its place: Raoul de Chagny stood guard over Christine's door, fending off sleep and losing slowly. What's the fop doing here? Erik questioned only briefly before he grimaced slightly. Of course, he thought as his features darkened. The hope in his chest, though he never realized its growth, shriveled as he watched the handsome Vicomte settle into a chair by the door and yawn widely, still fighting to hold his head up. It would be so easy. It would be so easy just to slip a rope around his neck now… He restrained himself; it was not sporting to defeat his rival like this, not when Christine was ill. She would not wish to learn of any more victims under his hands either.

The Vicomte's eyes closed and Erik's lips twisted into a grimly delighted smile, he could at least have a little fun…



A/N:

Well there you have it, part the next. I'm on an editing frenzy so it's concievable that I'll have yet another chunk up before the end of the weekend... but please don't hold me to that, just in case. :)