Author's notes: WOW! I didn't update for so long! Sorry – vacation. Really! Alright, all of you die-hard EC phans, this if for you. I actually wanted to add more romance here, but that would be sappy, and Erik just doesn't work that way. Don't look at me! And the changed lyrics are mine, with the exception of one bit in the middle, from "I seem to find" to "haunting me", which belongs to Thephantomaffair.

Mina – Sorry, no time, lots to do. Here you go!

Moonjava – thanks!

Mominator – thanks so much! The idea just kept bugging me! Okay, here's the next chapter!

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Chapter XX

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The peaceful shimmering lights reflected from the waters were immensely calming. It was exactly that needed impulse that managed to soothe nerves and let you drift into a state of peaceful forgetting, a wonderful, fulfilling sensation. And in a frantic state of fear and panic, it was exactly what you needed.

For Christine, the interrogation in the faraway estate ended rather well. She didn't reveal anything of real importance, had a nice meal and met a very intriguing child. Reminders of Erik's constant presence, though incorporeal, the presence of his influence, stared at her from every corner, but she managed to come to terms with it. All in all, she thought she was doing well. Were it not for the minor fact that she never got the slightest chance to explain the situation – or consider if explaining things to him was a good idea – she would have been happy.

She wasn't. Not even remotely content. The daydream of the past five years had turned into an all-too-realistic nightmare. Even the separation when she had hoped for his happiness was better than the clear loathing she had witnessed on the few occasions they had met. Frankly, she avoided him now, not that it was hard. If they were going to pretend to be complete strangers, two could play such a game.

Staring at the fountain again, she smiled distantly, weakly… as if it wasn't really her. Today was the last day she would mourn her father. Today, she would end her torture. Afterwards, she would have to assume the role of a future Madame de Chagny, which didn't appeal to her very much. Nevertheless, once the game started, there was no turning back.

Her conscience berated her for promising Reza to come and sing him something later on. She should have ended things then and there. But seeing the boy, talking to him, telling him tales her father once told her awoke more within her than she would have liked. She didn't have the heart to refuse.

But she promised to herself not to sing again afterwards. Not only did it conflict with the part she was to play, but also it showed her weakness. She would give up singing, at least for a while, because even the stories of her childhood now mocked her.

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing." she whispered, but refused to sing the line. She recited it, trying not to sound pained. Once she would get it out of her mind, things would be alright. They had to be. "Her father promised her to send her the Angel of Music. Her father promised her… her father promised her…" Her eyes seemed to close on their own accord, squeezed tight.

In her mind, a song echoed, a song of mourning, of sadness, of her father. He was the only person that ever mattered more than the world to her and she had lost him and every link to him. It was time to move on, to sever ties with the past. She would sing one last song… for him, because he would wish it. He had wished her to become a diva. For him, she would sing. One last time.

You were once my fallen angel
You were all that mattered
You were once a guide and guardian
Then my world was shattered

Wishing you were somehow here again
Wishing you were somehow here
I seem to find

Deep in my mind
You are still haunting me

Wishing I could hear your voice again
A whisper of the fleeing night

Sometimes I see

That it could be

That which brings my world light

Lonely child now threads in darkness
There is no emotion
In the past, I came for guidance
Now I cry an ocean...

Too many years

Fighting back tears
Why can't the past just die?

Wishing you were somehow here again
Knowing we must say goodbye
Try to forgive
Teach me to live

Give me the strength to try…


No more memories

No more silent tears

No more gazing back at the wasted years…


Help me say goodbye
Please don't say goodbye...

But the words that came out were twisted, mixed, not at all what she meant to say. She was too transfixed to notice, however, gazing at the fountain again, failing to notice the twilight and shadow. The thought of Raoul seeking her in the palace brought up no concern.

"You should not sing while crying, Mademoiselle. Your throat is choked, as are the notes."

As if someone had struck her, Christine straightened up immediately, more than startled. A similar scene had occurred years ago and back then, death had come more swiftly than any of the participants would have liked. She wouldn't even have to turn around to identify the speaker, but she did so, deliberately slowly and cautiously. After a frightened glance at him, she swallowed the lump in her throat. No more…

"Are you here to give me your criticism, Monsieur. You are not my tutor. And for once, I am on the edge of being the one who starts shouting, so please spare me anything you want to say." She shook her head weakly. "I have no wish to speak with you."

"This time, it is inevitable, I'm afraid, Mademoiselle." Erik noted, with complete indifference to her reddened and teary eyes, at least outwardly. His attention was more focused on other things. "I have discovered that you have talked to Nadir Khan this afternoon. What did you say to him?"

Christine understood and shook her head again. "Your detective-like friend tried to interrogate me about your history, but I told him nothing… I myself know very little, but I said nothing and did as you instructed – pretended not to have met you before."

"Good. I shall have a talk with him about this little investigation of his – be assured that he shall not trouble you again. Mademoiselle." He bowed lightly and moved to turn around and leave.

"The boy – Reza – is very fond of you." That stopped him immediately.

"The child is dying, Mademoiselle. No one should treat him cruelly."

"How long before…?" she couldn't really finish that sentence.

Turning back to her, Erik straightened up almost unnaturally. "I cannot say. It's a progressive illness – I can't cure it. The stage is too far now. There is nothing that can be done about it." He paused for a moment, obviously furious at his own helplessness in the matter.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Christine asked, careful not to cause an outburst. "I saw that gypsy figure you made for him – he seems to be fond of music, when I sang…"

"It won't be necessary." he interrupted.

"No, it won't. But I would still like to do it. It's much better than spending the days locked inside this golden cage and talking to the local royalty."

"What of your precious fiancé?" There was a distinct hint of irony in that last word.

It was the moment when she considered explaining the situation to him, telling him most of what she could and reassuring him that everything was already arranged… but she chose not to. There was no idea what effect it would have… she barely knew him now… and rumors were the last thing she currently needed.

"He is not my owner, Monsieur." She said, forcing a certain amount of arrogance into her voice – she had heard Philippe use it at times, when dealing with stubborn people. "I am my own person."

"So Little Lotte has grown up suddenly?"

Christine blinked, but then remembered that she had been reciting part of the story minutes before. "Little Lotte is not Christine Daaé. Little Lotte went away with her father, with the Angel of Music." Somehow, it was pleasing to see him shift slightly. "I am Christine Daaé, and I want to help that child. Be assured that this choice comes from seeing the state of the boy. I want to help, Monsieur, and I will, whether you approve or not."

Motionless and soundless, like a dark statue, he looked at her for almost about a minute, observing this newfound determination that had appeared on her face, only adding to the effect of red, puffy eyes and swollen cheeks. The image of hope and hopelessness that he found beautiful above all else… then reality shunned the emotion away.

"Very well then. I trust your arsenal of songs for children is vast?"

"I wasn't Little Lotte for nothing, Monsieur." she noted, unsmiling still. "But surely you have more songs than I. The few bits of music I have heard you play were nothing short of amazing."

"I haven't composed in a very long time, Mademoiselle." he admitted, not without some shame in his voice. "I have neglected music for long­… time is one of the things I lack."

Her wide eyes stared at him with complete disbelief. This was probably the thing she had expected to hear the least, especially from him. He had stopped composing? He, who above anyone else deserved to be called the Angel of Music? Preposterous. Unacceptable. Under no circumstances could that be allowed to continue.

Clearly, these thoughts showed on her face. Through the darkness and the mask she couldn't see, but Erik managed a very slight and brief smile at her inner outrage. "But you seem to have songs of your own."

Christine shook her head. "I have only heard a lot of others and can rhyme decently. It doesn't require that much work to create a poem about something you feel strongly about and find a tune - steal it, I might correct myself – that fits it."

"Then we have a problem. The music I write is not meant for an audience such as Reza. I no longer write the youthful melodies you perhaps remember, Mademoiselle. If music reflects the soul, then mine is filled with darkness."

"Even darkness can be beautiful. It depends on how you view it." Raising her eyes to the sky, she looked at the stars that began to appear slowly. If there was anything she had learned from him, besides music, it was to distinguish the starless and the starlit night, two types of darkness, two different worlds.

Also looking up for a second, Erik nodded. "I see your views have changed. It's good to see that at least one childish fear had evaporated. You no longer fear the dark, it seems."

"The dark? I still fear it, Monsieur. I fear a void, emptiness… but I am not afraid of the night anymore."

Finally, at long last, she smiled. It was a teary expression, still, but she seemed calmer and no longer afraid of the embodiment of darkness – of him. She didn't really know what she was attempting to do, but talking to him, like they had once done, just talking about anything at all, forgetting the stress of the world, was somehow soothing, even more than the soft sounds of water nearby.

"The night has its own music." Erik noted, almost in a whisper. "The night is beautiful, no one can see you if it's dark around you and only you can hear its music."

"What does it sound like?"

"You must listen carefully, Mademoiselle."

It seemed that he had been somehow reminded that they were still in the depths of reality and the first song he had written after a long silence could not be sung, not there, not then, not to her. It was a song for her, of the night, of its splendor and wonders. His goal was to rid himself of the thoughts that had somehow forced his petrified heart to break free of stone and beat again… much to his dislike.

He failed.

Fortunately, the strict nature of him denied him to break down all the walls he had build around him. Those that had been destroyed during the time in Rome, with her and Giovanni, had been replaced by taller, stronger constructions, unbreakable, at least seemingly. But her singing… he had listened from almost the very first word. The first wall seemed to be crumbling down with each word until only the foundations remained. The lyrics weren't meant for mourning the dead… and if Christine would consciously realize that, she would surely have stopped singing.

He should never have spoken to her. He should have left at once. Before even the last remnants of the wall could vanish, he whirled around and stalked away from her swiftly, leaving her listening in the darkness.

Never would anyone listen to the music spawned by the magic of the darkness, the beauty of the night… and the celestial angel it was meant for.