I am loving all the wonderful reviews! I have picked up some new readers, or at least readers that review.

Terpsichore314 – Thank you for your kind reviews, I am glad you are enjoying my story.

SassyLassy – This is an Erik/Christine pairing, now you just have to wait and see how I bring them together.

Mini Nicka – I am glad that you are reading and enjoying. It is several more chapters before the companion comes into the picture. Patience my young Padawan.

Gerardphantomhot – I do love your name! I have seen just about all of Gerry's movies. There is no one like him and I am completely devoted to him. His portrayal of Erik was stupendous. Thanks for reading!

Twinkle22 – Nice to have you on board. I want to thank you for reviewing.

Okibi Chan – I've only heard from you once, but I hope you are still out there reading!

And to my faithful readers…Mlle.Fox, Pertie, Passed Over, and OperaLover…YOU ARE THE AIR THAT I BREATHE!

Enjoy!

THE DAWN THROUGH THE NIGHT

Part 1 - The Velvet Chains that Bind Us, Chapters 4 - 7

CHAPTER 4

Two months later

Brigitte

The absence of the Phantom was felt profoundly by those at the opera house. His music and writing talents had been an intricate part of the functioning of the opera house. He had designed costumes and sets and left the designs anonymously for that department to find.

His protective and foreboding presence had prevented infiltration from unsavory sorts who now bombarded the premises and caused numerous problems.

They came to realize that most of the music had been written by him, even though he would just leave it lying around for the director, managers, or patron to find and put to good use.

Everyone talked openly about the night of the arrest and how he had yielded without putting up a fight; surrendered for crimes he had not committed. Without him, the opera house was failing.

There wasn't a day that went by that Brigitte did not regret the last words she had said to him. 'I was such a fool.' she said to herself with a solitary tear lingering on her cheek.

She had seen the pain he was in before he was released and knew that he had suffered many injuries at the hands of the guards; injuries that she knew had not been treated and allowed to heal. She did not even know if he was alive or dead.

She had promised him that she would not miss him…but she had lied. Knowing he was innocent made what she had done…unbearable. She missed everything about him. He was the sole reason she had never married…no man compared to him; no man could ever take his place in her heart.

Her final words to him had been spoken from a hurt and spiteful heart, she knew that now; but they had also been spoken to purposefully cause him pain. As if he hadn't experienced enough pain in his life, she had felt compelled to add to it.

A priest had come by about a week after Erik left and handed her a letter that he had written in prison, just before he was to be hung. She hadn't had the courage to read it yet. She went to the cupboard in her quarters and pulled it out. Swallowing hard, shedding tears, and unfolding the note with trembling hands, she saw his sweeping handwriting, graceful and elegant, just like the man himself…

June 1, 1872

Dearest Brigitte;

I'm tired. Tired of fighting the darkness that has chased me all my days. I find I no longer have the desire to plead my case. I will succumb to the will of the public, and those who have known me. Maybe, I'll find peace at last.

My hideous excuse for a life will soon end, and my loathsome, putrid, carcass will rot in hell; but I find comfort in knowing that those I ventured to care about in life, will be taken care of.

Christine found the happiness that I so longed to give her in the arms of another…but I know she will be taken care of, and want for nothing; I wish her joy and happiness.

My mother, Madeline Destler, has a bank account in her name at Paris First Bank and Trust. I have been putting money away for years. Please contact her and let her know she free of me, at last. She lives somewhere in La Mans, France.

You. I have also left a bank account at Paris First Bank and Trust in your name. I have been putting money in it for as long as I have my mothers account. You may do what you wish with it.

I know you are wondering where you went wrong in teaching me after rescuing me from the gypsies; rest assured, not all is at it appears. Perhaps some day you will know the truth; until then, trust your heart.

You told me you would not miss me, and I am sure that is the case…but I shall miss you. Too long, I suppressed the affection I had for Christine, my mother, and you…I feared it – with every beat my black heart - I feared the pain, regret, and disillusionment that came with showing my softer side; now all I can do is face my Maker and the consequences He will no doubt cast upon me.

All three of you have made it quite clear that my existence is contrary to your will; and still my heart yearns for you.

If possible, during a moment of peace…remember me.

Erik Christoph Destler

The letter floated to the ground as Brigitte hung her head and wept. Her heart was mourning for the loss of a man she had betrayed and abandoned; thinking him a monster, like everyone else. She wept because she knew she had loved him all these years, but his genius and eccentric ways terrified her.

He had spoken little of the details of his existence before the age of eleven. She had taken him from the gypsies at that age, and had assumed he had been with them for years. He had been cold and aloof most of the time, but she had witnessed sporadic moments of tenderness, and glimpses of the man he had the potential to be.

A representative of the bank came to her home about three months later, presenting her with the details of the account Erik had established in her name.

"Monsieur Destler left instructions that you were to be informed of the account and all proceeds are to be signed over to you…we also need a…" the young man looked at his paperwork, "…Madam Madeline Destler to come by the bank and do the same."

Brigitte had promised to contact Ms. Destler and inform her of her required presence. The bank representative had assured her that all was in order and would be handled with complete confidentiality and scrutiny.

She had not only lost Erik, but Brigitte has lost the young girl who had become like a daughter to her. Christine had left with Raoul the night of Don Juan, and had not informed Brigitte of her intended destination or plans.

Brigitte had read of the wedding in the paper, uncertain as to why Christine had not invited her. They had often spoken of the kind of wedding Christine wanted, but that was always a topic of discussion among girls and women.

Her letters were deliberate and short, not at all like Christine; but Brigitte knew she must be preoccupied with all the demands of being the wife of a nobleman. She must not have cared about Erik as much as Brigitte had thought she had; she had not even mentioned Erik's release or disappearance.

She lifted a prayer to heaven on behalf of Erik, asking that he be granted the life he had never had, no matter where he was; he deserved to finally have joy and love; but she would not give up looking for him.

OOOOOOOOOO

And look she did…for the next three years. She hired private detective after private detective to trace his steps starting with the day that he left, but he had covered his trail. Exactly what he had been an expert at; if Erik did not wish to be found, he would not be found.

The opera house barely survived the months following his disappearance. He had been more involved than anyone had ever thought. The music and shows were not the quality they had once been, and the managers no longer had Erik's expert opinion in casting and other areas.

They had approached Brigitte on several occasions and asked that she bring him back. She had to tell them on every occasion that she did not know where he was. Eventually, they stopped asking.

Three years and eleven months after Erik Destler left Paris, the Opera Populaire closed its doors after its final performance. Madam Giry bid farewell to the only home she had known for the last thirty-five years.

Three years and nine months after that fateful night, March 16, 1876.

Christine's story

In a cold, beautifully decorated room, Christine de Chagny sat at her vanity table combing her waste-length hair methodically…just as she did yesterday morning, and every morning before that, for the past three and a half years.

The reflection staring back at her from the mirror did not tell any lies. She had been duped into thinking that life was going to be so much better with Raoul…he worshiped the ground she walked on…he loved her more than he could express - all were little white lies he had said to get her to agree to marry him.

He had married her and then put her on a shelf and ignored her. The only time they spent together was in the marriage bed…every night. He demanded she give and she did, detached and distant, she had been a virgin in his arms…but he had cared little. If this was all there was to "making love", what was the big fuss all about? She did not find it all pleasant.

She found her body did not react to him as it did with her Angel. Strange yearnings and deep aching had accompanied her every time she was in his presence. She had not known him as a man; not really…but as an angel and teacher, he had been patient and kind; showing her the limitless beauty her voice possessed.

He had been dark and mysterious; dangerously handsome and eerily intelligent; she had been too young to realize her peculiar attraction to him was a binding, sensual rope that pulled her to him and left her empty without him – and now, he was gone.

Raoul's family despised her, and did all that they could to make her life miserable. She could have tolerated this, if Raoul had been there for moral support; but the times they had been in the presence of his family and they had started in on her, he had joined in and even laughed at the comments they had made; he had expected her to know it was all in "good fun".

Ten months, that's all it had taken. Ten short months after their wedding vows, she had learned that her husband was not the man she had thought him to be. He had courted her with kind words of assurance and love, leading her to believe she was all he wanted…now, she had no tears to shed and her heart was as cold and lifeless as a stone.

In three years of marriage, she had made no friends, only acquaintances; and they were titled ladies whose husbands treated them the same way Raoul treated her. They resented her for marrying into their status, and they did not hide their resentment.

Christine had heard them talking in open conversation about the women their husbands cheated on them with; they knew…and they cared not. In fact, most of them had lovers on the side…Christine was appalled at the aristocracies obvious lack of morals.

Christine lifted empty eyes to her husband as he strolled into the room. He bent over her and kissed the top of her head. His clammy hands were caressing her upper arms and Christine could not help the shiver that ran up her spine…Raoul mistook it for a shiver of pleasure and increased his caresses to include the swell of her breasts and curve of her hips.

Methodically, just like every night preceding this one, they copulated in a ritualistic manner, which ended with Raoul pouring his seed into her and Christine feeling even more empty than she had when they started.

Was this what she wanted for the rest of her life? Christine knew what the answer was to that question.

So, it was no surprise when two months later, May 27, 1876, she sat with her bags packed and her copy of the divorce papers in front of her. The "family" had decided that it was for the best, and oddly enough, Christine had agreed.

Her divorce would be a quiet affair; the family would take care of all the details. Raoul was apologetic, but relieved. She watched as her few belongings were loaded into the carriage, Raoul kissed her cheek before waving the driver on his way…and three years and eleven months of her life were wiped away.

TBC