Disclaimer: The PHA---N-tom of the opera ain't mine… which makes me sad.

A/N: I apologise for the wait. My phan-muse was asleep at the wheel over New Year's.

Rebecca found Meg stretching, preparing to go through her dance steps. She waved her over, urgently. The two girls retreated into the shadows, out of earshot of the rest of the dancers and stagehands.

"I found her," Meg whispered hurriedly. "But she was… she was too angry to speak to me. She told me to leave."

"Did she threaten you?" Rebecca asked, concerned.

Meg shook her head, but her hand fluttered towards her ear; she turned the gesture to a movement which smoothed down her hair. "No. She didn't." Meg asked breathlessly, anxiously, "Did you find him? Christian?"

"I found him," the countess said, her eyes sad, "But he is no longer the boy I once knew." She looked up at Meg's gentle expectant face. "I think he means to kill her."

Meg went pale. "Christian wouldn't do that. I know him."

"He and I grew up together," Rebecca reminded the ballerina, "But now, Christian is… gone. Replaced by something… sinister. Something dark. I don't know him anymore."

Meg bit her lip, but said nothing.

"What do we do now?"

Meg shook her head. "I don't know. I-I don't know." She looked over to the rest of the dance troupe were warming up, surreptitiously watching them. "I have to get back. We have to rehearse."

"Rehearse?"

Meg nodded. "The Phantom's new opera. We are to perform it at the end of the month." Meg swallowed. "She sent a note demand… requesting it."

Rebecca nodded. "Break a leg," she whispered, knowing the theatre tradition not to wish anyone 'good luck'. Meg hurried back to her place, trying not to show her fear. The countess stood in the wings, looking about the theatre, her mind awhirl with thoughts and theories.

Foremost in her thoughts was Christian. He could not - would not! - murder anyone.

Her eyes settled on the gilded railing of Box Five. The curtain had been drawn, as though concealing an occupant. But despite the fact that all the boxes' curtains were similarly closed, the thought of someone being concealed within persisted in Rebecca's mind.

The countess turned and hurried through the back of the stage, heading outside, into the cold and the wind of the tail end of winter. She had to find Christian. She had to talk sense into him. She had to bring him back. She had failed when she had talked to him in the chapel, but surely he would see sense in the light of day. The shadows were poisonous to Christian - he saw the night as the time that the Phantom - his Angel of Music no longer - ruled. Rebecca would save Christian. She had to.

Had she looked up, she would have seen a bone-white mask in the shadows, watching her departure.

Christian left the horse at the gates. It stamped its hooves and snorted smoke in the chill winter air, but did not stir. It was a good beast, a loyal animal. It would not leave without him.

Christian did not plan to stay long. This place held too many sad memories, too many echoes of those who had mourned here, mourned the ones they loved. There were too many ghosts.

But what were ghosts, but memories which refused to die?

Christian adjusted the collar of his shirt with one hand - gentle snowflakes were landing on his neck like icy kisses, melting into tears that ran cold and harsh down his back. He had no time for the weather. No time at all. He needed to mourn, needed to come here to let the past go, let it die. In his other hand, he held tight to a bouquet of swan-white blooms. A present for his mother.

Mother, why did you die? Why did you leave me like this? Christian headed through the graveyard, a bitter taste in his mouth and bitter thoughts on his mind. You said you'd send an Angel, mother. You lied - she's a monster. A demon. You lied, mother. I loved you, and you lied to me. With your dying breath, you lied to me.

Under the innocent white of the roses, a sharp thorn pressed into Christian's palm, waiting expectantly for the taste of blood. Christian felt it, and did not resent it. Rather, he soothed it. Soon, soon.

Through rows of stone angels, their faces demurely lowered, Christian headed for the Daae tomb. Georgina Daae had not been rich enough to support herself as well as her illegitimate child, but she did have rich enough admirers who gladly paid for her tomb. Paid for her son to disappear. Paid for her belongings, her violin, her music.

Bastards, Christian thought, his lip curling, Those hypocritical bastards.

Left all alone in the world, not even a sou to his name, he'd grown up in the opera. Where only the unwanted and the dregs grew up.

Where the Opera Ghost was waiting, vampire-like, for him.

Christian looked up at the tomb, surprised that he had walked so far through the snow and the cold, surprised that his thoughts had brought him here. Swallowing his pride, he climbed the stairs, and stood at the threshold of the tomb. And then, he traced with his eyes the cross on the doorway, losing himself to his thoughts.

I don't hate you, mother, Christian said, his eyes filled with the hurt one sees in a puppy that was kicked out of spite, I just don't understand. Why did you promise me beauty? Why did you promise me something which has not come to pass? Why is my Angel of Music a monster… a Phantom?

At the gate, the horse Christian had ridden all the way to the graveyard gave a snort, disturbed from its own silent contemplation by another visitor. The horse calmed at the feel of a woman's hands across its muzzle, and it nickered softly and thankfully at the taste of sugar-cubes. It decided that the woman was a friend of Christian's, and decided to let her pass. The woman did so, following the footsteps that Christian had left, but silent as stars.

Christian looked down at his hands, at the roses that he still held, at the thorn concealed within them. "I miss you," he whispered, "It's so hard without you, mother." He took a breath. "If only you were here. If only you could guide me. I feel…" Betrayed. Confused. Bitter. Torn. Broken. Twisted every way.

Stealthy footsteps crunched through the snow behind him. Christian's eyes snapped open, hardening to steel in less than a moment, his conversation with his mother forgotten. He knelt down, setting down the roses, and readied the thorn in his hand. When she came to him, he would be ready. He would…

"Christian?"

Christian whirled, surprised and caught off-guard. "Rebecca? What are you doing here?"

She looked beautiful. A simple black dress, a red scarf around her throat and a single red rose in her hands. She took his breath away, and melted his fears. She looked at him, pitying, pleading, loving.

"What are you doing here?" Christian asked, putting the thorn away. "Why are you here?"

"I followed you, Christian." She stood in the lightly falling snow like an angel. She came towards him, smiling sadly, then set her rose down on the steps of the tomb, next to Christian's bouquet. The red petals and the white snow together somehow sent shivers down his spine. It looked like a splash of blood…

"You can't let her control you like this, Christian," Rebecca whispered.

"Who? My mother?"

Rebecca looked up at Christian. "Your mother is dead, Christian. You know that." She looked at the tomb. "I'm talking about the Phantom."

Christian felt the thorn, hidden up his sleeve, almost shake with anticipation and hate.

"You have to leave the Opera House, Christian. You have to leave Paris. You have to get her out of your head."

"You don't think I've tried?" Christian put his hands on Rebecca's shoulders and looked into her eyes. "She's the voice inside my head, Bec. She's the very air I breathe. I can't escape her."

"Yes, you can," Rebecca said softly. She kissed Christian, as gentle as a snowflake. "You are not her puppet, Christian. You are a free man. She taught you to sing; yes, you should be grateful for that. But just because she taught you to sing does not mean she owns your soul."

Christian stared at Rebecca. "You can't possibly understand…"

"You said you loved her, Christian. And I've heard it said that she loves you. But what kind of love is this, where you drift in hate and fear and uncertainty every day of your life?" There were tears in her eyes now. "I love you, Christian. And I don't want to see you in pain anymore. Please."

Christian stared at the woman in his arms, and felt the madness slowly peeling away. This is your Angel, Christian, a gentle voice seemed to whisper in his mind. This is your Angel of Music. Not a power-mad monster who used fear and death to control those who 'belonged' to her, but a delicate, kind, caring and - above all things - truthfully loving woman who would risk death itself to save him. The thorn hidden in his sleeve disgusted him now; what kind of a man was he?

Christian took Rebecca's hands in his own, and kissed them both. Then he kissed her on the pair of rose petals that were her lips. "Oh, Rebecca…"

"Christian…"

They stood there in the snow, together, keeping each other warm with their embrace and their love, whispering promises and plans and dreams and hopes and memories.

"We'll leave tonight," Christian whispered, "No more Phantom. Just you and me, Rebecca. Free at last, together forever." He looked up, brushing the snow from her hair. She was crying and smiling and laughing and sobbing all at once.

Yes, this was love. A warm and shining light. Love was not a shadow of death and doubt.

The shadow that stood on the roof of Georgina's tomb, staring with wide eyes through the bone-white mask.

Rebecca saw something in his eyes which frightened her. "Christian? What is it?"

Christian stared defiantly up at the Phantom, his arms still around Rebecca. "I want nothing more to do with you, monster. Go back to your crypt."

The Phantom laughed, bitter and hollow. "Oh, you brush me aside so easily." Rebecca turned; the Phantom addressed her. "How long will it be, Countess, until he casts you aside so callously?" The eyes under the mask were as hard and cold as ice. "You do not throw aside love without repercussions, Christian, my love and my protégé."

"I am your student no longer." Christian spat. "I'm old enough now to see that the darkness you kept me in was nothing more than a cage."

The wind made it seem like the Phantom was flying as she leapt down from the roof and started walking towards Christian. "A cage, was it?" She sounded like she was choking. "After all… I did for you… you feel caged?"

Christian pushed Rebecca aside, out of harm's way. "Enough of this. What do you want?"

"I want you, Christian," the Phantom wailed. "I want you to love me and stay with me forever." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You don't know what it's like in the dark, in the cage, all alone…"

"Yes I do," Christian hissed. "Because you kept me there!"

"CHRISTIAN, NO!"

Christian stared. The Phantom gave a shriek and leapt back. Blood stained her mask like falling rose petals; blood leeched into the snow, spreading from red to pale pink.

Christian's thorn, meant for the Phantom, had buried itself up to the hilt in Rebecca's flesh.

"NO!"

"You stupid girl!" The Phantom screamed. "What have you done?"

Rebecca looked up at Christian. "No… no more blood… no death… just leave… don't hurt her…" She fell into a faint, her lifeblood dripping out of her. Red into the white. Christian caught her, before she fell.

The Phantom stared at the dying Countess. "You have to get her back to the Opera House, Christian, or she will die." She took off her cloak and offered it to him. "Wrap her in this, quickly!"

Christian drew back his hand and slapped the Phantom's gift aside. With a face contorted with rage, he picked Rebecca up in his arms and ran to his waiting horse. He would ride fast and hard.

The blade was still in her stomach. Christian gingerly removed it. This thorn had been meant for the Phantom's heart! Instead, he'd destroyed the rose, the beautiful Rebecca… There wasn't much time. He held Rebecca close to him and gave the horse the reins, spurring it on through the snow.

Christian looked back once. He saw only the snow, the carved angels… and his Angel standing on the fence, like one of those statues over the graves; the guardians of the dead. Watching. Watching…

The Phantom watched, balanced steadily on the stone walls, as the lovers rode away. She stood and watched, as wind whipped up snow and made her cloak billow. The cold was biting; her breath came in short puffs of steam. She watched as her student and the countess rode off together. Together.

Softly, so softly the wind almost obliterated the sound, the Phantom began to weep.