Disclaimer: As it's been so long since I've updated, I'll remind you all that I do not own Erik, Christine, or Raoul, and they are owned by people whose names I'm sure you all know very well. I own Wesley, my lovely, lovely Wesley, who, I've gotta tell ya, keeps popping up in my non-Phantom work too. Same Wesley, different stories… Like, I'm working on this 19th century British spy story (think Alias meets Pride and Prejudice, as weird as that sounds) and I wrote in a character who works undercover as a butler and in love with our heroine. And I named him Wesley. Huh. Anyway, enough about my darling Wes, I also own Winifred, and any other characters that appear in this chapter, including a very special one…

A/N: So, I'm updating this on January 9th, in honor of The Phantom of the Opera becoming the longest running musical in Broadway history! Yay! You deserve it! I know it's been forever since I've updated, at least four months, right? Well, in case you didn't know, those were school months. Blah. But really good school months, so yay! I was in a production of As You Like It, took a sketch writing class and actually had three of my sketches go up in the sketch comedy show at the end of the semester. And, I have officially declared my Creative Writing minor. So what does that mean from you? It means I am once again begging for some reviews, not to feed my vanity, but to really point out where my strengths and weaknesses are. I'm actually really nervous about this decision in my academic career, for reasons that I won't go into here, but one of the main reasons I made the choice was because of how touched I've been by so many of the reviews I've gotten. The reason I'm a drama major is because I want to be able to make people feel things, not for any other reason but that having a universal emotion is so powerful that it entrances everyone, actors and audience the like, so that we're all the same. And I realized, through these reviews, that you can experience that through writing as well. Add in my love of plot twists and sentence structure (don't ask…) and supplemented with the fact that I constantly have a dozen stories in my head at one time… Well, there you go.

So I'm going to do another "previously" little thing for all of you need a little HD refresher.

Oh, and if you're reading this now, thank you. It really means a lot to me. So…

Previously in Holy Darkness:

Christine and Raoul finally went on their honeymoon and came back with two additions: an unborn baby and Winifred Evans, Wesley's long-lost love, whom Erik had sent Christine to find. In gratitude to Erik, Wesley sought him out, but to no avail. Erik had been living with Nadir, who was very sick, and who finally died, with the help of a poison Erik had unwillingly drafted. In complete despair, sick from lack of sleep and emotional ruin, Erik found himself at Christine's house, where Wesley hid him in the drawing room to regain his strength. Christine, now nine months pregnant, found him there, and they had an explosive reunion until she discovered the reason for his appearance at her house. But as she went to comfort him, Raoul entered the room…


Chapter Fourteen: Wealth Untold

From the drawing room doorframe, Wesley watched as his two lives unexpectedly collided with such a powerful burst of energy that it seemed that both forces could not possibly survive the encounter. He had tried to prevent the Vicomte from going into the room, but Wesley hadn't been able to stop him from scaling the outside walls when he was eleven, and he couldn't stop him now. Stubborn arrogance smothered in charm was a Chagny trait.

Raoul stared at his most hated enemy in numb shock for a brief moment that seemed to Wesley long enough to hold several lifetimes. All four of them seemed unable to move, and so instead they just stared and stared: Christine, the torn, her raised hand just inches from Erik, the perpetrator, whose eyes were wide and focused on Raoul, the injured, standing in front of Wesley, the outside intruder. He wanted to run far away from this disaster of apocalyptic proportions (he really should stop reading Winifred's novels… apocalyptic, indeed…), but he was a factor in this unimagined catastrophe, and he would stick it out through the end.

Raoul, unlike Wesley, had no idea what to do. His life had been ripped out of his body in a split instance with an aggression he doubted the Devil himself ever could have used. No. No, this couldn't be happening. Erik was dead, he was sure. Christine had told him. She'd seen him, dead. Hadn't she? …Yes, he was sure she had. And more than that, they had discussed it together before they'd left on their honeymoon. Didn't they? And she couldn't have been lying to him then, absolutely not. They had connected so deeply to each other that night, they had wept together openly. Surely she could not have simply been pretending.

And then Raoul remembered what a marvelous actress Christine was when under Erik's power.

His jaw clenched tightly as he felt the heat rising up his neck and across his forehead. He had hated the man before, hated him passionately for the web he had spun around Christine, but now he hated him from an entirely new place. Now his detestation flooded into the core of his being, for he had no right to be here at all. He had relinquished all hold over Christine two years ago, two years ago! Why was he suddenly back to ruin everything once they had just begun to heal?

Out of the corner of his eye Raoul saw Christine take a small step forward and say something, but he couldn't bear to look at her. He didn't know what to think about her, but he knew what he thought about Erik, and so when he finally did speak, it was Erik he addressed.

"I thought you were supposed to be dead." His voice was low and rather soft and, had Raoul been paying any attention to himself, he would have been amazed at how steady it sounded. Unconsciously, Raoul squared his hips toward his opponent and shifted his weight forward slightly, as if challenging him to a duel.

"Unfortunately," Erik replied, his eyes narrowing as he turned his body to face his contender, "that seems to be the tragic theme of my life."

"What are you doing here?" he asked without raising his voice. "What are you doing with my wife?"

"Raoul please," Christine interjected, hurrying to his side and placing a hand on his arm. "I can't imagine what you're thinking right now, but believe me, it's not—"

"Christine, stop." Raoul turned his head to glare at her. He couldn't see his own expression of course, but it must have been something truly laced with anger and pain, for Christine's hand immediately fell from his arm and she withdrew a few timid steps away from him as if he had just raised a pistol at her. But he did not care if she was afraid. He felt far too much agony to care for anyone else right now. "I want him to speak."

With that he turned his attention back to Erik, who stood casually, as if in complete indifference to the event which was unfolding before him. Raoul loathed him especially for this. What gall, to stand so calmly in a house where he was no more than an intruder and act as if he had invited all of them here for tea! The danger and tension in the room was as thick as if it were made of molasses; yet Erik was either perfectly oblivious to it or able to completely ignore the skull-crushing madness that Raoul himself felt pressing heavily down upon him.

"I can assure you, Monsieur le Vicomte," Erik taunted, "I only saw your wife once in the past two years."

"Oh and when was that," he retorted, his voice teeming with suspicion, "nine months ago?"

"Actually," came the reply, and Raoul would have sworn that there was a smile beneath the mask, "yes."

Wesley, standing behind his master, could actually see the crimson rage burst forth on the back of his neck, and just when it seemed that it could get no brighter, Raoul let out a cry of pure rage. "I'll kill you!" And with that, he charged.

Wesley and Christine watched in numb horror as Raoul stampeded across the room towards Erik. It looked as though he meant to attack him with the force of his whole body and drive him to the floor, but Erik merely deflected the assault with a slight press of his hands against Raoul's shoulders. Erik showed none of the weakness and fatigue that had been so visible mere minutes before. He even seemed to welcome the violence as a release from the prison of frailty in which he had been constrained. Well, Wesley thought, that's what he did. Battle was natural for him. And then the thought heaved upon him like indigestion, complete with the same sick, sticky feeling. He looked at Christine, who met his eyes with such naked panic that he knew she was thinking the same thing; Erik, once provoked, would not hesitate to kill. Still, they remained static, neither having the slightest indication how to stop the events that were now in motion, and so turned back to watch them.

Raoul was aching from the blow his body had made against the wall he had hit after his failed assault. Erik, meanwhile, strode away from Raoul, in a sort of semi-circle, not to abandon the fight, but, it appeared, so as to give them a larger combat zone. He spoke then, as Raoul picked himself up, undeterred, from the floor and made to strike again, and Wesley could hear the lilt in his tone like a laugh.

"Is it a duel you want then? Choose your weapon; I already have mine." Erik gestured gracefully to a long rope with a noose at the end that had somehow appeared in his hand.

It must have been the sight of the lasso that caused Christine to find her voice, for she immediately cried out, "Erik! Put that down, please. There's no need—"

"I'll fight you with anything," Raoul growled. Animalistic sensibilities which no one even knew had existed in Raoul now manifested themselves to a frightening extent. His eyes were focused completely on his foe and he hunched forward, ready to pounce as soon as the opportunity arose. Erik seemed greatly amused by this response; he languidly made show of tossing the lasso aside and raising his empty hands up and to the sides as if praying to God.

"I'll win with nothing."

It was almost pitiful to watch. Raoul attacked and Erik parried; Raoul went to strike and Erik deflected him with the grace of a bird and the tedium of a cat that had caught his yarn one too many times to be entertained by it. Wesley could see, with great relief, that for all of his boasts, Erik would not actively attempt to attack. This only infuriated Raoul further.

"You're not even trying!" he roared at him, his face burning with exertion and fury.

"I know," Erik said, this time not even trying to hide his laugh, "and you're still losing." His laughter maddened Raoul to such an extreme level that there were no words left for him. He let out a deep, sustained bellow and picked up the nearest entity, a vase, and threw it at Erik. He didn't dodge the attacking object nor did he have to; it smashed into pieces against the wall at least a foot and a half away from its target.

"Yes, boy, I agree. That was an ugly vase and it deserved to be punished."

Next to Wesley, Christine had begun to pant as if she were the one continually running back and forth across the drawing room. "Erik, please," she called, her words seeping with the sound of held sobs, "I beg you…"

Erik broke his focus on Raoul for the first time since their confrontation began to look at Christine, remorse evident in his eyes. He raised his hands as if to show her that he was not trying to do any harm, but it was in this moment of loss of concentration that Raoul chose to attack again; he managed to strike him on his side before Erik was able to elude him and send him flying once more into the wall.

There was no more regret apparent in Erik's eyes; now they were seething with rile and annoyance. He made yet another semi-circle around the room, opting for a new position, and this time he seemed prepared to actually fight. Christine had backed up against the wall and low, painful moans were escaping her lips. Subconsciously, Wesley wished that she would be quiet; she was breaking the tension in the room.

When Raoul turned back around it looked as if his nose had exploded on his face. Blood seeped over his mouth and down his chin, staining his shirt. But to look in his eyes, one wouldn't have thought he was hurt at all, they were burning with such a primeval triumph, his bloodied lips below curled in a vicious smile. Wesley felt himself pale to look at the pair of them. With his light blond hair matted with sweat, the sadistic turn of his mouth and his face and white shirt smattered with scarlet blood, Raoul seemed much more a fallen angel turned demonic than the compassionate master and friend Wesley knew him as. And across from him stood Erik, refined and genteel in his fine clothes and elegant stature, as the prevailing deity he challenged. The world was wholly insane, Wesley thought, as was everyone in this room.

Raoul smeared the back of his hand across his mouth, removing enough blood for him to speak. "Not as fast as you once were, eh, old man?" he jeered, his mouth curving into a ferocious sneer.

"Raoul…" Christine gasped, still pressed against the wall.

"Do you hear, I think he called me old," Erik mocked. "I guess we shall finally see which is more powerful—age or beauty."

"I'll throttle you!" Raoul attacked once more and this time Erik let him reach him. Raoul locked his arms around Erik's waist, his head beside his hands, and struggled to bring the man to the ground. Erik never lost control though, that much was easy to see. He reached over Raoul's back and began to endeavor to lift him up overturned. Raoul felt this and strained to keep himself grounded but when he couldn't, panicking, began to pound Erik repeatedly in the stomach. Both men were letting out loud, primitive grunts, but somehow Christine's constant huffing overtook their sound.

"Raoul! Raoul!" she screamed, the pace of her panting becoming ever quicker.

"Stay out of this, Christine!" Raoul yelled back as Erik lifted his feet from the floor and he struck back, hitting Erik on the side and causing his feel to touch the ground once more.

"No, Raoul! It's… it's… Raoul, it's my—" But she didn't finish the sentence and instead let out an earsplitting shriek. All three heads in the room turned immediately to look at her, crouched halfway down the wall, a pool of water around her feet.


The midwife came surprisingly quickly, hardly a half an hour after they'd sent for her, and she promptly ushered the three anxious men out of the bedroom so that she and Winifred could take over. They were, after all, professionals, she reminded them; Christine was in good hands.

At the end of the staircase Raoul and Wesley began to move towards the study, but Erik lingered behind uncomfortably. "I think I had better leave," he said. Wesley turned around to question him, but stopped, remembering that, according to Raoul, he had never seen Erik before in his life and certainly wouldn't be addressing him. Erik gave him a slight nod and Wesley understood; of course he couldn't stay. Erik's hand was already on the doorknob and the door slightly ajar when Raoul finally turned to look at him.

"I think you should stay," he said thinly. Wesley couldn't believe his words; his mouth was covered by the end of the handkerchief that he held up to his nose, but the voice was unmistakably his. Even Erik seemed unsettled by what he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think you should stay," Raoul repeated, a little more forcefully this time, "in case anything should… happen." Neither Wesley nor Erik could reply; they both stood baffled and bewildered. Was this not the man who had just attacked Erik in the drawing room? And now he wished him to stay during the birth of his child? Raoul continued, their silence forcing him to explicate. "I know that the midwife has everything in control, but if there are complications… That is to say, Christine has such a tiny frame and…" The hand holding the handkerchief dropped and Raoul turned his head, pressing the heel of his hand across the side of his forehead. It was obviously not easy for him to say. After a moment he looked up again and finished with a new approach. "I understand that you have a great deal of knowledge on the practice of medicine and I know that Christine would trust you more than a doctor, should the need occur." He glared at Erik, as if daring him to refuse.

Erik dropped his eyes and for a moment Wesley was afraid that he would refuse, but then the door was shut again and Erik met Raoul's glare, inclining his head slightly in acquiescence.

The three of them then retired to Raoul's study in silence, and in silence they stayed for a time. Erik crossed the room and stood looking out the window, his arms crossed in front of him. Raoul took his place behind his desk and even though he still held the handkerchief to his bleeding nose, he pulled out a small book and began to write calmly. And as for Wesley, he watched the other two men apprehensively for a moment before taking a seat in his usual easy chair diagonally across from Raoul's desk. As with everything that had happened tonight, he did not quite know what to think. Here were two men who had almost killed each other, and now they were going to wait with each other for the woman they both loved to give birth. It didn't seem fair to either one of them.

Wesley was also very aware of how careful he had to be when he was with both Erik and Raoul. It was imperative that Raoul not be aware of any kind of relationship between Wesley and Erik. The reveal of his wife with his most hated enemy had torn at his nobility and humanity. For the first time in his life he had actually attacked another person; Wesley did not know what he would do if he learned of this second treachery.

"I think you broke my nose," Raoul said crossly.

Erik had been staring out the window, lost in his thoughts, and, as often happened when he was in such a state, he didn't hear Raoul fully. "What?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"I said I think you broke my nose."

"I most certainly did not," he replied, looking once more out the window; "the wall broke your nose, if in fact it is actually broken, which I sincerely doubt."

"Oh really? Well, since you are the medical expert, why don't you come over here and see?"

Erik turned and walked towards him. My, how he hated this impudent boy. "By all means, if you permit me to examine it." Raoul took down his handkerchief and motioned for Erik to begin. As he pressed his fingers gently along the bridge of his nose, Erik caught sight of what Raoul had been writing; it appeared to be a journal. It was quickly removed from view as soon as its owner noticed that it was in sight. Erik laughed to himself. He had not thought of Raoul as the kind of man to keep a journal. Well, that's not true. Except to curse his name, he hardly thought of him at all, certainly not enough to make that observation.

Erik placed his pointer and middle fingers on either side of Raoul's nose, curled them and tugged slightly.

"Ow!" Raoul grumbled. Erik looked down disdainfully.

"That did not hurt."

"How would you know?" Raoul asked childishly, pushing Erik's hand away from his face. "Have you ever had someone yank on your nose that's probably broken?"

"It's rather difficult to yank on something that doesn't exist, isn't it?" Erik turned on his heel and strode back to his spot by the window. "And it isn't broken in the least. The bleeding should stop soon."

Erik was more fatigued than he had ever been in his entire life. He had never needed a great deal of sleep, but he had been living off of the least amount necessary for months now and it had finally hit him all at once. What a day, he thought. Imagine, if Christine's baby was born before midnight, he would have been present at both the beginning and end of a life in the time it took for the earth to revolve once around the sun. Could it be possible that it was only hours ago when he was at Nadir's side, speaking to him in that comfortable way that they shared together, that way that he would never speak again?

Nadir… Erik had known he was going to die for months, but he hadn't really believed it until just before it happened. He had been afraid that Nadir would die and all that would be left inside of him was emptiness. He had been wrong; what he was left with was this ever-growing feeling of pure grief. Grief was much worse than emptiness; grief was like a twisting of thousands of unnamed and unknown emotions, wrapping themselves around each other in a desperate struggle to come out on top. It was confusing for him, as if there was a war in his stomach, a war where everyone was fighting everyone and no one knew why. Sometimes one would win temporarily, and he would feel a pang of sadness or the pounding of anger, but the others were all still there, groping and pushing each other aside, struggling against what they actually wanted to achieve.

Erik sighed quietly and crossed his arms once more. He couldn't reason his way out of grief. It had its own schedule, and it didn't care how strong or witty his arguments were against it, it wouldn't pay any heed. Grief fed off panic and despair, the same thing it instilled. It pushed these out upon one and then gained its own momentum as one was forced to feel these things.

The worst point about grief, Erik thought, was that it never really goes away. Once one's felt grief, true grief, the kind that one can't lie to oneself about, it has gotten a hold for life. Erik knew this, he could tell. He could imagine himself, somewhere in the distant future, believing himself to have finally finished grieving, making himself tea or walking down a dark street, and then he could actually feel how it would hit him, right in the chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs and making him stumble forward clumsily. And he knew that, as instantly as it would appear, it would dissolve once again, only to reappear weeks, perhaps months or maybe years later, but still just as strong, potent and unavoidable.

It had nearly destroyed him, this grief, blinded him and led him to Christine's house, which held no comfort, only further anguish: the discovery of her pregnancy, their argument and then that fight. He hadn't truly thought Raoul would ever attack him, in his house, before his wife, but, obviously, he had been very wrong. He hadn't meant to hurt the boy, only tire him out so that he would resign his insane ploy, but he had angered him, and Erik's temper was not something he had ever been able to fully control. Had Christine not gone into labor at the exact moment she did, he would have broken the young vicomte's neck, he was sure.

And now she was upstairs, giving birth to her husband's baby. Had he ever imagined a reunion with Christine as he had sat diligently beside Nadir's bed every day as he slept, he certainly wouldn't have imagined this. What was he doing here? Well, he knew what he was doing here, and he was actually grateful to the little fop for inviting him to stay; had anything happened to Christine and he wasn't here he never would have been able to live with himself. And so he waited, waited for that moment when the first cries of a newborn were heard, when Raoul rushed upstairs to see his child and when Erik ambled out the front door, forgotten.

There was a loud thump and Erik turned his head to look behind him. It must have been at least two hours since he had paid attention to the other men in the room. At some point during Erik's reverie, Raoul had apparently found a decanter of brandy and, in the tradition of fathers-to-be everywhere, gotten considerably drunk. He had just knocked a large pile of books off his desk and Wesley was now picking them up from the floor, looking up with concern and discomfort at Raoul, who, in addition to having a nose that was no longer bleeding, appeared to find this very amusing. Just then a distant prolonged shrill scream penetrated the door of the study and Raoul ran to it, instantly sober, and flung it open. Wesley and Erik hurried to join him by the door. Raoul was staring upwards, as if by looking into the ceiling hard enough he could see what was happening in his bedroom.

"I knew it," he whispered fearfully, "it's killing her."

"It's not killing her," Erik said, his voice gentle, certainly gentler than it had ever been before when speaking to Raoul. "I believe it's almost over."

"Did you hear that?" Wesley asked, clapping his hand against Raoul's back, who continued to stare at the ceiling. "You're almost a father!"

"Yes," he whispered to himself and then swayed, his drunken stupor returning. He tottered unsteadily back to his desk chair and fell into it. "Although," he said after taking another swig from his glass, "who knows? Christine could give birth to a skinny little thing with dark hair and no nose. Then I guess I wouldn't be a father after all, would I?"

"The child will have a nose," Erik said icily, turning away to return to the window. He was determined not to let his temper get out of hand again.

"Hopefully," Raoul scoffed.

"I did not father any child with your wife, monsieur."

"How am I supposed to believe you?"

Erik turned and met his accusing glare. "You already do or you wouldn't have asked me to stay." He turned his back once again to Raoul and looked out the window.

The room was immersed in silence once more, but this only lasted for a few minutes, for soon enough they heard the distinct sound of running footsteps. Erik turned just in time to see a thin young woman with brown hair open the door, grinning.

"It's a girl!" she squealed, and turned to race back upstairs. Raoul's face lit up and he rushed out after her. Wesley hurried out too, stopping only at the threshold to beckon Erik to join them.

Erik lingered behind for a moment, and then slowly walked down the hall towards the staircase. As he passed the large grandfather clock, he noted that it was ten minutes before midnight. His footsteps were so light they were inaudible on the stairs. He peered down the hall and into the master bedroom. Christine lay tucked into the middle of her bed, red-faced, exhausted, but glowing with beauty. She was beaming up at Raoul, who sat next to her, obviously smitten with the bundle in his arms. Erik could see from there that she definitely had a nose, along with a tuft of blond hair on her head that was the exact color of Raoul's. The young woman who had proclaimed the baby's arrival was standing off to the side with Wesley; ah, Erik thought, this must be his Winifred.

"What shall we name her, darling?" Raoul asked, his voice soft and bereft of any residual tension or anger.

"I was thinking," Christine replied gently, "of Lucette. Because, oh Raoul, just look at her. She's beautiful; she's lightness in its purest form."

"Lucette," Raoul mused. "It's perfect." He leaned down and kissed his wife tenderly on the lips.

With that Erik left, just as he had predicted, quietly and forgotten.


A/N: Well, there it is, folks! I hope you enjoyed it. This one was a lot easier to write than the last one, believe you me! I think the trouble I had in the beginning of this chapter was that I was putting to much pressure on myself to have a great "follow-up" to Chapter 13. I finally realized that it's not about beating myself at anything. Chapter 13 was written the way it was because it was emotional, and a turning point for everyone, and it dealt with the death of one of my favorite characters. It was a descriptive piece for the most part, with very little action in the whole chapter until the end. This chapter, of course, was pretty much all action (how'd you guys like that, by the way? Was I anywhere in the right ballpark?). It's not as lengthy as Chapter 13, but it's longer than 12 and just a hundred words or so shorter than Chapter 8, which was the 3rd longest chapter… Yeah, you guys don't really care about that, huh? Hehe. Well, thank you for reading, I hope you had fun, please, please, please review! Oh, and CONGRATULATION to phans everywhere for helping make Phantom the longest running Broadway show ever! We rock!