And now for chapter 6!

Thank you all for your absolutely purely wonderful reviews. Everyone, really I thank you all.

Disclaimer: I don't own it! Get it? Got it? Good.

Note: Let me just say it right now, CHRISTINE WASN'T RAPED. If you read the last part of that chapter, notice that I did not describe her surroundings at all in any way fashion or manor. If you just woke up and the last thing you remembered was a man beating you and clawing at your chest I think you would be more concerned about yourself than your surroundings. So don't worry, Christine wasn't raped.

Dedications: I want to dedicate this chapter for all you wonderful people who have reviewed. Especially to SaiyoandthePhantom. You have really helped me and given me support for getting out the next chapters quicker. All three of you have reviewed for every single chapter and have helped me more than you know. Thank you very much. Thank you to every single soul out there who has reviewed. (Bows down). Thank you. Arigato Gozai Masu. Mucous Gracias. THANK YOU! I love you all so much for reviewing.

Warnings: The usual stuff for a PG-15 story, which is really more of what this is, but just not strong enough for an M rated story. Anyhow, you have been warned. Also, Raoul acts like more of an arse.

Enjoy…

MXIXVXIXM

Erik gazed down at the sleeping form before him. Christine was sleeping soundly with her chest moving up and down in a docile state. A strange surge of emotion came over him as he watched the women before him so beaten up and tattered. It was a strange sensation he had never felt before, nor could be put a name to; it was a mixture of pain, rage, anger, grief, and empathy. It had been so close. So close. It was too close for his liking. She had to the brink of being cruelly violated in a way that he couldn't begin to fathom.

As per norm, he had been prowling his Opera house, scanning for intruders and watching the ballet and Chorus girls sneak off with there boyfriends to frolic in desire. Not much had really chanced and with no sign of a foolhardy burglar or an uninvited beggar looking for shelter from the night, Erik decided to retire for the night. He had been out much longer than usual, knowing that with the re-opening of his theatre that it would no doubt attract the occasional unwanted guest. As he had begun to descend into his lair of darkness Erik had noticed a foreign lantern illuminated his veil of black night. He had certainly not placed it there so obviously to anyone who passed. At first he assumed it was another hormone dominated youth that was on a quest from his peers to sneak into the hellish domain of the damned soul of the Opera Ghost. It certainly had not been the first one, but all of them had emerged with a right mind never to return. Erik smirked at the thought. There had been no doubt in his mind that he would find the little brat ransacking his home. Sighing, Erik had turned to the direction of the glossy black lake and his boat, which floated from side to side on the black glass surface.

Just as he had made a first step into the gondola an enraged yell caught his sharp ears. Erik perked his ears up, listening carefully. Out from the darkness he could hear a distinctly male voice yell, "You bitch," Maybe it isn't the usual burglar or impulsive teenager, Erik thought, pushing off from the boat. His ears had told him it came from the direction of the Rue-Scribe entrance. Pulling up his cloak, Erik pushed silently across the lake. The sound of struggle was getting distinctly clearer and Erik could make out the two clear voices of a man and a woman struggling. What was going on? Intrigued even more, Erik walked from his position from his boat and back into the shadows. His eyes opened in horror at the sight in front of him; a man, street scum by the looks of him, was clawing madly and in a blind rage at a bound woman before his feet who was trying desperately to push him off her. Erik knew the look of lust in his cold eyes as he beat and hit the woman harder and harder. It was only when the woman pleaded for him to stop that rage took a hold of Erik's very being. He felt as if ten thousand volts of electricity had shot through his body and paralyzed him in the spot. What was Christine doing down there? Adrenaline pulsed through his body at such a rapid rate that Erik found it almost impossible to even breathe, much less move. He could se the pain in her face, the blood tricking down, her tear stained eyes. Just as he pulled open her blouse revealing her perfect body for the bastard to relish the sight of and forced her legs open, Erik broke out of his mental paralysis and ceased to be Erik.

All Erik could remember in his rage and anger was swooping down upon the man and chocking the life out of him. He did not need a Punjab Lasso to kill someone. This man who would so vilely violate a woman, much less Christine, deserved not the gift to have the life quickly squeezed from his lungs. His hand clutched the man's throat and Erik thoughtlessly drove the life giving force out of his body. The man began to struggle against the mighty force of the Phantom above him but soon found that all strength had been deprived. His face turned from pale chalk to grey and devoid of life as Erik's grip increased all the more. Erik did not think of the person he was strangling beneath him, all his mind thought was the pain this bastard had caused Christine. The struggle ended as soon as it had begun and Erik regained control of his senses as his attention turned to the unconscious angel at his heels. Erik forgot all his anger as he cradled his fallen angel in his arms. What had she done to deserve that? Christine's breathing was sharp, infrequent and labored. Crimson liquid flowed freely from multiple points on her body. Ivory skin had become a sickening black and blue swirl of bruising and cuts. In that moment, Erik wanted to absorb all her pain into him; he wanted to free her from her pain. In the surge of the moment, Erik knew that he had to get her medical help as soon as possible if she were to have no lasting injuries. He ran as fast as his earthly limbs would allow him.

And here he was, looking down at the face of the one being he cared more for than his own life. No matter how much pain, agony and hurt she had caused him, and knowingly caused him, Erik loved her. It made absolutely no sense, but Erik did not care. He had dressed her wounds to the best of his ability, knowing there was little to be done about her broken ribs save for allowing them to be free to begin the healing process. Steadily over the past several hours, Erik noticed that her breathing came and went at more even increments and was less laborious. Erik had not moved even a fraction of an inch in the four hours she had remained unconscious lying in the bed he had picked out for her. The Louis-Phillipe room had been the only place Erik thought of that would house her safely and he hoped that Christine would find some comfort in waking up to a familiar setting.

Later on, Erik silently left from her side to make sure that none of the other bastard sons of scum were prowling his cavern under his opera house. Unknown to him that was at the exact moment that Christine woke up (A/N: where the last chapter ended). In a futile attempt to get up, Christine had stressed her ribs beyond their endurance in their current fragile state and passed out in the fresh rip of pain. When Erik had returned he found her unconscious in much the state she had been before.

XIX

The following morning Christine awoke to the sound of scurrying in the Louis-Philippe Room. Her body ached unforgiving as she began to worm her way out of the sheets. In her heart Christine knew that Erik had come to her rescue, much like that of a prince upon a white horse. It was the only plausible option; Raoul had been above ground, no doubt searching franticly for his missing wife, everyone in the Opera Populaire were fast asleep, completely oblivious to the world around them (or more likely, the her distress beneath them). The first time Christen had awoken, she was too preoccupied with the condition of her body and the points of extreme pain on her body instead of her surroundings. Her last thought before her charred ribs had given way she saw the familiar tall hovering black shadow of Erik. She had not dreamed the second time she fainted, but instead rested contently. Her unconscious mind knew she was safe in Erik's presence. "Don't move," a strong voice said gently.

Christine turned her head, rather painfully, to the direction of the doorway. There Erik stood, tall and ominous in his usual black. His facial expression was unreadable, but that was nothing new, and his white leather mask was in place as it always was. More or less, Erik looked the same as he had two years previous. Christine blushed under his hard gaze, feeling a new wave of guilt and affection for the man that stood in frame. Again Erik spoke, "You shouldn't move, it will only further the already considerable extent of your injuries," Erik said sternly. Christine felt dwarfed in his presence, a feat he had always made her feel. A sense of unknowing came over the young woman. What would Erik say? What could she say? After all, everything had been her fault. Christine lowered her head in shame: shame at being stupid enough to leave that damned hotel, shame for leaving Erik to pick up the tattered pieces of his life, and the utter humiliation at her situation. Christine did not know if that thing, for she could not call him a man (Maslin), had indeed accomplished his intended goal of raping her. For all she knew, Erik could have walked in on him violating her horribly. She crouched lower onto the bed, not caring for the cries of her broken ribs.

Erik was surprised to see her awake and up so quickly. He had had far too much experience in the matters of women being raped, and many would just refuse to emerge from the state of unconsciousness preferring to stay in their world of passive dreams and avoid the harsh truths of reality. Erik did not blame them, more often that what he would admit it, he would pray to whatever Supreme Being there was to release him from his torture and not allow him to wake. However each time he would wake the next day to Ayesha purring soundly at his feet. At the sight of Christine shrinking into a little ball, Erik wanted to take all of her pain into his body. No body deserved to be treated as such; especially Christine who's only true crime had been unknowingly intoxicating his mind with her beautiful songs. "Christine I…" Erik began, but Christine quickly cut on off.

"Why?" Christine questioned softly.

"Why what?" Erik asked, his obvious lack of people skills shining through.

"Why did you save me?" Christine said, all the more silent with each syllable.

Erik began to feel his temper rise. Why would he save her? He thought it painfully obvious: he loved her with all his being and couldn't bear to watch his Angel being raped right at his doorstep. "I would have thought that obvious," Erik said allowing his temper to remain dominant over reason.

"Don't play games," Christine replied softly, clutching her ribs in pain and allowing silent tears creep down her marred face.

Getting all the more mad Erik said, "What profit would I have in playing any games?" His voice was dangerously dry.

Christine not wanting to hear anymore of it, sniffing back a sob. "Leave me," she said.

"You did not answer my question! What profit would I make from partaking in games," Erik demanded. It was she who played the games! It was she who left him with that whelp, the Vicomte de Chagny. It was her that tore out his soul and heart with one yank and left. It was all her. Or instead was she so deeply submerged in them that even she did not see the way she toyed with people.

"Leave me," Christine said stronger, daring to meet his angry golden eyes which flashed in anger.

Erik did nothing. He knew if his tongue should move again it would unleash horrid words of insults that both of them would regret later on. Instead Erik left, slamming the door shut. The small metal latch flew across the room from the force Erik had slammed the door.

Christine let her tears flow freely, not bothering to subdue her sobs. What else should she have expected? She had left him. What else was to be expected? Not this, she thought silently. Her ribs hurt against the pressure she put on them. Finally, she allowed her pride to lose the battle and laid back down on the soft pillows. Another wave of pain hit her between the legs and the complete uncertainly of whether or not she had been raped came over her again. Christine cursed herself for being minded enough to faint. At least if she had managed to remain awake her mind would not be bombarded with the ever persistent question as to whether or not she had been raped. Christine did not notice Ayesha as she, with all her feline grace, ran across the room and didn't even bother glaring daggers at Christine.

Again, cursing herself to be damned, Christine gave up her battle and fell asleep.

VIV

Raoul tapped his foot in anger and annoyance. He had been waiting for a solid hour while the police scurried around him on obvious disorder. The officer had promised that he would have a full squad hot on Christine's missing trail before the morning light had risen. Well the sun had been up for a good several hours and Raoul was still waiting in impatience. What will it take for these imbeciles to pull their heads out and realize that my wife has gone missing, Raoul cursed. If this was how they reacted when the Vicomtess de Chagny disappeared, Raoul could only imagine all the pain in waiting that a member of a lower class family had to suffer through.

Because there was no official guest lobby, Raoul was sitting in the chamber outside where prisoners were temporarily detained. The chair he sat in was painfully uncomfortable having no cushioned seat, but Raoul said nothing and gazed at the man and woman behind the cold iron bars just across from his seat. The man was propped up against the small metal bed bolted to the wall, while the woman leaned against the wall with her arms across her rather excessive bosom. "Don't feel left out," the man chuckled coldly. "You are one of the luckier ones, mostly the street vermin just humble around in their perfectly cleaned uniforms flaunting their guns. But no, for you they scurry about like the deceiving rats they are," he spat out.

"All in the mind of what you conceder 'street vermin'," Raoul replied coldly. The man had chocolate colored hair and a thick bush of whiskers from sideburn to side burn. His eyes were the same color of his hair, but reflected his manor of lifestyle. His skin was dark and tanned giving him the look of an Arabian, or at least someone of Arabic blood. The woman was scantily clad; Raoul assumed she was a prostitute, with wild red hair and fiery green eyes. Her expression was that of disgust at the Vicomte. The feeling was mutually returned as Raoul churned his nose at the heavy makeup she wore.

"Yes, I guess it is in what you conceder the Vermin. For your pampered ass it would consist if us, the poor people who will do whatever means it takes to survive. But for us, it is your so called 'honorable' police men who take pleasure and pride of ransacking what little resources we have left. It is your police that pretend to befriend is in clever guises only to betray our location, destroying what family we have, feeding them to the wolves of the rack. Or worse, we come face to face with the National Razor while you pompous people with your money laugh in cruel mockery while our heads become separated and our souls damned. So tell me, who exactly are the street vermin," the man replied bitterly.

Raoul could do nothing but glare acidly at the two prisoners. The woman remained silent but continued to assault him viciously with her eyes. "Zahir, why do you waist your words of wise with nothing but a rich spoiled whelp?" the woman said coldly. Her voice was very thickly accented, and Raoul judged that she was Irish or Scottish.

"Annfwn, it matters not. The mind of a rich man, for he is not a whelp, cannot be swayed save by the loss of his money. Our words have no lasting effect," Zahir soothed. Annfwn spat onto the floor in disgust.

"Quiet down you two, or else it will be all the sooner you meet your appointment with the docks to Australia," a guard said as he came in through the doors. "Sir," he directed at Raoul, "Come with me and we can get to work on discovering your wife's whereabouts. She has to be in the city. No one, no matter how swift, would be able to get past the gates of Paris so quickly," the officer said. "I hope that those two have not been a bother. Nothing more can really be expected from a thief and whore," he said.

"Indeed," Raoul replied. They knew nothing. All those two, Zahir and Annfwn, were was black souls that roamed the streets. They should not be the ones to lecture him on ravaging wolves.

"After all, what would two primped and proper gentlemen know of life on the street? The cold alone would kill them off in just a few seconds," Annfwn said viciously.

"Silence wench, unless you wish to appointed with the racks," the officer threatened. "Although I would doubt you would know much of the cold since your primary occupation consists of keeping men well satisfied and warm. I have no doubt you benefit from your sinful lust," he added.

Zahir and Annfwn said nothing, just resumed their normal composer behind bars. Raoul said nothing and quickly flanked the guard. He couldn't wait until this nightmare was over and Christine back home safe and sound.

VIV

Christine woke several hours later. Her head no longer thumped painfully and her ribs had dulled to a soft pulsating ache. Again she inspected her skin; most parts were still black and blue from all the bruising. However the swelling on her eye and lips had reduced and blood no longer flowed. Awake and full of energy, for the most part given her condition, Christine could not stand spending another hour in bed unoccupied. Since her fight with Erik, Christine knew that he would no doubt be in a foul disposition. Slowly she maneuvered herself out of bed and the pain at V junction in her legs no longer seared with pain, a sign that indeed that foul creature of evil had not violated her. Her legs were still somewhat wobbly under her weight, but Christine knew it would be better hastily regain her strength at risk than to safely wait for months until she healed. For the first time she noted that her skirt, blouse and corset had been removed, leaving only her thin cotton petticoat she wore underneath. No doubt it had been Erik who had done it, but Christine was not befuddled with her usual modestly. She could only imagine the pain if her corset had remained on against her shattered ribs. She did not need a doctor to tell her that at least one of her ribs had been shattered and two others broken. She looked around the room for her lost clothing but it was nowhere to be found. Christine sighed; it was not as if she would ever wear it again. The last thing she would need was a reminder of what happened to her.

Looking around her Christine caught sight of the vanity that accompanied the bed in the Louis-Phillipe room. Upon it was a peacock colored dress that was simple and did not cling to the body. It had no hoop skirt, but one that just simply fell flat to the floor. Christine was grateful that Erik had not left her without any cloths and the dress was simple enough that it would not look indecent if didn't wear a corset. She was glad that there would be no corsets in her immediate future, or at least for a good few months with her broken ribs. She abhorred the things and cursed society and their rules for a trim and thin waste on a woman. Quickly Christine dressed. When she had finished, for the first time, she noticed that upon her pillow adjacent to where her head had been propped during sleep was a rose with black satin ribbon laced around the middle. The young woman smiled. It was his way of forgiveness. There was no doubt that pride would not allow Erik to speak the words aloud, but instead he let the rose speak for him. It was the only language of forgiveness he knew. Christine picked it up and inhaled the sweet scent.

Silently she crept out of the room. Just as to why she crept Christine did not know because after all, Erik had brought her to his lair. She looked around for his domineering presence but it was nowhere around. From above Christine could hear the stomping of feet and shrill singing of rehearsals. Too quickly she recognized the opera, it was Faust. She smiled at the memories it brought back to her. Christine could still hear the crowed gawking as La Carlotta began croaking like a toad for all to laugh at. Somewhere Christine knew that Erik had a firm hand in that, because even La Carlotta did not suddenly become the animal she so much resembled. Her smile widened when, even from stories below the light of the world above, the hollering of the maestro echoed throughout the cavernous house, "ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR, TWO-TWO-THREE-FOUR! HOW DIFFICULT IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND!" Christine hoped that Papillion had not been the target of his outburst.

As she wandered through the house Christine was in awe how much damage it clearly sustained and yet still stood just as firmly as it had two years ago. Erik must have spent months and months putting things back into their proper order. He truly was a genius, especially in architecture and music. She had never fully known of his architectural gifts then when she surveyed the repaired home. Christine continued to wander around the house until she had reached the library. It was not as it once had been. Torn pages were askew and many of the books had gone missing. In the corner a small moth eaten leather couch stood and Christine took a seat on it, not caring for its poor condition. She had lived under worse circumstances with her father when money had been a precious gift.

From above Christine could hear the lead soprano begin to screech out her favorite song from Faust. She turned her nose up as the shrilly sharp notes befuddled her ears. Even Carlotta had not been that off key in her upper register. After several more moments, the music ceased from above and the conductor's shouts could be heard again. I am surprised his vocal cords have not given out. We could have used him before. Our baritone section was hideous, Christine chuckled to herself. Once again the gentle key strokes of the piano were heard as it led into the Aria. Without really thinking, Christine began to sing along with the music. It felt like pure bliss to her soul. It had been nearly two and a half years since she had properly used her voice. She knew that it was not as it once had been but didn't care. The feeling of stretching her old cords as wonderful. Raoul had never really been one for music; it was his family name and prestige that had convinced him to become the official patron of the Opera Populaire. For several more minutes the song continued until the maestro's shouts were again heard.

"Your voice has gone flat in the years," said the deep voice of Erik.

Christine turned around and a blush crept on her checks, "I did not know you were there. If I had known I would not have burdened you. I know my voice has become stiff," she said.

"By orders of the Vicomte, I presume," Erik said with dark sarcasm.

"Unfortunately yes," Christine confessed. "The wife of a man of prestige is supposed to beyond the foolish confines of singing," she said.

"Then the society of the aristocratic deprives you of your soul," Erik said simply, taking a seat from across from her with a tattered book in hand. Christine surveyed the spine and read that it was Dante's Inferno. In her months of education and 'refinement' before she and Raoul had wed, Christine had been forced to read up on hundreds of famous books. The Inferno was one of them, and one that she bitterly detested. She never could grasp how a novel on Hell and its cruelness could become world renowned literature.

"Erik I—thank you," Christine said. At first she was going to apologize only to realize that it would no doubt spark another dispute.

Erik looked up from his book. The Inferno had always captivated him. It described his life so ideally, save for the fact that he was alive unlike the poor devils that dwelt in eternal suffering in literature. Meeting Christine's injured face he nodded. He hated to see her littered by marks of black and blue and cursed the men who did this to her. No one deserved to have a marred face, he would know. However Erik knew in time it would heal. Bruises came and went, unlike the eternal scarring of his hideous visage.

At that moment the mood between them was ruined as another infernal yell was heard, "VINCENT, IF YOU WOULD PULL YOUR HEAD OUT LONG ENOUGH TO LISTEN YOU MAY LEARN A THING OR TWO AND NOT LISTEN TO ME SHOUTING!"

Christine burst out laughing, despite the atmosphere down in the lair of the Opera Ghost. However her ribs soon called out in protest as she fell over clutching them in pain. Erik rushed over to her side to aid her however soon buckled under her as she fell from the couch. Both of them were soon entangled on the floor in a rather obscure position. Christine had tears of laughter in her eyes, even though she winced under his weight. Erik on the other hand felt weak being caught completely off guard by Christine's lack of balance. However as he pushed himself up, Erik could not help but smile a real smile at the sight of his Angel happy.

MXIXVXIXM

END CHAPTER.

I worked as hard as I could to get this out quickly. I didn't want to leave all you people hanging. I know how much it sucks to be kept in the dark. Don't hate me for my version of Raoul.

(hugs my name dictionary)

(glomps my Erik plushie)

Until next time

I remain, readers, your faithful author,

E.M.