Chapter 25: Darkness That Consumes, Shattered Melodies That Join and Steel That Divides

Warning: In this chapter, there are two slightly longer descriptions of Erik's panic attacks. They are not very intense, but they are not exactly gentle either, so I decided to leave a warning. There is also a slight reference to more depressive thoughts. If any of these are triggering or upsetting to some readers, then please proceed with caution and a lot of self-love, and also accept my warm virtual hugs.

Quelling his nervousness and adjusting his hood, Erik took a seat in a rented brougham. The vehicle slowly started forwards, and he drew the curtains together so that only a narrow strip of window was left uncovered. The first day of spring greeted everyone with an aura of snow and winter; the world seemed almost frozen in place, but he had the impression that time was running too fast.

The play that he and Meg had been working on was finally supposed to take place that afternoon. The final preparations had been consuming almost the whole of Meg's time since the end of last week, and he couldn't help but wonder how it would go. Unfortunately, going with her was definitely too risky.

The thought brought a pang to his chest, which he hurriedly chased away. Why the hell was he even pondering such absurd things?

Erik winced and scolded himself inwardly.

Drawn by an impulse, he unbuttoned his overcoat and reached into his waistcoat's inner breast pocket, pulling out a white handkerchief. It was the same one he had lent Meg in the chapel, but now one of its corners was decorated with a small embroidery Meg had done as a thank you. It depicted two birds' silhouettes: a large rook glancing down and his much smaller companion perched on a branch, its tiny beak playfully turned up.

A symbolic depiction of some good memories and a reminder that there were people he could talk to, Meg had said.

Something in his chest thrummed in a peculiar rhythm. His mind went back to the way the ballerina had snuggled trustingly into him, and a wave of heat flooded him.

Swallowing hard, the Phantom didn't allow himself to focus on the feelings.

Meg had done so much for him, and he wanted to return the favour. The best thing he could do for her and Madame Giry was straighten up some matters so that his past wouldn't cast a dark shadow on their lives anymore.

The Opera Ghost squeezed the handkerchief and put it back in its place. His gloved fingers brushed the documents tucked inside his morning coat.

He didn't want to risk sending them by postal service. Nor to ask the ballet mistress to pass them along for him. It was something he had to do on his own. Especially since he still wasn't exactly sure about the outcome.

The lawyer whom he had contacted had been a little shocked by the request, but in the end, he agreed to arrange a meeting before his regular hours in a more secluded place. It was hard to predict how it would go, though.

Erik felt an invisible band tighten around his lungs.

The Phantom clenched his jaw and peeked outside, trying to busy his thoughts with something else.

Buildings and streets were slowly passing the window, accompanied by scattered, distant voices and the rhythmic patter of hooves against the cobblestone. He forced himself to focus on the scene.

They were already halfway to their destination when his eyes caught a glimpse of the familiar crest and shape of one of the carriages assigned to the opera. His gaze instinctively moved to the passenger, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was still dark, but there was no doubt, even for a split second. He couldn't have mistaken Christine's profile for any other. A moment later, the carriage turned into the next alley, and the soprano vanished from his view. He had no idea how she had managed to sneak past the guards, but even if she hadn't donned a black cloak, he could have easily guessed where she was going.

A pressing idea crept into his mind.

He still had almost an hour before the appointed meeting. What if he took a slight detour?

Willing away the tightness in his chest, the Opera Ghost made his decision and knocked on the vehicle's ceiling. "I would like to take a roundabout way and stop for a few minutes at the cemetery, monsieur." His words, thrown through the ajar window, sounded strangely stiff. The carter didn't question such a sudden whim, though, and obediently took the next turn.

Erik shifted, feeling something inside him constrict even more. An echo of gone-by melodies reverberated in his ears. A few heartbeats later, the memories transported him back in time.

The end of the year 1874 and the beginning of 1875 had brought him more than he could have expected. And yet, he couldn't find peace.

His legs had once again led him to the secret corridor behind the chapel's wall, though he wasn't exactly sure what for. Praying wasn't something he did often, and Madame Giry's preaching only ever got on his nerves.

It was still a mystery to him how the large sections of tunnels below Paris could have been built only to be neglected and forgotten by the majority, but the discovery of them had given him just what he needed: a hideout and better mobility. It had taken him many months to renew the parts located beneath the new opera house, but once he had finished, he had finally gained a comfortable place of his own. And thanks to his careful modifications during the construction of the Palais Garnier, he also possessed a section of hidden corridors, giving him access to all the most important spaces and turning him into a true phantom of this place.

Furthermore, the suggestions about the inaugurating opera and the previous productions that he had sent to the manager had been met with great enthusiasm, resulting in a permanent anonymous contract. Monsieur Lefevre undoubtedly had quite a sense of humour, hiring him under the initials O.G.

All in all, as the Opera Ghost, Erik had more freedom and options than even before. But somehow it wasn't enough to suppress that cold, pitch-black void rising inside him.

Music had always been his shelter. But now, there would be days when he was unable to play a single note, barely finding strength for the most trivial things, and days when he would frenetically compose for many hours, skipping meals and sleep, fuelled by a feverish need to create something important. Something that would fill the silence and emptiness or drown out the jarring voices of the past. Something that would give his existence meaning…

In most cases, the staves, brimming with hastily scribbled chords, ended up on the floor, imperfect and torn apart in an outburst of fury. The short moments of triumph vanished as soon as they appeared.

Despite his declarations that it wasn't necessary, the Girys visited him regularly. Madame Giry's tutorial tendencies and questions about his eating and sleeping habits often irritated him to no end, but her and her husband's presence occasionally brought him some sort of relief, even though he tried not to admit it. Nevertheless, the feeling hardly ever lasted long; the void was always insatiable.

Monsieur Giry seemed to partially sense that, and a few times he had suggested they could talk if something was wrong. Showing weakness wasn't something the Opera Ghost could allow himself, though. Besides, Jules Giry had already done a lot and paid a high price for it; the slight limping, left by the accident in extra work eleven years ago, was a painful reminder of it. How would he react if he learnt that the person he saved regretted opening his eyes almost every morning?

Gritting his teeth, Erik tried to chase away a choking feeling welling up in his chest.

The Phantom of the Opera wasn't a blazed weakling! He didn't need anyone's help.

But no matter what he did, it was still as if he were just slipping deeper and deeper into some bottomless abyss.

His jaw clenched even harder, and a painful spasm went through his deformed cheek. Muttering a curse, the man raised his mask and rubbed the wretched place.

He was aware it was an impossible dream, but a part of him wished to reach the outside world he was shunned of. To leave an imprint on it. Show them all that he was worth more than they had ever assumed.

Now, he was closer to it than ever before. But somehow it wasn't enough, was it?

The disgusting, guttural laughter filled his ears.

A cursed freak who will never be anything more.

The Opera Ghost's fingers curled, digging into the inner side of his gloved palms. An invisible band closed around his lungs, and it took all his strength to take another breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead. With effort, he tried to will the words away.

But no matter what he did, they were still there. A moment later, distant hateful echoes joined them, stirring in the darkest corners of his mind.

Will never be anything more. Will never be anything more. Will never be anything more.

The panic and rage burst inside him, consuming him whole.

"No!" With an anguished cry, the Phantom slammed his fist against the wall in a desperate attempt to silence the sneering. "No, no, NO!" A choked roar rose in his throat as he hit the stone again and again.

"I-is someone here?" A high-pitched, terrified voice with a foreign accent resounded in the chapel, bringing him back to reality like a bucket of cold water.

The Phantom cursed under his breath. Wincing at the slight pain that started to pulse in his good hand and its dim echo in the deformed, he lowered his arms. Ashamed that he had lost control over himself so much, he brought his eye to a small slit in the wall.

In the corner of the chamber, a small bundle shifted, revealing a pale teenage girl in a black dress. How the hell could he not have noticed her before?

The teenager skittishly moved towards the metal stand with the lit candles. Her hands shook as she took one of them, fearfully looking away.

"H-hello?" Her tone trembled. His lack of response seemed to only strengthen her anxiety. The faint, wavering flame revealed dark circles under the girl's reddened eyes as well as traces of tears on her cheeks.

A pang of guilt pierced him for scaring her like this. At the same time, a part of him realised when he had seen her before. She was that new pupil at the ballet school whom the Girys had taken under their wings after her father's death, wasn't she? The daughter of the famous Swedish violinist Gustave Daaé.

The girl – Christine, if he remembered correctly – uneasily walked to a gas lamp. A moment later, its light flooded the interior, but of course it didn't show anyone else. The teenager peeked into the corridor only to get the same result.

"I-if it's another joke, t-then please stop. I'm scared," she pleaded, drawing back into the room. Her gaze swept over the interior as she wrapped her arms around herself.

He was almost sure she would run away, but Little Daaé hesitated. Her hand wandered up, nervously grasping one of her long, dark curls.

"Is… Is that you?" Her shy question filled the silence, shocking him once again. "Are you… Are you sad and lonely too?" Her words were barely audible, but somehow they were enough to make his breath catch in his lungs.

The teenager lowered her head, and her arms closed around herself even tighter, as if that way she could stop herself from falling apart completely. "I… I heard the pain in your voice. And… And I think I know how you feel." Her lips quivered, and he heard her breath become even more shaky. "I feel so lost and alone too, and I just don't know what to do anymore. It's like there is no happiness anymore. Like all that is left is just a cold, mute darkness…" Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Erik's larynx tightened.

"You are not alone." The hushed, raspy assurance escaped his mouth before he could stop himself.

The girl twitched fearfully, but didn't move from her spot.

"Are you him, then? The Angel of Music my father spoke about? If you are, then please don't go; I need you." Desperate notes slipped into her voice, and he saw Christine Daaé raise her head. In her gaze, pain mixed with expectation and hope.

The Opera Ghost's insides twisted into a tight knot.

My little angel… His mother's nickname for him reverberated in the far, dusty nook of his mind. His chest constricted painfully, but simultaneously, something inside it melted.

The rational part of him pointed out that he must be losing the remains of his sanity to consider this. To even bother talking to this child. To risk. But on the other hand, he just couldn't abandon this girl, could he?

A weird mixture of emotions overcame him.

In the previous opera house, Salle Le Peletier, he had been heard – more or less accidentally – several times, which had given rise to the gossip about the theatre being haunted. Yet this time, it was completely different. It was just a split second, but Christine Daaé had heard him in a way no one else could.

He must have been blind and deaf not to notice in her a shard of the same dark void that plagued him.

Erik swallowed hard.

"I'm afraid that I'm not anything even close to an angel, Mademoiselle Daaé," he said quietly, voice hoarse. "But if you keep it a secret, I can try being your Angel of Music for some time, if that's what you need. And if you come here again during Friday's training for the advanced ballerinas, I could play the violin for you to fill the silence."

The melodies he had played for Christine still echoed in his mind when they finally arrived at their destination. The coachman obediently stopped at the side alley close to the cemetery. Asking him to wait, Erik stepped out of the vehicle and headed towards the smaller wrought gate.

The barren, snow-covered trees and grey statues, cold and monumental, created a serious atmosphere.

The Phantom scowled and directed his steps to Gustave Daaé's grave, weaving between the tombstones. He had already been here a few times before, so he didn't have problems finding the right place. Just as he expected, he found Christine there. She knelt on the ground with a lowered head; her half tied-up hair partially obscured her pale face, somehow making her look even more fragile.

A feeling of guilt once again slipped into Erik's stomach. Part of him wondered if it had been a good idea to come here, but he was also aware that he might not get another chance like this.

"Christine…" His whisper drifted towards her on a gust of wind.

The girl leaped to her feet with a start. "W-who's there?" It was hard to miss the fear in her voice.

His chest constricted painfully at the sound. He had no idea how to answer her question. He didn't want to be the fearsome Phantom or the mysterious Opera Ghost to her. Nor the substitute Angel of Music. He was no longer her teacher, and he highly doubted he could call himself her friend after all he had put her through.

His hands clenched at his sides. Swallowing hard, he did the only thing that came to his mind and simply stepped out of the shadows.

Christine instantly backed away, and the fact she did so, even though a few metres already separated them, pained him deeply. Her eyes locked on him, wide and questioning. Not being able to bear the apprehension visible in them, Erik averted his gaze.

"I wish to say that you have nothing to fear from me, Christine, but I suppose they are just empty words for you, aren't they?" His mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. "Recently, I've acted awfully towards you, and now I'm breaching the terms you set in your letter, but I just wanted to apologise once again and assure you that I fully accept your resignation from our lessons, as well as any other decisions you may take." His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "I can't take part in any formal meeting, so I would be grateful if I could talk with you for a few minutes right now to explain some things more clearly. I don't want to force you, though. I'll go the second you say you want me gone." He glanced back at Christine, studying her face.

The soprano hesitated. "I… I think we could talk for a few minutes." Her fingers wove nervously together, but then her lips quirked in a tiny smile. "I would like to understand more."

A spark of hope lit inside him.

"Thank you." Erik took a small step forwards. "You have to know that–"

"MOVE BACK!" A loud shout made them both spin to see Raoul de Chagny striding towards them with a wielded straight sabre.

It was like a reprise of a bad dream. Only this time, the Phantom of the Opera had no means to leave the stage with a theatrical trick. And turning his back on an armed opponent definitely wasn't a possible option.

Erik's lungs constricted.

The aristocrat placed himself protectively between Christine and the Opera Ghost, sending him a dark glare. The next second, the viscount's gaze moved to his fiancée, instantly softening.

"Are you all right? A runner alerted me that you left the opera, and I thank heaven that I arrived in time." His free hand squeezed the soprano's arm. "You are not safe on your own. This man is trying to manipulate you." His tone hardened.

Erik felt scorching flames flooding his veins. What right did this fop have to judge him like this? Part of him just wanted to lunge at the boy, and it took all his self-control not to do so or respond with a scathing retort. The Phantom's fists clenched so hard that it was almost painful.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he ground out through gritted teeth, "but I've never intentionally deceived Christine. And if she had just said one word, I would already be gone." Erik forced himself to take a deep breath. "I've done some things I'm not proud of, but now I'm just trying to straighten some matters up."

Raoul de Chagny let out a humourless scoff of laughter. "For some reason, I find it hard to believe, le Fantôme. Your actions have shown us something entirely different. And I can't deem trustworthy a man of unknown origin who hides behind masks and tricks. Especially when he carries a weapon," he pointed out dryly.

Erik's jaw muscles contracted even more. "Yet it is you, not I, who is waving a bared blade."

Raoul de Chagny's perfect features reddened. "It's only because I was forced to do it to protect others," he hissed. "And to ensure that you, monsieur, will be escorted to the nearest police station. You could show at least a pinch of honour and obey." His expression darkened, his lips twisting in contempt.

Erik froze. His pulse sped up, and an invisible band closed tighter around his lungs, making breathing barely possible.

He couldn't get arrested like that. If a member of one of the most respected families in Paris accused him, he would have almost no chance of winning. Besides, what if they somehow used the documents he had against him? Or even worse, against Madame Giry or Meg?

His insides twisted in a nauseating way.

"I'm afraid I must decline," he said as calmly as he could, his voice grating and strained. "I plan to make amends, but I'm going to do it on my own terms. I see nothing honourable in getting locked up and condemned without being heard out, just because some aristocratic, pampered boy says so." Despite his intentions, his declaration ended unpleasantly close to an angry snarl.

The young viscount's cheeks burned bright red. His mouth pressed hard. "Well, you give me no other choice, then, monsieur," he growled in response, starting forwards.

"Wait!"

Christine's despairing shout made them both look at her in shock. They had gotten so absorbed in their conversation that they had almost forgotten she was still there.

The soprano stepped closer to her fiancé, wrapping her hands around his arm. "Maybe… Maybe we should just hear him out, Raoul." Her voice was trembling, but in that moment, for Erik, it held more power than the most thunderous arias. Unfortunately, Raoul de Chagny didn't seem to share his view.

The aristocrat looked at Christine in utter disbelief.

"I know that you are full of compassion, but I won't back down in this case." A determined frown pulled down his brow. "This man, this so-called Phantom" – the word was spat out with disdain – "is clearly unstable. And I can't just let him wander free. What if he starts to harass someone else? Or finally hurts someone? For example, Meg or one of your other friends from the opera?"

Erik felt both his good and deformed profile turn scorching hot.

"It's a disgusting and false assumption," he snapped. "I would never–" Something stirred at the back of his mind, cutting him off mid-sentence. Blood started to thump in his temples as ice-cold, gluey tentacles of doubt and fear slipped into his stomach, slowly climbing up his spine.

Because what if it was the truth? After all, he was ruining everything he touched, wasn't he?

His old memories awakened from their slumber and began to swarm around him, digging their claws into him, discordant and merciless.

What if, no matter what he did, history was just going to repeat itself?

The hateful and condemning words he had heard after the accident with the mayor's son filled his ears. The thundering insults from the circus followed right after them, rising together in a nightmarish crescendo. The showman's hand and whip flashed before his eyes.

Erik staggered in a futile attempt to avoid them, no longer sure what was real. His foot caught on something, and he lost his balance. His knees painfully collided with the ground, but he felt as if he were continuing to fall.

"No…"

His whisper was lost in the overwhelming cacophony. His hands shot up to cover his ears, even though deep inside he knew it was not going to help. The shattered pieces of his past and nightmares whirled around him, trying to tear him to shreds as he fought for another shaky gulp of air.

Isn't it enough that I'm reminded of the biggest mistakes every time I look at you?

A freak of nature. A devil's spawn.

I have promised you a true demon, haven't I?

You are nothing more than a pitiful circus freak! No one will ever give a damn about you or anything you say.

You will never be anything more.

A nightmare. A sight one could not forget.

A burden.

A monster.

His fingers dug into his skull as he bent over. "It's not the truth," he breathed. "IT'S NOT THE CURSED TRUUUTH!" The desperate, rasping roar ripped out of his throat, echoing against the gravestones.

"Angel!" A high-pitched cry broke through to him, somehow snapping him out of the trance. His head jerked up, and his gaze met Christine's. The girl stood only a few steps away now, leaning towards him, even though the viscount's arms, closed around her waist, were stopping her from coming closer. Her wide brown eyes stared at Erik with a mixture of concern and dread.

With a pang of shame, he realised that he was cowering in the snow.

One of Raoul de Chagny's eyebrows rose in an arch. "I think that after this performance we don't need further commentary on your mental state, le Fantôme." The disdain in his tone was like the final drop that broke the dam.

Wrath flared up inside Erik, chasing away everything else. The jarring voices were still there, but they were reduced to dim, humming echoes, pulsing in the farthest regions of his mind.

His jaw clenched so hard that his deformed cheek spasmed madly and painfully, but he couldn't care less. Monsieur le Vicomte wanted to have a fight with the fearsome Opera Ghost? Well then, he could get one.

The Phantom slowly dragged himself up to a standing position, his chest heaving heavily. When he spoke again, his voice was nothing more than a low, throaty growl. "Have it your way, then, monsieur." His modern rapier gleamed ominously, unsheathed.

"No, no, no. Please, both of you stop!" Christine's panicked plea pierced the air. Her hands desperately grasped the viscount's sleeve, but the boy simply pushed her aside gently.

"Please keep a safe distance, Christine." In his usually carefree tone resounded steel. The aristocrat slowly started towards the Opera Ghost, assuming an en garde position.

In response, Erik raised his blade too.

"Please, stop…" Christine sobbed, and he couldn't help but hesitate. He allowed himself just a shadow of doubt, but that was enough for Raoul de Chagny to take advantage of it.

The boy lunged at the Phantom with a slash aimed at his torso, and he barely managed to parry it with a quarte. The metallic clank tore apart the cemetery's peace.

The aristocrat's sabre drew an arc and once again shot upwards. A fraction of a second later, it changed course, coming at the Opera Ghost's calf and leaving him scarcely enough time to move out of its reach.

Erik jumped backwards. The footwork and instincts that had been drilled into him during countless training sessions with Monsieur Mihai, the circus master of swords, and his later lone exercises returned to him as second nature. And yet, he had no choice but to back away under the furious advance.

A tiny voice at the back of his mind reminded him that one day Christine had mentioned something about her childhood friend being sent away for a year of military training before his studies. It seemed that Raoul de Chagny hadn't been idle during it. Nor had he let his skills rust after that.

Hell.

The spoiled fop wasn't so pampered after all.

A blade flew just a palm length away from his mask, and Erik cursed inwardly. He couldn't lose!

Having parried a few more cuts, he dove behind one of the monuments. In a flash, he emerged from the other side, putting all his speed and weight into the impact. The slightly lighter viscount staggered, lowering his guard. Not bothering with elegance, Erik hit him in the arm with the rapier's cupped hilt. With a muffled groan, the boy fell on a tilted tombstone.

Christine screamed again, but it was as if she were somewhere far, far away.

The Phantom slashed down. Raoul de Chagny rolled to the side, a heartbeat before a disarming blow could reach him. The blade grated against the granite. A second later, their swords once again clashed with a deafening crash.

The aristocrat charged again. The graves and statues were located even closer to each other in this section, and that made manoeuvring among them even harder.

The Opera Ghost parried another attack and riposted with a thrust. The viscount's blockade deflected it a little to the side. With an ear-splitting rasp, the rapier grazed against the forged metal fence of a sepulchre, striking sparks. The weapon became stuck between the bars and the aristocrat's sabre at its base.

Hell.

Not leaving Raoul de Chagny enough time to react, Erik rammed him with his shoulder. This time, both of them swayed. Getting himself free, the Phantom spun, raising his guard, but he was a blink too late. A sharp pain ripped through his left arm as the tip of the viscount's weapon cut his clothes and skin. A cry escaped Erik's throat.

His right arm painfully collided with the edge of the monument as he lurched to the side, barely avoiding another strike. He stumbled, almost tripping over his own cape.

Blazes. Erik turned the corner. The walls of a mausoleum temporarily separated him from his opponent.

It wasn't good. He was losing control over the fight, wasn't he? He was a little stronger and had a slightly longer range due to his height and weapon, but the latter didn't mean much in a limited space and with an unsharpened blade. And Raoul de Chagny undoubtedly surpassed him in technique and in experience gained during sparring with real partners. In the longer fight, this advantage was probably going to tip the scales of victory.

Panting, Erik cursed under his breath. He had to come up with something. And he had to do it quickly.

So far, the only weakness of his adversary he had noticed was that the aristocrat most of the time instinctively kept to the more elegant rules of duelling, hardly ever lowering himself to the more "dirty" manoeuvres like kicks and pushes. But how could that be of any use?

The young viscount didn't give him the time to ponder, appearing from behind the other side of the building with a loud roar. His sabre anew advanced at the Phantom with a rapid series of cuts, forcing him to retreat.

The edge of the Opera Ghost's cape curled around his leg, hindering his movement when he didn't hold it properly with his injured arm. He barely blocked the upcoming strike.

Erik swore inwardly again. Why hadn't he shed this blazed piece of clothing before the fight? He muttered another swear word, and that was when it dawned on him.

The cape.

Leaping away from another cut, Erik hid behind a statue. Pain pierced through his slashed arm as he raised his left hand to undo the clasp. But when Raoul de Chagny approached again, the Opera Ghost was ready.

Stepping out from his hideout, he threw his cape at the unsuspecting viscount, lunging forwards. The boy let out a muffled shout. He managed to shake the fabric off himself a second later, but it was all the distraction the Phantom needed.

His right forearm dug into the aristocrat's chest, throwing him backwards and pushing him to the mausoleum's flank. The Opera Ghost's left palm closed around the viscount's right wrist, slamming the fop's sabre-wielding hand against the stone wall as hard as possible.

The impact force made Erik's teeth and bones rattle, evoking pain in his wound anew, and he wasn't able to suppress a hiss. His goal had been achieved, though: Raoul de Chagny's blade rolled away with a clatter.

Erik tightened his grip, holding his rival in place. The rapier was now just a few centimetres away from the aristocrat's perfect face. Breathing heavily, both men stared at each other.

A prince charming and a monster.

The defiant, proudly raised chin and cold gaze of the viscount's narrowed eyes were telling Erik exactly that.

The burning rage flared up inside him again, and the Phantom of the Opera felt his own, already abhorrent, features twist even more. Perhaps he should make sure that the insolent boy would remember this fight to the end of his days. A small cut on the face could be a good reminder.

The thought instantly sent a cold shiver down Erik's spine.

It wasn't the person he wanted to be. What would Meg think if she saw him now?

A sickening sensation slipped into his stomach. His rapier lowered a little.

"Move away from him and drop your sword." A familiar, trembling voice commanded weakly. Both his and the fop's heads snapped towards it.

A few steps away stood Christine, her cheeks ghostly pale and wet from crying. Her small hands convulsively clutched the handle of the discarded sabre. Its edge was pointed in their direction. His direction.

Erik felt his nausea grow stronger. The soprano's arms were shaking so violently that he could probably knock her weapon away even with his bare hands. But he would never do such a thing.

The Opera Ghost loosened his grip on his opponent. Raoul de Chagny coughed, rubbing his neck and sending the Phantom a dark glare as he stepped aside.

Erik threw away his rapier; the weapon drew an arc in the air and landed in a snowdrift. His gaze locked with Christine's. "Christine, I would never…" The raspy words got stuck in his throat.

The girl shook her head. "The point is, I no longer know what you would and wouldn't do," she said quietly. "You come here, and – though it's not the way we were supposed to meet – I almost start to trust you again. And then the two of you engage in some awful fight!" Her tone pitched higher than normal, getting almost squeaky. Tears rolled down her face. "I-I just want it all to finally stop."

Erik felt something in his chest shatter into thousands of pieces.

"I didn't want it to lead to this either, Christine. I–" he broke off mid-sentence, noticing that Raoul de Chagny had moved to retrieve the rapier from the snow.

The blade gleamed ominously as the aristocrat's mouth pressed into a determined line. Christine followed the Opera Ghost's line of sight, noticing it too.

"Raoul, don't!" Her nearly hysterical cry echoed against the tombstones and trees, making them all freeze in place. Her fiancé glanced at her with such bewilderment that it seemed as if he were seeing her for the first time in his life.

"Christine, this man, this thing, needs to be arrested. You saw what he was doing. What he is capable of!" Raoul de Chagny's eyebrows pulled down in a frown as he tried to pass by his beloved.

In response, the soprano spread her arms to block his way.

"And you weren't much better!" Desperate, pricking notes slipped into her raised voice. The viscount stared at her in utter shock. Across his countenance flickered a shadow that Erik couldn't identify.

Christine's eyes moved back to the Opera Ghost. "Please, just go and leave us now…" she asked pleadingly.

The pain in her expression cut him far deeper than any steel could.

The Phantom of the Opera crouched to pick up his cape from the ground. Then he turned away and slowly plunged into the fading shadows.

Perhaps he shouldn't have left them from the very beginning.

Author's notes:

1) Quarte – parry (deflection of the attack) no. 4 with blade up to the inside, wrist supinated (according to some online glossaries of facing I've checked to create this chapter). It's the first fighting scene I've written in my life, but I hope it was interesting. :P

2) Depression, PTSD, anxiety and trauma can have many different faces, and Erik's behaviour is only my interpretation of some real psychological problems, based on some facts but adapted to the character. However, due to the themes I touch on in this chapter, I want to send my best wishes to people who are or have ever been struggling and trying to deal with similar difficulties. I cheer you on with all my heart! ‹3

3) As always, thanks for reading and for all the lovely words! ‹3