A/N: Whew, I'm back. Several final exams and a trans-Atlantic moving-house later (during which I'm sure my muse got left behind), I bring you the next installment of the saga. Thank you to everyone who's still hanging in there…I think we've only got about 3 or 4 chapters left to go.

And…I don't normally say this but pleeeease review if you can! It sounds hokey, I know, but it gives me immense pleasure and inspiration to know that others are enjoying this. Now without further ado…

Chapter 26

Decisions

"I swear if you stay in this house one more day, I'll have a nervous breakdown."

Erik looked up from the piano, his fingers freezing in the middle of a sweeping arpeggio. "Surely you have not waited until now to be tired of my company."

"You have three days until the wedding, surely…"

"A wedding is a dreadfully expensive matter. I don't think I need to fear that they will reschedule within the next few days."

"Erik…how can you joke at a time like this?"

The man let his hands fall from the keys to his lap. "Do not ask questions to which you already know the answers, Madame. You said yourself that I philosophize when I am afraid. I believe that inappropriate jests emerge once the fear develops into mind-numbing terror."

"So…our conversation…all of that, meant nothing to you?"

"It meant everything, Clarice: never doubt that. I am not so blind as to miss how much of yourself you have given in healing me, and for that I offer my most profound thanks. But I never have functioned as nicely as the narratives of my operas. I do not experience an epiphany after a magnificent aria. You already know by now that I am the most stubborn man in the world, despite even myself."

Clarice forced herself to sit down, calming her twitching fingers that were simply aching to wrap around his neck. She had learned by now that Erik was rather like a block of ice that needed to be chipped, ground, shoved, and eventually melted to fit a mold. But if one struck too hard, he would shatter. She had rescued him once from the brink of such a fate…she would not take the chance again.

Erik's lips tightened, setting themselves into a line as cold as the ice of which he was made. "I'm terrified, Clarice…but I don't know if it is because I can feel such fear or that I tell you of it so readily." His fingers caressed the keys lightly, nervously. "I feel a strange emptiness. Before now, my mind had always pulsated with something: Passion, fury, hate…it didn't matter what it was— it made me feel alive.

"And now…" Here he touched the keys of the piano, a parchment filled with half-finished staves of Don Juan Triumphant before him. The tune that he had been playing was not quite the same as what was written…it was in a different key, quieter and haunting.

He curled his fingers into fists slowly. "Now I cannot think the same way I did anymore. The music no longer flows like water from my mind to paper, and what I have written before no longer sounds right. I must work at it; it is no longer a raw, untapped extension of my being that can burn at the same time that it inspires. And…I cannot think if I like it or not." At this he gasped and his hand went to the crook of his arm, his veins still a ruin of blue-black bruises.

"I feel it, Clarice. Always. Like a constant crawling in my skin, it calls me back every second of every day. It would be so easy, I think, to slide back into who I used to be. It would be comforting. And yet, how can I? Knowing now what it feels like to have a mind so clear of poison and hate…and so fearful at the same time?" His hands fell to his sides. "I am longer making sense, am I?"

"Erik, no one would ever love you less because you're no longer a raging psychopath." She had meant the phrase in jest, but the moment the words were out of her mouth, she feared how he might have interpreted it.

He slid his maddeningly impassive gaze upon her and merely nodded. "I know. Somehow, deep in my heart, I know."

They sat there in silence for awhile longer, uncomfortable yet neither making a move to draw away.

Erik cleared his throat. "There is also the small matter of my mask. You cannot honestly expect me to—"

"That won't work, Erik. If that was the only thing holding you back, you would have made yourself another by now. But I can easily bring you one of the models made by the Opera House."

"Madame, the only way you will get that atrocity near my face is by cementing it to my skin."

"Madamoiselle Daae, may I speak with you?"

Christine was on her way to her little house, and she froze when she heard the voice. Turning, she beheld the face of Philippe de Chagny. Suddenly the bundle in her arms felt twice as heavy.

"Yes sir," she said, lacking any other response. He led her wordlessly into the main mansion and took her through several hallways before stopping in front of a pair of great oak doors. He pushed them open to reveal his study.

She froze in her tracks. Of all the times that she had been up to the main house, she had never visited this room before. The ceiling was high and swept up in gently-curved arches to a point in the very center. The room was lined from floor to ceiling with dark wood. A large bookshelf was built into the wall right next to her and took up the entire side of the room. The other three sides were covered with portraits, framed in gold-trimmed wood. The faces in these portraits were solemn, their eyes were piercing, and she shifted nervously under their imagined gaze. She could see from the various fashions in clothing presented in these portraits that they covered several centuries of de Chagny ancestors.

Next to the desk there was another portrait resting against its side. It was about half-finished, but from the features that were visible, Christine could tell that it was a picture of Philippe himself.

Philippe drew his chair away from his desk and sat down. He looked across the desk at Christine who was fidgeting with the wrapping of the bundle she held in her hands and looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. How long ago had his brother stood in that exact place, nervous and furious as Philippe had demanded his immediate marriage to the girl standing before him now?

Surprisingly, it was Christine who spoke first. "Monsieur le Comte…I was not aware that you had returned so soon."

"Far be it for me to miss my only brother's wedding because of business." He sighed. "Sit down, Mademoiselle Daaé, I am not here to antagonize you." As he spoke, he felt a familiar crippling pain in his lower back. He ignored it— he was certainly not about to take his laudanum in front of her.

Christine sat down uneasily in a chaise covered with dark leather. "Then, Monsieur, what did you want to see me for? I…I am well aware that you do not approve of me."

"I will be frank with you, Miss Daae, I do not. I have never thought that you were a proper match for my brother."

Christine stiffened as her hands clenched around the bundle in her lap. The feel of its contents gave her confidence that seemed almost alien to her as she spoke her next words. "Then I shall be frank as well, Monsieur…who would be? A wealthy noblewoman, I presume?"

Philippe's eyes flared, but Christine was surprised to see that they held no anger. "Yes, I would certainly approve of that kind of woman…but not for the reason that you think. My brother is madly in love with you, Miss Daae. He loves you more than anyone he has ever known and he certainly loves you more than he does me…or any other remnants of our family. And that is why I do not approve of you, Miss Daaé, not because of your lack of noble blood. I don't give a twig about that nonsense. A dozen years in the army taught me that the same stuff flows through every man and woman. I don't approve of you because you are taking Raoul away from his family."

Christine was dumbstruck as she attempted to process what was potentially equal parts compliment and reprimand. "I…I don't understand."

Philippe gave a great suffering sigh. "Do not feel the need to put on a show for me, Mademoiselle, I know you better than you think, as I know Raoul better than he thinks. I have indeed seen the ways that you have tried to conform to our society, and to nearly all eyes, you have succeeded admirably. But you do not fool me and I don't believe that you fool yourself either. This life is not for you, Miss Daaé, and even Raoul will come to realize this eventually. And when he does, the besotted fool will throw away everything to start a new life for you. Passion was always our greatest weakness, Miss Daaé. And just as Raoul loves you enough to turn his back on everything he stands for, so do I love him enough to do anything in my power to keep him from doing so."

"Pardon my bluntness, sir, but shouldn't that be his decision?"

"You have no family, am I correct?"

Christine opened her mouth in outrage and then shut it. After all, it was she who had been direct first.

"No, I didn't believe so. So you can afford to be selfish. Raoul is a nobleman, he has been one from birth, and he cannot change who he is for the sake of love."

Christine listened dumbly, thinking to herself and somewhere, somehow, this description sounded terribly familiar.

"Our blood may be nothing special, Miss Daaé, but our history is. For them…" he gestured to the mute faces covering three walls of the room, "For them, we cannot abandon our posts. They gave us everything that we have now, and it would be nothing short of utter contempt to squander it. I know that you love my brother, Miss Daaé…the real question is do you love him enough? Are you willing to love everything about him, including his nobility?"

Christine took a deep breath, her mind spinning from her sudden revelation that Philippe was in fact not the complete cold-hearted bastard he had seemed. But he was waiting for an answer and she was sure that she was too confused and frightened to give him one.

"Raoul has been offered the position of harbor captain in Dover," she said softly, finally.

"Is that so? He neglected to inform me of this."

"No…he wanted to let me decide whether it was the right decision for him to make." She looked up to see Philippe looking at her intently. He obviously wanted to speak but held his tongue for her response. "I want him to take the position," she smiled knowingly. "It will bring quite a bit of honor to the Chagny name."

"Are you certain of what you are doing…Mademoiselle?"

Oh God…not that question. Anything but that. "Thank you for sharing your concerns, Monsieur. I should return to my house to prepare for dinner now."

He nodded, his eyes looking at her differently than they had before. "Thank you for your time, Christine."

"Thank you, Genevieve," Christine said as the maid took her proffered dress and began to hang it up in the wardrobe. She turned to face her mirror, removing her dark gloves and other pieces of jewelry on her person.

"Shall I help you out of your corset now, Mademoiselle?"

Christine turned towards the maid and paused for a moment, thinking. "No, that won't be necessary. You can go now, but come and call me when dinner is ready."

Genevieve looked at the girl quizzically for a moment but decided not to ask questions. "Very well, Miss Daaé." She curtseyed briefly and took her leave.

Christine sighed in relief as much as her corset would allow. She brought her hands to her temples, rubbing away some of the tension of the day. Her efforts were nearly laughable. She had more reason now than ever to be nervous, to be scared, terrified, shamed…

She shook her head fiercely and went over to her bed to take the precious bundle back into her hands. She had held onto it for dear life during the earlier conversation with Philippe. Perhaps it would give her the courage she needed now.

Christine removed the strings and let the bundle unravel and unfold until it revealed its bulky elongated shape. She removed the paper and cloth wrappings slowly until she held only her wedding dress in her hands. It was a beautiful creation. Raoul and she had browsed designs for hours, smiling and joking at each other the entire while. She had wanted a plum-colored dress: rich mauve was the latest Parisian wedding fashion, and she knew that she could not possibly entertain afterwards in a white dress. But Raoul had insisted that her dress be white, waving aside the significantly higher price tag. Nothing but the best for my angel…

He had never once complained about spending so much time, although afterwards he had selected his suit in approximately five minutes, flashing her an apologetic grin.

The gown was sumptuous and dazzling to the eyes. The bodice was dusted with pearls and small diamonds, which winked tiny points of virgin light every time she breathed. No one who would look upon her in that dress tomorrow would ever doubt that she was anything less than the Vicomtess de Chagny.

She ran her fingers over the silk and taffeta, the textures strange and yet familiar to her fingers. In a blindingly clear vision, she remembered wearing another dress like this…no, a dress far, far beyond this. She remembered the masquerade ball from so long ago, the dress catching the eye of the entire room, the Red Death…the cold hands laying trembling fingers on the wings upon her back…The memories would not stop now, and she remembered the other dress. The wedding dress that she had never had a chance to wear.

Christine tore her mind painfully away from those memories and raised a hand to her mouth, feeling an uncomfortable pressure building at her throat. She mustn't think of that, not now. After all, she would wear this dress.

The process took about twice as long as it would have with Genevieve's help, but when she was finished, even her sore fingers could not dampen her awe. Christine had been told that she was beautiful, many times, but this was one of the times that she truly believed it. The dress was pale, paler even than herself and it lent her face a healthy glow.

She reached into the paper wrapping again and drew out a glistening pearl necklace. She fastened them around her throat, feeling them rest like knuckles against her skin. Then her eyes flew to the drawer at her bedside table, and she had it open and was prying up the false bottom before she could stop herself.

It was only for the sake of the image, she convinced herself, as she held the gleaming gold band to her eye. It stood to reason, she thought furiously, that she would need to learn to look at such things with an impartial eye. It was simply a ring, a simple band of gold…indistinguishable from the one that she would take tomorrow.

A drop of sweat beading upon her brow belied her rational thoughts, and she cursed herself even as she felt something inside scream and crumple with despair…

"Christine…oh, Christine…"

She gave a small shriek of surprise and whirled around to see Raoul standing in the doorway. To her mortification and relief, the ring slipped from her hand and down her bodice to rest out-of-sight against the top of her corset.

As she watched, his hand that had been upon the doorknob seized upon it involuntarily, and all the color seemed to drain from his skin to concentrate in his bright, adoring eyes.

"My God, Christine, you look…" And as every dashing nobleman is required to be upon seeing a breathtaking woman, he was promptly at a loss for words.

"Raoul…" she put a hand to her chest to calm the fluttering that she felt there. She said the first thing that came to her mind. "Why didn't you knock?"

She would have kicked herself inwardly for the inanity of the remark except that Raoul did not seem in the mindset to process her words with any level of rigor. "I…I did," he said. "Twice, and I also called your name, but you did not answer."

He blinked, some of the color returning to his face and turned to go. "I will just tell the servants to keep the dinner warm. I shall go now…after all, it's bad luck for a groom to see the bride in her dress before the wedding day."

"It is no problem, Raoul."

Christine would tell herself for months afterwards that she had no idea what possessed her to say such a thing. It was merely a pleasantry. She wanted to reassure him. She wanted to show again that she cared nothing for the rules of society. She told herself everything she could to avoid admitting to herself what a deliberate action it had been on her part.

Unfortunately, Raoul was coherent enough now to look into her eyes, eyes that he knew so well, and realize that something was wrong.

Wordlessly he reached over and took her face in his hands. His hands were warm, comforting, tenderly stroking her skin. She watched with near-detachment as he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

His kiss was slow and sweet, and she could feel the restrained passion behind it. His lips traveled slowly over hers, and his tongue darted out briefly to touch her mouth and she hesitated for only a moment before letting him in. She felt his hand reach forward to cup the back of her neck, and she breathed in his scent and almost felt like crying.

The kiss was shorter than the first one they had shared on the Opera House rooftop so many months ago, and when Raoul broke the kiss, she felt something tear away from her with a sob. She saw some unreadable emotion in his eyes before he turned from her.

"Raoul…" she whispered as she reached out to touch his back. She felt the skin beneath his shirt tremble for only a millisecond before he jerked roughly away from her touch and turned around to face her. Although she knew they would be there, her heart still twisted horribly at the tears shining in his eyes.

"Why couldn't you tell me, Christine? Why couldn't you just tell me that you never wanted this?"

Fear gripped her along with heart-stopping despair. "No, Raoul! That's not—"

She jumped as he roared at her. "Stop, Christine!" He took a shuddering breath before whispering, "Please, just stop. For both of our sakes."

She could feel the tears springing to her eyes and trickling down her cheeks. "Raoul, please. I never…I never meant to hurt you." Even as she said them, the words tasted flimsy and cheap in her mouth.

He shook his head. "Yes, you did," he whispered. "You agreed to marry me, Christine. You were willing to bind us together for the rest of our lives, knowing that you could never give all of yourself to me. I can't believe that you would think so little of me as to believe that wouldn't hurt me."

"Oh Raoul, no…no, that's not what I wanted. Never." She furiously wiped at the tears in her eyes. How? How had things come to this? She had been so sure when she had made her decision, that she was doing the right thing in salvaging at least one life. But Raoul's words had crumpled her fragile dreams in an instant.

"I just wanted you to be happy," she said helplessly.

He stared furiously at her. "I love you, Christine. I love you with every breath of my being and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life as a part of you, as…as a part of your very soul. I…I need you to be happy too. Without that, it means nothing. I wanted your love, Christine, not your pity!" He was shouting now, shouting desperately, trying to ignore the memory of handing the ring to Christine before crying in her arms.

"I have never pitied you," Christine hissed. "I love you, Raoul. You are the one thing in my life that has always remained constant. I never had to worry that you wouldn't be there for me, I never had to worry that you would care…I love you." Revelation and bitterness over how right Philippe had been coursed through her. "I just don't love you enough," she finished sadly.

Raoul made a strangled noise in his throat, but no new tears fell from his eyes. He had known, some part of him had always known. "I've watched you every single day, Christine, resplendent in that proper dress and proper hat. You never let anyone else see, but I knew. You were miserable, you always had been. I would have left it all behind, you know. I would have moved with you to a new world and started over if you would have had me."

"You know that your brother doesn't have long," she said gently. "He loves you dearly, you know that he does. And you are the only family he has left now."

"What am I to do?" he said hollowly. "Take the position in Dover and bring glory back to the Chagny name? Marry a lovely face and a wealthy name? Oh, my brother would like that, I know. And what of you, Christine? Wither and die pining away for someone who—." He stopped suddenly, his eyes fearful.

The same fear surged through her now and she crushed it with a wave of anger. "What?" she hissed.

His lips thinned. "Oh come now, Christine, don't think that I fear to mention him now. The Phantom, Christine. He's never left your mind, not once."

"You think that's why I agreed to marry you? Because he doesn't want me anymore so I settled for the second-best? Do you really think so lowly of me, Raoul?"

His face crumpled. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"That you won't let him leave! That's why you can't marry me. It's not because you don't love me enough, but because you love him more!"

Her jaw line shivered as she clenched her teeth together fiercely. "That's not true. He and I could never be. I know it and he knows it as well. That's why he's hiding away from me now, that's why he won't ever come back for me…"

"You are a coward, Christine Daaé." She looked up at him in shock as he continued. "Every part of you says that you love him, and yet you fear to look for him. I know what you have been doing at the Opera House this past week. How could I not know? What possible reason could you have for returning there if not to look for him? And you think that is enough? You think that sitting by the lakeside waiting for Erik to forget how you betrayed him and to come sail you away to a happily ever after is enough to prove that you love him?"

Amidst the pain that seized her heart at Raoul's harsh truths, a single revelation burned bright in her conflicted mind.

"Erik?"

She saw the color drain from his face again. Panic seized her and she dimly realized that she was shouting. "Erik? What…how do you know his name? What have you done to him!"

Her vision streaked before her eyes, Raoul's form blurry through her tears as he grasped her wrists in his hands to stop them from beating away at his chest. Her reaction frightened her. She had been so sure…so sure that she had been making the right decision. So sure that even the thought that her love was gone did not kill her. She had never considered…no, refused to consider otherwise…refused to imagine that the blithe assurances of the vision of her father had been false…

"Christine, please. I didn't—."

"No! No Raoul! You will tell me the truth."

"He's DEAD, Christine!"

The world stopped. She never believed that anything could actually feel that way. She never imagined that any of the melodramatic scenes that she had so often scoffed in her little paper novels could genuinely come to pass.

But there were no tears in her eyes— they had frozen with her soul. She was dimly aware of Raoul lowering her gently to a chair. Her tongue tripped over her words, like a bird flapping fruitlessly with a broken wing. "How can you possibly know? How long have you known?"

He bowed his head. "Ever since the night we first visited the Fell estate."

She kept speaking, knowing that she would shatter if she did not. "For a month…more than an entire month, and you said, you-you said nothing. Who's the coward now, Raoul, who's the coward now!"

"I couldn't tell you, Christine! How could I? You were barely holding yourself together as it was, I couldn't…how could I be the cause of more pain for you, Christine? I promised you that I would care for you, that I would be your light and life. I…I did try to tell you. I put a notice, hidden as an advertisement, in the papers for two straight weeks, hoping that this method would hurt as little as possible…but you never saw it. And by then, I was too afraid of losing you, too afraid that you would hate me. Yes, Christine, yes I am a coward, but I am afraid because of love for you, not afraid of it." He fell to his knees before her.

Christine was beyond listening. "You promised that nothing would happen to him. I let you pull me from the cellars because you promised me that he would never let himself be caught. I've as good as killed him myself, don't you understand, oh God…don't you understand?"

"Christine, please…" She could tell that his voice was choked with tears as well. She felt the lightest touch at her waist as Raoul reached out to her. Memory, as searing as a prophetic vision surged through her, as she remembered trembling hands at her waist, Erik touching her waist with the lightest, trembling caress as she kissed him desperately…

She jerked away from him as if she'd been burnt. "Don't touch me!" The look of despair in Raoul's eyes was so powerful she nearly buckled. "No….no, don't come near me."

And then she was on her feet, her hands reaching for the door. Running from room to room and out the door. Stumbling over her wedding dress down the stairs, she lifted the long train in her hands, feeling some material tear beneath her feet.

The darkness outside pressed against her body, the darkness was shot with pinpricks of light from the stars and candles burning in distant windows and the ever faraway shouts of Raoul. She ran, not knowing where her feet were taking her, tripping and bruising on the punishing ground as she stumbled onto a road.

And then suddenly she did know.

The memory of Raoul dragging her from the basements, ensuring her that her Phantom…Erik would be safe, that Cassandra would keep him safe. Later in the carriage, Cassandra believing her incapable of comprehension, confessing that she had found nothing, that Erik was long gone…

The storm of hooves filled her ears barely in time and she leaped from the road as a carriage nearly swept her over, hearing the curses of the driver from a seeming great distance. Then she was grabbing the bridle of one of the horses, and ripping the pearl necklace from her throat and pressing it into the hands of the astonished driver.

"The Fell Estate," she said. And then the sound of the horses hooves ground into her skull as the carriage jerked beneath her and she knew no more.

A/N: ...blithely ignores the wretched cliffhanger... Um…I love Raoul?