A/N: Yes, I write a lot of author's notes. I like feeling connected to my readers. You all get to see little pieces of myself through my writings, but this way you can hear me as I am. Let me know if it bugs you and I'll stop. Or just skip over them. :)

The last part was somehow accidently deleted from my computer so I had to type it up pretty fast, excuse me if there's editorial errors in it.

I used to write personal responses to every comment people made on the chapters, but apparently that's not allowed anymore. However, I'd be more than happy to write you back individually.

I'm really just trying to butter you up because you'll all hate me after this. Please don't leave me. Don't give up on me. It WILL get better. Have faith. It's needed in a story like this. If you're really freaking out by the end, let me know and I'll spill the beans.

Chapter Three

Not long after my birthday there had been a lot of odd noises filtering down into the fifth cellar. Sometimes I would feel the ground quiver slightly, mimicking me. Over the course of the next few weeks, they had been growing, both in volume and frequency. Erik wouldn't tell me what was happening, but he took to disappearing more and more. I had no idea where he would go and it frightened me to be alone with the bangs resounding seemingly all around me . Sometimes they were so bad that things would fall. More than once I had found my father's picture that I had kept on my bedside table on the floor. It happened so often in fact, that I put the picture in the drawer for safe-keeping.

Erik and I talked more often than before, but still it was mostly just placid conversation, and I almost always had to begin. It felt like he was afraid to scare me back into silence if he were to talk first.

He didn't read as much anymore either. He sat with his fingers steepled in front of him, lost in thought. I could read the distress in his eyes, but whenever I asked him what the matter was, he would just shake his head and mutter unintelligibly under his breath. Eventually, I gave up asking.

One day, I awoke with a yelp as a blast resounded so loudly that it caused me to cover my ears. I waited until the crashes seemed to slow and I rose from my bed and quickly threw on my dressing robe. There was another round of bangs and the ground shook so violently that my solitary mirror, the only one that remained uncovered, hanging on the wall, fell to the ground and shattered. I tried to run but lost my balance with another jolt of the ground and fell. I felt something sharp against my arms, but there was far too much adrenaline coursing through my veins to think about it. I had to get to Erik. I would demand that he would tell me what was going on.

I am sure the shattering made quite a noise because there was a sound of feet thudding uncharacteristically against the stone and as I looked up, Erik came racing through the door. In one swift moment he had me on my feet and was holding me at a distance.

"Christine, are you hurt?" He asked breathlessly.

"No, I'm fine. What was that?"

"You're bleeding," he said with detachment, ignoring my question.

I looked down and with confusion saw that he was right. "I must have fallen on the glass," I said absently. I had never been good around blood and felt the room start to spin slightly. He sat me down on the bed and I gasped in objection when he grabbed the sheet and ripped a strip off. He inspected my arm carefully to be sure that no glass was embedded in the wound. It wasn't that bad, honestly. No more than a scratch, but Erik looked at it as though someone had taken a dagger to the Mona Lisa. He went to the wash basin, perched precariously on my vanity. Most of the water had sloshed out, but there was still enough for him to soak the torn piece of what had been an expensive bed sheet. He sat next to me and with the utmost carefulness began to clean my wound.

When he seemed confident that it wasn't life threatening and I would be just fine, he pressed me close to him and I felt the frantic thudding of his heart. The contact was so unusual and his heartbeat so erratic that it scared me more than the noises. I pulled away from him to look him in the eyes.

"Erik, what is going on? You must tell me the truth."

He took a deep breath. He obviously did not want to tell me, but I had to know. After a short silence that felt like several lifetimes to me, he said, "It's the commune, Christine. They're attacking Paris." His words were slow and careful, as though explaining it to a child.

I knew that nothing good that was causing the noise and rumblings, but I had not expected to find that France was under attack.

"We- We should escape. Go somewhere safe." I wasn't sure where we could go, Erik's appearance aside, how would we get out of the city now? The Opera House had been mostly abandoned since the fire caused by the chandelier, so I did not worry about anyone still living in the dormitories.

"And where do you suggest we go, mon ange?" He asked with a humorless laugh. "Even if we could escape, there is no where we could go that the commune would not eventually plague. This is the safest place for you for now."

I didn't miss the choice of words. "What about you? Is this not a safe place for you?"

He sighed. "I will be fine."
I pulled away from him. "That's not what I asked. Why are you not safe here?"

He seemed almost angry at me as his jaw clenched. I couldn't blame him, I was pestering him like an impatient child, but I was not going to sit by without knowing all that I could. I had played along long enough, now I wanted answers.

"Because Christine, I have been killing their men," he admitted with obvious reluctance. "The Opera House is a very appealing store house for their food and weapons. One of them was lucky enough to discover the catacombs without getting caught in one of the traps and reported it to his commander and now they plan on using it for their make-shift prison. I have been picking off the ones who wander too far in and occasionally just the stupid ones who seem to be too curious. Now, if I am to be caught I will be killed and although I hate to think of what they would do to you, you would be spared."

Unknowingly, I had managed to move slowly backwards away from him and was now flat against the headboard, unable to go any further away from him without risking stepping on the glass. There was another thunderous crash, but not nearly as bad as before. I ignored it completely, focused only on what he has said. I was shaking my head, trying to rid myself of what I had just heard. Before I wanted to know exactly what was going on, but now I wanted nothing more than to be able to forget it. He had been wise in not telling me. I was scared out of my mind now. The idea of Erik killing . . . of being killed, it was too much for my brain to handle. The room began to spin again, though my arm had stopped bleeding. I could feel myself beginning to slip slightly to the side, naturally, because it was me, I was slipping towards the floor instead of the protective mattress.

I felt strong hands on my shoulders at the last second and a muttered sound. Someone talking? Maybe. I couldn't understand anything that was being said though.

I was brought roughly back to reality by Erik gently shaking me.

"Christine, listen to me. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise. I would die before I let them touch you. You must not be scared; I need you to be strong. Can you do that Christine?"

I numbly nodded my head. He again pulled me close to him, not even seeming to realize it himself and I did feel secure, but I did not want him to risk his life for me. I didn't deserve it. I was an awful person. I had hurt Raoul beyond repair and now because of me Erik was not only risking his life, but - I forced myself to think of the word - killing others. Why did there have to be so much death?

That had been why he had been leaving so often. Sometimes he had been gone hours at a time. He was killing people. No, I could not think of it like that. I would not think of it like that. It was too painful. He was protecting me. For some reason, that did not provide much comfort to me. I would rather he stay beside me than go looking for danger.

The physical proximity to each other lasted only long enough for him to carry me to his bedroom, the second grandest room in the underground house second only to my own. He sat me down in his bed and told me that I would be safe there. When he went to leave again he stopped and hesitantly looked back at me with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, pulled up to my chin, my brown eyes wide with fright, feeling very small in such a large bed. Something flashed across his face, almost pained, but something else was there... hope? It was the closest thing my mind registered to the very fleeting look. He was gone before I could piece it together that he was taking in the sight of me in his bed.

After that, he would not let me get up from the bed unless absolutely necessary, and then it was only with reluctance. He brought me everything I would need: food, water, fresh clothes, books. I knew it was for my safety and I didn't feel like a prisoner to it, I just wished there was something more I could do.

I didn't know where he had been sleeping since my move into his bedroom, or if he was even sleeping at all. The circle under his eye on the unmasked side of his face was getting darker and darker. I assumed that its twin had a matching bruised look.

When Erik would return now, I knew instantly every time he had eliminated another of the opposition because he would not look at me, but he never let me see a speck of blood on him. On the rare occasion when the fighting seemed to be off in the distance, he would allow me to sit outside the room, but only where he could see me, and even then he seemed nervous, agitated, as though he were waiting for something to fall on me.

He had stopped using the boat. He said it was too dangerous that someone find it and then be able to get to the lair. There were a surprisingly many ways of entering and exiting the underground, but Erik alone knew them.

He assured me several times that Madame Giry and Meg had left the city long before the fighting reached the Paris city limits. They were living with the friend of a cousin in Northern England, much too far away to even be concerned about the fighting, so I had no need to worry about their safety and after a while, I began to relax about Erik's safety some as well. He knew what he was doing. He had never come back with so much as a scratch as far as I could see. The probability of him getting hurt seemed so minimal that the idea became almost humorous. After all, who could possibly catch the Phantom of the Opera? Almost humorous. Almost.

It was late; Erik had been gone for nearly three and a half hours. I knew because I counted the minutes by meticulously as I lay curled up in his bed. Something had just felt wrong. He had left when he thought I was sleeping. He always checked in on me before he would leave, but I was a good actress; it wasn't difficult to pretend to wrap up my arms and breath deep and regularly. What was difficult was keeping up the façade when he would sit down next to me while he thought I lay asleep and he would ever so gently brush a stray curl from my face, or he would run a finger down my jaw line with so much care that it seemed nothing more than a rose had been laid across my face. It was a wonder he didn't hear my heart pounding. It sounded loud enough in my ears to awaken the dead.

Normally, I would just lay awake until I heard his return, when he would check in on me again before he went off to pace some more.

On that night in particular though, I was restless. No longer content to stay in the bed, I disobeyed Erik's strict rule and pulled on my night robe and escaped to sit in a chair with a book that I did not bother to read. I knew I would be in trouble when Erik returned and found me out of the bedroom, but I didn't care. I was just unable to fall asleep and needed to know when he came back.

I do not know how long I had been at it when I heard a painful groan coming from near the lake's edge followed by the sound of something heavy falling to the floor with a dull thud. I ran to the sounds automatically, knowing instinctively that I wasn't in danger, as a great and terrible dread began to fill me. It only increased as I got nearer. The lair wasn't extremely large, but it felt like I was wading through a thick quagmire. My feet took too long to move, though I was practically running. I gasped when I came within sight of him. He was slumped against the ground, his back to me, a trail of blood following after him. His hand print was a terrifying shade of red against the wall, where it slid down to where he was grasping feebly at the stones.

Flinging myself down at his side, I turned him so I could see. His forehead had a deep gash from the bridge between his eyes to the right side of his scalp, covering his face - in the now absence of his mask - so throughly with blood, that I couldn't even see his deformity. What I did see was the dark stain that covered most of his upper torso. His jacket was also missing and the snowy white of his shirt was now a deep crimson and was tattered and ripped in several places.

Without caring about anything else, I ripped the shirt from his body, sending the remaining buttons flying in every direction. I had to remind myself to breathe as I looked at the three lateral gashes that were pouring out his life's blood. They were too terrible to even see how deep they were. His eyes were closed, his left was swollen shut, and his breathing was shallow. I ran quickly to fetch anything to stop the bleeding. I found my pile of clean cloths and rags that I used for cleaning and grabbed as many as would fit in my arms and ran back to him. By the time I reached him, he was on his hands and knees, crawling towards his room. I dropped the rags and knelt by his side.

"Erik, you must lay down, I need to stop the bleeding," I pleaded with him, trying to figure how best to lay him down without causing further injury.

His words were slurred and his visible face was paling with every movement. I did not understand all that he said, but I caught the words "die", "peace" and "bed".

Against my better judgment, but knowing that it was pointless to deny him what he wanted even in his current state, I carefully wrapped my arms around him and helped him up, avoiding coming even close to those three gashes that were ripping me apart to just look at. I supported nearly his entire weight as I struggled to help him walk. After what I was certain was far too long for him to try to be standing, we made it to his bedroom and he collapsed on the bed.

I ran back out for the rags and when I returned, I was afraid that it was already too late, but I caught the barely detectable rise and fall of his wounded chest.

I placed the clothes to his injuries and he let out a pitiful groan. My own breath was choked with tears that I refused to let escape. I worked on him feverishly for what felt like an eternity trying desperately to get the bleeding to stop. I tried to form a tourniquet on each wound, but my arms were weak and I didn't know if I could pull them tight enough to stop the bleeding completely. I could only hope that I would stop it all in time.

I didn't know if it was because he had lost so much blood or if the tightly wrapped strips of cloth were working, but the bleeding slowed. Strangely, the smell or sight of so much blood did not make the room spin, I was far beyond being so affected. Erik was more importantly than my queasy stomach and that helped me to push away the nausea.

"Don't you die on me, Erik. I need you. Please stay with me." I begged with him all through the night. Though I am quite certain that he never heard me, occasionally, I would hear him utter my name.

I left his side to get more clean rags and water. I remembered seeing a small stash of medical items tucked away in one of the kitchen cubbords and I rummaged through it until I found things that I would need. I knew laudanum would help him, but I hadn't the first idea how much to give him. I aired on the side of caution and gave him only a small amount, hoping to ease any pain that he was feeling before I meticulously began cleaning his wounds. I began to crudely sow shut the three gashes and the uncountable number of smaller cuts. I didn't care about making it look nice and neat, only getting them closed before the bleeding got worse again.

I knew I had been working to save him for hours, but I did not know just how many. I didn't want to know. It could have been only two hours or it could have been two days. Despite my exhaustion, I continued to clean the blood away, I saved his face for last, knowing that it would be harder than his chest because it was one wound that I was far too late to heal. One that no one could physically mend. I managed to get the cut sown without trouble, but I was hesitant to clean the blood away this time.

With shaking hands and my last clean piece of cloth I began the task of revealing what I had been absolutely terrified to see. As more and more of the deformity became exposed, I realized something that caught me entirely off guard:

I didn't care.

Even as I was staring at the full extent of what he had spent a lifetime concealing, I couldn't find it in me to be afraid of it. He was still Erik. He was still my angel, and I realized with another shock of epiphany that I loved him. Even as he lay on the stoop of death's door, I knew that if he died I would die as well. Maybe not physically, not right away, though I would when I ran out of food since I had no way to leave, but I knew I would welcome it. Erik believed he didn't have a soul, but I knew he did, because it was sitting beside him, holding his hand and gazing at him with love. And he was my soul, it was so plain that it was such a wonder I hadn't seen it before. I must have been so blind.

I was too exhausted to cry but I couldn't sleep. I cleaned out the pile of bloodied rags that went almost to my knees. I scrubbed furiously at them to make fresh dressings. I had had to use the remainder of my sheets, braving the glass that still covered my floor. It seemed impossible that just a few days ago he was the one cleaning my cut that was now infinitesimal in comparison. I was quickly running out of things to use to keep clean bandages on him. I had even used some of my clothes to mop up the blood, but at least it kept my hands busy. I had done all I could for Erik, all I could do was wait and see if it was enough.

His fever spiked some time during the night and I had never felt so helpless. I tried putting a wet cloth that I had just scrubbed the blood out of to his head, but I wasn't sure if it was working.

It was when he started talking in his sleep that I allowed the first creeping of doubt that he might not survive. Until then I had not allowed myself to think of another option. He would live. He had to live so that I could tell him that I loved him. However much I tried to push it from my mind, though, it would not leave. Most of the things he said made little to no sense to me. He spoke of someone – or something – called Sacha. At first I thought maybe it was his mother, but the way he spoke about her, I could tell it was not, nor was it sounding like any woman at all. Indeed, the more he spoke about her, the more she sounded like a dear pet.

He spoke of other things I could only assume happened to him in the gypsy fair. Raoul had told me about his growing up in one. Madame Giry had apparently told him after the masquerade ball for New Year's.

It was a strange insight to Erik as he relived his past. I knew that he never would have told me of those things if he had not been delirious, and I wished with all my heart that it had not been under those circumstances that I did learn them, but I was almost glad that I had heard them, it helped me to understand him a little more.

I was certain that a new day had already dawned and left while I sat there, keeping a cool rag on his head and listening to his mumbling. I had started nodding off while still sitting next to him but was brought quickly back to the present when he spoke my name. I struggled to hear what he said. I leaned down close to him to hear him better.

"Christine. I . . . love . . . Christine."

I laid down fully next to him, curling into his cold body. I didn't mind it know. Not know that I understood what I had been feeling all along. I was careful not to touch the bandages that I had covering his wounds, but I still had my hand lay across his chest and my head cradled on his shoulder. Tears of every emotion finally silently slid down my face.

"I love you too, Erik."

And with that, I fell asleep.

I hadn't meant to fall asleep. Perhaps if I hadn't, things would have been different. I might have heard the hushed voices creeping closer, or even the sound of booted footfalls. I might have seen the dark shadows creeping ever closer to where Erik and I lay. I might have been able to try to conceal our hiding place, or move us somewhere possibly more safe. I might have been able to defend us, or at least put up somewhat of a fight. I might have done many things had I only stayed away. But I hadn't, and so my first clue was being suddenly yanked from the bed like a rag doll.

The smell of alcohol and unwashed clothes assailed my nose, but that wasn't what I noticed first. I saw maybe six of them, all standing around, looking carefully about to check for dangers. Their uniforms were different than any I had ever seen. They almost looked just thrown together.

I struggled against the iron grip that held me closely to a firm chest. I managed to get one hand free and with a scream raised it above my head, intending to inflict damage, but my wrist was caught easily. I was spun around, my arm twisted against my back. The man holding me forced it upwards and I felt a shock of pain rip through my shoulder. He didn't have to tell me that without much more pressure he would snap my bones.

"Feisty little thing, aren't you, my sweet?" an evil voice crooned in my ear. "And such a pretty little thing, too. I wonder if you taste as delicious as you look." His tongue flicked out to trace my neck and I screamed, feeling my shoulder nearly wrenched from its socket as I tried desperately to get away from him.

He shoved me towards another man and I felt rough hands grabbing me everywhere. I screamed again and was rewarded with a harsh, stinging slap across my face. I stared, open mouthed, wondering what had just happened. The first man yanked my hair back, forcing my head up, but I looked away, anywhere but at his wretched face.

"You will learn your place, little one."

The man now holding me whispered in my ear, "If you enjoy opening your mouth so much, we'll give you something to fill it besides your screams."

I fought the bile rising in my throat as I realized what his words meant.

"Rousseou," the first man, the one that had slapped me, said, "how fares our prisoner?"

I thought at first that he had meant me, but the question didn't make sense. I struggled to turn around in the direction of the bed, the direction the voice had been asking. My eyes fixed on his face with hatred as he leaned down to the statue still figure covered in bandages.

Two words ripped my life in half.

Two words has never been so powerful.

The man looked up, his gaze meeting my own, though his answer was directed to another.

"He's dead."