A/N: Oh dear. I predict I'll get some hate for portraying Raoul thus (not a fan of the sword fight scene in the movie, actually), but I felt it had to be done to move the plot along. Christine is starting to stand up for her own beliefs little by little though, and that's a good thing. Whew, final exams are almost around the corner, so just a heads up that posting may not be very regular. (Already I am late with this week's post).

Masked Man 2: Yes, definitely the cemetery fight! I did not put a lot of detail into it though, so I hope it doesn't disappoint.

Lydia: thank you (:

Nikki1991: I know, it's such a joy to write scenes between these two! I'm glad you enjoyed the short part about them, I haven't written scenes of the two of them for such a long time.

marial0789: Patience, patience. Scenes of the two of them will be aplenty soon! Haha

Mikazuki Okami: I think one of the best parts of writing is the challenge of making the story original and unique yet sticking to the storyline as it should be, haha! Thank you for all your support always (:

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Chapter 50: The Graveyard

Paris, 1899

Erik tugged on the horse's reins, pulling the carriage to a gradual halt in front of the cemetery that Christine had pointed out to him on the way. He hopped down from the driver's box, and helped Christine out of the carriage. She stepped down wonderingly, her eyes searching the darkness of the graveyard. She pulled the hood of her cape down, her breath coming in short puffs of mist in the chilly morning air.

"Come this way, Angel." She unlatched the gate to the cemetery, and began her solitary walk down the path.

In the dim morning light, the graveyard was altogether a bone-chilling place, yet elegant in its entirety somehow. Erik followed behind Christine, taking in the smell of the damp soil, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots as he walked on the makeshift path, the dewy drops scattered across leaves on sweeping branches of tall trees standing firm, and the cold marble of tombstones in all shapes and sizes. Some tombs had been overgrown, the marble headstones cracked with age and with the tendrils of ivy running amok across their surfaces, covering the inscriptions upon them. Others looked freshly cleaned, with flowers placed before the tombstone in silent offering.

Christine finally stopped before a modest tombstone, a roundish block of marble flanked by two small angels. Its surface was covered with fallen leaves and dirt, and the tomb had been overgrown by weeds. Christine bent down and began to clear the tomb.

Silently, resolutely, Erik bent down next to her and helped to sweep away the rotting leaves and tear the wild weeds away from the tomb. When the tomb was clean at last, Christine stood slowly, brushing her hands together to remove the dirt.

"How have you been, Papa?" She whispered, and Erik heard the poignancy in her tone, felt the sadness, and knew that she still missed her beloved Papa dearly.

"How have you been?" She said again, reaching into her cape and producing a small bunch of flowers, a myriad of colours and species, tied together with a small blue ribbon. "I have come to visit you, Papa."

She placed the flowers onto the grave reverently. Erik reached into his pockets and produced a large rose bloom, which he handed to her. She smiled tremulously with unshed tears, and placed his rose beside her flowers.

"Papa, I have brought someone with me this time. He is my teacher, papa, and he came to me as the Angel of Music. Do you remember? You used to tell me stories about the Angel of Music. Papa, we are to perform his opera on the stage of the Palais Garnier soon. Are you not proud of me? Meet Erik, Papa."

Erik bowed awkwardly in respect, unsure of what he was to do. He looked at the inscription upon the tombstone.

In loving memory of Gustave Daae

Beloved husband and father

Talent violinist

He is with the Angels now.

"He would have been proud of me," Christine murmured. "His only wish was to see me stand upon the stage of the Palais Garnier, where he had once stood himself as a solo violinist."

"I've heard him play before." Erik said quietly. "In my travels a long time ago, I chanced upon a wandering musician in the streets, accompanied by a child. I did not dare move closer because of my mask, but I hid myself in a small alley to watch, and to listen. The violinist had removed his violin from his case, and I noted that it was one of top quality, despite his shabby clothes. He placed his hand upon the bow, and the music that flowed from the violin put me into a state of joy. Such quality, such talent! I longed to try my hands on that marvellous instrument, to learn from that musician."

"Papa and I used to play on the streets, when his health began deteriorating and he could not find any proper work," Christine whispered, turning toward Erik with large eyes.

"Beside the violinist was a young girl, with brown hair and a luminous face, and as he played, she began to sing. She drew the crowds with her song; how could she not? That voice, as melodious and clear as it was, should have been celebrated and nourished. I hid in the alley for as long as I could without drawing unnecessary attention to myself, and when the song ended, I quickly left, but I never forgot that scene.

And years later, I had the chance to hear that voice again, in the chapel of the Palais Garnier." Erik finished his story sombrely. "I would like to think it was a strange twist of fate."

"You were fated to become my teacher, then, Angel." Christine smiled a small smile at him. "And now, I would like to sing to my Papa."

She opened her mouth and took a deep breath, her voice coming slowly but surely in the quiet cemetery, clear, vibrant, and beautiful.

Passing bells and sculpted angels

Cold and monumental

Seem for you the wrong companions

You were warm and gentle

She ended the song on a perfect note, breathing heavily. She turned toward Erik, who nodded approvingly, but tensed when he heard galloping hoof-beats echoing in the near distance.

"What is it, Angel?" She asked, startled. "Have you heard something?"

He placed a finger upon his lips, and then disappeared into the shadows of the tall trees. She looked around wildly for him, but it was not long before she heard a very familiar voice.

"Christine! Christine!" Raoul appeared at the gate of the cemetery, his blond hair dishevelled from his ride. He ran forward, grabbing her and pulling her into his arms. "Christine, are you alright?"

"Why would I not be?" She stepped back, confused. "Raoul, I have simply come to visit my Papa's grave. Surely nothing could happen?"

"I saw you this morning! You were driven away in an unknown carriage, and you did not tell me you were visiting your father! I saw the carriage outside the cemetery, Christine, the empty carriage. Where is the driver? Who did you come with?" He blustered, looking around.

"She came with me."

Christine gasped and turned to see her Angel step out of the shadows. Raoul's face turned red.

"You!" He pushed Christine behind him. "You monster! How dare you! You dare to kidnap her, to bring her to this sacred place of resting… have you no shame?"

Erik advanced, but Raoul pulled a gun suddenly out of his coat pocket, aiming at Erik. "Stay back, you evil madman!"

"Raoul, please!" Christine grabbed his arm. "Raoul, what are you doing?"

"He needs to be stopped once and for all!" Raoul struggled to free his arm from Christine's hands. "Christine, let me end this!"

"Monsieur, I mean no harm," Erik held his hands up. "I merely sought to accompany Christine to her father's grave, to meet the talented violinist."

"What nonsense you utter! Accompany? You must have forced her to come here with you, for whatever sick reason you had in your mind! No, Opera Ghost, this ends here and now!" He grabbed the pistol in both hands, aimed, and shot. The shot went off with a loud bang, and Christine shrieked, covering her eyes.

When she opened them, she saw that her teacher was now clutching onto one of his arms, his hand stained crimson by blood that was welling out of his injured arm. Raoul had rushed forward with the pistol, apparently intending to apprehend him, but her teacher had ducked Raoul's fists with much effort, then kicked Raoul's legs out from under him in a smooth, practiced, move, before dashing into the trees. Raoul fell backward, slamming into a large tombstone behind him.

Chistine ran forward. "Raoul! Raoul, are you alright?"

He shrugged off her hands, even though blood was now trickling down his forehead from where he had cut it as he fell against the old marble tombstone. He struggled to get up. "He's leaving a blood trail… I can still get him."

Christine pushed him down. "No, Raoul, no!" She shouted at him.

He looked at her, surprised. "Do you not want his evil reign to end, Christine? He dared to bring you here, to this sacred place! That freak of nature!"

"He is not a freak of nature, Raoul!" Christine cried out, tears welling in her eyes. "Raoul, you are the one who has dared to taint the purity of this place. You spilled blood in this place, upon the tombstones of those who had been resting in peace."

He got up slowly, taking in her red face, her tears. "Christine," he said softly, reaching toward her. "Christine, I am sorry…"

She turned away from him. "Let us leave, Raoul. We have made too much trouble here today already.

She marched away to the gate of the cemetery, and climbed into the empty carriage. Raoul silently tethered his horse to the carriage, and climbed into the driver's box, taking up the reins.

The journey back to the Palais Garnier was a silent one.

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Erik stumbled into his house, his mind dizzy from the loss of blood, the makeshift bandage he had torn from his cape damp with blood. He managed a few steps, before he collapsed onto the floor.

Stupid, stupid fool.

To have thought that you could end this peacefully.

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Not long after, Amélie made her way down to Erik's house, with a strange feeling in her throat. She had somehow felt that something was wrong. She took one look at the prone man on the floor in a pool of blood, before dashing back to the opera house as fast as she could, her face white.

"Madame Giry, Madame Giry!" She banged on the ballet mistress's door, even though it was still early in the morning. "Madame!"

The door opened, and Madame peeked out, her eyes clear and sharp despite the time. "What is it, child? Why are you making such a big fuss?"

"It's Erik!" Amélie said, almost close to tears. "He's injured; I saw him lying on the floor in a pool of blood, and I ran up immediately. Please, Madame, you have to come down now!"

Madame Giry nodded, pulling Amélie into the room. "Come now, quickly. We will go through the wardrobe; it is faster."

The two ran helter-skelter down to Erik's house, in such a hurry that Madame did not even bring her cane. She unlatched the door, and pushed it open, rushing into Erik's house, Amélie hot on her heels.

"Come, Amélie, we will help him to the bed." Together, the two women tried their best to move him into the bedroom, and onto the bed, without jostling his wound. Erik shifted restlessly, groaning obliviously, and Amélie fought to hold back tears.

Once he was safely on the bed, Madame Giry directed Amélie to boil hot water and sterilise towels while she checked out the wound. Amélie rushed to the kitchen, grateful for the stoic Madame Giry who remained largely calm. In the kitchen, her mind wandered to all sorts of unforgiving places as she boiled the water.

What if he was not fine? What if he was too badly injured?

What if Erik was gone for good?

No!

Her hands gripped the handles of the pot. No, she had to stay calm—Erik was more important right now. She could not think these silly thoughts, she had to hurry back with the water.

She grabbed a basin, the pot of boiling water and clean towels, and rushed back to the room, where Madame Giry had already removed Erik's shirt and was examining the nasty looking wound.

"How is it, Madame?" Amélie whispered.

"Bullet wound." Madame Giry gave Erik a very stern look. "Where could he have gone to have sustained this injury? What could he have done?"

"Bullet wound?" Amélie felt faint. "Is it serious? Will he live?"

"He is fortunate." Madame Giry said grimly. "Calm yourself, child. It is not as bad as it sounds. The bullet went through cleanly, thank goodness. It would have been much harder if it had been lodged within the flesh. I do not think there is any shrapnel left within the wound; we just have to clean it and stitch it up."

Madame Giry went out and came back in with the first-aid box. She opened it methodically and set about cleaning Erik's wound with alcohol. He jerked in his comatose state, mumbling incoherently. Madame Giry looked at Erik's sweating face, and sighed.

"The fever must be making things worse. Amélie, get a cool cloth and help to calm him down while I stitch up the wound. And remove the mask. Yes, I have seen him without it."

Amélie sat by Erik's side, smoothing the cloth over his feverish face, watching as his face, half handsome, half disfigured, contorted in pain. Her heart twisted as she heard him moan in pain.

"Amélie…" She thought she heard him mumble incoherently, his head turning from side to side wildly in his feverish state. She placed her cool hand on his cheek, shushing him, and assuring him that she was there. He seemed to quieten down after that, turning his face inward into her palm. Amélie swiped her free hand over her eyes, breaking up the tears that had formed.

Madame Giry finished up the last stitch and cut the thread. She bandaged the wound quickly and efficiently, and went to the kitchen to wash the blood-stained towels and sheets. When she returned, she saw Amélie clutching onto Erik's prone hand tightly, as though she feared he would disappear. She sighed, and retrieved fresh blankets from a cupboard, which she draped over Erik carefully.

"Will you stay here and take care of him, child? I shall be needed back at the opera house. If anybody asks about you, I will mention that you felt poorly and you were resting in my rooms to prevent spreading your germs. I will be back tomorrow to check on the wound, but the most important thing is to break his fever. He will live if the wound does not get infected."

"Yes, thank you so much, madame." Amélie said tearfully. "Thank you so much for coming down."

Madame Giry smiled wryly. "Take good care of him, Amélie."

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A/N: Hopefully I'll have some time next week to write! But til then, have a good week, y'all. Remember to leave a review/favourite/follow! xx hazel