A/N - Finally I was able to post! I couldn't upload my chapter yesterday when it was all ready to go. Just a few notes. The song that Christine sings is actually a folk song from Newfoundland. I loved the melody and I thought the words went well with the moment. Erik's song was my own creation, set to the music of No One Would Listen, from the movie. Finally, an event that occurs further on in this chapter was inspired by the movie Sense and Sensibility. If you've seen the Kate Winslet movie, you'll know what I'm talking about.

Valentine's Day is far behind now. I'm checking out the wonderful world of speed dating with a coworker tonight. Let the games begin!

Chapter 21

Erik kept to himself for so much of the time, never leaving the sanctuary of his own room or study. It was easy to get lost in such a large house. In all honesty, he did not require such a lavish estate. He had been used to such smaller accommodations. Then again, he had lived in the richest of houses. The exotic home of the Persian royal family had been his dwelling place for a few years of his life. But amidst all of the obscene wealth and luxury of such places, even the tasteful and expensive mansions of France, he knew that living under such conditions would never satisfy him.

There was only one thing that had ever shown any promise of quenching a need he had once thought never existed. But he had been careless and nearly crushed the rose in his hands. Now he watched her from afar, as she worked as hard as her frail body would allow. She could not see him from her vantage point. Loose curls hung limply around her face as she polished the silver laid out before her on a long wooden table.

He would not repeat the past again. He would not allow her to fall from the safety of his hand again. To have her petals fade from neglect. For that very reason, he had sought her out and arranged her transport to his house. Here, he could at least watch over her. Perhaps among the only people she called family, Christine would flourish again. He longed to hear the angelic voice that he had so carefully shaped. He longed to see a smile grace the features that were now riddled with fatigue.

While she was cleaning, Christine allowed herself to slip into the regions of the house not yet explored. Perhaps it was merely curiosity that pulled her mind from her work, but as she drifted down the hallway, she thought she heard music. The hall grew darker the further she traveled and it suddenly reminded her of the house in the woods. She felt the feather duster slip from her fingers and clatter on the floor. As though driven by instinct, Christine moved further and further, her mind caught up in a strange trance that refused to loosen itself from lucid thought.

Yes, there is music. I can hear it.

She found a large, darkened staircase that rose up from the main floor to the even darker floor above. Christine mounted the steps and climbed them. The faint, hollow tones of melody wound seductively through the hall. She continued her strange march when she reached the second floor, the thin slip of her hand pausing briefly on the carved banister before she continued to follow the strains of music.

The hall was dark, save only the odd escape of sunlight through betraying heavy drapes. The rays of sunlight fell upon her pale skin and only enhanced the ethereal beauty that for so long had been stifled. One foot before her, then behind, she continued the strange dance that seemed more like a funeral march then anything else. No, it was more like the march of a bride down the aisle, though she held no bouquet in her pale hands, nor did she wear the dress of a bride. Her march carried her towards a groom she did not know, towards a fate that had been sealed even before her birth. She drifted along the hall like an ancient priestess towards the rites of her religion.

There it is again, she mused, that strange, unearthly music. Oh, how it courses through my veins! Can I ever be remedied of its intoxication? Can I ever be free of it? He's there, inside my mind. A phantom? An angel? I cannot tell. But he is a man. What magic does he weave upon me? What spell does he cast over me? I was made to fall under it. It affects no other like it does me. Oh, how I want to give in, feel my soul carried with his music. But again I stand on this precipice, looking over at the other side, where he stands waiting for me. I have had so many moments that I have wanted to jump across. . .I have needed to jump across.

Christine passed by several closed doors, never turning her attention away from the alluring music that guided her feet. The moment was almost like her dreams, except for the fact that he was not by her side, guiding her along a path she could not see. The music was growing louder, and she could now make out the gentle and emotion-wrought strains of a violin. The sound had been so familiar, even at a distance, but now it dawned on her the reason for her pull to this particular sound. She had not heard a violin played in such a way since her father.

Tears sprang to her eyes at the gentle melody, a melody which wrapped around her trembling frame like a strong, comforting embrace, and urged her to move like a moth to a flame. She found her fingers resting along the edge of the door now. Lamps lit the room with a soft glow that diffused through the narrow crack of the door. Christine gently pushed it open, careful to avoid the faintest of creaks.

There, illuminated by the soft light permeating the large, ornately furnished room, with its large fireplace and mantle, stood Erik. He was playing the instrument with such devotion that for a moment, she thought he did not know she stood at the door. But she was mistaken. For as she listened to the heartbreaking melody and nearly felt her knees crumble beneath the weight of the notes, he turned around swiftly, laying aside the instrument and standing before her with all of the power and authority of a heavenly legion. He seemed taller now, more powerful in muscle and poise, but then again, perhaps she had grown smaller.

The light played across his finely wrought features and glared off the white mask that hid half of his face. His dark hair was slicked back behind his ears. Erik had abandoned his suit jacket, but he stood before her in dark trousers, a crisp white shirt hidden beneath a rich burgundy waistcoat, and a loosened cravat at his throat.

She must have looked a sight cowering before him as she stood at the door, her modest, dark grey dress playing down the beauty of her features, with messy hair hastily pulled back behind her head. Her eyes must have wavered upon the site before her, as though she were a child having crossed a boundary, and knew that a swift punishment was eminent.

But there was no anger in her maestro's eyes. There was no stern graveness in their emerald depths as he regarded the girl before him.

"Forgive me," she finally managed to utter in such a quiet tone. "I apologize for disturbing you."

She was about to back out of the room, her hand clutching behind her for the doorknob. Erik moved swiftly, closing the door behind her and taking any route of escape away from her. She had whirled around with question in her soft brown eyes.

"Let me leave, Monsieur," she pleaded softly, "and I will not bother you again."

"Christine," he said, uttering her name in the most reverent of tones. "You have not disturbed me, but I wish you to stay for a moment."

She stood rigid, unsure of what she should do as he turned and walked towards the fireplace, leaning heavily upon the mantle.

"Sing something for me," he said abruptly, moving away from the fireplace and leaning against the wall in a part of the room obscured by shadow.

"I would rather not," she responded, bowing her head for a moment.

"I wish it," he interjected. "Now, sing."

"I do not know what to sing," Christine again protested.

"Choose anything," he said, his voice growing angry.

Christine struggled to move herself away from the door and silently slipped into the center of the room. She looked visibly shaken as she stood there, trying to think of a song that might appease him. But there was nothing she could think of. It felt as though she had not sung for years. The songs had suddenly slipped from her mind. But one came to mind, a foreign song that her father had once taught her, and she began to sing, quietly at first but gaining more strength as she carried on.

She's like the swallow that flies so high
She's like the river that never runs dry
She's like the sunshine on the lee shore
I love my love and love is no more.

Twas out in the garden this fair maid did go
A-picking the beautiful prim-rose
The more she plucked, the more she pulled
Until she got her apron full.

It's out of those roses she made a bed
A stony pillow for her head
She laid her down, no word she spoke
Until this fair maid's heart was broke.

She's like the swallow that flies so high
She's like the river that never runs dry
She's like the sunshine on the lee shore
I love my love and love is no more.

The eyes of brown that had managed on with such expressionless constraint were now wavering with emotion. She could feel her legs begin to buckle beneath her, but she would not allow them to carry her body down in defeat. She would not allow herself to be overcome with sorrow again.

I cannot let him see my tears again! If I am to be strong in this house, to carry on with my work, I cannot let myself slip back into the torrent of emotions he has stirred in my heart. But, oh God, how I long to feel his arms around me again! How I long to be loved by this man – a man who both frightens and comforts me.

She saw him approach her from the shadows, saw his hand as it reached out for her, hesitated, and then drew back.

Dear God, how I long to touch her face! To think of how we parted! She must think me a monster for nearly forcing myself upon her. Will she ever trust my intentions again? Will she ever seek comfort in my arms? My love for her is stronger then anything else. She sings of heartbreak, but surely I have done far worse.

"Christine," he said softly, breaking the silence that had ensued between them. His rich, baritone voice echoed throughout the room, even the slightest of whisper. "Do you not know why I sent you away?"

"You do not need to explain," she said, turning away from him to hide the emotions running rampant in her eyes.

"You feared me," he said, "and I believe you still do. You do not know of the man who has killed. Of the bodies left in the wake of my wanderings. There is darkness in me that cannot be purged. Do you remember the tale of the nightingale and the rose, Christine? The story I once told you?"

She nodded softly.

"Perhaps it is true that the union of the two was wrong. For it could bring only disaster. If the rose knew of the ways of the nightingale, perhaps she would not be so trusting."

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

"I still love you," he said, his voice drawing low, "and I will always love you. I know that I can never send you away again. Even if I cannot take you as my own wife, I will keep you under my roof to watch over you."

Her shoulders shook, and for a moment, she feared she would crumble under his words.

"You look ill. Has the memory of me been so horrid in your mind that your health withers?" she heard him ask.

"Please," she finally cried out softly, "do not ask me these questions."

"Would you not be happier living with the Vicomte de Chagny? Surely such a handsome young man would bring back the rose in your cheeks."

"Why do you say these things?" she cried out.

She knew he was slipping back into one of his rages. He had so carefully reigned in his emotions since she had come. Erik had remained cold and aloof.

"I found the letters that he sent to you! So carefully hidden, thinking that he could evade me!"

Christine stood before him, quaking with unnamed emotion as he thrust a small bundle of letters at her. Erik began to explain, seething with anger, the circumstances behind the letters she knew nothing of. Raoul had sent them following her second visit with him at his family's estate. He had tried to hide them in the garden for her to find, but apparently, Erik had been quicker. She never knew of the letters that had come. She tried to tear them from his hands, reading only bits and pieces of the elegantly scripted letters. Letters of affection. Letters offering her a better life amidst wealth and comfort. They were the love letters of a young man.

Tears sprang from her eyes as she continued to read. But Erik, in his anger, had held them tightly from her.

"I did not know he sent these!" she protested.

"And if you did, would you have run to his arms? Would you have given up this meager existence as a servant? Would you have sung with such ardor and devotion that songs of lost love would never fall from your lips?"

"Why do you accuse me of a love I do not have?" she shrieked.

"You always feared me! You always shied away from my hand. It must have seemed like the devil's fiery touch when my hand brushed your hand! Were you thinking of him when I was there? Were you pleading to be released from this monster, hoping only to stumble back into the arms of your noble boy?"

She had grown deathly quiet now, raising herself up to her full height, even though she still looked more feeble and frail then ever.

"I did not love him. I never did. He was a friend to me, and for that, I am grateful. Yes, I did think of him when you would grow angry with me, when you would frighten me. But it wasn't his love that I wanted. I wanted his comfort. He never threatened me or shouted at me. He was a kind, gentle friend. But you drove him away! You shut me away like your prisoner. You grew bitter of feelings I never had."

"Go back to your room, Christine," he seethed.

But she refused. "All I wanted was that comfort. I wanted to be loved. There has been no one since my father who showed such affection. There were times when you would hold me and I felt safer then I had ever felt before. But I was afraid of your violent tempers. You did not hurt me, but I feared you for them. I wanted my angel of music. But he left me."

"A demon he left you," Erik said, having approached her with tension filling every muscle in his tall frame.

"Give me the letters," she said, extending her hand.

"No," he growled. "I will not."

"Give them to me! I want the memory of my friend's words."

"I will not. You will not leave this place. I will not let his words lure you away," he yelled, thrusting the letters into the fireplace with fury.

He turned around to face the tormenter of his dreams. She stood with a strange conviction for a moment. But her fierce determination promptly melted away and left behind a quivering girl with such pain in her eyes. He saw her bite her lip for a moment, her small hands clenched at her sides in anger.

"No words have ever lured me like yours. Do you not even know that?" she cried out, rushing to the door, unlocking it, and hurrying down the hall.

"Where is Christine?" Meg asked, finding her mother taking tea in a small parlor.

"You have not seen her?" Madame Giry asked, rising as she placed her tea down on the table beside her.

"No," the young girl replied, "she has been gone all afternoon. I thought perhaps she had been caught up with work in one of the wings, but she has not returned for a meal."

Giry glanced outside and noticed the heavy rain that had begun to saturate the green lands around the estate. The skies were grey with cloud, and a heavy mist seemed to cover the land, obscuring the distant trees from all eyes.

"Are her shoes and cloak still at the door?" Antoinette asked faintly, as though suddenly determining her whereabouts.

"I will go and check," Meg replied, hurrying down the hall with a sweep of her gown upon the floor.

Giry followed closely behind. A panic began to rise up within her. She had looked so ill during the past week. If she had run outside into such a downpour. . .

"No, Maman," Meg said, worry playing across her pretty features, "they are gone. You don't think. . ."

"Meg, go tell Charles," Antoinette commanded. She watched Meg hesitate, fear filling her blue eyes. "Go! I will find Count Bellamont immediately."

The young girl hurried down the hall. Anotinette stood still for a moment, her hand trembling at her side. She hurried upstairs, past the doors of countless rooms. She knew he had given explicit instructions not to bother him, but she had little choice. She found him pacing in his study, tension obvious in his back. What did he say to her? What has he done?

"Erik!" she called out.

He whirled around, anger flashing briefly on his face. "I thought I gave instructions that I wasn't to be bothered!"

"Forget them!" she shouted, "Christine is gone."

He did not even flinch at the revelation, only sunk back into his pacing. "What of it?"

"For godsakes, Erik, do you not realize how ill she is? I do not know what you said to her. And do not look at me like that. I know that you had a conversation with her. I do not know what you told her, but she has taken off. I fear to think how sick she could become in such a storm. A sickness you brought on!"

"I brought on?" he seethed.

"Do not play a fool with me! You know quite well that she suffers without your presence, without your love!"

"Leave me!" he shouted.

"You will not even help her?"

"Go!"

"If she dies because of you, I will see what everyone has seen before. That you truly are a monster! You took a precious life that her father had so carefully nurtured, and broke it apart with your anger."

He rushed past her suddenly, leaving her behind in a stunned silence.

Erik opened the door, not caring to grab his cloak before rushing out into the pouring rain. He glanced around hurriedly, like a wolf seeking out the scent of its prey upon the wind. A curt whistle brought his black horse running from the stables. Erik jumped upon its back and urged it forward, following a path along the green hills that no other mortal could trace.

He rode through the biting rain for what seemed like ages before the mists seemed to part and reveal their captive who lay sprawled along the wet grass, her soaked cloak and dress clinging to her shivering body. Her chocolate curls were plastered to her face. She lay on her stomach, with an arm bent beneath her, as though she had struggled to move herself upon the grass like a dying man in a desert. Her breaths were slowing. He could see the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest, each motion appeared too painful for her small body to handle.

Erik slipped down from the saddle and reached her in two strides. He turned her over quickly, finding that her face had grown deathly pale, her lips having lost their red hue. Her eyes were nearly closed but they fluttered open for barely a second before shutting tightly.

"Christine," his voice called out to her.

She shivered uncontrollably. Why does he not leave me? I want to return to my father. I want to see the heavens that have been hidden from my view. I want an end to this torment!

But her wishes went unheard. She felt his arms wrapping about her shaking body, pulling her into his embrace. His own shirt was soaked through, clinging to his well-muscled frame. But the heat that resonated from his body was enough to coax her into his arms. She felt him pull her roughly against his chest. Her head slumped against his chest and she remembered feeling the rapid movements of his lungs as they sought out air.

She had fallen unconscious, he noticed. Her white face was buried in the wet folds of his shirt. He called to her again, with more agony in his voice then he had ever uttered before. But she did not respond. He brushed the wet tendrils of hair from her pale face with loving affection. Her body no longer trembled but lay frightening limp in his arms. Erik drew his arm beneath her knees to lift her body from the ground. He found his horse and heaved her up upon its back, quickly following so that he sat behind her. He drew her against him again, hoping that his wretched body could afford some heat to keep her alive.

He cursed himself bitterly time and time again, as the horse raced back to the grey mansion that loomed like a gargoyle in the mist.

Christine laid in a feverish sleep for nearly three days. Madame Giry and Meg attended her through the illness, but by the third day, they grew fearful about her condition. Erik had hidden himself away during that time, as though denying to himself the circumstances of her sickness. He had written aria after aria, bent over the keyboard of his piano, with a fierce determination in his eyes. He found that often his eyes would drift back to the door, and he would stop to listen.

Late on the third night, a soft knock sounded on his door. Erik pulled himself away from his compositions and loomed in the doorway as Madame Giry explained Christine's illness with concern in her normally calm demeanor.

"She's not improving. I fear she may be getting worse. We should send for a doctor before it is. . .too late."

He nodded wearily. "Very well, send one of the men to fetch him."

Madame Giry hesitated in the doorway. "You have not been down to see her since you brought her back. Perhaps you should. . ."

"See her? She despises me now, I know it," Erik said bitterly.

"You know that is not true," Antoinette said softly. "She calls out your name in the night."

"Surely from a feverish nightmare. I tend to have that affect."

"Fool!" Giry hissed. "I have seen her tears. She calls your name because she needs you. What do you intend to do with her? Lock her up within this house and never speak with her?"

Erik sighed heavily, raking his fingers through the thick, disheveled dark hair that had once been slicked back neatly.

"Go to her, that is all I ask," Giry said gently, her eyes conveying the urgency of her request.

After she had left, he had paced the room for several minutes before finally emerging into the dark corridor beyond the room. He strode down the stairs and continued down the hall until he found her room, at the end of the west wing. He was not prepared for the site before him. Or perhaps he was, but he did not want to admit it. There she was, his angel, atop a heavily blanketed bed. The white quilt had been tossed aside in her feverish state. The white sheets, in equal disarray, were rumpled about her. Only a single sheet lay over her body, which had been clothed in a long, cotton nightgown. Her dark curls were a stark contrast to the paleness of her face and the white kingdom of her bed. They circled her face so reverently, that he could have sworn that he had stumbled upon an angel. The room was still lit with a few lamps. Meg and Antoinette had left them on in their wake.

Erik moved slowly into the room, never taking his eyes from the girl who laid so vulnerable, so deathly ill, in the soft bed. He rounded the corner and came to her side, finding the courage to sit down beside her and watch her as she slept fitfully. Her face was slick with sweat. He could attest for her illness as his hand hovered over her forehead, finally pressing his flesh against hers. Her skin burned with fever. If she had looked sick before, when she had first come to live here, she now looked near death. The skin which already looked so pale was nearly chalk-white. Those soft brown eyes were closed, and her dark lashes were spread upon her pallid cheek. All trace of color was gone from her cheeks. All shades of rose gone from the soft lips, which were now chapped and equally pale.

Her body trembled beneath the single sheet. Erik finally lifted his hand from her forehead and gently pulled the hair back from her face. My God, what have I done to her? What have I done to my angel?

Her chest heaved occasionally beneath the single sheet, as though she were wracked with a horrible cough. But only once did a cough actually make it from her lips. His hand sought out hers, finding it twisted within the sheets. The skin was clammy to the touch.

Christine turned slightly in her restless sleep. Her head moved as though drawn towards a warm light. Pale lips parted and a sob issued forth.

"Erik?" she cried out.

"I am here, angel," he said softly, stroking her hand gently.

Her breathing slowed as did the rise and fall of her breast. But a soft whimper sounded from her lips. A violent shiver wracked her small body. Erik hastily pulled up the sheets and quilt, burying her carefully in the thick blankets.

It was pure agony watching his angel deteriorate in such a way. If he could have traded spots with her, he would have done so in a heartbeat. But it was she who lay upon this sickbed. It was she who struggled to live. He could only sit by and watch her health decline. A tear began to fall from his eye and he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. He slumped down upon her bedside. There was only one thing he could think of to soothe away the affliction that had gripped her so tightly.

And so he began to sing. So soft, barely a whisper at first, that grew low and gentle in its tones. A soft song of adoration that suddenly inspired him.


Angel I've always loved

Stay here on earthly ground

Leave not for heaven

Though its gates do beckon thee forth.

Your love I long to have

Music I tempt you with

Your angel waits here

More a man then music's angel.

Twas a time, you yearned for my voice

I was there in hiding

I heard your cries

Your sorrow and your prayers.

I did then come to you

Revealed the man at last

Your heart was hidden

In the end, the songbird took flight.

I long to have your love,

Bask in its warm embrace

You turn away now

Hear the angels up high sing forth!

There's a man, who yearns to be loved

You alone can help him

Fear not his love

Eternal and unchanged!

Fear not the man on earth

Open your heart to him

You may be frightened

But his love he longs to give you.

Sleep in my arms tonight

Let go of all restraint

Let music guide you

In my arms your restless sleep ends.

Angel, succumb to me. . .

When he had finished he found that Christine had settled peacefully into a quiet sleep. Her hand was still entwined with his. Gone was the pain on her beautiful features. Replacing discomfort was tranquility. He bent over slightly and met her warm forehead with his lips. Never had the faintest of touches meant so much to him. His angel slept peacefully before him now. Sleep began to claim him too, and it was not until the doctor arrived that he was shaken gently from the mutual haze of sleep that had descended upon them – the rose and the nightingale.

"She is very ill," Dr. Fontaine said, rising back up after having examined the sick young woman asleep in her bed. "I would blame extreme fatigue and overwork that allowed her to contract such a persistent sickness so easily. She is showing signs of improvement," he said. Eyes brightened throughout the small room. "However," he continued solemnly, "she must be watched day and night until this illness passes, or else it may get worse. I will leave behind the necessary medicines, which should be administered promptly and without delay."

"I understand, Doctor," Madame Giry finally said, noticing that Erik had retreated to Christine's bedside, as though relinquishing control of the matter to the older woman.

"Infections such as these can have devastating effects upon even the young. Careful that she does not catch a chill. If her condition worsens in any way, send for me immediately. I have a few similar cases throughout the area to attend to, but I will not be far."

"Thank you," Antionette said, receiving the small bundle of medicines and ointments.

Doctor Fontaine finished packing his small black medical bag before nodded curtly at the occupants of the room, and pulling his hat on as he left. Charles waited eagerly at the door to show the physician out.

Christine's condition remained much the same into the following night. Erik returned again to stay with her. His presence seemed to quell the restlessness of her sleep to a certain degree.

He had never been one to rely purely on the care of a doctor. Perhaps he had been jaded by the first one he had ever known, a man who had pursued his own mother. When he saw Christine suffer through constant bouts of fever-induced chills and horrible coughs, he finally made a decision.

Erik removed the covers from her shivering frame, and slipped his hands beneath her frail body. The white nightgown she wore was damp with sweat and her dark hair clung to her forehead. He lifted her carefully from the bed, cradling her in his arms as though one jarring movement might end her life. Shivers ran through her body and he could feel them as her body was pressed against his chest. He held her tightly to him, and her head naturally pressed against his chest for warmth.

Hold on a little longer, Christine.

He rushed out of the room with her, nearly knocking over Madame Giry as she made her way towards the room.

"Where are you taking her?"

"I'm taking her to my chambers. I can care for her better there," Erik said curtly.

Antoinette knew better then to question him when his was in this state. She busied herself with cleaning Christine's room, and casting a worried eye towards the door every so often.

He kicked open the already unlatched door to his room and stepped through the darkened anteroom before finding the large bedchamber beyond. The room was so dark, but even in such a place, his eyes easily found what they sought. He was used to the dark. He had lived in the dark for so much of his life.

Erik found the large four poster bed and settled Christine among the thick blankets. He drew the sheets over her shivering body and carefully tucked her in. Here, amidst the darkness of Erik's chambers, Christine fought through the illness that had claimed her weakened body. Unaware was she of the guardian angel that loomed over her bedside every hour, his green eyes shining in the darkness and waiting with infinite patience for her.

Late in the night, she called from the large bed. Erik rose quickly from a chair across the room from her. A large fire had been made in his fireplace, and it heated the room to a comfortable temperature, offering a soothing glow to the normally blackened room.

"Angel!" she called out in her delirium.

She calls for an angel. She calls for something I am not.

But he drew close to her and knelt by the bed, gently stroking her face as she struggled to open her eyes.

"Shhhh, mon ange," he whispered gently. "Sleep."

"Erik?" his name was a whimper on her parted lips.

"Yes, child, I am here," he replied.

"D-don't leave me," she moaned. "Don't leave me alone again."

She cries in her delirium. . .but does she really know what she asks for? Does she truly want to remain with this creature?

He could not deny her pleas for his company. He could never deny her anything. Erik knelt beside her on the bed and held a vigil over his angel.

gingerolaf - Thanks for the review! It did help.

Marie Phantom - Admit that they love each other. . .nice and easy? Hee hee. Yeah, I love to draw out the angst as long as I possibly can. You know, I get so disappointed with some fics where they jump into bed together only a few chapters in and the story suddenly combusts. There is simply no more interest.

Elainejoy - Got any idea where our knights could be hiding?