A Big Thank-You to: phantomluver, Hero Sis, Writer, Virginie, E/MOTP, smoking caramels (thank you), trueurbanite, PrincessSYS (thank you...but you must be patient! I'll get there...eventually... -winks-), and all the lovely readers!

I decided to negate my little note of the past chapter, regarding the "large blocks of italics"...but just for this chapter. Since this whole chapter is comprised of a series of flashbacks (taken from "Desire", of course), any blocks of italics (except for one) for THIS chapter only signify dreams (as you shall soon see).

As already mentioned, this chapter is again comprised of select excerpts from "Desire" with a few augmentations for purposes of consistency and keeping you on your toes.

disclaimer: I own nothing.

chapter 4

She was anxious, she was overwrought. She'd long lost all sense of time as numbness settled over her, cloaking her, concealing her thoughts and emotions as she'd never before been able to alone. A week, a month, two? She had no idea.

She was bitter, she was frightened. But she couldn't stop; she had to continue searching. When the police hadn't been able to find any evidence, any sort of clue, vowing they'd continue searching but secretly crossing their fingers behind their backs, giving it up as a lost cause, she refused to believe them. Though each day spent searching was a day further from her wedding, she was consumed with the task, feeling wholly responsible for the disappearance.

And it truly was a "disappearance" in every sense of the word. It was as if all trace of Meg had been totally wiped from the face of the Earth.

But Christine knew better.

That's why she was here, in this carriage, alone, staring out at the chillingly familiar surroundings as she was inexorably drawn towards her final destination.

She'd been avoiding it, but the memories constantly haunted her. At first, she'd voiced her fears and thoughts to Raoul, and he sympathized with her, always taking her into his arms, despite the hurt that she knew he must be feeling each time she mentioned…

That's why she'd stopped. Sweet, kind Raoul didn't need anymore torture, not after all he'd been though, all he'd suffered, all for her, all to get her back. She felt guilty.

That's also why she'd repeatedly offered herself to him. She felt as if she owed him something, anything, always conscious of the fact that the day she could finally be with him, as sanctioned by the Church, was definitely not any time in the near future. But he always refused, saying he couldn't possibly disgrace her, defile her in such a manner, that he was content to wait, that time would make it infinitely sweeter than if they hadn't held back.

Now, she wondered whether he would have refused; he, the one constantly in her thoughts, always looming in the back of her mind, resurfacing with the darkness, a bitter aftertaste of emotion and memory.

The carriage came to a stop, and she got out, pausing, hesitating only for a moment before making her way quickly up the ash-stained, neglected, yet still magnificent front entrance of the Opera Populaire.

-----

She reached the doors quickly, looking around her warily at the dusky surrounding streets before tugging the door open and slipping inside. It closed behind her with a muffled but ominous boom.

The first thing she registered was the cold. Then came the smell; the pervasive smell of burnt, of ashes, even of decay. She stared in awe; she'd never seen the front foyer clothed in such darkness before. Her small, feeble steps echoed hugely in the morbid splendor that surrounded her on all sides, and she had an overwhelming memory of a place very similar to this one, encased in darkness, in damp, but several levels below…

She shook her head, sending her auburn curls bouncing, trying to clear her thoughts. But it was simply no use. As if the phantoms of memory had drawn a sudden, perverse strength at her return to their birthplace, they refused to be held back, suffocating her with all manner of sight, and sound, and smell, and touch…

It took all of her strength to take another step forward, towards the grand staircase, thinking upwards, always upwards, neutralizing the constant pull at the center of her being dragging her down and back into the crushing, beautiful abyss of his domain.

She placed a pale hand on the banister, noting the substantial cloaking of silt and ash against the once-shining gold and the trembling of her fingers. She drew a deep breath, despite the horrible smell, and took another step forward, her small shoe making a single imprint on the marble, almost as if she were walking on sand.

A gentler, more amiable wave of memory overcame her then, that of her father, and his ever-singing violin; of Raoul, rescuing her renegade scarf from the ravages of wind and sea…and she clung to them, drawing strength as she made her way slowly, grandly up.

She wasn't sure what she searched for. All she knew was that Meg had to be alive.

-----

About an hour later, exhausted, hungry, and disconsolate, Christine emerged from the drafty entombment of the Opera House to the freedom of the streets. Sighing, she sat down on the uppermost step, resting her elbows on her knees and her face against her fists, thinking.

She hadn't found anything. Any sort of clue, any sign of life; nothing whatsoever.

A group of people, laughing gaily, caught her attention as they moved down the street. They looked to be of the upper class; they certainly were dressed as such…she could almost hear the rustling of the ladies' skirts, the crisp swish of the gentlemen's evening clothes as they moved down the boulevard, a remnant of the splendor this district had once been, the huge stone monolith of the Opera the crowning pinnacle.

That's when she saw them.

She hadn't quite noticed when the two figures had joined the group of aristocrats, but they were now breaking ranks, quietly and stealthily, walking quickly up the street, right past her. One of the figures—a tall, abnormally lanky man dressed in evening clothes and a widely-brimmed hat—had no problem fitting in with the crowd he'd just emerged from, but something…something about the other…her swift, quiet, graceful movements…the hem of the tattered-looking skirt that brushed against the ground, almost as if too big for her…the hair, the long, blonde hair that glimmered in a sudden patch of moonlight as she moved, trying her best to keep up with the man, now several paces ahead—

"Meg!" she cried, shattering the air with her incredulous, joyful cry. She watched as both figures stopped dead in their tracks, the first soon resuming his speedy clip up the street, fading into the shadows, leaving his companion standing alone.

-----

There was light ahead, she knew it, but it was hidden, cloaked by the darkness. She strove for it, reaching out blindly, each and every one of her senses attuned to the single goal; she must reach the light.

Why, then, did she have this overwhelming need to turn around and look behind her? The light was to be reached by stepping forward, so what was to be gained by looking backward?

She continued on, but still the doubt assailed her, diluting her persistence and sense with a siren's call. What did it hurt if she looked back? What did she have to lose? It was only darkness, after all…

So she looked. And she instantly regretted it.

His eyes, always his eyes, staring silently, pleading with her to return, to come back to her Master, her Angel. "Christine," he called, his voice doing what his eyes alone could not.

Her feet immediately began to turn around of their own accord, taking her back to him. But no! She must fight, she must continue towards the light, no matter how much she wanted to run back to him, no matter how much her heart cried out in frustration…

"Christine," he called again, and she closed her eyes, her hands covering her ears, anything to forget the sweetest sound ever uttered on earth, her name pure music from the lips of an angel, catching her and caressing her, holding her in place, bidding her to stay.

Her heart stopped when she felt the cold fingers around her wrists, gently prying her hands away from her ears. "Christine is being naughty," the voice whispered. It was tinged with menace, with anger, but it was still so beautiful, so intoxicating, and she shivered. "Christine belongs to Erik now, Christine should not be leaving…"

The hands were on her shoulders now, turning her around. "Christine must look at Erik," said the voice, the angel. "Christine must look at her poor Erik, and Christine must promise not to leave ever again."

She nodded, her throat dry, her head spinning, but still she kept her eyes closed.

"Open your eyes, Christine," he breathed.

Overwhelmed, she obeyed, but regretted it as she was faced once more with the horrible, skeletal face that would haunt her for an eternity…

With a gasp, she sat up like a shot, breathing hard. She ran her hand through her hair, the last remnants of the dream fading, but the feeling she was being watched suddenly pervasive. Paranoid, she looked around, but a split second later realized that she was safe, that he couldn't possibly be watching her…

Earlier, when Meg had been telling her story, she'd pressed her hands to her mouth in horror as her friend described how she'd run after him the night of the Opera disaster, how, in his madness, he'd tried to strangle her. When asked why she didn't leave when she'd first come to, she said that she couldn't bring herself to leave him, much as she wanted to, and resolved to stay until he let her go.

"He finally let you go, then?" inquired Raoul, shaken to the core by the tale, but the only one at the moment able to bring himself to speak coherently.

Meg looked down in her lap before slowly shaking her head. "He…he's…dead. He's dead."

Madame Giry had drawn a painful breath at that, but immediate relief flooded Christine's veins. Free, she was finally free…

But, why, then, if she were truly free, did he and his voice still haunt her?

She shook her head, trying to purge the images, the sensations, away from her mind, a different picture presenting itself to her now.

Meg had said he'd died. Who, then, was that tall, strange man she'd seen on the street earlier? Could it be…?

But no. Meg had no reason to lie; if he were still alive, she would have told them.

Reassured, but only slightly, she climbed out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and left her room silently, in search of the one who would offer her not only the reassurance that she was safe, but true, undying love as well.

She padded quietly from her room, the lush carpet cradling the soles of her bare feet as she crept down the hall and knocked softly at the door at the far end, the one leading to Raoul's private sitting room.

The knock was answered promptly, but her presence took a split second more to register. His eyes growing wide, he ushered her in, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the pair of them were unobserved before shutting and locking the door.

"Christine, what are you doing here?" he asked as she made herself comfortable in an armchair by the lit fireplace.

She looked up at him as he approached. "I couldn't get to sleep."

He sat across from her in another armchair. "Another dream?"

"Yes."

Anger bubbled up in him for a moment; how long would it take before she could come to him without having to seek solace, an excuse to drive another from her thoughts? But the voice of reason swiftly asserted itself, pointing out that it wasn't her fault that she'd been so ruthlessly preyed upon, and that it was his duty to protect her, to ensure that it never happened again.

Giving a resigned sigh, he said, "Him again?"

"You sound angry."

The words tumbled out before he had the chance to restrain them. "Well, I should say so! Even in death he still wields power over you—"

"I didn't come here to be lectured," she retorted, standing, trying her best to be genuinely outraged, but tears clamoring for purchase at her eyes.

In one swift movement, he caught her up in a warm embrace. "I know, Christine. It…it's just so hard…I always keep picturing the two of you that night, on stage…"

"Oh, God, Raoul, I'm so sorry…I should have done something, you never deserved—"

"Shhh…" he said, caressing her brown curls. "It's not your fault."

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears, her cheeks streaked with them, and she whispered, "Please…let me do something…"

He kissed her. "You can't make up for the past, Christine, just let it go."

"I can't," she breathed, kissing him back. "I can't let go; he won't let me…"

He brought her closer. "What can I do to help?"

She was silent for a while, and when she finally did answer, it was barely more than an exhale of breath. "Take me; please…make me completely yours."

"But…Christine, I can't do that; we should wait—"

She smiled at him. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

-----

"Christine."

Not his voice this time, a welcome change.

"Christine, listen to me."

"I am listening," she said, perplexed, looking around. Where was the voice coming from?

"No, you're not. I need you to listen, to really listen."

"I…I'll try, Meg."

"Trying won't be good enough, Christine," the voice said, gentle. Sad. "You must swear to me that you'll listen."

"I swear it," she replied fervently.

"Thank you…"

Her eyes flew open, a sense of foreboding coming to her, overwhelming in its strength and tenure. She sat up from where she'd been lying, looked around; Raoul hadn't come to bed yet. What could be keeping him?

Perplexed, she ran a hand through her unruly curls, quickly climbing out of bed, slipping into her dressing gown, and venturing out of the room and into the empty corridor.

She could hear voices coming from downstairs, and she sailed down the hall and staircase as fast as her feet could carry her, following the muffled sounds coming from one of the private sitting rooms.

"Raoul?" she asked softly, pushing open the door.

He looked up, surprised, anxious. He'd been stooping over something on the floor, but from her vantage point in the threshold she couldn't see what—or who. "Go back to bed," he mouthed at her, but she shook her head, resolutely stepping inside the room.

She almost wished she hadn't.

The words were stuck in her throat, cleaving, heaving, struggling to escape, to take flight and be given voice, but the effort was far too much. So she simply stared for a moment, taking in the scene around her, her mind numb and refusing to accept the only possibility this scenario presented; after all, one did not deserve to live through the same nightmare twice…

Madame Giry had seemingly collapsed on the floor, her frame heaving with sobs. Christine had never before seen anything more horrific; this woman was her mother figure, had been for years her source of strength and wisdom and comfort, and it seemed to Christine that her ordered world had transformed into a spinning vortex of confusion and anarchy as she watched.

She knelt and placed a comforting hand on one of the woman's shaking shoulders, keeping silent, but saying more than she ever could have hoped to communicate through the kind gesture. She kept her hand there, occasionally moving it back and forth, sometimes in small circular movements, attempting to calm her down.

The sobbing eventually quieted, and silence reigned for a moment, a moment in which Christine managed to rediscover her voice. "Tell me what's wrong, Maman," she said gently.

The request was met only with a resurgence of sobs, each more bitter than the last, but from underneath the crumpled figure a worn, firm hand snaked out, releasing its death-grip on a small piece of stationary paper.

Christine took the paper from her gently, and she could feel Raoul moving closer from where he'd retreated into the far corner as she looked down at it.

The handwriting was immediately familiar to her, which, considering the present circumstances, did not exactly bode well. But the sight of her name scrawled on one side caught her attention. To Maman and Christine, the paper read, bare on that side except for the neat script that had been Meg's trademark.

Taking a deep breath, feeling Raoul's hand on her shoulder, she flipped the paper over to read the rest of the note.

I hope you both have it in your hearts to forgive me. Please know that I have just made one of the toughest decisions of my life, one that I realize will have many repercussions, possibly for the worse, but I beg your forgiveness, as well as God's, for I have sinned grievously in the past week since I have returned.

Please don't forget me…I'll think of you both, always.

My mind is filled with sorrow as I write this, not only for you, but someone else I've wronged in the process, someone I was only trying to protect. Please understand that I meant no malevolence…

I lied to you.

He lives still.