Knowing all too well she had to endure his whines and protests, Christine urged Erik to stay put on the settee until he was fully rested, but, being the infuriating man that he was, he was up and about before she could even get another stern word in against him. Nevertheless, she surveyed him closely, watching for any abnormalities in his stance or mood—any more than usual, that is—that would otherwise indicate a lapse in his health.

There was one other matter, however, that would not let her alone. The business of the letter. She had requested for Erik not to tell her when he was planning on delivering it and he had respectfully agreed. To make sure that she did not fret, he had made the point of leaving his home frequently throughout the day so she would not know when he was going to deliver it. His efforts were appreciated, but did little in helping to calm her.

Every time he would disappear, Christine was left to brace her nerves and she would think of her dear Raoul and how he would react upon reading the letter. It was a thought that would not leave her mind, but she prayed that he would have the sense not to make the dangerous journey underground to confront his rival again. Her choice had been made and they would have to learn to accept it. Torn either way and begrudgingly amenable, this was her life now, and they would all have to learn to live with it.

There was one undeniable fact that Erik found hard to swallow, and that was absolutely nothing would ever stop her from allowing Raoul to live on in her thoughts. There, her dear friend would never age, nor tire of her company or conversation. It was rather pathetic, having secrets locked away inside herself, and visiting old friends and places—those which she could only hope to see again—in imaginary scenarios. She felt trapped within her own life, like a character trying to break free of the pages to which they were bound.

After receiving no reply in regards to his plans to leave, Erik looked to his pale and distant companion and tentatively approached her. She did not shy from him as he stopped, but dully noted that the sickly remnants of his illness still clung to the exposed skin of his face and neck. Not twenty-four hours ago, he had been too weak to even stand lest he keel over, and although he stood before her as if nothing had happened, Christine could not bear to meet his eye.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and she was aghast at how he simply pretended that his illness was blameless. She murmured a reply but did not speak of her guilt, nor of the sinking feeling that had come over her. Heavy limbs lined her frame and she felt that as soon as Erik crossed the threshold to the world above, she would let the darkness swallow her.

She saw his hands twitch towards her as if he had meant to touch her, to hold her, to perhaps even console her. How laughable, she thought. It was not she who needed it, and if he truly intended to reach out for her, she would move away. In the end, he simply squeezed his fingers into his palm and drew them behind his back where they remained. His cloak washed a chill over her skin as he left.

The house—in the most unusual sense of the word—seemed very large and empty now. If yesterday was any indication for Christine, she was certain that one day she would go mad from that aching silence that filled these halls. Bundled away underground, without so much as a window or clock, there needed to be sound in order to dispel this madness. Even the rustling of paper or the monotonous clunk from Erik's shoes would have placated her.

Drifting over to the pianoforte, her fingers were eager to run along the keys of black and white. She spread several of them and experimentally pressed down, a disjointed chord immediately ringing in her ears as the harsh discourse disturbed the eerie atmosphere. The echo intrigued her and she was reminded of those strange and inexplicable noises that startled characters in the horror stories she heard so often when she was a young girl.

Her hand unconsciously moved towards her cross.

o0o

A deep satisfaction had coursed through Erik as he had deposited her letter, a small tingle running through the tips of fingers as the paper fell from his hands. Inside it, he had taken the liberty to place the Vicomte's ring—a small token, a final gesture from him to seal the lovers' separation.

It was a miracle that Christine did not hate him, did not curse the very ground that he walked on. He would worship at her feet if only she would let him—and for as little as simply staying by his side! Though pleased with her choice to distance herself from the boy, a bitter myriad of self-loathing and repulsion had begun to resonate through his veins. After all, he had no right to keep the lovers apart, no right to inflict a life of seclusion and solitude on his beloved. She had chosen him, but she deserved so much more than the dismal life he had to offer.

"Christine?" he called out, entering his home swiftly as his eyes adjusted to the low light of the candles. Determined to brighten her eyes again, to return a fragment of that spark to her soul, he quickly hung up his cloak and set off in search of her. "Christine? We shall fill this house with music, won't that be nice? Come into the music room and I shall play for you."

A flash of white in his peripheral vision stopped him in his tracks. Christine was sat at the pianoforte, staring at the silent instrument with an unreadable expression on her face. In an instant he was by her side. He whispered her name, trying to coax her out of her unshakable trance.

Taking a deep breath, he watched as her eyes fell to the candelabra resting atop the lid. The flames cast deep shadows over their bodies and she seemed to flinch at the renewed sight of them. Erik narrowed his eyes, taking in her appearance for the first time that evening. Her eyes were red, but her features were rigid; the time for weeping had passed her by, but its dreadful after effects still remained. In the back of his memory, he recalled the times when he was nothing more than a voice to her, when he would spot her crying from a hidden spot in the theatre's rafters. Anger would rise within him and he would want nothing more than to crush the spirits of anyone who had brought her to such a pitiful state. Sometimes, she would even weep in the shelter of her dressing room and with only the mirror glass separating them, Erik was able to comfort his protégée from afar. But there was nothing separating them now and Erik was only a man, a man who did not know how to comfort a woman who trembled in silence.

A celestial being may have once quenched her appetite for solace but it was no longer acceptable. If she were to truly keep her word and stay with Erik, she needed him to be more than what he was. What she needed the most was stability.

"May I sit with you?" he asked, dreading rejection and fearing a welcome invitation. He almost forgot to move his feet forward when Christine gave the smallest of nods and shuffled across the bench. He sat stiffly at her side and braced his hands against his knees, catching her looking at him from the corner of his eye. "Christine," he said softly. "I do not like seeing you like this. Tell Erik what he can do, please. Tell him what he can do to make you smile. I do long to see you smile. Shall I play for you? Would you like that? Christine, please say something. There is no need to worry so anymore. Now that the boy is out of the way, we can—"

"Must you refer to him like that?" she hissed suddenly, her hands balling into fists in her lap. "He is always 'the boy' with you. He has a name, Erik, though I do not recall you ever saying it."

"How else would I refer to him?" Erik said, taken aback by her onslaught of rage. "He almost took you away from me. I have nothing to thank him for."

"But you do! You have at least one thing to thank him for."

He chuckled darkly—Lord, how she loathed that laugh!—and tilted his head to the side. "And what would that be?" he said, his question very much a challenge. "The fame that I have garnered from stealing his fiancée away? The luxury of confining myself to the underworld?" As he spoke, a part of him mourned the loss of opportunity that had slipped through his fingers. He had not sought to aggravate her—only comfort her!—and now he could not help the sneer that curled around his words so naturally he could hardly recognise his voice. "I have nothing to thank him for."

With a slight grit to her teeth, Christine raised her head in retaliation, her eyes narrowing to slits. "Oh, but you do, Erik," she said quietly. "Without him, you would never have had the audacity to show yourself to me that night."

And for the first time in their acquaintance, she had succeeded in rendering him speechless.

In the deadly silence which followed, Christine was certain that she could hear the heavy thump of her own heart; it made her fingers throb. Erik turned to stare at the keys before them, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

"That is not true."

"Don't lie to me," she retorted, "or to yourself. Your façade hurt me more than anything else. You, Monsieur, are no angel."

Already weary from her unspoken accusations, Erik hunched over the keys, longing to drown out the world and the deafening screaming of his own mind. His past contained many faults and crimes, but none so affected him more than that of the deception of Christine. The corner of his mouth twitched. "I am not an angel, you are right, but perhaps I am a fallen angel." He lifted his head just in time to see her eyes soften at his words and a dull pain shot through his heart at the sight. "I do not deserve my clipped wings."

Sighing, Erik drooped his head, the weight of his deception and their exchange laying heavily upon his shoulders. Christine could see him fiddling with the cuffs on his shirt when he next spoke. "Are we to continue like this until the end?" Dropping her gaze, Christine, too, started to toy with her sleeve, thumbing the white lace finishing as she told him she did not know what he meant. "Christine, look at me." She did. "You know perfectly well what I mean."

Sadness poured over her as she nodded and leaned her elbow on the small curve next to the keys' edge. Her face fell into her upturned palm and her eyes closed; Erik observed her quietly, knowing that any small amount of comfort he provided now would be rebuffed and unwanted. His fingers ran across the instrument once more and then pressed down, his own eyes slipping shut as music filled the air.

With every phrase, her misery began to ebb, and so did Erik's. They shared in the notations of their joined souls and when their eyes met, they were both hypnotised, entranced by the seductive call of the piano. Her lips parted and an apology began to entwine itself with his playing.

"It is I who should be asking for forgiveness," he corrected. "I know you will continue to pine for your lover. The way I behave, they way I curse his very name... it is unjust and unkind."

Beside him, Christine grimaced. "Do not act as though you are solely at fault. I could not bear to look at you this morning because you're incapable of placing any blame on me. No, it's true, Erik. You want me near but you will not let me in. I do not know what you are thinking most of the time; I only know that you place me on an obscenely high pedestal. And when you ask me to remain faithful and you ask me to forget, how can I? You bring up the past in our every conversation, Erik. I told myself that I could stand living with you, but over the last few days I..." She looked up at him. "I do not know whether I can do this anymore."

A look of absolute dismay coursed through his thin features and he tore his hands from the piano, and gripped them around the bench. "You are stronger than this, Christine," he murmured, wishing he had the courage to frame her face with his palms. "You have downplayed your strength from the moment I met you, but I know you. I know you have it within you."

"You sound so certain."

A moment of silence passed and then a confident, "I am."

Sighing, she slouched and looked to her lap. "I do not even know how to refer to you now. I cannot call you angel, nor husband, nor guardian."

"What about... friend?"

At this, she glanced up and, showing the courage that Erik had lacked, placed her hand on top of his bony one. "I would like that, Erik, but more than anything right now, I need to know that you will try to be more than a ghost. You have to be more than that. I need you to be you. Just Erik; no one else. I need you to be real."

She squeezed his fingers and he swallowed the want to weep at her feet. As a friend and a comforter, Erik sufficed, but she knew it would not last. They knew a difficult task now lay ahead of them. They needed to learn to trust one another again.