Disclaimer: I own Wesley and no one else.

A/N: Well, this chapter has been written for awhile. It just took me until today to type and upload it. Sorry. I had forgotten that I hadn't uploaded it. Whoops! I've moved back to NYC now and loving every minute of it. Just saw Dracula—the Musical and it was amazing, I don't care what those stupid critics have said. I loved it and can't wait to see it again.

Well, this is chapter six. One more chapter until chapter seven, which, I have to admit, I'm having some problems with. I have this perfect chapter in my head, and it's not that. But I hope it will be closer to perfection than it is right now. It's the chapter I wrote this story for, and I hope I'm not giving false anticipation, but I'm really looking forward to you all reading it. Well, this is chapter six, a fun chapter as well, and I hope you enjoy it. Please, please review!!!!

Chapter Six: Stood Before the Grave

Christine had no idea how she made it home that afternoon. She was walking in a cloud; her mind was a violent storm and just as lightening would strike on one thought, completely different thoughts would begin to pour down. Nothing made sense—everything she had believed for the past year crossed down around her. She couldn't have seen that—it was impossible! It had to be!

She sat surprisingly still on the carriage ride home, and even though she wanted to scream, her face never flinched. Only when she caught sight of her house and realized she had to face Raoul did she begin to tremble. Her knees buckled and she nearly fainted into Wesley's arms as he reached up to escort her from the carriage. He guided her into the house and she put her hand against the wall, her eyes darting rapidly.

"Is… Are you ill, madame?"

"I think I'm going insane, Wesley," she said, her hand upon her heart. "I… I do believe I saw a ghost."

"A ghost?" Christine nodded and her lip began to tremble. Don't cry, you silly girl, don't cry, she repeated to herself, but her body wouldn't listen and the tears came in herds, racking her small frame with every sob. Wesley led her into the empty drawing room and sat her down. "I'll go and get your husband," he said, hurrying for the door.

"No!" she cried. Wesley turned around. "Raoul must never hear of this. He thinks this man is dead." She laughed, her thoughts growing even less coherent with every passing second. "Listen to me! What am I saying? Men don't come back to life! There are thousands of people in this city—there could be another man in a mask! Oh, I feel like a fool! Wesley, I am so sorry to have bothered you with my ridiculous nonsense; you must think—" She stopped mid-sentence, for Wesley's face had turned sickly white, his eyes wide and terrified. Her heart beat faster than the wings of a caged bird. "Wesley…" she said softly. He looked at her remorsefully and at once she knew. She knew Erik was alive. Her senses hadn't betrayed her; she wasn't going mad. He was alive (had he ever been dead?) and somehow Wesley knew. But before she could question him, Raoul entered the drawing room jovially.

"Darling, look!" he called. "No cane needed." As he approached her he caught sight of her tear-streaked face and knelt down at her side. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. I…I almost fainted getting out of the carriage. Wesley caught me, but it startled me."

Raoul stroked her hair gently. "Are you sure you're fine?"

"Yes," she nodded. Christine pulled him close to her and began to plant soft kisses all over his face. Tears trickled down again and glided off her cheek and onto Raoul's.

"Something's wrong," he whispered before their lips met. Everything was about to change, Christine knew, and she wanted to savor the innocence of their love before it disappeared. Again.

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Guilt is a terrible thing to suffer, but there are two types of it: when there is a way to remedy the situation and when there isn't. Erik was feeling the latter, more painful of the two. He felt it so strongly that had his chest suddenly caved in beneath the pressure, he would not have been surprised.

True, he had killed many people, that was understood. But Nadir had called to mind the one time…

A child. He had taken an innocent child away from the world. And not just any child: the only person, young or old to have ever loved him. To have never cared what ghastly features remained hidden behind his mask. A boy he loved so effortlessly with his own heart. And he had killed him. True he had been in pain. True, he was going to die anyway. But it was also true that he had died by Erik's hand, and Erik's alone.

He had told Nadir that he would give his son a beautiful death, and he had. But no child should have to experience death of any shape or form.

He had to get out, go for a walk or…something. He had been sitting on his soda and staring at the wall since he had fled from Nadir's house yesterday afternoon. The streets would be crowded with the morning traffic, but Erik knew of a patch of land in a near park where hardly anyone ventured. There he would be safe from wandering eyes and the shrill sounds of children laughing.

After quickly changing out of the clothes he had been sitting in all night, Erik made his way to the Rue Scribe entrance. A sudden noise sent him quickly into the shadows. He could see the silhouette of a man trying to break down the gate. Erik approached, keeping to the shade, his hand finding his trustworthy Punjab lasso.

"You're not welcome here," Erik hissed, projecting his voice toward the man, who jumped back in surprise.

"Monsieur?" he questioned. Erik recognized the voice and stepped out of the shadows.

"Wesley. What are you doing here?" Though his voice was stern, he knew that only a matter of serious importance could tempt him to disturb this place.

"I apologize for any inconvenience, sir, but—"

"The only inconvenience would have been yours had I not recognized your voice and killed you for your impertinence," Erik replied, holding the lasso toward Wesley to demonstrate his point. The servant's eyes grew wide. Erik returned it to its place.

"I, ah, yes, well… I'm afraid there is a situation I must inform you of. The Vicomtess, she, ah…" He searched for words within his fear.

Christine, Erik thought, in a moment afraid himself. "What? What has happened to her?" He reached through the bars of the gate and grasped Wesley by the arms. "Answer me!"

"She—she saw you!" Wesley cried, staggering back as Erik released him.

"How do you know?" he asked soberly.

"She told me. Yesterday. She came home from shopping, visibly upset, saying she saw a ghost. She mentioned the mask."

Erik began to pace, cursing repeatedly. He started to laugh as the absurdity of his situation settled in. He raised his eyes toward heaven and muttered, "Thank You for always being so good to me. Bastard." Christine, Nadir, Reza, he thought. So many problems. How did this happen? I used to deal with my problems and mine alone. When did I become a man of the bloody people? And now Christine knows I'm alive. Wonderful. So much for taking a relaxing walk.

"Sir?" Wesley called. Erik had forgotten he was there. "What would you like me to do?"

"What?" Erik was surprised by this question, first for the mere fact that he had asked it and secondly by his sincerity. Wesley had always done everything he had asked, but grudgingly. Now it appeared that he truly wanted to help. Strange…

"What would you like me to do?" he repeated. "She'll try to come find you."

"Yes, she will," Erik realized, and something in his mind turned, clicked almost. "She'll come to find me, but I'll be ready. Thank you for making me aware of the situation," he called, already striding back toward his house and leaving Wesley alone at the other side of the gate.

Alone and confused, that's what Wesley was. He turned to walk away, but then ran back and called out once more to no response. He had forgotten to mention that the Vicomtess knew of their arrangement. She hadn't said so, but something in her eyes had told him. Wesley thought that Erik would want to know that, but apparently it was too late.

Ah well, he thought, walking back to the carriage he had left a few blocks away. So he wants her to find him. Then she will. Wesley knew that, no matter how determined Christine might be, if Erik didn't want to be found, she would never find him. But since he did, Wesley was sure that they would be seeing each other soon. He could not help but think that he had just orchestrated a reunion which his master would not be happy about. Yet, at the same time, he was glad to have helped Erik reconnect in some way with his love. A thousand strings pulled him in different directions, and even though Wesley hated playing the part of the puppet, he always succumbed to each tug.

He had only meant to warn Erik so that he wouldn't be surprised should Christine seek him out. Instead, Wesley was the one surprised. Surprised and terrified. He hated feeling that way but it was true—the son of a bitch had scared him, first with the narrowly missed death sentence and later with his reaction to the news. He would hate to see Erik in a temper.

As soon as he returned to the de Chagny mansion, the Vicomtess called him into the parlor. She sat uncommonly still on the large velvet sofa, her back perfectly straight, her head tilted to the side. She didn't look at him as he entered; she simply requested that he close the door behind him and take a seat. Only when he had done both of those things did she turn to look at him.

"You have been in my husband's service a long time, Wesley," she started, her voice uncharacteristically hard, and he nodded, noticing that she was dressed to go out. "And he trusts you with his life. I, however, do not." Wesley was surprised at this, although he probably shouldn't have been. He felt lower than dirt. He had lost the trust of one of the most wonderful women he had ever met.

Her voice softened as she leaned forward, but her words were just as cold. "What aren't you telling me, Wesley? Why have you deceived the family to which you yourself have practically been a part of?"

Wesley was suddenly angry. She knew nothing! Nothing of the threats, the surprise confrontations—the fact that his agreement kept her husband alive! He had acted for the better good of everyone.

He didn't answer her, so she continued. "I know you work for Erik, Wesley, and I would like you to tell me where he is."

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

"Does he still live beneath the Opera House?"

"The Opera House…" This was information Wesley hadn't known. "He lives somewhere behind a gated part of the Rue Scribe."

"Still there…" The Vicomtess stood up to leave. "You have deceived me and my husband. But if the Lord Himself can be forgiving, then so can I. I forgive you this, Wesley; I will not speak of it to my husband. But I do not trust you. If you do anything else to further that distrust I will have you removed from this house." With that, she turned sharply on her heel and left the house. It was the first time Wesley had seen his mistress behave in that harsh manner. Erik must have given her lessons, he thought with a laugh.

Christine was not laughing as she sat in the carriage en route to Paris, an old key pressed securely into her palm. Her initial shock had given way to anticipation, and anticipation had led to naked dread. She knew she had to see him, but what to say, what to do, of these things she had no idea. Should she cry with relief? Or slap him in anger? It all depended on how he acted towards her. If he wept and begged forgiveness she couldn't possibly slap him, but if he shrugged her off she could do no less than kill him

Her head had not stopped spinning since the previous afternoon, not even twenty-four hours before. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts that bounced around like mating rabbits. It gave her a headache.

Erik was alive. She had to keep repeating that to make herself believe it. The man she had loved, mourned for a year and then finally found the strength to set aside had never died. She felt betrayed, overjoyed and terrified all at the same time.

The carriage let her off in the heart of Paris, only a few blocks from the Opera House. She had told Raoul that she was shopping and no one could know of her true intentions. Once she had begun the trek to the Rue Scribe entrance, her mind went blissfully blank. She thought naught of her destination, nor her living former-Angel, nor anything else but the step after the next. When she arrived at the gate, she slipped the key into its lock and entered, walking toward the lake without hesitation.

Christine had been fully prepared to wait at the shore of the lake until Erik ventured out, but she saw upon her arrival that it would not be necessary to wait. For there he sat, the same tall, thin, imposing figure from the life she had once led. Erik. It appeared that he had been the one waiting, for her was sitting patiently in the docked boat and did not seem the least bit surprised to see her. He stood as she approached.

"Erik," she said shortly.

"Christine." Shivers ran down her spine as he said her name. She had forgotten how eloquent it sounded on his tongue.

"You're alive."

"Biologically, yes." There was a distant sparkle in his eye, but Christine ignored it; she was in no mood for humor. She wanted answers.

"How?"

Erik extended his gloved hand toward her. Christine felt the flicker of a distant memory. "Come inside." She took his hand without pause and he led her into the boat. Then they silently rowed toward the house, a place filled with thousands of both treasured and hated memories. Neither knew what awaited for them behind its doors, but neither could care, seeing as they were both consumed with the simple fact of who was seated across from them.

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