A/N: I'm so sorry for the late update! University got the better of me, but here's an extra long chapter to make up for it. Enjoy.

Although the early night had fallen, the drapes in Raoul's bedchamber remained open. The lit candelabra shivered as the cool air from one window entered the room, but Raoul felt no such chill upon his skin. With his head resting against the side of the alcove, he sat stiffly on the window seat, his arm resting on one propped up leg. He looked dully out of the window and then at the translucent image of his reflection in the glass, whose eyes still showed the tell-tale signs of his despair. Without close inspection, Raoul knew that though his body had long ceased its convulsing, his eyes would be bloodshot for a while longer.

He cursed his frailty, even as he looked down to stare at the object that had stirred such a reaction from him. In his lap lay a letter. It was crumpled slightly on one side; his grip having tightened as he first read the words that now played in his mind like the notes of a barrel organ. Despite his fear of another onslaught of tears, he picked the paper up again and focused not on the words, but on the hand in which it was written. Such delicately feminine precision, he thought as he brought the sheet to his face and inhaled deeply. It even carried her scent.

Lowering it to his lap once more, he braced himself to re-read every painful word, not wanting to forget any of it.

My dearest Raoul,

Under different circumstances, I could not allow myself to part with you so suddenly, but it cannot be helped, for you see, I am leaving Paris today. I should have considered your reaction, your feelings, more carefully. No doubt this letter will bring you pain as there is nothing that can come of it. I fear you will see this as an empty farewell, but please know it is much more than that. I wish we could have parted more fondly, but alas this letter is all I can allow myself to give you.

Oh, Raoul, I do not know how to express the magnitude of comfort your presence in my life has brought me. Seeing you in my dressing room again after so many years apart made me feel like a young girl again. In your eyes, I saw myself as the same child who had once laughed bashfully at your every joke, and I dare say you saw yourself as the same young boy who heroically saved my scarf, and my heart, from ruin. You brought my childhood back to me, Raoul, and with it, memories of a simpler time, of my father and his violin and his story-telling. I cherish those memories and I thank you for bringing them back to me.

I also cherish the stolen moments we shared in the Opéra. Even as my life seemed so troubled and my soul was dark and heavy with the burden of carrying his love, you were still able to make me smile. Do you remember our walks around the building, in the courtyard and up in the rafters? It seemed like an adventure, a dream worth holding onto, did it not? My life now is still worth holding onto, as is my future, but I cannot contemplate one in Paris. It is not to be. I am taking a much different path to the one I had thought I would, but I do not regret it.

I do not only carry his love with me now, but yours too, dear Raoul, unburdened, but treasured. I will be happy in my new life away from Paris, and I want, with all my being, that you will be happy too. Your loyalty and bravery are merits that cannot go unseen by all but myself. You must promise me to make something of your life, as I am doing now. You must promise to live a full life, as you had once hoped for me.

Although I will not remain in Paris, I hope that we will meet again in happier circumstances. I wish it with all my heart.

I remain now, and always, your Little Lotte

Closing his eyes, Raoul crushed the letter to his chest and groaned in agony. His fingers clenched and twisted the flimsy paper in his grip, wondering if he should tear it up. After all, what good would it be other than to serve as a torturous reminder of his broken heart?

Much more than that, the answer echoed at the back of his mind, and Raoul unfolded the letter once more, smoothing it out and studying it. Yes, it represented more than his pain; it told him of Christine's happiness, and he would call himself a cad if he were to be rid himself of it.

"My Little Lotte," he whispered, reading those words again and again. Could it be true? Oh, how he dared to hope that she might still care for him! But she was right, there was nothing that could come of it and that thought alone threatened to make him weep all over again.

From henceforth, every day he would hope as she did that they would meet again. In his heart, he knew that such a meeting would occur, and he did not care how long he had to wait until he yet again set eyes on her beautiful face. In the meantime, however, he would not let her valiant image of him go askew. He would continue with his life and not allow his pining for her to interfere with it. He could not, however, bring himself to accept the vow of marrying another. It was unthinkable, but he knew he could not very well put his future on hold because of that.

Philippe had kindly stopped trying to force a match on him, but he knew his sisters would not relent in their search until he was settled down. He also knew that he would not be content with merely sitting around. He needed to make himself useful to someone, be it himself or a stranger.

Peering out of the window again, he looked over the tops of the buildings and yearned for that which was beyond his reach. The sea. He would return to the sea.

Folding the letter into his inner pocket, Raoul smiled with a newfound determination and felt practically giddy as he battled down the stairs to his brother's study to inform him of his intentions. In his high spirits, he only vaguely registered the sound of the front door closing, casting a distracted eye towards it, before he entered the study.

"Philippe, I have news!" he exclaimed as he walked over to the window, half-heartedly parting the drape to glance outside. Not looking long enough to see anything in the darkness, he lowered it again and turned to face his brother. "Who was that who just left?"

As soon as Raoul focused on him, however, a sudden feeling of dread plummeted to his stomach. Hunched over his desk, Philippe sat with his head in his hands, his fingers rolling monotonous circles into his forehead. The longer he remained without answering, the more Raoul began to grow nervous. Pushing himself away from the window, he came to stand on the opposite side of the desk, staring down at his brother in concern.

"Philippe," he tried again, the worry in his voice evident from the tremble in his words. "Who was that?"

Lowering his hands to the desk, Philippe looked at him with sorrowful eyes. "Inspector Allard. Raoul, I also have some news to share."

"What is it?" he asked after a pause. "What did he want?"

Staring down at the wooden flooring, Philippe leaned back in his chair, listening to the slight creak his weight caused it to make. When he finally glanced back up at Raoul, he knew it would not do to keep him sheltered as he had done before. "I have been told that an officer disappeared some weeks ago whilst combing the cellars below the Opéra," he said, watching as Raoul formed an expression that surely meant that his mind was hard at work, trying to deduce what this information meant. "I must explain that all the men who were lost down there were eventually recovered, in one state or another. Despite suspicions, foul play was never indicted. After the most recent disappearance, however, they were inclined to believe otherwise. Small search parties were sent out immediately to find the lad, but to no avail, and to this day he is still missing, believed dead."

With a deflated sigh, Raoul perched himself on the edge of his brother's desk and frowned, a shake of his head coming as rapidly as his words. "If so many men became lost and trapped in that labyrinth, then why are they only now... Oh!" he then grumbled. "I do not even know why I am listening to this! I am sorry for the loss of that officer; do not mistake my evasiveness for a lack of compassion, brother, but I fail to see why the inspector came to you in the first place. You have called off the search, have you not?"

"Yes, but..." Philippe leaned back in his chair and wished, for the first time in his droll life, that he was someone else. "Raoul, do you remember that Persian fellow, the one you told me first led you below the Opéra and who has been difficult to track ever since?"

He looked over his shoulder quizzically, suddenly intrigued by his brother's form of questioning. "How could I forget?" he answered with a quirk of his eyebrow.

Philippe's face remained unmoving for several moments before he finally opened his mouth and replied, "He was spotted not two hours ago entering the side passageway in the Rue Scribe."

At first, Raoul was not certain he had heard him correctly. His lips parted, relentless questions hanging on the tip of his tongue, but no sound came forth. "Why would...?" he murmured to himself, the crease between his brow deepening as his mind began to painfully connect all that had happened. Christine's ring, her imminent departure… It could not be, he reasoned! Swallowing thickly and with a desperate anxiety now pulsing through his body, he asked, "H-He… is still alive?"

Philippe nodded solemnly, his gaze downcast. "I was informed they have a chance to capture him tonight."

"No, this... this cannot be true." His head was spinning now, just as his heart thumped and his vision swam. "She would not lie to me. She wouldn't…" But she had, and he had been bewitched by her lies. Oh, he felt himself such a fool, though there was very little to be done of it. The horrid truth was out now.

As he sat contemplating this, he felt his hand unconsciously creep up towards the lining in his jacket and towards Christine's letter. The subtle crinkle of paper rang in his ears with more clarity than a hundred church bells ever could have. "Do you realise what you have done, Philippe, by not calling them off?"

"What I have done?" he asked in disbelief over his brother's words. "Raoul, I think you overestimate just how much influence I have over the law. There was nothing I could have done. What has you so rattled?"

"Damn," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair as he pushed himself to his feet and faced Philippe. "Listen to me," he began slowly, submitting himself to tell the truth. "If all this is true, then by allowing this to happen you will be ruining the chance at a woman's happiness."

That was the very last thing Philippe had expected to hear and he almost laughed at the absurdity of it. But as he continued to stare at his brother's stern face, he realised the significance of such a statement. "What do you mean?" he hesitantly asked.

Lowering his head as if it had grown heavy with the unspoken burden, Raoul turned and spoke to the floor. "Christine is in… love with him," he finally admitted aloud, both to himself and to Philippe. "She told me so in person," he continued quietly, removing the piece of crumpled paper from his jacket and holding it up with quivering fingers. "And if her letter is anything to go by, Philippe, then she was planning to leave with him tonight."

His stomach churned at the very idea, but he valiantly pushed all feeling of ill-will aside in the face of Christine's happiness. If this was her choice then so be it, but he would not stand by and allow that happiness to be taken from her, not while he was able to act before it was too late, not while his love for her still coursed in his veins.

Stuffing the letter back into his pocket without a care to its handling, Raoul raised his chin in defiance and swallowed his pride once and for all. This was not a time for waiting for someone else to solve his problems for him. "If you will not call them off then I will do it myself," he concluded, surprised at the amount of resolve in his own voice.

Phillipe, however, did not know whether to feel more fascinated or disgusted over this strange behaviour of Raoul's. Rising to his feet, he leaned forward against his desk, his fingertips poised roughly against the wood and his eyes steely with a lack of understanding. "You idiot boy!" he cried, very nearly outraged as he saw his brother's mouth twitch upwards. "Why would you do this? Do you not remember what he did to you? You bore his mark around your neck for weeks! And now you would aid him, the same man you once sought to vanquish? Bah!" He threw his hand in the air in vexation and shook his head before rounding the desk to face his brother. "You will get yourself killed, and for what? A deranged lunatic!"

"No," Raoul snapped, carefully taking a step away from Philippe and his fiery eyes. "I do this for Christine's sake and only her sake. If I think about it too much, I will surely be sick, but nevertheless, I will do it."

"Raoul!" he called out as his brother began to move towards the door, his hands twitching to reach out to him. When he momentarily stopped in his tracks, Philippe groaned wearily, suddenly feeling like a man twice his age. "I am thinking only of your safety, Raoul," he whispered desperately. "Why do you not listen to me? If you leave, I shall have no alternative than to go after you myself!"

For several seconds, all that could be heard was the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood adjacent to them in the study. And then, "Empty words," Raoul whispered back, retreating once again towards the door. "It is all you speak."

"Raoul, come back! Raoul!"

But it was too late. The Vicomte had already sprinted away from the chateau and into the night, his brother's wailing cries following him through the darkness.

Unfazed, Raoul soldiered on down the pavement, feebly pulling his coat closer to his body to fight away the cold air. Swiftly hailing a hansom, Raoul instructed the driver to take him to the Opera House. Before he stepped into the compartment, however, he paused, turning his head towards the lights of his home in the distance and to the faint outline of his brother in the open doorway.

"Forgive me, Philippe," he murmured under his breath before climbing in and setting off down the street.

His body moved from side to side under the uneven turning of the wheels and Raoul held a hand to his stomach in fear of its contents resurfacing at this inopportune moment. Glancing out, he saw groups of people enjoying themselves, laughing and drinking as merry music resonated around them—and Raoul had never envied them more.

When he arrived at the Opéra, however, he was quick to spot two armed officers standing outside the gate on the Rue Scribe. He waited patiently, hidden by carriages and darkness, attempting to overhear any part of their conversation that he could. Although they spoke quietly, and he could not risk getting too close to them, Raoul was quick to discover that the two officers—whose names he soon learned to be Beaufort and Moreau—were growing impatient of waiting for their reinforcements to arrive. After several minutes of arguing, Moreau—the officer with greater seniority over the other—acquiesced to the younger's request to go ahead of the others and venture into the Opéra before they arrived. It was poor show of tact, but Raoul could not allow that to bother him as he took this as his opportunity to follow them.

The descent underground was as daunting as it had been previously, only this time, Raoul was acutely aware that he had no one to guide him should he take a wrong step in the darkness. He stayed within a safe distance of the two officers, however, never allowing the glow of their lantern to escape his line of sight. But all the while, he hoped dearly that the reports that his brother had told him had been false, that Christine had not been lying to him and that he was not alive.

He did not know how much time had passed when he noticed the lantern suddenly being placed down upon the ground. Stopping where he was, Raoul squinted and reasoned that they had finally reached their horrid destination. The creak of a door rang out and Raoul saw a thin sliver of light enter the passageway from where the two officers stood.

This was the moment of truth, he realised and, from the shadows, he watched the scene unfold.

It was not so much a cautious attack as a rampant ambush; the two officers lurked at the exit for a moment or two, whispers passing between them, before they crept out into the open, immediately making their presence known. Now out of his sight, Raoul could do nothing but listen intently as he contemplated his next move.

A loud clatter echoed first—a box, or perhaps a chest, falling to the ground—and Moreau's commanding voice, reigning through the thick tension like a bullet, soon followed. Here, Raoul's hands began to tremble. In the back of his mind, he could remember how so many people had been fooled and outwitted by the Phantom's mastery in illusion and he could not stop himself from thinking... what chance did two officers have against that deceptive craft? Under his breath, he murmured a prayer for every man in that room as he finally began to edge closer to the opening.

The growing commotion within became apparent when he peered around the corner and saw a cacophony of movement, orchestrated by the flurry of cloaks. Whoever made the first rebellious strike, Raoul did not know, but there was nothing that could stop the scramble of limbs now. Moreau, he saw, was caught in a struggle with another man and it took him several seconds for his face to register in Raoul's mind. Khan, he thought, miserably accepting the answer to the question that had plagued him for many months—This was where the man's loyalties lay.

Continuing to watch unseen, Raoul noted that both men were unarmed and were instead using their fists and feet. To his relief, they appeared to be quite evenly matched in strength, but he was not able to dwell on that thought for long. Scanning the rest of the room, his eyes soon fell upon the young Beaufort, whose gun had been pulled from his waist and was now situated, precariously, in his hand. He was pointing it at something, or rather, someone. Raoul released a shaky breath as he finally drank in the sight of the man that had haunted his dreams.

The Opera Ghost lived, his mind screamed at him as he stared, open-mouthed, palpitating at the vision before him. Christine had indeed lied to him, every word from her lips untrue, and he had willingly believed her… and yet, despite of this betrayal, he could not bring himself to hate her, or even condemn her decision to deceive him. He was as much as in love with her as he had ever been, and he would not deviate from his own decision to protect her.

Without another thought, he left the passageway and stepped into the open.

There was no other priority as deeply rooted in his soul as his want to protect the woman he loved, and so, as he began to run towards Beaufort, he realised his advantage in remaining unseen until now.

The young gendarme was taken by surprise as Raoul tackled him to the ground, but in the rush of adrenaline that had been pumping through the bodies of both men, the agitated nerves in Beaufort's hand had triggered the gun to go off and the ricocheting sound bounced off the walls as the Opera Ghost's groan followed in syncopation. Out of the corner of his eye, Raoul could see him stumbling away from them, but he knew that the bullet would not have missed him at such a close range.

His attention snapped back to Beaufort, however, as he was pushed away and was met with the sight of him scrambling to his feet. Quick to act, Raoul mirrored his movements, warily standing back from the gendarme as he gripped his gun once more.

Beaufort regarded him curiously for a moment before his head turned to the side in search for the man who had now vanished. When he looked back at the Vicomte, his eyes narrowed, and he held the gun a little higher.

"I know you," he panted accusingly as the sound of Khan's and Moreau's fight filled the space around them. Anxiously, Raoul began to tread backwards away from Beaufort, his hands raised in a surrender, but the gesture did not seem to register in the young man's mind. "You're the Comte's brother," he continued, following him in his retreat, "and you… you attacked me. Why?"

Raoul's heel collided with something at that time and he peered down to see that he was now at the bottom of a small flight of steps leading up to an open doorway. Sensing his impending imprisonment, he carefully weighed his options before lifting himself up onto the bottom step.

"I did what I had to," Raoul replied haughtily, ascending two more steps as the officer continued to advance on him.

"Then you are against us, and the law," he concluded as he followed the Vicomte past the threshold of the door.

Only then did Raoul realise his mistake.

The sound of water trickled behind him and by glancing over his shoulder, he saw that he had come to stand on the bank by the lake. He was cornered.

Beyond Beaufort, Raoul spotted Khan and Moreau continuing their fight, but the Phantom was nowhere to be seen. Was this not what he had wanted? Was that man's safety not his biggest concern? Yes, he had succeeded in protecting him and thus Christine, but he had not evaluated the possibility of having a gun pointed in the direction of his head.

"What will you do?" Raoul asked, eyeing the weapon carefully, noting the man's loose grip and the lack of great distance between them. Steadily, he allowed a smirk to come to his face.

Ignoring his question, Beaufort instead asked, "What are you grinning at?"

This only made him smile more as he replied, "I am merely wondering if anyone ever told you to never stand this close to the person at whom you are aiming."

Before Beaufort had a chance to respond, however, Raoul had managed to disarm him, causing him a little pain as he twisted the gun from his grasp and held it tightly within his own fingers. "Now then, what—"

But Raoul was now the one who did not have the chance to respond. Out of all the foolish things he thought Beaufort was capable of, attempting to grab his weapon back from another man's hand, mere seconds after he was disarmed, never crossed his mind. And yet, the impetuous lad still tried to just that.

This frantic jumble of limbs was enough to throw not only Raoul's concentration but also his balance off, and he was left teetering on the edge on the bank, holding fast to the gun.

And then... and then they were falling.

Raoul's heartbeat thudded in his ears a second before the unmerciful water devoured him, his entire body feeling like it was being pierced by a thousand needles. He opened his mouth to gasp for air, his arms and legs thrashing violently against the current, but it was no use, he was too weak. A desperate glance to his right showed Beaufort, also struggling viciously against the victorious water. Although unable to move very far himself, Raoul fought against the current and reached forward towards the drowning man. His fingers stretched until they ached, but he was too far away. With a heart as heavy as his limbs, Raoul watched agonisingly as the man slipped away from him and into the darkness.

Revitalised with a sudden surge of willpower, the Vicomte tried to claw his way upwards. His lungs were soon burning for the air that was denied him and as the surface began to drift farther from his reach, he began to lose all hope.

His mind turned to Christine and he prayed that she would forgive him his failures.

No sooner had his eyelids began to droop, however, than a pair of hands wrapped around his arms and began to pull him from the murky depths. The moment he broke the surface, Raoul gasped and coughed and spluttered, all the while grateful for those hands that guided him towards the shore.

The hard stone beneath his palms was coarse and he had surely scraped it in his attempt to secure himself to this piece of land, but Raoul did not care. What was an inconsequential gash to the skin or a trickle of blood compared to the glorious sensation of air filling his lungs now?

Frailly, he looked over his shoulder and out over the dark lake, its rippling waves a calm shadow of the tempest that had raged beneath them. Regretfully, he scanned the waters for any sign of the fallen gendarme, knowing his searching was futile but not allowing himself to fully accept the truth of the matter.

With a heavy sigh, he turned back around and hunched over himself as a relentless cough shook through his entire body. When it eventually subsided, however, he soon became aware of another figure in front of him. They were also crouched low to the ground, recovering from the aftershock of the lake as the constant sound of water dripping from their clothes beat down around them. Even in his muddled state, it took Raoul only a moment to deduce that this figure was in fact his saviour.

"Monsieur," he rasped, forcing a smile to his lips as he began to raise his head. "How can I ever…"

His words faded into an oblivion, one far darker than the depths of that lake, as his wide eyes met the incredulous stare of the Opera Ghost.

Under the gaze of those lofty black eyes, the Vicomte clutched at his knees in fear, one of his legs unconsciously shifting backwards towards the edge of the shore. As more time passed, however, and the two drenched men merely sat opposite one another, Raoul's fear began to dissipate into confusion. The dreaded Opera Ghost, his enemy, was surely not also his saviour?

Daring questions formed in Raoul's mouth, but before he could voice them, the ghost spoke to him, those smooth tones barely ravaged under the toll of the lake.

"For Christine," he whispered through laboured breathing, his head lolling forward in fatigue.

Taken aback slightly by this, Raoul slumped further to the ground and reflected quietly on his peculiar saviour's words. His life has not been made forfeit that night and it was because of Christine. Erik would also continue to live because of her, and Raoul suddenly realised the gravitas of her presence, of the effect she had unknowingly wielded over them.

"Vicomte," another voice abruptly called, sluggishly pulling Raoul back to the situation at hand. Blearily, he peered up to see the Persian looming above them, agitation blending into every one of his features. "Do you realise the danger you put yourself in? What on earth are you here for?" he asked, his eyes quickly darting towards Erik, who still had not moved or even acknowledged his presence.

With as much strength as he could manage, Raoul looked up at the man before he also chanced a wary glance at Erik, holding his stare as he whispered back, "For Christine."

Pursing his lips, Nadir regarded the two men for a few seconds, not daring to inquire further into the matter. Instead, he simply turned behind him and Raoul followed his gaze curiously. On the other side of the room was Moreau, laying as still as a corpse upon the ground.

A knot formed in Raoul's stomach as he asked, "Is he dead?"

"No," Nadir answered, sounding as relieved as a man could be in similar circumstances. "He is merely unconscious, but will require minor medical treatment when he awakens, I am certain."

Silence then poured down over their heads as every beating heart under that roof fought its way back to a steady rhythm. But then a sound, faint at first, but growing in volume with each passing second, echoed through the surrounding caverns. It was a cry.

Erik snapped to attention.

"Are we to expect all of Paris?" he growled sardonically before directing his line of fire at Raoul, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "How many officers did you follow down here? Are there others waiting to drive me out? I cannot believe that they thought only two would be a sufficient number to stop me."

But Raoul was not listening to the ghost's haughty ravings. No, his attention was placed elsewhere, on the poor man's cries that could still be heard through the walls.

"Vicomte," Nadir murmured, trying to induce an answer from him with much softer tact than his friend. "Please. Tell us."

"I…" he began, watching Erik shakily rise to his feet from out of the corner of his eye. "Only two ventured down, but, from what I could gather, more are coming." Another cry sounded around them, much louder this time, and tears filled Raoul's eyes. "Their attack was premature; they were supposed to wait for reinforcements and—Oh, God," he choked, rising to his feet as another cry reached his ears. "I know that voice, I know that voice! Oh, God, it is not a gendarme!" Turning quickly, Raoul grabbed a hold of Nadir's jacket, forcing the startled man to look at him as he wept. "My brother, it is my brother! You must do something! It is my fault he's here; oh, God, what have I done?"

"What are you talking about?" Nadir exclaimed, attempting to pry the young man from him with little success. "The Comte is here?"

"I…" Raoul hung his head, loosening his grip. "I did not believe that he would truly come after me."

Helplessly, Nadir exchanged an incredulous look with Erik, who did now not seem quite as approachable as he was before. The unhinged stare of those black eyes had never failed to unnerve him in moments like this, and Nadir swiftly turned towards the man looming over them.

"Erik," he began, and despite his gentle tone, Nadir was still rewarded with a rather deadly glare. Not knowing whether he was now shuddering more the dripping of water from the Vicomte's clothes or from having those eyes fixed upon him, Nadir continued regardless. "Erik, you must leave. More men will come for you and now with the arrival of the Comte… Erik, I will see to this, but you must leave."

All that was then heard was the echo of water and Raoul's rapid mumbling, muffled slightly from his hand being pressed to his mouth as he paced. Slowly, however, Erik began to look around him, as if noticing the unconscious man behind them for the very first time, before gazing up at the rock formations that stood guard over his lake.

"Yes," he agreed in an aloof whisper as his feet began to carry him backwards, seemingly of their own accord.

"Erik, now," Nadir all but ordered, unaffected by the reminder of what words like those had earned him in the past.

Continuing to move in a steady pace away from them, Erik looked at the boat that lightly bobbed at the surface's edge and then craned his neck towards the entrance the gendarmes had found. Whirling around on the spot, he silently calculated his chances through the alternative exits before once more catching Nadir's eye.

The Persian waited for the words that would follow, a berating, a string of insults, one last quip from that silver-tongued mouth… but no words ever came forth. Instead, Nadir watched, confounded, as Erik nodded graciously at him, the gesture lasting an eternity in his heart, before the figure in black turned and disappeared from sight.

Nadir would later ponder over that small motion long into the night, but for the moment, he cleared his mind of such thoughts and focused on the challenge ahead of him.

"I know these passageways well," he told Raoul, who had not ceased his whimpering nor his weeping. "I will retrieve your brother, Vicomte, but you must stay here. If that officer awakens, you must be there to see to him."

Squaring his shoulders, Raoul bit back his uncontrollable cries and breathed deeply. "Very well," he replied shakily, watching as Nadir stepped into the boat, which rocked precariously at the sudden shifting of weight. "What will happen now?" he asked at the same time at the first stroke of the oar through water.

"You were seen by that gendarme," Nadir explained with a weary countenance, glancing back over his shoulder every so often at the young man on the bank. He could not help but notice how vulnerable the Vicomte appeared at that moment, how anxiously he fidgeted about. "Your presence here must have an explanation, however contrary to the truth it is. I am afraid your privacy will disappear in the weeks to follow."

Wrapping his arms around himself, Raoul nodded, as accepting of his fate as a martyr. "It does not matter, not as long as Christine is happy and safe." Closing his eyes to the strangely soothing movement of water, he spoke again, "What will we tell this man, and the others that follow him, Monsieur? I suppose the truth is out of the question."

"Yes," he murmured, just loud enough for the Vicomte to hear. "It is the only way to secure Christine's future… and his."

"I suppose we are finally doing what should have been done a long time ago," he cried after Nadir, causing him to peer back at him curiously and shudder involuntarily at his grave words. "We are finally laying the ghost to rest."

o0o

Christine's mind was whirling with worry, her entire body wound tightly like a clock.

Having deposited her belongings back at the house, she had spent very little time there before she began to scour the vacant streets for her husband. As she searched, she pondered on the events that had led them to this moment and how she had never thought to imagine herself in such a role as she found herself fulfilling tonight. A surge of love ran through her at this thought, this want to protect her husband from any harm that may befall him. But no, she reminded herself, lowering her face into her hands as the brougham rolled towards its destination, she could not allow herself to presume the worst.

When her journey came to an end and she stepped out onto the pavement, thanking the driver in the process, Christine felt her heart hammer a thousand warnings against her chest. Standing alone, she gazed up at the Opéra House as the wind blew strands of hair across her cheeks.

It felt as though she were in an induced state, half-drugged and half-lucid, even as her fears swarmed in her mind and powered each step that brought her closer to the building.

Something must have happened, her irrationality screamed at her. It was not like Erik to be anything less than punctual and, even if he had been delayed, he would have found some way of contacting her.

Travelling under the guise of neighbouring shadows, she edged her way along the pavement and through the sparse streets, making her way to the side entrance on the Rue Scribe. She stopped in her tracks, however, when she caught sight of a figure lingering close to the usually locked gate. This man, who paced steadily back and forth and who occasionally glanced down into the dark passageway beyond the gate, was not her husband.

Bracing herself against the cold stone of the nearest building, Christine followed the movements of the man carefully, her suspicions painfully confirmed when a flutter of light showed him to be wearing a uniform. Her breath came in short gasps as her gloved fingers dug into the backs of each hand.

"Let it not be true," she whispered, realising the graveness of the situation and the possibility that her husband was…

Closing her eyes tightly, she staggered backwards a few steps, pressing a hand to her chest as she attempted to soothe her aching soul. If Erik truly was in immediate danger, it would not do to weep in his time of need. Swallowing her trepidations, she raised her chin and turned back to the gate, frowning as she saw that another gendarme had appeared next to it.

For the next few moments, she muddled through the various scenarios that she could anticipate, slowly formulating a plan of action in her head. However, she was so preoccupied on concentrating that she failed to register another's presence, approaching near by from out of the shadows. It was not until a hand appeared in the minimal light and wrapped around her arm that she noticed this intruder. Jumping from her thoughts, she whirled around, pulling her arm free from the stranger's grip, just as the hand once again tried to claim her.

An instinct to flee raced through her body then, a fear that she had been recognised pushing adrenaline to the very tips of her fingers. She had quickly turned on her heel to run when a single word stopped her.

"Christine."

The voice was unmistakable.

Spinning around on the spot, she soon came face to face with her husband. Not allowing herself to take in his appearance properly, she wasted no time in frantically dragging him close to her and away from the pavement. When she was certain of their seclusion, she finally released him, stepping back to rest against the wall in breathless elation.

He was alive, her husband was alive!

"Oh, Christine," he murmured, his ragged tone breaking her out of her reverie at once. As he dropped to his knees, Christine unconsciously began to lean towards him, her eyes sweeping over his person for the first time that night. His shirt was loose and crinkled, scuffed in places with dirt and… it appeared that it had been drenched in water.

"Erik," she whispered fearfully. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Please, you must tell me what happened."

Even in the darkness, the look in his eyes as he raised his head was enough to shatter her. "Ambushed," he grunted, chest heaving. "We were ambushed. Nadir and I… We had little time to prepare and… Merde!" he suddenly cried, his voice raising in volume and despair. "Our lovely plan has failed, my wife, faded from our grasps, and it was lovely, was it not? A home, away from all of this. Oh, but we can never escape it. Never! We were naïve to think that we could."

Falling to her knees in front of him, she hurriedly covered his mouth with her hands, casting large eyes to the right of them to see if they had drawn any unwanted attention. "Erik, Erik, my love, please. You must be quiet. Please. You must be quiet."

A burst of hot breath landed on her palms as his muffled gasp left his mouth. Meeting her worried gaze, he reached up to clutch at her hands, bringing them down from his face to rest between them.

"Now you are to have a fugitive for a husband, Christine," he told her fervently under his breath. "But I did not kill, you must believe your Erik now. I did not shed blood tonight!"

As pleased as she was at this news, Christine could not ignore the nervous energy that was now radiating from him. Squeezing his hands, she sought his eyes, attempting to calm him with the gentle pressure of her fingers against his skin. "Erik—"

"The… The Vicomte was there."

At his unexpected words, Christine paled, her features freezing under the night air. Her body grew rigid and her fingers involuntarily tightened around Erik's hands as a terrible understanding dawned on her. The letter. Her eyes closed to the pain piercing her heart. Was she truly to blame for this ambush? Had her want for innocent sentimentality brought about the unknowing destruction of multiple lives on this night? Her stomach protested at the thought. And then Raoul…

"Erik, I'm so terribly sorry," she cried into his hands. "It is true, I sent Raoul a letter of farewell, but there was nothing in its contents to discern worry or even your whereabouts! Tell me, was Raoul wounded? Does he still live? I must know. I do not think I could bare the guilt if I was the cause of any man's death."

Seeing his wife's distress was more of an awakening than any other stimulant he had taken before. With a whimper, he seized her cheeks and searched her conflicted eyes. His fingers stroked her numb skin and suddenly the toil he had just escaped from seemed insignificant compared to those mounting tears.

"Ssh," he cooed gently, unconsciously rocking them back and forth as her presence began to soothe his frantic energy. "Christine did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong. No man's blood is on your hands, of that Erik can assure you."

Reaching up to cover his hands with her own, she nodded determinedly and with a tremble to her words, she said, "Tell me what transpired."

And he did. In hushed tones, he told her of the two officers' plan, of the Vicomte's unexpected arrival and how their party had managed to escape with mere bruises. Wisely, he avoided her glances and the quickening of her pulse as she learned, in detail, the unfortunate drowning of the young gendarme. But, he chose to keep the knowledge of the Vicomte's near fatality to himself, not wishing to distress her further.

"He was not there to harm me," he added, wistfully staring at the ground as the intrusive sound of a carriage rolled passed them.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Christine struggled to comprehend Raoul's motives and suspected that Erik was not telling her all that he knew. "Why would he risk himself like that?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer she would receive.

Finding her befuddled stare, Erik sighed, his mouth quirking into a strange, but sad smile. "For you, my love," he murmured, running a single finger down the length of her cheek. "Everything was done for you."

Letting out a sob, she wound her arms around him, her thoughts giving way to the dreadful misgivings that had occurred, but more significantly, how wonderful it felt to have him in her embrace again. Her comfort was short-lived, however, when a grunt landed in her ear and she pulled back to see Erik wincing. Following his line of sight downwards, she frowned as she noted the stiff way in which he was holding himself. Her hand barely twitched as it slid down his coat, her eyes narrowing as she fingered a small tear in the fabric by his shoulder. With more hesitation than she realised, she turned her palm upwards, drawing in a shuddering breath as she saw the smear of blood on her skin.

"You're wounded," she mumbled, anguish and rage filling her all at once as a desperate notion for vengeance overtook her body. The want to protect him was unequivocally pulsing throughout her and, were it not for the sight of the dastardly colour on her fingers, nothing would have stopped her from striking down all those in her path until she had found justice for her husband. "We must get you to a doctor," she reasoned, however, as she refocussed her attention on his arm, but was baffled when she was met with a strong exclaim of protest.

"No!" he cried, pulling her fussing hands away from his coat to hold them against his heaving chest. "I can tend to it myself, do not worry for me. There was a struggle," he lied, omitting the fact that the Vicomte had been the other participant and not him. "One of the officers was foolish enough to try to use it against me and amongst the clambering, the trigger was pulled. The bullet missed me, of course, but I was still grazed. If you would just allow me a moment, I can see to it now."

Her eyes shone with worry and she intuitively shielded him with her own body as several bystanders walked past them. Although well hidden by the darkness, Christine would not take the risk. "Erik, we may not even be granted a moment," she told him gently, yet fervently. "Reinforcements have no doubt been called in. They will comb all of Paris for you if something is not done."

The pressure of her hands increased as she felt him sigh. "Nothing can be done," he whispered, bringing his forehead down to tiredly rest upon her own. "It's over…"

"Do not speak like that, please," she said, hating hearing the words of defeat. Never before had she heard them uttered from his own lips and it sent a disturbing chill through her heart. "Erik, listen to me," she began again, finding his eyes in the midst of his melancholy. "You must leave, and soon. I fear they will find you otherwise. You must continue with our plan and leave for Sweden. Tonight, if possible, before they have a chance to patrol the borders."

He opened his mouth to protest, but a flash of vision stopped any disagreements from being voiced. An image took shape before him of his wife, so young and so woeful, clad once again in black as she stood over his grave. So long as he still drew breath, he would not be the cause of such unhappiness. He would live, if but for her.

"What of you?" he finally asked, to which he received an immediate answer, surprising him.

"I will remain here to avoid suspicion," she said simply, turning her head slightly so that their faces were closer together. "I will keep you safe, Erik, you have to trust me."

"I do, I do," he insisted, closing his eyes and squeezing her hands.

Despite her inner turmoil and the looming threat of being discovered, Christine smiled, a mere flicker of hope that faded soon afterwards as she began to consider their options. She recalled every moment of their tentative relationship, every step leading up to this night and wondered briefly, albeit sadly, if they would have been happier, and safer, had she not been content to stay with him, even after he let her go. Now was not the time to dwell on the alternative life that she could never have, however, and she concentrated fiercely on anything in her memories that could help them now. And then, suddenly, she remembered the night before their wedding.

Pulling back from him, she found his eyes once more and nodded, a revitalised sense of confidence building within her. "Mazanderan," she uttered, and at once Erik understood, his mind turning to the body in his lake. He could not help the breathless chuckle that escaped him then, nor could he keep himself from staring at her in a mixture of shock and wonderment.

"History is indeed repeating itself," he whispered back, nodding his agreement as he tried to comprehend the state of her mind and how willing she was to even suggest such a plan.

"I will find the others and tell them," she said, her voice growing firmer even as her eyes grew soft. "Do not risk sending word to us, though," she added, "I fear the consequences should our letters be intercepted."

Erik held no reservations over the change that had occurred in his wife and knew that she was much transformed from the frail and timid creature she had been a mere year ago. He admired her greatly for her courage, her irrepressible spirit and, above all, for being the ever-constant light in his life. "You continue to astonish me," he said without attempting to veil his pride. Running his fingers across her cheek, he gazed at her features, every part of her that shone with undiluted power. "Look how strong you are now, how resilient... You do not even tremble."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed, "that cannot be true… I had such fear within me tonight. I thought I had lost you." Burying her head into the crook of his neck, she breathed him in, releasing a small cry as he released her hands to wrap his arms around her frame. "I love you," she exhaled ardently, pressing her lips softly and shyly to his jaw. "I love you, I love you."

She heard him mirror her words just as his hand moved to land rather heavily on her shoulder, his fingers tiredly toying with her hair. Unable to progress another moment without his touch, she grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him deeply. His mouth quivered, and she could taste his tears on her lips, but she did not care. All that mattered was that he was alive and that she would move the Heavens themselves if it would keep him that way.

"Travel to Sweden," she rasped once she had released him, "and make haste. I will find you there when all this is done."

Erik closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to be consumed by her, to drown in her caring arms, but the light pressure of her lips on his forehead brought him back to the danger at present. Almost absent-mindedly, he found himself smiling down at her, his fingers reaching up to stroke her rosy cheek again. "How did I ever deserve you?" he wondered hazily, his eyes darting to every part of her face as if tracing it, memorising it.

Saying nothing, she grasped onto that hand for dear life, bringing it to her lips in reverence. Erik watched in silence as she kissed each fingertip before lingering over his upturned palm. "Go now. Go," she whispered, looking into his eyes with a determination that burned and then at his retreating figure as he hurried away into the darkness.

She could only pray that a brighter future lay in waiting for them.