Disclaimer: All the Phantom of the Opera characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Susan Kay. Wesley (the character) belongs to me but Wesley (the name) belongs to Joss Whedon. Let's just say that he's Wesley Wyndam-Pryce's great-great-grandfather, or something like that.

A/N: Okay, here's chapter three. Whoah. I think this is the fastest I've ever updated in my life. Seriously, this thing just popped right out. Okay. Whatever you do, do not stop reading. Do you hear me? Once you start, don't stop. I don't care if you have to go to the bathroom—hold it. If you get a phone call—let it ring. If you think 'this story sucks' and want to X-out immediately—do so after you finish this chapter. It's not long, you'll all do fine. I have a reason for saying this, and I'll explain after you read it. I was really stuck in the beginning of this chapter. I wrote the opening scene directly after finishing chapter two (I originally didn't know if it would end chapter two or begin chapter three) and then couldn't write anymore for a week. You can probably tell the transitional paragraphs between the opening scene and where I really jumped on the writing. I just started writing frantically and if you could see my little notebook (I write everything before I type it), you probably wouldn't be able to read it at all. Okay, that's enough. Here you go. Remember, read until the end!

Chapter Three: Barren Soil of Your Loneliness

"Did I startle you?" Erik asked, stepping out of the shadow.

"Obviously," Wesley replied, his hand upon his heart.

"You haven't contacted me."

"I've been busy. I brought a note to the Rue Scribe—I take it you didn't receive it."

"No, I didn't receive it," said Erik menacingly. "What did it say?"

Wesley sighed. "The canopy caught on fire from a candle on the bedside table," he explained. "She wasn't there, but the Vicomte was. He's in bad condition. Now, I don't know where the Vicomtess had been, but she was the first to get to the bedroom. She was in the smoke too long and has been in a fever ever since."

Erik nodded, contemplating this. A small vial appeared in his hand. "Put this is her food," he said, handing it to Wesley. "She should recover in about three days. And if she doesn't," he said, stepping forward and causing Wesley to shrink back, "or should anything else happen, if you do not contact me…" He paused, and stepped back. "Well, for your sake," he continued, the sneer of a distant threat in his eye, "contact me."

With that he left, leaving Wesley alone and trembling.

Actually, Christine's convalescence took less than three days, closer to one and a half. By Monday she was out of bed completely and spending all of her time, including all her meals, at her husband's side. He still wouldn't wake. He tossed, turned and sometimes murmured, but his eyes never opened.

For now, he was still. Christine gently stroked Raoul's hand, which lay heavy in hers. His left arm and left were badly burnt; the skin had turned an ugly red color, layered in tense, ever-present wrinkles. Whenever she touched the burnt arm, flakes of skin would fall off with the slightest brush of her fingers. She had nearly fainted the first time, and had frantically tried to put the thin, crisp flakes back on his arm. Wesley had entered then, summoned by her screams, and tried to calm her down. The doctor said not to worry about that, he had explained. The burns hadn't been too deep and his skin would heal. Still, it didn't make Christine any easier, and she made a point to touch his burns only if necessary.

She leaned back in her chair, Raoul's hand now folded between hers on her lap. She was so tired… She hadn't dared to sleep lest he wake and she not be there. But her eyes were no longer responding to her brain, and her head fell slowly forward into a deep sleep.

It didn't last long, however. Just moments after her eyes closed, the door suddenly swung open. Christine sat up with a start.

"Monsieur, you cannot—" Wesley's voice carried through the open doorway. Christine looked up to see someone standing beside her chair. The figure was tall, thin and clothed in a large black cape. Under the wide brim of his hat, she could almost make out a white—

"Erik!" she gasped breathlessly. Now she was awake. She stood up slowly as he turned to face her. Yes, it was Erik! The strong but tender eyes, the way his clothes hung on his frame, the magnetism between their bodies—everything was just as she remembered it. She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed into his chest.

"Christine," came the loving whisper, "how I have missed you."

"I love you," she said into a mouthful of fabric.

"I know," he replied. "But now is not the time." He gently pushed her away from him. "I must tend to the boy."

From beneath the cloak, Erik pulled a small vial. He bent over Raoul, carefully opened his mouth, and poured the contents in. He then sat the slumbering Vicomte up, forcing him to swallow. Instantly, Raoul's eyes opened. Christine cried his name and threw her arms around his neck.

"Thank you, monsieur," he said to Erik, extending his hand with a genuine smile on his face. "You saved my life." With Christine's assistance, he got out of bed. "A beautiful white light seemed to have engulfed them all. "From now on," he continued, "we will be as brothers. And as a token of my affection, brother, may I present to you my bride." He physically handed Christine over to Erik. "She is a sign of my gratitude. Besides, she has always been more yours than mine." Christine's eyes glistened as she held both men's hands. "We will all be one, happy family."

Christine looked into Erik's eyes, which smiled back at her. She gently removed the mask, and staring back at her was the most beautiful face she had ever beheld on a man. Her mouth dropped in astonishment.

"I forgot to tell you," he said, smiling a real smile for the first time ever, "I had something fixed." Before she could utter a response, he pulled her into a kiss.

Christine sat up with a start. She looked around. Raoul still slept silently, his hand was still lying on her lap and no dark figure stood at her side. It had all been a dream. The tears came, but she didn't let them fall. Instead, she carefully placed Raoul's hand on his stomach, stood up, and walked out of the room. She continued crisply down the long hall until she came to her own, newly charcoal-colored room. She strode powerfully onto the balcony and only then, when the doors were closed behind her, did she allow herself to fall into shattered pieces on the floor.

A gull with a broken wing, stranded on a rock in the middle of the ocean, that's what she was. Alone. Miserably, breathlessly, hopelessly alone.

Across the city, Erik mirrored those sentiments. For a year he had been able to push Christine out of the front of his mind (although never completely to the back; her memory floated somewhere in the middle, a sharp pain on some days and a dull ache on others), but now her presence engulfed him. She was everywhere; there was no single square inch in his house that was not filled with some memory of her. In lapses of consciousness, he projected her image in front of him. Finally, to save the little sanity he had left, he checked into Hotel d'Nadir. His friend was happy to have him, but annoyed that all his questions went unanswered.

Soon after, Nadir forced Erik to sit down and eat. The meal was swathed in tense silence. Neither man even glanced across the table at each other. Even the clink of silverware seemed to be muted. Eventually, Nadir decided he was the one to break the silence.

"So," he said casually, lifting his soup spoon to his mouth, "I take it you saw her."

"What makes you say that?" Erik asked just as casually.

"Oh, come now, Erik!" Nadir exploded. He sometimes had almost as large a temper as Erik. It had never driven him to murder, but still it lay hidden within him. And a hidden temper is far worse than one that bubbles constantly at the surface. Yes, Nadir kept his hidden deep and well; he was a man of propriety, and only let a glimmer of his true rage break forth when he was with Erik, who had obviously never bothered to conceal his own temper. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about! What did you do? Where did you go when you left here on Friday?

"I don't see how any of this is your business," Erik replied, still as calm as before. Nothing could upset him now. "But if you must know, I left here that morning, saw a servant I am threatening, gave him medicine for Christine and then returned home, where I proceeded to let her memory haunt me out of my house. Satisfied?"

The Persian did not respond. After a few minutes, he simply nodded, then looked back down at his soup. He raised his spoon to his lips but then immediately brought it back down. He repeated this action twice, then looked back up.

"You're threatening a servant?"

Late that night, Erik lay fully dressed on the bed in the guest room, not even attempting to sleep. The small room was furnished all in deep green: green walls, green sheets, green drapes; the entire room looked like a pot full of vomit. Erik must remember to ridicule Nadir in the morning.

For now, he was alone. Not 'for now' actually—as always. He had always been alone. But he had never been lonely. Tonight, he was, knowing Christine was in pain and being completely incapable of comforting her. You dug yourself this hole, Erik reminded himself. You sent her away and, even though she returned, you sent her away again, this time permanently.

I did what was best for her, he rebutted.

He had spent his life moving forward from the past, never dwelling on things he couldn't change. He had always lived in the present, but now he couldn't stop reminiscing, focusing completely on the old.

If their parting had made Christine strong, it had made Erik hard. Now he felt the void inside him physically expand. Throughout his life he had experienced every feeling on the spectrum on emotions. Hate, fear, love, they were all there in his bank of past feelings. But now he just felt empty. Cold and empty.

Loneliness will do that to a man.

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Christine stood up from her puddle of tears on the floor, bitterly angry with herself. She hadn't meant to break down like that, in such a weak manner so common in the former version of herself. 'A lady must always keep herself steady, even when alone.' That was the mantra that Madame Giry had whispered in her ear as they stood before the mirror together the morning of her wedding (Christine had always had a feeling that the dear ballet-mistress always knew much more than it seemed). Christine wiped her tears, straightened her dress and then realized…

Realized that she was done mourning Erik. That was it. She had used up all the tears she had for him. He was in her heart, always would be, but she needed to leave him behind. And she was finally ready to do that. All he had ever wanted was for her to be happy, and if that entailed pushing him out of her mind, he would understand.

She walked back down the hall to her husband with new reason in her step. Her husband. Christine's heart swelled at the thought of him. How could she have ignored him for so long, Raoul, who had always been so steadfast and unwavering in his devotion? They had shared such a naïve passion for each other the night on the roof of the Opera when they'd shared their first kiss. She would find that love inside her again. She would throw all other thoughts from her mind. And she would have the perfect marriage (if such a thing existed).

Christine entered the room where he husband slept and knelt down at his bedside.

"Raoul," she whispered, bowing her head as if in prayer. "Raoul, I need you. I need you with me. Everything's been terrible without you. And it will just get worse and worse the longer you lay there. But I know we can get through this. You're strong, I'm strong, but together we're stronger. We can get through this, if only you just please wake up. I promise to be as devoted to you as you have always been to me. The ghost that stood between us has passed on. Now there's only you and me and the rest of our lives before us.

"So, please, wake up."