A/N: -blows kisses to my loyal reviewers- I can't express to you how appreciative I am of your continued support for this story. Balancing school, my social life, SAT IIs, college applications, and my fanfics is no small feat. Thanks so much for your patience.

Just a note: I am altering the timeline just a wee bit. In the film, this scene takes place on the night of "Don Juan Triumphant," but I've always thought that didn't make much sense. So we're pushing it back a little ways, and leaving room for "No One Would Listen." K?

To my mild surprise, everything went according to plan. The assigned date of the first rehearsal loomed forebodingly over the heads of the Populaire's staff— I would not let them forget it. By the evening of February 28th, every last inhabitant of my opera house had received at least one letter of instruction. At my command, Giry and Reyer had obligingly organized auditions and cast the remaining performers. The costume and prop department worked frantically throughout the day— the production was tremendous, my directions for its construction excruciatingly detailed and tedious. Fortunately, superstition terrified many of the people into obedience, and by the time the first of March arrived, everything was ready for a month of full dress rehearsals.

Despite the almost inhuman quintessence of the first week, I was beside myself with anxiety. It seemed everyone was prepared to begin except me…and Christine.

After Giry's official announcement that Christine was to play Aminta, she had fled to the little chapel, and had hardly left the room since. She spent her days kneeling before a lone candle, whispering pleas to her beloved father, and every saint she could name. When she was forced to emerge briefly for meals and to sleep, she spoke to no one, not even Raoul, and kept her eyes trained on the floor. I was drawn to her like a moth to flame; even when I should have been overseeing the preparations for the show, I crept off into the ceiling above her head, listening with moist eyes to her broken voice.

The night before the first rehearsal, I decided to sing to her in an attempt to remind her that her Angel still watched over her diligently. An exotic, wordless lullaby poured from my lips. Instead of calming Christine, it sent her into a hysterical fit of sobs. She doubled over, clutching the crucifix around her neck, shaking her head as she mouthed "please" repeatedly.

I nearly called off the opera entirely after that. Her pitiful sobs ripped at my soul, and my resolve quickly began to unravel. The last thing I wanted was to cause Christine pain, and it appeared I was doing just that. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps they were all right. Perhaps I was just a cold, heartless monster. Perhaps nothing, not even my life's work, could convince her to love me.

With a heavy heart and cold, empty eyes, I began to climb down from the ceiling and make my way to the manager's office to call off the production. The battle was decidedly over— I was ready to surrender. Christine did not want me. For her sake, and at the expense of my soul, I would let her go. I could not cage her spirit like this. She deserved the best the world had to offer.

But just as I opened the hatch that exited into a hidden hallway, the familiar weight and rhythm of the Vicomte's footsteps halted me in my tracks. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristled instinctively, and I wheeled around and returned to the ceiling of the chapel to listen.

Peering down through a moldy crack in the stone, I watched with a mixture of pity, guilt, and irrepressible jealousy as Christine turned her wide brown eyes to the boy.

"Raoul, I'm frightened," she whispered. She twisted her torso to face him, trembling from head to toe. "Don't make me do this." The Vicomte took a step forward as Christine climbed shakily to her feet. "Raoul… it scares me." She collapsed into his arms, and a possessive shudder ran the length of my spine, sending goose bumps along my limbs. "Don't put me through this ordeal by fire. He'll take me… I know. We'll be parted forever. He won't let me go."

Cold rage unfurled its skeletal fingers, enveloping and hardening my heart. How dare she! Just moments ago, I had been willing to damn myself to a life of solitude for her sake, yet here she was, sniveling into the shoulder of her precious Vicomte, spewing harsh accusations against me— the one person in the world who had coddled and protected her in her time of need, nurtured her voice, propelled her to stardom, killed for her happiness! After all I'd done for her, the hours of agonizing labor and heartache, this was the thanks I received? Accusations… and false accusations at that? She was missing the point entirely! Don Juan Triumphant was my profession of love for her… the only crime I could be accused of was inducement, for it was meant to sway her and convince her that she loved me too, deep in the recesses of her heart. The point was for her to choose me of her own accord… to win her heart, not steal it.

You were supposed to understand, Christine, I told her silently, a well of grief and rage burning its way up from my stomach until it gathered in a knot in the back of my throat. You were supposed to be different.

Clenching my fists until the nails dug into the flesh of my palms, I watched silently with cold, calculating eyes as Christine stepped from the Vicomte's embrace and slowly crossed the room.

"What I once used to dream… I now dread: if he finds me, it won't ever end…" Shaking with sobs, she began to sing miserably.

And he'll always be there singing songs in my head

He'll always be there singing songs in my head…

I bit down on my tongue until a metallic taste filled my mouth, determined not to shed another tear for her. A torrent of emotion roared just below my calm exterior, threatening to burst my searing veins. Every muscle in my body screamed to do something… anything. There was absolutely nothing worse than being powerless.

As if things weren't bad enough already, the Vicomte chose that particular moment to deal another, even more agonizing blow.

You said yourself he was nothing but a man…

A shudder gripped my body violently, and I squeezed my fists until rivulets of warm blood trickled down my palms. It was unbearable…

We had spent a decade together, teaching one another, molding one another, and growing in mutual love and friendship. And all it took to erase those beautiful ten years with her Angel of Music was a pompous boy? He was twisting her words, morphing her ideals, shattering everything she had ever known and loved! It was his fault that she perceived me as just another mundane, normal human being. I loathed human beings— their treacherous ways, selfishness, brutality. No one, not a single human being, man or woman, had ever shown kindness to me, save Christine… and I was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had only done so in reverence of my supposed divinity. Stripped of my title of Angel of Music, grounded by reality, what was I to her? "Nothing but a man." And as a man, I was nothing but deformed flesh. Only through music— Christine's music— did my soul take wing.

I felt detached… heavy, yet oddly fragile, as I watched my loathed enemy sit down beside Christine and cup her porcelain cheek. It was if my mind and body were separate beings, and for the life of me I could not unite them.

… Yet while he lives, he will haunt us 'til we're dead.

A bitter expression somewhere between a sneer and a smirk pulled at my lips. Now that, dear Vicomte, I mused, I will promise you. Killing him would be too easy… even the slowest, most excruciating death would not be a suitable punishment for his mortal sin. Corrupting an angel— my angel— would earn him eternal suffering. I would plague him from this moment on, snuffing out every last joy in his life. And when he died, an old, broken man, I would follow him into the depths of Hell and make him pay tenfold for every treacherous word, note, glance, and kiss that had come from my beloved Christine.

Snapped from my morbid thoughts by the sound of my muse's wavering voice, I was vaguely aware of stinging wetness trapped between the mangled skin of my right cheek and the porcelain mask. I tasted salt, sweat, and blood… and somehow the physical sensations soothed me. I was alive, despite the doubts of my soul. The boy had not won yet.

Twisted every way, what answer can I give?

Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?

Can I betray the man who once inspired my voice?

Do I become his prey? Do I have any choice?

Indecision… I could not decide whether it was Christine's greatest asset or her tragic flaw. She had been desperate enough to place her faith in a disembodied voice, in the hope that her father had fulfilled his dying promise. I had been her everything, as she had been mine. This boy, this Raoul, was unraveling her cocoon, ripping her from the only world she had known for the past ten years. She was blinded and confused by the strange new light, and I wanted nothing more than to take her back down into the dark oblivion of my lair and drown her soul in music. She was safe with me, protected… loved. Raoul would never understand her as I did.

With that single thought, my mind was made up. Don Juan Triumphant was our last chance. Onstage, there was no possible way for the Vicomte to interrupt our passionate duet as he had done countless times in the past. My opera would sever the ties of her puppeteer… her decision would be her own, and I would accept it. But now… now the words spilling forth from her mouth were all a manipulation; I couldn't be sure what was truly going on beneath her pained eyes. Music was the language of our souls, and depending on her performance, I would know exactly what secrets were locked in the depths of her heart.

He kills without a thought— he murders all that's good

I know I can't refuse! And yet, I wish I could…

Oh God, if I agree, what horrors wait for me

In this, the Phantom's opera?

Despite my understanding that a reiteration of Raoul's indictments were spilling from her perfect lips, not her own, I couldn't help but mentally argue my point. I had never killed without purpose, and to presume so was severely insulting; nor had I ever murdered an innocent soul… Lord knew Javert was deserving of his fate, as was the pedophilic, beastly whoreson Buquet. I did not regret either kill.

Raoul gave Christine's hand a squeeze, and a muscle in my shoulder twitched.

Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care—

But every hope, and every prayer rests on you now!

I seethed, resisting the urge to climb down and crush every last one of his joints. "Don't think that I don't care, but here! Let's sacrifice you, because I'm far too important!" The urge to kill had never invaded my senses with such raw force. He was not good enough to lick the ground Christine walked on, yet he dared to make such a bold claim, and then warmly embrace her! It was too much. I needed to leave before I did something I would regret. My self-control was draining away faster than my mind could catch up.

Physically shaking with unbridled rage, I stormed from the room so quickly that my cloak whipped out behind me. I did not stop until I was seated on my organ bench, my blood-caked fingers pounding away on the smooth keys. But somehow, even music could not ease the oozing pain in my gut. Grief and uncertainty and anger warred within me in a battle so furious that my fingers couldn't keep up. Slamming my fists down on the instrument, I pressed a trembling fist to my forehead, and waited.

Soon… very soon…

But I had never been a patient man.

A/N: I loved writing this chapter, I must say. I've missed being in Erik's skin! Hopefully I did him justice. Thank you again SO MUCH to those of you who continue to review! Your feedback is treasured. :D