A/N: Wow, it's been a bit- so sorry! Life, you know, stuff hah. I really hope this chapter is alright, I cannot thank you all enough for all the reviews and support! It means so much, but I should stop rambling. Please enjoy!

II. Whispers

She dreamt of Raoul. Free of restriction and sense, Christine drifted through the once endless summer days spent by the sea. She watched her younger, red cheeked self race through the gardens of the de Changy summer home. Raoul tailed behind her, his boyish grin and outstretched arms spurring her younger self to shriek in delight before darting off again. Christine beamed as young Raoul deliberately slowed his pace to let her younger self out run him, prolonging their game of cat and mouse. Her heart grew warm at the sight.

Was he truly so short back then?

The vibrant color of the summer flowers that surrounded them began to dull. Raoul picked up his pace, growing steadily translucent with every step. He dove for her younger self, sending them both tumbling in a fit of giggles to the ground. The pair came to a stop, and Christine waited with breathless anticipation. She remembered this, that particular day so many years ago.

On cue, the younger Christine rose to her knees and scrunched her face in thought. Her younger self clumsily pecked Raoul on the cheek. The last splash of color faded from the world as the scene disappeared and gave way to a new one.

Her father sat across from her. Cautiously, Christine regarded the setting around them. It was like no other place she had visited before, with a ceiling that opened to a stormy sky and walls that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Her father was clear as day across from her, but the other men sitting at their own tables around them were far less defined. No matter how much she squinted, she couldn't make out any of their features.

The faceless men were unsettling, bringing a cold sweat over her skin. Christine faced her father before one of the creatures noticed her. He smiled, bringing several wrinkles to the surface around his eyes and mouth. He reached out to take her hands, his smile unfaltering even as he spoke.

"I am expecting another to join us." His words left her baffled, though he seemed oblivious to her expression. "Here he is now!"

A chair scraped across the floor as it came to join their table. Christine dropped her father's hand. Her head began to ache, her stomach began to churn, and she wished for the scene to fade onto the next. She rapidly opened and closed her eyes, yet the world about her stayed firmly in place.

Erik gracefully settled into the chair beside her. He nodded to her father pleasantly, as if the two were old friends reuniting after many years apart. It was a strange gesture, as she never pictured Erik acting friendly. Bewildered, she sat deathly still, letting a thick silence overtake them.

Erik and her father seemed indifferent to the lull in sound. They eyed her patiently, neither diverting their stare for an eternity. A deep, hollow bell rumbled somewhere above them. All at once, the faceless men surrounding them stood.

It was then she noticed the faceless beings were not just men, but women and children as well. Some of the figures embraced, while others simply nodded or exchanged a firm handshake. Her mouth fell open as she spotted a faceless man cradling an infant shaped bundle, while a woman like figure clung to his side.

"Are you ready?"

Christine shook her head, thought her father's question was not for her. He stood behind his chair, his gaze reserved and knowing. The bell groaned again. Erik sighed before reluctantly rising from his chair.

"As if I have a choice in the matter." Erik turned to join her father. Christine sprung forward and caught his arm. Panic started to overtake her, sending her heart into double time.

Her throat was tight, her eyes were stung. Her mind screamed at her that something was wrong, she couldn't let Erik out of her grip. The bell boomed a final time. A handful of faceless spirits began to shamble off in one direction, leaving their companions behind. Erik gave her a miserable look. His mask was gone, she couldn't remember if he arrived without it.

"It's time," her father said firmly. He turned to join the condemned in line.

She was sure her heart was going to drum right out of her chest. Erik pried her hand off his arm. "Please, stay. Don't leave," she gasped. He wouldn't meet her eyes, perhaps he could not, but he gently squeezed her hand before letting go.

The world began to literally crumble. Bits of the floor and walls flaked off like ashes from a fire, pieces of the room grew completely black. A tremendous chorus of sobs echoed about as the remaining faceless ghosts grieved for the ones they had lost. Their grief turned to wails that pierced her heart. She felt faint.

With shaky legs and darkening vision, Christine stumbled forward. Every step drained her, her muscles screamed in exhaustion as the floor melted into a dark sludge. The thick substance rose from her ankles to her knees, and she screamed as she became cemented in place.

Inky tendrils grew out from within the muck and slithered up her torso. She cried out for Erik as her arms came to be pinned at her side. She spotted him fighting against the crowd to reach her, and for a moment she thought everything would be alright. As he called out for her, the snake like vines jerked her down into the darkness.

Christine hit the floor of her bedroom with a thud. She groaned and brought a hand to the back of her head. She winced as her fingers brushed over a small knot. She wondered if she bumped the nightstand during her tumble from bed.

Her skin was sticky with sweat, making her night clothes and tangled bedsheet cling to her skin. The tight coil of the sheet reminded her of the nightmarish tendrils, and she shivered.

Christine unraveled herself from the sheets before they could constrict her. She scooted away until her back met the wall, her eyes trained on the limp sheets. When she felt confident the covers would not spring to life and smother her, she dropped her head into her hands.

It was not unusual for her to have the occasional odd dream. She had grown quite accustomed to experiencing entirely bizarre dreams, as they had become more frequent through the years. However, this dream was unlike any before. It left her horrified, the entire experienced seared into her mind.

She truly, without doubt, had felt her father's hand. She had never been able to reach out and feel what hid within her dreams. How could one do such a thing? Her stomach dropped, she considered the possibility she was mad. Entirely, hopelessly mad.

Her hands fell to the floor as she was struck with a sudden thought. Cautiously, Christine brought her fingers to the knot on her head. Her eyes flashed from the bed to the bedsheets as her tired mind played catch up. She had fallen off the right side of the bed. Her nightstand was on the left side of said bed.

She couldn't possibly have bumped the corner of the nightstand on her way down, as it was entirely on the opposite side of where she had landed. Faintly, she recalled another part of her dream. Erik was at her door, resembling a drowned rat and ghostly pale at that. He was there, standing before her and he held her note.

The cold realization creeped up her neck. That was no dream, it couldn't be.

Christine stood, her heart heavy. Silently, she assured herself that was in fact a dream, even though she knew very well that was a lie. She glanced at the window as she crept to the door. It was still rather early, with only a few dim rays of light peeking through the curtains.

With a deep draw of breath, and a false sense of bravery, Christine pressed the door open. The dim sunlight pressed through the cheaper curtains in her sitting room easier than the ones in her room. It was enough to illuminate the room with a dull glow, though she didn't need light to immediately sense him.

Her head swiveled, and she crossed her arms. Her bare feet moved across the cold floor noiselessly. She felt surprisingly calm as she approached the shabby table that served as her dining room. The very same table Raoul had presented his grand idea for escape, for safety, but most importantly, for them.

She pushed those thoughts away like one would a pestering fly. Such thoughts were too painful, she needed all the strength she could muster. Christine stopped just short of the table.

A wheeze escaped Erik's sleeping form, causing her to wince. He sat hunched with his elbow on the table, his fist curled back to steady his head. It was her first opportunity to truly take in his appearance, as she had been too bewildered to do so the previous night. She could easily see each and every notch in his spine as it pressed against the clothing on his back. His shirt hung off his bony form, it reminded her of a corpse covered with a sheet.

It made her feel uneasy, to see him so disheveled. She had never seen him in anything less than opera best. Briefly, she wondered if it was all together proper to see him in such a state. Without his tail coat and vest, he simply did not look like the Erik she remembered.

Another wheeze. The rattle in his throat reminded her of her father, and the terrible sounds he made in his final days. The memory made her heart skip a beat. She didn't want to hear that sound anymore, not for another second. She couldn't stand it, it made her feel as if the walls were closing in.

"Erik."

His name was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Her voice was sharp, it surprised her how cold she sounded. Erik sprung to his feet like a cat doused with water. He stumbled to find his balance, his sunken eyes wide and burning.

Christine pressed her lips together in a tight line as Erik brought the back of his palms against the wall. It seemed to anchor him in place, though she noticed him shiver with each breath. He looked like a cornered animal, like a sickly creature with its foot caught in a snare. Despite the wild glow in his eyes, she wasn't frightened. Morbidly, she thought that a single, mild push would send him toppling over permanently.

The chance she had been longing for, day in and day out for weeks on end, was finally before her. They had pressing matters to discuss in her mind, and she held many hard-hitting questions within her arsenal. She had practiced what she would say every night as she waited for sleep to take her. Her moment was here, it was hers for the taking.

Erik turned his head to cough. The nights of fuming in bed, picturing the way she would confront him when the opportunity came, seemed far away. Planting itself at the front of her mind was the thought of her dream- the scene of Erik accepting some unknown fate and leaving with her father. All the harsh words, the bitter questions and determination for answers retreated to the back of her mind. It could wait, even though she was reluctant to let it all simmer.

"You fainted." Erik's hoarse voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She said nothing as he brought his hands to his sides. He practically squirmed under her gaze, kneading at the material of his trousers, his piercing eyes flickering from her face to ground. "You…fainted. Last night."

Her brows arched. "Yes, I'm aware." The unintentional icy edge in her tone made them both flinch. Christine cleared her throat, forcing her voice to stay level. "Erik?" When he met her eyes, she blurted the first thing that came to mind. "You look terrible."

Absolute silence met her bold observation. Her cheeks burned, and she stammered to find her voice. Erik's jaw clenched, his brow furrowed. She wondered if she could flee to her room before his burning eyes set her ablaze on the spot.

"Yes," he spoke carefully. "I'm aware."

"I didn't mean-!" She pressed closer to him, her hands still by her mouth in shame. Erik recoiled from her until he was completely pressing against the wall. "I didn't mean, well, I didn't mean like that," she pleaded, gesturing at the half white mask. "Are you ill? It's just, you seem very sick…."

Her voice trailed off into another silence. The whole ordeal was far too much, and she felt the need to escape behind the nearest locked door. She went to turn and hide, but his voice made her pause.

"A head cold," he croaked. "Merely a stubborn head cold." She didn't believe him, not one bit, and her face told him as much. "It is fine, I'm fine."

Christine shook her head, her lips pulled into a slight frown. A spot of red had caught her attention as he spoke, lingering just under the white porcelain that covered his nose. "Of course," she said pointedly. "That is why your nose is bleeding? A small head cold?"

What little hint of color remaining in Erik's face drained away. He scowled, although she wasn't sure if it was directed at her or at himself, and pressed his fist beneath his nose. She burned to press further, to draw an actual answer from him. He was lying to her, no head cold made one appear two steps from death. Christine sighed, as she knew there would be little point in interrogating him.

She fetched him a rag, returning only to pause midway. Erik sat with one fist still under his nose and the other gripping the edge of the table hard enough to make his knuckles white. Wordlessly, Christine offered the bit of torn cloth to him. Her offering sat untouched for several seconds, as Erik's hazy eyes fought to focus on the object in her hand. His head swayed ever so slightly side to side, reminding her of the slow motion of a boat at sea. He blinked before sluggishly taking the rag from her.

Their fingers brushed together for a moment, and Christine jerked back. She held her hand to her chest and stared at him, even as he refused to meet her eyes. His skin was like hot kettle, with no trace of the coldness that normally lingered within his touch. Erik lowered the stained rag from his face, but the absence of more blood pooling from his nose did little to soothe her.

Her hand went for his head. Erik nearly fell from his chair as he slammed back, as far away from her hand as he could. He huffed to catch his breath before eyeing her suspiciously.

"What are you doing," he hissed.

Not even the dangerous edge in his voice could keep her back, not when her instinct was screaming at her to do something, anything, to fix him. Christine brought her hand out to him once again.

He plucked her hand from the air like a striking snake. Erik held her wrist with an iron grip, his burning skin almost painful against hers. His eyes darted from her fingers to her face, and she waited for him to speak.

"Not the mask. Not again."

She could have slapped him. Christine huffed and ripped out of his grip, although she suspected he let her pull away without trying. She was seething with disbelief, she wanted to scream. With her hands balled at her sides, Christine stomped her foot and let out a frustrated groan.

"You impossible man! Oh you- I wasn't reaching for your mask!" Her voice grew shrill, and her face went hot. "I was checking for a fever, Erik. How terrible of me!"

Christine turned her chin away. She bitterly wiped at the angry tears threatening to spill over. She truly was mad, there was no other explanation! She was certain, who else would feel a painful, biting sense of fear for the health of a crazed, murderous-

There was a soft tug on her hand. She kept her head turned, horrified at the thought of breaking down into tears if she looked. Erik's larger hand carefully rested on her wrist, not quite clasping as he waited for her to react. She did not, but she let him guide her hand to the exposed half of his forehead. It was like touching a hot cup of tea after a walk home in the snow.

Timidly, Christine brought her eyes back to him. Erik titled his chin up to watch her, his hand still gently resting over hers. It was clear his skin was feverish, but she gently brushed over his temple. She had to be sure, of course, that she felt a fever- to be absolutely sure. A small sigh fell from his lips, thrilling her. How odd, that such an unintentional sound could send a pleasant shock up her spine.

She quite enjoyed that feeling. Feeling bolder, but Christine trailed further down. The bone beneath his cheek was sharp, a sort of jutting ridge that hovered over the gaunt emptiness that was the rest of his exposed face. She wondered how his face would feel when he wasn't so sickly, as whatever illness plagued him had stolen a concerning chunk of weight from his already thin form.

Her touch sent Erik into what she could only describe as a trance. His head turned to press against her palm, his eyes fluttering cold. They stood like that for a time, neither daring to be the first to say something.

The spell was broken when she felt him start to sway under her hand. His breathing grew sharper as he slipped back into a dazed state. Christine kneeled before him, again finding his unbalanced movements similar to a rocking boat. Erik groaned and hunched his shoulders. His trembling hands came to cover her clasped ones.

"Stop, stop moving," he breathed.

"Erik, I haven't moved. I'm sitting still. "Christine worried the skin of her inner lip, clueless as to what he was going on about.

"No, no, you're spinning," he squeezed his eye shut. "Everything is spinning."

She felt defenseless, helpless to help him through his episode. Christine drew blood on her lip, making her eyes sting. It truly was an episode, whatever was happening to him. She didn't know how to pull him out of it, she only hoped it would fade like the previous one.

"It will pass," he grimaced, shocking her back to the present. She wondered if he could perhaps read her mind, but he carried on. "It will pass, in time. It always does. It will fade, with time."

"What sort of sickness is it?" she coaxed, eyes wide.

He hummed at her question, bowing his head to lean forward and rest against his hands around hers. She could hear him wheeze with each breath.

"One of my own doing," he answered gravely.

A/N: Hi, if you made it to the end I just wanted to thank you! Please let me know what you thought, even if you want to rip it shreds- that's okay! Any and all feedback is welcome, have at it. I will try to have the next chapter up sooner, promise!