Chapter 2

The memories came flooding back.

"Father!" Christine cried, weak and staring into nothing, "Father, where are you?" Her voice rose frantically; "Please, don't leave me! Father! Father!"

"Shhh, I'm here child," Erik told her, bathing her forehead again as he stood over her in her bed, the dormitories empty with the day's lessons. It was like any other day, except that this day his student and charge these last eight years, whom he had come to care for far more than he dared admit, lay gravely ill. It was a day like no other for the man who had never known love, never known fear grasping at him as he did now, when suddenly his Angel might be taken from him. Quietly, he repeated, "Shhh, shhh, I'm here now, I won't leave you. It's all right now."

As she closed her eyes and moaned yet again, he began to panic. She wasn't getting better; she was getting worse, her eyes glassy and her cheeks burning red. With each passing hour she sank farther from the real world. He did not know if she would live through the day. He knelt next to her, taking off his jacket and leaving it with his gloves on the footboard. He spoke to her tenderly, telling her he was here, she wasn't alone, she would never be alone. Suddenly Christine turned and reached out for him, burying her face in his shirt, her arms going around him as if she were indeed seven years old again. Her voice was tinged with hysteria: "Oh, Father, please, please, don't go, don't go, I'll be good! I promise!"

His heart broke at that, and he gingerly put his arms around his Angel for the very first time. How long had he wanted to hold her like this, and now it would be when she lay dying. He'd never even shown himself to her since that day so long ago. Perhaps it had all been a mistake, and regret for lost opportunities bit at him.

No more. Making up his mind, he climbed onto her bed, leaning back against the wall and cradling her close. At least he could hold her this one last time, letting her have the comfort of his arms around her. Kissing the top of her head, he spoke soothingly, saying whatever came to mind. "Of course you are, you've always been my good girl, don't fret now, child. I'm here, I'm not leaving you. I'll never leave you." He went back to stroking her hair, bent to kiss her forehead tenderly. She was so hot, burning up. Her eyes opened and looked right through him to something that wasn't there, and that more than anything scared him. Tears of helplessness started down his cheeks as he kept murmuring, "I'll never leave you, never, shhh, it's all right now, I'm here, Christine. Father's here. Shhh now, there's a good girl, it's all right."

At last she quieted and slept, her breathing shallow and too rapid. It was then that he became truly aware of what her loss would mean to him. He had built his world around Fleur, Meg, and then Christine. Now he faced Christine's loss, and found pain too dreadful to bear, as if nails were driving into his breast. He looked down at her and realized he saw her now not as a child, nor an adolescent, but as a young woman, beautiful and full of promise. And the realization hit him that he did, indeed, love her. He, Erik, for whom love was not possible, now himself loved. And it was a terrible burden.

She was too silent. He began soothing her again, hoping she would stir, but she did not. This stillness was awful, and he listened carefully, felt for her pulse. She was so hot, her pulse fast and weak, and he began to pray for the first time in his life. "God, oh God in Heaven, if there is such a thing, please, please don't take my Christine," he whispered, the unfamiliar words fervent on his lips. "Please, please, I'll never leave her if you only let her live. I promise to watch over her always. Please!" he choked out, and despaired, sobs racking him silently, shaking Christine with each one.

Perhaps it was the tears streaming onto her face, or perhaps God did indeed answer Erik's desperate prayer. But some time later, after Erik himself dozed off from exhaustion, Christine's fever broke.

He woke with a start, panicked that he had fallen asleep for even a second. Something was different, and he frantically felt for a pulse in Christine's neck. His hand came away damp from her throat, and her pulse was slower, stronger now. Unwilling to believe, he felt her forehead—damp with sweat, and cool to his touch, her cheeks no longer crimson. Her breathing was regular and deep, and the feeling of imminent death was gone from the room. He checked her again and again before he would let himself believe it, but her fever had indeed broken. She was going to live. "Thank You," he whispered gratefully to the unseen God.

The light was fading when there came a knock on the door, and Fleur Giry stepped inside, quickly locking the door before anyone else could see. "How is she?" she asked quietly, taking in the man sitting on Christine's bed, holding her as if she were made of fragile porcelain. There were circles under his eyes, and his disheveled, sweat-soaked clothing spoke volumes. Even through the mask she could see how drained he was. She felt Christine's forehead as Erik disengaged himself from her and stood up, laying his charge gently down and arranging her comfortably on her bed.

"I thought she was dying, Fleur," he said raggedly, a sob almost breaking from him. "But then I slept a little, I couldn't help it, and when I awoke she was…better." And he sighed deeply, running a hand over his good side. His indrawn breath was uneven.

Fleur nodded, folding Christine's hair tenderly up onto her pillow, out of her way. Christine's sleep was deep and abnormal, but no longer dangerously so. Yes, she would live, but it had been close. Relieved, she turned to him. "You did well, my dear," she told Erik, smiling at him. "I do not think she would have made it if you had not been here."

He sank down suddenly onto his knees, shaking uncontrollably. "Erik! What is it?" Fleur cried as he grabbed the bed for support, burying his face in the blankets.

"Oh, Fleur," he said thickly, talking into the blankets so that she could barely hear him. "Fleur, I'm so frightened, I don't know what to do!"

Alarmed, she bent over him, putting a hand on his shoulder. For once, he did not instantly pull away when an unexpected touch came. He was that tired, that upset. She noticed his gloves were off, too. Something he hardly ever did. "My dear, Christine will be well, she is out of danger now," she told him, smoothing the black wig back down where it had become mussed. "Surely you realize that?"

"No, that's not it, Fleur," he said, still talking into the blankets. He lifted his face up, torment in every line of his body. "I think I'm in love!"

Her expression softened then, and she carefully sat on the foot of Christine's bed near him. Fleur's glance confirmed that Christine slept deeply still. She coaxed him closer, stroking his arm as he allowed his head to lie in her lap. "I thought this day would come. It is Christine, yes?" at his miserable nod, she went on. "I have seen how you look at her this past year. I knew it was only a matter of time before you saw it, too."

He looked up at her, his face bleak. "What am I to do?" he asked hopelessly.

"Can it be love, this pain that rips at my soul? Is this what you felt for Alphonse? How did you bear it?"

Wistfully she looked at him, petting him again as one would calm a small child. "Yes, my dear, it is love. And yes, it is what I felt for Alphonse, that I must be with him or I would suffer agonies beyond telling," she said. Ever the practical one, she sighed, then went on. "Well, she is already fifteen. Old enough to make up her own mind." She fixed his gaze, her eyes piercing his with wisdom he could only guess at. "But, Erik, she is still very young. You must wait for her to come to you, do you understand?" At his nod, she continued, "She is only fifteen. True, she is a young woman, but she must be the one to decide when she is ready to return your love. On this, there can be no argument. If you try to force the issue, she may run, and you will be heartbroken." She risked cupping his chin in her hand, her eyes compassionate. "I would not see you hurt, my dear. You will do as I say, yes?"

"Yes," he agreed, crestfallen. At least now he did not have to do anything but watch and wait.