Authoress' Notes: Okay, you know the drill. Monsieur Gaston Leroux owns ALL the characters, and some text from The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber. I own a grand total of...NOTHING! Just the plot, of course. But enough of my blathering, enjoy!

(((*))) = flashbacks

(sentence) = thoughts

--

Wishing You Were Somehow Near

Chapter One: Dreams Deferred

--

Paris, 1882

"You what?" Christine Daae's pretty mouth hung wide open in absolute shock. Did he just say what she thought he had?

"I have booked passage on a ship that will take us to London. We will start afresh over there Christine. Just you and me and a bright future." Raoul de Changy smiled and, in two strides, pulled her into an embrace.

Obviously he did.

It had been two full nights since their escape, or rather their release from the lair of the Phantom. It seemed Raoul was too anxious to tie off loose ends. Christine's stomach clenched against her ribs and she almost shoved him away, his possessive affections completely unneeded and unwanted. Trying to appear docile, she forced a half smile. "I don't know Raoul. I mean, a vacation would be lovely, but..."

She was interrupted by Raoul's boisterous laughter. "Vacation? No, no my love. I mean to be there permanently. There, we can find peace. There won't be any horrid memories or haunted pasts or..."

"Erik..." This time, Raoul found himself cut off by her small whisper. Not quite sure of what he'd heard, he fixed her with a disapproving stare.

"What was that Christine?"

Christine's eyes went wide at the sudden chill she heard in his question. She gulped and tried to look confidently into his face, but failed miserably. "Wha...I...I said 'Erik'. I was merely adding to your statement of what will not be in London," which was true.

"Then we agree," said Raoul, suddenly beaming. "We shall depart tomorrow."

"No!" she suddenly shouted, earning a surprised look from Raoul. She bit her tongue and cursed herself for the outburst. But she couldn't help it. The thought of being so far away from Erik, the thought of being away from Erik at all, inspired her with terror. "I...I don't want to leave Paris, Raoul. All my friends are here, and the opera. Raoul, music is my life!" she insisted. Wisely though, she had not told him of her true reason for her insistence that they remain in Paris.

She remembered now, as clear as ever, the promise she had made...

(((*)))

"You try my patience! Make your choice!"

The stern, terrible, beautiful voice rang throughout the cellars of the Opera House. In the deep belly of the fifth cellar stood the lair of the Phantom of the Opera. Christine stood stock still, her green eyes darting between the two men flanking her. To her right, Raoul struggled to loosen the lasso coiled about his neck. To her left, Erik towered over her, his arms folded over his great chest, awaiting her decision.

Her decision. What a strange situation this was. Erik, threatening to garrote Raoul if she did not choose him, yet saying it was her choice. It seemed to be a no win situation. If she stayed with Erik, which was her first impulse, Raoul would kill himself, or come back to kill Erik. Yet, if she chose Raoul, he would die anyway. She couldn't live with anyone's blood staining her hands. What to do?

(Why are you debating?) Her inner voice whispered. (You love Erik.)

A wave of emotions pulsed through her as she considered this. True, she loved Erik. She always had, ever since the first day she had heard him speak to her. At first it had been a mysterious sort of fascination, for she hadn't seen him yet. He was just a beautiful voice within the walls, her guardian Angel and dearest friend. Then, the day Raoul had visited her, she finally saw the form of her Angel behind the mirror. He became a living being to her, yet no less mysterious than before. She truly fell in love with him when he brought her to his home and sang to her of the music of the night, of his desire for her to be with him for always.

Then, she nearly wept at the memory. Then, she had betrayed him shamefully. She tore his mask, his only protection from pain, away from his face. Thinking on the despair and anger twisting his voice and the shameful way she'd flown to Raoul behind his back forced a few tears from her eyes, the only signs of her inner torment as yet.

Coming from her reverie, she glanced feverishly between the two again. Raoul, still struggling against the lasso, bore a look of fiery hatred and intense loathing at Erik, whose back was turned. As she looked at his tall form, she perceived that his shoulders were trembling, as if with suppressed sobs. Taking a tiny step closer, she saw that he was definitely trembling.

Sensing her drawing nearer, he turned his head slightly, revealing the glistening trails that flowed over his deformity. In his eyes there seemed to be liquid flames from the rows of candelabrums. It nearly undid her as the dancing light cast strange shadows over his ruined right cheek, and she remembered how fluidly she had fallen in love with him again. In the months she'd been away from him, she was never for one moment truly happy. She'd even found herself trying to get past Raoul's stifling affections to return to him, to run to him and tell him that she was wrong, that she had learned to forget his face, and see, as he had begged her, the man behind the monster.

Monster. What a horrible word! What a heartless, wicked, stupid adjective! It assailed her ears whenever she was with Raoul. Every time he used that word pertaining to Erik, she nearly found herself shouting at him. For she knew Erik was not a monster. A murderer? Yes. A madman? Undoubtedly. But he loved her, and evil cannot love.

("I love her! Does that mean nothing? I love her! Show some compassion!")

Like a stab wound, Raoul's words came to her again, making her cringe. How could she have fallen for such bravado? She was overjoyed it was true when he visited her in her dressing room after all those years. She remembered in an instant all the joys they'd shared with her dear father. Now that she was in contemplation, she searched for the reason that she had flown to the boy in the first place.

When they were children, they were closer than cousins, and Raoul always seemed an older brother to her if not a friend. Up on the roof, she had seen the older brother figure in him again and turned to him for comfort. But he took advantage of this vulnerability and used it not to console her in her fear, but to sway her from her dear, tortured Angel. And she, naïve in her innocence, had bought it. She had seen later, during the months she was away from Erik, that he seemed to take their engagement as revenge on his rival. If anyone was a seducer, it was the man who was now strung up like a convict. How dare he speak of compassion! He, who had willingly placed her as a pawn, as bait to trap the masked madman, dared to speak of all he "did" for her! And on the stage, when she, forgetting who and where she was, had removed his mask, Raoul had not hesitated to signal the marksmen, even though she was also in range of the bullets. If not for their disappearance, neither she nor Erik might have stepped away alive. Madman or no, it was Erik who "did it all" for her.

Her mind made up and deliberation restored, she straightened her shoulders and glided towards her troubled Angel, her bridal finery he had given her rustling about her. Unafraid and filled with love, she firmly, yet gently, placed her hand on his shoulder. Erik, genuinely surprised, turned fully to face her. His look of surprise heightened when he saw she didn't flinch or pale. The stricken expression on his poor face was enough to make the rest of the tears overflow from her already flooded eyes. Raising a hand to caress his ravaged skin, she gave him the best answer she could. She sang to him.

"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God gave me courage to show you, you are not alone."

As she made an end to these words, she was overcome with love and pressed herself into his arms, kissing him fully and lovingly. She felt a tremor pass through him and felt his trembling hands flutter on her waist. Pressing herself ever nearer, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He nearly lifted her from the ground as he deepened the kiss, his tongue probing and exploring with no restraint. One sensual hand swept up her body to rest on one full breast, cupping it gently, sending a wonderful shiver of desire through her. She felt her wits swim dizzily in the wake of such passion. They parted for a fleeting moment, then came together again in a tight embrace.

"Christine...Christine..." he moaned, his voice hoarse and low.

"My Angel, I love you," she said in full, hushed tones.

Over her shoulder, she saw the despairing, defeated expression on Raoul's face. Again, his words echoed through her brain.

("Say you love him and my life is over!")

Raoul! If she stayed with Erik now, Raoul would commit suicide! She couldn't let that happen to her childhood friend!

"I will return Erik," she whispered, the priority of her task ripping her heart open. She longed to stay with him now and say goodbye to Raoul for good, but she had to make sure the boy understood first. This at first seemed an impossible thought, but she had no choice.

"Don't leave me Christine. Please," Erik whispered desperately, holding her tighter as if she would pull away. In response, she pressed a lingering kiss on his temple, tangling her fingers into his hair.

"Trust me dearest. You are my choice. I swear I shall come back to you. And I will not marry Raoul."

Erik's heartbeat doubled at the conviction in her voice and pulled away to look into her eyes. They were pink with tears, yet stared unwaveringly into his. Yes. She would return. He could see in her eyes the strength of her devotion. In the glittering green of their depths, he could see her love. "I...trust you. Christine, I..."

"Track down this murderer! He must be found!"

Erik's statement was cut-off by the far off shouting of the mob, coming to kill him. Christine broke eye contact and turned fearfully towards the sound. Erik let go of her and went to Raoul. He lifted a candle and burned the string that supported the Punjab lasso. It fell limp and Raoul whipped it from his neck. He assumed a rigorous stance, quite ready to leap onto his enemy. His surprise was great indeed when he found Christine being pressed into his arms.

"Forget me, forget all of this," he whispered to Raoul, not daring to glance at his beloved, for fear his convictions would break and he would carry her off again. Grabbing a torch, he motioned for them to follow him. "Leave me alone, forget all you've seen. Go now! Don't let them find you!"

"Revenge for Piangi! Revenge for Buquet!"

The sounds of the mob grew closer as they neared the shore. "Take the boat! Leave me here! Go now, don't wait!" Erik urged, pointing towards the moored boat. Raoul tightened his arms around Christine, as if he thought Erik would pull her away from him. Seeing that Raoul didn't believe in his intention to let them go, Erik grew impatient and took a warning step towards them. "Just take her and go, before it's too late! GO!"

Before Raoul pulled her into the shadows, Christine drew back and cast a pleading gaze into Erik's eyes. He knew; she was telling him to follow them, but it was an impossibility at the time. Sensing Raoul's persistent reluctance, he gave a great cry.

"GO NOW! GO NOW AND LEAVE ME!"

"Erik!" Christine choked as Raoul dragged her into the darkness. As they got into the boat, Christine heard the tinkle of the music bow, rolling its inviting tune sadly into the air...

(((*)))

"No Christine."

"What?" She asked, startled from the memory. Her heart twisted when she saw the look on his face; a look that warned against argument.

"Music is not your life anymore. I am your life now." Something began to boil in her head and she felt her cheeks heat up. She turned away from him, lest he see the distasteful scowl on her lips.

"I want to be here in Paris, Raoul. You don't understand that a better part of my life was spent here. One can't simply throw the past away like rubbish. I need time. I don't see the hurry, and I don't see why you're acting this way. I'm no possession and I'm not quite your wife yet."

She gasped in startled surprise when he laid his hands on her shoulders and spun her to face him. The cold gleam in his eyes disconcerted her, but she gave no outward sign of it.

"But you will be, and sooner rather than later! For God's sake Christine, do you think I dragged myself down into that dungeon for sport? I didn't travel into that demon's lair for nothing you know! You don't seem to appreciate how much I risked to save you! Now, listen carefully. We will go to London and we will be married. Do you understand?" The way he spoke to her, as if she were a child, set off the anger in her and she pushed away from him, her eyes smoldering.

"Oh stop talking to me like that, of course I understand Raoul! I'm not slow you know! Though I can't quite say the same for you!" Christine answered, suddenly shouting at him. She wrenched herself from his grasp and squared her shoulders, feeling Erik's spirit well up within her. "I-don't-want-to-leave, so stop being such an unreasonable brat!"

"How dare you shout at me, you impudent girl!" Raoul shouted back, seizing her wrists. He pulled her close to him and pressed his face into hers. "I am to be your husband and you are never to take that tone on me again! Do I make myself clear?"

"Let go Raoul, that hurts!" she winced, trying to twist her wrists free. The moment she spoke, Raoul's mouth dropped open in shock, as if he'd been slapped across the face. He immediately let go of her and dropped to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

"Oh, forgive me Christine! I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. I..."

"I know what came over you Raoul," she replied, her voice devoid of emotion. "You were afraid I'd leave you. Well I won't." She was surprised at how easily this lie came out, but it seemed to calm him a little and he rose from the floor.

"Then, you'll come with me?" he asked her, hope gleaming in his eyes.

"Yes Raoul. But we mustn't marry right away. I...I still need time to...get over th...the strain," she whispered, interjecting a deliberate stutter to gain sympathy. It seemed to work, for he pulled her into a swift embrace.

"My poor dearest Christine," he crooned a little too sweetly. "I'd like to kill that beast for what he did to you."

She stiffened in his embrace, but he didn't seem to notice. She felt something slide onto her finger and looked down. It was a golden engagement band inlaid with flourishes of tiny diamonds. She suppressed a sneer as she looked at the twinkling ring. She felt the urge to wrench it off and throw it into the fireplace. This trinket had no place on her finger, which would be graced by the ring from just one man, her only love, and she would loathe this ring until the day it would leave her finger. As Raoul's possessive embrace continued, she repeated the promise she had made in her head.

("...I will not marry Raoul...I will not marry Raoul...")

"I will not," her lips formed the words into Raoul's starched shirt. (I am going to leave you Raoul, her mind's voice growled. You just wait and see. You just wait.)

--

Meg Giry approached the huge oaken door, her tiny hands trembling. She raised a tight little fist and rapped lightly on the wood. "Mama?"

"Come in, child," a soft, aged voice answered her, admitting her into the study. Meg entered and beheld the dark, severe figure of her mother, sitting at the small cherry wood writing desk. A deep thoughtfulness lay on her brow, but then her expression was usually solemn, so she seemed always to be in reverie. Taking a deep breath, the little ballerina sidled up to her mother.

"What is it my dear? You seem troubled," Madame Giry whispered gently, her voice in contrast to the severity of her appearance and reputation. Her daughter held out the creamy envelope, which trembled slightly in her pale hand.

"A letter came for you," she murmured, as if telling a secret.

"From the managers?"

Meg shook her head, several long, strawberry curls falling from her style. "I... I'm afraid I opened it..." she mused, her voice coming from far away.

"Now Meg," her mother said, attempting to sound scolding, but Meg's strange demeanor prompted her to be gentle, "You know it is bad manners to open other people's mail. Why did you open it?"

"It... it's from Christine."

The letter left Meg's hands immediately and soon Madame Giry was poring over it feverishly.

Dearest Madame Giry,

I regret that I am writing under miserable circumstances, and I'm afraid that there is no time for pleasantries. I will be leaving Paris for London tomorrow. But do not worry; the boy cannot keep me forever. I will return to Paris as soon as I find the chance to leave.

Enclosed is a letter to a very important person. I trust you will see that it gets to the addressee safely and un-tampered. It is highly personal.

Sincerely,

Christine

Reaching into the envelope again, she drew out a smaller envelope sealed with blue wax. A single word was written across the front in tender cursive:

Erik.

The old lady's black eyes grew dim with pity. "She doesn't know. Poor child, she doesn't know he's dead."

Meg's feet shuffled on the floor and she dropped to her knees. "Mama..." she whispered, her blue-green eyes glassy with tears.

"What is it dearest?"

"There's something I have not yet told you. I have been careless in a promise I made, and to make sure that this letter is delivered, I must tell you now."

For the next hour, little Meg Giry divulged her experience beneath the Opera House to her mother who sat stock still, leaving the sharp-tongued ballet mistress absolutely speechless in the wake of such a tale, her mouth dropping open in absolute disbelief.

"Well," she breathed when Meg's tale had finally ceased, "I had better see to this matter at once." She stood and draped her thick cloak over her thin shoulders. Then, for the first time in five months, she let out a small laugh. "It seems my service to the Angel will never end."

//Well, that's one chapter down! Care to read another? Please remember to review!