Disclaimer: I do not own blah blah blah.

A/N: Okay, here I am folks. Of course my writer's block pervades all semester until finals week so here I am, at 11:42pm when I most certainly have a research paper to write due in three days, typing up Chapter 15 at long last. I hope you enjoy it; it's not the longest chapter, but it does its job, I think. I hope. Let me know what you think, please.

On a separate note, I was accepted into the NYU Advanced Fiction Workshop, so, yay! And guess what got me there… The opening 1500 words of Chapter 13 (my Ch13, not 13, as in the chapter of Nadir's grand finale). Haha! I was telling my friend Mike I got in and he was like, "Congratulations! What did you submit—your fan fiction?" and I was like "…yes…". Haha. Ah, my non-phan friends… They have no idea what this is all about. But I wouldn't trade it for all the world!

Please, please, please review. Please! I'll love you forever!

So, okay, short summary… Nadir: dead. Erik: in pain. Christine: pregnant. Erik: in more pain. Raoul: shocked. Erik: hot/teasing. Raoul: in pain (physical). Christine: in labor. Erik/Raoul/Wesley: waiting. Erik: snark. Raoul: angst. Wesley: nervous as all hell. Lucette: born! Christine/Raoul/Wesley: happy. Erik: sad. Readers: Aw. Clara: phew.


Chapter Fifteen: Stills Your Spirit

It was almost two in the morning by the time Erik crossed the underground lake to his house, a place he hadn't been inside in seven months. He tied off the boat and entered the bleak silence of his parlor. He was almost surprised to find everything as he had left it, not a single thing different than it was before the long, trying months and tonight's climactic disaster of an evening. But of course, he thought with a whimsical sigh, his house could not change simply because he had.

Erik took a step towards his bedroom when his knees buckled. He would have fallen, but he caught the edge of the sofa to save himself. The weakness in his bones was no longer that of emotional turmoil or distress, but of sheer exhaustion. Erik had never felt this way before. Every part of him was soaking in fatigue; his body was giving out under him and he hadn't the strength to think anymore.

He lowered himself onto the sofa and lay down. There was no need for laudanum tonight, for, as if his body had manufactured the drug itself, the moment he shut his eyes he was asleep. Erik stayed that way, fully dressed, in a sleep so deep he neither moved nor dreamt, straight through the night to morning. And when morning came, he didn't notice and continued sleeping through the day, through the night and through the next morning, only to awaken sometime after noon with incredible hunger.

Walking to the kitchen, his muscles ached from lack of use, but they were cooperating again, so Erik paid their stiffness no mind. Of course, he hadn't been home in months, so he had nothing fresh to eat, but he put on some tea, hoping it would suffice until he could visit the markets in the evening, just before they closed, and pick up some supplies.

As Erik waited for his tea his mind, as minds both brilliant and dull are oft to do, began to wander. No, he thought, trying to stop his most tragic form of self-mutilation, he must find something else to do but think, for he knew where his thoughts would inevitably lead… Music. He could always lose himself in music. Something without lyrics so he did not think of Christine. A concerto, perhaps or… A requiem, he had not given Nadir his requiem—and it had already been two days. He could do nothing for his friend now, nothing, except offer this one gift up to Heaven, or wherever he may be…

Very well. He would play Nadir's requiem and then move on, move on to something that didn't remind him of Nadir or Christine…

But what did he have besides them?

That was foolishness speaking. He had existed before, and he could exist now. He would just have to leave, move, as he always had when he was no longer welcome. And this house had certainly become unwelcoming. As he looked around it now he could not see past its glamour of an elaborate tomb, which was perhaps just what it had always been. And after over half a year of living in rooms that were lit by nothing but natural sunlight, he sharply felt its absence underground. It seemed that this house was just another cage after all, however hard he had worked to make it feel like a home.

There was no practical reason for him to continue to live down here. He had ceased to be the Phantom after he faked his death for Christine. He no longer visited the Opera, and though it was still easy for him now, the long trek to the surface would eventually become too much for him to endure on a daily basis. Why then he would be trapped down here, unable to get food, and he would slowly starve himself to death, without anyone ever knowing. My God, all this place had ever been was an elaborate and twisted suicide, he had only just realized it!

Erik poured his tea only to set it aside immediately. Thoughts of food and drink had been replaced by a ravaging hunger for action. If this was his choice, to once more up heave any semblance of a life or home he may have here, then it must be put into action now. Impulse is a friend when heeded, a degenerating sickness when repressed. He would immerse himself in laying plans, making arrangements and constructing a new life far away from Paris.

Until his future was finalized, however, h couldn't stay in this house. The ghosts in his mind were too strong here; though they may never vanish entirely, perhaps when he wasn't enclosed in these rooms, saturated with memories in every square meter, perhaps then these haunting spirits could recede into the darker recesses of his overstocked mind, where he had already banished so much… He could bury Nadir and Christine there, aside Sasha and Giovanni, Luciana and his mother, the nights of terror-dreams and his quest for acceptance. Yes, he would lay them there to rest, where they would always remain, available for visits if requested, but barred from stalking him ceaselessly for the rest of his days. It could be possible—it had to be—after he left this cursed house where the walls whispered their names and the organ sang to the melody of their voices.

Erik quickly grabbed the few necessities he had and made his way out the door without stopping to look or linger. He rowed across the lake swiftly, his strength almost fully returned, although he knew he would have to eat as soon as he'd acquired lodgings. As the shore approached, he noticed a small figure standing on its ground. Erik swore softly and made to return to his house; he had no desire to deal with another death forced by his hands. But then the figure called out a solitary "sir", and Erik turned back, recognizing the voice. It was Darius.

Calmly, Erik dealt with securing his boat before turning to face Nadir's ever-faithful servant. Darius walked toward him, the hesitation and anxiety that had always filled his body when he spoke with Erik apparent in every step; he had never lost this, not even after months of living together and tending Nadir.

"Darius," Erik greeted.

"Sir," he replied, bowing low. "I hope you do not mind the intrusion."

"How long have you been standing here?"

"Not long. Forgive me, but I did not know how else to reach you. My master once told me that, should I ever need you, I was to go to the banks of the underground lake at the Opera and wait, but that I must not, under any circumstances, go near the water."

Erik almost laughed, remembering Nadir's near-fatal encounter with the siren, but he winced instead, and swallowed the sound. "What do you need me for?"

"It has taken me a few days to make the arrangements, but I am bringing my master's body back to Persia tomorrow. He wished to be laid aside the bodies of his wife and son, hoping Allah may return them to each other in another life." Darius closed his eyes for a moment in prayer. "He also wished that you have his house here in Paris."

Erik did not allow his surprise to filter through his eyes. "He left me his house?" Of course, he mused. I make a plan and Life just raises her hand and begs to disagree.

"Yes," Darius continued. "Perhaps he thought it would be good for you, although I don't know his precise reasons. But you have been… comfortable there in the past, have you not? It could be a good… change."

A change… Yes, it would be a change, though perhaps not as dramatic as he had anticipated, still, it could work. He would not be enclosed in a tomb for the rest of his days, and he could stay in the city and easily lose himself whenever he needed to in the dense traffic of Parisians that kept their steady pace on the main street a block away. There would be no need to furnish Nadir's flat, except to bring in a piano; that was one very important feature it lacked. Well, my friend, Erik thought, you were right. Even death does not seem to stop you from bring my conscious. If this is what you want, I trust you to guide me true.

"All right," he said. "What do I need to do?"

Erik and Darius worked steadily for the next thirty-six hours, dedicatedly transporting all of Erik's needed possessions to Nadir's flat (Erik believed he would always refer to it as such, regardless of whether he lived there ten hours or ten years). They left all the furniture as was, but took all of his portable inventions, many drawings and sketches, and of course, his vast collection of sheet music, with one notable exception. Carefully, without bending a single page, Erik tied together his Don Juan Triumphant and left it on the organ. He had no need for it anymore; it was best left underground where no one could find it. Erik sealed up the trap door to the torture chamber so that no fool could find himself enclosed in it again. Finally, when all was moved, together they dragged the boat up to the third cellar, positioning it as a mislaid prop, between long, tattered curtains and broken set pieces. Darius arranged for a new piano to be delivered in a few days; it would take up most of Nadir's small sitting room, but as Erik had no mind to entertain anyone, that suited him fine. And then, a full four days after his friend's death, Erik accompanied Darius to a shipyard and returned to Nadir's home—his home—alone.

Having lived there for over half a year, it did not take Erik long to become accustomed to his new situation. Thankfully its rooms were still lighted by lingering laughter, not the tragic, haunting spirits of the house beside the lake. At first, he busied himself about the flat, arranging things as need be. He couldn't bear to disturb the master bedroom, so he continued to stay in the guest room, which was not much smaller. It was still green, and such a detestable shade, but Erik couldn't even bring himself to change that, now that he was able to. Yes, it was ugly, but it would lose all of its character if he repainted.

The living and dining rooms remained closest to what they originally were, with Erik moving things only slightly according to taste. The drawing room needed more adjustment, seeing as how a piano would soon occupy it—and Erik was not one to compromise the sound of an instrument merely to accommodate the size of a room. The piano would be in the center, the focus of the room, and so he pushed the sofa, chairs and small desk off to the sides, all facing the empty spot on the uncarpeted floor where the piano would soon sit.

Nadir had also kept a study, conjoined to the left side of the master bedroom. Although Erik had never been inside the room before and it held all of Nadir's most personal possessions, he fully intended on using it. He couldn't be expected to keep his inventions and books in his newly-stated music room, and the living room was no spot for them either. So he had no choice but to go through Nadir's things, keeping the books he might like to read himself, and placing everything else in the unused master bedroom.

He had been in there clearing out Nadir's large oak desk one day when he came across a stack of letters all bundled together. Of course, he had found a few similar stacks, mostly from a Nadir's correspondents who were still in Persia, and so he didn't give these a second thought, until he spied the signature on the bottom of one letter. There, writing in perfectly flowing cursive was the name of Raoul de Chagny. Erik didn't think, he just pulled the top letter from its bundle and began to read. It was dated almost two years ago.

My friend, it read, stately and legible. I dearly hope this letter reaches you. I unfortunately never received your name on the night we met, and so I am sending this letter with my manservant to the Opera House, in the hopes that someone will be able to direct him to you.

I was never given the opportunity to thank you for what you did that night. It was very noble and courageous of you. I cannot begin to think what might have happened had you not offered your assistance as you did.

I hope this letter finds you well, presuming that it finds you at all. The struggle to return to a semblance of normalcy has indeed been difficult, but I believe I am bearing it well. Christine, on the other hand, seems lost; she has grown pale and even thinner than she usually is. I try constantly to reach out and comfort her, but every time I do she retreats farther away from me. We were married last week and though she insists she is happy, her demeanor tells me otherwise. I don't expect her to come out of this experience without scars, but I wish she would lean on me and let me help her.

She told me that, before we were married, she returned to that house, hoping to, as she said, make her peace with him. However, she said that when she arrived there, she found you instead, and that you told her that he was dead.

I need you, I beg you, to tell me if this is true. Is he dead? It is not that I don't believe Christine; I just feel that I need to know what happened to him before I can even fathom a future.

I love my wife, monsieur, and I want her to be happy. Perhaps you, once again, may be able to show me the way.

I remain, always grateful,

Raoul de Chagny

Erik shuffled through the rest of the letters, about twenty in all. So, it seemed Nadir had corresponded with the boy regularly for the past two years. Erik supposed he should have felt betrayed at such action, but mostly he was just amazed that Nadir had managed to keep this epistolary friendship with the Vicomte a secret. He scanned through those that caught his eye. One ended: I am entirely in your deepest debt. My closest friends and confidants have never been told the truth about the events at the Opera House and I dare not speak of it to Christine. I cannot express to you through words how large a relief it is to be able to write to you about such matters. I have had so much pressing on me for so long, and the weight of it has only begun to lift.

Another began: I have done as you advised. Though it has not been easy, I have acted as cheerfully as I can while still maintaining dignity and given Christine the time she needs without my interference. In hindsight, I can see that I did dote upon her before, but now that I try my hardest to leave her be, she seeks me out. Our conversations have turned joyful and, while she still weeps some nights, I can once again feel the love that's between us so clearly I can almost touch it.

And yet another: Thank you for your concerns, my friend, but I have the pleasure of assuring you that I am almost fully recuperated. Unfortunately, the room I accidentally destroyed will not recover so easily.

After he had scanned every one, and organized them according to date, Erik spent the rest of the afternoon reading the letters in full. He had no qualms about reading them; after all, Nadir had left him his house and everything in it, which included the letters. Even without Nadir's replies, it was obvious that he had never betrayed Erik's secrets. The Vicomte seemed to believe him without question when he confirmed (falsely, of course) that Erik had died, just as Christine had said. He wrote mostly seeking advice for pulling his new wife out of the "tragedy she endured". It appeared that Nadir had used his correspondence with Raoul to check in with the young couple, just as Erik had used Wesley.

But that was the past, and Erik had sworn that he would cease to dwell in it. Christine and the Vicomte had finally found their happily ever after, as Raoul's later letters showed; Erik would leave them to it, for above all, he wanted her to be happy. He bound the letters up again and locked them in the desk drawer, determined not to look at them again.

The doorbell rang (luckily this doorbell meant nothing more than the presence of someone at the door, not a sound forbearing the visitor's death by drowning) and Erik eagerly hurried to answer it. Finally, the piano's arrived, he thought. Darius had made sure, before he had left, that the movers were informed about the mask, so that they would have no surprises, but when Erik opened the door, it was he who received a surprise. For there, standing on his doorstep, was the past he had just locked in a drawer.

"Hello Erik," she said. If it was possible, she looked more beautiful than she ever had. Her cheeks were bright with color and her eyes were filled with more life than the deep seas he'd always thought they mirrored.

"Hello," he replied. Common courtesy had flown from him in the aftermath of his shock so he just stood, blocking the doorway with his body, staring. Christine did not shy away from his hard look of astonishment; she gazed back without hesitation or embarrassment and, after a few moments of silence, she smiled.

"May I come in?"

It was one of the only times in his life that Erik had stuttered. "Of course," he stammered, and stepped aside to let her pass into the flat. He led her into the living room; she walked with such calm grace she seemed surreal, almost dreamlike.

"What a lovely room," she sighed. "This is quite a change for you."

"Please sit down," he said, gesturing to the sofa, his manners returning to him, and, once she sat, he took his place in the matching upholstered chair. Christine smiled at him again and looked like she was about to say something, but Erik jumped in. "How did you know I was here?" She was not fazed at all by the question; on the contrary, she seemed to have been expecting it.

"Wesley followed you," she replied simply.

"I beg your pardon?"

Christine shifted slightly back, and the sunlight that streamed in from between the curtains played upon her face as it never could underground. She was radiant. "After you left, only moments after you left, I think, Wesley set out after you. He was concerned, you know. The evening hadn't been easy for anyone, but you had been so…destroyed…when we'd seen you earlier, and…" She trailed off, her eyes moving backwards through time. "He was concerned. He followed you home and then set up a post outside the fate on the Rue Scribe. Someone was there constantly for the next two days, waiting to inform him when you finally appeared, but it was actually Wesley who was there when you left with a small Persian fellow.

"He followed you all day, and only when he saw you moving your things here did he come and tell me. Wesley wanted to talk to you himself, but I wanted to be the first to see you; I had to talk to you myself. Today was the first day I was able to come." She placed her hands on her lap and smiled, signifying that she was finished. Erik rubbed the arm of his chair in frustrated anxiety. He hadn't though this was even a possibility…

"What did you have to say to me?"

"So much," she sighed. He noticed then for the first time that her hair was bulled back; in all the years he had known Christine, she had never tied her hair up unless her opera costume demanded it. But of course, he amended himself, she hadn't been a mother then. "Too much," she continued. "First of all, of course, how are you?"

Erik was growing more uncomfortable with every syllable they exchanged. "That's never been the best question to ask me," he said, removing himself from his seat and going to stand by the window. "People don't want the truth when they ask that; they only seek the customary 'I'm good, and how are you' in return. So I oblige the entreating character with his sought response, even if I am neither good nor care if he is."

Christine, whose eyes had followed Erik to the window, frowned at him and with a petulant pout, looked away. "I detest it when you speak to me like that, Erik, as if we didn't even know each other." Ah, and here again was the child he had once hidden so much from. How quickly she was ale to make such a transition! Erik smiled beneath the mask as he looked out the window, relishing the fact that she was not so changed that he could not still bring this side out in her. "I meant nothing but good in asking you that, and I truly want to know." She turned back and pressed herself against the arm of the sofa, struggling to telekinetically will him to face her. "Do you remember how you came to me last? You were so severely altered—"

"Technically I never came to you."

"Fine," she spat in return, "how I found you then. I have every reason to be concerned."

"But you have no responsibility to," Erik said. His voice was steady; that was good.

"How can you say that?" was Christine's pained reply. "Of course I do." Erik heard the rustle of skirts and inferred that she was standing now. "Erik," she called, "look at me."

"I'm enjoying my lovely new view."

"Stop it!" she burst, her voice trembling with rage. "Stop the miserable attempts at sarcasm; I am trying to talk to you! Now look at me." Erik did not move. "Why won't you look at me?" she belted.

"Because," he yelled over her, "I'll betray myself to you."

The room was silent and still for a handful of seconds that seemed to fill a century. Erik had just begun to contemplate turning around to see what was keeping Christine so quiet when, in a flash, she was pressed against him, weeping into his chest. "Oh, Erik," she sobbed. Erik placed a hand tenderly on her back, but he did not embrace her. He mustn't cry with her—he could not let himself be weak!

"Hush now," he soothed in a low voice. "You know it pains me to see you cry." Christine slowly pulled away, wiping her red eyes with her fingertips. "And honestly speaking, in response to your question, if you still care to hear its answer," he said softly as Christine accepted the handkerchief he offered, "I am well, or at least doing much better than I though I would."

"I'm glad," she said, walking away slowly. Once she had increased the distance between them to a proper amount, she faced him once again. "This is what I really came here to tell you," she said, inhaling deeply, as if she were about to recite a speech. But when the air met her lungs, her chin began to quiver, her eyes filled once more with tears, and words just started pouring out.

"I know that I will love you for the rest of my life, and if there is a Heaven, I will love you well beyond eternity. But there is no place for us here, together, on Earth. I understand that now. You were right—you're always right. I know I will never be able to show you my love." Christine was gaining composure steadily. Her tears had ceased to fall and she held her chin high, her eyes somehow penetratingly intense without losing their softness. It slowly dawned on Erik that he was listening to and watching Christine, the woman, as she finally laid her childhood to rest. "But I also know," she continued, "that I cannot be a mother without you. I need you to make me worthy of my daughter." Her eyes glistened with pride at the mention of her child. "I need you to help me grow up. Without you, I'm no better than I was three years ago." With what Erik saw before him, he severely doubted that, but he did not dare to contradict her now. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, but I need you to be my friend. I have to see you and often, but at my house, not here. Raoul knows, well he doesn't know everything, of course not. I couldn't do that to him. He thinks it's—"

"Pity," Erik interjected quietly. "He thinks you're helping me because I'm old and alone."

Christine looked at him sadly. "Yes." Her voice was softer than a whisper and thick with shame. "But at least we can see each other."

"I take it that, should I consent, these visits would be chaperoned?"

"Yes, but most likely by Wesley," she said. Christine took a step forward, her round blue eyes now pleading. "If you consent?"

Erik turned his back to Christine and scrambled to think. Had he not decided to end this part of his life? And would seeing Christine often satiate something inside or would it just deepen the void in his heart with every visit? As his eyes trailed around the room, he thought of Nadir. What would he have advised?

He would tell you that you should let her go, a voice inside him said loudly. He would say that you live in separate worlds now and the only way for both of you to find peace would be to carry on without the other. He would put his hand on your shoulder and tell you that you were doing what was best for both of you.

Yes, Erik thought, that's exactly what Nadir would have said. And so he turned back to Christine resolutely and gave her his answer:

"Of course I consent." She smiled broadly.

After all, when it came to Christine, he had never taken Nadir's advice. Why start now, just because he was dead?


A/N: Like it? Hate it? Love it? Tell me! Please review! Granted, it wasn't the best thing I ever wrote, but I hope you enjoyed it a bit! I know it kind of jumps around a bit, but we had to get through that to move on… Next chapter (hopefully soon to come, seeing as how it's almost officially summer! Whoohoo!) Erik meets Lucette. Awww… OMG, people… Only five more chapters left. Literally. Anyone have a guess to how it's going to end? Well, only I know! wink Good luck with finals—see you on the other side!Again, please, please, please review! I would really appreciate hearing any of your thoughts!