Disclaimer: I don't own any of the original Phantom of the Opera characters. I do own Wesley, but I named him in honor of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, my Angel-ic love, who sob died because the stupid WB didn't renew my show.

A/N: Thanks for the great reviews! Mystery Guest—in all my years of MP3-ing, I have never found a recording of this song. Like I said, it's extremely little known. I only know of it because I had a wonderfully crazy director of music at my church and she made us sing basically every song in the missal. Regarding the lyrics, I'll post them on here once the story's done. Like I said, every chapter is named after a line of the song, so if you know the song, you know the story (well, kinda). And where's the fun in that?

Also, I just started the Phantom Phiction Writers Group at Yahoo! Groups. Here's my mission statement so far:

As phans, we all know the story of The Phantom of the Opera probably better than we know our friends. As phiction writers, we use that knowledge to create stories, whether they are set after the story, before, between, or completely in an alternate universe. However, like people, no story is ever perfect. They all need work, even the best ones—a different word here, an introductory paragraph there; even a simple switch of punctuation can change how a story feels. The Phantom Phiction Writers Groups is committed to developing new, original, well-written stories, in hopes of stimulating the entire Phantom community.

Basically, the Group is there to help each other with their stories, offer support to writers, discuss POTO and phiction in general, and notify readers with their updates.

You don't have to be a phiction writer to join, but you do have to enjoy phiction. There is a no-bashing rule (that means YOU Raoul-haters, sorry, I'm not particularly fond of him myself, but we've got at least one Raoul-LOVER and we can't discriminate), but other than that, everything's pretty free. So, if this is interesting to you, please go sign up.

By the way, I can't believe that a lot of you thought that I would kill Raoul off! And so soon in the story! Where's the conflict if he's dead? Heh heh…

Well, enjoy, and please R&R!

Chapter Two: Soul to Grieve

Christine hurled her body through the large front door, her chest heaving, cramps in places she didn't know she could have them. But she propelled forward, up the stairs, struggling through it all, screaming for the servants. This house is too big! she thought as she rushed down the hall, her blood burning with fear. I'll never get there! The door at the end of the hall seemed to grow father away with every step. It looked demonic, the entrance to Hell itself, the brown wood glowing strangely while flames licked the threshold.

She reached the door and went right for the knob, jumping back in pain as her hand bled heat. Tears and smoke clouding her vision, Christine threw her body frantically at the door using strength she never possessed before. The hinges gave way and she fell in, landing hands-first onto the floor. Thick, dry smoke engulfed her, suffocated her. Choking, she looked up, searching for Raoul within the clouded air. She couldn't see him, but the bed was ablaze, red and oranges abounding. If it wasn't so horrendous it could be pretty, she thought. But no. To get to Raoul. Christine tried to push herself up, but the smoke pulled her down again, from the inside. It was inside her now, she could feel it working its way through her body; she was its prisoner and it was determined to rape her in as many ways as it could imagine. She couldn't breathe—couldn't see anymore! She tried to scream, to move—nothing worked! Everything was going black—where was Raoul—where was anyone? She lay her head down—she just wanted to rest. Her exhaustion was unbearable… There were flames tickling her skirts, but she barely felt them. Just to rest—

Suddenly arms were around her waist, pulling her away from the peaceful blackness that awaited her, carrying her out of the Hell room and back into the hall. She could breathe again! She gasped and cried and sunk to the floor. Wesley, her husband's British manservant, knelt down beside her.

"Madame, madame—can you hear me? Are you—"

"Raoul," she gasped, her voice failing within the single word. He nodded and charged back into the room, holding a cloth over his mouth. Christine felt herself growing dizzy. Her head was so heavy; she couldn't hold it up… Her head fell hard onto the floor. Her eyes fogged over with smoke and she couldn't tell if it was actual smoke or a mental cloud. She struggled to see through it, praying silently for Raoul to walk unscathed out of the bedroom. A parade of servants hurried by her carrying buckets of water. They faded in and out as her vision continued to haze over. She could tell by their frantic cries that they couldn't reach her husband. She wanted to help, even tried to move to, but her limbs gave way beneath her. The world went dark and she met the blackness at last.

When she opened her eyes again the fire was out and two servants were bringing him out, his arms wrapped around their necks, his bare feet dragging against the floor. His skin was bright red. My God, my God, she thought. His face was hidden from her, his chin sinking into his chest. The servants were hurrying, that was good, wasn't it? Christine crawled on her hands toward him, weeping his name. Wesley stopped her and sat her up.

"Madame, I beg you, come with us into the drawing room. Your husband is alive. He is unconscious, but alive. We are putting him in the guest room. A doctor has been summoned. The fire is out. Everything will be fine."

"Alive?" she choked. "He's alive?"

Wesley held her into his chest and let her weep there, stroking her hair softly. The boundaries of their servant-mistress relationship meant nothing now. "He is," he whispered softly. "The doctor will take care of him, and everything will be fine. There was not much damage—the bed is destroyed and so is the canopy, but everything else is fine. The main attack was on the bed, the clothes, the drapes, everything is—"

Christine pulled away sharply, finding her voice. "Wesley, if you say fine one more time I shall scream. Everything is not fine." She began to weep fiercely. "My stupid husband!" she exclaimed. "How many times have I told him… Oh God, what have I done? I should have gone to bed… I need to go to him, to be with him while the doctor--"

"You must wait, madame. Rest yourself. Let me take you into another bedroom, you must sleep, you have been affected by the smoke—"

"How can I sleep?" she cried, throwing her hands dramatically into the air. "Please, please, bring me to my husband. He is all I have." Wesley looked down, obviously distressed.

"Madame, trust me. You must not see him right now." He looked back up at her, his eyes full of worry. As the image of Raoul's red skin passed through her, she knew what he meant. A sob caught in her throat and she nodded, finally in acceptance. Slowly, Wesley stood her up and walked her ever so slowly to a guest room in the opposite side of the house.

"Checkmate." Erik said, knocking the white king off the table. Nadir looked at him with loathing.

"You do know that I hate you," he said, a smile upon his lips.

"I would not expect you to feel any other way," Erik replied, laughing.

"So how much do I owe you?"

Erik waved his hand. "I get payment enough out of the pleasure of seeing you struggle." Nadir looked relieved; this was the sixth time this month Erik had beaten him round after round. Why he even attempted to compete with a genius was beyond him, but he did, almost every time they saw each other.

Which was quite often, in fact. For about five months now, Erik had been visiting Nadir's humble flat almost every day. It had become a ritual of sorts. He would arrive in the late morning and they would play a game or two of chess. Afterward, Darius would bring in tea and the daily newspaper. Finally, after an early supper, which Nadir had to practically force him to eat every day, Erik would leave. He never stayed after nightfall; when Nadir questioned this, he simply said that the nights were one thing he preferred to keep to himself.

And not the only thing, mind you. No matter how long or hard Nadir questioned him, Erik would never disclose where he was during the months after Christine left him. That was a year ago, probably almost down to the day. Christine left with the Vicomte, and Nadir temporarily moved into Erik's underground house. As his conscience, he couldn't let him hurt himself or anyone else over the situation. So he stayed, making sure he ate at least once a day, calming his murderous rages as best he could, and giving him his space when he needed to cry or play his organ.

This carried on for a month, when one day, Erik's name was heard, coming from the other side of the lake. Erik, who had been completely absorbed in his music, his one respite, froze completely. It was Christine, shouting for him at the top of her lungs. Nadir had been making tea when he heard it. He rushed into the parlor and found Erik frantically searching the room.

"What are you going?" he asked, startled.

"Looking for my cape," Erik replied, turning over the sofa.

"Why?" Nadir stood still, shocked at the amount of activity Erik was doing—Erik, who had barely moved in the past month.

"To go to her," he said simply. "Where is that bloody cape?"

"What?"

"Don't you hear her calling for me?" His voice sounded at once desperate and hopeful. "She needs me."

"No, Erik… she doesn't."

"Yes, she does! Why else—"

"No, she doesn't!" Erik stopped and looked at him, surprised by this outburst. "Erik," Nadir repeated, softer, "she left. She left you. I've read the papers; she's marrying the Vicomte. Let her go."

"I don't want to," he said, just as softly.

Nadir sighed. "I know, but you must remember why you let her go in the first place."

"Because that's what was best for her," he nodded. Nadir turned the sofa onto its legs and Erik sat down sullenly. "I'm being foolish."

The two stayed there, not speaking for quite a while, Erik, sitting in his own world of thoughts and Nadir standing, looking on his friend in genuine sympathy. He too knew what it was to love and long. But Christine was not silent. Her calls kept coming, a little less urgently, but just as hopeful as before. Eventually, it was too much for Erik to handle. He took three long strides into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Nadir could hear him pacing rapidly and every few minutes he would jump at the sound of something being smashed against the wall.

The calls refused to cease.

After another hour of this behavior, the bedroom door swung open again. Erik strode out, the missing cape flowing out from behind him, and walked steadily across the room.

"Don't try to stop me, Daroga," he said, looking past Nadir. "It's killing me. I have to go and end this."

Nadir scrambled to stand in his path. "Erik, please, you can't. She'll never leave if she sees you—you'll haunt her forever! Let me go to her, please, I'll stop it."

Erik paused and looked down at his friend. "What will you tell her?" he asked quietly.

"Whatever it takes." Nadir had hardly trembled in Erik's presence since their first few hours together. But the fire in his eyes was unlike anything he had ever seen, even in his darkest murderous rages.

Erik breathed deeply and sat down, the fire extinguished a little. With his hands on his knees for support, he breathed again. Nadir saw that his whole body was trembling, from the tips of his long fingers to the back of his neck. "Tell her…" he started, but his flawless voice caught on the words. "Tell her I'm dead. I'm dead and buried. She's a curious creature; she'd want to see me otherwise. Go out through the torture chamber, so that she doesn't see you. Talk to her and, please, make her stop yelling."

And he did.

When Nadir returned to the house, Erik was gone. He gave up looking for him before he'd even started. If Erik chose to disappear, Nadir would never find him. He assumed he would never see him again. But six months later Erik showed up on his doorstep with a friendly attitude and no explanation to offer.

Nadir leaned back, stretching his arms above his head. That all felt like ages ago, and, though Nadir knew he must think about her often, Erik hadn't mentioned Christine once in the five months he'd been back. A door had slammed shut with her departure and it would take a mighty blow to open it again.

Darius entered, two newspapers in hand. He gave one to each man and then began to clean up the chess pieces. Erik leaned back and placed his ankle on the opposite knee, opening the paper casually. He never read the front page; all the interesting stories lay hidden in the middle.

Nadir, however, read the paper all the way through. You never know what's relevant to you, was his philosophy. His eyes scanned the front page rapidly when they stopped short, focusing in on the bottom right corner. His mouth opened a bit in disbelief.

"Erik…" said Nadir, warily. Erik hummed in response. "Erik, there's something you'd want to see." He flicked his fingers as a sign to continue while his head stayed hidden behind the newspaper. "Fire at de Chagny Mansion," Nadir read. "Vicomte badly burnt." Erik at once was by his side, Nadir's paper in his hands (the Daroga hadn't even felt it leave his fingers).

"'Early Wednesday morning'…" Erik muttered, reading quickly, "'suffered severe burns'… 'no foul play'… No mention of her," he said, throwing the paper down.

"Erik, I'm sure she's fine if—"

"Excuse me, Nadir," he said distractedly, picking up his cloak. "I have to…"

And with that he simply walked out of the house, leaving Nadir and Darius stupefied.

Wesley Pryce was overstepping the boundaries again. He was in the kitchen, on his hands and knees, cleaning up spilt soup. He was the master of the house's manservant; there were other people he could order to do this sort of thing. But he had realized early in his career (which wasn't all that long ago; the man was only thirty-two) that matters of an important or fragile nature were best dealt with if he did them himself. So that's why he was kneeling next to a puddle of broth while the kitchen staff buzzed around him. The Vicomte preferred certain vegetables in his soup and the staff had recently ignored this, feeling that his unconsciousness was reason enough for them to be spared slicing a few more vegetables. So he took the effort upon himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't nearly as good a chef as he was a groomsman (his first position ever). He dropped the large pot almost as soon as he had picked it up. Now the remnants of an hour's work swam all over the kitchen floor.

Wesley took the soaking towel outside and squeezed the broth onto the ground. He stood still for a moment, letting the Spring sun warm his face. It was the first time he had been outside since the fire three days ago. Three days—had it really been that long? The hours blended into each other. Wesley had spent hours by his master's bedside; again, he didn't trust anyone else to tend to him. The Pryces had been with the de Chagny family since the present Vicomte's parents spent their honeymoon in England. Wesley had watched the Vicomte grow up, and looked upon him as dear as an older brother upon his younger.

The Vicomte was convalescing incredibly slowly. He had woken up for a short interval on Thursday, but had fallen back into unconsciousness. It was too short of a time for even the Vicomtess to be summoned, poor woman. She herself was not quite well. Fevers had plagued her since that night and kept her in bed most of the time, except for the hours she spent by her husband's side.

As Wesley threw the slightly-less wet towel over the clothesline, he felt a chill down his neck. A shadow spread over him. Odd, he thought, such a dark shade on this bright night. I hope it's not a bad omen. He turned to go into the house, then stepped back, gasping as a white mask emerged from the shade.

A/N: Like it? Hate it? Please review!! More to come soon, I PROMISE!!