A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :)

VIII

.

Christine woke, slowly opening her eyes.

She reclined upon the mossy earth, her head pillowed by a cloak not her own, a small campfire burning a comfortable distance away from her feet. The skies were black as ink and she familiarized herself with her surroundings. She lay in a rocky cove of a forest glen. As the blur of sleep left and her eyes focused, she saw the Phantom a short distance away, standing near the fringes of the lake. He had his back to her, his stance meditative, his feet planted apart and hands clasped behind him. Once more he appeared in control, and she pushed herself up on one arm to see him better.

Erik… Her heart reached out to him.

As though he heard its silent stir, he glanced over his shoulder at her then returned his gaze ahead of him, to the dark forest.

"How long was I absent this time?" he asked quietly.

She pushed the tousled nest of curls from her eyes. "When I arrived, a full day and night had passed." Swallowing over a dry throat, she feared to ask but needed to know. "Do you remember anything of what happened?"

"Very little. It's always the same. Thrice now." He sighed and bowed his head. "The blinding pain in my skull. The strange dreams. The blackness and loss of time…"

"Dreams?"

He paused a moment then turned slightly to look at her. Another long silence elapsed, and Christine wasn't sure he would speak, almost jumping when he did.

"Nightmares," he corrected somberly. "A massive chamber of music that blends into screams. Fire. Blood. Falling through a bridge into hell…" He shook his head and cast his eyes to the nearby flames, as if wishing to forget...

…or struggling to remember.

She convulsively clutched blades of grass beneath one hand as he recounted what sounded like the debut of his Don Juan opera.

"Was anyone with you in these dreams?"

Again the silence stretched far and wide.

He turned suddenly to face her. "Why did you come here, Christine Daaé?"

She startled at his swift movement and change of topic.

"You were absent a long time."

"But why did you come?"

"I was worried about you."

"Why?"

Christine stared into his eyes, mesmerizing, even from this distance, and dearly wished to tell him the truth. Yesterday, he supposed she might be a witch. He had no prior knowledge of her, did not trust her, so why would he believe the story of their life if she told him its existence? Indeed, she might complicate matters with the revelation, and he might account it to chicanery or worse, sorcery.

She was doubly thankful that she lived in a century that no longer burned women accused of witchcraft at the stake or sent them to their deaths by dunking and drowning in deep water. Had she been born to an earlier era, with the suspicions he and his men held against her, she might have easily become cinders in the wind or food for the fish.

Shivering at so morbid a thought, Christine drew her cloak more tightly about her, and shook such impractical imaginings away. Curious what he believed about his past, she could not resist a question.

"You said you had no name until that which your men gave you." She ignored his raised brow at her evasive reply. "How did that come to be?"

"You wish to know my life story?" he asked wryly.

"It's only fair. You sought to know portions of mine."

"That is the way of it, with a captor and his captive."

She shrugged lightly. "And you think the captive is not curious about her captor?"

"Again, I ask – why?"

"I have always had a desire to know more about those I lodge with," she said carefully. "At present, that is you."

He snorted. "The story is not a pretty tale woven to enchant a maiden," he countered. "It is dark and it is twisted."

"I have found that I prefer truth to enchantment. Truth is solid and real, easy to grasp, while enchantment is fragile and fleeting, woven from the fabric of dreams. And dreams can be so unstable. I would like to hear your tale, coarse though it may be."

He regarded her pensively, as if uncertain he should speak, then paced back and forth a short distance in agitation, with hands clasped behind him. She inhaled a sharp breath at the familiarity of his actions, having witnessed them weeks ago beneath the earth in his lair, after he'd plead with her to know "why?" Suddenly he spun around to face her.

"You know of this."

He motioned with bare tolerance to the right side of his face and the mask there. Tentatively she nodded. He cursed beneath his breath and glanced away.

"I was born with the affliction. Born and left to die at the Megaliths of Carnac – the standing stones near the chateau," he clarified at her confusion. "As I understand it, there was hope that the faeries would take the changeling I was thought to be and replace me with the babe my parents was certain was theirs, taken and held hostage by the Fae…"

Christine winced at the sardonic flow of words that held more than a trace of bitterness. She had witnessed the superstitious nature of the people of Brittany, but this defied reason. She could hardly perceive that such dark beliefs were held so strongly in this century, or that parents existed who would cast away their infant son due to a physical imperfection.

"As you can see, I did not die," he went on dourly, looking past her to the wall of rock beyond where she sat. "An old hag found and took me to her cottage in the forest. There, she raised me, not as a son, but trained as a despised assistant. She was a cruel and violent mistress. I was beaten for the least infraction, one of her favorite torments to lock me in a cage like an animal, for days at a time. I did all chores, cooked meals, and learned how to find roots and herbs for her elixirs and potions. She never gave me a name, calling me 'boy' if she wished to engage my attention. I was her slave, never a son. She was a true witch."

Christine blinked at the similarities and the disparities to the dark tale Raoul had passed along to her, originally told to him by Madame Giry: How when they were both children, she saved Erik from the wicked gypsy carnival. Why should either Raoul or Madame change a story that was just as harsh as the original, when nothing could be gained from doing so? Madame's version must be true, and she had been there to know. So why did Erik believe this alternate story to be his reality? She did not believe he purposely lied; too much pain clouded his eyes, his expression hard.

When he remained silent, Christine gently prodded. "What happened to her?"

He let out a curt chuckle. "Already ancient when she found me, she died in my fifteenth winter. It was just as well, as with the passage of each moon I grew stronger and could think of nothing more than to wrap my hands around her neck, to escape her many cruelties. I remained at the cottage until I happened across the path of Eustace. The fool blundered into a rope trap I set, but it wasn't until two years more that I joined him and his band of thieves."

"And you became their leader, just like that?" she mused in astonishment.

He laughed darkly. "Nay, it was some time before I earned their trust, though not all have earned mine. There are those who would depose me to take my place. They think I have no knowledge of this, but I have heard talk, acting as a Phantom," he dryly used the name she'd given him, "while hiding in the shadows."

His manner grew intense and he pointed at her to emphasize his words. "You must never go anywhere without the escort I assign to you, damoiselle. You were foolish to seek me out, and I shall have words with the young Tobias. He will be punished for his negligence."

"Oh, no – don't blame him." Christine had no wish for the lad to find trouble because of her. "I slipped away when no one was watching."

"Exactly. He should have been more aware. His task was to guard the tent. A lack of vigilance can lead to death for rebels such as us."

"But it was entirely my fault. I watched and waited for the few seconds that his back was turned. He guarded me well the entire day, like an unblinking owl."

"And yet here you are."

Christine sighed in weary frustration, seeing he would not bend to her wishes, and decided it best to change the subject. She asked the question that had plagued her for days.

"Have you given any thought to my request to go to Paris?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes studying her. "I have business there. We leave at dawn, upon our return to camp."

She jumped to her feet in surprise. "You're taking me to Paris? What? - you mean now?"

He seemed mildly amused by her flustered words.

"Have you changed your mind?"

"Oh no, not at all," she assured him with a faint smile. She wondered again how recently he'd been to the city, how often he traveled there, but wasn't sure it would help to know. He appeared to have no knowledge of who he truly was, and Erik had only come to her during her tri-weekly lessons and after her debut performance as a soloist. Still, she wished to know everything.

"Your man, Eustace, mentioned it's been six months since your last visit."

"Has it?" he asked with disinterest. His gaze went above the trees to the sky that had gone a lighter shade of gray. "Well, he would know."

An odd response, and Christine was about to inquire what he meant by it, when he again turned to look at her. "Upon our arrival, where is it you wish to go? This Opera House of which you often speak?"

"Yes, I believe I'll find my friends there."

He gave a curious little nod. "I would like to see a performance of this opera. It piques my interest."

Christine's smile faded. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. There was…a fire. The theatre is closed to the public, but I feel Madame will be there regardless. In another wing of the building."

The stage, the orchestra pit, and more than a third of the seats in the auditorium had been destroyed Raoul told her, but the dormitories might still be habitable. If so, Madame would never abandon her ballet rats who depended so heavily on her. She would be there.

"That is unfortunate. I should have liked to hear you sing."

His low words brought warmth blossoming into her heart, mixed with a wave of sadness. Clearly he did not recall her tender songs to him in the night to ease his torment.

"I don't have to be at the Opera House to sing. I can sing right here. That is, if you would like me to…"

Of all the many occasions, of all the many places her Maestro had heard her sing, the many years, it seemed strange she should feel so terribly awkward and anxious of his reception to her voice, here, in this secluded cove by the lake, where he no longer remembered her. She was out of practice, had vowed not to sing again since that night, and he had trained her to practice every day…

"I would like that."

His quiet words jarred her and she took an unsteady breath.

"What would you like to hear?"

Faust and other dark operas felt unsuitable for what he so recently endured, and she certainly could not sing an aria from his first and last opera of vengeance and death.

"An Italian opera, perhaps," she suggested quickly. "Verdi's La traviata?"

"You know the language of Rome?"

"Only the words I'm taught to sing. Operas are often performed in a foreign tongue, though not always."

"How then does your audience understand?"

"The music, I suppose - how the words are sung and the story played out. The audience always seems to receive the gist of the message, even if they don't comprehend the meaning of all the words."

He seemed impressed then shook his head. "I would prefer to hear words understood, in the language we speak."

The need to understand was mutual, a recurring theme in her life at present, and Christine knew the perfect song. However, she did not take into account the havoc it would wreak on her emotions to sing it.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye. Remember me, once in awhile, please promise me you'll try…"

Similar to the day she'd first sung for the managers her voice came out tight, weak and uncertain. The words stuck in her throat, striking too close to home in this bizarre situation with her Phantom, and she looked away from his intent eyes the moment she began to sing. She thought about abruptly ending the aria and performing another, then curled her fingers into fists at her sides, determined to see this through, though it tore her heart in pieces to do so.

"…When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free. If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me…"

She braved a glimpse in his direction. He stood in profile, staring hard into the trees, his back and shoulders tense. Not once did he look her way, and she tried to quell tears of disappointment and not allow them to manifest in her voice. Closing her eyes, she continued her sad aria, letting her muddled feelings for Erik color the words.

A heavy silence followed the cascading rise and fall of her final cadenza of notes. The whir of night insects and the rustle of leaves stirred by a cool breeze were all of what remained of sound to acknowledge a world still existed.

At the rustle of his step, her eyes flew open. Her heart pounded as he walked steadily toward her, the firelight behind casting his face and form in shadow. Lifting his thumb to her cheek, he wiped away an errant tear then lowered his mouth to hers.

x

Stunned from all rational thought, Christine could not move, the coolness of his lips brushing against her trembling ones invoking a heat that melted prudent inhibition. She leaned softly into him and touched her tongue lightly to his to taste him. He let out a low, hungered growl, his hand moving to cup the back of her head while wrapping his arm around her waist.

The feel of his mouth on hers swiftly changed from tender to impassioned, the deep thrusts of his hot tongue answered by her gentler caresses. She was falling, soaring, drowning, and she clutched his shirt in tight fistfuls to remain standing, though he held her so close she felt the heat from his body like a flame that seared her, branded her –

Then just as suddenly as it began, he pushed her away.

His action was rapid but gentle, and he held to her shoulders until he was sure she wouldn't fall. She looked wonderingly up into his eyes, hers full of question.

Beyond the mask, she could not read his expression and never had she wished to more.

"I thank you, ma belle fille, for the gift of your song. It was…enlightening."

His raspy words seemed to mock, out of place with what she thought had just happened between them, and wounded her to the core. She had silently offered him her heart. He had sampled, as if she were a tasty dish, then rejected her as easily. He had the face of Erik but was not her Angel. This man was a devil, no disguise.

"Never do that again," she whispered.

He cocked his head to the side. "Are you sure that's what you want, damoiselle?" he taunted, a finger tilting beneath her chin, making her look into his eyes of cool blue fire. Eyes absent of the emotion that still coursed through her veins. "That is not the impression you gave."

"And stop calling me that!"

Vexed beyond the frivolity of meaningless words and empty flirtations, she slapped his hand away and took a step back. Her shoulder blades met with cold rock.

His laugh was derisive. "You may rename me, but I'm not allowed to call you by what title I wish? Or is there more to this? Would that I had remained in shadow, my face never to be seen. You might have found my advances more appealing then."

She regarded him in disbelief. "You think it's your face that causes me distress?" The grievous worry for his welfare throughout the entire past day and night sharpened nerves taxed to their limits. "Oh, just go back to your band of merry men! You don't know what I'm feeling, you can't know – you have no idea."

She brushed past him, barely a step, before her elbow was grasped and he swung her around to face him.

"What is it that you keep from me, Christine Daaé?" His features hardened to stone when she remained rebelliously silent. "Do you spy for de Chagny? Perhaps your capture was anticipated, and you are the bait to his trap?"

Her eyes widened further in incredulity. "First you think me a witch, now I'm a spy and bait." His accusation rubbed a raw spot that seemed never to heal when she considered that she'd once been exactly that. "In light of your low opinion of my character, would you believe anything I tell you? Is there a blessed thing I can say that would make you take my word as truth? Especially when the truth is so wretchedly confusing and impossible and ambiguous that I'm not sure even I believe it!" The last slipped out before she could stop herself and she winced at the blunder.

"An excess of words oft hides a guilty soul," he countered dryly, his manner unflappable.

"No, you heartless scoundrel!" she snapped, her eyes mere slits. "A thousand times no – I'm not a spy, and I'm not a witch! And if you take me to Paris, I can prove my innocence."

He regarded her with narrow-eyed suspicion. "Perhaps in that city lies the trap. It would explain your persistence to go there."

She wanted to scream in frustration but only stared in horror.

"Does that mean you're now refusing to take me?" she asked, her voice going soft with dread.

He sighed. "I would be a poor leader if I did not exercise caution and blindly surrendered trust, even to a damsel so fair. There are very few in this world whom I trust, and no one implicitly. I may be heartless and a scoundrel but I am also a man of my word, Christine Daaé. I will take you to Paris, but heed me well – if you seek to betray me you will live to regret it."

xXx

A/N: Thanks again for the reviews! :) We're soon arriving to the moment some of you have been waiting for - the moment of truth. ;-)