Author's Notes: Hiya folks! blows kisses Okay, really not alot of action in this chapter, but there is alot of stuff. If that makes any sense. I did have lots of fun writing this. Of course, I love your reading and reviewing! Hope you enjoy, the next chapter will be up shortly since these two pretty much go together.

Chapter 8 – Take Your Heart Back

The cold January night bit into Christine's skin as she descended the steps in front of their town house. Frost rimmed the garden pots framing the door, glistened on the metal arm of the bench in the garden beside the house. She held her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her breath forming a little crystalline cloud before disappearing into the dark. Her steps carried her down the little path until she stopped and peered up to the balcony outside her daughter's room.

Christine could see the corner of his dark cloak eve before she stepped off the path onto the soft tilled earth of the garden. A peach-colored winter rose brushed her arm as she paused, looked up at the balcony dimly lit by the sickle moon.

"Erik," she called softly. The name sounded foreign on her tongue, and she wondered vaguely why she had never learned it before. But no, he had been so inhuman then, something unbound and wild, far beyond the limits of any name. Then he had been the Phantom. Now, though…

"Erik," she called again, a little impatient at being made to wait in the cold calling to a man she wasn't sure she should even want speak to again. The shadows leaning against the wall shifted, the cloak twitching back over the edge. The Erik that came to lean on the railing, though, was definitely a man, a very weary and heart-sick man. His black cloak and mask hid him well until he stood, a shadow that would have loomed over her if he had not been so obviously tried by worry. His gloved hands grasped the railing as he leaned heavily on it, looking down at her. The silence stretched as Christine marveled at the change in him. He had always been foreboding and commanding, invincible even as he had ordered her to leave with Raoul. But it seemed he had finally met his match.

And I thought that he had loved me. She managed to brush aside the cool indifference she had built up against him enough to realize this. "Come inside," she said, "it's far too cold for you to be out here." She was doing it for Danielle, she knew. Otherwise she probably would never have even considered the offer, rather ignore him and pretend she was oblivious to his presence outside her home. She wasn't sure how long he had been out here. He took on a wary stance at her offer, but Christine calmly turned her back and walked back to the front of the house. Better that she find him than Raoul. Her husband had firmly rooted himself outside Danielle's door, watching over her restless sleep. In fact, he had probably fallen asleep in that uncomfortable chair, unaware that he was not alone as her guardian.

Christine left the door open and went to the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. When she glanced over her shoulder, setting down three cups on the table, Erik was standing in the corner. She knew he would never admit it, but he did look grateful for the warmth. Color was slowly returning to his pale cheeks, and she suddenly wondered exactly how long he had been out on that balcony.

"You can sit," she said, turning back to the whistling kettle. He warily pulled a chair back and sat down tensely. Christine sighed as she poured the tea. He had nearly killed her husband, on more than one occasion, and now she had invited him into her own house! Out of pity, she supposed. How on earth had things led to this? Erik was sitting warily at her table, Raoul and her daughter upstairs while she made tea for them. For a moment, it almost all seemed natural. She seemed to be doing a lot of wondering lately. She couldn't even begin to think of what to say to him. She set the tea down, careful not to touch him, and took the seat opposite.

He didn't look the least bit guilty at having been found trespassing. She had been wrong: he still had that air of power around him. He took a quiet mouthful of tea and set it back down, staring distractedly out the window. Christine was afraid he might break the teacup with the grip he had on it.

"Where will you go?" she finally asked. Erik didn't even blink, still staring out into the night.

"I don't know. There are still places I have yet to see." He seemed to be purposefully avoiding speaking of Danielle, but Christine could see how he swallowed hard as he paused. "But you would probably rather see me in prison, wouldn't you?" He said it so bluntly, so unfeelingly, that Christine took a minute to take in what he had said.

She started when she did. "I would," she said softly, peering down at her cup, "see you at a safe distance from us. There have been too many…incidents between us. But I wouldn't see you locked away, behind bars like an animal in a cage."

He knew she said it out of ignorance, but a sharp pain stabbed through him at her words. He found his old sarcasm on his tongue in simple defense. "Incidents," he repeated. "You've learned an aristocrat's diction."

"Too many times you've tried to kill Raoul," she exchanged. "Too many times you've put my family in danger." His weak half-smile died, and Christine found that she resented her words slightly. With a sigh, she stood and went back to the counter. The thin china of her cup clattered as she put it down and placed her hands on the countertop. "Why are you here, Erik?"

He was silent at the table for a long time. She half hoped that he had left without a sound. Then he was suddenly beside her, cautiously placing something on the counter before withdrawing to the window. Christine stared down at her engagement ring, glinting magnificently on the marble near her hand. She fingered it almost disbelievingly as Erik sighed silently and leaned against the sill.

"Why are you giving this to me?" she asked faintly, turning to look at him. His back was impenetrable as he stared out longingly to the night, up at the sickle moon.

"Because I don't need it anymore," he said quietly. "That ring has obsessed me. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept me going. Others, it was the object of all my anguish. But I don't need it anymore. I'm returning it to you." Watching his back, Christine managed to read everything he had not said.

Love was not defined by this ring anymore. Erik had, finally, moved on.

With a sigh, she came forward and took his hand. The ring sparkled againt the black leather of his gloved palm before she closed his hand around it, just like all those years ago. "I gave it to you. Even if you don't need it anymore, that doesn't mean that you can't keep it." She pushed his closed hand to his chest and stepped back. "Maybe now it can be a bright spot in your past to look back on."

She left him standing by the window as she went back to wash her cup. The sudden knock on the door was unbelievably loud to the two in the kitchen. With one last glance at Erik, Christine walked out into the hall and opened the door. The boy standing on the steps blushed at her night-robe and swept off his hat, giving a respectful bow.

"Bonsoir, Madame de Chagny. Forgive me for interrupting your night like this." When she didn't respond, staring at him curiously, he dipped another bow. "I'm Francois Nereaux." It was then that she noticed the neat uniform he wore, the blue of the gendarme nearly black in the dim glow of the distant streetlamps.

"Good evening, M Nereaux. How may I help you?" She subtly barred the entrance, wary of him finding Erik. She hadn't lied, she would rather see Erik hiding away than trapped in the steel cage of a prison cell. The boy seemed naively oblivious to her subtlety, though, and gestured into the house.

"May I come in?" She couldn't find a good excuse to forbid him. He stepped past her graciously, and she suddenly held her breath as he entered the kitchen first.

The room was empty, the washed cup sitting on the countertop and the breeze coming in the opened window fluttering the drapes. Christine quickly feigned getting another cup down from the cupboard so that he would not realize that tea had been made for three.

"You aren't cold with the window open, Madame?" he asked, moving to shut it against the cold breeze.

"I needed the fresh air, monsieur," she said simply as she set the tea back on the table. With a start, she realized that Erik's cup was still there where Francois had sat, and she swept it up quickly. His eyes were sharp as he watched her. "Now what brings you to my home so late at night, M Nereaux?"

A blush crept into his young cheeks again, and Christine first noticed the bruise staining the line of his jaw, exactly where a right hook would have landed. "Well," he stammered, "I—uh…I wanted to inquire as to the health of the young mademoiselle." He sipped his tea distractedly, hiding his blush behind the china. Christine placed a hand to her breast as she realized that he was the guard from the cellars, the one Raoul had struck. "She's…she's doing well," she said, shaking her head free of this revelation. How much did the boy remember? "How are you fairing?"

"Well, my head doesn't hurt anymore. But, I had to come to…" She nearly sighed with relief as he looked away ashamedly. Even if he did know that Raoul had been the one to knock him out, he was more concerned with Danielle. "I've come to apologize. Under no circumstances should I have shot. I just, didn't realize that it wasn't the target. I thought she was the man we were looking for." His eyes were so woefully apologetic that Christine smiled at him kindheartedly.

"We're not pressing charges, Francois. It was a misunderstanding. We don't blame you for what happened. The gendarmes aren't even aware it was you."

"That's the other reason I've come," he said more confidently. "Do you know anything about the man who was the target? The management said that they had had problems before. He…he and the mademoiselle…It seemed that he was going to try and take her away. I assumed it was by force."

"Monsieur, I don't think you have to worry about him coming back for her. Danielle should be quite safe—"

"Madame, I'm not so sure. He did escape us." For such a young boy, he was very persistent. Christine shook her head and folded her arms imperiously.

"Monsieur Nereaux, I appreciate your concern for my daughter's well being, but that will be enough. The management of the Opera is superstitious and slightly paranoid. The previous incidents they mentioned were twenty years ago. I assure you that no harm will come to us from that man again." Her tone was just enough to override his sense of determination, at least for the time being. Christine wrapped her shawl around her and escorted him out to the door, wishing him a good night before closing it. Francois stood on the steps staring at the door for a minute before turning down the street. He paused at the side garden of the Chagny's house, thinking that he had seen a shadow near one of the upper floors, but then decided that the night was playing tricks on him. Perhaps Madame de Chagny was right, but he was determined to repay his debt to the young mademoiselle. Somehow.

The night was comfortingly familiar as Erik scaled the side of the house back to the balcony. He paused at the French glass doors, watching the faint moonlight fall through and cast blue light around his dark shadow. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he had held her last. Just seeing her pale from lying on the bed quickened his heart, rose the sound of his blood in his ears. But with it rose the guilt, the suffocating guilt he felt would choke him.

The doors opened quietly, and he slipped inside. His thick cloak melded with the shadows of her room, but for once he didn't mind. He was like a cat, cautiously stepping from the doors towards her bed, like a subservient sinner towards the altar, afraid he would misstep.

His poor Angel was so pale. He felt his throat constrict as he pulled off his glove, the soft bed shifting beneath him as he sat at its edge. Did he even dare to touch her, to trail his cursed fingers over her innocent skin? She was here because of him. Curse it, he loved her. He hadn't been able to admit it, but Erik had fallen in love. Her skin was hot beneath his hand as he touched her arm, brushing back the hair from her face. The white bandage was a cruel testament to what he had done to her.

Why had he ever let her take his mask? He guiltily withdrew his hand when Danielle suddenly stirred and reached out towards him. "Erik," she moaned, and he leaned closer, taking her hand gently in his own. His thumb caressed her palm as she weakly held it, his other hand touching her cheek. She shivered and turned her hand to his touch. "Don't," she murmured, sighing against the pillow. "Don't let it be over. Don't let the music end." Her plea wrenched his fragile heart, and he leaned closer to kiss her pale brow.

"Never, Angel," he soothed, pressing her warm fingers in turn to his lips. "You are my music." At the sound of his voice she relaxed, surrendering to the gentleness of his touch. A brief smile crossed her lips, and then her hand unexpectedly cringed in his. She whimpered in her sleep as some fever dream claimed a hold of her.

Just as Erik began to gather her in his arms, the door to her room swung quietly open, letting the light fall in a pool across the floor. The strong figure of the Vicomte stood silhouetted against the light from the hallway. He took in the scene silently, the phantom and his mask leaning over his daughter for the second time in as many days. Erik didn't expect a warm welcome.

"You can't seem to get rid of me, M le Vicomte," he said softly. Raoul stared at him until glancing down at his daughter concernedly. Erik disarmingly stood from the bed, surrendering Danielle back to the pillow. "I must thank you, Vicomte, for the courage you passed on to your daughter. It has saved the both of us more than once."

"That is her own gift. I don't think I can take credit for it." Raoul looked at Erik with a new light. From any other man, that would have been an apology. From Erik, it sounded like a favor Raoul should be thanking him for. But it was, he was almost sure, still an apology. He couldn't deny the soft emotion he could see in Erik's luminous eyes as he looked down at Danielle. What Christine had said that one night suddenly rose in his mind. You're the kind of father that just doesn't want to see his daughter grow up…

He didn't know what he had been about to say, but Erik cut him off before he could find out. "She has a fever," he said, gathering his thick cloak around him. With a small sigh and a still wary glance, Raoul stepped back into the hallway to grab a cool towel. When he turned back to the room, Erik was gone. He went to the open doors onto the balcony and looked over the railing, but even there, the man was no where in sight. Christine's footsteps rose from the stairs as he shut the doors, and she appeared at the door to the bedroom, staring at him with a cup of tea in hand.

---

A few days after the disaster of the masked ball, the Persian stood pacing restlessly in his sitting room. Darius appeared in the doorway, looking slightly anxious beneath his normally stoic appearance. "There is a man at the door, master, giving his name as Erik and insisting to see the daroga." The Persian ordered to have him seen in immediately.

Erik staggered in, looking weak and frail underneath his heavy cloak. The Persian glared at him coldly. "What have you done to Danielle Daae de Chagny?" he demanded. The phantom leaned against the frame of the doorway and shook his head sadly.

"Daroga, I'm—"

"What has happened?" he cut in, gesturing impatiently. "The girl was carried out in her father's arms with a bloody rag tied around her arm, cold and pale as death. As you," he added harshly. "What did you do to her?"

"I'm dying, Nadir," he said weakly, and the daroga paused. "I'm dying of love, daroga. She risked her life for me."

"And now where is she?"

"With her family," Erik muttered distractedly, "my poor Angel." He leaned harder against the frame as if he were about to fall. The face behind his black mask looked pale and weary.

"This is all the same as the last time," Nadir argued gently, "when you loved Christine."

"No, daroga," Erik snapped, taking on a stronger pallor. "That was different. I thought I loved Christine, but you cannot love someone who will never love you back. She was the first person who ever took notice of me. She didn't love me. She showed me what love meant. But Danielle loves me." He said this as if even he could hardly believe it. "And I love her. She risked her life to protect me. When your friends the police showed up," he growled dangerously, "we fell into the mirror-room."

"You took that child into the torture chamber!" Nadir cried, but Erik shook his head and finally fell into a seat.

"It is no more a torture chamber than this is, anymore, Nadir. She insisted that I escape, though we both knew it painted her like a knife to the heart to say it. She took my mask and drew off the guards." The hand he pressed to his eyes trembled slightly. "She could have died, trying to protect me, but she let me get away."

"Erik, I did not call the gendarme," Nadir said, looking at the man wearily slumped in the armchair. "The management must have learned that you were still there."

"It does not matter," Erik said dismissively. "I cannot let it happen to her again. So I am leaving."

"Why are you telling me this?" Nadir asked, his anger completely forgotten.

"I cannot go without even a word to someone who may pass it to Danielle. She said that she often comes to have tea with you." He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope, sealed with his elaborate red stamp. He handed it to Nadir. "This is for her, but you mustn't give it to her unless she comes here. It is not to leave your house except in her hands." Erik sighed and stood as if it pained him. At the masquerade, when Nadir had finally caught sight of him on the steps with Danielle, he had looked so much younger. He had looked like he was twenty years younger, as if the girl had somehow transformed him and given him a new life. Now, he looked as if he had gained more than his share of years back. Nadir watching him carefully, like one watched someone he is afraid might fall at any moment. He glanced down at the envelope in his hands, addressed simply to Mlle Danielle in red ink.

When he looked up, Erik stood in the door, looking stronger after reaching some decision. The years that had seemed to cling to him were slowly giving way to some determined expression. "I am going east. You can tell her that, if she asks."

"I would do no such thing," Nadir suddenly said. "This is you way of protecting her, and it is the least she deserves. I would not take that one gift of yours away."

Erik turned back and smiled wryly beneath his mask. Maybe that moment of age had been just an illusion. "Trust me, dear daroga, if she asked, you would not be able to keep even that small fact from her." He turned and strode determinedly down the hall, opening the door. Nadir called to him from the entrance to the sitting room.

"You have a different mask, Erik." He imagined the wry smile crept back onto Erik's face again, though he didn't turn back. His cloaked figure was silhouetted in the doorway, the streetlights giving him a soft halo against the night.

"I am not leaving Paris as the phantom," he replied cryptically. "Goodbye, Nadir, and farewell."

---

Warm, dappled light slanted in through the windows, bringing with it the calls of the little song birds still left in Paris. The few trees swayed in a lazy wind that stirred the crisp leaves on the ground. One of the birds alighted on the banister of the balcony, chirping cheerily at the glass. It twittered when a shaft of sunlight fell on her hand and she stirred.

Danielle blinked slowly at the bird. It hopped around on the railing, singing her awake. A yawn cracked her jaws as she levered herself up to a sitting position. She lifted a hand to brush her mussed hair straighter, but suddenly winced as she moved her left arm. The little bird squeaked in commiseration. The young woman's hand felt at the soft sling tied around her neck, supporting her arm, touched the clean bandages wrapped around it, having trouble remembering why she would be wearing them. She looked out at the song bird curiously as it ruffled its feathers against the wind.

The door opened, and Danielle gratefully breathed in the refreshing air. The stone was cold beneath her toes, but she didn't mind. Frost condensed into drops of cool water beneath her palm as she steadied herself against the banister, smiling at the bird. It chirped happily at her before fluttering its wings and flitting off.

"Oh, you're awake!" Christine cried from behind her, and her arms were around Danielle before she was aware her mother was even there. "It's good to see you up and about. How do you feel?"

"Fine," Danielle stammered in confusion, her memory still a long mile behind her. Her mother's hands on her shoulder were steadying as she turned her daughter towards her. Christine looked radiant and delighted in the morning light. "How long have I been asleep?" she asked.

"It's the third of January. Only two days," she said comfortingly. Her fingers deftly untangled her daughter's hair and pushed it back from her face. "Not that long really. Cauterizing that wound would have put anyone under for that long." She adjusted the tie of the sling absently. "But come and have breakfast, you must be starving." Danielle was about to protest when her stomach suddenly agreed for her with a loud growl. She laughed and nodded enthusiastically. She felt restless after being in bed so long.

Raoul kissed her cheek as he brushed past her to sit across the table. Christine went to fix some more tea, that from the night long gone cold. She listened as Raoul helped Danielle to stretch out her arm. It reminded her so much of when her daughter had been little and would scrape up her knees. Raoul would be making the same encouragements against Danielle's same determined winces. Their daughter sighed in relief as he finally let her rest her arm on the table and untied the bandages. The wound was still more scab than scar, and Danielle touched it briefly. The back of her arm had a neat hole in it, but the front was more like a little star from where they had cut out the bullet. Raoul smiled as he unwound some fresh bandages. "Now you'll have a nice scar to boast about to your brother." She laughed.

"Where is Jacques?"

"He's gone to Nicola's. We sent him and Maurice away after about a half hour. They're worse than hens with chicks." They both laughed at that. Christine set a bowl of fruit in the middle of the table and sat down.

"So is there no performance at the Opera today?" she asked innocently. Her voice fell, though, when Raoul and Christine shared a glance. Her face paled until Christine was afraid that she might faint. Danielle's memories caught up to her, then, and she snatched her arm to her chest, leaning back in her chair fearfully. "What…Where…" Only single syllable questions were willing to form on her tongue. The cellars, the race, the pain. And then the icy fear that Erik wouldn't get away. She shook her head and stared at both of them.

Christine reached out and cupped her daughter's hands in her own. "We let him go," she said gently. Danielle's spine lost some of its rigidness as her eyes flicked to Raoul. "He's gone." Silence reined over the morning. Danielle's shoulders slumped weakly as she looked down at the grain of the table.

"You love him, don't you." Raoul's voice was firm, expecting an answer. Father and daughter fixed eyes on each other.

"You didn't see, Papa," she said, looking down at her hands to steel herself. "When you took off his mask. You didn't see. You only saw what you expected, what you wanted to see: a monster, a murderer. You didn't see the sorrow in his eyes. The regret, the remorse. The pain. And because you didn't see it he forgot about it. It's hard to know yourself when you're afraid to look in the mirror."

"You didn't answer my question," he prompted softly. She looked up at him again, her hands stilling.

"Yes, father," she whispered.

"Then you're going to follow him, aren't you." It wasn't really a question.

"I have to. I know you don't—"

"You don't have to explain, Danielle," he suddenly said softly. She blinked at him in confusion. Raoul sighed and took her hands across the table, holding them in his own strong grip. "When Christine and I found you both in the cellars, the way you looked at me before you fell…" He paused. "I didn't want to admit it. You had such conviction in your eyes, defending him like that. You love him. You love Erik the same way that I love your mother. You're willing to sacrifice yourself for him. I guess Christine was right: you are your father's daughter."

She sat stunned for a moment before smiling and throwing her arms around him tightly, ignoring the pain in her arm. Raoul patted her back gently, finally beginning to accept that his daughter was growing up and he couldn't stop it.

---

They let her take the carriage to the Opera House. Poling the boat across the lake was agonizingly slow and painful, but no petty staff was going to stop Danielle. When she reached the cove, she had to relight most of the candles. She slowly ascended the stone steps to the organ, feeling like a ghost from when she had first come here. The silence reminded her too much o f a cemetery: empty and reverent.

A red rose sat on the keyboard, the black ribbon shining as if spilled over the ivory keys. Danielle picked it up and pressed it to her lips, breathing in the sweet, mournful fragrance. She didn't let the tears that threatened to spill from her lashes. You told him to go, she reminded herself. He had to leave. When she opened her eyes, she saw the polished leather folder leaning against the pipes, the front gleaming with embossed gold foil, the letters curling around each other.

FENRIS' CRY

The folder was filled with every last sheet of the composition, inked into its final, finished copy. Tucked into the thin pocket in thee front was a small note, written in red ink.

I wish I could have heard it finished.

That was all it said.

As her eyes lingered on the simple words, searching vainly for anything more, light strains of music drifted through the cove. Danielle looked around, turning her head to the sound. Her hand touched the broken piece of string tied to the note. She followed the sound up through the scattered furniture, the loose sheets of paper and tall candles, until she stood next toe the carved bed, still holding the note and the rose. The little music box seemed lonesome as it played, the chimp sadly ringing his cymbals together. She absently ran her fingers over the base to find the little drawer, but it was locked and unmoving when she tried to open it. A box sat on the bed, tied with the same black ribbon, and Danielle pulled it loose. Nestled into the box was a dress, black and gold and white lace, a little silk rose clipped to the shoulder. Placing the note and rose carefully on the sheets, the young woman slipped off her own clothes and pulled it on.

Danielle stared at her own reflection when she came to stand before the mirror. The dress fit perfectly, beautifully. The gold lace of the skirt hung down to her bare ankles, a dark sash tied around her waist. Her shoulders were bare, and the white lace bands that fell from her shoulders covered the scar on her arm. As her hand moved to pin the flower in her hair, she froze.

"This is Aminta's dress," she breathed. Her hand reached out to touch the mirror. The frame was draped in velvet, and where the other looking glasses were still lying on the ground where she had put them, shattered and fractured, this one was smooth as lake water. She pushed the drapery back over the frame and ran her palm over the cool surface. This was the passage that Erik had come through when she first met him, the one he had escaped through after the masquerade.

This is where he was going, she realized as she looked at her reflection in the dress again. He said he would leave Paris, and he had taken his Don Juan Triumphant with him. Danielle touched the glass once more, her fingerprints fogging its cool surface, and found herself considering breaking it. Maybe then it would lead her to Erik. But no, that path was strewn across Europe now, entwined in the music of his own play. All he had left her was her reflection and their music.

Author's End Notes: OOoh, first end note. happy dances So, what did you think? SOrry it's so much, but it all needs to be in one chapter. It just has to be. K, I can't put it in the right font online, but where it says Fenris' Cry, imagine it in Word in BlackAdder script. So cool! That's how it's meant to be.

I write all this stuff to music, come up with most of the scenes while listening to the soundtrack. So at the very end, picture Danielle very slowly waling up and standing in front of the mirror to the last minute of "Track Down this Murderer" (the last song, pretty much I LOVE those chords the violins play, and that's pretty much how I picture what I wrote. grinz So if you appreciate music, you can bother to go and reread it like that.