Wow, I dropped off the grid for 11 days LoL-ing and doing my Project Work...OTL I'm so sorry :P Thank you Not A Ghost 3, TNP and KitKat (and all other previous reviewers of Everyonedeserveslove, Hugabouv, Grandma Paula and any anon guests etc) for making 55 reviews for this humble piece of lousy lol

I love writing this-I still do, but ahhh schoolwork, cosplay etc really eats up a lot A LOT of my time T.T Y-yeah I cosplay / shot

I sincerely promise not to die for so long again.

Chapter 18

You're an idealist, and I pity you as I would the village idiot.

Stanley Kubrick

Erik was jolted awake to the force of the small frame of his wife pummeling him like a child with her tiny fists, and a look of worry in her eyes.

"Erik de Changy!" she cried, "Where did you go just now? I demand to know! Are you sick? Are you well? Did you get hurt? Whose blood has stained your hands once more?" She choked on her words, sobbing and continuing to pummel him with diminishing intensity. Her angel barely inclined his head from the bed to look at her, instead pursing his lips in a fine line which she noted, took to be as a cold, ignoring stance. Realizing the truth of it, the severity of the sin he had committed, she backed away, tripping over the bed. It was then she noticed Erik jack-knife himself into a seated position to look at her, with eyes smoldering. She tore her gaze from his as she knelt at the foot of her bed, no, their bed and began to pray quietly.

"So then, you've decided." He ventured cryptically.

"Decided what, monsieur? How can I decide? I thought…"

"You thought?" Erik's teeth gritted in frustration, lips peeling back in a scowl and a sneer.

"Erik, don't mistake me, please…Just tell me who it was."

"Does it change anything, Christine? Does it even?" he spoke, his voice wavering and dangerously low. She bit her lip, thinking deeply before she slowly shook her head.

"It matters not who you killed, Erik, even if he was the most heinous sinner to walk this earth you should not have done so to end his life!"

"So you would rather that man kill your husband then," he deadpanned callously, rising slowly out of the shell bed, his figure towering over her.

"No! Erik—" she started, grabbing the hem of his trousers as she ripped the bottom of the flimsy cloth off. He turned momentarily, pressing his lips furiously against hers, melting his body fluidly against hers as she fought with her scrambled senses to fight him back, to find her shreds of sanity.

"Then tell me," he said in a hoarse voice as he pulled away from her slowly, "you would give this up for that boy," he murmured, his voice growing husky as he pulled her closer, hands roaming over her form, "you would deny me forever, and you can admit that you do not love me at all," His hands traced her cleavage, her bodice, rendering her almost senseless with want as she let out a soft moan, kissing his lips back. He was sure he would give in to want there and then from the close contact of her, even if he did want to teach her a lesson so. Coming back to his sense, he pulled away, disentangling himself from the crumpled form on the floor, which looked up at him with accusing, pleading eyes tinged with want, before picking up the candle and heading to the door. "Then, I am sure mademoiselle, that will be the day I allow myself to die and you to die as well. Goodnight, Christine."

With that, Erik blew out the candle and headed down the steps, each step as soundless as the padded feet of a cat's as Christine continued to sob on the floor, each cry increasing in intensity, the tremulous song of regret.

Erik grabbed the brandy bottle, wrenching it open before he drank deeply from it, brow furrowing deeply. He was in no mood to head back to bed that night, having had that argument with Christine. Nor was he one to explain for his sins when he deemed them to be justified. Had that filthy being not laid his paws on his wife? The scene still lay fresh in his mind, with Christine being held at gunpoint and the wild eyes of the man as he leered at his wife's vulnerable state. And then he had come in the way of his plans to please his wife. Or at least, for his resolution of matters. A certainly unforgivable scum, he mused. Erik took another gulp of brandy, feeling the alcohol wash down his throat to wash his anger away. He tapped out a tune on the dining table, sitting in the dark alone as he gathered his thoughts. Was he not justified in the ways that he had handled the situation? After all, the blasted boy was in harm's way! He could have just let him die, it would not be his fault. But something had spurred him to save the damn boy, something strange he had never felt. Was he becoming soft, a result of marriage and love? Slowly he turned, to rise from his seat. He could barely make out his visage in the tall windows of the dining room, instead heading to his own hideaway again. In his den, he pulled away the soft velvet to a full length mirror, the exact replica of the one that had been in Christine's room. It had not been much trouble to create and forge the replica, after all, it was him that had designed the very mirror and the very room to be used by Christine, that it may connect the both of them. And Carlotta had interfered as the damned reigning diva. He couldn't give two hoots about that shameless chit and her ways with the fat Italian when he had burned and only wanted Christine. How he raged, how he steamed at seeing her body inhabit the very room for his Goddess of Song! He looked himself in the mirror, the ravaged side of his face to the other, as perfect as marbled statue. Touching his fingers gently to the cool glass, he pressed the deformity to it, feeling the cool silvered metal against his broken cheek. He let out a low sigh, tracing the carving of the mirror. Like the other, this hid a passage, a passage to an outhouse, an outhouse solely dedicated to music. When he had crafted this house, he placed the outhouse much as an afterthought, and although he had barely visited it, he had always kept the piano tuned via secret correspondences to tuners in the city when he was too occupied to tune it himself. Today, he tripped the switch to the passageway, sliding it shut smoothly behind him. Walking down the musty corridor, he let out a soft sneeze, humming a tune as he tried to calm himself. No matter that he was unmasked, nobody else knew the whereabouts of the outhouse. He would just seem as if he had returned to his former phantasmal state of being where he disappeared once more.

The piano in the outhouse was a lovely baby Grand, with a marbled cover and well maintained ivory keys. Erik slid open the cover, experimentally depressing a C note. Good, he noted, the piano was still tuned. He slowly picked out the tune in his head, a melancholic tune that slowly became a staccato piece that hardly was his feelings, a more lighthearted piece. La Cage de Cristal, a piece composed by Jacques Ibert. How had he even thought of that, he wondered, as he watched the fine stained glass fixture in this little outhouse catch the rising sunlight. The little sunlight was respite almost in this darkness he had shut himself into again. He looked up at it, the soft wings of the stained glass angel that seemed to smile at him seemed to almost remind him of Christine…the outhouse itself had been fashioned almost after the chapel, as such he could only fit a baby Grand inside. Rising from the bench as he carefully closed the lid, he slowly slipped into the trapdoor once more, and disappeared back to the house. Farmers living nearby often told their children and the many descendants to come of a haunted outhouse, which they never knew actually belonged to this Comte, that melodies of Heaven would pour forth from. They were sure that the melodies were of spectral descent, yet one could not help but listen to it. Soon, a young girl and her brother would be lost to never return, in hunt of the supernatural melodies. It was then that these tunes were considered to be cursed, and the work of the Devil. Erik, hearing these rumors, sighed. He was almost used to everyone calling him the Devil…

Erik returned to the house, slowly making his way stealthily up to their room to prevent any strange looks from the servants. He noiselessly slowly slid into their room like a shadow, watching the curled up form in the swan bed. It was then as he approached that he noticed that Christine would never be of such a small frame, and that the body looked somewhat strange. Quickly resuming his mask, he whipped off the blankets gracelessly, taking in the sight before him. This strange ragamuffin lay in his bed on their velvet sheets with her brother…he almost roared for the girl to wake, not before Christine came in with a bowl of steaming chicken soup. Motioning for Erik to hush, she placed the bowl of soup on the dresser and dragged him outside, the argument of last night momentarily forgotten in the face of this new problem.

"What the hell are those children doing in our bed, Christine? Are they the result of some illicit relation? Or are they the Girys'? Tell me!" he growled lowly, looking into Christine's eyes.

"Well, they…They turned up at the door this morning, and I couldn't turn them away," she said sheepishly.

Erik blinked slowly, taking in the information. How had these strange children found their house? Had he not hidden it well enough? Perhaps…he sighed to himself. He would most definitely need to pay another unwanted visit to the village today.

"Erik, you're not going to turn them away, are you? They are but barely children! They came this morning from an unknown place, but seriously, you cannot be thinking of such a cruel thing as to throw them out, can you? After all, I have promised them food and shelter at least for a week…"

"A week, Christine?" He groaned. His angel was truly an angel, so kindly to take them in. However, his mind started to worry. What if they were children from the village—would they not be missed? He shook his head, slowly walking down the steps. Pulling on his fedora and cape, he set out to the village with Nadir and Darius.

"Those children…where did they come from?" Erik softly asked Nadir, so as not to draw any attention. They were walking slowly down the streets, attempting to act like normal people, but the fact that the motley crew of a hatted man and two olive skinned Persians were drawing much more attention than they actually wanted to. People had started to whisper, and Erik's acute hearing picked up snatches of demon, devil and Lucifer. One other thing interested him though—the mention of missing children. Missing children were a common occurrence, but the description of the missing children piqued his interest. Almost instantly, Erik made a beeline to the shop near the man that was talking.

Silently, Erik pretended to be busy with choosing fruits, closely listening to the other man speak. His mask inclined slightly as the other man spoke in a more agitated tone. Almost as if he seemed to be complaining about his children being stolen. Perhaps they were his children, Erik would never know. Tossing the oranges to a surprised Nadir and Darius to handle, he swiftly gathered his cape and senses to follow the man. Beside him walked a woman, petite and small, her shawl fluttering in the wind. He assumed almost instantly that they were husband and wife. As the couple walked on, a small boy with his face dirty and grimy dashed past them as Erik heard the fearful shouts of thief ringing in his ears. He caught the boy roughly by the collar of his shirt, prising the wallet from the pair of small hands. The boy took a look at the eyes of Erik glittering dangerously at him from under the wide brim of the fedora and fled. It all seemed to play in his favor again, almost like an orchestra as he walked over to the couple to return the wallet to them. Grateful, the woman looked up to him with teary eyes and in thanks while the man spat disgracefully on the floor, glaring at her.

"Thank ye, kind sir! What would I have done if ye weren't passin', wouldn't know." The words that he heard from the woman's mouth were simple and crude, Erik could easily assume that the man had married a foreigner or this woman was ill-educated. Or she was a prostitute. The ring-less, dirt caked fingers of the woman seemed to confirm that fact, as the man hurried her along, not before she bobbed a lame curtsy to Erik, smiling at him with a pasty face caked with makeup.

"No thanks needed. I could not help but overhear though, that this man here seems to have lost his children?" Erik snapped at the man, not one for niceties at all with these sorts of men. The portly man looked up at this masked man, his face paling slightly as he coughed, attempting to gather himself and make himself a tad bit more self-important. He attempted a pathetic attempt of a polite smile, grating his teeth together.

"Why do you ask, sir, I don't really think it's of much use?"

"And what if I had them?"

"Very simply, I'd accuse you of kidnapping," he said, adjusting his waistcoat and smirking. "I am a Baron. Don't trifle with me."

Erik stifled an amused growl that seemed to challenge the man.

"Do you really think I would stoop as low as that to kidnap your children?" His voice had become dangerously low, and yet hypnotically melodious all at once. The man stumbled backwards, stammering.

"O-of course not. It was but a joke, sir."

"Very well, follow me."

The man obediently complied, the whore having taken to her heels after he palmed her some money. Erik himself however, stalked off to the darkness again, staying in the shadows while Nadir slowly led the stout man to the manor. Erik scowled to himself, thinking deeply. How could anyone be such a imbecile as to leave their children as such? Not to mention he had been cavorting with all sorts of random women in the brothels. Clenching his fists and unclenching them, he almost felt pity for the mother of the children. And almost instantly, his mind wandered to Christine. Would she ever have to be put in such a situation? Maybe Nadir had been right about his marriage. Whirlwind marriages would not be suited to such an innocent, fragile child…he sighed, feeling the worry slowly slip into the very depths of his soul…a vision of sorts was formed in his mind, the reminders of the argument they had, and her crumpled form on the floor. Except, this time, she had children in her hand. And the accusing eyes burned into the very core of his being, and he shuddered from the thought, walking further into the shadows again to hide his emotions. How could he predict the very being he was to be in the future? As much as his love for her seemed to consume him and flow in his veins, he was afraid that the fire would be doused, especially through those indelible headaches named Raoul de Changy. In two days, the choice would be made, and he seemed to count down to it, to eternally ridding himself of that thorn in his side. No longer seeing the man and Nadir in his sight of view, Erik hastened his pace back to the manor.

Wahahaha I had to continue the angst. Nah, it I think I'll throw in a bit more Raoul de Foppy in the new few chapters for a bit more poignancy and all, not to mention more angst and drama and romance and eh, who knows, I may give you a few fluff and E/C moments after as a reward...

The Erik in my head, if you would KINDLY stop demanding it...Okay okay okay. Just don't Punjab me if it's not up to your standards k. Sigh. Erik demanded the fluff and smut.

/throws hands up in frustration

I want to antagonize the readers a bit more! What's wrong with that? EEEEEKKK! Christine! Christine save me! Erik wants to Punjab me Imsorryimsorryiwillwritefluffandsmut

-end transmission-

Erik: Your authoress ran away. I shall happily write the rest of this fic.

Authoress: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! It's mineeeee! /attack on Erik(Shingeki no Erik...), tumbles unglamourously to the floor stopping him.

:-P why did I type all that retardism. Eh, until next time my lovelies! Ja ne~