Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera, Susan Kay's Phantom, or Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical.

Turn of the Tide: From the Darkness

Raoul:

And so I was off to the Rue Scribe, where Christine guessed Erik was likely to go. My stomach was now a lead weight. I had my pistol at the ready as we approached the entrance. The air was getting colder as I entered, and it was not long before I discovered what I was looking for.

A figure was sprawled on the stone. The white cuffs of his shirtsleeves shown in the darkness. I thought perhaps he was already dead, as it was several moments before he reacted to my presence. Violently Erik dragged himself up to face me and I thought about my pistol.

"Go!" he snapped. "Go far away from me…"

"I will not."

Erik paused. "Come to watch the monster die, did you? What, no admission at the door?"

"In the alley …Who instigated it?" I demanded. He looked up at me, and I feared a certain fire that shown in his eyes. Praise the darkness that separated us. He seemed to be pondering something, or gathering strength.

"Your…brutes did a fine job, I should say," Erik began with ragged breath. "Pity for them…I possess an exquisite talent in this field." The bastard. The monstrous bastard! How dare he implicate me in this mess! I took a brazen step forward.

"You think I am responsible for this?" I demanded.

"I could not expect a gentleman. …such as yourself to put a lady in danger for the…the sake of a monster. What, you thought you would have an easier go of it if I thought that she would be present? How, exactly, did you intend to explain my hideous carcass come the investigation, pray tell?" he sneered. "Did you …intend on blaming the wretches you had hired and leave them out to dry?" I was fit to strike the wretch, but it was then that Erik shifted away. "I have no need to speak to you," he sputtered between breaths. "Get out before I am forced to do something rather…rash."

I instinctively placed a hand on my pistol. "What do you intend, sir?" Erik paused once more before moving to stand up. I drew my pistol then and held it as I watched him struggle. I thought he was about to retreat into the darkness when he collapsed suddenly onto the stone, wracked of breath. Suddenly the situation took a turn.

I raised my lantern and began making my way to the fallen Phantom.

As I approached, it became quite clear to me that Erik no longer posed an imminent threat to either of me. His collapse was that of sheer exhaustion, and I wondered exactly how long it had been since he had been injured. He made no attempt to move as I drew closer, and indeed seemed to be completely unaware of my proximity. Even so, I refused to let my guard down, and slowly made my way to his side. I set the lantern down as I crouched beside the monster, with my right hand still on my pistol ready to fire.

I was still in shock of the sight of his face and found myself unable to take my eyes off it, remembering the horrible events of the day before. Most likely I would have continued to stare at Erik's distorted features uninhibited if he had not lifted his left arm up to his side. Instinctively I shifted away from him and raised my pistol, but it quickly became evident that it was no danger; merely a weak attempt to cope with the injury. Setting my pistol by my side out of his reach, I forcefully reminded myself of my immediate purpose and raised my lantern above him. In the dark I had not realized how much he was bleeding. His black evening clothes hid damage well – only when I held the lantern close could I see the growing crimson soaking the top of his tailcoat, waistcoat, and halfway down his trousers.

It was difficult for me to exactly place the location of the wound at first, but I soon discovered that the drunkards had managed to stab him in the right ribcage, and had shot him in the right shoulder. My service in the Navy had given me plenty of exposure to injuries of this nature. Swords, dirks, daggers, and firearms were faithful companions of any sailor, and I had seen many men suffer from their wrath. I, too, had my own relatively insignificant encounters with an enemy's dirk and had the scars to prove it.

I knew that abdominal wounds were excruciating and slow to bleed. I had heard of many men with deep wounds to the area, but few of them I knew lived through them. My Naval career was young, but I had been involved in more than a few boardings and could never forget the screams and moans of poor the wretches lying on the deck, waiting for the cold injustice to finally take them from this world. Oftentimes they would be thrashing about or lying crumpled against the bulkhead amidst a sea of blood with the steel still protruding from their flesh.

I cringed at the thought. I had wondered what sort of harm could possibly be inflicted to reduce this seemingly supernatural being to a trembling wreck before my eyes, and now I knew. Erik was surprisingly quiet for the extent of the wounds. Having thought about it, I realized he must have lost the will to continue. His command over the Opera Populaire was finished; his empire was destroyed and he no longer had what made him powerful. I watched as Christine's angel fell. After all the good and fear he had inspired and created within the walls of the Opera, he was nothing but a man – a man dying an undignified death.

And yet, there he was – the Opera Ghost - completely unable to defend himself. I thought briefly how easy it would have been to end this disastrous saga then, with one, quick shot. That was all it would take. Christine would be free and his torment would be over.

But I could not bring myself to do it. I gave my word to the woman I loved, and I would not go against it.

I watched as Erik lay there in front of me, struggling for breath. He must have been in pure agony, for he never once addressed the presence of his sworn rival beside him. This was a death I would wish upon no enemy of mine. I wanted to hate him as I had hated him before – I wanted him dead for what he put Christine through and the lives he claimed. But not like this. I could tell he was slowly bleeding out and suffocating; every muscle in his body was tense and it was rapidly draining him of any strength and resolve he had left. He was dying, but I could take no satisfaction from his suffering.

Tentatively I reached out to Erik. The small space between us seemed like a great chasm that threatened to swallow me up. Lightly I placed my hand on his shoulder, being careful not to touch the gunshot wound. It was as if I was touching a true ghost – for a fleeting moment I could not believe he was real. I leaned over him slightly to see if there was any other bleeding. I felt Erik turn his head up toward me. The movement must have aggravated something, as his head collapsed back onto the stone and body stiffened as he struggled painfully for air. "Easy," I told him softly, keeping an eye on his side. Erik must have realized then that his enemy was kneeling beside him. When he made no attempt to move away from me I realized how far gone he truly was.

He was giving up, allowing his fate to fall into my hands. It saddened me some, to be perfectly frank.

I looked upon Erik with pity, and remembered what Madame Giry and the Persian had told me about his past. I thought it tragic and barbaric that society could be so cruel, and felt sorry for the life I had imagined he lived. But whether or not he should have been considered a monster for his appearance, he had become more than a monster through his actions.

I could not fathom how he could have hoped to gain anyone's affection - not simply for his face, but what he had done. I decided, through hours of contemplation in my study days before, that I could understand his need to protect himself throughout his life. I was a man of a dangerous occupation and knew that from time to time, ensuring one's survival meant taking another's life. I was willing to accept that fact on the basis of common sense.

However – taking an innocent young woman hostage and holding her against her will? This was the doing of a madman! And that was not simply it. How close we all came to going up in a ball of fire and hell with the massive stores of gunpowder Erik had stored in the bowels of the Opera Populaire! How close the Persian and I had come to horrific deaths…Those injured in the chandelier fall and following stampede for the doors would have to live with that for the rest of their lives. Christine would have to cope with these events and the emotional torment for many years to come. For that, I hated Erik with a vehemence that shook me.

I sat there hating him and pitying him silently for several minutes, watching him draw slow, shallow breaths. I hung my head and tapped my gloves on my knee. It seemed at that moment that Erik was not long from this earth, and I half-heartedly considered it a blessing. The possibility of what he could have been hovered in my mind.

It was then I heard movement outside on the Rue Scribe. I reached for my pistol and held it near as footsteps approached. I made out the dark figures of two men – my men. Christine had sent them to assist me. I would have been perfectly accepting of the situation if that were the end of it. But to my own surprise I heard the delicate steps of a lady directly behind the men. It was Christine.

When she saw Erik struggling, Christine began her slow approach toward us, one little white hand covering her mouth, the other pressed firmly to her middle. It was damp and cold, so I immediately removed my coat and placed it over Erik as Christine knelt by his head. "Erik! Oh my God, my God…" she whispered, the tears rolling silently down her cheeks. "I never wanted any of this to happen."

Together we remained at Erik's side as the minutes passed. I watched Christine for what seemed like an eternity, and realizing the weight of the event, allowed my eyes to turn away. I remember hearing Erik murmur something that was nearly inaudible – it resembled a rhythm, but his exhaustion did not allow his voice above a faint, incoherent whisper. Shaking my head, I directed one of my men to fetch my physician and have him meet us at my estate. Directly afterwards, I instructed him to find the daroga, whom I believed to be somewhere along the Rue de Rivoli. I turned back to find Christine still kneeling by Erik's head, leaning over him and staring at the amassing blood. Her hand hovered over his shoulder as if she was unsure of touching him.

Right then Erik stopped breathing. Christine withdrew her hand and turned back to me, horror written across her expression. Our eyes met for a moment before I searched Erik's left wrist for a pulse. I could not immediately find one, and when I looked at his wrist I was shocked to find it covered with scars. I could feel myself cringe at the sight, and Christine sat back on her heels as she watched me, shaking her head slowly. Several times I tried to find a pulse, all to no avail.

He was gone.

Christine covered her mouth and sat there, staring upwards. She did not weep, but a lone tear trickled down her cheek and it appeared as though she was unable to take her hand from her mouth, for fear of losing her very last vestige of sanity. I flew to her and took her in my arms, praying to God that I may help her feel easier about the situation. "He was gravely injured, Christine, it was his time," I managed, doubting the effectiveness of my words.

"Please, God…not both of them! Why!" she sobbed into my chest. I pondered her words. Both of them? Surely she meant her father, Gustav. It then occurred to me that he and Erik shared the same role in Christine's life – they inspired her music and gave her voice life. I closed my eyes and buried my face in Christine's hair as I held her. Singing was her life, all she knew how to do. When she had no family, she had her music. When she did not have her father, she had Erik. He taught her to sing and live in her father's absence, and the reason for her huge success. I knew then how connected they were, and it pained me.

As much anguish it caused me to think back to the relationship between Christine and Erik, I could not deny it. This Angel of hers had died in front of her, a mere man cut down by the hands of other men. As hideous as Erik was, the scene was that much more horrific as he lay there, positively drenched in his own blood, still as the night that enveloped us all.

I was preparing to get up and help Christine back to the carriage when I heard something faint, like a hushed breath. My head shot back to Erik, and heard it again. Christine looked up suddenly and I leaned back over him to check for a pulse. To my astonishment he was alive – I must have missed it before! His breathing was ever so shallow, and so I told my spare man to assist me in bringing Erik to the barouche. I looked to Christine reassuringly, and she looked back with both confusion and relief radiating from her eyes. I helped my love up from the cold ground and she followed as we carried Erik from the darkness into the soft, artificial light of the Rue Scribe.

Author's Notes:

Thanks once again for the reviews and compliments. Please keep hitting that review button! Thoughts on this chapter? Comments? Questions? I'd love to hear them all.