A/N: I quite like this chapter, too. =)

There are only two chapters to go after this one. I'm not sure if I'll get the whole story up before Christmas like I wanted, due to real life commitments and the Day in question approaching like an unrelenting train, but I will endeavour to get it up before New Year, at least.

That being said, here's the next chapter for anyone reading.

CHAPTER V

Of course, they never did understand. Even Mme. Giry, whom Christine had thought would need no explanation, did not fully comprehend her grief.

A month had passed since calling off her engagement to Raoul, and life seemed to be passing in a haze of nothingness. She awoke, dressed, stared at her breakfast, and made the short journey to the Opéra, every morning the same as the last. She rehearsed in a distracted daze, to the chagrin of M. Reyer, and would eat whatever Meg procured for lunch out of courtesy, despite not being hungry. The evening would pass in a similar manner; she would stare at a blank piece of writing paper, attempt to read a book, and eventually concede to gaze out of the window at passers-by.

After a week or so, Mme. Giry became concerned for her health and insisted that Meg move in for a few weeks, hoping that company might bring Christine back to her senses. Christine admittedly found it more difficult to avoid eating whilst Meg was around, but she did not speak much. Meg would read to her, but suspected it was futile. Mme. Giry had also written to Raoul to explain the situation, and he, too, visited often to take Christine out for lunch, or walks along the river. She was becoming increasingly pale and thin, the haunted, empty sadness never leaving her eyes.

Although she was vaguely aware that they were worried, Christine could not explain her lethargy, for fear that they would think her mad – assuming they did not already. Raoul presumed she was haunted by her experience below the Opéra, the news of Erik's demise having brought those memories to the fore once again, and Meg perhaps thought similarly, though she was endlessly patient and did not push Christine to talk. Mme. Giry understood better than most, having known Erik herself, but even she was unaware of the time Christine had spent in his underground home.

Thinking about it now, as she travelled further away from the memories, Christine realised that even she herself had not fully understood her own reactions. In retrospect, it was all too obvious.

Erik was undoubtedly a strange and mysterious being. She knew very little about him except that his upbringing and early life had been brutal and unforgiving, embittering him against the world. She did not even know how old he was, and it was impossible to tell. He was thin, yet stronger even than Raoul; of course, there was no way to ascertain it from his face, as even the unblemished side was pale and angular. She had subsequently begun to imagine him as immortal, something not quite of this world. She had always anticipated he would be there, even after he had let her go.

The news in L'Epoque had shattered that misconception like fragile glass. Christine found herself plunged into a world without Erik, a world which was suddenly terrifying, vast and boundless. Where the underground house had scared her before, she now remembered it as a haven from all that lay above, where all that existed was music. With Erik gone, she found the silence deafening.

It had been years since her father's death, but she recognised that feeling of desolation and fear, as though her very grounding in reality had been taken away. No longer tethered to land, she felt as though she would drift away helplessly into the void. At least then she'd had something to focus on with the corps du ballet, and in time she felt her sanity return. With Erik's death, she found nothing to focus on, nothing to cling to. The Opéra merely reminded her daily of what she had lost. And in time, it seemed that Erik was forgotten. Despite Mme. Giry's best efforts, the Managers threatened unemployment if she did not hand over the key to Box Five, and she had to concede. The box was sold along with the others. The Phantom's reign of terror had finally ceased, and soon enough the dancers' rumours turned to more mundane gossip.

In truth, Christine felt cheated. Perhaps Erik himself had never clamoured actively for fame, but he seemed to enjoy the reputation he had made for himself. As she had grown to know him during their brief time together, Christine began to wonder if perhaps, under any other circumstances, he might have become a well-known composer. Don Juan had been an outpouring of his anger and raw emotion, and should never have seen the light of day; but there were other, smaller pieces that he had played for her, and she had never heard anything so beautiful before. They had dealt with deeper, more painful emotions, however, and he refused to let them be performed in any greater context than his own home. Even Christine's stumbling sight-reading of the pieces had made him uncomfortable.

In another ten years, Erik's memory would die completely; she was sure of it. His opera would never be heard again. If he was remembered at all, it would only be for all the wrong reasons: the murders, the tricks, his 'kidnapping' of a promising young singer. Perhaps Christine herself would have been remembered, had she stayed in Paris. There was much talk of her success as the new 'first lady' at the Opéra; already she was recognised by strangers in the street. The thought of becoming any more well-known was stifling. She could barely cope with the attention of her friends, let alone that of people she had never met.

She resigned to disappear after only a few months, after mulling over the idea for some time and repeatedly dismissing it as ridiculous. Eventually, she convinced herself it was the best course of action. If Erik were to be forgotten, Christine thought, then she herself should follow that path. Without Erik she would have been nothing more than another faceless, nameless ballet girl – perhaps part of the chorus when she became too old for that. It seemed only fitting that she should be forgotten now as well. Nobody would know who they were, in years to come; nobody would know about their mysterious meeting or the events of that fateful night beneath the Opéra.

Nobody would remember that she had loved him. And she did love him, although she had realised it far too late.

Christine felt her heart constrict at the thought. She fought down the lump in her throat for a second time, brushing away fresh tears. On re-thinking, she preferred to imagine that their story might become legend: the tale of the Opera Ghost and the young chorus girl. Perhaps the mysterious ending might pique some curiosity.

I shall write it down myself, she thought. A first hand account would certainly be better than whatever might be conjured up from the various rumours. Yes, when she was settled, Christine would commit pen to paper and ensure the story was told correctly. After that, she might even endeavour to get it published, or send it to a newspaper.

The world would not forget. Of that, she would make quite sure.

-w-

Even during her darkest moments of melancholic apathy, Christine had somehow found it within herself to become utterly furious with Raoul.

It happened during one of their many shared lunches. It was a beautiful day, the sun beating down over the city, and after eating, Raoul had persuaded her to join him for a stroll. He was obviously worried about her wan appearance and hoped that the sunlight might bring some colour back to her face. Christine had to concede that the sun-dappled surroundings made her feel somewhat less futile, and she knew that the exercise would do her some good.

It had been two months since she had called off the engagement, and Raoul was being particularly careful not to bring it up. There was an unspoken agreement that they would simply not discuss it until Christine was ready. As such, their conversations revolved around such mundane topics as the weather, the quality of whichever restaurant or café they had patronised, or the general health of their acquaintances.

If Raoul had been hoping for some kind of breakthrough, he did not indicate it or attempt to steer their conversations. He knew full well that no matter how disinterested or merely tolerant Christine appeared, she would flee at the first sign of danger.

They had paused a moment to sit on a bench in the shade, to cool off and enjoy the view. There were several citizens out that afternoon, walking their dogs or pushing babies in perambulators; a group of gentlemen ambled casually past, discussing finances, followed by a small huddle of ladies carrying parasols, presumably their wives. Christine watched the women for a moment, reminded of her own brief experience and awfully grateful that she had escaped such a life of forced sociability. She snapped her attention back when she realised Raoul was speaking to her, and answered in a monosyllabic yet appropriate manner. She had kept up this façade of interest for a while, but it was becoming more and more difficult to stay focussed. Her mind would wander often, making it impossible to concentrate.

Once more, she found her attention drifting. She watched a young couple walking slowly some distance away, deep in conversation. When they were out of sight, she found herself hypnotised by the play of light and shadow at her feet, the sun breaking through leaves that fluttered in the breeze. Raoul was talking about something, yet her ears were drawn to birdsong above their heads.

She had lolled her head to the side without realising it, closing her eyes and straining to hear the melody in the trees, and it was at this moment that Raoul stopped describing his latest visit to his cousin in the south and noticed that her mind was clearly elsewhere. Considering that even Raoul very rarely enjoyed such visits, he understood why Christine was fed up of the tale.

"Christine," he said, "if you're bored, you only have to interrupt me."

She opened her eyes and dropped her head apologetically. "I'm terribly sorry, Raoul. You must think me so ignorant."

"Of course not," he reassured her.

"I was listening to the birds," she explained. "They always sound so happy, don't they?" Raoul gave a cautious nod, unsure what to say in response. "Of course, I don't suppose they have much to worry about…"

"No, I suppose they don't."

"That must be wonderful. And think, Raoul! – to be able to fly away whenever one felt the need."

"Yes, I-"

Struck with an idea, Christine became more animated than she had been in weeks. "I'm sure I saw a man earlier, selling little song-thrushes. He had them in such tiny cages that I thought him cruel, but… oh, I should love one. I've seen some beautiful birdcages, too, large ones."

She rose to her feet excitedly, heading back down the path, but found her progress halted by Raoul gently grasping her arm, smiling in amusement.

"Now, wait a moment," he said. She sighed impatiently, her brain set on a course of action which he was now thwarting. "Let's not rush in head-first. Keeping a bird… it's quite a responsibility."

"I know that."

Raoul flinched, realising he had been a little too patronising. "And you mustn't forget that birds are wild animals, Christine. At the first chance of escape, you may never see it again."

This time she did not even justify him with a reply.

"I suppose I can't dissuade you," he said. "If a bird is what you want, a bird is what you shall have."

Christine raised up a little on her toes, her eyes lighting up. Raoul could not help but smile at the change in her. He was hopeful she was recovering, slowly but surely, and maybe a pet bird would motivate her again. If there was another mouth to feed, perhaps she might be inclined once more to feed herself.

He began to lead her off, his hand resting in the crook of her elbow, in a direction away from the peddler with the cages, but she resisted. "He was this way, Raoul," she explained. "I saw him earlier."

"No, I know somewhere much better. You can pick any bird you like. They have canaries of the brightest yellow…"

She stopped still, and blinked at him in confusion. "But I don't want a canary."

Raoul hesitated. "But I thought…" he trailed off, thoughtfully. He had realised that perhaps Christine wanted to pay for the bird herself, and knew that the peddler was inexpensive; besides that, she had always been kind-hearted when it came to the unfortunate. He would have bought her some exotic creature from a shop without question or thought, but she was naturally clamouring for independence.

A small, brown bird flew down to the ground, picking at some manner of debris in the grass. Christine watched its progress as it found something to eat and flew straight back to the tree, where its song began anew above their heads. She let out a soft sigh of appreciation, hoping that Raoul would understand that all the pretty canaries in the world would not satisfy her craving for nature's own music. Still, though, he was certain there must be a better option than the shabby things she had spotted earlier.

Smiling wistfully, he ventured once more to offer her something more befitting her character. "Are you quite sure, Christine? The songbirds are quite drab, after all…"

Her expression changed dramatically then, a darkness overtaking her features and a frown gracing her brow. "I don't care how it looks, Raoul. Even the ugliest creatures on earth can produce beautiful music."

It took him a few seconds to understand the deeper meaning to her words, and then he realised what she was really referring to. Chastised, he began to offer an apology, but she was already walking away from him.

"Christine, wait!" He sprinted the few short steps after her, drawing to her side and matching her pace. "I'm sorry for saying that. I wasn't thinking. Please forgive me."

Christine slowed her pace a little, but continued walking. When she spoke again, it was with a forced civility and an outwardly aloof expression, attempting to remain polite despite her anger. "Thank you for lunch," she said, "and for the walk. It was quite pleasant. But I must go now."

He resisted the urge to grab for her arm, and instead placed himself in front of her, effectively blocking her path. She came to a halt, almost tripping over him, but made no attempt to manoeuvre around him for the moment.

"Please let me pass," she requested coolly.

Raoul gazed at her imploringly. "I will," he said, "once I am reassured. I didn't mean to upset you, Christine."

She let out a sigh. "I know."

For a moment, the two merely stared at each other. Their declarations of love on the rooftop of the Opéra seemed a lifetime ago. Christine remembered that night as though it had occurred in a different place, a different time; as she had dragged Raoul away from the backstage chaos, extricating herself from Carlotta's accusatory glare (obvious even through her abject terror), the world had taken on an eerie, surreal tinge, blurred around the edges, delirious and hallucinatory with its bright colours and garish sounds. On the roof, however, it was as if time had stopped. The sky had been cloudless and full of stars, as quiet as a tomb. Her thoughts were far from Il Muto and its Countess, her only desire being to escape the nightmarish events that Erik was slowly weaving in the House. He was an underground, reclusive being; so she travelled upwards, as far removed as possible from his subterranean world.

At the time, she had not fully understood that he was present. His voice had echoed Raoul's and she had thought herself insane, her brain addled from their earlier experience and the panicked journey upwards. She realised now how the silence had been almost too silent, too forced, as though the world had hushed in reverence – or in fear.

Distantly, a clock could be heard chiming the hour; Christine was drawn out of her nostalgic remembrance as though waking from a dream. She studied Raoul's patient features and was overcome with the need to explain herself, to make him understand her confused emotions over the past few months.

"Raoul, I…" No words would form. She could not explain; he would not understand. With a defeated sigh, she changed the subject back to the mundane details they were both so used to. "It's quite late," she said. "I have things to attend to."

"I understand."

"It's been a lovely afternoon."

"Indeed." There was an awkward pause. "Would you like me to walk you home?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I'd like to… I'll be fine, on my own." She proffered a weak smile.

"Yes." Raoul lifted her hand to his lips. "Goodbye, then."

"Goodbye."

-w-

The songbird was safely ensconced within its gilt cage, beside her on the deck. It had become a little distressed at the outset, but the gentle movement of the ship seemed to have lulled it back to calmness. It chirruped occasionally, reminding Christine of that sunny day in the park with Raoul.

Christine's original intention had been to bring the bird with her and accommodate it wherever she might end up, but the journey thus far had given her time to think. What right did she have to imprison the poor creature when she herself was fleeing, experiencing the freedom she had longed for? Had she not been a caged bird herself, once upon a time? The wretched thing had been captured and incarcerated unthinkingly; Christine had not really considered the implications before now, interested only in the creature's song and the idea of listening to it on a whim. It would only be right to release it.

Of course, she could not do so immediately, as the bird would undoubtedly not survive before reaching land – it was only tiny, after all. She vowed to wait until they had reached dry land once more and she had found a place to stay, whereupon she could seek out an appropriate home for her pet. It had been excellent company during her darker moments of melancholy, and she felt it was only right to reward it with a tree of its own to dwell in. Besides, she had been toying with the idea of getting a cat, and to have two sworn enemies under the same roof was clearly a recipe for disaster.

She knew that much all too well.

A/N: The park I imagined them walking through in the latter half of the chapter is based on the Tuilleries gardens in Paris (between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde).

I must also apologise for the excessive use of Raoul in this chapter, but you can understand why it was an unfortunate necessity. The next chapter will be E/C friendly, I promise. :P