Sorry it's taking so long to get these out. You know, real life. It sucks. I'm glad you're enjoying this, and I have no intention of abandoning it, so enjoy!

RAOUL

I gazed across the table at Christine, whose lovely features were highlighted by the single candle in the middle of the table in such a way as to make them positively seraphic. Verrill had already been put to sleep, and we were enjoying a late, romantic dinner together. There was a feeling of warmth all around, defying the creeping chill of autumn that was beginning to take hold. I would have felt very well contented, but for one thing that was nagging me. An odd feeling in the pit of my stomach that I could not place or explain had been plaguing my waking and sleeping hours for the past few days. I knew that my brain was forgetting something that my gut was apparently remembering, but the latter was completely inept at communicating with the former, so the sensation simply persisted.

Somehow I had gotten into my head that a good meal filling up my stomach would dispel the obnoxious flutters, so I had eaten for two that night. This served only to make me very sick to my stomach and make my trousers feel quite constricting. Christine was sipping her wine and making light conversation, about the weather, the goings on in the town, Verrill's favourite stories and such. I attempted to return the conversation despite my clandestine frustration at my own forgetfulness and the ebbing and flowing urge to vomit, but could not bring myself to touch the wine. The thought of putting anything else in my stomach, even in liquid form, was enough to make me queasy.

"Oh, and today, when I was out shopping, I found this, and I knew it would be the perfect present for Verrill!" She said, retrieving a miniature tambourine from a package on the nearby credenza.

"What's the occasion?" I asked absently, while my thoughts were really focused on a discrete way to loosen my belt.

"Oh, Raoul, I'm ashamed of you!" Christine scolded playfully. "You can't even remember your own son's birthday?"

Click.

Presently the fluttering sensation in my stomach was substituted with one recalling a load of bricks settling in the bottom. This was amplified by the fact that I had just consumed about as much in the past hour as in the past three days. I remembered suddenly. Etoile and Erik, whom I had felt so guilty for leaving, I know felt guilty forgetting. And tomorrow was the only day I had to see how Etoile was getting along; and, almost as importantly, to prove to Erik that I was a man of my word. However, it would be just as easy not to go. I could forget about them, couldn't I? I could pretend Etoile had never existed, just as I had pretended Erik had never existed until she was born. Just like Christine still pretended. Erik had seemed a little off the last time; he had been to coldly civil, to reasonable, to sane. I knew that I couldn't count on the possibility that he was a changed man. Fulfilling this particular promise could quite possibly be synonymous with digging my own grave. Wouldn't it be so much easier just to walk away?

No. No, not for me. I knew that I would be haunted by guilt, among other complex emotions, for the rest of my life. If I thought the butterflies of the last few days had been difficult, imagine the agony of swallowing this sparrow. I wanted to see how Etoile was doing. In the few hours which I had known her I had become attached to her. Wasn't I, indirectly, just as much her father as Erik? She had spent more time with me than with her mother, at least. I had a responsibility to her, but also a responsibility to Christine. Etoile was still Christine's child, albeit a child Christine had never heard from, and I felt the need to protect her as a service to Christine.

I wondered what the hell I was thinking giving her to Erik in the first place. Erik was a dangerous and unstable man, not to mention a thief, murderer, and stalker. How could he possibly take care of a baby? How could a man who had likely been shunned by his own mother and lived alone most of his life know anything about playing with children, feeding them, changing their filthy diapers, keeping them from getting hurt. I wondered if he treated her well, if she liked him, if she took after him. I wondered if she wore a mask like his, if she had contact with anyone other than him. Biting my lip so hard it hurt more than my stomach, I wondered if she was even still alive.

"Raoul?"

"Yes?" I stammered, starting out of my reverie.

"Raoul, are you alright?"

"Of course. I had a bit much to eat, but other than that, I'm very well, actually. It's a beautiful night isn't it?

Christine frowned. "Alright. I just…I thought I saw you crying a few minutes ago. Are you sure there isn't anything bothering you?"

"No, no. It's just that…that…" I thought fast, and was forced to make a fast decision, which gave me the distinct impression I would spend the rest of the night regretting it, along with my several helpings of supper. "Well, I just received post that a very dear friend of my family has fallen ill, and was absent-minded enough to promise I would set out for a visit tomorrow night. I can't believe I forgot about Verrill's birthday."

"Oh, that's such sad news," said Christine, pulling her chair next to me. She wrapped her arms about my shoulders and laid her head on the right one. "Of course, you must go; it really wouldn't be kind to go back on your word. Besides, you won't miss much. Verrill goes to sleep early." She smiled.

I took a deep breath. "I love you, dear," I said, and felt awful.

Though Christine did her best to comfort me, I spent the rest of the night swinging between dread-filled despair and acute nausea. She sensed that there was more wrong then I was letting on, though I don't think she even came close to guessing the extent of it, and sat up with me quite late. However, my wife wore out before my horribly frayed nerves, and drifted off to sleep a little after midnight. After a few hours' futile attempt to follow her, I angrily threw off the covers and descended the stairs to the study.

I tried to distract myself with a book, but found after a while that I had not turned a page in about an hour. I must have dozed lightly on and off in the armchair, for I found myself watching the sun rise with a stiff back, a disgruntled stomach, and a book hanging loosely from my grip. The sun continued its customary climb upward, seeming to spite me as I willed it to go back down or at least stay put. I could almost see the veins in my own eyes.

"Raoul, dear," Christine remarked, entering the study several hours later with a rosy Verrill, "you look like you had a horrible night."

"Do I?" I asked. "It must be something I ate."

"Well…if that's all…I'm putting together a big dinner for everyone in the house today. Come help Bridget put up the decorations. There were all sorts of lovely things left in the attic by the previous owners! And we can sing while we do it!"

I didn't have the heart to remind Christine that Verrill wouldn't know a thing about the decorations unless he happened to walk into some of them. I decided it was best that I kept my cynical mood to myself. Wearily, I set off to get properly dressed and erect the various streamers and baubles Christine and the servants had brought down from the attic. All morning Christine whirled around the kitchen singing gaily, slightly inconvenienced by the restive Verrill always at her hip, and her beautiful voice actually did help raise my spirits, as did the ten or so cups of highly caffeinated tea that I slammed down upon entering the kitchen. However, when the clock struck noon, I found myself yearning for something harder than tea.

We set the table elaborately, and sat down to eat, Verrill in his baby chair next to Christine. She fed him while chattering with the various servants and the milk man, who happened to have our house as his last stop that day, and so accepted our invitation to join us. I tried very hard not to be to quiet, and fear very much I may have talked too much.

Verrill was delighted by the small tambourine, and began to beat it noisily immediately, effectively clearing the dining room in less time than it took to fill it. Christine laughed and talked some more while assisting with the clean up, and I nodded a lot and heard very little. I felt that I would soon burst from my anxiety.

Christine went to lay Verrill down for his nap, as I sat in the parlour alone, staring off into space and compulsively tearing up a small bit of paper I had discovered in my pocket. When she re-entered the room, I stood up. "I suppose I should be along now," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly, for she looked concerned.

"Yes…" she replied, unconvincingly. "But Raoul, if there's anything wrong…"

"I wouldn't hesitate to tell you any more than I would hesitate to bandage a cut," I answered gracefully.

"Right…" she said, somewhat thrown by this unconventional idiom. It is amazing what your brain turns out when it's preoccupied, I mused. "Well, then. I love you." She wrapped me in a tight embrace. I felt elated and doomed to the innermost circle of hell at the same moment. I wished I could have frozen time in that spot, and just remained entwined with Christine until the earth fell into the sun, but unfortunately I was doomed to visit that damnable creature who hadn't seen the latter in years. Sighing, I donned my hat, coat and scarf, for the weather and for the chill that I acutely remembered feeling the last time I took the underground route to Erik's "lair", and walked out the door.

Several blocks and a short carriage ride later, I was on the train. The train that would carry me into hell, and if fate smiled on me, back out again. As the wheels began to turn, I felt suddenly aware of my exhaustion. I was coming off of the caffeine from the tea, and motion of the train gently lolled me into slumber. I turned to the passenger occupying the seat beside me. "Excuse me, but are you travelling to Paris?"

"As it happens, yes. Why?" he asked, with a slight note of distrust.

"Would you mind waking me when we embark? I've had a rather too interesting day."

"Oh, of course. I know exactly what you mean," he responded, accompanying it with a wink and a nod.

I had very little time to contemplate what he could possibly be referring to before I drifted off.

NADIR

Erik was, to put it simply, absolutely mad. The thing that pushed this over the line separating something to be concerned about from hilarity was his transparent attempt to conceal it. "Do you think the fool will actually come?" he asked, failing miserably at sounding nonchalant. I had lost count of the amount of times this question had been posed to me, and also of the total of creative disguises that had accompanied it.

"Erik, I don't know. They live over near the boarder. I never see them during the day. I know nothing about them. If he comes, then he comes. If he doesn't, then he doesn't." For a second I regretted my exasperated tone, seeing Erik straiten and observing an angry gleam in his eye.

"If he comes then he will likely die, and if he does not there is little chance he'll survive," grumbled Erik.

"Erik, I have your word…"

"Yes, yes, you have my word, for what that's worth," he replied flippantly.

"Etoile, dear, stay away from the fireplace! Away!" Marie Perrault's voice echoed from the other room. Etoile ran giggling into the room, and then disappeared behind another door, swiftly followed by Mademoiselle Perrault.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me for the first time that day. "Erik, if the Vicomte does come, how is he getting here? I mean, you don't think he'll come through the torture chamber again?"

"As per usual, I've thought of such things before you, Daroga," he drawled. "I left a note with the honourable Madame Giry, to deliver to the Vicomte if he should appear."

"What did you tell him to do?"

"To come by the lake entrance," Erik said simply. I figured pointing out that there was an impossible labyrinth leading up to said entrance that would certainly detain him for quite a while was somewhat pointless. Instead, I decided on more basic matters.

"You are going to invite him in for supper, aren't you?" I asked. Erik stared at me incredulously. "Well, it's only polite."

"Daroga, you are already stretching my nerves by forbidding me to harm the wretch," he snarled. "Now you want me to eat supper with him as well?" His eyes flamed beneath his mask.

"Well, what else are you going to do?" I asked. "'Oh, here she is, look at her, she's healthy, isn't that lovely? Well, nice seeing you, goodbye' and slam the door in his face?"

"Why ever not?" Erik retorted.

"Erik! You…"

"Alright. ALRIGHT! You have your way Daroga. I'll invite him in for supper. But know that the value of my word is sinking every second!" He stormed off toward the kitchen. Figuring he would need the help, I followed him.

"Daroga. When one storms out of a room, it is generally one's intention to escape the present company!" He raged.

"As if you are going to make a meal by your lonesome?"

He glared at me for a minute, but then turned and began busying himself cutting up some bread. Interpreting this as a concession, I started to sort out the dishes we would need.

Etoile barrelled into the room after we had been wordlessly preparing our rather paltry meal for a while. "Papa, papa!" She shouted, wrapping her arms about Erik's leg. His gloomy, threatening face broke into a mischievous half-smile as he picked her up. She squirmed a bit, not liking to be touched, even by her father, but settled rather quickly.

"Etoile," said Erik gently. "Today is your birthday. Because I want you to have one. It isn't at all like a requiem, you see. My mother was being quite a dolt when she told me that. It can be quite a happy day, when one chooses to celebrate it."

"What?" Etoile asked, confused, looking quizzically at Erik, who laughed warmly.

"Never mind. We're having a special supper tonight, and I'm going to give you a present."

"But why?" Etoile asked.

"Because you are born this day, precisely one year ago. And it was an important day for both you and me."

Etoile nodded slowly. I was certain she understood, but apparently Mademoiselle Perrault, who had followed her into the kitchen, was not. "It's like Christmas, Etoile."

"Christmas?" Etoile murmured. Now she was confused.

"Christmas is the day Jesus Christ was born. It's a very special birthday."

"As far as I'm concerned, her birthday is far more important than any Jesus'," said Erik darkly, setting Etoile down. She scurried away with relief.

"Come, Etoile," said Marie Perrault nervously. "Nadir and your papa are busy." She led Etoile out of the kitchen.

Once we had gone back to work for a short while, Erik turned to me again. "I haven't got any milk." He said matter-of-factly.

"Talk to Mademoiselle Perrault. I'm not getting it," I said. "I have to stay here and distract you from contemplating amusing forms of homicide."

Erik looked faintly amused, but swept out of the room imperiously before I could get a second glance. "Well!" I huffed, rolling my eyes. When was he ever going to learn there was no need to show off to me? I found it fairly bothersome.

When he returned, he was just as ramrod straight and aloof as when he had left. "Can you keep an eye on Etoile for me while Mademoiselle Perrault is out?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, fine." On my way out, I laid a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered under the touch a bit, even through his cloak, jacket, and shirt. "Erik, calm down a bit, would you?" I pleaded.

"Daroga…" But I turned and left before he could slap me with some witty retort.

I found Etoile in Erik's and her room, drawing on the wall with the stub of a lead pencil. When I entered, she turned around and sat obediently down in her crib. "Daroga, who's Jesus?" she asked. Etoile, probably going off of Erik's example, always called me Daroga. I had tried to get her to call me everything from just Nadir to Monsieur Kahn, but she always insisted on Daroga. It had been one of her first words.

I fielded the question carefully. "Well, some people consider him to be their god."

"What's that?" she asked.

I faltered. How could I explain this one? Maybe I should let Erik…

"Daroga!"

"The creator of everything, traditionally," I explained, "but there are many different traditions. You should ask your father about it later."

"Oh," she replied. She did not go back to her half-complete drawing, but sat fidgeting, in what appeared to be deep rumination. It made me slightly queasy to watch her stick her tiny fingers into the awful crevices in her ruined face, running them across the tender skin at the bottom. She also mussed up her one complete eyebrow quite a bit, which didn't help her in respect to looks very much at all. I didn't think it wise to leave her there alone, knowing that she had Erik's undeniable talent for getting into trouble, but was becoming quite bored with staring at the idle girl. Thankfully, before long Mademoiselle Perrault returned to relieve me.

Eventually, Erik and I were through denying convention as two men in the kitchen, Etoile finished her drawing and settled, consequently causing Marie Perrault to be finished with her job. We all sort of gathered in the drawing room near the fireplace. Etoile sat restlessly on the floor, playing with a large insect she had discovered on the ground. Mademoiselle Perrault and I sat awkwardly on the couch, and Erik paced furiously. Every time he changed direction his cloak whipped out menacingly behind him.

"If he doesn't come within the hour, I shall assume he is not coming at all," he stated.

"Sounds fair enough," I remarked, exhausted.

As if on command, the alarm bell near began to ring. Etoile, irritated, covered her ears with her hands. Erik halted and stared at it, then briskly made his way toward the front door. I followed him, flustered and anxious. "Erik, what do you have a mind to do?"

"Let my guest in, Daroga," he said venomously.

"Erik…"

Erik worked the mechanism that unlocked the door, and sure enough, the Vicomte, looking as thoroughly harassed as Erik, could be seen making his way across the lake. Erik stared at him unabashedly, while I watched Erik. Though he had proven himself to me several times to be a friend, I still didn't trust him as far as I could throw him.

Presently, the Vicomte approached the shore, and Erik swiftly and soundlessly assisted him in docking the boat. When they were through, they stood facing each other, for a time.

"Erm, hello," said the Vicomte nervously.

Erik simply stared back. I saw his hand moving treacherously toward the cloak pocket where his Punjab Lasso was stashed…

"Hello, welcome, I trust you found your way with some ease," I interrupted. Erik snapped his head around toward me like an owl. He looked angry, but I saw his hand fall back at his side.

"Hello sir," he added, in a deadpan.

"I…I found my way with some difficulty," the Vicomte replied.

"Please, come in," I said. Erik opened his mouth to speak, but then shut in again and simply continued to glower at me.

Mademoiselle Perrault fluttered over. "Oh, hello sir, I'm Marie Perrault."

"Raoul de Chagny," the Vicomte answered, appearing slightly puzzled by her presence. They shook hands tentatively.

"And here is Etoile," Mademoiselle Perrault said, leading her by the hand. Etoile looked up at the Vicomte for a long minute, then toddled over to Erik, from whose shadow she could observe this newcomer safely. The Vicomte didn't appear at all disgruntled by uncovered countenance, which seemed to help Erik relax a bit.

"Etoile," he said, "this is your…Uncle Raoul."

Etoile hesitated another moment, but then gingerly made her way toward Raoul, and tugged on his pant leg. Raoul crouched down and smoothed back her hair a bit. Etoile had, within that first year, acquired a long shock of dark hair, resembling her mother's closely, that went all the way down her back and fell into her face. It was rather tangled, as she wouldn't allow us to put a brush to it, much less a scissor.

The Vicomte shook his head. "My, you have grown." Then he turned. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for your…erm…hospitality, and go before I start to im—"

"Nonsense," I said, "Erik was going to invite you to stay for supper. Weren't you Erik," I said pointedly.

"It seems Erik can't speak for himself anyway," the Phantom growled, "so who am I to argue?"

As Mademoiselle Perrault led the Vicomte into the dining room, followed by the intrigued Etoile, Erik and I hung back for a second to talk. "Daroga," he snarled, "I am perfectly capable of representing myself. I have no openings for a spokesman."

"Erik, I know very well what would happen if I weren't here. I'm here to help you, to keep you from doing things that you will regret."

"Why don't you trust me?" he replied, raising his voice.

"It's not that I don't—"

"Of course it is! Don't feed me such empty platitudes! I know you better than that. I know the world better than that, and you are just another member of it. Yes, Daroga, you are just like every one of them. 'Oh, look at that poor, lost soul' your little heart says. I don't need to be your charity case or your penitent. Do not conceal how much you hate all this time you spend down here! I know I'm just here to help you earn your little points toward your entry into paradise. Don't try to placate me!" he bellowed, as I opened my mouth to protest. "Enough! Enough…" he trailed off weakly, and left me standing there, alone. I felt as though someone had just dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. He was wrong, of course. Perhaps I did pity him, perhaps I was trying to save him, but I did not hate him. But how could I convince him otherwise? Erik was a pig-headed man. I wondered if he would ever forgive me.

Breathing deeply, I entered the dining room. I expected Erik to show evidence of our fight, but his composure remained as stolid and majestic as ever. He did not even acknowledge my entrance. The meal went on in silent fervour, every once in a while the Vicomte, Mademoiselle Perrault, and Etoile piping up, but they were quickly silent. Eventually Raoul managed to keep a steady flow of conversation with Etoile, and Erik watched them like some sort of jealous bird of prey. Eventually, he stood up, leaving the room, and returning shortly with an old case and a package of new, sharp pencils. "These are for you," he said to Etoile, as tenderly as he could muster. Etoile was delighted over the pencils but puzzled over the case. She opened it slowly. Inside was a beautiful old flute. She ran her fingers against it gently.

Erik reached over, taking the three segments of the instrument and putting them together. He then put it to his lips, and played three clear, resonant notes. Etoile clapped her hands, and Erik handed it to her. Her fingers tried to mimic the position her father's had been in, but were yet too small to do so comfortably. Erik smiled, but it was a slow, tired smile. "We can play more tomorrow. Right now, it is time for you to go to bed."

"I don't want to," Etoile protested. "I want to stay here with you and Uncle Raoul."

"Nevertheless," Erik responded, "to bed you go." He scooped her up and turned to go. The Vicomte cleared his throat.

"Can I…Can I put her to sleep?" he requested hesitantly.

Erik stopped. He thought for a while. Then, he replied, "I suppose that would be acceptable," and deposited the twisting toddler into the Vicomte's arms.

Erik and I looked each other in the eyes, neither of us breathing or blinking. Mademoiselle Perrault appeared uncomfortable.

"I hope you do not really think what you said, and if you do that you still trust me enough to accept my assurance that it is not true."

"Whatever the case, I think it would be wise to part company for this night now."

"I can agree to that."

I left with the Vicomte, escorting him back to the surface, and we went our separate troubled ways: he, home to his wife; I, home to my empty room