Thanks for your patience guys!

One of my reviewers guessed it...

Enjoy!

Nico

"MONSTER!"

Lady Champlain's petrified shriek could be heard even above the orchestra in the grand ballroom.

Christine rested her head against Erik's chest for a moment, closing her eyes in an attempt to pretend that they were far away from the scene about to unfold.

Erik quickly re-donned his mask looking down at Christine with a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes.

"I have to follow her," Christine said helplessly. "Before she works everyone up."

Erik nodded curtly. "Go," he whispered, his fingers quickly buttoning his undone shirt.

She looked up at him for a moment longer, placing a kiss on his chin.

Then, in a flurry of crinoline and silk, she was gone.

Erik watched from behind the shrubbery as Christine crossed the expanse of perfectly manicured greens, looking like an angel in the moonlight.

Soon, news of his horrible face would be spread throughout the Masquerade's guests.

There would be nothing he could do to prevent the obsessive compulsion human beings had with the painfully extraordinary.

He had sworn that he would never again be subject to the haunting stares of fearful masses.

He would never again be held before crowds like an animal in a cage.

Before he realized what was happening, Erik's legs began pumping, carrying him far from the gardens and the throngs of people who would undoubtedly want to pin him down and gawk at his terrible misfortune.

By the time Christine had caught up with Madame Champlain, she had worked up the crowds of people hovering around to hear her story into a near mob mentality.

"I have seen the devil himself!" She was saying, her frail body laying dramatically across a chaise lounge someone had dragged into the main ballroom. "That face…that hideous face will haunt me for eternity!"

Christine pushed her way through the gathered crowd. As soon as Madame Champlain lay eyes on her, she pointed a thin, crooked finger at her. "There," the old woman croaked. "Satan's harlot!"

Gasps filtered through the crowd as Christine felt herself shrink beneath the stares of nearly three hundred socialites.

"Madame Champlain," she said, her voice shaky. "Surely you do not believe that Monsieur DuLange is the devil!"

Madame Champlain shot her a stony look. "Just as I am sure you are standing before me now, I am certain I have gazed into the eyes of pure evil!" Then, in another terribly dramatic move, Madame Champlain's eyes rolled back in her head, causing her to slump against the chaise once more.

"Say no more, my lady!" Monsieur Firmin pleaded, patting the older woman's hand lightly, a sway clearly visible in his stance.

"But it's not true!" Christine protested. "Monsieur DuLange is more angel than devil!"

Raoul, who had been watching the scene from the back of the crowd, suddenly appeared at Madame Champlain's side. "Are you certain of that, Christine?" He asked.

Christine stared at him.

There was something unusual about Raoul's tone.

"I am certain," Christine said forcefully.

"Then what of his face?" Raoul asked.

Christine bit her lip and looked down.

"He has a deformity," Christine admitted, sending another shock of chatter through the crowd. "But his appearance has no bearing on his character!"

"She has been bewitched by the devil!" Madame Champlain suddenly cried out.

"No!" Christine yelled over the now boisterous crowd. "He is a man…just the same as any one of you!"

Raoul began to walk towards her. "Christine," he said, his voice soft. "Perhaps it would be best for you to retire."

Christine snatched her arm from his hand as he tried to escort her. "I will decide what is best for me," she hissed at him.

Raoul looked at her with a confused, hurt expression on his face. "Christine, be reasonable," he pleaded.

"Reasonable?" She scoffed, speaking loudly enough for the Masquerade quests to hear her. "What do you know of reason," she asked. Then she turned to the rest of the crowd. "What do any of you know of reason! You choose to condemn a man for his appearance!"

She walked purposefully over to where Madame Champlain lay. The old woman seemed to collapse into herself as Christine approached. "I would rather spend my time in the company of a person whose skin is marred, rather than with people who carry the same terrible disfigurement on their souls."

Madame Champlain gasped at the insinuation. "She's mad!" The woman declared.

Christine turned on her heel, hurrying out of the ballroom.

"Christine!" Raoul called, hurrying after her.

"Christine!"

She knew where he would be.

His back was slightly hunched, his fingers moving with incredibly deft skill over the piano he sat in front of.

Christine winced at the somber tune, as it was surely a reflection of his mood.

Only when the small boat she stood in hit the iron gate that separated Erik from her did he turn around.

Christine grasped the gate's bars, looking pointedly at him. "Erik, let me in," she said softly.

"You should not be down here," he told her, turning his back on her.

"Erik, please," she said, keeping her voice warm. "Lift the gates."

He stood suddenly with a roar, flinging a pewter sculpture at the gates. Christine fell back in the boat as it smashed against the iron, causing sparks to flutter down into the icy water.

"Go!" Erik screamed, close to hysteria. "Go now and leave me!"

Christine felt tears begin to stream down her face. "Erik," she sobbed, climbing to her feet and grasping the cold iron again. "Please don't push me away!"

He sat again, his head in his hands.

Christine watched, her heart aching for the man in the mask.

"Erik," she addressed him again. "It doesn't matter what they say…I don't care…I don't care about any of them!"

Still he ignored her.

Desperate to get his attention, the next words out of Christine's mouth were ones that had never been spoken to Erik.

"I love you!"

Her voice resonated off the cavernous walls.

Erik lifted his head, almost too stunned to move.

But move he did. As if in a dream, his long legs plunged into the lake, his large hand depressing the lever that caused the heavy gates to move slowly.

He walked towards her, his angel standing unsteadily in his small boat, her face stained with tears.

Without thinking, she too plunged into the lake, her voluminous skirts doing nothing to prevent her from rushing into Erik's arms, burying her head in his chest, sobbing into the velvet.

"I love you," she sobbed. "I love you…"

Erik let his hand come to rest on the back of her head. "My God," he said softly, his voice disbelieving.

"My God…"