Disclaimer: I no own, you no sue.

Erik: Your grammar is deplorable.

Alanna-Of-Olau: Tis true. Thank goodness for Betas.

Beta Note: To my dearest squeakiness and all her fans,
Hope my additions and editing can bring a flow of tears to your respective eyes. It has been a long wait, but I hope it was more than worth it. For the time being, I remain,

your faithful beta.
Jazzy (Miikirin)

Author's Note: (Ducks flying rotten vegetables) I'm sorry! I never meant to go so long without posting I swear it will NEVER happen again. At least I have a longer chapter for you, much thanks to Jazzy my Beta, and for the first time this story... ERIK'S POV

Chapter 6

I now read the obituaries on a daily basis, although I do not know why. Perhaps it is due to the fact that I myself have been the cause of so many deaths that it has driven into me a morbid fascination, leading me to tally it, though it really doesn't matter. That was how I took the paper that day, as I did every day. I'd take a quick trip above ground to the nearby newsstand. The man that worked there had long learned long not to question to my masked face. I would then give him 5 francs, though the paper only cost 2, a small price to pay for his silence.

As any other day, I had swept down to my lair, busying myself with my own thoughts. The grey world behind me slowly stretched to life, and I left it without a second glance. I had taken a seat at my organ, opening the paper rather than my music, quickly turning to the back where the obituaries were located. I scanned the pages, briefly registering the name that appeared to be of no meaning to me. I hadn't expected this, but a single name caught my eye; printed three fourths down on the page in front of me was the name of the siren whose voice had captured me years ago, the one who had held my heart and still holds it now, even in death. Only now her name was decorated with a train of titles she had gained when she had married. The Countess Christine de Chagny. Dead from a fire at the estate. Two days ago.

Had it really been two days? I had always thought my soul to be chained with hers, to feel pain and happiness with the rise and fall of her chest. Yet she had been dead for two days without my knowledge. I remembered devastation with the utter sinking of heart as my world momentarily blurred and stung. Anguish gripped my chest tightly as a voice rammed acrid words into my mind: you let her go. You let her go. As if my knowledge could've saved her.

Guilt and despair dominated my world for the following days. I simply existed from corridor to corridor, wing to wing, wandering the passages that I knew better than I knew myself. My body and soul had built a compact wall around myself, numbing all feelings to the outside world. Days, weeks or months might have passed, for who can tell down here in the darkness. It was the news that tore down my walls and ripped apart my curtain, and I must admit that it indeed did surprise me. I heard news that those two fools, the managers of my Opera House, were declaring bankruptcy and planned to draw the curtains on my theatre, for good. I panicked, for I knew that I could not survive were that to occur. The Opera House was my home; it was the last thing that kept me attached to the physical world and grounded my senses.

Another wave of guilt and dread washed over me. I had to admit to myself that I truly did have a knack for destroying everything and everyone around me, save for music. Due to my actions of earlier years, patrons found the Opera House to be bad investment; consequentially, the Opera Populaire was now in dire need of funds. I've heard the managers discussing the closing in their office and found that my home would only have one more week before the curtain would draw on the opera forever.

If I had been in a state of utter devastation before, this news brought it to an impossible magnitude. However, I soon realized that I was the only one privy to this information, for I had noticed no change in the attitudes of the ballet rats, the orchestra or the stagehands. As dawn arrived on that final day, for the first time since Christine's passing, I went to box five to watch the last of the practices, willing to hear even Carlotta's soul tearing shrill so that I could hear the music played one last time before the final performance.

As I had expected, the managers came in to stop the practice to make the announcement. Most of the reactions of those present were expected, yet it didn't take me long to realize Madame Giry was absent. I was surprised, for it was most unusual for Madame Giry to miss a practice. At the corner of my eye I noticed Meg Giry nearly sprinting down a side isle, although the others didn't seem to see. Deciding that I had seen enough of the bedlam on the stage, I followed her, hoping to learn the reason as to why Madame Giry had not been in attendance.

I contented myself to watching from a shadowed window as Meg sped past the doors at the end of the entrance hall. Lo and behold, there stood Madame Giry, just outside the wailing room with a strange woman holding a rather young child. From this distance, I was unable to hear what was being said, yet I assumed Meg to have already informed Madame Giry of the latest tragedy; that women appeared to be near hysterics. After a several moments of conversation, the woman carefully set the young boy down next to the heavy doors, and walked proudly into the Opera House.

The woman returned quite quickly, much to my surprise. I assumed all to be well, should that ever be the case again, and was about to take leave when a scream stopped me cold. The noise seemed to have originated from a woman who was screaming at the top of her lungs; it was a voice so shattering that one might have mistaken it for Carlotta's singing. I looked out the window once again and saw no great catastrophe that could have caused such a response; instead, I saw that the woman who had been there with Madame Giry run and shield the child, all the while screaming hysterically at the other woman, who in turn promptly fled. With all that settled, the woman, the child and the Girys rushed into the Opera House, leaving the street looking no different than before.

I had honestly tried to relax before the performance, but had instead found myself filled with an unquenchable burst of restlessness, so demanding that it drove me to my feet and eventually, to the upper passages of the Opera House. As I cruised through the walkways, I heard the usual sounds of anticipation before a show and realized how it had changed. The ballet rats sobbed instead of twittered and the stagehands were drunker than usual, had it been possible. Everyone seemed to know it was the last time. Out of sheer sentimentality, I decided to seek out Madame Giry to thank her for her help throughout the years, it seemed only appropriate. Swiftly, I scoured the dormitories for her and found her preparing to knock on the door to a room that was, as far as I knew, unoccupied. Before I could say a word the door was pulled open, and a young woman stepped outside to speak with Madame Giry.

I was surprised that I did not recognize this girl, but I quickly surmised that she had been the one standing outside with the Girys earlier. Madame Giry asked in a hushed voice whether someone, whom I assumed to be the boy, was asleep and the woman replied in the affirmative. Then Madame Giry stepped inside, and the woman thanked her before leaving the room and closing the door behind her. Curiosity gripped me, and so I decided to follow the girl. Madame Giry would have to wait for later.

She walked briskly down the hallway and I followed not far behind through my own passages. She stopped momentarily when she reached those idiots of managers and swept pass them with little acknowledgement, skipping over pleasantries. Andre and Firman quickly turned to follow her, trailing after her as they so often did with Carlotta.

I stood there waiting, puzzled with this woman's purpose here. Judging by the reactions of those around her, she seemed to be a relatively important character. Luckily I didn't have to wait long before the gentlemen followed her back inside looking quite ruffled and bewildered. From their conversation I soon learned her name, Lady Catherine de Montressor, the one who had just purchased the Opera House.

I smiled despite myself; it was perhaps the first genuine smile I had since I had learned of Christine's death. With a livelier gait, I strode down to my home to compose a letter of welcome, as was only fitting. An hour before performance found me standing on the catwalks awaiting her arrival nearly as anxious as some of the staff. Although, unlike them, I knew what it was that we were waiting for.

I had almost missed her quiet appearance as she descended from the back. She stood quietly observing while other chattered on unaware. I felt a sense of admiration for the girl; perhaps she would not be as incompetent as our current managers.

A screech from La Carlotta interrupted my musings and I was sorely tempted to see another accident take place on stage, one that involved a lot of frills and lace and something extremely large and heavy. It would not have been difficult, however, I decided to wait and try the competence of our new little manager.

"I'm sorry if this meeting is an inconvenience to you," She began, the scathingly politeness in her voice made it quite obvious, though not blatant, that she was addressing Carlotta indirectly. "But rather than scream at those good gentlemen, I suggest that you speak, speak not scream, to me, seeing as that I was the one to call this meeting."

Laughter choked in my throat I saw Carlotta turn several different shades of crimson, puffing up like the overgrown toad she is. That is, at least until Lady Montressor quietly acknowledged herselfto be the new owner of L'Opera Populaire. Carlotta deflated at the news so quickly that she appeared about to faint. The staff did not react well at all to the news of her position, especially when she declared her absence for tonight's performance. When Carlotta tried to launch a direct attack, I decided that I had seen enough and that it was time to make my presence known. As my letter fluttered ominously to the floor, a rush of silence settled throughout the crown. Dimly, I saw Madame Giry's head snap up, looking up searchingly but unable to find me through the darkness.

The girl was trembling, though almost imperceptibly, as she bent down to pick up my letter. I silently applauded her courage as she tried to make light of the situation. In the rush of whispers that followed the reading of my letter, Madame Giry cleverly advised her to comply. Without hesitation, she replied that she would comply with all of my requirements. This was, of course, a great surprise to myself for it usually took many many trials and errors on the owner's behalf before they learned to comply. After the distraught I had been in since Christine's death, I had begun to feel a slight repulsion at the thought of doing harm to others and was grateful that I would not be pressed to do so. With this thought, I found myself making a silent promise not to make too much trouble for this woman if she would continue to be so agreeable.

I left before the rest of the cast could make an uproar, the relief that now weighted on me was intensely comfortable. It wasn't long as I walked through the passages that I realized I had begun to sing. I had not sang since the day Christineleft the Opera House, but the stable mellowness that the recent events had settled upon me pushed itself out, and I realized that in the midst of the content was hope, something I had thought long dead.

Author's Note: Please leave reviews, as they help remind me to work on the updates. Cookies to all my readers for being so patient and cupcakes for my reviewers. Till next time...