Ahem. /cough cough

I present to you, part two. Why so silent good messieurs, did you think that I had left you for good~?

The second chapter with my favorite song from POTO...if you all are noting my chapter titles? :-)

Have you guessed my favorite song? :-P

Chapter Eleven

A gift consists not in what is done or given, but in the intention of the giver or doer.

-Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Death was he, and he was death. A visage of death's head still lay in the trunk he had hidden in the recesses of his den. The life bloomed around him like flowers as they days grew warmer, and spring began to rear its mane, with the earliest flowers already peeking out through the thin layers of snow that was left. The fresh smell of winter and spring mingling with each other pervaded his nostrils as he strode out of the house in the morning, his shirt ruffling in the wind. From the balcony upstairs, Christine beckoned to him.

"Good morning!" she called, her breath still a mist in the wind. In a month or so, the holy union of God would join them. Erik smiled at fortune smiling upon him, which was a rare thing. Never in his life had he considered fortune to be in his favor, always seeing it to be a twist of hatred by the gods and goddesses of fortune that he may be bestowed with such a ghastly visage on a side of his face. Christine donned a wrapper around her thin chemise, shivering slightly as she stepped out into the cold. Erik had neither coat nor anything save for his white ruffled shirt, and Christine could see the fine dusting of hairs on his chest, and his muscles, which rippled as she blushed deeply, looking up at him. He returned the gaze with a worried one.

"You are shivering," he noted, walking inside to fetch his cloak. She felt his deft fingers tie it gently around her collarbone, feeling warm in the thick velvet cloak of Erik's. She let out a soft sigh, catching a drop from a melting icicle in her mouth. She had never known her Angel to be the sentimental type, and yet in these few weeks following her illness he had proved her wrong in every aspect. Either he was pleasing her just because he was afraid she would fall ill again, or he was brimming with joy at the impending marriage. She hoped that it was the latter. Gently, Erik broke the icicle off the branches, all with his bare hands. Since the night of Don Juan, he had not worn the cold leather gloves that he used to favor. Come to think of it, Christine mused to herself, she had not seen them since she awoke in his room and unmasked him. Perhaps, like the mask, the gloves were a sign of his hiding away, a sign of his fear, and with the unmasking she had unmasked the man underneath the almighty Phantom of the Opera. She smiled, watching him break the icicles off the branches so that they would not snap. How she loved the gardens! He had told her of how the gardens would be aflame in different colors each season, from the flowers in spring to the fruits in summer, and in autumn the fire reds of the leaves and in winter a cool blue. She picked an early crocus, weaving it into her hair as she danced around in his cape in the garden. The postman came knocking at their gate, and handed Erik a stack of letters. The first few he set aside, stuffing in his pocket. However, the last he looked upon with curiosity. The paper was the heavyweight type, and made of fine-grained type, more like a professional art paper used for pastel. When Erik opened it, he could smell faintly the scent of alcohol and fine cologne, and almost instantly guessed its sender. The font was curled and refined, with the f's and t's and i's all properly cared for, with the swirling script that Christine with a single look realized as Raoul's. Shaking out the stack of papers in the thick envelope, Christine felt her heart sink as she gasped softly at the papers. It was a wedding certificate. And on the blank for wife was her name.

She knew she had never signed such a thing, why would she? But with Erik's weary eyes of sorrow, she could not say a word again, as he fled into the house, striking a match, intending on burning the paper and tossing the burning paper into the hearth. Christine held his hand fast, preventing him from doing so.

"Say it's not real. SAY IT, CHRISTINE. TELL ME, THAT THIS INFERNAL PAPER IS A LIE." He snarled at Christine, waving the paper in front of her face.

"It is a lie, Erik. I obviously have never signed such a thing."

"Then prove it to me, Christine de Changy."

The easy tears which could have welled up in her eyes and to make her beg and plead and cry and gotten Erik's forgiveness instantly perhaps were held back, although they stung the corners of her eyes. Heading up the stairs to go to her room, she then proceeded to bring out a simple folder, which contained documents of all sorts. This, she motioned, pointing to it after bringing it down to Erik, were the original copies of her impending marriage to Raoul. They had never signed such a marriage document, and upon closer inspection Erik realized slowly, that the paper had been signed falsely with a signature mirroring Christine's, right down to the way she looped her r's.

Who in their right mind would forge such a thing? In the accompanying letter, Raoul detailed how this was direct proof that Christine was his, and he would not hesitate to bring this matter to the direct authorities in charge of this matter, as well as to bring it up to the church, where Erik would be condemned for adultery and Christine would be labeled an adulteress too, and a cheap whore. And Raoul had planned that at that moment, he would swoop in and kindly, very kindly take Christine in as his mistress, although he had intended to treat her like his wife. In that case, she would still be able to continue her singing career. And Erik would be placed under restraining order, and Raoul would have accomplished everything. It was not uncommon for men of his status to do such things, and some of his closer and elder Comtes and Vicomtes he had associated with had recommended him to do as such. It was hardly the teachings of the Abba Father, but Raoul was sure he would be pardoned his sin for his status in society itself, in addition to the tireless monetary contributions the de Changys had pledged to the Catholic Church yearly. Erik knew of all this somewhat, and spat on the paper and letters, tossing it onto the snowy ground and rubbing the heel of his boot onto it. Then, he tossed a lighted match onto it and watched it burn, coldly in his anger for Raoul and the rest of his despicable family.

Raoul sat on the floor of the hotel room, drinking again. Ever since that day at Erik's, he had taken to drinking as a habit. In a few days, he had aged considerably with his sunken eyes, red from crying. When had he ever remembered feeling like this? On normal days he would have been a teetotaler, only imbibing drink at the parties for polite reason. His mind was blank; having received news that Erik had burnt the document he had sent him. And he had failed to break up the happy couple again. Raoul rubbed his temple, dragging himself to the bed, where he stared at the wall. Where have I gone wrong, he asked himself, slowly descending into sleep.

He woke with a terrible headache. A hangover. Stumbling out of the bed, he looked in the mirror over the washbasin. A man beyond his twenties returned the cold glare he gave. Long gone were the well-sculpted handsome face he once possessed, instead he saw a demon in his view. Long had he seen himself deteriorate since the night of the Bal Masque, but his condition now was something else to be spoken of altogether. Cleaning himself up before heading down, Raoul let out a stifled cry as he slipped, hitting his head on the basin. Hard. The room swam before his eyes, and the last he felt was a man dragging him out.

Meg had headed down to the local bar to pick up a few pints of alcohol for battered fish. Imagine to her surprise then, she had seen the Vicomte with a bandage around his head, and there was blood. Curiosity got the better of the young girl as she questioned politely as to what had happened to him. The blonde man shook his head slowly, frowning at her. In his mind, he debated as to telling a lie about the Phantom or to tell the truth. Deciding that the truth perhaps would be too embarrassing for him, he instead decided to lie, weaving an elaborate tale on how Erik had hunted him out in the morning, and had attacked him. He had slipped and fell, and Erik, thinking him for dead, had left him on the floor. Thank God, he continued, that someone should find him before he could really pass away as that monster had intended! Meg looked at him sadly with tears in her blue eyes, and receiving her pints of drink, she shook her head at him. Monsieur, she told him, how could you accuse a man talking with his wife in the garden at that time of doing such a crime? She put a hand to his head, and he swiped at it wildly. Blue eyes met each other, one swirling with anger and confusion, and the other with sadness and loneliness and confusion. Turning, Meg ran. What a fool she was! She chided herself on her weakness, but not wanting to face the Vicomte to fight for any of her friends, she ran on until she reached the mansion, still the wild girl and ballerina as she was in the past. Reaching the door, she put the lock in the key, not wishing to alert anyone. The heavy doors swung open with a thunderous roar to her frightened self, and she chided herself on this other weakness before she stepped into the house. As a girl, she was airy and kind, a little blonde angel, they had called her. Without much thought in her head save for simple ones, she was easily swayed. But with the hues and the glitter of the Vicomte's eyes, she had known of his lies.

"Christine," she called out, setting the pints of alcohol onto the kitchen counter. When nobody appeared, she wandered around the door to Erik's refrigerator, swinging it open. She was to get fish fillets for tonight, and the staff had told her they put it in here. Imagine to her surprise, when she found the fridge a mess, and two pretty much grown up people were inside, slapping each other with large tunas. Or at least, perhaps, trying to catch a hold on the slippery fishes which were to be filleted.

"Let me help!" she instantly cried out, catching the fish by the tail as Christine looked at her. Christine and Erik's cheeks were both tinged pink from the frosty temperature of the cold refrigerator, and they laughed and giggled as the fish landed with a splat on Meg's feet. Never mind how dirty it would get now; they could always wash it later. Meg let out a horrified shriek, picking it up daintily as she could. Carrying the tunas out to the kitchen, Erik rang the bell for the servants to begin cooking and preparing the meal in addition to drawing them each a bath. Christine gave a giggle and hugged a very fishy smelling Erik close, placing a small kiss on his lips. Tomorrow would be her nineteenth birthday. Almost twenty, she chided herself, and still acting half like a child. Erik, ruffling her hair gently, seemed to remind her of that too.

Eh, a sweet ending. I'm sorry its a bit abrupt, but this is the intro I sorta promised. The next chapter-I warn you, is a short filler...which you guys will probably kill me for lol. Haha, but after its the wedding...and then I'm splitting up everything in shorter chapters from now on and to build up suspense etc...Excited? :-P

Gonna post a few more phanarts to my Instagram btw. It's kuroneko _ rainbows if anyone is interested. Remove the spaces...