Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brillian of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Chapter four.

Angel of Music you denied me… turning from true beauty… Angel of Music do not shun me… come to your strange angel…
Angel of music you betrayed me!

Christine's eyes snapped open. The last words spoken had rung so clear that it were as though he had been right beside her bed, whispering into her ear. The dreams are getting more livid., she thought, taking large shuddery breaths of cold air and exhaling them slowly. The music wound about her, suffocating her under the weight of emotion and flooding her thoughts with nothing but thoughts of darkness, love, despair… thoughts of him. She shivered, though not from the cold, and rolled onto her side, desperately seeking some form of comfort; something Raoul had always been able to give. All she found was emptiness.

She sighed miserably, and wrapped the blanket tighter around her shivering form. It was still dark outside, with a whisper of dawn on the horizon and a cool breeze drifting in through the partially open window. She lay back down and closed her eyes, desperately trying to fight off the haunting melodies that clouded her senses. It proved to no avail, he simply would not let her rest.

She looked across at the mahogany bedside table and sighed in resignation, letting her pale hand wander across its surface before pulling the top-most draw open.

The book was still there.

She let a sigh of relief issue from her lips before pulling the book out of the drawer. She always feared that one day Raoul would wonder what the infamous black book with no title was, and attempt to read it… but thankfully that day had not come. Caressing the soft black leather, Christine attempted to make out the title once more, but it was forever lost to her; the gold lettering had faded long ago. She flicked the book open to the middle. It always opened at the middle. After all, she was the one who had cut the squares into the numerous pages of the latter half of the book. This produced a secret compartment. An inconspicuous hiding place where Christine could keep the one thing she both cherished and feared. A gold ring. But it wasn't just any gold ring, it was his gold ring.

She caressed the worn band, an anguished sob escaping her lips. Her breathing calmed as she turned the band over and over in her fingers, watching mesmerized as the lights reflected dully of its surface, then ever so carefully she slipped the ring onto her finger. She admired it for a few moments, before coming to her senses and wrenching the wedding band off her finger. What did she think she was doing? Christine turned hastily to put the ring back in its hiding place before reconsidering and placing it on the plain gold chain she wore around her neck. The metal felt cool against her hot skin.

She could no longer procrastinate, and with a determined look she clambered out of bed and hastily began to dress. The chill of the hallway took her by surprise, and Christine hastened to stifle a gasp before allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Although the cooks would already be awake preparing for the day's meals, the servants either hadn't lit the lamps, or they had extinguished sometime during the night. Christine hoped it was the latter, the less people around, the less people she would have to sneak past. The fewer people knew where she was going, the better. Christine didn't like the servants asking too many questions; she didn't really want to explain herself – she wasn't too sure herself exactly what she was doing.

A half an hour carriage ride and Christine found herself standing before a once familiar sight: the Opera Populaire. Christine was devastated. The beauty of the once grandiose opera house lay in blackened rubble; its golden entrance barely recognizable; the paint bubbled and grotesque, its structure a sagging and decaying mess, no more than a lifeless shell of its former glory. A tear slipped down Christine's pale cheek, knowing that this destruction was caused entirely by her. How many people had lost their lives that night? All because of me? A ghost of a breeze emanated from the dark hollow, pushing her curly locks back from her forehead, making her delicate skin prickle in discomfort and foreboding. There was no turning back, and with a resolute determination, she pushed open the grimy doors, creaking on their once-oiled hinges, and stepped into the gloom.

An impenetrable darkness consumed her, and Christine fought the panic rising in her chest, the urgent need to turn and flee through the door whence she came, back into the world of light where the ghosts of the past couldn't haunt and torment her. But that was a folly, Christine knew she would gain no sense of peace until she had returned to the darkness, until she was sure that there was no chance, no inkling that Erik could still be here, lurking in the shadows. It took her longer than usual to locate her old dressing room; the familiar corridors that she had grown up playing in were now disfigured and unrecognizable. On more than one occasion she thought herself to be lost, until she stumbled upon some faintly recognizable relic which gave her some bearings of direction.

When she did finally stumble upon it, her stomach almost gave way. The once finely decorated room of Prima Donnas was a ravaged wreck. The wallpaper was blackened and curled, the furniture ash-coated and collapsed. As she took her first tentative steps into the room that housed so many memories of disembodied voices, longings and desires, her heart plummeted. Upon the dresser in an extremely dusty vase there was a rose. A blood-red rose. Its stalk stood proud and tall, the thorns cut neatly from its sides to avoid injury, and a black satin ribbon adorned it stem, dark tendrils cascading down the base to fall limply by the gathered remains of wilted petals. So beautiful and velvety to the touch, they now lay shriveled, almost blackened by the ash that lay settled upon their ghostly form.

Christine could not stop her hands from shaking as she reached forward to caress the long green stem, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. She closed her eyes, her fingers tracing up and down the slender stem, the tips of her fingers entwining in the ribbon… she could almost hear her Angel's ethereal voice, laying her tumultuous soul to ease. She allowed herself these few precious moments, where the past seemed so alive… so real.. before she forced her eyes to snap open. She gasped in fright. The image of Erik stood vividly in the mirror, so real it could be no apparition. The white mask gleamed at her, so steely in its resolution, reflecting the uncovered side of his face perfectly. Those golden eyes blazed fiercely from the darkness, cold and unmoving, yet masking a thousand emotions.

Then just as he had appeared, he vanished. Christine blinked in surprise, so sure that what she had seen was real; she fought tooth and nail to hold onto the realness of the image, the fabric of her sanity, fighting the readily enveloping self-doubt that was slowly creeping its way into her mind. He had been there! He had been there! Or had he? The nettling voice in her mind began to whisper once more, tormenting her once more, never letting her have a moments peace.

It's all I deserve, she muttered darkly and resignedly to herself. And yet her heart ached painfully of regret and remorse. Oh how badly she wanted that image to be real, to have Erik watching over her. He would stay with her through the night, protecting her from her guilty conscience, chasing away her nightmares with the sweetness of his voice, soothing her fears and wiping away her tears. Her own thoughts betrayed the silence of her heart… how badly she craved his strong embrace! Be it physical or vocal… only he could take this pain from her… only he… Her fingers wandered over the glass, before meeting its edges, searching for a latch, a switch… anything that would force the door to open, allowing her access to his secret kingdom of darkness and her angel, the man who could somehow, with his beautiful and ethereal voice make everything right. The mirror would not give to her incompetent hands and in desperation Christine flung herself before it, her pale fists beating mercilessly upon the glass that might as well have been stone. "Erik…!"

XxXxXxX

Damn! Damn, damn, DAMN! You mindless fool! You ten types of fool! How could you be so blithe! Erik cursed himself as he fled down the mirror passageway, his pace furious, yet his footsteps unbetraying of his presence, emitting the scarcest of sounds. He truly was a ghost.

She had come back, why had she come back? Why had she come to find me? A fragment of a hope began to blossom in his heart before Erik cruelly and quickly stamped it out. His step faltered, as his indecisiveness took hold. He had learned not to trust a hope, it was cruel and merciless; hope could tear you to shreds, leave you a weak and pitiful remnant of your former self. No, a hope could never be trusted. The sudden urge to turn around and rush to her side, to hold her once more and bring peace into those dreamy eyes was crushed by his sudden sense of pride.

She grows tiresome of that boy, Erik thought reasonably. Always the indecisive and naïve child, she comes looking to her former teacher for guidance and reassurance.

"Bah!" Erik spat into the darkness, "I will not be the fool to her bidding! I will not be the puppet on her string, subject to her every whim and plea. I will be strong!" I have to be strong.

With a sudden clarity, Erik stopped his tirade down into the dank cellars and halted abruptly by the secret passageway concealed by the turning stone.

What if she breaks that mirror? What if she comes looking for me? His heart constricted painfully within his chest. He knew that if Christine were to follow him down into the depths of his pitiful hell he would know no bounds; he would never be able to let her go. She was like a drug, something he both loved and loathed. And yet, he was a slave to it. An addict of Christine. She was a toxin that he was desperately trying to be rid of, and although she had left a gaping wound upon his soul with her betrayal, he was damned if he would not try to scourge the last pitiful drop of her essence from his heart. Yes, he was an addict, but he was an addict who was discarding his morphine. No, he could not see her… he could not let her see him… he could not stay there.

Damn you Christine for your insufferable indecision! Is it not enough to rob me of my heart and my sanity, must you now take my home!

A/N Aww, poor Erik.