Christine

The nursery of the Chagny home was a happy place that evening. Raoul and Christine stayed with their son for over an hour past his bedtime, reassuring themselves that he was safe and real and returned to them quite whole. Several dire warnings were issued in Charles' direction to the effect that if he ever strayed to the forest again without an adult handy, he had better hope he became lost because he would be grounded from then to eternity when he returned home.

Christine and her husband each quietly took the tearful young nurses aside and assured them that Charles had escaped much more experienced eyes at an even younger age; this incident was not their fault and they were not to worry. Christine, watching Charles and Raoul as they lay on the floor playing lazily with her son's beloved, intricate building blocks, whispered to herself a silent prayer for the black-clad stranger who had returned her child to her. If only she knew his name, if only she could tell him how deeply a mother's heart thanked him for the gift of her boy—but he had disappeared, gone as abruptly as he had come.

Eventually Charles' sleepiness insured that his parents settled him into bed. Christine sat on the edge of his little mattress, holding him for just a moment longer before she had to surrender him to sleep. Wriggling comfortably closer in her arms, Charles asked, "Mama?"

"Yes, love?"

He gazed up at her, a curious intensity in those yellow eyes. "Do you believe in angels?"

Christine let her eyes drift shut for an endless moment, memories threatening to overtake her; when she opened them, they were bright with tears. "Yes, Charles. I believe in angels. Did one not return you to me tonight?"

"I knew you would say that," Charles answered with a triumphant smile. "I knew it."

Even for Charles, this struck Raoul as an odd thing for a four-year-old to say. "Oh, really?" He asked, smiling, from where he was kneeling by the bed.

"Yes. Because he said he knew Mama when he was an angel."

One breath froze timelessly in her throat; Christine's heart seemed to stop, the very air around her becoming still. Raoul was looking at her, eyes wide; Charles appeared to be unaware of his parents' reactions to his words. Somehow, she said goodnight, tucking him in with a normal voice; turning down the lights and leaving the room were a blur. Christine could not think clearly until they were out in the hall, a safe distance from Charles' hearing; Raoul's gaze on her was concerned. "He's dead," she whispered fiercely, her pain coming into her voice. "It's impossible. He is dead, Raoul, and that man had flesh and blood."

Raoul gently brushed away her tears. "I know. And maybe it was just a stranger who said something odd . . . but perhaps we should go to Paris tomorrow, just to be sure." He held up a hand to prevent her protest. "You can visit Meg and Madame Giry; Charles can see the Opera House. You can ask Nadir, even. And who knows? Perhaps . . ." he shrugged. He had never understood Erik; he would not pretend to now.

"Perhaps," Christine asked, her voice hurt, "I will hear the voice of a ghost from Box Five, demanding my heart and soul one last time?" She sighed, her anger spent as soon as it appeared. "Forgive me. I just . . . I cannot believe he still lives, Raoul. I've mourned him for too long."

And if he lived, why had she had to mourn him at all?

Erik

For a horse, Cesar was aging rather well. He still had strength, at least, to carry Erik's light form from Paris to the Chagny home and back again, and that was all Erik asked. Nadir was waiting for him in the Rue Scribe when he returned; the old Persian always seemed to know when Erik was going to break his promise to them both and ride out to the estate. Rather than wait for the daroga's questions, Erik began the conversation. He felt oddly cheery; giddy, even, as though taking the risk he had was an excitement his life had been too long without. "I did something incredibly foolish today, Nadir."

"You are always doing the same 'something foolish' when you take Cesar out."

"True. But today I was even more foolish than usual." Erik gestured into his home. "Tea?"

Nadir passed his hand over his eyes. "No. Yes. Tell me what you did, Erik."

He started the samovar. "I saved a child's life, or at least I believe I did. He was lost, you see."

"Nothing so very foolish in that." Nadir settled down to the kitchen table, apparently relieved that this was all Erik had done.

"Ah, daroga, but then I told him I knew his mother."

Raising his eyebrows, Nadir sipped his tea. "Still not foolish. There are dozens of ways you might have known his mother."

A mirthless smile lifted the corners of Erik's mouth. "When I was an angel?"

Nadir's cup lowered. "Oh, dear." Erik shrugged under his old friend's stare. "Do you think he will mention it to . . . her?"

That smiled widened a bit, echoing his pain. To Erik's knowledge, the daroga had not said the word 'Christine' in his presence for five years. "If he does not, he will most certainly comment on this." Erik gestured to his mask.

"Of course he will," Nadir sighed. "The boy is how old—not quite four? Inquisitive age."

And that was another item Erik decided he should probably mention to Nadir, finally. He had, for reasons he did not wish to understand, kept Charles' paternity from his old friend; it was something personal and private that he did not want to share. However, if the Chagnys came to the Persian's door—as they well might—Nadir would know soon enough anyway. "Charles turned four three months ago, daroga," he said simply.

Nadir rested his chin on his hands and evenly met Erik's gaze. "Unless I am quite wrong, that makes it rather unlikely that he is the son of the Comte de Chagny."

"No. Nor do I believe yellow eyes run in the Chagny line," Erik agreed conversationally. "Congratulations for always meeting mine, by the by; I had no idea how disconcerting they could be."

That earned him a scowl. "You know precisely how disconcerting they are and use that to your advantage every chance you get," Nadir corrected irritably. Quietly, he added, "How long have you known that he was your son?"

Erik'ssmile softened, just a little, into an almost content look that even Nadir had rarely seen lurking behind the mask. "Since the moment I first saw him."

Raoul

Andre and Firmin were delighted, they said, to have two of their patrons visit; it had been years since the Chagny family had set foot in the Opera Populaire, but their donations had remained regular and generous. When Christine asked for a small favor, they informed her that as such a consistent patron, and as a former diva of that very opera house, anything within their power would be granted her. If they were surprised by her request—to sing from their stage one last time—they did not show it; they simply gathered the orchestra members who were in the opera house at the moment and ushered the entire Chagny entourage into the auditorium. Madame Giry and Meg, who had taken La Sorelli's place as a principle dancer for the company, went to the stage with Christine, as did Raoul and Charles.

She began with a duet from the Garden Scene in Faust; Raoul's heart ached to see the shattered expectation on her face when there was silence at the tenor's entrance. Christine shook her head and requested a different duet, something with a little less . . . history between them; a sweet lovers' ballad. Still, there was silence when the time came for the tenor to respond to his love's questions.

He thought she would give up, then; perhaps she would wish to be taken to the Rue Scribe entrance, or she would ask the whereabouts of the Persian. However, even he was startled when instead of requesting another duet, Christine asked M. Reyer for Elissa's solo in act three of Hannibal. History, indeed . . .

Christine's voice soared in an aching regret for a lost love.

"Think of me, think of me fondly,

When we've said goodbye

Remember me, once in a while

Please promise me you'll try. . ."

Erik

Hidden beneath one of the stage's trap doors, his head bowed in his arms at the pain in her voice as she sang the duets, Erik listened in sweet agony to the song of his angel. When she asked for that song, his head snapped up in disbelief. She thought he had forgotten her? That he did not think of her every hour of every day? Christine believed he had to be asked to remember her?

She could have sung almost anything else, and he would not have joined her for the world. Without him, she was safe, if broken-hearted; he would only introduce new levels of pain into all three—no, four—of their lives.

But he could not allow her to believe he had simply forgotten.

Erik appeared silently behind her on the stage, his hands resting on her shoulders, and raised his voice into the next part of the song.

"When you find, that once again you long

To take your heart back and be free

If you ever find a moment

Spare a thought for me,"

Christine did not turn to look at him, but one of her slender little hands came up to grasp his. She continued, and he smiled at the changing of the lyrics.

"We always said our love was evergreen

And as unchanging as the sea,"

He smoothly slipped into the music again, not quite able to keep a bitter pain from his voice as he sang,

"So if you can still remember

Stop and think of me,"

Now she did turn to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears at his tone. Gently rebuking, Christine's voice floated throughout the auditorium.

"Think of all the things we've shared and seen

Don't think about the way things might have been

Think of me, think of me waking

Silent and resigned,"

Erik's answer was an apology that flowed through his eyes and tone, glinting with a memory of her doing just that . . .

"Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind

Recall those days, look back on all those times,

Think of the things we'll never do

There will never be a day when I won't think of you,"

Unbidden, another voice crossed the air and slipped around them. Raoul seemed almost to be speaking to himself, but both Erik and Christine heard the words quite clearly.

"Can it be? Can it be them?

Together as they were?

She loves him still, but I cannot tell

Is this a blessing or a curse?

They may not remember me

But I surrender her,"

A sad, painful smile on her lips, Christine turned and quietly sang to her husband.

"You could see that I belonged to him

You saw my heart before I knew,"

She turned back to her heart's beloved; Christine and Erik joined their voices into one perfect, beautiful sound, their eyes and hearts wholly on each other as they cried out,

"There will never be a day when

I won't think of you!"

A/N: Tell me what you think! Please r&r—I want to know how this came across. To all my reviewers—thank you so much! Keep reading . . . more to come!

Lindaleriel: Thanks for the review—I'm sorry that I can't write RC for you, but I just . . . can't. At least I'm being sort of nice to the poor boy, right? I mean, he's not evil Raoul in this one. Yes, this will end EC, but . . . just keep reading.

Erik-Meister: Thanks!

Mominator124: Thank you so much—that was an awesome review (as you can see, I'm taking your suggestions to heart :D ) Hope you liked the "Think of Me" bit . . . I could just hear Raoul saying, at his part, "I surrender her" instead of "I remember her", which is kind of where the idea for thisstorystarted. Thanks again!