A/N: To my amazing lurkers and readers: I hope you all had a wonderful holiday. For those of you wondering about the "blue eyed German" mentioned in chapter 16, he has been mentioned in previous "Erik" chapters before. Anyway, this is a longer one, so please, my darlings…enjoy!

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Paper Stars

Even though Rosie's flat lay just around the corner, Christine trudged slowly, scanning the throngs of the mid-morning crowds for his face. She pulled her woolen coat tighter around her body, attempting to shut out the icy chill that swirled upon the wings of the wind. Everyone seemed so ordinary, so similar to one another; diamonds shimmered around the necks of every woman, sipping cups of steaming coffee with painted red lips. Her heart slowed to a dull flutter once she turned the corner, knowing somehow that she would not see him after all…yet she hoped desperately that he was somewhere safe, and that he might be thinking of her.

Christine entered the building through brassy revolving doors, gently brushing in-between people that lingered in the marbled lobby. The air was filled with smoke, pluming from the ends of idle men's cigarettes, engulfing her into hazy clouds of grey and blue. The scent of nicotine formed his hands in her mind; how large and scarred up they had been, yet so very delicate, so gentle upon her skin. She stopped at the foot of the staircase for a moment, squeezing her eyes shut, begging her mind to retrieve the vivid memory of last night once more; how Erik had moved dangerously, viciously…scaling the staircase and snatching blackened evil from the air, throttling Raoul by his lapels as if to launch him over the bannister…

She opened her eyes. The carpeted staircase was a deep purple instead of maroon, and it did not swirl as high as the one in her building. Yet, she could still almost picture him at the top, with one powerful hand resting upon the railing…with golden eyes that beseeched her, that called her forth from an imminent darkness…that understood what true death of the soul could be like…

The ways it could split the heart into shards of nothing…a mirror, fissured and tilted, giving the on-looker a foreign and frightening reflection…

But she could not dwell upon the past. It was gone, slipping through her fingers like sand; like the fading of her black feathers – the slow disappearance of him crawling toward her, burning her lips with a raw and rigid hunger…

She shook her head, running a hand through her tousled locks. She would not dwell upon the dream, she could not…lest she lose herself in its lucid, vivacious depths…

Christine hastily made her way up the staircase, pressing her fingers to the sides of her temples. She decided then, that she would return to his double doors this evening and wait. She would sit against the smooth wood, running fingers over the brazen, lion shaped knockers while she dreamt of him reaching the top of the stairs, his hands falling to his sides…with eyes full of want, full of an urgent need for her…

She had finally reached Rosie's flat. Christine took a deep breath, and slowly rapped her knuckle against the dark mahogany surface. Hanging from the doorknob was a small paper sign that hung, painted in messy, childlike letters: "The Linwood's."

The door flew open, revealing a slightly plump, middle aged woman with cropped, wavy blonde hair. She had light blue eyes, and wore a bit too much powder upon her cheeks; yet her smile seemed to brighten the dim light of the hallway.

"Oh, Christine, my darling!" the woman pulled Christine into a quick and tight hug, then immediately pushed back to hold her at an arms distance. "Child, have you been eating? Oh my goodness, you are too thin! Too thin, you girls, and I don't care what your teacher says. You need to be eating more! Good God…" the woman shook her head, planting both hands upon her wide hips.

"It's so good to see you, Mrs. Linwood," Christine responded quietly, standing awkwardly with her arms now limp at her sides. "I do eat, I promise…"

"Nonsense!" Mrs. Linwood curled an arm around Christine's hand, leading her into the flat gently, shoving the door shut behind her. "Rosie, darling, Christine is here!" she sang out, releasing Christine's hand. Mrs. Linwood turned to Christine once more, her eyes twinkling with a bit of mischief. "I have a couple of friends over for brunch, dear…there is champagne in the kitchen, please do have a glass…and have some breakfast, God knows Raoul is off wandering around in a lab, somewhere…I'll have to have a chat with him, yes, that much is clear!"

"Mrs. Linwood, please, I'm fine, really…I don't have much of an appetite," Christine pleaded, but Mrs. Linwood had already turned on her heel, making her way to the dining room that was blocked off by a pair of gold-framed, glassy doors. Christine could hear the muted sounds of laughter coming from the room, and just as she opened her mouth to call out again, Mrs. Linwood had slipped through the doors, shutting them sharply behind her.

"Christine!" a small voice erupted from the kitchen, and a young little girl meandered out, her hands held out in front of her. She wore a long sleeved, plaid day dress, and her white blond hair was pleated into two long braids. Her eyes were dulled with a translucent and milky color, yet she made her way across the foyer from the kitchen doorway, walking in slow, careful steps. "I heard Mama answer the door, and Rose told me you were coming!"

The little girl reached the spot where Christine stood, wrapping her thin arms around Christine's waist. "How come you haven't been over in forever?" the little girl asked, burying her head in the woolen folds of Christine's coat.

"Oh, Queenie, I've been busy…I…I meant to come visit sooner, I promise!" Christine said through a smile, brushing her hands over the tight braids atop Queenie's head. "Now where is your sister hiding?"

Queenie, although blind, seemed to have memorized every bit of furniture in the house; every placement of each potted plant, every doorway, all walls and corners. The Linwood's flat was chaotic with color; there were large, abstractly shaped coffee tables in every room, surrounded by an assortment of plush cushions and pillows. Giant leafy plants sprouted from painted pots in every corner of the house, brushing the high ceilings with their jungle-like appearance. Queenie's messy artwork was hung everywhere; framing splashes of yellow and pink upon the walls, smearing the blurry lines between reality and dreaming.

"Christine!" Rosie's head popped out of the kitchen, her cheeks flushed and her hair loose around her shoulders. "I'm making your concoction, it's almost ready! I had help, of course…mother is always drinking these…" she explained, motioning for Christine to join her in the kitchen. "Queenie, stop pestering Christine! She hasn't even gotten her coat off yet!"

Queenie shrugged, turning in the direction of Rosie's voice. "I thought she was wearing a woolen dress!"

Christine quickly slid her coat off, hanging it carefully on the coat rack next to the door. "It's all right…I don't mind Queenie pestering me," she responded, leaning down to plant a kiss upon Queenie's head. "Now where is that concoction of yours, Rosie? I'm afraid my head feels like it might split open…"

The three girls sat at the kitchen table, piled high with strange, erratic paintings and dusty leather-bound books. Rosie had poured herself some champagne while Christine choked down the slurry of brown, chunky liquid…almost coughing some of it up as she forced herself to swallow.

"I know it must taste foul, but mother swears by it," Rosie assured Christine, turning her head to look at the closed doors of the dining room. "Queenie, go listen and report back to me! Come now, you will have time with Christine later," Rosie poked her sister's arm, bringing her voice down to a whisper. "Righto, Captain Rose!" Queenie slid out of her chair excitedly, padding out of the kitchen and over to the swirled glass of the double doors. Rosie pushed her chair out from behind her, motioning Christine to follow her into the next connecting room. Christine followed, carrying the glass of brown sludge, forcing more of it down her throat as they walked. "I think I may vomit," she mumbled, clutching her stomach tightly. "You'll be fine, just keep it down no matter what," Rosie said over her shoulder. The two entered into a large bedroom, with paper stars that covered the ceiling, dangling by wire and string. "I made them for Queenie," Rosie said quietly, motioning to the opposite bed on the far end of the room. "She can't see them but she likes to stand on her bed and feel them with her fingers. It makes her happy."

"You are so lovely, Rosie," Christine commented, falling back onto Rosie's satin bedspread, folding her hands upon her stomach. Rosie lay beside her, downing the last of her champagne, setting the glass softly on the moon shaped nightstand that was pushed against the wall. The two young women lay there for a silent moment, staring up at the paper stars that dangled, crowding each other like faces in a crowd, or galaxies that collided into one another.

"Well? Are you going to tell me about the gala? Oh Christine, I am dying to know what happened!"

Christine let out a long sigh; her headache had subsided a bit, but her heart was still a tangle of cords, with pain that radiated from his absence…even though she tried to cut him out, even for just a small amount of time…to rid herself of his forefinger sliding down the length of her arm…

She felt him still, even now, with Rosie. She knew he was somewhere, and prayed he would return eventually. She could not give in to the misery that mocked her, that whispered cruel things in the back of her mind…

An abysmal heresy that he would never come back.

"He…he protected me, Rose. Raoul tripped me, or pushed me, I…I can't remember which. We were descending the stairs, down to the lobby in my building…and he was waiting at the bottom." She turned her head toward Rosie, whose mouth had fallen open. "He…he caught me, but I believe I fainted…the last thing I remember was falling, and suddenly he was there…almost like he knew I might fall."

Rosie was speechless. She slowly closed her mouth, hanging on to Christine's every word with wide, blue eyes.

"Erik. His name is Erik.

God, it was like…for the first time in my life, someone saw me, truly saw me…it was as if he could see my past reflecting in my eyes. Like he could see all of the white cots at the orphanage…like he saw me get my head shaved when I was young. It was just a feeling, but…I could not let go of it. I've never felt so…so understood, I suppose you could say. Yet we never spoke of it; I never said a word about my past, or about Raoul…he just…sprang up the stairs, powerful, like some sort of beast in the wild. He threw Raoul down the stairs…" Christine's lips curved into a smile as she spoke the words to life, making them sting, yet making them real…otherwise she was afraid it might all just be a dream, that she might wake and the penthouse would always remain empty…that she might be condemned without him to live a cruel life that was void of love.

Rosie still lay silent beside her, but had turned her body toward Christine, resting her head upon folded up hands. Christine continued to stare up at the paper stars; how beautiful they were, although made flimsy, dusted with sparkle and paint…was she not similar, was she not one of those stars, cut out poorly, not strong enough to withstand even a gentle morning rain?

"Raoul lay there, at the bottom of the stairs…he lay almost in the fetal position, and I stood over him…much like he would stand over me, after…well…" her voice trailed off, and she took another deep breath, concentrating upon the stars. "Erik, he…he came to me, offering me his hand…and he took me to the gala, Rose…I know it sounds like a dream, or…or something you might read in a fairy tale. Yet I know my life is made of tragedy, it's…it's so broken. I'm broken. But Erik, he…he was so gentle with me…afraid to touch me too harshly, I think…he stroked my skin as if I were made of glass," she broke into a smile again, reaching one of her hands up toward the stars.

"He showed me the Archangels that live atop the Opera House…but…something went wrong, inside…inside of him. His father was at the gala, you see, and…his father was quite cruel to him. I tried to do something, to do anything, say anything…but he left me there," her voice fell into a saddened whisper, while she raised a finger to her chin; the last place he had touched. "He ripped off his mask and threw it into the crowd, and I…I saw his face. It was so scarred up, so deeply red in all different places…they tortured him. They took something from him, and I…I wanted so badly to make it all right. But he touched me, right here, on the chin…he called me, 'little dove'. And then left, Rose…he left. I tried to follow, but…my legs had gone numb. It felt like losing a part of me, a tiny, swollen part of me that I didn't even know existed…I didn't know I could feel anything anymore. But he changed that. He's changed me."

Silence stretched out between the two of them for a moment. Christine could hear the muffled laughter of the women in the dining room, and she imagined little Queenie with her ear pressed against the glass doors. She smiled again, dropping her arm back down onto her stomach. "But his brother, Bruce…he was very kind to me. And he promised that Erik would return…that he would come back to the penthouse. And perhaps, I suppose I'm hoping that…that he will return and come looking for me."

"Oh, Christine…" Rosie whispered, her eyes glowing with fascination. "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Of course he'll come back for you. He…he protected you! He caught you at the bottom of the stairs…why, if his father hadn't ruined everything, he probably would have even kissed you!"

Christine laughed softly, touching her temple with a finger. "My headache is gone," she murmured, her eyes still transfixed upon the paper stars.

"Christine! Think of it…kissing him…"

"I have," she whispered, releasing a long breath. "I've dreamt about him ever since I…I first looked into his eyes…"

"This is all so magical! I knew he would find you irresistible…but…but be careful, at the same time, Christine. Queenie and I have heard mother's friends say things about him…eavesdropping of course, but still…they say he's dangerous. That he has a volatile temper…and the mask…"

"The mask," Christine scoffed. "What of it? I saw what his face truly looks like, Rosie…I've seen how they've made him suffer. What if it were your face, or my face? You don't think we'd feel ashamed, that we would feel desperate for a sense of…of being ordinary, again? Of having something people don't point and stare at? He's horrified of himself…and he has to live with the violent traces of people that…that do things unimaginable."

Rosie sighed noisily. "You're right, I know that…and I know it's all just gossip, really…perhaps he's different than the rumors. Perhaps he's just hurting really badly…and people misuse that pain. They manipulate it, mother says. If he was kind and gentle to you, then…then I trust him. I trust him to protect you." Rosie smiled, pinching Christine on the arm. "You must tell me about when he comes back for you. I bet he's dreaming of you right now," Rosie giggled, and Christine broke into a smile again, turning her face away.

"I don't expect him to dream of me," she pondered, "but I do expect him to…to seek me, to find me. Oh, I don't know, Rose…it's all so wonderful, yet…yet I can't help but think of Raoul. It's not Erik's job to protect me…and he can't possibly protect me all the time…"

"Unless," Rosie interrupted, "He rescues you from Raoul. Forever. And then…"

"Oh, Rose, don't give me that sort of hope. I can't ask that of him. I…I barely know him…"

"Christine, fairy tales can be real, you know," Queenie's musical voice rang softly from the bedroom doorway, and Rosie sat up quickly, crossing her arms. "Queenie! You were supposed to eavesdrop on mother, not on us!"

Queenie shrugged again, her milky eyes dancing around the room, as if counting all the stars hanging from the ceiling. "I got bored," she said nonchalantly, wandering toward Rosie's bed, where Christine and Rosie lay comfortably. Queenie felt for a space in the middle of them, smiling as she jumped onto the bed and lay between them. Christine smiled wider, stroking a stray hair away from Queenie's forehead. "Which fairy tales come true?" Christine asked tenderly.

"You just explained it, Christine! The one with you and Erik. I'm a fairy tale expert, and everything adds up. He rescued you from someone evil and protected you, then took you to a ball! But wait…one thing is missing. What was your dress like?"

Christine turned her head back toward the ceiling of paper stars, and the three of them lay in silence, for a moment. "It was a dress made of the night sky, Queenie. Imagine darkness, without any light, or shape, or sound…now sprinkle it with things that shine, that glow, like stars…"

"How many stars?" Queenie asked softly, seemingly enchanted by Christine's words.

"It was just like your ceiling…it was as if two galaxies collided, there were so many. So many I could not count…"

"I imagine stars are the most beautiful thing in the world. And if you were wearing them, it will remind him of you….every time he looks up at nighttime. He will think of you."

"Perhaps," Christine murmured, stroking a finger across Queenie's pale forehead.

"I saw you before you left for the gala," Rosie cut in, running a finger down the silky length of Queenie's right braid. "You were, and are still the most beautiful angel in all of Manhattan!"

"Yes, an angel!" Queenie repeated, a smile growing wide upon her pale face. She turned her head to look at Rosie, reaching a hand out to touch her older sister's face. "Rose, are you going to tell Christine about the lake of swans?"

Rosie giggled again, pressing a finger to Queenie's lips. "Yes, of course I'm going to tell her. And it's 'Swan Lake', not 'the lake of swans'!"

"I like mine better," Queenie murmured dreamily, turning her head back up toward the stars. Christine's eyes widened at the name of the ballet, sitting straight up on the bed in wondrous shock. "Rose…"

Rosie sat up with Christine, waving a hand in the air casually. "It's only hearsay, of course…but it came from mother's friend Beatrice who was sleeping with the conductor…" Rosie giggled. "Well, she found out he was sleeping with half of the ballerinas, so we heard it pretty loud from outside the dining room. Naturally they fired him, of course. Beatrice was pretty giddy about that!"

A swirl of nerves were already curling inside of Christine's stomach, and she compelled herself to take another deep breath. "Yes, but what about Swan Lake? Are we…are we performing it?"

Rosie cocked her head curiously at Christine. "You're face is already flushed, and I've barely told you anything! Christine, it's obvious who is going to dance as Odette and Odile…it's going to be you! Our artistic director is constantly calling you out as an example…he's always had his eye on you! I'm just saying," Rosie reached over Queenie, settling a hand upon Christine's shoulder, "is that you need to be prepared for him to declare it. Sure, he might hold try-outs so no one can call him biased, but I know better than that!"

Christine fell back onto the bed, squeezing her eyes shut. Images of her dream came rippling back as if they'd never left; the golden crown, the shedding of her ivory feathers…her hands bound in front of Erik, her eyes bleeding in every mirror!

He had held her from behind, he had lifted her up once she had been freed. But there had been blood, rivers of blood upon her cheeks like tears…perhaps they were all the tears she'd ever cried; at the hands of the thin-lipped headmistress, the hands of her savage and vile husband…

Who kept her bound, with the golden crown…

"Christine, are you all right? Christine!" Rosie's voice echoed against the power of the memories, the violence and might of her thoughts and dreams. She opened her eyes, focusing dully on the paper stars that twinkled from above.

"I…I had the strangest dream, last night," she murmured, examining her wrists for marks. She turned her head toward Rosie, who looked mildly petrified. "I thought you maybe were going to faint," Rosie said worriedly, while Queenie still lay between them, silent and unfazed.

"The conductor," Christine repeated softly, taking deep breaths to ease the ache in her chest. "You said he was fired for…for sleeping with ballerinas?"

"That's what Beatrice said, anyhow…but mother says she over-exaggerates often, so who really knows. I suppose we'll find out once rehearsals start. But Christine, think of it! You'll be divine as Odette! It will get you noticed, and who knows who might go see it!"

"Yes…I…I suppose there's a chance," Christine repeated quietly, closing her eyes once more.

"How are you supposed to be two different swans?" Queenie piped up, turning her milky eyes toward Christine. "If you're only one person, then how can you play two different parts?"

When you dance, you must think of me.

"I…I don't know, Queenie," Christine lied, but the truth of it all was split in two, right inside of her heart. She suddenly became anxious for the day to waste away; for the light of the sun to set upon the bustling grime of Manhattan – to shut it all in complete darkness. Only then would she retrace her steps, back down the block and around the corner…back up the six flights of stairs to where his double doors stood towering. She would wait for him, tonight. She would lay down and sleep by the doors, if need be. For wherever he was, the night would be pulled over his world like a curtain, etching his face in black charcoal, framing his shadows with paper stars. Perhaps he might look up and see her, within the sky. She would be two or three galaxies colliding; she would be the part of his soul that was torn apart, that needing mending, healing…

Deliverance.

She would be his protector; she would wait as long as it took.

And everywhere he might go, she would spread out above him, illuminating his path with tiny pinpricks of heaven…

She would be a part of him, if only a tiny part.

She would be his darkness, his emptiness, and his light…

If only he'd come back, with scarred up hands and stitches still tight on the side of his mouth…if only he'd return to be her stars, her night.

…

A/N: Thank you all for being so awesome and leaving such amazing and wholesome feedback. Every single one of your thoughts put forth make my day. Love, L.