A/N: Wow, sorry for the delay, friends! Our show finally closed so I don't live at the theater anymore, and my kidlets are nearing the end of the school season which means EVERYTHING happens all at once! But I'm back now and finally able to share this chapter with you. As an apology for leaving you hanging for such an extended period of time, it's longer than my previous ones. Enjoy! And 10 points go to those who can name the musical the lyrics come from.

There was singing in her mind – the disembodied voice of a faceless angel that serenaded her as she slept. It was calming, hypnotizing, as if it were weaving a spell over all those who listened. When she finally dragged her eyes open, she felt surprisingly refreshed. Silver eyes fluttered, blinking the sleep away from her lashes, and Gradually, Ang sat up.

Her headache was practically gone. Testing the waters, she tipped her head gently this way and that, then twisted it side to side. Her neck was a little sore, but her vision didn't swim like it had yesterday or the day before... or whenever it was that she'd first awoken after the attack.

The attack.

A ball of ice formed in the pit of her stomach and she pulled her knees up to her chest, her body huddling in the pillows against the headboard. Shadowy images assaulted her memory and she squeezed her eyes against them, wishing for peace. Her heart raced faster and faster, her pulse hammering until she panted for breath. Her vision became spotty and her insides twisted with nausea.

"No. Stop it. It's over; they can't hurt you anymore. Stop it!" she ordered, and with a huff of stubbornness, she unfurled her legs and tossed the blankets to the side with a determined sweep of her arm. You won't win! You won't win! Her head hung limply on her neck, shoulders hunched forward with the fatigue that came from fighting off a panic attack.

It took several long minutes before her mind emerged as the victor from the war against her anxiety. Her face, her back, every part of her felt clammy from the sweat that had poured from her skin to then dry in the musty, cool air of the room. Filling her lungs with a slow, deep breath, she expelled it through her nose, then carefully straightened.

A tray laden with food and a small tea service awaited her on the bedside table, and she smiled softly. She supposed he couldn't be too angry with her if he was still feeding her. A glance toward the door revealed that it was open, so he hadn't locked her inside. Both proved encouraging and her anxiety eased further.

Filling the teacup with what proved to be the Valerian root tea – with the honey already added, she noticed with a grin – she glanced around the room. Nothing else had changed, nothing had been disturbed or added by way of creature comforts.

Ang closed her eyes and strained her ears in an attempt to pick up sounds she might have missed. She heard water flowing somewhere in the distance, like the lazy trickle of a stream in a forest. No music that she could perceive, but no yelling either. She listened harder, hoping to pick up the tell-tale ticking of a clock somewhere. The idea of being able to tell time bolstered her confidence and sense of control, but alas, her ears came up empty. Maybe there was one somewhere in the vault where she'd left her clothes.

She smiled. Now that was an idea! She missed her jeans and comfortable tee shirt; maybe she could find her way back there. Eying the crutch that still stood leaning against the foot board, she hobbled her way over to test it.

Her brows furrowed as she tried to fit it beneath her arm the way modern crutches worked. Because of her slight stature, it cut uncomfortably into the soft flesh of her armpit, and as she leaned into it, the discomfort worsened. Her face screwed itself up in determination as her jaw set. I can do this! Come on!

Setting the base on the ground a few paces in front of her, she held the top with both hands and gave a little hop forward. While the jarring motion didn't feel wonderful on her sore and stiff body, she was pleased to discover the movement didn't sent a jolt of agony through her head like she'd anticipated. Baby steps. She hopped forward again, then again, and ten bunny hops later she made it to the doorway.

Stone steps descended to the main level, and she gritted her teeth as one hand braced against the wall while the other gripped the top of the crutch. By the time she reached the bottom step, she was panting, the sweat returning to her brow, and had to sit to catch her breath.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself.

Once her breathing returned to normal, she hauled herself up and began the very long, very slow trek to the bathroom. She hadn't paid much attention when Erik took her the last few times, but it hadn't seemed to take v long, not more than a couple minutes. At the rate she was going, part of her wondered if it wouldn't be better just to camp out in the bathroom so she didn't have to make the trek back.

He wouldn't be pleased with that, she decided. So much for finding her old clothes. She'd be lucky if she returned to the bathroom ever again!

An eternity later, sweating and sore from exertion, Ang made it back into her borrowed room, collapsing on the bed in a tired heap. Sleep came quickly.

She hadn't moved an inch the entire time she slept, and felt wonderfully rested as a result. A glance to the side showed the same tray from before her hike, and this time, she nibbled a bit of bread and cheese. How long had she been here? It was a disorienting sensation, having no way to measure the passage of time or number of days. It all ran together in one endless eternity only broken apart by slumber. Perhaps the next time she saw Erik she could ask for a watch, if it wouldn't make him too angry with her. The furious yell that had filled the cavern as a result of asking for the crutch came to mind; perhaps she wouldn't ask for a watch, or anything, after all.

The first several 'wakes' – she couldn't rightly call them 'days' – Ang kept her mind busy with books. Erik kept scores in his room from which to choose. She found books by Victor Hugo, Edgar Allen Poe, Jane Austen, Mary Shelley, and dozens of which she'd never heard. There were tomes of philosophy, history, and an entire shelf dedicated to his medical volumes. One of those must have been where he'd discovered how to help her various injuries, and perhaps at times, his own.

She went slowly through the pages at first. While the headache had eased in intensity and the gash on her head was healing, she found that the words swam across her eyes if she spent too long reading. Frequent breaks were necessary, otherwise her headache would return full force and the only way to ease it would be a cup of tea and a nap. However, by her sixth 'wake' she was able to go through a good portion of a novel without needing to stop. One time she'd gone half way through Northanger Abbey before realizing her eyes didn't hurt as they had before.

It was amazing how quickly one could finish an entire book when one had nothing but time and solitude. Whatever was in English, she read, and when she completed the small stack, she read them a second time.

Ang snapped Frankenstein closed, finishing it for the third time, and gently frisbeed it toward the end of the bed with a heavy sigh. Time moved so slowly down here, at least she thought it did. It felt like it. She had changed her mind several times concerning asking Erik for a watch, but he had never appeared.

Not once.

She'd lost count of her waking periods – they numbered well over fifty now – so she began counting the trays of food that would periodically appear while she was asleep. Today's 'wake' marked eight.

Eight trays without the light of the day.

Eight trays without another person's company.

Eight trays of being left alone with her thoughts, her nightmares, her demons.

How long had she been here?

Lying on her back, Ang's eyes stared almost sightlessly at the ceiling above. For dozens of wakes before this, she'd fought against the rising tide of depression and melancholy by singing happy-tuned songs that came to mind, recounting those that had pleasant memories attached to every note.

That had only lasted for so long.

The fear that he would hear her meager attempts at song quashed any desire to sing to herself. He was a master of music, and she – what had he said? – sounded like a goat. How could she possibly sing when it was possible that he could hear her?

She turned her head to the side to eye the untouched tray he'd left. She had no appetite now, barely thirsty enough to sip at the tea he continued to bring. Her mind's eye added another tally to the growing number.

Fifteen.

Fifteen trays and not so much as a glance at another living being in all that time.

He hates you.

Her gaze drifted back to the ceiling and she lay there, deflated, numb, hollow, her mind set adrift in a void of darkness as desolation carried her further away.

The hand gropes, the ear hears, the pulse beats... The mind churns, the heart years, the tears dry... Life goes on, but I'm gone, 'cause I-

"...die..."

The whispered word hung from her lips like a breath as lyrics continued to haunt her mind.

Her numb gaze finally registered what she'd been staring at for the last hour: the box of razors she'd left out the last time she'd snooped beneath the sheet covering his desk. She could see the outline of it under the fabric. The promise of escape, of sweet release beckoned to her, lured her like a siren.

She knew how easy it would be.

Tears leaked from her eyes and dripped into her hair, her hands curling into fists as she fought the siren's lure.

And still, life continued to move on without her.

Erik was no stranger to addiction. His life had been enough of a Shakespearian tragedy not to ignore the seductress' call. It had been too easy to succumb to the promised relief that opium was so famous for, silencing his mind and the melodies trapped with for a few sweet hours. But music was the sweetest release, the greatest high he could enjoy, every touch of his slender fingers gliding across the ivory keys, unlocking their secrets with a lover's caress. Inhibiting his mind threatened his life's work, and so, with great effort, he traded one for the other. For years it had been enough. Music could fill the voids life had chiseled into his soul- he was alive, whole, and unmarred within the depth of his compositions. And yet, just beyond his reach was something more. His mind told him it was unattainable, and his pathetic life confirmed those doubts.

Until her. His angel.

Her unexpected arrival threatened his solitary existence, and now a foreign stirring tugged at his withered old heart. But happiness did not exist in his world; that fact had been proven time and again. Even the broken, copper haired angel made it all too clear that she, damaged and crippled herself, could not endure his presence. He wanted her gone.

He would never let her leave.

Slamming his fingers brutally against the beautiful, white keys, he poured out his very essence into the music as though his very life was tied to those notes. His arms stretched, the lean muscles rippling across his back as he rocked into the organ, swaying as his reach was tested. Growling, the song grew louder. Darker. Faster. Vicious. Heavy chords echoed within the stone, vibrating within the labyrinthine tunnels, screaming for the demons of Hell to burst from their prison and swallow him whole. The muscles in his hands began to stiffen, the sharp ache radiating to the crease of his shoulders until his neck cried in protest. He did not stop. Too far gone to allow the terrible melody to go unfinished, he played on. The minutes crashed violently into hours, until his shirt was soaked through from his exertions, the leather of his mask slick with a mixture of salt and tears, trembling hands flying across the ivories until, at long last, the song wept its final crescendo. Erik was gasping, seated at his bench, bowed in exhausted defeated. His eyes searched the room, hoping to find her waiting, listening, watching… but he was alone. Again.

How long since he last sought her out? Fed her?

He left his musical perch and went directly to the room she occupied. His gloved hand pressed against the door, and it opened with a squeak of protest. The candles burned low, soft. The air was tinged with the faintest scent of copper. The rage of his music still pulsed in the silent, tainted air. Had she slept through the nightmare of his melody? Had it crept into her dreams to rage against her subconscious in a wicked onslaught of unbridled emotion?

A wave of augur slammed into his chest, the hairs at his neck rose as his eyes scanned the room. He was alone, save for the sleeping girl curled tightly on the mattress. But while nothing appeared amiss, a discordant mien still clung to his nerves like a warning. Ignoring his wayward thoughts, he moved to take the tray from beside the bed; it was full, untouched. She'd eaten nothing. Even the crystal water glass was full to nearly the brim. The crisp linen napkin that had rested beside her plate lay crumpled on the floor, the only item she'd touched.

Bending to retrieve it before he removed her tray, a slight glint caught his eye. Dropping to one knee, in a fluid motion he reached a long, elegant digit to touch the offending spot. It was wet, and it cold. His fingers rubbed together, sticking slightly, as he lifted his hand to the light. Red.

Blood.

His eyes darted to the girl, still fast asleep, tangled in a mess of white sheets and bedclothes. At first glance all appeared well, until he snatched a candelabra from near the bed to examine her in the light. Sweat dripped from her brow; her coloring was wrong, pale and sickly.

His angel was ill.

Ang tossed and turned, trying to fight off the images in her sleep, her nightgown tangling around her hips and waist, the sheet tangled around one of her legs. Spots of blood, both bright red and rusty brown, dotted the pure white linen of her clothing and bedclothes. How long had she slept? It was impossible to say. Likewise it would have been difficult to gauge when she'd last eaten - her cheeks were sunken and the bones of her shoulders protruded against chemise that hung on her like a hanger. She moaned softly, eyes pinched together in pain.

That music! That terrible music!

His tortured melodies had flowed into her mind as she slept, creating dark, haunting nightmares: of trees with twisted limbs that clawed at her when she ran, of cruel hands that beat her in the dark, of jeers and laughter of fiends and creatures.

She couldn't escape the awful melody no matter how far she ran, how hard she clamped her hands over her ears. Monsters, human and inhuman, pursued her, claws ripping at her clothing as she attempted to duck and dodge beyond their grasp. One lunged for her, tackling her to the ground. With a cry, she went down in a flail of limbs. She kicked and punched, desperately fighting for her freedom.

Ensnared in sheets, Ang writhed, her face contorted as she did battle against the demons that plagued her dreams. Her foster father's face loomed over her, but it was distorted and unnatural. No! Stop. Father, stop, please. You're hurting me! Her pleas came in whimpers, hands fending off the attacker that existed only in her mind and memory. "Father... stop... hurting me..."

Erik jumped back at her sudden movement and slurred speech, his eyes round behind the mask. For a fraction of a heartbeat he considered walking away, just as he had that night on the roof. She did not want him near; why bother saving her if she was just like the rest? But before his next breath, his mind was made.

She was his.

The idea would settle on her eventually, and if it did not... Well, that was not an option worth considering.

Tentatively, Erik drew nearer, the heavy brass candelabra still poised to light the tormented face laying in a pool of tears and sweat. His hand hovered over her ever-shifting shoulder. She will scream, he reminded himself with a cynical sneer. Steeling himself for the violent reaction to his person being so near, the tenebrous man touched the fragile shoulder peaking from the lace-necked chemise.

In the hell of her dream, a hand tipped with razor sharp claws came down on her shoulder. A scream ripped from her throat, a strangled noise that gurgled in the back of her throat, and Erik snatched his hand back.

Her eyes flew open suddenly and she crab-walked in a frantic scramble away from him until her progress was checked by the headboard behind her. Her gaze darted wildly about the room while she panted for breath. Gray eyes, glazed over and feverishly bright, landed on the masked figure nearby. Frightened and bewildered, she stared at him for several moments, unseeing, until finally the cobwebs of her vision faded and left only reality, standing before her in his immaculate suit, gloves, and mask.

"M-monsieur?" Her lip trembled and fresh tears coursed down her face. A trembling hand covered her mouth as she forced back an ululating sob. Throwing her arms out, she flung herself into his arms. The embrace was fierce and desperate. "Thank God, it's you!" She wept with open abandon into his shirt, her body shaking with a blend of fear, relief, and gratitude.

Marble statutes could not hold their pose with the same stiff nature that possessed Erik the moment her arms locked around his body. She had indeed screamed, but it was a cry pulled from the depths of her horrible imaginings. Relief, as bright as he had ever seen it, burned within her eyes the moment her mind registered his presence. Panting from fear, apprehension and overwhelmingly incandescent joy, he sat locked in that same position, terrified his movement would break the spell.

Her arms were iron bands around his slender form, her hands clutching to his jacket, head buried against his chest as she burrowed into his embrace, stiff as it was. While it took some moments, Erik's body, at long last, softened beneath her hold, and he slowly sank to perch on the edge of the bed, setting the light on the bedside table as he went. Would she scream again? Would she suddenly decide she didn't want his touch once she remembered what he was? Perhaps she was still addled by her nightmare and mistook him for some beloved figure from her life before the catacombs. While he wanted to be realistic and logical, the warmth of her body pressed willingly against his side shattered his resolve, and his hands lifted awkwardly to splay across her back. Her petite form shuddered with a sigh and she snuggled closer still.

Erik stared down at the top of her head pressed firm against his lean torso. Her tears were beginning to ebb, her sobs slowing to quiet hiccups. The sight of the timid girl was as foreign to him as his face was to the world, but odder still was the sight of his arms clutching another human to his body- and this, a woman! Fascination gripped him as he watched her calm beneath his touch.

He looked on with rapt attention, his heart feeling as though it might burst from wonder and ecstasy. He studied her long hair, wild from sleep and neglect, resting against his shirt, her small frame curled against her with desperate intent, the pale hint of her shoulder exposed from her disheveled shift. Most distracting was her exposed calf, creamy and pure, poking from the linen hem, the toned muscle illuminated in the honey glow of the candles, the crimson staining bits of her clothing-

Suddenly his hands gripped her shoulders, and with Herculean effort of body and mind, he pushed her away, his focus fixed on the dark splotches on the sheets and her clothes. The original reason of his shock flew back to the forefront. His mind raced as he tugged at her leg and pushed the hem upward to inspect the blemished area.

She blinked, a frown crinkling her brow as he disentangled himself from her and pushed her back. "What's wr— oh, that. That's nothing." Her hands sought to push his hands away and hide her marks, those both old as well as fresh. "I'm fine. It's nothing," she repeated again.

A shadow fell over his features and a low growl rolled in his throat. "Why?" It was more akin to a demand than a query. The muscles in his jaw twitched.

She blinked, puzzled. "Wh-why, what?"

He leaned toward her menacingly, his mouth set in a firm line as he leveled a glare at her. The mask did little to conceal his ire.

Her face blanched as the blood drained from it, and she shrank away as he invaded her space. "M-Monsieur, what- why- what are you angry about? If it's about the sheets and the clothes, I'll get the stains out. I know how. I promise you won't be able to tell when I'm done." Assuming she understood the cause of his silent fury, she turned to tug the sheets free one top corner of the mattress.

"Mon Ange," he said gruffly, unable to keep the emotion from his voice. She thought he cared about the bedsheets? He wanted to shake sense into her, to wring her neck for such thoughtless notions. "Leave it! I have plenty more." When she made no effort to stop her snatched her wrist, spinning her to face him. "Why did you not tell me you were injured? That you were ill? Do you think I would leave you to suffer in my bed?"

She gasped and instinctively tugged against the restraining hand. She inhaled a slow breath and expelled it, willing herself to calm, before lifting hurt eyes to his masked face again. "Because you weren't here to tell," she answered plainly, quietly.

Flinging her hand away as though she had burned him, he stalked away, his fingers curling into a fist.

"Why are you so mad at me? What did I do?" she pleaded, desperate for answers.

He shot her a seething glare over one shoulder before shaking his head, snarling. His shoulders shook with each ragged breath, hands white-knuckled, before suddenly he roared, a loud, plangent cry that ricocheted about the room. Turning to the nearest chest of drawers his fist crashed down upon the ornate furniture with a disgusting crack, the wood splintering under his rage.

Ang bit back a scream and dove back against the headboard, scrabbling for the edge of the bed opposite where he stood seething in unadulterated rage. "Monsieur, stop!" Her heart hammered again her ribs, her pulse throbbing at her throat. One shaky hand clung to the bedpost, steadying her stance. Her gaze flicked to the door; even if she had both legs she doubted she could make it past him. As it was now, she was trapped.

His shoulders curled forward in vexation, his breath audible as it bellowed in and out of his lungs. Suddenly, he whipped around, his voice pitched low, venom dripping from every word. "You meant to kill yourself. To flee the monster, death is your only choice. I understand perfectly, Mademoiselle."

She stared at him, lips agape. Thrice she attempted to form words, her expression stricken with hurt and confusion as her brain strove to create the necessary explanation. "Monster? You think that- that I- That isn't what this was." Her heart clenched painfully at his mistaken interpretation. "It wasn't you. It's me. I... I have this... problem." She twisted and sat on the very edge of the bed, her shorter leg stretched on the mattress while the toes of her foot remained on the floor. "When life is dark, and lonely, I..." Her head fell in shame, her frame curling in on itself. How did one explain the sick reasons one mutilated one's own skin out of a desperate need to escape emotional pain? It sounded nonsensical, even to her own ears. "Some people use drugs, some people turn to alcohol. Some... cut themselves," she muttered.

His anger dissipated like mist. Comprehension dawned with all the welcome of a hurricane. While he had wallowed for weeks in self-loathing, his angel was alone in the room of a monster, no mode of escape, no where to run. A sudden dark thought occurred to him and he drew in a shuddering breath. "My music. You heard my music."

Ang paused in thought as she slowly scooted across the bed toward where he stood. "There was music in my dreams. Was that you?" she offered, not quite grasping the correlation he drew.

Silence stretched between them, a heavy fog of awkwardness and pain. Holding her breath, she stretched a hand out toward him, wanting more than anything to connect with him, with anyone at this point in time. As she did, he suddenly lifted his arms to smooth his hair back, and Ang snatched her hand back. His fingers lingered on the mask before he turned. With inhuman grace he pivoted, bowed to her, and strode purposefully to the door.

For a moment, Ang sat frozen, staring after his departing figure. All at once, the realization that he was abandoning her hit like a sledgehammer and an tight band of panic clamped painfully around her chest. "Erik! Monsieur! Please don't leave me alone again! Please! I'm sorry!"

"Everything I am – my very presence tortures you, and you would have me stay and torment you further?!" he spat through gritted teeth.

Her control snapped; the floodgates flew open. "No! It's your absence that tortures me! Don't you get it? I'm all alone down here!" she sobbed, her words barely discernible. "I used to have a life, and a job, and friends, or at least people I sort of liked. And now I don't know where I am, and even if I did, I couldn't do anything about it because I can't walk!" Ang glared at the offending limb, hatred burning in her eyes. "I can't get away! I can't go anywhere! I can't-!" Sobs overtook her and she deflated, her head lolling forward on her neck as tears sluiced down her face. "I'm- I'm left alone with my thoughts, my monsters, the demons I can't escape. And you left me." She pulled in a shuddering, uneven breath, her voice softening from spent aggression and exhaustion. "You, the closest thing I have to a friend in all of France, and you left me."

Sorrow and self-pity triumphed and Ang continued to cry silently while a shocked and confounded Erik bore witness to her grief and despair, at a complete loss. He was entirely inept at comforting another person; he had never before been the recipient of it. And so he stood apart from her, watching as if dumb.

It wasn't until several minutes later that a stinging sensation in Ang's legs finally broke through the haze of her tears and fatigue. With a sniff, she opened bleary eyes and made herself focus on her lap, one hand pressing against the mattress below to steady herself.

Bright red blotches blossomed in small bursts across the muslin of her bloomers, overtaking the rust colored stains of old blood. In her earlier scrambling, the material, working as effective scabs, had yanked away from the slices in her skin, re-opening the wounds. "Damn it," she muttered. Dragging a hand under her nose, she wobbled back to the headboard. Collapsing against the pillows, she reached her fingertips toward the bowl of water so she could try and clean herself up.

Erik took a measured step to the bed, his hand reaching to wrap around the post near her. "Mon pauvre ange-" He shook his head and hurried from the room without another word.

"I-" Loneliness stabbed at her heart as she stared at the empty doorway through which he'd run. He can't stand being around you. Sighing and sniffing back the second wave of tears, she hitched the legs of her bloomers up as high as they could go, then went back to dabbing at her legs the tips of her fingers, dampened with water from the bowl that wouldn't be useful for anything now.

"S'il vous plait?"

Ang gasped.

The man moved silently as a cat; he'd returned, catching her unawares, and now stood at her bedside, a large wicker basket in his arms. Before she could speak to accept or protest, he thrust the basket into her arms, then pulled at the hem of her chemise, baring only enough of the wounds to ascertain the damage.

A woman of his own era would be aghast at his forwardness, but she was a girl out of place, out of time.

His ministrations, that would otherwise be far too intimate and indecent, mattered little to her. It was not his deft fingers, skating lightly across her flesh, that made her heart quail and her body tremble.

Her worries lay with his thoughts, more accurately what was hidden within them. He had seen her shame, her darkest secret, her addiction. What must he think of her now?

Yet there he sat, silently, gently tending to her injuries, seemingly unaffected. His gaze at long last lifted to her face and met her gaze, and she nearly shattered all over again.

It wasn't judgment or reproof that shimmered within his eyes.

It was acceptance.