A/N: I'm soooooorryyyyyyy! –bursts into sobs- I know I told some people (and you know who you are) that I would have this chapter posted by Sunday morning at the latest. –glances at date- Er… well, only two days late, right? Right? Ahem. Well, lots and LOTS of angst in this chappie… which is a "yay!" for some of you and an "aaargh!" for others. This is just basically a little bit of setup for things to come… a character development chapter, if you will. The action and (-gasp!-) plot will begin in the next chapter. I want to say a special thanks to Noelle, Hriviel, and Shadow Fox, whose help is much appreciated and whose lovely ideas will most definitely show up in chapter eighteen. Until that time, please help yourself to a hearty slab of Erik angst, won't you?

I tore blindly through the dark tunnels, my heart hammering in my chest as if struggling desperately to burst from its prison and allow the dying shell of its master to finally depart this wretched hell! Sobs ripped viciously at my burning lungs and raw throat as I fled that devastating scene, my vision blurred and warped with tears. The throbbing muscles of my legs screamed for mercy, but I would not break the pounding sprint; I would never stop running from the image of my beloved's tender lips, melding mindlessly with that damned vicomte's…

Anyone could have found me that night, a sobbing, broken wretch, running through the secret tunnels of the Opera Populaire like a madman, cursing and crying and threatening each and every inhabitant in a mindless, choked rant.

Fortunately, it was a rather exceptional woman, of endless patience and a cool head, who discovered me that fateful night.

I did not see her in my blind fit of rage and despair, and we each let out muffled yelps as I bowled into her, knocking us both to the ground. I lay there, unable to move as excruciating sobs racked my helpless form, while the woman scrambled out from underneath me. She opened her mouth to scream when her eyes fixated on my mask.

"Erik! What the devil?" Madame Giry hissed. I did not look up, but could sense her hesitate. She knew of Buquet's death, and was reluctant to comfort the flagrant murderer. But, by some pang of maternal instinct or friendship or simple curiosity, she crept forward on her hands and knees, bringing a cool hand to stroke my puffy, tear-drenched cheek. "There, there, calm down… shhh, Erik, you're not doing anyone any good with all of this fussing." Her eyes roamed the empty hallway before settling back on me. "If someone were to hear you…"

"Let them find me," I moaned. "Let them take me away, lock me in a cell, never to lay eyes on this Opera House again!" Another round of hoarse cries was wrenched from my raw throat, and I curled into a ball, burying my face in my hands.

"Erik, get a hold of yourself!" Giry commanded, yanking on my shin firmly to pull me out of my fetal position. I glared at her, and she returned it. "Get up! Stop this childish weeping immediately! My room is directly across the hall." She pointed a bony finger at the doorway opposite us. "Come inside, where we can talk." Her tone left no room for debate, and slowly, I gathered my trembling muscles, allowing her to help me to my feet. By some miracle, we made it across the hallway and into her quarters, where I promptly collapsed into an olive green armchair. She moved about stealthily in the dark, fumbling in her desk for something before a single blaze lit the room. She moved it to an oil lantern in the corner, lighting it quickly before putting out the match with a flick of her wrist. For a moment, she would not look at me; she stared at the flame, her chest rising and falling in a deep sigh.

"Do you have a handkerchief?" she asked me without turning as I began to wipe my eyes on my shirt sleeve.

"I forgot to bring mine," I sniffled miserably, rubbing my palms over my swollen eyes. Giry half-glared at me as she dug into her hip pocket and produced a wrinkled piece of cloth, which was lined with delicate lace and elaborately embroidered with hundreds of perfect little blue stitches. She turned to face me at long last as she tossed the handkerchief into my lap. Her cold eyes studied me as I quickly dipped the cloth behind my mask to wipe at the moist, tender flesh underneath.

"Leave it off," she commanded as I replaced the smooth ivory over my right cheek. My eyes snapped up to hers in a pleading expression, but she would have none of it. "It's ridiculous for you to hide your face while baring your soul. Leave it off."

I stared at her pleadingly for another moment, but her harsh expression did not flicker. With a trembling sigh, I slid my hand over my head obligingly, swiping my mask and wig onto the headrest behind me. The act was so humbling, so anomalous for me, that I felt the barriers within me weaken again, and another sob hitched in my chest.

"Oh, Erik," Giry sighed, her eyes softening. Her tone and expression resembled that of a parent forced to discipline a beloved child. She moved to her desk, lifted the chair in front of it, and placed it directly opposite my own. With a leisurely air, dampened only slightly by pity, she settled herself into it, leaning back comfortably and crossing her legs under her skirt. She tilted her chin upwards to look me directly in the eyes, her expression unreadable. "Now… I want you to tell me everything."

I stared at her blankly for a moment, unsure of what she meant by everything. I closed my eyes briefly, trying to collect my thoughts, but a small, trembling voice, alone and afraid in the darkness, flooded my senses. My breath came in shuddering gasps, my fingers clenching as if trying to grasp the memory as my beautiful little Christine's song drifted into silence.

Where is he? Where is my angel?

I collapsed then, doubling over as my choked cries once again filled the small room. Madame Giry did not move, but waited patiently for me to recover and explain myself. Lacking the strength or the will to sit up, I hugged my knees to my chest, my eyes still closed, and when the sobs finally dwindled, my trembling voice replaced them.

"She was so small, Céline," I whispered. "She was alone, and afraid, calling out to her father for a promise that could never be granted. Such a beautiful voice… a beautiful child, for that matter. How could I have left her there?" I realized by that point that I was speaking for my own benefit, the words and memories spilling from my mouth of their own accord as Giry listened patiently, her head cocked slightly to the side. I ranted on for a good amount of time (though it mattered very little that night), recalling with vivid detail our lessons together in the chapel, and later in her dressing room… our first physical encounter behind the mirror, and her introduction to the music of the night… the unmasking, and my outburst… the notes, and how the recipients accepted them… our adventure behind Carlotta's dressing room walls… the tender kiss on my cheek… my trip to the apothecary and drugging the diva… interrupting the opera and the trouble that ensued… the struggle in the rafters and Buquet's death… and finally, the whole catastrophic ordeal on the rooftop…

Towards the end of my recollection, I began to choke up a bit, but managed to keep myself from toppling over the line of emotional volatility again. Meanwhile, for those seemingly endless hours in which I poured out my soul to my one last friend in the world, Madame Giry watched me pensively. The only emotion she exhibited the entire time was an ever-deepening crease between her thin eyebrows, and the sunken look that slowly crept its way into her crisp blue eyes. When I suddenly finished my rant with an abrupt sigh, she seemed to snap from a trance, her eyes flickering up and down as she studied my slouched form. Slowly, she let out her breath, pressing her hands together and leaning her forehead against them.

And then, as if the heavens themselves were smirking down at me, the angels amusing themselves with my torture, that dreadful night went from bad to worse.

The door flew open suddenly, and both Giry and I jumped, letting out startled cries. My hand went automatically up to cover my exposed face, but as my eyes fell upon the intruder, my muscles went limp, my arm falling flaccidly to my side.

"Christine!" I gasped, my breath catching in my chest. The color drained from her cheeks as she laid eyes on my fully exposed, tear-streaked face, her brown eyes widening in horror. She stumbled backwards as if she had been struck, her entire body trembling.

"Angel! Madame Giry, I did not know… I…" Christine's knuckles were white on the doorknob as I jumped to my feet, my fingers itching to grab her in my arms and never release her. She staggered backwards, nearly tripping on the hem of her red cloak as I approached her slowly. Her eyes never left mine as those precious brown orbs filled with tears. "Oh, angel, please…" She gasped as I reached up a hand to cup her jaw lightly, her eyes rolling slightly back into her head. I stepped closer to her, opening my mouth to sing, when Giry suddenly snatched my wrist in a surprisingly strong grasp and wrenched the door handle from Christine's hand. I glared fire at her, but she brushed past me, taking Christine's hand in her own and dragging her down the hallway. I moved to follow them, but Giry gestured for me to stay put, her cold eyes narrowed dangerously. My temper flared and I ignored her, stepping boldly out into the hallway.

"Erik!" she hissed, moving into a protective stance in front of my wide-eyed student. "I need to speak with Mademoiselle Daaé, alone. Would you be so kind as to allow us privacy for a few moments?"

My cheeks burned in humiliation and outrage. I growled viciously in the back of my throat. This woman dared to claim to be my friend, my crying shoulder, my listening ear, and yet when I was moments away from reclaiming my lost love, millimeters from her warm flesh, she shattered my last flailing hopes, ripping Christine from my arms once more.

She had taken sides, then.

With a wide swoop of my cloak, I stormed in the opposite direction. I gritted my teeth as my blood seared through my veins with unbridled rage, my breathing heavy and irregular in my aching chest. Down one trap door, around a stone corner… the silence of the night pressed heavily against my strained eardrums as I listened for any trace of my fallen angel's voice, or that of her abductor.

And finally, after a few moments of silence that lasted an eternity, I heard her voice, a choked whisper in the stifling darkness.

"We are leaving. Tonight."

Madame Giry let out her breath in a long, shuddering exhale. "He will follow you."

There was a pause. "I know." A trembling sigh. "But Raoul thinks we will be safer outside the Opera walls. And I… I can't stay here, Madame. There are too many memories…"

A sharp inhale. "You will come back…" A pause. "Christine?"

The silence was deafening. "I don't know, Madame. I just don't know." A broken sob. "All I know is that I need to escape from this place, escape from him…"

My knees gave out underneath me. I collapsed against the stone wall, weeping silently with raw, dry eyes into my gloved hands. The hands of a murderer…

"God speed, Christine." A brief smack of lips. "The Opera Populaire will not be the same without you."

The rustle of skirts. "Thank you, Madame." The latch of a door, the creak of a hinge. A pause. "You called him by a name."

A sigh. "Erik. His name is Erik."

"Erik." The word was tentative, pensive… at once terrified and longing. That sound, that name, my name, stopped my heart in my chest, before my obsession and my curse whispered almost inaudibly, "Mon ange." Her smooth, angelic voice broke on the last syllable, and the door creaked and clicked as she pulled it shut behind her. Silence ensued: a bitter, broken moment in which neither Giry nor I spoke, but keenly recognized one another's presence.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, but I had already disappeared into the night.

A/N: Replies time! –happy dance-

Hriviel: Ah, you have been so very helpful, I don't know where to start. Thank you for all the lovely ideas, through e-mail etc.; you and Henry have inspired my –still nameless, gotta work on that- muse to get off her derriere and work… a thousand thanks! (OH! And everyone who hasn't read her stories, go do so now! She's excellent!)

StrangeGirl: LOL! Was that a good kind of "grawk"? I know… I actually UPDATED, isn't it a miracle? I HATE WRITER'S BLOCK, and mind myself in that predicament far too often… good luck! It will be over soon.

LoneWolf2005: DUCK! Lol. –has 'don't worry, be happy' stuck in head- woo hoo! Hiya! Yes, the buffet table was a new idea… maybe I'll use it again sometime. LOL. Cookies, however, come standard. –offers one-

ChubbyBunny: Awww, cute sn! Thank you very, very much! I can't BELIEVE I'm still getting new reviewers this late in the story, but… thank you! Lol. Don't know what all else to say… I'll update again as soon as humanly possible.

The Lady Quotes: Thank you. –bows- Well, -ticking off on fingers- Madame Giry is taken care of… now we're down to Raoul and Christine. YAY! I refuse to ever again refer to Raoul as the "f word" (I did it once, and I repeat, it will NOT happen again!), however, I wouldn't be a very good writer if I did an Erik POV (someone asked about this… it means "point of view") without teasing our dear vicomte a bit.

Hidracones: YAY! ANOTHER new reviewer! All in one sitting? –stares in shock- WOW. –blushes- I… er… thank you! I looove Madame Giry's character, so I'm glad the readers are liking my portrayal of her. I think the little moment in which Christine gives the mask back was compassionate, and I'm saddened to see that other authors don't share that view. However, again, glad you enjoyed it.

AAH! Running out of time! –chases after the bus- Review, please! I love you!