A/N: Nothing really to say, but I have a quick note for two of my reviewers:

Mominator: Now, did you really think I was going to be that predictable? ;) No, I have a few tricks up my sleeve…

Hisinspiration: Erik isn't as old as he was in Kay's Phantom, but not as young as he was in ALW…so I'm thinking early to mid-forties. Probably closer to the "mid" range.

Never fool myself
That my dreams will come true…

Another Suitcase in Another Hall, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Evita

CRUCIFIXION OF A MONSTER

"Damn!"

The Vicomte's sudden outburst would have come as a surprise to François on any other day; that night, however, the young nobleman was simply voicing the frustrations François felt stirring within himself. He glanced up at the sky, an almost exact replica of the day before: Clouds coated the heavens in black, oblique clusters, and a few moments later, a lone raindrop fell from the sky and landed squarely on his nose. A crash of thunder exploded all around them, followed by a streak of light illuminating the darkness as it engulfed them.

"The other carriage is only a few minutes behind us, Monsieur Vicomte," François reminded his employer, straightening himself up from his kneeling position beside the buggy. He glanced down at the wheel, stuck in two inches of thick brown mud, and frowned.

Raoul responded with a deep sigh of aggravation, turning his gaze to the horizon and shielding his eyes from the gusts of wind that caused his auburn hair to stand on end. His eyes followed the road, winding back across the fields and disappearing into the patch of trees in the distance. He squinted in concentration, searching for the lights of the other carriage…

"You had better get back inside, monsieur," François piped up, laying his hand gently on the Vicomte's shoulder. "It's going to start raining at any time now…come, we'll wait inside the buggy." Raoul pursed his lips and folded his arms over his chest before acquiescing. François held the carriage door open, and Raoul stepped in, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling. Glancing back over his shoulder one last time, François saw a small, flickering light in the distance. "There, sir!" he cried eagerly, pointing down the path.

In a flash, Raoul jumped back out of the buggy, coming to a halt a few yards from the carriage. His coattails fluttered madly in the breeze as he stood in the middle of the road, watching as the approaching horses slowed to a halt behind them. One quick glance at the sinking buggy alerted the driver of the situation. Clutching his top hat securely to his head, he climbed off his post and hurried over to the Vicomte and François.

"Don't you worry, Monsieur le Vicomte," the new driver said. "We'll be on our way shortly…this shouldn't take more than a few minutes." His companion, one of Christine's chambermaids, joined them, peering over their shoulders at the submerged wheel.

"Gilles will have you out of there right quick, sir," she added, patting the driver's broad back and glancing at Raoul as she spoke. "He's a very handy man to have in a tight spot."

"Thank you, Sabine," Raoul murmured offhandedly, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Perhaps you'd like to wait in our carriage while Gilles works, monsieur?" she suggested, taking him by the arm and leading him away. He threw one last gaze behind him, watching as François and Gilles examined his buggy through the darkening shadows.

Taking a seat inside, Raoul cradled his head in his hands, eyes closed. "Oh, Christine…" he murmured quietly to himself, his hair falling down into his face. Another crash of thunder sounded, and a moment later, the rain began, pouring down in buckets. Raoul folded his hands to his forehead and prayed in silence that wherever she was, she was safe.

"Erik…"

All he had managed was a simple brush against her lips before she spoke. For a moment, neither of them moved, their mouths hovering mere inches apart. They didn't breathe, they didn't think. Christine bit her lower lip and turned away from him, and with their faces barely touching, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the back of her head against the wall.

"Erik, please…"

He paused, allowing a single breath to caress her cheek. Leaning forwards, he touched his lips to the corner of her pale jaw. "Please…what?" he murmured into her skin.

"Please stop. Please." He did not miss the note of desperation in her voice, a small and pleading whimper that shook him to his very soul. Such innocence, such naivety…

His body, still pushed tightly against her small frame, tensed and straightened before turning to her. "Forgive me, Madame la Vicomtess," he said softly, gazing at her with a strange, unreadable emotion. "I forget my place." Christine heard something in his tone, but she could not for the life of her place it. As soon as he looked away, her hand flew to her quivering mouth, her fingertips lightly touching the place where his lips had been for the briefest of moments. Silently she damned her own skin for tingling as it did.

Erik turned so his back faced her…so she could not see his face. He closed his eyes tightly and covered his mouth with a trembling hand. After a moment he folded his arms behind his back, eyes still closed, and took a deep, tremulous breath. "Forgive me," he breathed again, refusing to look at her. Christine said nothing, her eyes wide and glassy.

Even though she could not be certain, she had the sudden feeling that he had begun to cry.

"Erik," she whispered softly, crossing the space that divided them. Gingerly, she laid her hand on the edge of his arm, feeling the unnatural coldness of his skin creep up into her fingertips. He turned his face to the side, away from her. After a moment of indecision, she turned his cheek with her hand and looked into his eyes. To her surprise, they were not bloodshot, and there were no sign of tears; instead, they were filled to the brim with an incomprehensible sadness and hopelessness swimming in the depth of his golden irises.

Infinity passed between them, a lifetime of unanswered questions posed without a single word. The moment was broken the instant that Christine smoothed back a loose strand of hair from his face…Erik turned instinctively into the gesture, his skin melting into the grooves of her palm. His eyes closed at the tender, precious sensation of her touch, and he allowed the single, welling tear he had been saving to be escape down his uncovered cheek.

Christine hesitated, then pushed herself up onto her toes and pressed her lips to the corner of his eye, the small trickle of water running over her mouth. And for a moment, she believed she had not tasted anything sweeter than the salty savor of his tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered before lowering her heels back to the cold hardwood floor. They stared at each other for a moment; a quiet, unspoken understanding passing between them…one look at her sorrowful, downcast eyes was all he needed for confirmation. Erik's gaze fell to the ground, and he nodded before sweeping past her and heading for the door.

"That's the place…right up there, monsieur."

Raoul peered through the thickening clouds and the pounding sheet of rain at the tall, strangely-angled building atop the hill before them. "There?" he asked incredulously through the open window that separated the passenger from the driver. "You allowed my wife to stay there?"

"Well, there weren't exactly a lot of choices, sir," François called over the deafening howl of the downpour. "I did the best I could under the circumstances." He pulled the horses up to the right, beginning the climb up to the hotel. Raoul felt the wheels beneath him groan under the strain of the ascent, and he clutched the side of the buggy door tightly with his hand.

"You alerted the Girys of the situation?" he yelled over another burst of thunder, the crash causing the carriage to shudder violently. Rain now fell in drops the size of the buttons on his new jacket, and he stared up through the window at the gathering gloom.

François glanced over his shoulder. "I sent word ahead with a messenger first thing after arriving at the manor, Monsieur Vicomte." He slowed to a halt outside the front entrance of the hotel, and Raoul leapt out of the carriage, barely feeling the pelting raindrops as they fell violently onto his face. He waited impatiently beneath the veranda of the building for François as he hurriedly tied the horses to a post and followed the Vicomte inside.

The first thing Raoul noticed when entering the vicinity was the overwhelming smell of alcohol. He reeled in distaste before glaring down at François who, in turn, shrugged a bit guiltily. Raoul was well aware of how much he was sticking out in this crowd; he noticed on more than once occasion that the eyes of the men and women were following him with calculating precision, watching his every movement.

Amidst the roaring laughter and bouts of drunken argument, Raoul's gaze swept the room with unnerving anxiety. Women with thick, blood red lips smiled invitingly at him while wriggling about in other men's laps, their companions throwing coins on the table as they gambled away their wealth in states of intoxicated stupor. Raoul uncomfortably avoided the stare of the girls and followed his driver, hesitantly pushing his way through the crowd.

"Madame!" François called suddenly, motioning to a woman and pulling Raoul towards the front desk. A short, stern-faced woman turned at his beckoning, a brief instant of unrecognizing confusion lining her countenance. Momentarily her eyes brightened with recollection, and she hurried over to them, smiling widely at the Vicomte.

"Monsieur Vicomte de Chagny! We were expecting you!" she prattled cheerfully, making certain to emphasize his title as she spoke. Out of the corner of his eye, François noticed a tall, raven-haired girl perk up at his name, her gaze instantly drawn to the scene. "The Vicomtess has been doing wonderfully…she's up in her room, if you would like to accompany me in fetching her," she continued enthusiastically, abandoning her post.

"Don't trouble yourself, Madame," murmured a deep, sultry voice. Raoul and François turned on cue to be met with the sight of the woman with black locks. She flashed them both a sickly sweet smile, casting a fleeting, significant look to Madame. "I'd be happy to take them to the Vicomtess. There's no reason for you to desert your customers."

Madame pursed her lips, eyes flashing dangerously. "It's no trouble at all, Roslin." Turning to Raoul, she eagerly took him by the arm and pulled him off towards the East Wing. Raoul shot an expression of complete confusion over his shoulder at François, who shrugged and followed the troupe up the stairs, Roslin following closely behind.

Raoul gazed around at the décor as Madame led him up the stairs, feeling slightly better about the place. The atmosphere had become more like that to which he was accustomed; a lingering scent of perfume and cleanliness filled his nostrils, and he relaxed a bit. "She hasn't had anymore attacks?" he asked Madame as she guided him through the halls.

"Hmm?" she mumbled, only half-listening. "Oh, the Vicomtess? No, no…she's been perfectly well since your driver left. She's an absolutely lovely young woman, Monsieur Vicomte." Coming to a halt outside one of the doors, she pulled a ring of keys from her pocket and, unseen by the others, threw one last meaningful look in Roslin's direction.

Sighing with relief, Raoul smiled gratefully as Madame picked out one of the keys and held it out to the lock. "I want to thank you for everything you've been doing, Mada…"

They were interrupted suddenly by the tall wooden door swinging open on its own accord; Raoul stood in astounded silence, face to face with a man cloaked in shadows and donned in a black cape, a white mask glowing brilliantly from the right side of his face.

They stared at each other, the loathing evident on both their faces. Raoul's countenance drained of all color, leaving a stark, pale expression of astonishment and hatred. Erik's face, on the other hand, darkened drastically, causing the silver glow of his mask and the gleaming golden hue of his eyes to stand out. His chest heaving dramatically, Raoul's dumbfounded, wide-eyed gaze swept contemptuously over his rival…and only then did Erik realize that the white shirt beneath his cloak was still half unbuttoned.

With a flash, Raoul's hand flew to his jacket, gripping his revolver with trembling white fingers. Holding the gun out in front of him, he aimed the barrel at the center of Erik's chest.

"Raoul!"

If it was possible, the sound of his wife's voice made his eyes go just a little bit rounder. Glancing over the top of Erik's broad shoulders, he saw Christine standing in the middle of the bedroom, clutching her pink robe fiercely to her chest. Completely ignoring his three companions, who stood in the corridor, studying the scene with equal amounts of bewilderment and incredulity, Raoul jammed the pistol fiercely into Erik's chest.

He breathed deeply through his nose, watching him through narrowed eyes. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull this trigger," he muttered coldly, ramming the silver barrel harder against Erik's torso.

Erik allowed himself to smirk despite the overwhelming urge to wrap his fingers around the Vicomte's neck and squeeze all life from his perfectly groomed body. "It's much easier to make threats when one is not hanging from a noose, is it not, boy?" he hissed back.

Raoul's eyes narrowed into slits, his lips curling back into a sneer. "Raoul, please!" Christine appeared instantly at his side, laying her hand across her husband's arm.

Turning his face to the side, he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. "Sick," he muttered quietly. "They told me you were sick." With his free hand, Raoul ran his fingers through his hair, breathing deeply through his nose. "Do you know how many hours I've spent worrying myself to death about you? And now I find you here with this…this…"

"Monster?" Erik finished for him, eyebrows raised. "Creature? Thing?" He spat the last word out venomously, and Raoul took Christine protectively by the arm. "You needn't worry about your wife's good virtue, monsieur," he murmured darkly, determinedly avoiding Christine's gaze. "Seeing her as the innocent victim in these affairs will certainly ease your undoubtedly distressed conscience…" Erik paused, staring at the Vicomte through the narrow, angled slits of his gleaming eyes. "I assume you remember how effortlessly my influence seems to wrap itself around her naïvely innocent mind."

Images of the performance of Don Juan filled Raoul's mind, and with a low grunt of rage, he threw himself at Erik. Both Christine and François gave a cry of shocked protest, but before either could move, Erik caught him squarely by the neck and pushed him viciously against the wall. For a moment, no one moved; Erik's chest heaved violently with passionate effort, and Raoul's face began to darken to a dangerous shade of crimson.

"Erik, you'll kill him!" Christine gasped, her voice choked with tears and utter horror.

For the first time since her husband had arrived, Erik turned his eyes to her. "Give me a reason not to." Christine gaped at him, her trembling hand caught around her throat. A moment passed, the silence broken only by Raoul's shuddering gasps, and suddenly Erik released him. The moment he was free, Raoul held the revolver up once more, this time poised in the middle of Erik's throat. They regarded each other, and then Erik spoke, his voice low and composed. "You're a fool…but you are brave. A brave fool."

"I'd only be a fool if I failed to kill you here, today, right now," Raoul replied quietly.

Erik let himself laugh, an eerie, discomforting chuckle escaping his lips. "Shouldn't you wait until I turn around, monsieur?" he asked softly. "That is, of course, how you would kill a monster…by shooting him in the back." Raoul did not reply, and after a moment, Erik started for the door.

"Wait…"

Whirling around, Erik held the back of his hand in the air, preparing to strike the small, pale face that swam in his sight below him. Christine flinched, her eyes wide with stunned silence, as she stared at his hand poised above her. Erik was completely still for a moment, and then, ever so slowly, he lowered his hand to her cheek. Without touching her, he swept his fingers by his face, instead caressing the air beside her. Clenching his hand into a fist, he lowered his arm. Then, after something passed between their locked gazes, Erik pulled his cloak around himself and disappeared out the door, a mere black shadow.

Those left inside the room were motionless, staring at each other speechlessly. It was only then that they heard the inhuman cry of rage and desperation sound from the hall outside the doorway.

Black, uncontrolled despair seemed to have replaced the blood that pumped through his veins; the edges of his vision were lined in thick, oblique shadows, and he threw his cape behind his back as he flew through the halls. He would have liked to die right then…

It was ironic, really: How many times had his fingers wrapped around the trigger of the wooden-handled pistol he kept locked away in his cabin in the woods? How many times had he held the barrel squarely against his temple, or occasionally the soft spot between his jaw and his throat? Through closed eyes he saw the noose he had set up so many times swinging back and forth, back and forth. Yet the moment his muscles twitched to set off the revolver, the moment he placed his neck within the lasso, it had been her voice he heard in his mind… And that was what had stopped him.

But now, it was because of her he longed to get his hands on something, anything, that could alleviate just a bit of the pain; a release, even for just a moment.

It was the look in her eyes when she gazed upon her husband…that was what did it. Even when he had stood behind the statue of Apollo and listened with growing sorrow as the two had proclaimed their love for one another, he had not felt such a wanton hopelessness burst within his chest. No, the way she had looked at him just moments before…

He supposed that somewhere in the deep regions of his mind, he had believed that maybe she thought of him, even for just a fraction of the time she had crossed his. But when he saw the utter devotion in her gaze, he knew…he knew she had left everything behind in those godforsaken cellars in Paris. In those moments, he realized he had as well.

With dawning comprehension, Erik found himself standing alone in the middle of the lobby. Thunder crashed around him, but he did not notice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a head of long brunette hair, and reason fled. The girl turned her face, and some part of him knew that it was not Christine, that she was simply the woman who had hair like Christine…but Erik didn't care. The shadows around his eyes burst into flames, consuming his thoughts, and in just a few strides, he caught the girl by the upper arm. She looked up at him with surprise lining her small face, but when she saw the gleam in his gaze, her expression melted into one of fearful shock. Fingers digging into her skin, he heaved her against himself.

"Monsieur!"

He heard Madame's voice, but he did not acknowledge her. Instead, he hauled the girl to her feet and began pulling her violently towards the stairs of the west wing. "Monsieur, what…?"

He turned his face towards Madame, shooting daggers through her with burning eyes. His golden irises had exploded into a burst of bright, maniacal yellow, and Madame flinched at the sight of him, taking a few steps backwards and falling into a chair, her gaze unwavering from his face. Jaw clenched tightly, he pointed at her challengingly, as if daring her to take one more step towards him. His shaking hand curled into a fist, and he disappeared around the corner, leaving Madame alone in the foyer.

Erik stumbled up the steps, dragging the girl behind him. Rationale had long since fled…the girl he had abducted was Christine, and now he pulled her through the labyrinth of his home, her cries of protest all too familiar to his ears. The door to the room at the end of the hall flew open with one forceful push, and he shoved the girl inside.

The force of his hands sent her sprawling to the floor, and when he turned to face her, she saw the fixated gleam in his eyes. She shrieked uncontrollably as he approached her, his strides so long that he only needed to take two steps before he grasped her by the shoulders and yanked her to her feet. Only when his abnormally long fingers began to claw desperately at her clothing did she manage to fight back, beating her tiny fists against his chest.

He ignored her fierce struggles; his hands had minds of their own, ripping apart the seams of her garments with an animal-like strength. Teeth bared savagely, he gave one mighty wrench and her dress fell to the floor in a bundle around her ankles. His fingers wove into the material of her corset, and as she stumbled backwards in her hysterical, frenzied attempt to get herself away from him, her undergarments were torn from her small body, and she landed, naked, at the foot of his unmade bed. Clutching her arms to her chest, she huddled away from him, her breaths so sporadic she had to gasp for air.

With a low grunt of effort, he pulled his own shirt from his body and advanced towards her, torso heaving. She stared up at him, eyes wide and glassy and filled with a childlike fear, and he stopped a mere inch from her. He saw the outline of his body in her shining bottle-green eyes, and realization seeped into his mind. Slowly, he fell to his knees before her, his gaze locked on her face. She shuddered uncontrollably and recoiled when he hesitantly touched her hand. Never before had she felt anything so unnaturally cold…

"Christine…" he whispered, staring at her. "Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry… Christine…" He reached out to her face, but she flinched at the prospect of his touch, and he withdrew his hand. "I'm so sorry…" The fear on her face was almost unbearable, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it softly, apologetically. The girl turned her face away from him, shielding her eyes, and horrorstruck understanding began to dawn on him.

Slowly, he reached his fingers to his face, feeling the uneven grooves and blistered flesh of his right cheek. His mask… Clutching his cloak to his face, he looked around wildly for the white piece of leather. He lurched backwards, getting to his feet as his eyes searched the room for his mask. Glancing back at the girl who had drawn her hands to her eyes in order to shield herself, he reached out desperately for the door and stumbled out of the room.

Erik flew down the stairs, his cape waving wildly behind him as he landed forcefully on the ground level. Immediately he felt the eyes on him, and grasping his coat to his cheek, he headed for the front entrance. Just as his hand wrapped around the knob, he heard, "Monsieur!"

Roslin hurried towards his turned back, her jewelry clinking against each other as she followed him. Ignoring her, he opened the door and stepped outside. She arrived at the entrance moments later, peering out into the clouded darkness. Taking one last glance over his shoulder, their gazes crossed, and he watched as her eyes widened in shock.

A bolt of lightning illuminated his face, and in the following instants of complete darkness, he disappeared into the night.

Mouth agape, Roslin turned back to the foyer, eyes unblinking. Hurrying back to Madame, she did not notice the man sitting alone in the corner at the piano, paging through the loose sheets of Don Juan Triumphant, a broad smile appearing across his face.

End of Part I.