Any brief hope that may have been embedded within Christine's approaching shout vanished as soon as a strong hand had clamped itself over her mouth. She should have known better than to try to scream. Her arms flailed around her head, hitting and clawing at the fingers on her face that reminded her more of bars on a prison window, until Erik's arm came to wrap itself round her stomach. Her hands were pinned to her sides now and she squirmed against his attempts to drag her farther into the darkness of the box

"Christine, don't do this," he commanded sharply and through her struggles she could sense a trace of despair to his words, a singular trace that made her pause and think. Was his trust in her so lacking that he would treat her like a prisoner or a victim? She had made a promise to stay by his side, but her honour had apparently proven unsuitable to him, and that hurt her more than anything could have then.

After a few uncomfortable moments of struggling, Christine finally ceased her movements, becoming as solid as stone in Erik's arms. His attention alternated between her and the strained conversation below them, but all Christine could hear was the raggedness of Erik's breathing behind her. Soon, he released her arms, but forced her to face the angular and unfriendly mask that glared down at her. She had to catch herself from imagining Raoul's round face in place of it.

"This was a horrible idea. We could have been seen. You could have been seen!" he hissed under his breath. "I was a fool, an utter fool to not comprehend the possibility of Chagny coming here!" Even in the darkness Christine could see something unholy flaring in his eyes. "But no," he mocked, "I was too busy being vigilant to your every whim, too busy wishing to make you happy, too busy trying to... Ah," he added, his voice sounding startlingly childlike. "Is that why you wanted to come up here? That's it, isn't it? You knew that he would be here, didn't you? You used me to get to him. Oh, Christine, do you ever spare a genuine thought for my feelings at all? Is there even room in that mind of yours for me?"

Christine refrained from answering such an accusative question, knowing that more insults and insinuations would only be hurled at her if tried. Instead, she chose to ready herself, pressing her palms flat-out against the wall just for the sake of feeling something supportive, only then to have her wrist snatched at.

"We are leaving."

She stared at him, affronted by his sudden action. "No," she protested, shifting all of her weight backwards in an attempt to make him stop. "I do not wish to leave," she exclaimed, trying to look through the curtain to see if she could catch a small glimpse of Raoul again. But without a second warning, Erik took the liberty of dragging her through the passageway entrance, which now stood open. Christine stumbled over the material of her dress as they fled, only to be saved by the sharp tug of a bony hand.

"Watch where you are going," he growled, releasing her momentarily to close the passage behind him.

"Take me back, Erik," she implored, knowing that if she were to close her eyes it would not have made a difference in these corridors. How she longed to be somewhere else, away from his wrath! "You promised!"

"So did you!" he cried, and she did not need to ask to know what he had meant by those words. "You and I are going to have a little talk when we return home."

Erik's intemperate frustration had not calmed but only increased when they had finally reached the fifth cellar. Christine longed to hide herself away in the safety of her room and wait until his temper had soothed, but she was obliged to stay and listen. He paced back and forth, as he so often did, which always succeeded in making her more nervous. The hands behind his back occasionally twitched as his mouth pulled into a thin line.

"If you so much as look at Chagny next time, then... no, there will not even be a next time. This will not happen again."

"What are you saying?" she asked shakily, not wanting him to, but daring him to say the words directly from his own lips, and her entire body tensed in anticipation.

"You will no longer be allowed to go anywhere where you could be a liability for the eyes of Chagny. I will not permit it. You will remain here with me and only me." He strode up to her frozen figure, but every move he made was a feigned display of confidence and authority. Inside, he trembled like a child lost in a wood. "Do I make myself clear?"

She should have held her tongue but when his eyes began to roam her face, almost taunting a contradiction out of her, she found herself incapable of staying silent. "How do you expect me to care for you when you control everything I do? Have you even considered how I must feel when you use me as a way to release your anger?"

Behind the mask, his eyes turned cloudy with resentment. "I always consider how you feel," he spat. "Not like you, my evasive, little songbird. I asked you earlier if you think of my feelings, and I must ask you again. Do you? Do you understand what I am feeling?"

Christine whispered that she did, hoping that it was the truth, but she knew that her knowledge of this man could only bring her so far. His past was a mystery and whenever she attempted to discover more, he would rebuke her efforts, leaving untold details and anecdotes in the air for her to catch. But it was an absurd task. She could not catch them for they were like smoke—intangible and obscured and impossible to contain. His life was nothing more than a just a series of blank pages waiting to be filled in.

"The only emotion you seem to derive is pity," he said snidely.

Christine stared bitterly at him and watched with disgust as he returned to his brooding abode on the piano bench. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, not pressing down to make any sound but simply basking in the mere touch of them. It brought him a small amount of peace even as he mourned the knowledge that his beloved would never love him the way he loved her.

Touching her chest, Christine traced the outline of her cross before begrudgingly moving her feet towards the direction of the pianoforte. Her heart went out to him at that moment and gazing down in candlelight, he made quite the morbid picture. Heartbroken, his head hung low and his desire to play was gone. She thought about placing her hand on top of his shoulder before ultimately deciding against it.

"Why?" he whispered as the aching silence continued to torture him.

"I love Raoul." She saw his fingers flex at the mention of his name, but nothing more. "You cannot force me to care. You must give me time."

"Time," he mused sadly. "I've had too much of it." He dropped his hands to his knees and turned his head slightly towards her. "Do you think you would have loved me if I had not been born with this face?"

"Do you think that I still care about what your face looks like?" she retorted. "I have told you often enough that it does not frighten me anymore. Why can you not accept that?"

A ghost of a smile played at his mouth. "One who has spent their life being rejected and hated cannot be expected to forgive and forget so easily." He rested his fingers on the keys and he began to play an unnamed sonata, its melancholic tones reflecting the pain within. "I do not suppose you will ever understand, or even if you want to understand."

"I do want to understand," she reassured him and boldly reached down, gently enfolding his hands in hers. "If you will let me."

Making no attempt to reply, Erik simply pulled his hands from her warming touch and continued playing the sad piece that now echoed his heart's longings. She stepped back, watching him, before swiftly heading to her bedchamber. She had not made it very far when she heard his whisper float through the darkness and latch onto her soul. Her eyes closed to stop her tears from falling for she knew that she could not return the words of love he spoke. Deciding she could not bear to stay in his presence any longer, she rushed into her room, closing the door as quietly as she could behind her. She leaned her head against the frame before she collected herself enough to sit at her vanity table. There, she grabbed her hairbrush and mechanically tugged at her hair, the mindless monotony of it helping to distract her. But it was then that she finally knew she could not leave him. He had made sacrifices for her happiness and she knew that she was obliged to return those sentiments. These past few weeks now seemed so minuscule to her and, looking back, she knew that she had acted selfishly. She supposed though, in a way, it was child's play. It was deadly, the game they played—they were always running, always waiting the claiming touch of their pursuer. But she had run far and for long enough. It was time to stop running and confront her future.

Placing the hairbrush down, she scrambled about her room, trying to find paper and ink. Having found some, she picked up a few sheets of paper and made quick work of the quill as she began to write. She had to believe that this was the easiest way.

It read as follows:

'My dearest Raoul,

Where do I begin? I imagine a simple thank you would not be sufficient to describe the gratitude I feel towards you. During these past few months, you have been a loving friend and confidant in my hours of need and I thank you for that.

Know that my time with you has brought me nothing but happiness, though now I wish that you had never come to the Opéra, had never seen me on stage and had never walked into my dressing room that night. It was on that night that everything changed, but I never meant for you to be mixed up in this. Never.

Perhaps we acted rather foolishly and recklessly. Although, who could blame us? People do strange things when they are in love and even though we must move on, you will always have a place in my heart.

But we cannot pretend that we are children still, Raoul.

It is for this reason that I must ask you to free yourself from any feelings you have towards me. I know it will be hard, but I must do it too, and you deserve better, Raoul, so much better. Please do this one last request for me and then you do not have to do anything for me ever again. I have been nothing but trouble for you from the very beginning. Things have gone from good to bad since you entered my life and, though it pains me to say this, you must forget me. I ask you to find someone who will love you without any complications.

I cannot leave him, not ask questions if you do not want the answers.

And please, do not worry for my sake. I am completely aware of what I am asking of you.

Yours cordially,

Christine Daaé'

The quill slid from her fingers, its soft landing sounding more like a pounding in her ears as she rested her head in her hands and stared at the letter. She read and re-read her words, wanting to cry, needing to cry—later, she told herself—before she slipped the paper into an envelope and left the room.

Erik had not moved from his place at the pianoforte, his hands still bent over the keys in a frenzy. His playing never faltered as she neared him, although she was certain that he could sense her. Carefully watching her footing across the floor, which was now oddly strewn with his music, she made her way slowly towards him and paused when she reached his side, holding out the envelope.

"What is that?" he asked irritably, not looking at her.

"It is a letter," she replied, gripping the little piece of paper tighter in an attempt to calm her nerves. "A letter to Raoul."

It was then that he ceased his playing and glanced at the object in her hands. Drawing in a stagnant breath, she urged her feet to move closer, silently telling him to take it. Before she could comprehend what was happening, Erik had snatched the note from her fingertips and withdrawn to the other side of the room. She gasped as a chill ran down her arm from where his fingers had brushed against hers.

Unsure of what to do now that he had procured his goal, Erik held the note up, studying at it from all corners, looking at it as though he had never seen the likes of it before. Bitterness soon began to stir within the pit of his stomach, brewing slowly like a storm waiting to unleash its fury. He stared at the paper so intensely that Christine was almost worried that his eyes alone would be enough to make it burst into flames.

"A love letter?"

"No," she corrected wearily with a shake of her head. "Read it for yourself if you do not believe me."

"Hmm," he said, the sound rolling off his tongue in a lethargic growl. "You would want me to read it, wouldn't you? You would want me to endure your pretty words."

"Read it for yourself and find out," she repeated quietly, turning her back to him, her arms wrapping protectively around herself. Closing her eyes, she waited until she heard a coy rustling behind her before she finally found the will to breathe again.

Silence ensued until he spoke, his tone thick with uncertainty. "Do you mean what you say here, that you... that you will not leave?"

Tilting her head to the side as she peered over her shoulder, Christine looked at this peculiar man and saw his anxieties and his hopes all at once. "Yes," she whispered into the fabric of her sleeve, and she knew that she meant it, but beneath her confidence and determination lay something darker, more worrisome—an undercurrent of fear. In staying, she had sealed her fate and she could only pray that God would give her the strength to survive this and to give Erik what he truly deserved.

o0o

After hours of droning solitude, Christine's stomach groaned to be fed—a noise which finally compelled her to move, giving her a reason to escape the walls of her room. Timidly, she crept through the door, peering around at the emptiness around her. Had these halls always been so large and barren, she wondered. There was no sign of Erik as she continued onwards to the kitchen; there was not even the faintest hint of music upon the air. Christine had never known silence to be so deafening, and a pang of loneliness struck her heart as the rhythmic swish of her skirts played her through the corridor.

Stepping over the threshold to the kitchen, she saw with surprise that a bowl of soup had already been laid out on the table, as if waiting for her, innocently perched in front of one of the chairs. The wondrous steam which rose up teased her nose and taste buds as she walked over and rested the points of her fingertips on the dark wood, staring down at the bowl in enticement and curiosity. Her gaze stayed on it for a moment longer before she glanced across the table to see, yet again, that she was to dine alone tonight.

Something about that measly, empty chair was so distressing that it had Christine glancing away from it in a mixture of disdain and sadness. Redirecting her attention to the broth, she furrowed her brow before fetching another bowl and spoon from the cupboard and laying them out opposite her own place setting. Carefully, so as not to burn her hands, she then picked up her own bowl and proceeded to pour the overabundance of liquid into the second one. Nodding briefly at her work, she smoothed her dress skirts out and walked back through the halls.

"Erik?" she asked to the empty space. "Could you come here please?"

When no reply came, Christine breathed a sigh of disappointment before heading back to the kitchen. It was no wonder then that she nearly jumped out of her skin when she collided with the well pressed stiffness of his evening suit.

"You called, Mademoiselle," Erik said calmly, acting the ever dutiful servant.

With her chest heaving, Christine glared at him and his apparent delight over startling her. "Do not do that!" she scolded as she placed a hand over her heart to steady its frantic beat.

"My apologies," he said, his inward amusement fading to dulled guilt as he took in her reaction. Wishing to pursue other subjects and to take both of their minds off of his teasing, he asked, "What was it that you wanted?"

Lowering her hand to her side, she huffed in defeat. "I wish for you to dine with me," she said, her request suddenly sounding less desirable than before.

"Ah," he said slowly as though his tongue had difficulty in forming his words. "I am afraid that I must decline."

"But I have set out another place for you," she explained quickly.

At this, he tilted his head. "Why?"

"It is lonely eating alone. It would make me happy if you were to join me."

Although Erik's mind screamed at him to object, to walk away from her, the prospect of his presence causing her happiness and easing her desolation was far too tempting a prospect. With a nod of his head, he complied and trudged along with heavy footsteps, following her to the kitchen. Christine stood in front of her chair, wearing a tiny, yet triumphant smile on her lips as she gestured for him to sit. She did not hesitate then to plunge her spoon into the hot liquid. She devoured it quickly, not wanting to waste any more time in soothing the ache in her stomach.

Her silent companion was not so forthcoming. With one hand fisted next to his spoon, Erik stared at the utensil as one would a mathematical problem. He sat rigidly in his seat, a slick sweat forming underneath his mask at the undesirable thought of someone seeing him eat. He did not know whether to feel angry or betrayed over her asking him to dine with her. Christine knew that he would never deny her, the conniving little vixen, and as this realisation began to dawn on him like the first rays of the morning sun, his chest tightened, his fingers curling inwards to dig themselves into his palm. He was allowing her to take advantage of him. But what was more troubling was that when the constriction did not cease, Erik did not mind in the slightest, and he could have laughed at himself.

"Please eat."

The sudden softness in her lulling voice startled him and he looked up to see her lovely eyes on his form. "This is your dinner," he said, his own eyes darting around the room. "It is not mine. I made it for you. I would not dare to intrude on your meal."

A small, short noise resonated from the back of her throat, a quiet, muffled sound that one would make when trying to ignore a slander to one's name. "I was only trying to be kind."

Guilt flowed through his body, as fuelling and as driving as his own blood, and he found himself gazing at her, observing and learning her patterns. How she would dip her spoon down, blow on the liquid, and every time the warmth of the broth entered her mouth, her expression would yield and her lips would curl up just a little in contentment. He was glad to be the cause of this, but all the while he kept remembering her earlier words, that eating with her would make her happy. Of course the thought that she was lying had already crossed his mind, but he did not wish to believe it. He only wanted to believe the good in her, to trust in her and her endearing words. He could not possibly think ill of her when she had requested his company and now sat across from him, so beautiful in her domesticity, as any wife would her husband.

It was this thought alone that had Erik finally reaching for the spoon. Looking up from her bowl, Christine marvelled at the strange sight and as she watched him slyly, she realised the magnitude of her accomplishment. He was clearly uncomfortable and yet he ate. She wanted to make him as comfortable as possible, but she did not want to get into another heated discussion about his mask, not while she was trying to have a civilised moment with him.

Returning to her soup, Christine turned her thoughts towards other things. "When will you deliver the letter?" she asked gingerly.

"Tomorrow," he informed her as he uninterestedly poured a spoonful of liquid back into the bowl, a grimace on the lower part of his face.

A part of her nearly wept at this news for she had not anticipated the letter would be sent so soon. But the longer she thought on this, the more she knew that it was for the best. She continued to eat in silence, the weight of the matter still lying about the air.

Mere minutes later, Erik began to cough.

It had started lightly, as though he had simply swallowed the soup the wrong way. It was easy to dispel any concern of Christine's at this point, but Erik knew what was to come, and yet he did nothing, choosing instead to remain seated like an obedient child who had been told to finish every mouthful of dinner on his plate before he could move. But he could feel it building inside of him, burning quickly like a flame on a wick. Still, he managed to trap a few coughs by gritting his teeth and tensing his muscles so much that they caused him greater pain than the coughs would have done. Thankfully, Christine did not seem to notice as she picked up her empty bowl and spoon and began to clear up.

But very soon he could not hold it back any longer. When he next opened his mouth, a series of coughs erupted from his chest—hoarse and heavy and horrible—and seconds later he collapsed to the floor, his head low in shame as he spluttered next to his overturned chair. A sudden smash echoed through the room and a small shard of something landed close to his hand. It was a broken fragment from Christine's bowl. He did not have time to process anything else for then she was at his side, rubbing her hands along his back, trying to soothe his shudders as she fluttered about his form with all the frantic movements of a bird. Her attempts, though pure at heart, did not work. His coughing only increased and he weakly shoved her away when he began to gag.

Closing his eyes, Erik tried not to think about there being another in the room with him. It was disgraceful, for her to see him so weak and so vulnerable. She should not have been there, she should have fled, but she stayed and she stared.

A startled cry escaped through her lips as Erik emptied his stomach. She desperately wanted to comfort him, but whenever she tried to get closer she found her senses becoming overpowered by that vile stench. All she could do was turn away in disgust, both at the atrocious sight and at herself.

When his heaving eventually slowed and Erik had opened his eyes, he felt his stomach churn once again at the mess he had made. Breathing deeply, he tried to stand up, his body quivering and his legs weakening. Using the side of the table for support, he struggled to raise himself up and onto his feet, but his legs were all but useless now, giving way beneath him as he fell to his knees. He hissed at the harshness of the cold ground, but soon all he felt was a sudden pressure on one side of his body. Peering to his left, he was stunned to see Christine urgently positioning herself under his arm, helping to support his weight as she pulled him to his feet.

"Don't," he whispered, shaking his head in thorough humiliation.

Too exhausted to protest further, he leaned heavily on her as she miraculously managed to drag him through to the living room, carefully holding onto him until he was able to place himself down on the settee. She asked him patiently if he had a bucket to which he weakly pointed towards a small door on the opposing wall. Nodding, she first went to collect some cushions and blankets from her bedchamber before coming back to retrieve the bucket.

Pulling his body up slightly so that she could arrange the cushions behind him, Christine proceeded to wrap him up in one of her own silken sheets and endured his protests as he claimed that he did not wish to spoil the material with his illness. Simply ignoring this, she handed him the bucket. In her short lifetime, she had come face to face with a handful of grim illness, but she was able to tackle the extremities of most with a sense of professionalism that many her age lacked. It was second nature, she supposed.

After dutifully cleaning the kitchen floor, Christine left Erik to rest a while before returning silently to check on him. Approaching him with uneven breaths, she felt her taut muscles relaxing as she saw him resting soundly still, his eyes closed, but not in sleep, and his mask knocked slightly out of place by the position of his slumped head. Kneeling on the floor next to him, she studied his quiet demeanour, how much of a change had overcome him in the few hours since the encounter at the Opéra.

"Are you feeling any better?" she inquired, all too aware of the smell which now hung about the room as she watched warily as he attempted to sit up.

"Yes," he murmured.

"What caused this?" she asked, concern dripping in every word, her body poised for a sudden relapse.

A sigh escaped his dry mouth and he clutched at his throat, rubbing it as he tried to quench the burning sensation inside. "It can vary... Sometimes it does not appear... Sometimes it occurs every few months."

Christine straightened, her eyes growing wide in pity. "This happens often?"

He grunted in response and then said, "I am quite used to it. I... cannot say exactly what the cause is... but sometimes when I eat certain foods—" Another cough sounded from deep within his chest and she was quick to bend over him, trying to quiet him with her touch. "No," he said, wincing at the feel of her soothing hand on his back. "I do not wish to be a burden."

"Nonsense, and try not to talk, Erik," she chided, speaking to him as though he were a child, before kneeling beside him once more. "Shall I sing to you? Would you like that?"

He nodded weakly, turning his head completely away from her, wishing to dive into her dulcet tones and lay there until he was consumed. Christine inhaled as deeply as she could, attempting to avoid as much of the smell as possible, and began to sing a quiet lullaby. Though her words were sentimental and laced with gentleness, a frown soon formed on her face as she thought over Erik's explanation. A rush of ignited guilt rushed over her, pulling her down into the depths of her sadness.

She was the one who had made him dine with her. She was the one who had forced him to eat. Could it have been her fault; had she unwittingly driven him to wallow in his own pain?

"Erik, Erik," she crooned when the lullaby ended, resting her head on her blanket. "God forgive me."

A/N: The illness which Erik suffers here is called Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome.