A/N—Explanations, anger, angst, backstabbery. No one is happy.

Thanks to Glacifly4POTO, RoseLilyIce93, Kenj3732, BadassSyd, Mominator124, Phantom Femme du Pantages, Leopard1, Stemwinder, MomoxDerpy, and Guest for their kind reviews!

Please be warned…the rating on this story is about to go up to M probably around Chapter 22

The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Please read and review.

A Second Chance

Chapter 20

Copyright 2016 by Riene

"I am so sorry, Christine," he murmured, holding her hands gently ten minutes later. They sat in the managers' office, where she'd been carried and he'd followed, angrily thrusting aside Philippe and berating himself for having been the cause of her collapse. Christine's breathing was still shaky as she stared into the weather-beaten face of the man opposite.

"My God, Raoul…" she whispered. "Tell me again. I can't quite…take it all in."

The young man leaned back and accepted a glass of water. He raked an unsteady hand through his hair, now sun-bleached to the color of wheat. He had lost considerable weight, and there were lines around his eyes. Lines, and a harder expression that had not been there before.

"First off," he indicated the chair, "I'm all right, just very tired and weak still." She nodded, never taking her eyes off of his face.

"He shouldn't even be here," snarled Philippe, and Raoul turned.

"Brother, I know you're concerned, but you're only making matters worse," he snapped. "Please, go see Sorelli or something, but leave us a few minutes, please." Angrily Philippe stalked out, nearly slamming the door behind him. Raoul sighed.

"I'm sorry…they've barely let me feed myself this past few weeks, and he forbade me from coming here." He raised her white hand to his lips. "But I had to see you; I couldn't wait." The white cuff fell back from his thin wrist, revealing the abraded flesh beneath.

"Tell me what happened," she said softly. "I can see it was…horrible for you."

He nodded and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Her worried eyes never left his face as he began.

"You'd seen the papers, the explosion of the boilers on the Guyenne. It was so intense it tore the side out of the ship. I was on duty, went running down to see…" his voice trailed off, and she knew he was seeing again the horror of that night, flames and the gaping hole in the ship, the men, bloody and dying, water pouring in. "I got there just as the second boiler blew apart." He swallowed hard, remembering the blinding flash and roar, then oblivion. "When I awoke, I was in a prison cell, chained to the wall, with some other men. Eventually I learned that the explosion had blown me and two other sailors out into the water. We're very lucky we weren't killed outright. I'd taken a blow to the head and we were all cut up pretty badly, broken bones and the like. I really don't know how we survived." He turned his head carefully and brushed his hair aside, and her eyes widened at the angry red scar running across his scalp.

"Oh Raoul." She choked back a sob. "Then what?"

"We had been picked up by an Arab fishing boat and brought back to Tunis, and kept as prisoners of war. I think they thought we could be used as political leverage, or at the very least, ransomed. I pretended to be a common sailor...if they'd known I was an officer or from a powerful family, it would have gone much, much worse for me…and the men kept my secret. We weren't badly mistreated, just knocked around and starved." He would not tell her the truth here, of the rats at night, or the abuse of the guards. "I was thrown into a cell with other prisoners, some Americans and British sailors and soldiers who had also been captured." He rubbed his face tiredly. "After a while, we were all sick. Jacques died, and then Louis. Malaria, cholera…I don't know how any of us survived. Eventually we were rescued by a British force. They'd bribed one of the natives into giving them information, and he learned of our presence. We were taken on board the Lancer, our wounds tended, and eventually repatriated."

She squeezed his hands. "I am so glad you survived," she said shakily. "How long have you been home?"

"Two weeks. The Navy kept me for a while, then I've been at the estate in Beauvais, recovering. I'm on indefinite leave until I'm well enough to return to active duty."

She pressed his hands to her face, kissing his fingers.

"Christine, tell me about yourself…how have you been? And what is this?" Blue eyes searched her face, as his thin fingers reached out and gently tapped the sapphire and diamond ring.


"Christine?" He looked through the mirror, frowning uneasily. It was long past the time she should have returned to her dressing room. The sounds in the corridors were beginning to die down as people left for the afternoon. Feeling a tremor of concern, Erik tripped the mechanism and the heavy glass dropped slightly and pivoted sideways, allowing him to step through. He glanced around the small room, but there was nothing to indicate the reason for her absence. Her street shoes were lying under the chaise and her coat was still on the hook by the door.

Rapid pattering footsteps approached, and the door swung open. Meg Giry dashed in, then stopped, jumping back in shock at the sight of the tall masked figure.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! You startled me!" She put a hand across her chest, gasping.

"Where is Christine?" Erik frowned, his intense gaze boring into her.

Meg froze. He didn't know. Oh God.

"What?" His eyes were golden in the lamplight, like a cobra, pinning her to the spot.

"She is in the managers' office," Meg stuttered out.

He took a quick step forward. "Is she ill? Is there something wrong?" One black-gloved hand shot out and grasped her arm.

Meg swallowed hard, staring up into his golden eyes. "She's with Raoul. The Vicomte. He's back...he's alive…I don't know how."

Erik dropped the little dancer's arm as if scalded. "What?"

"Philippe brought him, this afternoon. He was in the Rotonde, wanting to see her. She…Christine fainted, and they carried her to the office. He went with her." Meg began to edge toward the door, frightened. The Phantom's face was contorted in a terrifying expression of rage and …something else. Fear? Helplessness? "I'm so sorry," she whispered, and turned and darted out the door.

She could hear the roar of fury behind her, and the sound of glass shattering. Meg ran.


Skittering around the corner, Meg flung herself at a door more familiar to her than that of her own house. "Mamman! Oh God, Mamman, come quickly!"

Adele Giry had risen to her feet the moment her wide-eyed daughter burst into the room, panting and frantic. "Marguerite! Calm yourself and tell me quickly!" Already she was moving toward the doorway.


Seething, Raoul leaned against the wall, unable to believe how summarily he had been evicted from the office. He was a patron! Well, perhaps not any more, due to his absence, but still! Christine was in there! And yet the ballet mistress had simply strode in and ordered everyone out, as Meg had gathered a shaking Christine into her arms. A wave of dizziness forced him to stop and concentrate of slowing his heart rate and breathing. The damned rolling chair was still in there, too; he'd have to find a place to sit down. Cursing the cane and his weakness, Raoul staggered down the hall.

Luigi opened the door to his dressing room just in time to see a young man with a cane walking slowly down the hallway. His eyes narrowed; he'd observed the scene in the Rotonde and had made certain to ask questions afterwards. So this handsome young fellow was Christine's former lover. He was a good-looking man and a sailor, yet she'd been unfaithful to him. Luigi's lip curled as he straightened his cravat and put on his best concerned expression. All women were the same. Perhaps this boy needed to learn that lesson as well.

He'd left the young man staring out a window in the Galerie du Glacier, his face white and taut, refusing to even look him in the eye. Luigi was quite pleased with himself. He had been so sympathetic…the poor little one, fainting from shock, but surely her patron would care for her well-being. Her patron? No doubt the man who gave her the beautiful ring…who provided the carriage, the flat? Perhaps even the man she was singing with, for he had seen the tendresse between them with his own eyes the other night. Surely Monsieur le Vicomte had noting to fear for Mademoiselle, and all would be made clear soon. Luigi smiled.


Nadir turned his body sideways, his feet seeking purchase on the narrow ledge. The shallow ridge was not even visible until the light struck it perfectly, and he was always cautious on this path lest he fall. The lake here was not terribly deep, but always cold and unpleasant, and he had never learned to swim.

"Daroga." Erik greeted him without preamble, the sound echoing about the cavern. His voice came from an odd angle, and Nadir realized Erik was sitting on the shore, one leg drawn up, leaning against a rock. "To what do I owe this…unexpected invasion of my privacy."

He jumped down from the ledge to a flat rise of stone. "Erik. It has been some days since we last spoke and I was merely curious how your plans were progressing. Also, I have brought you the evening papers."

"Ah." A light flared nearby and raised, casting more shadows. Behind it only the golden eyes were visible, reflecting in the lantern's glow.

"They will make admirable tinder for my fire, I have no doubt."

Nadir frowned. Erik's voice was flat, without intonation, utterly emotionless. "Bah, Erik, you should keep abreast of the world above. I had thought you planned to rejoin the world of men?"

His companion made a noise that might have been "Pthah." Nadir squatted down beside him. The other man stared out across the lake, unmoving. An empty tumbler dangled from one hand.

"Erik, you smell like a distillery."

Golden eyes slowly stared at him. "I may have been drinking."

Nadir sniffed. "Pray, do not breathe on that candle flame, lest the very air ignite from the fumes." The golden eyes blinked once at him, owlishly, then turned back to the eerie bluish haze atop the lake. Nadir sighed. "Come on, my old friend. Let us get you inside. It is much too chilly to be out here in your shirtsleeves." He hauled the man's skeletal frame to his feet, pulled one arm around his shoulders, and guided him indoors.

Erik collapsed in his chair by the fireplace, all long legs and arms bent like a fallen spider, and reached for the decanter on the floor.

"I should let her go, Nadir," he said quietly. He took a long swallow, feeling the alcohol burn all the way down. His aching fingers tightened briefly on the glass as the words fell like brittle leaves between them. Nadir looked at him sharply but held his silence, waiting.

"She has done more than she knows…touched Erik, tried to be kind to him. Agreed to be his…his wife."

Nadir leaned forward and pried the glass from his hand. "Erik, you are drunk. You never refer to yourself that way unless you are drunk."

"I sincerely hope so." He shifted slightly in the chair, empty eyes traveling up to Nadir's concerned face. "Her sailor boy has returned. She thought him dead. But he has returned. From the dead. And she is with him."

Nadir pursed his lips, frowning. "The Vicomte de Chagny? He survived that ship explosion? How is this possible?"

Erik's eyes started the slow passage back to staring at the empty hearth. "How should I know?"

Nadir frowned, thinking. "Perhaps she is just happy to see him?"

He waved an unsteady and dismissive hand. "She will go back to him, Daroga….how could she not? The only thing I have ever wanted, ever loved… All my plans, Nadir. The flat, the ring." His eyes, golden in the lamplight, traveled slowly up to Nadir's face. "Did I show you her bride gift? It is perfect, just for her."

"No, Erik, you haven't." Nadir said gently. "Why don't you go to bed?"

"I will sleep soon enough." He fumbled at his breast pocket, then handed a small flat box to Nadir. "It is perfect, just for her."

Nadir sighed. "You said that." He opened the box, revealing a pendant necklace with single large sapphire, appearing black in the dim lighting, centered between two oval diamonds, set in gold. "It's a nice necklace, Erik."

"To match her ring. You keep it, Daroga. You keep it safe." Erik gestured at him.

Nadir shut the box with a snap and dropped it on the table. "Come on, dooset man, you need to sleep." He wrapped one hand around the Phantom's thin arm and propelled Erik toward the bedroom door.

"Let yourself out, Daroga…you know the way."


It was a weary Christine who returned to the Opera House the next day, wanting only to avoid the stares and titters of gossip that once again surrounded her personal life. Madame Giry had worked some sort of magic, and everyone had gone when she'd emerged the previous day from the managers' office. She had tried to leave by the side entrance, but this was a route he was long familiar with, and Raoul confronted her soon after she'd turned down the hallway.

Something had happened in the intervening hour, something to throw her former suitor into a fury. She'd seen the exhaustion and pain in his face, and made the mistake of suggesting she get his chair, which only served to further enrage him. He had seized her hand, twisting the gold and sapphire ring and raising it accusingly. "How long did you wait until you ran back to him? You even took my brother's money."

"He said it was from you, but I will return it. I have not spent a sou of it," she'd cried, wrenching her hand away from his painful grip.

"No, because you are living with HIM. Tell me, what kind of favors do you bestow in exchange for that flat? The same chaste kisses you gave me?"

He had been so angry, wounded and humiliated, and she could not blame him. Raoul had survived so much, keeping her in his heart, only to return home and find the woman he loved had chosen another. No amount of explanation or tears penetrated his icy fury. Then Philippe had arrived, shouting and enraged, and had made Christine feel utterly worthless, a whore who had used his brother and lied, then turned her cheap attention elsewhere when there was no more to be gained. Throughout his accusations Raoul had stood there, his face turned from her, and in the end had allowed his brother to lead him away.

She'd taken a cab to Meg's home and collapsed, sobbing out her story. Meg had asked no questions after making certain her friend was unhurt, then put her arms around Christine and let her cry until her hysterical tears had become hiccoughs and gasps. She'd brought her dearest friend a cold face cloth and went to make tea.

"I guess we won't start shopping for your trousseau any time soon," she'd tried to tease, and Christine had raised a woebegone face.

"I'm not sure there is going to be any wedding now. They are both so angry with me."

"Wait and talk to my mother," Meg said wisely, pouring her a cup of tea and adding sugar to it. "Mamman always knows what to do."

Adele Giry had arrived home soon afterwards. As she was hanging up her shawl, Meg met her and held a quick whispered conversation with her mother. A minute later, Adele gathered her other daughter into her arms. "Oh my dear, I am so sorry. I ought not have left you, but I thought they were all gone home."

Christine blotted her wet eyes, a picture of utter misery. "I do not know what to do, Madame," she whispered pathetically. "No matter what, someone is hurt."

"Where is your heart?" Adele asked quietly.

With Erik. For a moment she imagined his strong arms around her. He would be angry, his beautiful voice would drip acid scorn, but he would never push her away, never allow another to humiliate or abuse her. Oh, Raoul…Christine felt an overwhelming sadness for the friend she had lost, the boy she had known.

Meg knelt gracefully at her feet, reaching for Christine's hands where they lay in her lap, twisting a sodden handkerchief. "Christine…listen to me. This isn't your fault. You told me when Raoul left he freed you from your engagement, no? And you thought—we all thought—he was dead, killed in that accident. He can't possibly blame you for not waiting." Her big hazel eyes were imploring.

"I know, but…"

"Raoul will come to understand," Adele said gently. "Right now he is speaking from wounded pride. Look deep in your heart, child, and think. What do you feel for Erik? For Raoul? Whom do you wish was here, right now, in this room? Love can take many different forms. What do you feel for the man who was your teacher? For the man who was your childhood friend?" Her black eyes looked searchingly into Christine's face. "My dear…you need to look deeply and honestly into your own heart…and then you will know your answer."


Erik sipped the scalding hot coffee, forcing his bleary eyes to focus. Nothing could be done for the pounding in his head. And as for his heart….no, he would not think about it. It. Or anything else. The newspapers Khan had brought the night before still lay upon the table, and idly he flipped through the pages. The notice was small, inserted into the columns reserved for personal inquiries and notes, so small he nearly missed it. M Rouillard, I have information that may be of some use to you. Please contact. Father J. Information. A little too late.


The somber silence in the apartment wrapped around Christine, suffocating and oppressive. She raised the lid on the dusty piano and touched the keys, an inadvertent minor triad, mournful, falling quietly in the still room and fading. Already his presence—his absence—made itself felt so keenly. Christine wrapped her hands around her upper arms and paced.

It had been so terribly easy to fall into a routine, straightening a carelessly tossed newspaper, bringing him a cup of coffee or tea, cooking for two, though in truth he was the better cook, having years more practice. He had played the role of husband too well, showing her she need not fear him, that he had changed for her. All the little things, the music that bound them together, the occasional carriage rides, his amber voice reading aloud to her in the evenings…so similar to the experiences of over a year ago now, but without the uncertainty, the overlying blanket of fear and tension.

She ran a finger down the delicate stained glass of the window pensively. Meg had told her of Erik's reaction, as she'd swept up the remains of the—fortunately inexpensive—shattered vase in her dressing room. He'd vanished back below, for better or worse, and since then there had been silence, no sense of him watching, no indication of his intent. It was heart breaking, it was terrifying, it was maddening…and yet she knew he would not, could not, simply say what was in his mind and heart.

She missed him. She wanted him.

There was a time she'd thought him dead or worse, and had driven herself to near madness before risking the desperate, dangerous journey into the vaults of the Opera, to find him nearly gone, broken and bloody on the shores of that underground lake.

He would not survive another desertion.

She didn't want him to have to.


The strained sounds of the violin greeted her. Christine paused—she had not heard or seen the familiar instrument since before the mob had torn his underground world apart, and somehow she'd assumed the violin was yet another casualty of that night. Tonight, though, the instrument cried with impassioned longings, but the transition between notes was stiff, fumbling.

He turned, sensing her in the doorway. The sight of him shocked her; he'd visibly lost weight, there were new lines etched near his mouth and forehead. The dark eyes blazed out at her. He was not wearing the mask or wig.

"I didn't know you still had the violin," she said softly, for want of something to say.

Carefully, he laid the valuable instrument back into its case and loosened the bow. "It was hidden, fortunately," he said coolly, turning his face away. "And for a long time I could not play it." He held up his hand, the fingers swollen and aching.

Pulled in by the gesture, Christine crossed the room. Her smaller, cool fingers gently closed over his, caressing the pain away. "I've missed hearing it," she murmured, and slid her arms around him.

She tucked her head beneath his chin, reveling in the warm embrace. This was right. This was what she had been missing these last few days. The rumpled white shirt under her cheek smelled of clean linen, but below it was the very masculine scent of him, and she breathed it in deeply. In his arms she felt secure, felt his passion and his love and longing. He raised a shaking hand to stroke her hair and she moved, lips tickling his throat, her hands skimming the taut flat planes of his body, and felt him harden and tremble against her. The feel of him beneath her hands was right.

"What are you doing, my angel?" he grated.

In answer she tightened her arms around his thin torso, pressing her cheek to his heart. "I've missed you, too," she said softly, not trusting herself to say anything else.

Just a few days without her gentle embrace, the causal brush of her fingers, and his body already ached for her touch, a bone deep craving that could not be slaked and had no outlet. He was becoming the monster again, without her angelic soul to temper his fire. Desperate eyes met hers, and a savage swell of jealousy and need blinded him. With a vicious growl he jerked her to him, tightening arms around her possessively, holding her to his body like bands of iron. Fear took refuge in anger. "I cannot lose you again," he snarled, pressing her head to his chest, where she heard the deafening rapid hammering of his heart. "I will surely kill him, Christine, if I find him," he rasped, "and then you will hate me forever." His shaking fingers tangled in her soft hair, pulling it loose from the pins. He raised the dark curling mass to his face, inhaling her scent. "He is a man, too, Christine. Does he ache for you as I do? Are his nights filled with misery as are mine, longing for warmth and tenderness but only empty and silent?" He raised her face and claimed her lips, their cold touch heating instantly against her softness. Desire flooded veins in a body denied too long and he pressed against her, shuddering. "Oh Christine…you should not have come down here."

"I wanted to…I've been worried about you," she said softly.

He seized her hand, turning it over, the gems catching the light, and she heard his sudden intake of breath. "Can this be? Are you mine, yet?" His thumb brushed the ring.

The knowledge flooded her veins, sure and sweet, and in answer, she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him, caressing his good cheek. "Yes," she whispered, knowing it for the first time to be true. "Yours and only yours, now and forever."

And he was hers, too, this enigmatic man and his mercurial moods, full of anger and spite, whose music made angels weep, brilliant and frightening and intense, disfigured, passionate, and proud…he was hers, hers to fight for and protect, to cherish and caress, to drown in, to adore.

She caught his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. "Oh, God," she whispered, "I love you…so much I think it will consume me. Do not leave me again like that."

Disbelief warred with hope in his eyes. "Can this be true?" He searched her face, desperation growing frantic, looking for any sign of falsehood or prevarication. Her eyes were wet, meeting his own.

"God help me," he whispered, "I want to believe…"