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 five.

Christine sat in silence and defeat. The mirror had defeated her. Ever loyal to its creator, it had refused to yield to her, unwillingly to betray the brilliance of the mirror mechanism and allow her access to him.

"Oh, Erik." She sighed, allowing her forehead to thump lightly against the glass, her breath creating foggy patches as she breathed heavily. She was desperately trying to calm herself, she was the comtess de Changy after all. Ladies did not perform in this manner. Good Lord, she suddenly thought. How long have I been here? There were no windows in the dressing room to alert her to the time of day. For all she knew, it could be mid-morning, what would the servants say when they discovered she was not in her room? What would Raoul think if he ever found out she had returned here?

Christine blinked back the tears that threatened to succumb her vision. She gazed over at the dresser, and pulling herself off the dusty ash-covered floor, walked aimlessly to its side. She pulled open the draws one by one. They were filled with innate objects; hairbrushes, make-up, hair pieces and combs that once belonged to her vengeful rival, the dreadful La Carlotta. Just as Christine was giving up hope, she opened the last draw and found what she was looking for. There lay a scrap of parchment, a half-filled bottle of ink, and a slightly bent and misshapen pen.

She pulled forward the broken seat, and sat precariously upon its edge, testing its weight tentatively before settling in.

Dear Erik...

And her mind hit a blank. How could she put into words the anguish she felt every day since leaving him? How could she tell him about her dreams, how ill she felt at the thought of him coming to harm? What made her think that he would believe a single word she would write, when she had so mercilessly betrayed him and left him to the uncertain cruelty of the mob?

She did not know, and for a long time she sat, her hand poised to write until a large droplet of ink fell from the end of the pen, splotching the paper messily.

Oh great. She tore that section off.

Dear Erik...

Until now I had been too young to know and understand what it was to love another so completely that the very absence of them makes you physically ill. But I have come to learn from my mistakes, Erik, and even though I cannot right the wrongs of the past, I know within my heart, my soul, my very being, that I will never love another as much as I love you. The past cannot be rewritten, but you have shown me the way Erik, and I have started down I path that I fear I can never return from. If by someway this missive finds you, then know that it is only you that I think of, and that I will forever be eternally sorry. I love you my Angel.
Forever yours, Christine.

Christine paused and re-read what she had written. It's no use, what was I thinking coming here? Violently she tore the note to shreds and threw them in the air where the fluttered down around her, and stormed to the door. Turning back over her shoulder, she took one long last look at the place that had housed so many memories. Just as the tears threatened to envelope her, she gazed at the mirror and whispered into the dark, "I love you Erik, even if you can't hear me." And for the last time, she turned her back on the room and fled, not stopping until she reached the bustling streets outside.

A ghostly wind blew throughout the Opera house, ruffling the curtains and stirring the dust, as though the Opera House was mourning the loss of its greatest star. A small slip of paper lifted from the floor and was carried with the multitude of ash from the floor, whisked beneath a small gap of the mirror, where the darkness enveloped it.

..."y. I love you my Angel,
...rs, Christine..."

XxXxXxX

Erik threw off his cloak in a disgruntled fashion. He picked up a vase and hurled it against a stone wall, watching with satisfaction as it shattered into a millions pieces, completely destroyed beyond repair. "Damn you Christine!" He cursed, his breathing coming in shuddery, uncontrolled gasps. How was it that she made him feel so uncontrolled? Erik ran a hand through his silky black hair, looking wildly around the devastated ruins of his lair. He still had not the heart to repair the damage. He let it remain, a cold reminder of the damage his infatuation with Christine had caused, a reason never to go back to her. This was his home. He had let Christine into his world... and look what she had made of it! But damnit! He would not make the same mistake again! His eyes darted wildly around, observing the broken mirrors, furniture and torn sheets of music.

"At least the animals hadn't the nerve to touch my beloved organ," he mused darkly. What was he to do? Why couldn't he be left in peace, to live out his days in this cold place, alone, to rot in his misery. Could Christine even deny him that! There was only one thing to do. Erik purposely, with fresh determination, strode across the cavern to his desk, and pulled a spare bit of parchment free from the copious amounts stored in the drawer. Dipping his pen into the infamous blood-red ink, he began writing in a feverish scrawl'

Madame Giry,
I must speak with you urgently.. Meet me by the Rue Scribe entrance tomorrow morning. Come alone.
Erik.

Sealing the envelope with his signature wax skull, Erik smirked grimly to himself.

XxXxXxX

"So, Monsieur le Fantome. We meet again."

Erik nodded curtly. "Madame. I trust my letter found you well?"

"Indeed, else I would not be here." Madame Giry replied dryly.

"My visit shall only be a brief one I assure you Madame, I merely came to inform you of my removal from Paris." His abruptness could have been considered rude.

Madame Giry eyed him suspiciously, "You're leaving?"

"One could put it that way." He held a piece of parchment out to her. She read it quickly and glanced up at him.

"Ah. So the Angel has clipped his wings and decided to grace humanity as what he truly is: a man."

"Do not be so blithe as to remind me, Antoinette." He growled the words.

"What do you think you'll gain by running away, Erik?" Erik's back stiffened.

"You have undeniably been somewhat of a… friend to me over the years Antoinette, but my personal affairs are none of your concern."

"None of my concern? None of my CONCERN!" Madame Giry was speechless. "Do you know what you did to that poor girl! You manipulated, and deceived her! You could have ruined her. You ruined us. You ruined everything that I worked to build ever since I came to this godforsaken Opera House. And I have to live with the knowledge that I allowed it to continue, I thought I could save you, change you…"

"Nothing can save me Madame. I am a monster as Christine so eloquently put it, and a murderer, undeserving of love. Humanity has already twisted me enough, so that the grotesqueness of my soul goes far beyond the scarring of this –" he pointed a finger viciously at his face. "Now I am a monster in whole."

"You've seen terrible things, yes. I know! I was there, Erik, or have you so readily forgotten? But I, and humanity have shown you kindness, yet you are so consumed by your pain and the suffering you've experienced that you refuse to see it!

"Kindness! Was it kindness Christine showed me, when she revealed my face to the world!"

"She was naïve! And you frightened her Erik! My God, Christine still laments for an Angel that never existed!"

"I'm sure the Comte would not approve…" Erik stated dryly. Madame Giry's head shot up.

"Bah!" Erik barked, choosing to forget his near encounter with Christine the previous day. "Do not be so foolish as to think I would follow her Madame. I have not seen her, nor the Comte for that matter. She made her decision when she left with that boy – and left me to rot in my misery!" He spat the words viciously. "No… she made her choice, the past cannot be undone and I see no reason for me to… interfere… with her life any longer."

"Yet you will leave her with the burden of your 'death' upon her shoulders? Where is the logic in that Erik, tell me!"

"There is no other way," he said forcibly. "I will not have her come for me when she is no longer satisfied with her precious comte!" He paused. "No, you will post exactly what I have written there in the morning Epoque, I'm sure it shall give the towns people some… peace of mind, knowing that I am dead.

Madame Giry glared at him. Few people would have the nerve to stand up to the Phantom of the Opera, but Madame Giry knew the man behind the mask. Her back stiffened.
"Where shall you go?"

"Abroad." His answer was curt, and an eerie politeness had crept back into his voice. When Madame Giry failed to respond he ventured further. "I do not wish to tell you my precise location; I fear that you may… disclose my whereabouts to Christine if she should ask. No, to her, to you, to the world, I am dead." Silence followed.

"Very well, if that is how you wish it…"

"It is."

"I see. Well Erik, it has come to this; a parting of ways. I wish you better fortune in the future." She extended her hand to him.

He took it with a swift shake. "And to you, Antoinette," and with a brief nod, he spun around on his heel and walked off into the enveloping darkness, making no sound bar the faint whispering of his cloak skimming the ground. A true as though he were a specter of the night himself; he truly was a ghost.

"Farewell… Erik."

A/N Okay, getting more into the plot now. R/R!