Disclaimer: I don't own Raoul, Erik, Christine, Nadir and Darius. I own Wesley the character but not the name (and if you all want to know, he looks like Wesley end of Angel Season 2 but has the attitude of Wesley Season 3 post-Billy if you know what I'm saying. Ah, don't we all just love the tortured man).

A/N: Okay, a few things about the last chapter. When I wrote that 'read until the end' note, it was because I was deathly afraid that people would get to the dream sequence and be disgusted by it. And yes, Midasgirl, it was supposed to be farcical. The day that I wrote that, I had read three stories in a row and two of them had Raoul and Erik become best friends and the third one had Erik get his face 'fixed'. Basically, I was mocking those stories. I have never been outright rude to an author about their phic, but that was too much in one sitting. I laughed the entire time I wrote it. But it makes sense in Christine's head. That's probably what would truly be the best outcome of the scenario in her opinion. But it's only a dream, good for a few laughs and a nice segue into Christine's emotional breakdown, which we don't actually see, but we feel the effects of it.

About the Madame Giry quote—ah, isn't it just so her? I've been trying to use that quote in the last three of my stories, but it just fit so nicely in this one. And Nadir, well, he's really quite clueless about what Erik is going through. But Erik is incredibly oblivious to what Nadir's going through as well (hint, hint).

The last chapter and this chapter hold a lot of clues for the future of the story. This chapter is entitled 'Plant My Seed' for a very obvious reason (aside from the fact that it is the next line after 'In the barren soil of your loneliness' in the song Holy Darkness, which this whole phic is based on!), because the seeds are all being planted for the story in this chapter. So read carefully, you might be able to figure out what's about to happen (I just can't help dropping clue bombs all over the place, I love it! There is nothing better as a writer than surprising a reader. I really believe that.)

On a final note, these updates are coming as quickly as they are because I am INCREDIBLY EXCITED to get to chapter seven. I have pages of notes on that chapter alone, full of quotes and plot points… Oh, I'm so excited! So, look out for that.

So, enjoy and please review!

Chapter Four: Plant My Seed

The next morning, Raoul woke up. Whether or not he had heard Christine's desperate plea remains to be seen. But awake he was.

Christine had been taking a bath when it happened, and only took enough time to throw a robe on before running through the halls to where he lay. Wesley escorted her in, beaming, and only his eyes told of his surprise and unease at her lack of attire and dripping hair. And there he was, sitting up, giving her a weary smile. Words escaped her and she threw herself beside his bed sobbing joyfully. A fire ignited within her as she showered his face with kisses.

"Christine, my darling…" he said weakly. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a year." Raoul nodded to Wesley, who bowed and left, shutting the door behind him and leaving the lovers in peace. The servant felt like whistling as he strolled down the hall. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders with his master's rejuvenation. He hadn't been this happy since… Well, it had been a long time. He absently put his hand in his pocket and his smile faded as his fingers met the edge of an envelope. His joy dissolved immediately and he walked down the grand staircase, serious once again. The weight fell on him again. With a steady face, Wesley walked out the front doors, where a small carriage was waiting for him. He got in and said to the driver:

"The Rue Scribe."

If it is humanly possible, Wesley's mind was completely blank for the duration of the entire trip into the heart of Paris. He stared straight ahead, thoughtless, almost lifeless.

"Wait here," he eventually called to the driver as they arrived on the designated street. Wesley briskly walked four blocks until he arrived at a large, black metal gate. He stood for a moment until the street was clear, and then bent down and slipped the envelope out of his pocket, through the metal bars, and leaned it against the backside of the wall. He stood up quickly, straightening his jacket, and hurried back to the carriage.

Try as he might, Wesley could not keep his mind blank on the return trip. He felt guilty, as he always did after delivering information to that man (after all this time, he still did not know his name), but he also knew that he did what was best for everyone. It had not been easy sneaking out with notes at least once a week, especially when the Vicomte and his wife were both healthy and active. It wasn't the sneaking around which tortured him (for he had done plenty of that before, especially in his younger days), but every time he touched his pen to parchment, he felt the sting of betrayal. Not only was he betraying the Vicomte, who trusted him as an old friend, but he betrayed someone very close to him, someone who believed he was the most honorable man ever. He had striven ever day to live up to that expectation, and had succeeded in his own mind, until that damnable man entered his life.

Two years, that's how long Wesley had delivered these traitorous messages; two years since he had first met this specter. It was late evening, and he had been outside, taking a break from the trials of angry footmen and empty-headed chambermaids, when he saw a dark figure approaching out of the corner of his eye.

"Monsieur Pryce," the figure said in a deep and resonant male voice.

"Yes," Wesley replied, squinting to see in the darkness.

"I have come to make you an offer," the man continued, easily walking back and forth a few feel away from him. His face was hidden from the shade of a large hat and his voice was not familiar at all. "You know everything that goes on in this house. I need to know if anything irregular goes on, especially concerning the young Vicomte and a Mademoiselle Christine Daae. You are going to give me such information."

"What makes you so sure I will?" Wesley was angry; he felt like a caged animal and he didn't like it.

"You will."

"My apologies, sir, but I will not be frightened into any such thing. Perhaps you might try a maid; they scare much more easily. But you will find that you are just wasting time talking to me." Wesley on his heel and started his valiant exit when he was suddenly swept back as he felt a rope tighten around his neck. He frantically gasped for air.

"I can do more than frighten, monsieur," came the sinister hiss in his ear. "Now you will stay and listen, understand?" Wesley nodded, feeling his face turn blue, and the rope was instantly off his neck and nowhere to be seen. He fell to the ground, coughing.

"So you plan on threatening me, then?" he said when he had finally caught his breath.

"Naturally," he replied with a laugh in his voice.

"Well, it won't work," Wesley said calmly. "Kill me if you like; I won't betray my master."

"Oh, how very gallant of you, Monsieur Pryce. Sadly, gallantry bores me. But I do believe you misunderstand me. Killing you is the farthest thing from my mind." In one swift motion, the man pulled Wesley up and held him there. Wesley felt the pressure of sharp metal against his side. "Knives are so vulgar, aren't they, monsieur? Not my favorite weapon by far, although they are less vile than guns, cold, hard things. I will never use one. But knives have their purpose. What if, for instance, after I kill your 'master', I were to take this knife here and pluck out your eyes, then cut off your tongue. Your livelihood depends upon your ability to see and, without being able to communicate, you couldn't help anyone avenge your precious master. You would be resigned to a life of solitude and inner torture until the day you die. Now, tell me, monsieur," he continued, drawing the knife away and pushing Wesley aside, "what your answer is."

Wesley slowly consented, knowing there was no other alternative. The man then described how and with what to contact him. Wesley was silent, only nodding every once in awhile in understanding. At one point the man lifted his head up and Wesley saw that his entire face was covered in a stark-white mask. Wesley wasn't frightened (he rarely was, you know), but he was confused and, as much as he hated to admit it, intrigued.

"Who are you?" he asked quietly.

The man looked directly at him. "I am no one," he replied simply, "just a ghost. A mere…phantom, if you will." He laughed sadly. Wesley looked away, no less confused, and when he looked up again the man was nowhere to be seen.

That had been two years ago and since then he had delivered messages and met with the man if necessary. And without fail, every time he set out to go on these errands, the weight of guilt grew heavier and more cumbersome. He didn't know exactly who this man was or why he wanted an eye in the de Chagny mansion, but he had many suspicions. Obviously, the man was linked with the Vicomtess and at first he believed him to be a former suitor. However, why would he continue to take such an interest in her after she was married? True, he had disappeared for a few months after the de Chagny's were wed, but when he returned he was even more adamant about receiving news.

Wesley then thought that he might be her father or a relative of some sort. Last week was not the first time that he had given Wesley medicine to relieve her ills. But then he did not understand why he would not go directly to her. The Vicomtess had no family alive to speak of, and with her gentle, giving nature, she was sure to embrace however distant a relative. The whole situation simply did not make sense.

Wesley left the carriage and went in the back way, through the kitchen. The house was blazing with joyful relief at the Vicomte's awakening. The chef was preparing his favorite meal, the maids were giggling again, and even Gerard, the bitter old Master of the Grounds, was caught whistling. Wesley laughed and celebrated along with them, but had anyone taken the time to truly look at him, they would have seen how his eyes were laden with despair and grief, even as he smiled merrily.

Meanwhile, back in the center of Paris, Erik was walking down the rue Scribe. It was only late afternoon, but he had needed to get away. Nadir was becoming insufferable; he had done nothing all day but sit and stare at Erik, expecting explanations. It was intolerable behavior for a man as old as Nadir, knowing Erik as well and as long as he did.

Erik had given Nadir a mediocre explanation of his situation with Wesley, but he seriously doubted that he could have given him a greater one. At first, Wesley was simply a tool to track the boy. Erik had never trusted him and if he were planning a long trip or anything that might have had to do with Christine, he had wanted to know about it (of course, everything important Erik had either inferred or discovered himself). But after the marriage, this arrangement became less about the boy and more about Christine. Even though he had let her go, he still felt somewhat responsible for her well-being. If she was being mistreated, he wanted to know. If she was sick, he wanted to help. But he couldn't be anywhere near her lest he become unable to resist going to her or she realize that he was alive. So his arrangement with the boy's manservant became very useful.

Erik arrived at the same gate that Wesley had just departed from, and he slid his hand between the bars, pulling out an envelope. He didn't read it; he simply tucked it into his cloak and turned on his heel.

Erik let himself back into Nadir's meager flat (Nadir was one of those people who never locked their doors during the day—he thought it welcoming, Erik thought it foolish) and walked into the parlor. Nadir was standing awkwardly with his arm draped over Darius's shoulders. As they stepped forward, Nadir groaned in pain.

"Careful, Darius," he winced. My knees are more than usually stiff today."

Erik rushed over to aid his friend. "Nadir! What… what happened?" Erik wasn't normally surprised at anything, but at that moment he was in a complete state of shock. Together he and Darius guided Nadir down into his chair.

"Oh, it's nothing," Nadir said with a wave of his hand. "Just old bones."

"You're not this old."

"Come now, Erik," he laughed. "I'm older than you are and neither of us is young anymore. Just because you can still scale walls and crawl around like a cat doesn't mean that we mere mortals can as well."

"I… I hadn't noticed." Erik felt truly ashamed. He had one friend in the world, and he had been too obsessed with the ghosts of his past to notice that he had been in need.

"No," he replied gently, "but I didn't want you to. Come," he continued, smiling, "let it all be forgotten. I may need some assistance moving around, but nothing else is wrong. Let us just pretend that you never saw that and carry on our day as usual. Now tell me, have you threatened any servants lately?"

Erik faked a laugh and the two conversed under the appearance of normality. But Erik couldn't help but think about what he had seen. He watched Nadir's every movement carefully, noticing how few there actually were, but when he did move excessively, his limbs were stiff and slow. He couldn't bear it for long and immediately after dinner, he excused himself to bed early.

Back in the green guest room, Erik found the forgotten envelope in his cloak. He stared at it in his hands, feeling incredibly guilty. He had been concentrating solely on Christine, who was perfectly safe and happy (well, as happy as one can be with a husband in a catatonic state) and basically ignoring Nadir, who seemed to be in a good deal of pain. Nadir had been the only friend he'd had his entire life and Christine… Well, he loved Christine, but she was out of his life, or should be. Why did he insist on keeping these selfish ties to her? What did it cause but hours of frustration, turmoil and pain?

He would rip the letter up, tear it into a thousand pieces. That would do it! –No it wouldn't. He would probably try to fit the pieces together afterwards to read it. As much as he ridiculed her for it, he was just as curious as Christine. He would drive himself insane if he didn't know how she was.

So, thoughts of Nadir flown from his head, he opened it. He's awake, was all it read in small, neat handwriting. Erik put the note on the bed stand. Well, he thought, there it is. She is with her husband once again. Nothing more for me to do. He lay down on the bed and folded his hands. Then, there it was: the slight turn in his stomach which he knew so well, the physical manifestation of his urge to see her. Two years ago he had practically let these cravings control him, directing him to the reverse side of her mirror or the graveyard at Perros. Now, he stumbled to work through them, trying to push his mind toward other things. But tonight the urge was incredibly strong, like it had been just after she left. He felt like he had to see her right away, as if it would be for the last time. Perhaps that stupid husband of hers, now that he was awake, would feel the desire to set something else on fire. This urge to see her was far too great; he couldn't suppress it any longer. Just a look, for a moment, and he need never see her again.

No! A look would never be enough! If he saw her, he would want to speak to her, spend time with her; he'd found out long ago that he could never be content to just watch, suffocating behind a mirror.

Erik rolled over and told himself to go to sleep, but his eyes remained wide open.

-----------------------------------

"Slowly…" Christine warned. She and Wesley were supporting Raoul as they guided him down the hallway. He could probably walk by himself, but his legs were shaky from the days in bed and Christine hadn't wanted to take any chances. She didn't want him out of bed at all, but he had wanted to see their bedroom for some reason, and so she enlisted Wesley's help and the three of them carefully set out down the long hallway.

Christine opened the bedroom door and Wesley let Raoul into the scorched room. He then handed Christine her husband and gave a slight bow.

"I'll be right outside if you need anything," he said, shutting the door behind him as he left.

Raoul glanced around the room. "So this is what happens when I don't listen to your warnings."

Christine laughed. "I wasn't going to say anything…"

"No, not at first, not until you'd forgotten that I was harmed at all, at which point that will be the only thing I hear from you." She laughed again and he began to limp around the room, slowly taking everything in. "Well," he said after a few minutes in silence, "I must say that I'm quite pleased with the amount of destruction. I would have been very angry if I had been unconscious for a week simply because I had burnt down the nightstand." Raoul stumbled over to the remnants of their beautiful bed and sat down. He motioned for Christine to come and sit beside him, which she did. He lovingly tucked a loose curl behind her ear and then pulled her face towards his. Midway through their tender kiss, the burnt boards in the bed gave way. They both tumbled backwards and Christine let out a small shriek before they both erupted into laughter. Raoul lay back on the bed and Christine leaned her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat and feeling his last pulses of laughter against her cheek.

"We're going to have to refurnish this entire room, you know." Christine murmured in agreement as she closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around her husband. Everything felt good, for once. "Have you thought of a new color scheme?"

"Lilac and gold," she replied after a moment of thought.

"I feel the need to remind you that you are not the only one living here."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just that, perhaps we can pick something more manly."

"Well, what would you like, brown bedding?"

"Now there's a great idea."

"You burnt down the room; I get to decorate it."

"See, I told you it would come back to haunt me." Christine giggled, snuggling even deeper into his chest.

"Raoul," she said, her voice suddenly serious, "you really scared me." She lifted her head up to look at him. "I thought… I mean, I haven't been that scared since—"

"I'm sorry," he said. "But everything is fine now." At last, Christine thought; she smiled and leaned in to kiss him. They relaxed into light, meaningless, happy conversation. Neither of them even thought to look through the window into the dark, but had they, they would have seen a man in a mask staring back at them.

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