A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I'm glad you guys are enjoying this…And now…

VI

Christine smoothed her hands over the gown at her hips, her gaze lowering to the hem of the soft wool brushing the cloth shoes, making certain all was in place. In this position she exited the tent – ramming directly into Erik who was about to enter. Unbalanced, she slapped her palms against his hard stomach, while his hands went to her elbows to steady her. Once she no longer wobbled, he dropped his hold and stepped back. His eyes swept her form then returned to her face.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

"The gown is sufficient?" he asked with a cool reserve Christine was hard pressed to understand.

She smiled. "Oh, yes. More comfortable than anything I've ever worn."

He narrowed his eyes as if he thought she might be toying with him. She returned his gaze with frank sincerity, relieved he again spoke with her.

The previous two days he had spent patently avoiding her, and the nights he exchanged no more than terse words of polite pleasantry, inquiring as to her needs, before he turned away from her and went to sleep. The previous night he inadvertently roused her from light slumber with his clear agitation as he exited the tent, giving none of the usual care to keep his silence. All day, she feared he was angry and that she was the cause.

The chemise-like undergown and long woolen kirtle composed the entirety of her given attire. No stockings, no corset, no crinoline or additional undergarments – and Christine felt wickedly free beneath the gown, aware of her nakedness beneath with each soft brush of her bare thighs as she walked. The moss-green kirtle was short of sleeve and cut lower than the chemise, to allow the modest rounded neckline of linen to peek above, its sleeves fitted and long. Both tunics were laced up the middle with thin ties. Slung at her hips a girdle of silver chain links adorned the outfit and she wore cloth slippers that tied at the ankles, fitting around the foot, with soft leather soles.

"It is not the velvets and silks to which you are accustomed," he said as if by way of apology, and she cut him off with a light laugh.

"Oh, but – those costumes were never truly mine." She again smoothed her hands down the kirtle from waist to hips, and his eyes followed her motion. "I like this. It suits me well."

He looked at her long and hard, his eyes somber as if battling some inner demon, then directed his attention to the forest.

"Walk with me."

His was no invitation, the command soft, and she smiled in acceptance, just preventing herself from taking hold of his hand. How she missed the way he used to lead her as they strolled through his subterranean caverns. As much as she missed how he would sing to her as they did.

She walked beside him for some time in silence, taking note of the beauty that composed their mystical surroundings. A truly enchanting place, this forest. Green moss coated bark and soil and boulder everywhere she looked, lending a misty softness to the earth and all that stood upon it. Beyond the thick weave of branches high above, small patches of magenta and violet sky attested that the sun soon would set, and a graceful fan of luminescent beams angled nearly to the ground before them.

"It's so lovely here," Christine said and breathed deep of the fresh, earthy scent. "At the Opera House, it was a rare occasion that I went outdoors, and certainly never for strolls like this. I wasn't given much opportunity."

He pondered her words. "There are no gardens at your family estate?"

She looked at him curiously. "The Opera House wasn't my family home. Though it did become the place where I lived and worked."

He stopped walking, as did she, and turned fully toward her, regarding her in surprise.

"You were a servant? And de Changy knew of this before he arranged for your hand in wedlock?"

"Yes, he knew – but no, I wasn't a servant. I was part of the chorus."

"The chorus," he mused in puzzlement. "And what does the chorus do?"

"Why perform in the operas, of course," she said gaily with a little laugh. His questioning gaze did not waver. "You do know what an opera is?" she added then looked at him in disbelief. "Mozart, Verdi, Gounad, Rossini..."

He shook his head at a clear loss, and she gaped at him, seeking to find the mockery and devilment in eyes that showed none.

"How can you of all people not know what an opera is?" she breathed in profound shock.

She sensed him withdraw in offense and laid a hand to his sleeve.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by that. I just, I don't understand…"

"It appears that both you and I live with that regret, damoiselle."

It bewildered her that he'd forgotten so much, and a horrid thought stabbed her mind. What if the lunacy that many said the Phantom possessed was valid? Her life had been most unusual since an Angel became her guardian, and certainly was peculiar in the last few days, these last two weeks – all of which could point to madness. Yet most of the time he seemed reasonably sane…

"What did you do in this opera?" He broke the confused silence at last.

"I danced on stage. Numerous times, day and night, in practice and performance. Once I sang for the audience. A solo…" She watched him carefully but he did not seem affected by her words.

"This place is one of feasting and merriment then?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"Yet you were confined to its chambers. Were you held against your will?"

She found it ironically amusing that he spoke of confinement, when he had chosen to hide himself away beneath the earth for more than a decade.

"Not exactly, no. Not at all really. I could leave when I wasn't needed. I just never had reason to visit the city that often, and there weren't as many trees there as here, in this lovely forest." She watched him carefully. "I also sang. My teacher instructed me and gave me my first lesson when I was twelve – almost six years ago. He was a gifted composer, a friend and genius…"

His lips had tightened and his jaw clenched.

She held her breath. "He also wore a mask."

Blue-grey eyes narrowed. "Erik." It was not a question.

"Yes." Her response came as a mere breath.

"And you loved him? Perhaps you still do?"

He shot the unexpected queries at her like gunfire. Tears wet her eyes and hurriedly she blinked them away, returning her attention to the trees.

Only after she fled on the night of the disaster did Christine know the true depths of what blossomed in her heart for her former teacher. As he stood with her now, after long days of fearing him dead, had he known the truth of who she was – who he was for that matter – she would tell him without hesitation and never again withhold the secret of her emotions. But things had changed so drastically; she no longer knew where she stood with this man, once the musical angel she had known most of her life.

"Why do you ask?" she whispered.

"You said his name in your sleep." His jaw hardened like granite. "He must be special to you. You begged him not to go." She gave no answer, and he continued, "So, is this Erik the reason you have no wish to wed de Chagny? Were you forced into the arrangement with the fool lord of Chateau Martinique against your will? Did you hope to marry this Erik? You must have, you said as much to me on the first night you were brought to my tent…"

Breathless by his choice of questions and the intensity of his demands, she stared at him at a loss, helpless with what to say. This entire discussion felt so thoroughly bizarre. It was clear that he was upset by the idea of Erik and had no concept of his true identity. If she told him, would he believe her? She prodded a little more, hoping it would spark a memory.

"I know why you wear the mask," she said, then thought twice about her reckless approach at the sudden furious burn of his eyes. They singed her with blue fire.

"Never ask about my mask," he gritted out softly.

"I don't need to – I know what it hides."

"I highly doubt that, damoiselle."

She inhaled a slow breath for courage. "The right side of your face is badly scarred, a defect that looks something like rosy candle wax hardened in places, from your forehead to just below the – OH!"

She cried out as he painfully grabbed her arm in a vise. His lips drew back from his teeth in a vicious snarl.

"Who told you?! Eustace? I'll kill him…"

"N-no – it wasn't anyone that told me." His cold, deadly eyes seemed made of sharp blue ice, both their earlier flame and current chill posing more of a threat than mere words could say, and she wished she'd not spoken so rashly. "Eustace won't even speak to me, not since that first night. And very little – nothing about you." She experienced a jolt of surprise that she was defending the man who bludgeoned and abducted her, but she wanted no more death.

The Phantom tilted his head as another thought seemed to come to him. His eyes did a quick sweep of her form in wary suspicion.

"Is it true what they say – are you a witch?"

She blinked in pure shock. That is what they were saying about her?

"Eustace told me that you came from the standing stones under a witching moon in the dead of night – and this being the midsummer solstice…"

She didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of such a statement or cry at his unsavory impression of her character or perhaps rage at the entire wretched situation. Superstition certainly ran amok in Brittany! She could hardly believe anyone of sound mind would believe such a fantastical idea, which reminded her of an earlier thought – that he was not entirely sane. But then, if 'they' were saying it, perhaps the whole lot of the town was mad! At least one servant at the chateau believed in the idea of faeries.

"I assure you, Phantom, I am no witch."

You ask such a thing of me, YOU who once called me your Angel, she wanted to cry out.

His lips thinned again and he took a quick step closer, jerking her arm in his hold while scowling down at her.

"There is only one other manner by which you could have known – as I slept, you spied on my wretched face. Admit it, wench! You struck like a viper and pulled away the mask to appease your damnable curiosity."

Helplessly she shook her head, caught in her own trap. There was little she could say to convince him – even if she were to speak the truth and tell him that he was Erik and she knew him from the Opera House, he would never believe her, since he didn't even seem to know what an opera was, much less the edifice in which it was performed. So she said nothing, which he took as an admission of guilt.

"Prying Pandora," he clipped, and her jarred heart fell at those words so familiar. "You dare to catch me unaware and expose my weakness so as to slake your damnable thirst to know more?"

"You're not weak," she said, but her flattering estimation did not seem to help as he only bared his teeth at her. "I'm sorry," she said meekly, though he could not know her remorse came from speaking at all.

He released her arm with an angry little wrench and stormed away. She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand and spun around to watch him go.

"I don't think any less of you," she said to his retreating back. "I hope you believe that."

Abruptly he stopped but did not face her.

"I don't want your pity!" he growled.

"I don't pity you either. Not for your face. If I possess any pity for you, it's in your refusal to accept that someone could actually lo – like you for who you are and not be bothered by your appearance." Her words came out so fast she slipped and almost revealed her true heart. She prayed he wouldn't notice.

It was a long moment before he spoke.

"Return to camp, Christine Daaé. It is approaching dusk, and I no longer have a desire for company."

Clenching her hands at her sides in frustration, she watched his long angry strides create more distance then whirled around and stomped back to camp.

xXx

The chill wind played an eerie keening whistle through the trees. The branches sawed against one another in their fight to prevent slumber, the thousands upon thousands of leaves not to be outdone with their constant rustling, like so many costumes of taffeta ...

It was a forest symphony Christine could well do without.

She lay on her back on the thick pelt, wide-eyed, now and then looking toward the tent entrance, where the orange embers of firelight glowed against pale canvas. Night had long ago fallen. She tried counting sheep to find slumber, to prod the empty minutes to pass by during the hellish long wait, but the sheep turned into wolves with deadly fangs, all of which chased her, and she quickly dispensed with that useless trick.

His flask sat on the ground nearby, and she bolstered her resolve and took a sip, hoping the warm lethargy it produced would pull her into slumber. The familiar fire burned down her stomach, the coughing and gasping, all of which was expected and no more welcome than the first time. She felt no different, save for the hole singed into the lining of her throat, but was thankful at least for the calming warmth that stole throughout her body. Not enough to put her to sleep, however, and she reckoned a person must drink more than a sip for the brew to sedate.

What must have been hours had elapsed since they argued. A hundred times she went over the conversation in her mind. Ten times that, she wished she wouldn't have spoken. A score more, she wished she would have phrased her words differently. What devilment had possessed her to bring up his mask?! He had pushed her away from him and to the ground when she removed it the first time, months previously, and the last occasion, a fortnight ago, he had sliced through the rope precariously holding the chandelier in place before taking her with him through a trap door in his desperate escape. Later he had ranted about his face being the poison that ruined their love…

She should have known better.

And so should he.

Christine blew out a harsh breath, her mind slipping back and forth into then, what was two weeks ago, and now, being her entry into Brittany's forest and reunion with Erik. She turned to look at the empty pelt beside her, running her hand along the thick grey fur. Wolves, he'd told her when she first asked, their pelts sewn together to make the warm, bedding of soft blankets, and she struggled to imagine her refined Erik killing such wild beasts. She had seen him in experienced swordplay with Raoul, another grim surprise previously unknown to her – that he could fight and so well. Where and how he'd been trained, she could not begin to hazard a guess, but most of the time, in the now, he carried a sword hanging from the belt at his waist…

A twig snapped outside the tent. Instantly she sat up, staring hard at the flap and willing the canvas to move aside and admit her Phantom.

And still he did not return.

She gave a little grunt of disgust and stood, pulling her kirtle over the long chemise, then cautiously stepped outside.

It wasn't as windy as she'd thought for the racket caused. The night was dark, two torches staked upright, one in the ground the other in the crack of a flat boulder, both carefully tended away from trees, so no flame could catch bark or leaf. In the light of the nearest torch, she made out the sleeping form of Tobias sitting on the ground with his back against a thick trunk. The area around the campfire was surprisingly empty.

Hearing her foot rustle in the grass, Tobias blinked open sleepy eyes, stared a bit, as if trying to make sense of things, then quickly sat upright to see Christine standing before him.

"Milady! I wasn't sleeping," he lied with a flush of red cheeks.

"And why should you not?" she said, bemused. "It's late and you're obviously weary."

"Le Masque told me to guard you – I beg your silence," he pleaded quietly. "Do not tell him I failed."

"I cannot see that you've failed," she reassured. "You're still at your post. I'm here and safe. But where is Le Masque?"

"Gone with five of the men on a raid."

The news took Christine by surprise and sapped the wind from her lungs.

"A raid?" she said at last and shook her head. "But – what on earth are they raiding?"

"Horses, ma'mselle, to replace what was lost. Some time ago, there was a skirmish on the other side of the village. Horses were seized, others lost in battle."

"They went to the village?" Her heart pounded with dread, in fear of Erik being caught. "To steal back the horses?"

"Oh no – not this time. They went to the chateau for supplies."

"The de Chagny chateau?" she asked in disbelief and the boy gave a short nod. "Do they do this often? Go out on raids?"

She wondered in wry amusement if her Phantom had become something of a Robin Hood, recalling bits and pieces from the tale that so intrigued her as a child. He and his men certainly dressed the part.

"When it's needful," the boy said vaguely. "I have heard the ballad of Robin Hood," he said to her surprise, and she realized she must have aired her musings aloud. He stroked his bow that sat on the ground nearby. "I hope one day to be as good an archer."

"And does your band of thieves also rob from the rich and give to the poor?" she quipped lightly.

"We are the poor," the boy said emphatically, almost defensively. "But we never take more than is needful, though Le Masque has every right by heaven and on earth to do so."

Strange words, but then, this entire situation with Erik was bizarre. The longer the lad talked, Christine could see that he suffered from a deep-seated case of hero worship for her Phantom. Little wonder, since as a small child, she felt the same for her Angel, a feeling which intensified through the years. She tearfully called him "fallen idol" little more than a week ago, and he had toppled from his lofty perch in his horrendous dealings with those who ran the theatre. But an hour of madness could not dispel years of awed esteem, and her high estimation of him remained – bruised and torn but intact.

Having no desire to return to a cold, empty bed, and relieved the boy was more talkative than he'd been in past days, Christine asked questions – not only about Erik, but about Tobias as well. She learned that his mother and sister died from what he called the black sickness, his da then taking care of him for close to a year before he was run through with a pitchfork. Horrified, she did not ask him to elaborate and felt a wave of empathetic warmth, a motherly care for the lad. To give him some privacy so that he could swipe the tears from his eyes and retain his manly pride, she walked over to the casks, shushing his insistence that she mustn't wait on him. She fetched them both mugs of mead. The other cask contained ale, she knew, and she wondered about the contents of the third. She doubted it contained coffee beans and had learned to go without the stout brew that had been to her an elixir, to better rouse her in the dawn after an intense night's practice with her teacher or a lengthy performance in front of an audience.

Once she returned, the boy was in full control of his feelings again. They talked on and on, and Tobias told her some of his favorite tales of the Celtic Druids, his eyes shining with the surety that they were no myths.

"Not long after I came to Brittany I was warned to be careful of the faeries," Christine mused.

"Aye, you being the Lord de Chagny's intended makes the need doubly so."

She frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You don't know the legend? I wonder that no one told you. It is said that his grandfather, as a young man, did what no mortal has done – he caught one of the Fae. No one saw and it was his word alone, but many believe it so. He kept her locked in a tower as captive, for nigh onto eight moons. When a Queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann learned of his treachery, she sent her warriors to rescue the Fae. But was said there came love between the Fae and de Chagny, that the Fae was charmed – he found a witch to create a spell, so that he could catch the Fae and keep her. The Fae did not wish to leave but was forced to return to her kind. The queen cursed the de Chagny line forthwith, that all its sons would never know the love of the woman they chose as a mate."

Christine wasn't sure if she was more entertained by the dark little tale or the evidence in his unflinching stare and somber expression that the boy actually believed it to be true.

"Well, it would certainly explain my situation with the Vicomte," she quipped and the boy's smile slowly grew.

"Then there is no love lost between you?"

"No great love, no. He helped in my time of need and was a friend to me. I will be forever grateful for that."

The boys brows sailed up in shock. "The lord of the chateau lending aid? You must have made an impression. He is not known for his kindness. A crueler man does not walk the earth."

She realized then that he must be speaking about Raoul's cousin, Vincent, having come to the same conclusion in the five days she'd known him. "I think perhaps you speak of my friend's cousin, also a de Chagny…" she said somewhat absently.

"I did not know his lordship had a cousin." The boy studied her a long moment. "Le Masque is strong and skilled, and he is wise, like Robin of the Hood. He will come back without harm."

Christine's eyes flew from the forest where she'd been furtively searching and back to his steady stare. "I don't know what you mean." Restless, she began to braid a hank of her loose hair at the bottom, to give her hands something to do.

"Oh, aye." If anything his smile grew wider.

Feeling the warmth of a blush, she discarded toying with her hair and changed the subject, to the life she'd known at the Opera House. He sat wide-eyed as if he'd never heard of such things and stopped her often to question. Given his humble status in life, it wasn't a surprise that the boy knew nothing of the opera, designed for the gentry and others who could afford such polished entertainment.

It was well near dawn when at last the coveted sound of hoofbeats were heard in the thicket. Christine hurriedly stood, eagerly scanning the returning riders and noting three new horses. A husky man with an arrow protruding from the back of his shoulder was helped off his horse by two of the other returned raiders. Nowhere could she see a sign of Erik.

"You there," Eustace called out to her.

Hesitantly she approached.

"Have you any spells or knowledge of potions to brew to lend aid?"

At his insinuation, she bristled. "I, sir, am not a witch." She glared at the circle of men who stared back. A few looked away in unease. "I know nothing of magic or the healing arts, but I have an able pair of hands and will assist however I may be helpful."

Eustace considered her a moment. "Bring mugs of ale all around to curb our thirst then – and be quick about it."

Christine managed not to snap back that she was no barmaid either, reminding herself she had offered to help and it would be only this once.

She grimly set about the task, finding the mugs strewn about the cart. She filled and carried a trio at a time to dole out then returned for more until each man was served. Eustace gulped his down in hefty swallows, the ale wetting his beard and dripping down his neck onto his shirt. He tossed the mug to the ground, turned and took hold of the arrow. "This'll hurt like bloody hell, Nigel…"

"Aye," came the weak answer from the prone man lying on the ground. Another of his friends had held a mug to the wounded man's lips so he could first drink a goodly portion.

Eustace snapped the shaft in half and tightly gripped what remained, forcing the arrow through the other side. A pool of blood seeped on the ground below the new wound at the front of the shoulder. Nigel's tormented screams ripped through the forest, and Christine's stomach lurched as she grabbed a nearby trunk, harshly pressing her forehead to its rough bark, wishing to block out sight and sound.

"Think you can find me a cloth to bind him, wench?" Eustace directed her way as he tossed the bloody arrow to the ground in disgust.

Christine managed the barest of nods and rushed to her tent, at first uncertain what to do as she scanned its sparse contents. The bedding – she certainly couldn't tear into the thick pelts. The log and fire pit were all else the tent contained. What was left of her former clothes lay on the log. It would have to do. With no knife or scissors to cut with, she picked up her old chemise and used her teeth to pull loose the delicate threads, then tore a long strip of material along the seam.

Eustace's brows lifted when she handed him the torn lace-edged garment, but he quickly tied it around the man's shoulder which she could see had been packed with what looked like mud. Three men helped the unfortunate Nigel sit up, and he leaned weakly against their strength, moaning low in his distress, and took another long draught of ale another of his mates offered.

Pointedly avoiding even a glance at the puddle of blood that soaked the ground, Christine edged past and followed Eustace to the low campfire. With a scowl, he threw the broken arrow onto the wood.

"Did Le Masque not come back with you?" she asked quietly, so no one would overhear.

He glanced above her head, in the direction of her tent, then warily looked at her.

"Aye, he did."

"Where is he then?" She glanced over her shoulder in the direction he had looked. "He didn't return to his tent, I was just there, and he's obviously not here…"

"Best to leave him be for the moment, lass." It was the kindest she'd ever heard him speak to her, but his tone still held the hard granite of warning. "He'll return when he's of a mind to."

Dissatisfied but willing to let it go, for now, Christine walked away.

Once dawn came, she found herself darkly agreeing to help with the meal to "break the fast" as Eustace called it. She had crisply told him she was unskilled in the knowledge of cookery. His reply of "your kind never are" made her wish to prove that she could do just as well as any of them. It wasn't her fault that no one taught her the fundamentals. It had never been important to learn such things when others were employed for that purpose, and her skills had been to dance and sing.

Grumbling under her breath about beastly barbarians, she grabbed the pail and began to walk in the direction of the lake. Eustace appeared from nowhere to bar her way.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked gruffly.

She lifted the pail. "For water, of course. I told you, I don't know magic and cannot summon what is needed into the kettle."

His eyes narrowed beneath bushy red brows at her curt sarcasm.

"Tobias!" he called out and snatched the pail from her hand. The boy quickly ran from a group of men to join them. "Fill this up for the kettle. You'll be needing to make several trips. Off with you, lad, and be quick about it! I'm famished enough to eat a whole boar, tusks and all…" As he gave the order, he never once looked from Christine, as if in challenge.

The boy scurried away, and miffed, Christine turned on her heel and plopped angrily down near the sack of grain flakes kept beneath the cart with the barrels, scooping huge handfuls and dumping the mess into a black cauldron. It was clear that Eustace wanted her nowhere near the lake…

And that made her doubly certain the lake was where Erik had gone.

Now she just had to figure out a way to slip past her guards and find him, which at this moment seemed as easily attained as lassoing the moon.

xXx