A/N: Update.

Thank you all for the reviews. I haven't got time to leave individual replies this time but promise to in the next chapter!

Thank you to my new reviewers and faithful reviewers alike!

I hope you like this chapter.

No battle is worth fighting except the last one. – Enoch Powell

Chapter 51- Eye of the Devil.

Erik's fingers curled around the cold leather of the handle as he gripped it hard. Raoul was standing to his side now, looking at him carefully, he was obviously studying the side of Erik's face he could see. Erik looked back at him, his eyes catching flecks of orange from the fire. He watched as Raoul nodded his head, acknowledging something that was now unsaid between them.

You spared me and now I have spared you.

However, the fire was slowly beginning to die down and the chill in the room was fierce and surrounding them all. Movement in the corner of the room caused them all to look around at the entering Antoinette Giry, whose face was flushed red from her rush and the cold outside. She looked with horror around the room before bolting, with no fear, past Philippe and collapsing to the floor next to Henry's body.

Raoul looked at Erik, who was staring at Philippe. He simply could not bare to look at his brother. Raoul turned to look at Madame Giry in the silence of the night before he wandered to her and lifted her from the floor, placing an arm protectively around her shoulders, and walking her to the door.

Faintly he could hear her murmur 'Oh, Meg,'.

As they got to the door Raoul took one more look over his broad shoulder, first at Erik, standing tall with the weapon firmly in his hand and then at Philippe, who was a white as the ghost in front of him.

'Raoul!' he shouted as his brother turned and ushered Antoinette out of the living room door towards the front of the house. Raoul stood still but did not turn around. 'You can't leave me here… where are you going?'

'I'm going to find my wife,' he said, his tongue cool.

'This isn't a game,' he shouted. 'It isn't! This thing… he's a lunatic.'

Raoul spun around, face red with anger, flushed with his pain he glared at Philippe's arrogant face.

'That thing is the man who has just nursed my wife back to health… the wife you nearly killed, that thing has been the only person she has felt like she can trust because of you! That thing… that thing… him…' he pointed towards Erik, whose mask was glowing orange from the shimmer of the fire. 'He… that man has been the only one not to abuse that trust and you've murdered his brother… maybe he'll feel better after he kills mine.'

And with that Raoul reached to his side and drew out his dagger before plunging himself into the black, cold night.

Erik smiled.

Philippe's pale face stared back at him, his eyes showing the dawning of the realisation that he had lost the upper hand and that now it was an equal battle. Or, at least, almost an equal battle. Erik, stepped forward and held the sword out in front of him.

'Monsieur,' Philippe said, stepping backwards. 'I'm sure we can work something out. I… I'm a very rich man.'

'As am I,' Erik said, simply, as he lunged forward catching Philippe's shirt on the tip of his sword.

He was playing with him.

Philippe fell back and tripped, managing somehow to catch himself so that he didn't topple to the floor he too held his sword aloft.

'Fine,' said Philippe as he leapt back towards Erik, aiming for his chest with the accuracy of an artist but without the speed of an athlete. Erik side-stepped and elbowed Philippe in the back sending him hurtling towards the wall by the kitchen. He hit it with a thud and then slowly turned to face his opponent.

Erik, once again, showed signs of a smile.

Philippe came forward again, this time with less force. Their swords touched.

Clank.

They fought like bears but moved like dancers around the room, their swords touching, hitting each other and then moving apart as they both stepped around the room. Erik drove his sword forward as Philippe allowed himself to be open to the attack and the tip of Erik's weapon caught Philippe in the thigh. He growled in pain and stepped away from the tackle before Erik could come with a final blow.

As Philippe limped backwards, blood began to ooze through the material of his trousers and his face grew paler. Sweat dripped from his brow and he was beginning to pant, likewise, Erik had beads of sweat forming under the places where the mask touched his face, he felt a droplet trickle to his lip. However, despite this, and the blood still oozing along his throat, Erik was not breathless, he was simply hot.

Erik pushed forward again, his sword was greeted by his opponents with a clatter and the sound of metal on metal echoed through their eardrums. Battling, they moved around the room, Philippe shielded himself behind a chair, fighting over the top but Erik used his foot to hook it away and then charged towards Philippe, aiming his weapon directly for Philippe's stomach. Philippe was too slow with his sword. He was forced to block the side of Erik's sword with his arm.

He yelped with pain as Erik stepped back, his sword glistening red along the top edge.

The blood that now dribbled along Philippe's arm was dark, it was a deep colour, almost maroon as it made it's way to the back of his hand. It looked like the river as it was a night, shining in the gentle glow of the fire, yet not nearly as unspoiled. Philippe glanced at his arm, his eyes watering with the pain, he flexed the muscles in his foreman and winced. Anger bubbled visibly on his face and he swung his sword hard at Erik, catching his hip with the flat edge of the sword.

Erik stepped back, it hurt, but didn't cut. Philippe swung again and Erik ducked under his weapon, spinning around to hit Philippe in the back of the head with the handle of his sword. He had learned many times that there was more than one way to use a rapier. Philippe fell forward, pain shooting through his skull as he plummeted towards the cold floor. He landed on his knees but somehow clung to his sword.

Erik ran towards him and brought his sword down and as Philippe managed to roll to the side, Erik's weapon crashed down to the floor next to his body. He kicked for Erik's feet and knocked him off balance, just long enough for him to struggle back to his own feet and move away. There was still blood coming from his leg and he took a quick glance at the floor before he backed away from Erik. He had left blood in his place, pools of it, and he was beginning to feel weak.

Erik whirled around quickly to face Philippe, he stared at him, his eyes burning into his rival. They stood, staring at each other, their bodies tense and alive, adrenaline forcing it's way through their pores, the war in the room was raising in heat, the stakes were high for both men.

They circled around, Erik's back now to the fire, he gripped the sword tightly.

This was life or death.

For both of them and Philippe was well aware that Erik now had the upper hand, his aching body and throbbing thigh told him that much. He had no doubt that Erik would kill him and now the only answer was to somehow get to that point first.

Philippe slashed at Erik's body, causing Erik to hop backwards, as Erik did move back so did Philippe, away from his enemy. Then he reached down to his belt, dug his hand under his open shirt and pulled out a pistol.