Chapter Seven: The Duel

Meg drew back the pink satin curtains of her second-story window and sighed. It had been several days since she'd last seen her best friend, and there was still no sign of her. Neither she nor her mother had spoken about why Christine had not returned from the opera house. They both knew the answer to that question. Madame Giry did not seem worried in the least, but after nearly four nights had passed without word from Christine, Meg was becoming anxious. Generally, she trusted her mother's opinion, but she was finding it harder and harder to remain silent as thoughts of all the horrible things that could have possibly happened to Christine raced through her mind. She felt something brush against her leg and looked down to see the little gray cat rubbing her face against her mistress. She stooped to pet the cat.

"Oh, Élise, will she ever come home? What if something terrible has happened to her? What if she is being held against her will?"

"Meg Giry, I'm ashamed of you."

Meg looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway. She sighed. "I'm sorry, Maman, but I can't help but worry. She is like a sister to me…I don't know what I would do if something happened to her."

"And she is as a second daughter to me. I would not have allowed her to go back if I thought that she was in any danger."

"Perhaps we should send out a search party…"

"And risk exposing him to the police? Meg, you know what they will do if they find out that he is still alive!"

"So you would protect him over your own adopted daughter? Would you choose him over me as well, Maman?"

"Hold your tongue, girl! You know not of what you speak. I am not choosing one over the other. I am simply doing what I think is best for the both of them – giving them some privacy to work things out for themselves."

"But Maman, he is a wanted man, a murderer! How do you know that he has not harmed her?"

"Hush, child. You do not know him as I do. No harm will come to Christine as long as she is with him. I am certain of it. Give it a little more time. If she is not back by the end of the week, I shall go and fetch her myself." The ballet mistress wrapped her arm around her daughter and planted a soft kiss on her head. "Now stop worrying so much and get some rest. It is late."

"Yes, Maman."

"Goodnight, ma fille."

"Goodnight."

Meg watched as her mother left the room, closing the door behind her. She turned back to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of an approaching stagecoach in the soft moonlight. At long last, she closed the curtains and crawled into her bed, blowing out the candle on her bedside table. In the sliver of moonlight that came through the curtains, she could just make out the furry form of Élise curled up at the foot of her bed. Staring up into the darkness, Meg made a decision. If her mother did not care about what happened to Christine, she would go to someone who did. Tomorrow she would pay a visit to the Vicomte de Changy.

Meg nervously lifted the doorknocker on the front door of the de Changy mansion. She gave three short, sharp raps and then stood back to wait. Presently, a short, plump woman in her mid sixties opened the door. She wore a lacy white apron over a simple black dress and large, round spectacles that seemed too big for her chubby little face. Her silver-gray hair was plaited and twisted up into a small bun on the top of her head. She peered up at the girl, squinting at first, as though she could not quite see the visitor's face. After a moment, she smiled.

"Well, hello, dearie. Sorry if I seemed to stare. I'm afraid my eyesight isn't what it used to be." Her accent was a bit strange, as though she were not a native French speaker. "What brings you to the de Changy House this morning?"

Meg returned the smile. She had never been to a nobleman's estate before, and she had been rather concerned that she would be turned away or embarrass herself by not knowing the proper etiquette, but the maid's informal, grandmotherly demeanor put her at ease. "I am Meg Giry, daughter of Madame Antoinette Giry, the ballet mistress of the Paris Opera House."

"Well, now, I heard it there was a horrible fire there a few weeks ago. Something about a chandelier crash… Some folks were blaming it on a ghost! Now, can you believe that? Grown men running the opera house blaming their mistakes on some figment of the imagination, now really! Personally, I think the managers should really be more careful about keeping up with the safety regulations, if you know what I mean. Good to see you made it out alright, though."

"Yes…" Meg decided against correcting the woman's mistaken assumptions. For a figment of the imagination, he's certainly caused a lot of trouble.

"Are you here to see the vicomte? Is he expecting you?"

The woman's questions brought her attention back to the problem at hand. "I am here to see the vicomte, but he does not know that I have come. I am a friend of Christine Daaé, his fiancé. I bring news of her."

"Miss Daaé, you say? She seemed to me a fine, sweet girl. Is she alright?"

"I…don't know," she answered honestly. "Please, tell the vicomte I must see him immediately."

"See me about what?" Both women looked up to see Raoul descending the stairs. "Lydia, who is this girl?"

Meg offered a small curtsey. "I am Meg Giry, monsieur, a friend of Christine's."

"Oh! Well, then, by all means come inside!" He turned briefly to the maid. "Lydia, prepare a bit of tea for our guest, please." The maid bobbed a curtsey and scuttled off as the vicomte returned his attention to Meg. "Christine has spoken quite highly of you. She is doing well, I trust?"

Meg frowned uncomfortably and bit her lower lip. "I have not heard from her in over four days."

Now it was Raoul's turn to frown. "Is she not staying with you and your mother?"

"She was but…I think…I think she may be in trouble."

"In trouble? Well, where is she?"

Meg sighed. "At the Paris Opera House."

"But the opera house was burned! Why would she go back when there is nothing left to see?"

Meg looked down, unable to meet his eyes. "She is with the Opera Ghost, monsieur."

Christine was the first to pull back from the kiss, panting heavily. Never had she felt such a rush of feelings, such exhilaration, as she had felt in that kiss. Never had she seen such deep and devoted love in someone's eyes. Not even when Raoul had proposed to her. Raoul! Christine's eyes suddenly widened, and gasping, she put a hand to her mouth. What on earth have I done?

"Oh, Erik," she shook her head apologetically. "Erik, I'm so sorry!"

Erik felt his heart sink. She regrets it, he thought. She regrets kissing me.

"I-I shouldn't have…I mean I can't…" She got up from the chair by the bedside and turned away, burying her face in her hands. "I am promised to another!"

Slowly he began to comprehend. She doesn't regret kissing me...She regrets that she can't be with me! She loves me… The realization was overwhelming. She can't stay with me, but she loves me! Perhaps he should have been sad, but at the moment, he was too busy trying to wrap his head around the idea that she actually had feelings for him.

She felt a pair of warm hands on her shoulders. "Christine." He gently turned her so that she was facing him. "There is no need to apologize. I understand…"

She looked up tearfully and shook her head again. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. You have already told me everything I need to know." He pulled her into a soft embrace and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to her forehead. "Thank you."

Christine wrapped her arms around him. "I never meant to hurt you," she said.

"You have not hurt me, Christine. If anything, you have made me stronger. You have given me a reason to believe again, a reason to hope. I know that you must go…I have always known that…But I want you to know that you have brought me greater joy than I have ever known, if only for a few moments of my life. I shall never forget what you have done for me, Christine."

Christine felt the hot tears slipping down her cheeks. "And I shall never forget you, Erik, mon Ange."

Suddenly, Erik tensed. She felt his arms tighten around her and looked up, concerned. He was staring off into the distance, but when she tried to follow his gaze she couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. "Erik?"

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Shhh…." he hissed.

Christine listened intently. At first, she didn't hear anything but then…There it was! Somewhere in the distance she heard the faint sound of footsteps echoing off the walls. She gasped. "Someone's coming!"

Grabbing her hand, Erik ran to the curtains that had once covered the mirror and shoved them aside, revealing a dark passageway. Holding her by the shoulders at arm's length, he paused, knowing that this would likely be the last chance he ever had to look into her eyes. "Go until you see a fork in the path. When you get there, take the left passage. It will lead you to the street that runs beside the opera house. You'll be safe there."

Christine was distraught. "You're not coming with me?"

"Christine I have told you before that if they see us together we are both as good as dead. I am not willing to risk your life."

"If you stay here, they'll find you. You know what they will do! Erik, please be sensible. Come back with me to Madame Giry's house. You can hide there until the danger has passed and – "

"I have spent my entire life in hiding, Christine – hiding from the world as well as myself. I have been a coward and a fool to think that I can run from my past. You showed me that I don't have to hide behind the mask anymore, Christine…and you were right. I cannot spend the rest of my life on the run, and I will not ask you or Madame Giry to put yourselves at risk for me anymore…so when they come for me, I will accept the consequences of my actions without fear. There will be no more hiding for me."

Christine was on the verge of tears. "Erik, they'll kill you!"

"Then let me die knowing that I have done at least one good deed in saving you."

"Erik, I – "

The footsteps had grown louder, faster. They were running.

"You must go now, Christine. Hurry! Do not look back. Do not stop running until you have reached safety…And whatever happens, promise that you will not come back for me."

Christine hesitated.

"Promise me!"

She bowed her head in defeat. "I promise."

"Go." He gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the tunnel. "Go, now!"

Christine ran a few steps before turning to steal one last glance over her shoulder. "Erik?"

He paused mid-way in closing the curtain.

"I…" The words caught in her throat. Why couldn't she just say what she was thinking, what she was feeling? "I just wanted to say…be careful…"

The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them. Erik knew what she had meant to say, but the fact that she could not bring herself to speak the words aloud pained him deeply. They stood there for a moment, staring into one another's eyes, trying to find the truth. But the footsteps were getting closer. Soon they would be to the edge of the lake. Soon they would find the underground lair. Christine offered him a small, apologetic smile, then turned and ran down the passage as fast as her legs would carry her, the silent words still echoing in her mind.

He waited until he could no longer see her, until her white dress was stained the inky black of the shadows and he could no longer make out her dark curls dancing against her shoulders, before he let the curtain fall. Another act in the opera of life came to an end as Christine's world was enveloped in darkness, and Erik turned to face his fate.

Christine ran until she was out of breath. With only the faint light of day from the end of the tunnel to guide her, she had stumbled quite a few times along the way and nearly twisted her ankle. Panting, she leaned against the moist stone wall and closed her eyes. Why didn't I tell him? Why am I so afraid to admit the truth?

"Psst! Christine! Christine is that you?"

Christine jumped at the sound of the voice coming from just ahead in the tunnel. In the dim light of the dungeons she could just see the silhouette of a young woman coming toward her. She squinted, trying to make out the details in the darkness. As the figure drew closer, she gasped. "Meg? What are you doing here?"

"I came to help you escape!"

"Escape? But I don't understand…How did you know the police were here?"

"Police? What police?" Meg craned her neck, trying to make out something behind her friend. "Where is the vicomte?"

Christine looked confused. "At home, I suppose…I haven't seen him since I left to visit you."

Meg frowned. "He is not with you, then?"

"No…Why should he be?"

"Because he came here with me to help you escape from the phantom!"

"The phantom?" Christine's eyes widened with horror as she realized the meaning of her friend's words. "Oh, Meg! There has been a terrible misunderstanding!"

"A misunderstanding? Christine, did he not hold you here against your will these past few days?"

"No! I remained here of my own free will. He has been nothing but good to me! Oh! I must go to him before it's too late!" Christine turned to leave, but stopped short when she felt her friend grab her arm.

"Christine wait! Think about what you are doing… The man is a wanted criminal! A murderer! I know how much you care for him, but he seems to exert some strange power over you…If you go back to him now, you may never leave. Raoul is a good man, Christine. And he loves you. Wouldn't you rather spend the rest of your life with a safe, kind-hearted man like him?"

"No." Christine surprised herself with her response. "I would rather spend the rest of my life with the man that I love."

Erik did not put on the mask. He did not reach for his sword, nor did he fashion a lasso. He simply stood by the water's edge and waited. This time he would not run. This time he would not hide. Perhaps he would still be hunted like a beast, but at least he would die like a man.

Hearing a splash in the direction of the main gate, he turned his attention to the intruder and was surprised to see not the police but the young Vicomte de Changy. The vicomte drew a sword from his belt.

"Put away your weapons, monsieur. I no longer have a quarrel with you." His voice, still a bit rough from the lingering effects of the cold, was not nearly as intimidating as he had hoped it would be.

"Where is she? What have you done with her?"

"Miss Daaé is on her way back to the Giry household as we speak. I have done nothing to harm her, of that I may assure you."

Raoul was now at the water's edge. He aimed the sword at the man's throat. "I don't believe that for a second."

Erik shrugged, surprisingly calm for someone whose life was being threatened. "Believe what you will, but it is the truth."

"Tell me where she is."

Erik was silent.

"Tell me where she is."

"I have already told you," he replied coolly. "It is not my fault that you refuse to believe me."

Raoul slashed the sword across his unmasked face, leaving a streak of crimson from the right part of his forehead to his left lower jaw. Erik's hands flew to his face. Cursing, he resisted the urge to strangle the boy for Christine's sake.

The vicomte remained in a defensive position. "Why should I believe that you would suddenly let her go after keeping her prisoner here for days?"

"If you must know," Erik said through clenched teeth, "I have been in bed with a fever. Christine was kind enough to tend to me."

Raoul was incensed. "Fever was not the only thing you were in bed with, was it?" The vicomte was slowly backing his opponent toward the wall, his blade at his enemy's chest. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "The only fever you have experienced is a fever of passion for my future wife!"

He raised the sword, preparing to strike, but the blade was met with a clang as Erik snatched up a heavy iron candle stand, holding his ground. Swinging the metal post like a club, Erik struck back, nearly knocking the vicomte over with the force of his blow. Raoul recovered quickly, hand still stinging from the vibrations of his sword, and swung his rapier to meet his opponent's weapon. They were slowly making their way back toward the water's edge, the clash of iron and steel ringing throughout the underground lair, reverberating off the walls so that it sounded more like an entire army in battle than two men in a duel. Wielding a much heavier weapon, Erik clearly had the upper hand, but he was tiring quickly, having not yet fully recovered his strength. The blood from the gash on his face was stinging his eyes, blurring his vision. Knowing that he couldn't maintain his advantage for long, he made one last effort to disarm his adversary. Swinging the pole with all of his might, he felt his opponent's arm give way. The sword clattered to the ground, and Erik promptly kicked it away. When Raoul moved to recover his weapon, Erik swung again. There was scream of pain as the metal base of the candle stand collided with the vicomte's left leg, and he staggered backwards, landing in the shallow water with a splash. Erik prepared to strike again, when suddenly he thought of Christine. Was not the boy acting out of love for Christine, too? Young and arrogant though her fiancé might have been, Erik found that he could not honestly fault the man for his actions without being a hypocrite. Slowly, he lowered the weapon and cast it aside, offering his fallen rival a hand up. The vicomte hesitated, then stretched out his own hand, begrudgingly accepting his enemy's assistance. When he was nearly standing, he suddenly staggered, reaching for his injured leg. Erik moved to steady him but stopped short. There was a glint of silver and before he could react, Raoul had the knife at his back, burying the blade in his flesh.

Roaring with pain, Erik stumbled backward, tripping over the discarded candle stand and landing flat on his back. The small blotch of scarlet that had appeared on his shirt was slowly expanding as the blood soaked through his clothing. Grimacing, he put a hand to his back and felt the warm, sticky liquid seep through his fingers. His breathing was harsh, irregular.

The vicomte raised the dagger high over his head, preparing to deal the final blow. "This is for Christine."

Erik squeezed his eyes shut, mumbling what little he remembered of the Lord's Prayer.

"Raoul, NO!"

Erik opened his eyes to see that Christine had flung herself upon him, putting herself between his chest and the blade. Breathing hard, she looked up into her intended's eyes, pleading.

Good heavens, but she was close! He could feel the warmth of her body against his, her chest rising and falling with each and every breath. If the situation had not been so desperate, he wasn't certain that he would have been able to control himself.

Raoul was incredulous. "Christine?"

"Raoul, please, don't kill him! He has done nothing to harm me, nor corrupted me in any way."

"Christine, the man is a murderer!"

"And you will be, as well, if you take his life!"

"Why do keep defending him?"

"Because I love him!" The room went silent save for Erik's heavy breathing as both men stared at her in disbelief. "I love him, Raoul," she whispered softly.

The vicomte looked as though he had been slapped. The hand holding the dagger returned limply to his side. "Obviously, he has you under whatever seductive spell he had before."

"No, Raoul! Listen to me! I came here of my own free will. I stayed here because he needed help…" She paused to take a deep breath. "…And in the time that I have spent with him over the past few days, I have come to realize that it never was the man behind the mask I feared but the power of my own emotions…You are a good man, Raoul. A good man, and one of my dearest friends. Growing up, you were like the brother I never had…I do love you, Raoul, but I'm afraid that it is not the same form of affection that you feel for me…One day you will make a wonderful husband for someone..." She gently removed the ring from her finger and held it out to him "…But that someone is not me. I cannot marry you in good faith, Raoul, for while I would belong to you in name, my heart belongs to someone else. I am sorry..."

The vicomte stared at the ring in his palm with astonishment. Slowly, his fist closed around the ring, clenching it so tightly that he could feel the imprint in his skin. Hurling it across the room, he heard it clink against the far wall before sinking silently to the bottom of the lake.

"Then stay here!" he shouted. There was an angry tremor in his voice. "Stay here with your disfigured lover! I hope that you are happy with him, Christine, because you will never hear from me again!"

With that, he turned and limped over to the tunnel from whence Christine had come where Meg had been silently watching the entire exchange. He pushed past her and continued on, not caring that he had left his sword or that Christine had been following after him.

"Raoul! Raoul, wait, please!"

Meg gently grabbed her friend's arm. "Let him go, Christine. He needs a bit of time to himself." Her eyes flitted to Erik, who still lay on the floor in a pool of blood that was gradually becoming larger. He looked betrayed, hurt. She bowed her head. "I am so sorry, Christine…Monsieur Erik…Please, do not be angry. My mother had nothing to do with this…I was worried about Christine. I thought I was doing what was best for her, but…I never meant for any of this to happen!"

Christine had returned to Erik's side and was studying the splash of red that continued to soak through his clothing. "These wounds need to be treated…" She looked up, worriedly. "Meg, you know a little about medical procedure, correct?"

Meg looked uncomfortable. "Christine, my father died when I was five. I barely remember anything he taught me. I hardly think it's enough knowledge to treat an injury like this!"

"But you've read some in his medical books, haven't you? And you've always been better at sewing than me. Surely you could stitch him up?"

"I don't know, Christine…I understand some of the theories, but…I've never actually tried to apply them…"

"Meg, we can't get him to a doctor, and even if we could we'd risk him being recognized… Please, Meg…You may be our only hope…"

Meg stared at her hands. "After all that I have done, I suppose it is the least I can do…I can't promise it will work, but I will try my best…" She lifted her eyes to Erik. "If you will permit me, monsieur?"

Erik grit his teeth against the pain but nodded curtly.

Meg knelt down beside him opposite Christine and gently rolled him onto his side so that she could better inspect the injury on his back. Erik grunted in discomfort but tried not to think about the knife wound and instead focused on Christine. It was difficult for him to concentrate with all the blood loss he had experienced. He felt dizzy and disoriented. He didn't want to tell Christine, but he doubted that anything they did to help him would truly make a difference. He could feel his energy, his lifeblood draining away. He smiled wryly.

"Not a pretty sight, am I?"

And in truth, he was not. If his face had been frightening before, it was hideously gruesome now. The deep gash that ran from just above his right eyebrow down across his left cheek was bleeding profusely. Red rivulets ran down the contours of his face, dripping from his right eye as though he were weeping blood and running down from the bridge of his nose to stain his pale, lifeless lips, giving him an almost vampiric appearance. At the moment he more closely resembled a monster from a horror story than a man.

Christine did not deny his assumption but gently placed a hand on his cheek. There were tears in her eyes. "That doesn't matter to me. What matters is that you are alive."

Not for much longer.

Erik winced as Meg began applying pressure to the wound on his back in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

The girl looked up from her work. "Christine, I need some rags…some towels or something to wrap this."

Christine didn't hesitate but immediately began to tear long strips of cloth from her dress, handing them to her friend when she was finished. "Now what?"

Meg blushed profusely, glancing first at Christine, then at Erik. "I hate to ask this of you, but I need you to remove your shirt."

Erik felt the breath catch in his throat. For a brief instant, he was back at the cathedral. Father Destler's condemning words echoed in the back of his mind. Remove your shirt, boy.

"No!" He gasped.

Meg looked to Christine for help. "I can't properly wrap it if I don't get beneath the shirt. The bandages will be too loose."

Christine took his hand, slick with blood from covering his wounds, and gave it a soft squeeze. "We will be gentle, I promise, but it must be done."

"Whether you are gentle matters not," he wheezed. "What is one more scar when there are already so many?"

"Surely it can't be that bad…"

He grimaced. "You may be the judge of that for yourself. Do as you think is necessary, but do not say I haven't warned you."

Christine and Meg shared a confused look but quickly shrugged it off. No sooner had Meg begun to peel back the blood soaked fabric than she gave a little squeak, her hands shrinking back from the shirt as though it were contaminated. Christine was about to remark on her friend's behavior when she noticed what Meg had been looking at. She gasped softly as she stared at the exposed skin. His torso was smooth and flat, taught with muscle without an inch of fat. It was as if his body had been carved from marble, as if he belonged among the statues of the ancient Greek and Roman gods. Christine had never seen a man's bare chest before, but it was not his godlike figure that caught her attention. It was the angry white scars that crisscrossed his back like a roadmap, like a writhing pile of snakes. Christine could not tear her eyes from the sight. Erik looked away, ashamed.

Christine ran her fingers along his back, sending shivers down his spine. "Erik," she whispered, "who did this to you?"

In truth, he didn't know. Father Destler had been the first, but certainly not the last. As a part of the gypsies' travelling circus, he had been beaten nearly every day…sometimes several times a day. On different days it had been different people, though it had been primarily the one he called "Master." He hated the word with a passion. But the gypsies had never bothered to use his given name, and so he had never bothered to learn theirs, though he could see their jeering faces in his mind as clear as day. He clenched his teeth.

"People who thought the Devil's Child deserved punishment."

Christine was livid. "How could anyone do such a thing to their fellow man? To any of God's creatures, for that matter?"

Erik hissed as another wave of pain radiated out from the stab wound on his back. Meg had begun to dress the wound and, though he knew she was trying to be gentle, the bandages had to be tied tight enough to reduce the blood flow. It was as if a second white-hot knife had been inserted into the wound. He squeezed Christine's hand a bit harder than he intended.

"I suppose…the…the Devil's Child is not considered one of God's creations," he laughed cynically.

Christine shook her head. "Whoever believed such nonsense about you was an ignorant fool! I should very much like to see them receive just punishment for their crimes against humanity, though I suppose they will…in time…"

Erik smiled slightly at the thought. He wasn't certain whether Madame Giry had told Christine the story of how he had escaped from the circus, sending his master to his Maker a bit prematurely, but he thought it best not to mention the incident at the moment. Though he knew in his heart it was wrong, he couldn't help but feel the slightest joy at knowing that the heavy-handed gypsy was now enduring an eternity of pain even worse than that which he had inflicted. He hoped that Father Destler, who had used God's name to carry out his own agenda, was there with him. But then it crossed his mind that people could change. From the many conversations that he and Christine had shared over the past few days, he had learned that in some instances, God had even forgiven people lying at death's door [1]. If that were true, it was good news for him, given his current condition, but then it also opened up the possibility that they had made their way to heaven, too. The thought troubled him. Did that mean he would have to forgive them? Should he forgive them anyway, regardless of their final decision? Erik wasn't sure he could forgive them even if he wanted to (which quite frankly, he didn't). And he wasn't sure that he could honestly say he was sorry for ending the gypsy's life. Oh, God, help me! He made a mental note to ask Christine about such questions later…If he actually survived this ordeal.

There was another sharp stab of pain as Meg tied off the last of the bandages. My goodness, they were tight! He was having enough trouble breathing as it was. Was it really necessary to choke him?

Meg wiped her hands on her skirt and pulled out a handkerchief, which she dipped in the lake at their feet. It wasn't the cleanest water, but it was the closest at hand and for the moment, it would have to do. She handed it to Christine while she began to prepare a crude needle and thread from the limited materials she had.

Christine paused before wiping the blood from his face. "This may sting a little," she apologized.

"Nothing I can't manage," he grunted.

Carefully, she began cleaning first the places where the blood had dripped, then the edges of the wound. Erik sucked in a sharp breath but refrained from further expression of pain.

As she finished wiping away the blood, Meg came forth with the needle and thread. Instantly, Erik tensed. Although he had endured many lacerations and open wounds in his life, he hadn't ever actually had stitches – generally because no one had cared enough to stitch him up – and stitches on his face was something he was definitely not looking forward to.

Meg assessed the situation. "I know this is going to be difficult, but I'm going to need you to be very still…and try not to tense up too much…It will only make it hurt worse, and the stitches won't go in as well. Just relax."

Relax? How in the world was he supposed to stay still and relax while she was pushing needles in and out of his face? Erik sighed. Well, he would do his best. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and waited for the needle to pierce his flesh. There was a sharp stinging sensation just above his right eyebrow. He could feel the string lacing through his skin, and on top of the blood loss and the shooting pain in his back, it was nearly enough to make him pass out. Not to mention the fact that he was still feeling a bit ill from being out in the cold. He wondered what would happen if he were to cough or sneeze while she was working on his face and decided that he absolutely did not want to find out. He gripped Christine's hand so hard she had a feeling it would leave bruises, but she knew his pain was far worse than her own, so she didn't say anything about it. By the time Meg finally finished, Christine's hand had nearly lost all feeling, and Erik had determined that stitches were most definitely a form of torture.

"Chris…Christine?" His voice was distant, weak. Nothing like the voice that she remembered.

Meg had returned home nearly an hour ago, leaving Erik and Christine alone together once again. But what should have been romantic privacy more closely resembled despairing isolation. And never in her life had Christine been so afraid to find herself alone with him. When he had been the Angel of Music, she'd had no reason to fear him. When he had been the Phantom, even in his more dangerous moments, she had always known somewhere in the back of her mind that he would never harm her, and she had always known in her heart of hearts that she loved him. Even when he had revealed himself to be no more than a man – perhaps the most dangerous creature of them all – she had trusted him with her virtue, with her life. But now it frightened her.

She was afraid to look at him, afraid to see his ashen skin, his hazy, lifeless eyes. Those eyes that had once sparkled with love, burned with passion, and seared her to the core. Those emerald eyes that had once frightened and entranced her with their flame. Now they terrified her with their empty gaze.

He was no spectral figure, no angelic being, no monster. He was a man. Just a man. And a man was capable of dying.

Christine felt the silent tears slip down her cheeks, and she quickly moved to brush them away.

Erik stretched out a shaking hand toward her face.

"Angels…were not meant to cry…Christine." He wiped away a tear, stroking her cheek with his thumb. It was rough, caked with layers of dried blood and dirt from the floor where he lay, but his touch was gentle, calming. "Do not waste your tears on me."

Christine put her hand over his, holding it close to her face. A few more tears slipped free. "I don't want to lose you."

Erik smiled weakly. These were not tears of pity. These were tears of love. He slowly let his hand slip to her lap.

"Christine…will you…will you do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"When I am gone…"

"Don't say that!"

"Christine, please…Listen to me…I don't know how much time I have to say this." He paused, wincing at the throbbing pain in his back. "In the pipe on the far right of the organ…There is…there is a key…The pipe is loose, so you'll be able to remove it…The key opens the lock on the safe in the storage room. It is where I keep the money I collect from the managers… I want you to have it…" He took one of her hands in both of his. Blinded by selfish desire, he had ruined her life at the opera house when she had saved his in more ways than one. He would make it up to her. "Use it...to start a new life with someone…who can make you happy."

"You make me happy, Erik."

"Then, perhaps…there is still hope…"

Christine shook her head. "I don't understand."

"Reach into my pocket." He would have done it himself, but he didn't feel like he had the strength.

Christine hesitated, then slowly slipped her hand into the dark fabric just below his hip. He took a bit of devilish pleasure in watching her slight discomfort as she ran her fingers along the thin veil of cloth that separated her hand from his thigh. At last, she felt something metal, something cool to the touch, something like…

"The ring," she breathed. Christine held it up, turning it back and forth, as if she did not truly believe what she was seeing. The large diamond diadem sparkled in the candlelight. "You've kept it with you all this time?"

Erik seemed not to have heard her question. "Christine, I have nothing to offer you…No title…No surname…" He had long forgotten his mother's last name, and he absolutely refused to acknowledge that man's part in his family history. "…Not even…not even a handsome young face…" His breathing was becoming shallower, more labored. "But I can promise you all the love that is within my heart, though I fear it is not nearly enough…Christine…Will you…marry me?"

Christine froze, breath caught in her throat, heart scarcely beating. Slowly, she reached for his hand, and for a brief, heart-wrenching moment, he thought she was going to return the ring. What she did instead surprised him. Taking his right hand, she gently placed the ring between his index finger and thumb. Then, holding up his hand for him, she guided the ring onto her finger. "Yes."

Erik smiled, struggling to catch his breath. "Now…now I can die…a happy man."

Christine cupped his face in her hands. Her voice was desperate, pleading. "Erik, you are not going to die!"

He gave a half-hearted laugh, though it ended up being more of a cough. "Can't hope for too many miracles in the same day…Do you remember my prayer, Christine?"

She nodded tearfully.

"You used to call me your angel, Christine, but the real angel has always been you. You are my miracle. You have shown me what love is even when I did not deserve it." His voice was trembling, his breathing shaky. "Now I know that if I had been born a handsome man, I might have had more love from the world, but I would never have known a love as true and pure as yours. And that has made it all worth it."

Christine choked back a sob.

"I have wanted to end my life many times, Christine. The reason I did not kill myself the night of the fire, was because I was afraid…Afraid that God hated me as much as everyone else…Afraid I was beyond any love or redemption…" Now there were tears in his eyes as well. "But when I look into your eyes, I can see the better part of me, the man I want to be…And I'm not afraid anymore."

Christine leaned down and gently kissed his lips. It was not a kiss of passion, nor of pity. It was a kiss goodbye.

Erik suddenly broke away, coughing, and Christine ran her fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. When he had regained his composure, he offered her a half-smile. "You always did know how to take my breath away."

Christine smiled through her tears and shook her head.

"Christine," he asked, suddenly serious, "will you sing for me…one…last…time?"

The girl sniffed and wiped the wet streaks from her face. "What would you like for me to sing?"

His eyes were growing heavy. "It doesn't matter…Just as long…as I hear…your voice."

She could feel his hand going slack now, could hear his shallow breathing growing fainter. His chest was barely moving; his heart was barely beating. He was slipping away, away to the world where he would finally become the Angel she'd always known him to be. But now she found that when it came time for her Angel to fly, she did not want to set him free. Stroking his face, memorizing each and every imperfection with her fingertips, she did her best to fulfill his dying wish. Her voice was ragged, thick with tears – a far cry from the magnificent voice with which she had graced the audience of the opera – but there was no mistaking the emotion in her song.

Show Your mercy that is new each morning. Give him all Your peace and solitude.

Show Your mercy to him now and always. Forgive him as You know I do.

Forgive him. That's all I ask of –

Christine broke down into sobs. "Oh, God, please don't let him die!" It was a selfish prayer, she knew, a prayer that was unlikely to be answered. But she had to try. "Please," she begged. "I love him." Leaning over, she put her head against his chest and cried into his shoulder. "I love you, Erik." The words were a whisper in his ear, a distant echo amid the silence as he slipped into the comfort of a dark and dreamless sleep. "I love you."

[1] Reference to Luke 23:42-43. A thief on the cross next to Jesus says, "Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom." Jesus' response is "Most assuredly I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise."