A/N- I have to admit, I got a little stuck trying to deal with Raoul's role in the story. I still haven't worked out anything concrete yet. Suggestions are welcome.

Chapter 7

Someone real.

The plea from his young protégé was enough to quell the anger that had risen inside. He had watched the boy leave his parlor and retire to the room that Christine had offered him. He had felt his hand reach for the Punjab lasso at his side. But when he saw her walking down the hall, having extinguished the last of the candles in the parlor, he felt his desire to kill quickly leave him. He watched as she passed by him, never knowing he was lurking in the shadows of a doorway. In the moonlight, which shone through the tall windows, her pale dress had an unearthly glow. Long, brown curls cascaded down her back. She walked with all of the grace of an angel and carried a candle before her to light her way. Never had he seen anything so beautiful.

Her eyes drifted down for a moment and the spell was broken. He could see a familiar sadness fill her lovely eyes. How he hated to see that expression on her painfully beautiful face! He watched as she stopped at her door, fumbling with the handle before slipping in silently and shutting it behind her.

Glancing down the hall, he remembered the presence of the boy. Something had to be done. He would not allow that boy to remain in his house any longer. No one was to distract Christine from her lessons. He had worked too long to let a fool such as the Vicomte de Chagny ruin all he had struggled for.

He would not allow her to drift away.

The first time he had heard her heavenly voice, a handful of years ago, he thought some sort of strange spell had overcome him. But as he neared the source of the sound, he found the woods growing thin. He pulled back slightly, careful to conceal himself in the shadows, and watched through the gaps in the foliage. A young girl had bent over a gravestone, laying a small bouquet at its base. She had sunk to her knees, the beautiful voice having ceased its heavenly song, and began to pray. He watched her closely. Watched her delicate hands fold in prayer. Watched the flutter of her eyelashes upon her cheek. Watched the movement of her lips in silent prayer.

Immediately, he felt sympathy for this young girl. As she rose to her feet, she turned, and he was startled by her beauty. He felt his breath catch in his throat. The sadness he had heard in her voice now lingered in the depths of her eyes. Her lips began to tremble and she lifted a hand to her mouth to stifle the sobs.

It was in that moment that he knew that he must be the one to watch over her. Alone in the world, like himself, he felt a strange affinity for her. An affinity he had never had with anyone before.

Now, he watched from the shadows, concealed behind the large mirror in her room. He watched her protest. He saw the same sadness flood her delicate features when he told her to send the boy away.

I need someone. . .real. The plaintive cry echoed in his mind. Gone were the thoughts of that ridiculous young man invading his property. The anger that had been building was dashed to pieces as he watched her retreat to the large bed and sink into the blankets. Her hand gripped the sheets as she pressed her face into the pillows. Her cry was muffled, but with his acute hearing, he could hear every sob, every sorrowful groan.

As she drifted off to sleep, her fit of crying having exhausted itself, he slipped from the mirror and approached her bed. He had never allowed himself this close to her, while she slept in her room, since bringing her to the house. But now, he could not resist. He looked down upon her tear sodden face, resting silently against the thick pillows, and marveled at the beauty presented before him. He found his hand rising upon its own volition. The long, slender, masculine fingers of his hand traced a small path upon her jaw. He watched in silence as her expression seemed to soften for a moment.

His eyes drifted along her face, drinking in every detail. Her long lashes fluttered softly against her cheek in dream. Her soft, delicate lips were parted as she slept. Finally tearing his eyes from the sight of her, he pulled his gloved hand away in guilt and retreated to the mirror.

"Will he ride today?" she asked, patting the white horse as she glanced up at Raoul.

The young man stopped his careful grooming. "The leg looks much improved. I believe so."

"Good," Christine responded, though no emotion ran into the word.

"I do not wish to trouble you anymore. Your hospitality has been most welcome. Please convey my gratitude to your benefactor when he returns," Raoul bowed humbly.

"I will," she smiled.

He looked ready to leave when Christine suddenly called out to him. "Raoul?"

"Yes?" he asked, turning from his horse.

"Where do you live?" she asked curiously.

He smiled gently, leaning against a wooden support in the small stable. "Just to the north of this area, outside of these woods, my brother has an estate." Raoul watched her closely, noting the hesitation. "Perhaps you can come to visit us."

Her eyes seemed to light up, but were quickly subdued by something else altogether. "That is a lovely offer," she said softly, her eyes wandering from the confines of the stable.

"Think about it," Raoul said gently, clasping her hand abruptly and squeezing it with affection. "You may send a letter to none other then the Vicomte de Chagny," he added with sarcasm.

Christine offered a rare smile. There was warmth in her eyes. A warmth that was never quite there. She watched as he gathered the rest of his gear together before mounting the striking horse. As he led his horse outside, Christine walked beside them and stopped at the gate. Raoul tipped his hat at her and smiled when she waved back. Soon, horse and rider had disappeared with the turn of the road.

Christine was alone. She brushed her hands along the length of her skirt, mouth tightening into a straight line, and turned slowly to walk back to the house. Once inside, she closed the heavy wooden door behind her and leaned her body against it in quiet reflection. Her eyes drifted up to the darkness of the house. The shadows seemed more emphasized now. The halls were dark and foreboding. She suddenly felt suffocated. Her breaths grew shallow and she leaned into the door even more, waiting to catch her breath.

A single candle lay on a small table just past the door. She had not placed it there. The glow of the tiny flame seemed to taunt her. It was the only light in the darkened mansion. The only source of warmth. She grew bitter, feeling her hands ball up into fists at her sides. Someone had finally broken the silence that she had been forced to endure for months, and now she had been forced to send him away. She had been left with nothing.

Crying out in pain, she lashed out at the candle, knocking it from the table with an angered fist, and watched as it clattered to the ground. The flame was snuffed out and with it, all hope that she would ever be happy again.

Christine drifted away from the foyer and continued down the hall. She found the large drawing room housing the impressive fireplace and leaned against the doorframe for a moment. Her heart raced. The emotion was rising in a surge that she could not control. The rage was still there, but it was quickly being replaced by sorrow. She felt the floor rise up beneath her as her legs buckled. Her hands reached out, palms grazing the floor in an attempt to halt her fall. But her body collided with the wooden floor. She felt herself falling back, her head rolling to one side, but suddenly its descent was halted.

Something held her head up. A hand? No, now it had been replaced with the crook of an arm. Another arm snaked beneath her knees. She was angry. Can I not even have her anguish? Must someone take that away too? Her head tilted up to catch a glimpse of the one who had denied her that simple yet powerful emotion. All she could see above was the gleam of two eyes, as bright as the stars of heaven themselves, and a mask obscuring the left side of a face. But the face was so darkened by the shadows, she could not discern its features.

"Why? Why!" she sobbed, her voice weary. "I was. . .I was. . .so tired of being alone. Why did I have to send him away?"

She heard a heavy sigh above her. A sigh so filled with sadness, it rivaled if not exceeded hers.

"First papa, then my dear friends," she cried, clutching at the folds of clothing that lay near her cheek. Her head tilted back again as though she meant to look through the ceiling and straight into heaven. Her eyes flashed. "Papa, I am sorry for whatever I did to anger you! I am scared of the angel you promised me. He frightens me!"

Her cries grew hysterical and she felt the arms tighten around her, pulling her closer to the warm body that held her. "Why is he so cruel?" she murmured, her cries suddenly stifled by the fatigue that permeated her slender frame.

As she fell asleep in her fallen angel's arms, he reached a hand across her face and tenderly lifted a lock of hair from her cheek. He allowed himself this moment. His thumb brushed the moisture from her cheek. It lingered on the unimaginably soft skin. He could feel her warm breath upon his wrist and looked down at her parted lips for what seemed an eternity. Finally, he swept her up in his arms, cradling the sleeping young woman carefully, and walked slowly to her room.

She found herself in the forest again. The same heavy ropes wrapped about her slender body. She struggled to free herself, her limbs thrashing frantically, but to no avail. Her head hung forward and the long heavy mane of hair, now wet, clung to her pale face.

"Help me!" she cried out in a hoarse voice.

She saw the figure again, removing itself from the shadows as it parted the trees and stepped into the small clearing. Christine lifted her head and looked up at the man with a pained expression on her face.

"Why do you haunt me like this?" she wept.

The figure was silent, as always, and loomed over her like an avenging angel.

"If you want my life, take it," she said, closing her eyes and awaiting whatever fate had in store.

But no death blow came. There was still only the sound of rain falling. Darkness. She opened her eyes again and tried to catch a glimpse of her tormenter. Tired of not being allowed to see the one who haunted her dreams, she lunged forward with all of her strength. The bonds that had held her arms were cut. She reached out her hands and pulled back the hood that hung over his face. Now she could see the haunting white mask that filled her with such terror. His eyes shone with such extraordinary light. Burning. Their ferocity filled her with such fear that she fell back from the figure.

"Who are you?" she gasped.

"Some have named me the phantom. Others have given me the title of angel." The voice, so warm and caressing, was enough to reveal who her attacker was.

"Angel!" she cried out. "It cannot be! There is only darkness about you! Surely a true angel of heaven would be surrounded by the grace of God."

A sigh issued from the figure.

"You are no angel. You are a man! You have deceived me!" she cried out, clutching a hand to her mouth.

"Christine," the voice said. Her name upon his lips was so beautiful.

Could a man possibly have a voice like that? At that one word, she felt her suspicion slipping away. She wanted to wrap herself in that wonderful voice. It elicited feelings within her she could not describe. But her will was stronger. She forced herself to think with reason.

"Leave me!" she said, her tone lowering dangerously.

"Christine," the voice continued, as gently as before.

"You lied to me!" she cried, pulling her knees up to her face and hiding her eyes in her wet gown.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. The fingers curled into her flesh. A scream rose from her throat.

She woke up, thrashing beneath the sheets in her bed, and cried out. Her skin was damp with sweat. She remembered everything.

Christine swung her legs over the side of the bed. She rose and quickly dressed herself. Rushing into the kitchen, she gathered a small satchel of food.

I have to leave. I cannot live in this house any longer. I cannot live with a false angel. I do not know this man. What if he tries to hurt me? I have angered him before. Her thoughts were chaotic as she packed.

Even as she ran beyond the confines of the house, her legs propelling her body into the woods, all explanation for leaving was justified. What reason had she to stay? She once believed that her father had sent an angel to watch over her – to nurture her musical talent. But that belief had been shattered by his touch. There was nothing left for her. No one with good intentions. No one who genuinely cared for her well-being. I don't want to be a prisoner in his house, she thought.

Tears slipped from her eyes as she ran. She did not know why she cried. Christine brushed a hand across her face. He tricked me! But she kept remembering his voice. That voice! Every time she heard it, she felt as though a part of her had died in ecstasy. Sometimes, when it was conveyed low and chilling, it filled her with dread. But she remembered the sweet heights that it could reach. She could not imagine how she had lived for so long not hearing his voice. He lied to me! A fresh round of tears flowed from her eyes.

But one cannot live on voice alone. Man cannot live on bread alone. She needed more. She had wanted the comfort of another human being. Christine wished for so many things. The arms of her father to hold her again. The company of her guardian, Madame Giry, and the friendship of her daughter Meg. But with her past swept away, she had no one to turn to. Everything she had built her life upon in the last few months was a lie. Where will I go? She remembered some of the words that her father once spoke while reading his bible. I lift my eyes up to the mountains. Where does my help come from?