A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I'm so glad you guys are interested! I sure am having a blast with writing it. :) And now...

II

A persistent tickle brushed her cheek and brought Christine to slow awareness. Fighting the strange lethargy that held her bound, she struggled to open her eyes…

A velvet canopy of ebony sky spangled with diamond stars rose high above, black silhouettes of treetops blotting out the twinkling lights at the edges of her vision. A soft breeze blew long blades of grass against her face, and she realized with a jolt of shock that she lay on her back, outdoors.

She groaned, both at the knowledge that night had fallen and at the fierce pounding throughout her head. A troll seemed intent to mine her skull with a pickaxe. All she had wanted was a private stroll to view a bit of Brittany while battling her demons and trying to lay her ghosts to rest…and she had been exposed to a contender for the worst storm of the century, had received a nasty bump on the head and what felt like a wicked cut on her right hand.

And what great bit of enlightenment had she achieved for her troubles?

Now more than ever, she wished for what she could never have. Forcing herself to face the truth of her feelings only made them more powerful. And – oh no! The lantern. She had broken it in her clumsy fall. How was she ever to find her way back to the chateau in the thick blanket of night? She peered hard at her hand. At least the cut did not seem too deep and no longer bled, but it covered a line from below her thumb to the middle of her palm and made closing her hand sting dreadfully.

"Oh, hell's bells and buckets of blood!" she groaned darkly the words she'd heard a stagehand swear when he hit his thumb with a hammer, and what had become her preferred vent for anger ever since. She pushed herself up to sit.

Running from her problems never did any good. She should know better by now.

A pale white glow misted the area within the circle of stones, and she looked high, beyond leafy boughs to the beacon of a full moon that slipped from beyond a gray cloud. Well, at least there was that. Hopefully it would be enough to guide her way, for she certainly couldn't sit alone in a dark forest all night.

After the fury of such a storm, Christine was surprised to find her black silk gown dry. Her second awareness came when she moved aside low-hanging branches to find the foliage dry as well. Bone dry. Only the grass was wet, as if with dew. Good heavens, how long had she been unconscious? Had there been no rain to accompany the horrid chain of lightning? She had heard of dry storms, said to be the most dangerous for they brought with them wildfires…but there had been hail. And hail was a form of wet, a painful wet. She could still recall the bite of ice chunks the size of acorns that had stung her face and arms.

Raoul would be frantic with worry, and she felt a pang of remorse for the manner in which she had treated him of late. He had tried, really tried to do all he could to help her forget. But he could not achieve the impractical, and his assertive methods had eventually tested her endurance. How had she ever thought she could withstand a lifetime of blindly submitting to his pompous authority so common with those of his class? She had never been a meek little mouse ready to obey without question. A spirited child who once upon a time danced gaily to Papa's violin, she had inundated her Papa with unending questions and girlish demands. With her teacher, whom she once thought an Angel, she eventually crossed the barrier of awed doubt and ventured into eager curiosity to know him. Raoul never understood that about her, her inability to be dependent and unassuming, and she gave him little reason to think otherwise. The startling events at the opera house had worked together to frighten and confuse her, and he had been a needed bulwark. For that she would always be grateful, to have relied on his strength when she misplaced her own.

But this current situation was unfair to both of them. Perhaps, in time, things could change, but for now she had decided – she would return to Paris. She would seek out Madame Giry and dear Meg and be close to those who'd known Erik. Meg never did, but Madame was once his secret associate, probably the only one to know him well, and Christine suddenly wished to hear all that her former ballet instructor could tell her of her lost Angel, so as to grieve his loss together. She would find work, ask Madame if she could stay. She and Meg were the closest to family Christine had known since the death of her father, and she felt reasonably certain she would not be denied a home.

The resolve to take back the reins of her life challenged her spirit anew, and she was eager to return to the chateau and, Lord willing, get a good night's sleep for tomorrow's difficult undertaking. Raoul would argue and protest, as was his nature, and she would need every fiber of her strength not to yield to his demands. For once, she would stand her ground. If there should be a future together for them, time would tell, but this, the shredded remnants of the life they'd been left with - this felt all wrong.

She wended her way through the long procession of standing stones. In the black of night with the moon shining full on them, they seemed ethereal, almost as if they were once living souls that had been turned to rock, and she shuddered and picked her way up the knoll, not giving them a second glance. How the darkness could play tricks with one's mind!

The remainder of the walk was more difficult. She had not remembered the path so overgrown, with so many trees, their shapes hulking black monstrosities raging against an ink dark sky splotched with puddles of ashen clouds. Strange how things looked so different by light of day.

The moon's glow was barely enough to pick out her path, and Christine walked carefully, bringing her cloak tightly about her body to bolster herself against a sudden chill wind. More than a few times, she stumbled and almost fell to her knees. When the chateau finally came into view, she heaved a weary sigh of relief…

Approaching the edifice of brown stone, however, she had the oddest feeling of something not being quite right, as if it were…misplaced. Like a dance upon the stage, the entire chorus flowing in choreographed movement, save for one lone dancer the slightest bit off sync, not readily visible to the eye but disrupting flow, the overall picture distorted. So, too, did she feel when looking upon the Chateau Martinique, which at this moment looked every bit a castle.

She stared hard as she drew near and rested with her hand against the trunk of a large tree.

Since when did the Marquis use torches at either side of the great arched doors? In commemoration of the festival perhaps? Though what the token gesture should signify she could not begin to guess, and she'd been treated to a thorough account of the local lore during her week in Brittany.

A rustle stirred the bushes. She looked behind her but saw nothing. Nervously thinking of the wild animals that stalked the forest in the night and which she had thus far been fortunate to avoid crossing paths with, she hastened her steps toward the safety of the chateau…

From out of nowhere, a large hand clapped over her mouth.

Stunned, she did nothing until her shoulder blades crashed against a man's stout, solid chest. And though it did no good, Christine screamed and screamed for all she was worth against that foul-smelling hand of earth and blood, her attempts coming out muffled and useless.

"Be still, lass, or you'll regret it," a voice more desperate than sinister whispered against her ear. "I've no wish to harm you."

Christine was tall for a woman and sensed he stood only an inch or so taller. Sensed also that his build was brawny and muscular, her struggles against him soon proving her deficient in strength to escape his clutches. So she did all she knew to do. Opening her mouth wide, she bit his thick finger.

"Merde!" he hissed. "Think, Bertram, you could be lending a hand?"

A second pair of strong hands latched onto her arm. Christine butted her head back against his jaw and felt a perverse satisfaction to hear a crack and groan. Kicking her legs and the hard soles of her shoes against her attackers, she twisted this way and that, trying desperately to scream for help or beg for mercy. Fearing at any moment her virtue would be seized and her life's blood would then follow, she increased her wild struggles.

"I did warn you," the voice hissed seconds before pain exploded through her skull and all went black.

x

"Christ, Eustace, did you have to hit her so hard?"

"The wench is a hellion. She knew we were there and would have sounded the alarm. Then where would we have been?"

"Aye. So, what do we do with her? Leave her tied to that tree to be found come the morn?"

"I think not. He'll be wanting to see her, that's for certain."

"Take her back with us, you mean?" The younger man sounded incredulous.

"She was at the chateau for a reason. He'll be wantin' to know the reason…"

For the second time that night, Christine slowly came to awareness, this time while hearing two men converse in low, rumbling discourse. She took note of her situation – sitting in the dirt with both hands tied behind her to a tree – and she peered at her captors who sat a short distance away beside a small campfire. One of the men, the eldest, held a stick with what appeared to be the carcass of a hare impaled over the flames. His appearance like that of the younger man was scruffy, ruddy hair brushing past his shoulders, while the younger had dark locks that curled at the ends, just hitting the bottom of his ears. Both sported facial hair, ragged and thick. Their apparel, from their leather jerkins to colored hose was odd, like something she'd seen in the wardrobe department at the opera house.

The older man looked at her, stood and approached. She closed her eyes but knew he'd seen her watching.

"So, you're awake at last. What be your name, woman?" he asked in a tone that brooked no refusal. She couldn't place his strange way of speech, but it was like no other Frenchman she'd ever heard.

She bit her lip, thought about not answering, then posed a question of her own. "Why have you taken me? Will you let me go?"

"That's not for me to say, but you'll be telling me why you were at the chateau."

She pressed her lips together stubbornly while trying to work her hands free from the rope. The rough fibers drew tight against her skin, cutting into delicate flesh.

"Once you answer my questions, I'll share with you our supper," he coaxed.

She glared up at him through a mist of tears. "Will you untie me?"

"So you can go off scampering like a wild hare in the forest once my back is turned? Nay!" He rumbled out a laugh. "But you will answer my questions or you will starve."

She thought about the wild hare now skinned and impaled and shivered at the thought of such a fate. The savory scent of roasted meat beckoned to her traitorous stomach. She had not eaten since luncheon, and only a light repast of fruit and sweetbreads. The ache in her head had intensified since he'd knocked her out cold, and she hoped that food might ease at least one part of her abused body.

"I am Christine Daaé. I am a guest at the Chateau Martinique."

The two men shared a weighty look Christine wished to understand. The older man nodded to the younger, who cut a slice of meat off the stick with his dagger and impaled it on another pointed stick the older man brought to her.

"And my hands?" she asked, helplessly looking at the food. "I can hardly eat like this." She hoped he had no intention of feeding her! She would as soon eat clods of dirt than take a morsel of food from his fingers.

He narrowly studied her, then moved to untie the ropes.

"I am watching you, Christine Daaé."

And watch her, he did. Never taking his eyes off her. Not once. Not even for a moment.

Somehow, she managed to choke down the stringy meat without strangling on it, and afterward cleared her throat.

"I need to…that is…" She felt her face go crimson. "I must tend to the course of nature."

He waved to the darkness of the nearby trees. "As you will."

She wrinkled her nose at the thought of conducting her business there but did not possess the luxury of choice.

"That's far enough," he said when she'd gone but ten paces. "And if you don't want me to come check that you've not fled, you had best keep rustling those bushes so I know you're there."

"You're a heartless cur," she seethed beneath her breath to cover her angry embarrassment. "The devil incarnate."

The devilish cur had good ears, and she heard his gruff answering laugh. "I've been called a far sight worse by many more daunting than you."

Mabye so, Christine thought tartly, but you've never stood toe to toe with the Phantom of the Opera – and won. The snide thought brought instant heartache, and she sought to bury the recent memory away with all the other painful recollections she must somehow forget.

Upon her return, they resumed their journey through the cold, black forest. She was surprised that these hooligans did not wait for sunrise, so as to travel a path that could be seen. Clearly they wished to hasten to their main camp and join their villainous friends. Nor did they have horses, and Christine was soon beyond weary, trudging between the men, her hands again bound with rope and hanging down in front of her. Ten years in the ballet made her legs strong, but there was a limit to all physical endurance.

She had no idea of the time of night, how far they traveled, how far they had yet to go. In the darkness, amid the shrouded silhouettes of trees, with the occasional moonbeam cutting across the area, she could see little of anything at all. Though the older man ahead cleared the path from the sound of his occasional thrashing, several times she stumbled on uneven ground, and twice fell. The man behind always quickly helped her to feet, almost solicitously she thought with ironic disbelief.

What seemed an eternity later, they suddenly left the dense trees and walked into a rough camp. Tents stood scattered through the area, and two men, as oddly dressed and rough looking as her captors sat near a low fire.

The men exchanged greetings, the pair near the fire never taking curious eyes off her.

"Is he about?" the red-haired man known as Eustace asked.

"Oh, aye…" one of them waved a hand toward the trees. "In one of his black moods. You'd best wait 'til morn."

This did not please her captor, who winced and stroked his beard in thought. "Well, there's nothing for it." He looked at Christine. "Come along."

Too weary to argue or even ask where he was taking her, she slogged along behind him toward a tent set apart from the others. He motioned her inside and remained standing at the flap.

"Stay," he said sharply, as if she were a disobedient puppy. "Should you think about running, there are wolves and boars in this forest who would find you a fair tasty morsel."

Christine needed no wicked persuasion or threats, wishing only to lie down, close her eyes, and sleep for a week. A pallet of soft looking pelts sat in one corner, tempting her sore, throbbing body, but she resisted, not wanting to be caught resting in the bed when its owner returned. No lamps or candles stood in sight. But in the midst of the tent, a wreath of small round stones guarded a scooped out bit of earth that held twigs burning in a low fire. The mean flames gave off scarce light and scant warmth, but she held her hands toward them, grateful for what warmth she could get.

Determined to remain awake and not be caught asleep and vulnerable, she sat and stared hard at the flames, digging her nails into her cut when she felt herself nodding off. The cruel sting instantly brought her around. How long she waited, she had no idea. Long enough to rue for the hundredth time her decision to visit the stones, and also to relive the memory of all that brought her to Brittany, including those last months in the Opera House – when finally she heard the low murmur of men's voices directly outside the tent. Straightening her spine, she shook her head briskly to achieve better wakefulness and braced herself for the confrontation with the vagabond leader…

The canvas flap parted. She lifted anxious eyes, the fire's sultry glow outlining the new arrival in charge of her fate. Nervously she took in the black leather boots that rose over the knees, cuffed at their tops, and above that, the hose of blood red that fit lean, muscled thighs like a second skin. Heat flushing her face, she stared several seconds more, gathering the courage to look higher, taking in a doublet of black leather with lacings crisscrossed over a white linen shirt with full sleeves, and a thin leather belt circling a trim waist that held a scabbard with a sword hanging down one side. She swallowed hard as her eyes lifted up, up, past a broad chest and its sinful peek of glistening skin lightly dusted with damp hair, where the shirt lay casually parted – and to his face –

At which point, the breath slammed out of her body.

At which point, she lost the power of speech.

A black mask covered two-thirds of the man's features, and from out of its twin holes stared sardonic eyes of blue-grey…

Erik's eyes.

Erik's twisted smile.

Erik's coal black hair.

Erik…?

Christine blinked hard, harder still, then did what any self-respecting captive would do who'd found herself thrust in such a position – twice slammed in the head and knocked insensible, forced to walk to utter exhaustion, only to be confronted with the absurdly impossible –

She slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

xXx

A/N: Erik...Is it or isn't it? hmmm...

;-)