So Christine's POV begins with her dreaming. Her dreams are flash backs but transition into internal arguments in her mind. It is a little convoluted, so let me know if it could use some editing. I will explain the flashbacks more clearly and in more detail in the not so distant future, as we will be learning more about our character's past. Enjoy!

Chapter 10: A Dangerous Dream

-Erik's POV:-

Erik's hands trembled, but not from fear. In his arms laid the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and he had made her cry. No, not just cry; scream hysterically and beg for mercy. How did it all go so wrong?

He leaned against the rocky crevasse where he had trapped her, where he had terrified her into submission. This was not how he wanted to reintroduce himself. But that damned hawk sent him into a state of pure fury. Worse yet, that boy had his hands all over her. In reality, he never formulated a plan. A part of him wanted to collapse on his knees and tell her everything, while the rest of him wanted to flee from her immediately. Why would she want to see the monster he had become?

You left her long ago, she doesn't care about you.

You disgusting freak. Everything you touch you destroy.

No wonder she screamed. Who wouldn't? You're a demon wrapped in flesh!

He gripped her arms a little tighter. She moaned and squirmed in his arms and he quickly loosened his grip. Had he hurt her again? He released a frustrated sigh and hit his head back against the slope. There was an unusual ache on his chest, one he was not familiar with. It was as if his heart had started to beat again after being dormant for so long. In a way, he hated the feeling. Dissociation of all emotion made it easier to survive in this world. His beating heart brought back too many harsh emotions.

He stared at her porcelain cheeks. Her once rosy, chunky cheeks were long gone, now replaced by smooth and defined cheekbones. She was still just as petite and Erik wondered if she had to live on the streets again with her father while he was away. Yet, he tried not to look at her at all to examine her. Holding her in his arms was torturous enough. Still his eyes drifted downwards to see if she was actually in his arms. He continued to examine her. Her hair was smoother, though her curls still quite defined. Her lips even seemed fuller. In fact, the little girl he once depended on was gone. His best friend had grown into a young woman. Children tend to have a naive and unconditional trust of other people, almost mystified by adults and their peculiarities. As a child, she was drawn to him because she thought he was an angel. But now, as a man, she was absolutely horrified of him. He was certain she would never look at him with such wonder ever again.

Gently, he brushed away one of her loose curls, regretfully enjoying the feel of her warm skin under his fingertip. Throughout his entire life, he had known many aspects of pain. He had been isolated, hated, outcasted, laughed at, tortured, beaten, attacked in nearly every way. But this was by far the most painful. He was sick of himself. His monstrous form had damaged something so beautiful, so perfect that it burned to hold her.

He sighed. She could never forgive him, nor should she. Even if she could have forgiven him for abandoning her, she never would for this. Begrudgingly, he rose to his feet, lifting the soprano in his arms. He tried not to look at her while he walked down the path towards the flames. He had carried her before, when she was little. She used to fall asleep near the back door of the opera house waiting for her father to return. He frequently returned a few days late, but Christine always naively waited. Once he was certain she and all the ballerinas were sound asleep, he would carry her back to her room. They had small dormitories at the Opera for production week so that the cast could all be present. They were his favourite weeks as the operas would finally be performed and his little angel would always be close by.

Now he carried her down to the cages. It was inevitable. He had thought he could convince her to ride with him in the carriage, but now it would only heighten her fear.

He chided himself. What was he thinking? Attachment to an old dream was futile. She was probably happily engaged to that moron and had completely forgotten of him. He was just a dream to her. A childhood dream long past. How would she react if she learned he was in flesh and blood? No. She could never know. The best thing he could do would be to get her out of Persia and as far away from him as possible.

He adjusted his grip on the limp woman in his hands. The faster he could get Christine Daaé back to France, back to her father, the better for everyone involved. She would never have to suffer because of him again and he could forget that she ever existed, like an old childhood dream.

-Christine POV:-

The darkness of her mind erupted into a bright light. Christine raised her hands to shield her eyes from its intensity, feeling the sluggish and heavy ache of her muscles with every movement. Instead of feeling the light's heat, her hand bumped into something smooth. It was cold, like pottery or glass, but her arm dropped to her lap in exhaustion before she could examine it. She tried to move but felt snugly bound by some unknown force. Yet she didn't feel scared, only undeniably warm.

Shh. Sleep, little song-bird.

Gladly, she obeyed. She succumbed to the bright light as all sensation abandoned her. In the blur of her imagination, she somehow found herself in the Populaire's Chapel. It was a small room with one stained glass window behind a stone statue of the cross. She heard a noise and languidly turned to its source.

Before her was a young woman dressed in a long black gown. She knelt near the steps to the cross, her body trembling from her onslaught of tears and cries.

Christine's breath hitched. This wasn't a dream, but a memory. The woman was her the day after her father's death. The old Christine sat up, inhaling deeply to calm her nerves.

An-Angel of music. She sang, her tears dripping off her red cheeks and splashing against the stone floor. Please, forgive me. Return to my side, save me.

She returned to her deep, wailing cries. Christine watched herself, remembering the emptiness that had consumed her that night. Only hours ago, the old Christine had watched in silence as her father was buried. She was void of any emotion, instead feeling like a never ending hole enveloped in darkness. Others spoke to her and apologized for her loss, but she could only mutter a weak thank you. Even when Raoul held her close she felt nothing. But when she arrived in the opera, all of her emotions had erupted at once. Christine remembered how feverishly her soul burned. It forced her to feel the agony of loneliness. An unwanted reality that she would never feel whole again. She felt herself sinking into the burning flames of despair and had run to the chapel for the only lifeline that could save her: her angel of music.

Christine sighed. She remembered how desperate she was. Even though she knew that he had abandoned her long ago, angry at her betrayal, a part of her still hoped he would come. He had once told her he would return one day if she continued to sing. This was when she was a young teenager, before she had betrayed him. But if he was an angel, wouldn't he forgive her? Wouldn't he save her?

At least, that is what she had hoped.

"Please." She had wept. "Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please come back to me."

Christine looked away from her old self. She couldn't watch herself beg and pray for something that would never come. She turned towards the door when her eyes lifted at the sight of movement. Her breath hitched as she saw Meg Giry, standing near the door. Her eyes were also red and she donned a similar black dress.

"Christine?" Meg had whispered.

No. Christine stepped back. She didn't want to relive this again. She tried to escape the memory by running through the chapel, but it turned into a never ending tunnel with the door to escape teasing her at the far end. She sprinted forward, her limbs flailing forward to no avail. She closed her eyes and covered her ears with her hands. She needed to find something else; a different memory, a silly dream, anything else.

When she opened her eyes again she was surrounded by blackness.

"Christine." A voice called to her.

That voice. That voice was of her angel. His sweet, angelic voice. She looked around for him but saw nothing.

"Christine, my angel."

Before her, a mirror materialized. It was the same mirror from La Sorelli's changing room in the opera house. The same room where she used to rehearse. Timidly she stepped towards it.

"Angel?" She whispered.

"Promise me, Christine."

Christine gulped. Her angel continued. "Promise me that you will continue to sing. Swear to me that you will never abandon music...nor abandon me."

Christine cried. To hear his voice again was a mixture of her most desirable dream and worse nightmare. Did her heart ache out of joy or out of guilt? In the mirror, she saw a reflection of her younger self. She was 11 years old and had just finished her first performance as a chorus girl. It was a small role, but an impressive feat for a child so young nonetheless. Christine watched the little girl's scrunched, confused face as she tried to understand the inevitable.

"Of course I will, angel. But, why do you sound so sad?" Little Christine had asked.

"I have to leave for a short while. I have other matters to attend to. But I will return, Christine. I promise I will return."

The young girl fidgeted uncomfortably and Christine brought her hand to her mouth. "But I need you. I don't want you to go." The young girl sniffled. Christine felt a tear dribble down her cheek. She needed him then and she needed him now.

"I have nothing more to teach you. You have exceeded all my expectations and will do well here on your own."

"But you said there was always something I could learn."

"That is true. You can learn it here, from your peers and instructors."

"I don't want to! I want to learn it from you! Please don't go. You're my best friend."

"I will always be your friend, my angel. You will always be mine. I know we will find each other again someday. But for now, you must continue down your own path and let me continue down mine. I need you to trust me, Christine. "

Little Christine hesitated. Trust him? Of course she trusted him. Yet there was a sickening whirlpool in her stomach of denial and uncertainty. She didn't want her angel to leave her, but how could she selflessly hold onto him. He was an angel, so if he had to leave, wouldn't that make it God's will?

"Do you promise?" Little Christine mumbled. "That we will see each other again?"

"I promise."

"I trust you but...I don't want you to go." She sobbed.

"It's inevitable. Dreams cannot last forever. But Christine I...I promise that when I return, I will be better. I will return to you as a better man."

The mirror faded along with her memory. Christine sealed her lips to hold in her cry. Those were his final words to her before he left. She had promised him she would continue singing until he returned, but broke that promise. There were other things in her life that had pulled her away from her angel's path, away from music. When he returned to her years later, his voice was laced with anger. Anger at her betrayal.

Vixen! Lying Delilah! Betrayer!

She covered her ears at his words, remembering how terrified she had become when he confronted her again. Her angel had finally returned to see her at her worst. Why was she so weak? Why did she stray from the path of the light?

When Christine opened her eyes again, she was back in the changing room, collapsed on the carpet. From the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow leave the room.

"Angel!" Christine yelled. She tried to chase it. It weaved through the halls of the opera and she sprinted with all her might to catch him. She couldn't lose him. She couldn't do this without him. She had to explain how sorry she was. But again, she was not fast enough and a dark periphery grew around her. She tried to push her way through the darkness, but it slowly consumed her. "Angel! Please! Angel forgive me!"

"Why would he forgive a traitor?"

Christine turned. Now she stood in a white room, one with no walls, furniture, nor doors. It was completely barren yet never ending. She stared at the woman before her. It was Meg, dressed in the same black dress she had been on the night of her father's funeral.

But there was something different about her. Her eyes were black orbs and her skin as pale as a ghost.

"You thought he would return after what you had done? Traitor! Why would an angel of music waste his time with such a fickle little girl who can't keep her promises? How could you be so naive!"

"No." Christine stammered. "Stop it."

"Do you forget that you gave up singing after your father died? You abandoned your angel yet again."

"It wasn't like that. It just hurt too much-"

"You're too weak." The dark Meg spat. "Too weak to keep your promise. Too weak to save the ones you love. Too weak to even deserve them."

"STOP!" Christine screamed. She ran from Meg, trying to ignore her dark laugh and taunts.

"How could you be so naive?! How could you be so stupid! I trusted you! You betrayed me!"

Christine ran back into the darkness. Meg was right. She was too weak. Christine had betrayed her angel of music, the angel her father had sent her to protect her. It was an angel, like her mother, and she had abandoned him. Her selfishness and weakness were the reasons she was so hollow.

Did her father think she was just as worthless and she did?

That was her last thought before she succumbed to the darkness around her and drifted into nothingness.

-:-

When Christine finally awoke, she felt the most calming sensation. Someone was rubbing their nails gently through her hair, humming a sweet tune. Her father used to do this when she was a little girl. If Christine would return home upset, because of something someone said or because she missed her mother, her father would hold her close and comb her hair. The calming sensation of the comb down her scalp stopped her tears every time. Now she felt it again, she smiled softly.

"Christine?"

It was a woman's voice that called to her, not her angel nor her father. Confused, she opened her eyes and squinted at the bright light around her. She grumbled as she covered her eyes with her hand, which she noticed no longer felt as heavy.

She heard a hushed murmur around her and she squinted to observe. She was on her back, her head resting on Madame Giry's lap, who gently caressed her head. Meg sat next to her, holding onto Christine's skirts, smiling down at her with tears in her eyes. At first, Christine felt a pang of terror grip her heart as she remembered her dream. But, the joy in Meg's eyes were nothing like the black orbs she had just seen.

It was just a dream. Christine told herself, feeling her shoulders relax.

"Oh God. I never thought you would wake up." Meg sobbed.

Christine was confused. What did she mean? It was just a bad dream, nothing she had never had before. She felt the rock of the wagon around her. Where were they going? Had they finished performing in Per-

Christine shot up, her recall of last night hitting her like a wave. She remembered the hawk, the flames, the Angel of Death.

After a quick scan, she felt her stomach drop. She was not in a wagon, but in a mobile cage. The view of the land around her was tarnished by the metal bars that surrounded her and her friends. All of the ballerinas, Matilda, Sophia, Carlotta, and Madame Giry were crammed into its clutches. They sat, hunched away from the sun and against the bars. All of their hollow eyes looked at her. Her jaw loosened in shock as she saw the ash and sweat stains that tarnished their evening dresses. They had walked directly into a disaster as well.

"Where are we?" Christine asked hoarsely, her dry throat resisting every word she produced.

"We don't know, my dear. But we are heading through the mountains. Christine, you are safe dear."

Christine looked at her ballet instructor and realized she was gripping her arm tightly. Christine let go quickly.

"Sorry, madame."

Madame Giry gave a small smile. "No need to apologize. You seemed to be having a nightmare. For once, I am afraid, it may have been preferable to reality."

Christine gulped. She certainly hoped not.

"Christine, what happened?" Jammes asked.

"That man carried you in here, you looked dead! Look at the bruises on your neck!" La Sorelli exclaimed while gesturing towards her.

Christine winced as her fingers brushed against the column of her neck. She could feel the tender bruises forming. Her fingers' cool touch reminded her of the shadow's inescapable grip and those haunting eyes.

"I tried to run." Christine whispered, hoarsely. "But he caught up with me. He knew I had sent the letter-"

She burst into a fit of coughs, each one burning her throat. Meg rubbed her back.

"What letter?"

"Meg, do not interrupt!"

"André gave me a letter at the palace, he held me back to talk to me. He told me to put it in the back of the messenger hawk."

"What did the letter say?"

"It was a cry for help, to the Chagny family. André must have known something was wrong-"

"Philippe?" La Sorelli gasped.

"Our patrons? Why would he call them for aid?" Sophia asked.

"André knew this would happen?" Matilda gasped.

"Ladies!" Madame Giry hissed. She no longer had her cane, but her stern voice was enough to silence the women.

From the back of the wagon, Carlotta spoke. "Do you think they will come to save us?"

Christine stared at the diva. Her jewelry was gone and her gown ragged and torn. It bunched up around her, enveloping her in the tarnished fabric.

They had never gotten along, in fact, they had been close to enemies since she was a child. Even as a girl, Carlotta was an understudy at the Populaire and teased Christine for her untamable hair and frequent singing. Worse, Christine was good friends with the wealthy Raoul de Changy, whose parents attended almost every performance before they became patrons. Although they had barely discussed it, and despite Christine's friendly attempts, both women had a mutual understanding that they were not friends. Now, she stared into her puffy, helpless eyes as they were carried away in a cage.

"I hope so." She prayed. No one responded, instead the wagon was wrapped in a tense silence. No one dared to speak, no one dared to vocalize their thoughts, though they were all the same. There was the possibility that no one would come to save them.

Christine eventually explained all that had happened. She told them about the letter, how she scaled the cliff to the back of the wagons. She talked to them about the masked man.

I am not your enemy. His voice haunted her thoughts.

"He's not your enemy but he nearly killed you? How friendly." La Sorelli scoffed.

"Then what is he?" Meg asked. Christine shrugged. He had nearly choked her to death, stolen her engagement ring, and threatened to torture her friends for information. Yet, a part of her believed his words. There was just something unexplainable about him that she naturally trusted.

Once she had finished, Madame Giry recommended that they all remained silent to preserve their strength. Christine used this time to adapt to her surroundings, occasionally whispering and mouthing questions to Meg. She had learned that the men were taken somewhere else, no one knowing where. She looked around for them, but could only see the carriage in front of her and behind her. Though, she knew there was more in the caravan chain. In front of them she saw the backs of two soldiers driving the wagon. One was large, the other lean. They never turned around to interact with them, nor did they speak to each other. Behind them was a carriage with one guard driving, who looked past the women like they weren't trapped in front of him.

Christine continued to whisper with Meg, who unfortunately was as clueless as she was.

"Gabriel was on the mountain with me. Did they capture him?"

"They brought him down before you, I am afraid. I don't know where they took him, but it must be another cage with the men. Do you think they managed to round us all up?"

"They must have. Gabriel was alone on the mountain with me, so Louis wasn't with him."

"Oh Christine, it was terrifying. We exited the carriages and then everything just caught on fire! We barely had time to react. I have no idea how Gabriel was able to escape."

"He tried to save me on the mountain, but I was caught. Did the masked man say anything when he brought me to the cage?"

Meg shrugged. "He spoke in Persian to some guards. I haven't the faintest idea what he said. He basically passed you off to Matilda and we dragged you into the middle of the cage. I- I thought you were dead."

Christine grabbed her friend's hand. "It's okay. I'm fine, really. My throat just hurts."

"I cannot believe he choked you like that."

"He probably didn't want me to scream anymore."

"Still, if he was our friend, I am sure he could have used other means." Meg gasped. "Christine, what happened to your arm?"

Christine looked down at their clasped hands. Her forearm was wrapped in white bandages. She furrowed her brow. She had not done this. She unraveled the corner to see the scratches from the messenger hawk's beak, now beginning to clot and heal.

"I was attacked by the messenger hawk when I put the note in. But, who bandaged my arm?"

Meg furrowed her brow. "It wasn't one of us. You must have come in with it on."

Christine raised an eyebrow. Had the masked man bandaged her arm while on the mountain? How was that possible?

They were then silenced again by Madame Giry and Christine looked away from their instructor. She would have to tell Meg that story later.

The wagon continued to roll upwards. It followed a slow, monotonous path with seemingly no end. The only sound that came from the women was Sophia's hushed prayers as she clung to her flute. Occasionally, Christine would unintentionally interrupt her with a fit of dry coughs. She leaned against Meg, who leaned into her, and tried to close her eyes. Maybe this was all just a dream.

A lot happened in this chapter and we begin to have a peak at Erik and Christine's backstory. If this was confusing, please let me know and I would be happy to edit it or explain more later, though I do have plans to go into Christine's 'betrayal' in the next chapter. Hope you enjoyed it!

Guest: You are more than welcome, thanks for the suggestion!

Lucyole: Haha no, he probably hasn't heard that first impressions are important, but he definitely has the dramatic entrance down. Thanks for the chocolates for inspiration!

Evalynn Hansen: I am glad you found this too, and that you are enjoying it!