Dear Journal,

If I have learned nothing else over the last year, I have learned how a situation can completely change in a matter of hours.

Erik had not completely escorted the daroga out of the cellars. He was so irritated with his Persian friend that he simply commanded that he get out of his sight. No doubt part of him expected the man to walk into one of his traps and get himself killed.

The daroga, however, was not so careless. His conversation with the masked man had left him greatly perturbed. As he slowly and cautiously made his way through the tunnels, his mind reeled with the possibilities of what his friend could have done to the vicomte and Mlle. Daae.

His wife? he shuddered. What hell must that poor girl be going through? Each time he thought he had experienced the extent of the man's madness, he found himself profoundly mistaken.

He shook his head gravely. I should have let him die in Persia, he thought bitterly. He knew it was a terrible thought, to regret saving a man's life. But he couldn't help it. He had believed in Erik… truly thought there could be some good in the man's black heart. He had done everything to make the man--who was barely more than a boy at the time--see that he was not the evil monster he was brought up to be.

But didn't he have every right to be bitter? He felt betrayed. He had given up everything for Erik. To save this man's life he had had to sacrifice his own!

He had been the one to bring him to Persia in the first place. The shah had sent him to Russia to seek out a magician like no other. You see, even by the time Erik was a teenager, his fame had spread through fairs and carnivals all over the world. The daroga had still been a young man at the time, with a wife and small children at home, and he was loath to leave them on some whim of the shah. However, there was no arguing with him… or, more correctly, his mother--the sultana.

Erik's genius really was as astounding as the rumors portrayed, but the daroga had been shocked by the young man's blatant disregard for morality and seemingly total lack of compassion.

The sultana, on the other hand, rejoiced in the fact. She was a cold woman with a cruel and macabre sense of entertainment. She reveled in the idea that she had her own personal killer at her disposal. A corpse, nonetheless! A dead man who dealt out death to others. The evil woman had thoroughly enjoyed her new pet.

As the daroga got to know the masked man, he began to see much more in him than a magician and assassin. For one thing, the boy seemed to have an appreciation for architecture. He spoke to the shah on his behalf and was able to gain him a position as the court architect so that he might be not be left to his own devices when his presence before the queen was not required.

After a few years it became clear that Erik was the finest architect that Persia--if not the world--had ever seen. The daroga had taken pride in the care the youth took in his creation. Years of abuse at the fault of his face had made the man hardened and destructive. To see the joy in the young man's eyes (though the rest of his countenance was unreadable) for a triumph that was neither cheapened or praised on account of his face… it was enough to convince the daroga that Erik had kept hold of his humanity, however hidden by bitterness.

When the sultana had grown bored with Erik's tricks with the Punjab lasso, she petitioned the shah to have him build a new palace--full of hidden chambers and trap doors (of which the shah had developed an almost paranoid obsession) and a revolutionary type of torture chamber (that she may entertain herself in Erik's absence).

The daroga frowned upon this new commission, but was in no position to speak against the shah. Instead he offered his help and support to Erik, who had begun to trust and confide in him. Truthfully--and Erik would grudgingly agree to this--the Persian had been the closest thing to a friend that he had ever known.

The palace was magnificent, as the daroga had expected, and both the shah and the sultana were pleased. The shah's reaction, however, was unexpected to both he and Erik. The shah, an arrogant and ambitious man, had not wanted to risk the chance of his genius architect designing a building of such splendor for another king. He had, therefore, ordered that Erik be blinded and later--upon reconsideration--killed.

The Persian shuddered at the memory. It had been his assignment, as chief of police, to carry out the grisly order. But he could not do it! He had seen so much potential for good in Erik… to deprive the world of such a genius was akin to smashing a stained-glass window.

So, instead he had helped Erik escape, making the man promise to give up his life of murder and destruction and seek one of beauty and creation.

Oh but that decision had cost him dearly!

The shah was furious to know that the daroga had failed his mission. His wife, whom he adored, and his children were tortured and killed before his eyes. Such--as the sultana had sneered--was the price of failure.

Indeed, the daroga himself would have been killed in short order had not a corpse washed up on shore of similar build and height as Erik. The body had been so picked apart by birds that it was impossible to say how long it had been there… and the face surely compared well enough.

He had been exiled instead. Though he had a small pension allotted to him because of his status and heritage, he was sent away from Persia, never to return.

He sighed. In truth, especially on days like today, parts of him wished he had died back in Persia. Then he would be peacefully reunited with the family he loved, never knowing the great mistake that his sacrifice had been.

He leaned against a wall and slid down to the ground, suddenly unable to hold his own weight. Years ago he might have wept, but no longer. Broken as he was, he no longer had any tears left. Instead he looked up into the darkness and said aloud, "Why, Erik? What have you done?"

The last thing he expected was a response. So, naturally, he was quite troubled when he heard a pained groan echoing in the corridor.

"Hello?" it said weakly, "Is someone out there?"

If you asked me this morning how I would be spending my evening, I might have made some remark about supper or the evening stroll we had planned. And yet, as I write this, I am sitting by my husband's bedside, waiting and hoping that he will wake up.

"Hello?" the daroga called, "It is the Persian... M. de Chagny? Is that you?"

There was a cry of relief followed by a pause in which the speaker seemed to be gasping for breath.

"Are you harmed, monsieur?"

"I have felt better," Raoul answered honestly. "Please, is the creature around? Can you help me?"

The daroga looked around skeptically, wondering if this was not Erik playing some sort of trick on him. After a brief moment of thought, he realized he did not have the luxury of speculation. He would have to treat this as if it were really Raoul de Chagny calling for help and deal with the consequences if it was not.

He carefully made his way to through the Communard's dungeons and found the cell that appeared to be in use. He peered in but could see little with the shadow cast by his lantern.

"Can you come to the window, M. de Chagny?"

"I cannot. I am chained, I'm afraid, but not tightly so… just my ankle is fastened. Do you have a knife you can pass me? I think I might be able to work the lock."

"Yes, be careful… catch," he said, "you work at your bonds and I'll see if I can't open this door."

I know not what happened. After his company left, he decided to go out into the cellars again to do whatever it is he does there each night.

The two worked in silence for several minutes and the daroga had extinguished his lantern in case Erik should approach.

It seemed, though, that Raoul was having a great deal more luck with his chains than the daroga was having with the heavily locked door. He looked up to wipe his brow and held back a gasp of surprise when he saw two yellow eyes in the distance.

"He approaches, de Chagny," he whispered frantically before dodging behind a wall. The last thing either of them needed right now was for Erik to find them here.

He was slightly irked at me for the noise I made while his friend was here, so I thought it best to give him space.

Erik cursed at nothing in particular as he swept through the corridors. He wasn't angry with Christine. She hadn't meant any harm. He was afraid, though, that he'd snap at her in his temper and he really did not have the ability to deal with her tears at the moment.

He wasn't really angry with the daroga either. It irritated him to no end that the man could not just accept that a woman could love him and be with him of her own free will. Still… he was right. As much as he hated the fact, he knew that Christine did not love him. She had been such a good girl… so sweet and determined to have a happy marriage with a cantankerous old bat. At the same time, he knew that she would run off with the vicomte in a heartbeat if she were given the opportunity.

The vicomte. Erik growled when he thought of him. Oddly enough, though, Erik wasn't even angry with Raoul. Surely, he hated the boy. But, when all was said and done, the boy had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then why was he so mad? Perhaps it was just the situation… perhaps he was just frustrated and tired of being a monster. Maybe it was that he was weary and only wanted to live as a normal man, and yet, was constantly reminded that it could never be.

He was so absorbed in his dark thoughts that he was not paying nearly enough attention to his surroundings as he should have been. Why would he? No one ever came down here.

I took a nap. Odd, I know, but I think Erik has me in the habit now. Anyway, I had that dream again. It is the same one I had before my wedding… though I remember more and more of it each time.

"Wake up, boy!" he called as he threw open the door to the cell. He was not going to beat or torment the lad… not today. He was too tired. He just wanted to give him his food and go back home. He looked forward to relaxing with his wife.

However, Raoul did not respond to his call. Instead, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"What have you done, Erik?"

"Daroga!" he snarled, "I told you to leave!"

"You know I can't do that, Erik. Let the boy go. Let Christine go."

"Never!" he roared, whipping around, "You shall not have her! She is mine and I will never---"

Erik stopped and his glowing eyes grew wide with pain and fury as Raoul plunged his knife into his shoulder. He turned back around, deftly twisting his lasso to throw and strangle the boy. Before he could throw the rope, however, the daroga grabbed his upper arm hard and jerked him backward.

"Erik, don't do this." he whispered.

Raoul, on the other hand, was in no mood for discussion. He flew at the masked man, knife in hand, and flailed it wildly, cutting and stabbing whatever he could come in contact with.

"Go back to Hell where you belong, demon!" he hissed.

The daroga tried to step between the two and earned a fist in the jaw for his trouble.

Erik staggered a bit but managed to backhand Raoul across the face before he collapsed. Raoul, greatly weakened from his ordeal and from the sudden exertion, was easily knocked unconscious by the blow.

The Persian stood there for a moment, looking between his bleeding friend and his unconscious captive, warring with himself. It was impossible to tell whose condition was more dire. Erik was seriously injured, but after days of abuse and neglect, Raoul was no better off. No! he realized, I'll have no more innocent blood on my hands. This must end now, Erik.

He carefully lifted the vicomte under his arm and leaned him against his shoulder. The boy began to rouse so at least the daroga was not dragging a completely dead weight.

As he helped the injured man out of the cell, he heard Erik rasp, "I will kill you for this, daroga."

The Persian shook his head and chuckled, his voice vibrating with bitterness. "I have no doubt of it, my friend. When I return, I shall be taking the girl with me. After both these children are safe, you can feel free to cut my throat with my blessing."

As he continued on his journey out of the cellars, an inhuman moan could be heard all around. Both the daroga and the vicomte fought to cover their ears, so unbearable was the cry…

"Christine…" Erik sobbed, "Oh, Christine…"

I woke up and expected to see Erik beside me. He always is whenever I have nightmares. He seems to somehow, instinctively, know when I am distressed.

He had to get to her… he just had to. He had lost so much blood that he struggled to stand. Walking… moving… it was agony, but he had to reach her. Each time he stumbled, he called out her name--not with any expectation that she would hear him… but, just willing her to know that he loved her and was trying to get to her.

But he was not there. I saw that he had been gone nearly two hours and I started to worry. I know I am not supposed to leave the house. It is dangerous and I don't know his traps. I imagine that if… when… Erik wakes up he will tell me as much. Still, I had this feeling in the pit of my stomach that I should go and find him.

I am glad I did.

So close… he thought. He could see the door. There was a light on under it. She was waiting for him… waiting to go on their walk together. She is such a wonderful girl.

Each step was heavier. Each moment was a greater struggle to stay awake.

"Christine…" he whispered.

The door swung open and she saw him just as he fell to his knees.

"Erik!" she cried, running to him.

She seemed torn between embracing him tightly and withholding her touch, lest she hurt him. In the end she compromised, placing her hands on either side of his face and forcing him to focus on her eyes.

Those eyes. They had tears in them… even in the dark he could see the concern written across her face. Why would she worry for me? Could she care? Maybe, even a little?

"You were not meant to see this…" he sighed.

"Is that all you can say?" she sputtered, "Come inside, Erik. Lets get you into bed."

She helped him up and together they walked, with tottering steps, down the hallway to the bedroom. But before she could turn to her bedroom, he stopped her.

"coffin." he rasped, shaking his head.

He insisted on sleeping in his coffin. I still find it unnerving that that is the place he retreats to. But, if that is where he is most comfortable, I'll swallow my own skittishness and go to him.

Christine reached her hands up to remove the mask and Erik caught her wrists.

"No." he whispered.

"Shh." she soothed, cupping his face in her hands. "It's okay, dear heart, I need to see so I can help."

They both paused, equally shocked by how easily the endearment had slipped in. Dear heart?

Christine would have blushed but the emotion of the whole ordeal thus far had left her unhealthily pale--save her nose, which was red from the tears she had been holding back.

Erik slowly relaxed his grip and allowed her to untie the mask and slip it from his face. She did not gasp or shy away, she was so caught up in what she was doing that she noticed at all.

Next she moved to unbutton his shirt, which had become sticky with blood. Again Erik resisted.

"No, Christine. You do not need to do this. Go to your room. I will take care of myself as I always have."

Something about the forlorn way he said that made her heart lurch. On impulse she leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. He stiffened and she pulled away.

"No longer, Erik. You are not alone any longer. You have a wife and she wants to take care of you."

At this profession, the floodgates opened for both of them and they each wept freely. Had this happened in another moment, Christine would have liked nothing more than to crawl up into his lap and be held. However, there was no time for that. Erik needed medical attention immediately.

As he wept, Erik allowed Christine to unbutton and remove his shirt, all the while murmuring soothing words in his ear.

Christine gasped when she saw the damage that had been done. She did not give Erik a chance to protest again, though, before she quickly and efficiently began dressing and stitching the worst of the knife wounds. She saw his eyes rolling back and his thin form begin to waver and realized he had been fighting to stay conscious. She quickly cleaned the wounds on his back and helped him into the coffin. He fell asleep shortly after that. For her part, it was just as well, since it meant she could attend to the wounds on his chest and shoulders much easier with him immobile.

When she had finished, Christine covered him with the quilt from her bed and kissed his forehead. Then she knelt by the coffin and wept.

"Oh Erik…" she sobbed, "don't do this to me. Please be okay. I can't… I can't lose you…"

I have done everything I can think of to do for him, short of fetching a doctor--which is not currently an option. I'm lucky to have had at least some practice with caring for injuries. I remember how the little boys of the ballet used to come seek me out for help with their cuts and scraps as I was the least likely to scold them for their foolishness. Erik's injuries are immeasurably worse… but at least the basic concepts are the same.

There is nothing more to do now than wait and pray.

I find myself reflecting, as I sit here beside him, on how my feelings have changed recently. I am terrified I will lose him tonight. The fact that I almost lost him already frightens me as well.

It is not the fear of being down here alone. That thought unsettles me, but I will survive as I always have. I can't explain this fear--this desperation. I just cannot think of the possibility of his death.

I cannot think of it. It is too painful. No. He will live. Everything will be as it should be.

How long have I been sitting here, watching him?

What is this feeling? I care for him, that much is certain. We have gotten along so well lately. I have grown to truly enjoy his company. I had truly begun to hope for the possibility of a happy life together.

Am I in love? I do not believe so for I am in love with Raoul and this feels entirely different. Maybe I am just used to Erik. As strange as it is, it is a possibility. I believe I am… comfortable… with him. I must speak to Mamma, she will know what to do.

I wish my father was here. Or Mamma Valerius. They could help me sort this out. Perhaps I can arrange a visit to see Mamma soon. When Erik gets better.

Erik. Oh Erik! Please get better. I promise that if you live through this I will be yours forever and never wish for anything else.

I'll do anything. Please wake up.

Christine was startled from her frantic writing when she heard a bell. It was the alarm…the doorbell. She debated with herself whether or not she should answer it. Realizing that the intruder was unlikely to go away, she rose from Erik's bedside and squeezed his hand affectionately.

"I'll be back, dear one." she murmured.

She opened the door to a tall, dark skinned man who looked like he'd seen better days.

"Christine Daae?" he asked

"Yes…" she said warily.

"I am so glad you are safe. May I come in?"

Christine


Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! You guys are super. If you don't remember what dream she is talking about, see Chapter 29. Also, if you have not yet checked out my other EC story, you should. It is called The Goblin Monk and is a crossover with the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Go read it if you get a minute. Anyway, thanks for reading and thanks ahead of time for reviewing (hint, hint)!!!