A/N: For those who like longer chapters – enjoy! :) And thank you for the reviews!

Chapter XIII

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As a child, Christine remembered lying wide awake in her dormitory bed that first night at the Opera House, alone and afraid, keeping one candle lit on the end table beside her. Open fire, unattended, while everyone slept went against the rules, and Madame did not allow her the small comfort, blowing out the candle upon discovery after Christine fell asleep. Not until she blinked her eyes open to the enshrouding darkness and woke up screaming did they understand her fears went far deeper than the typical childhood fright. It had taken both Madame and Meg to calm her down, Madame even giving her a sip of wine to soothe frayed nerves.

They could never understand that utter darkness meant death, her Papa dying in the night, also her mother the year before that. She did not tell them in those first months of her arrival that Darkness made her into an orphan, lest they come to think her foolish and scorn her, perhaps even force her to leave the theatre. Once she grew older and wiser, feeling secure in her placement there, she still remained silent, dismissing it as a girlish phobia that did not merit discussion, though the remnants of terror would revisit when absolute darkness again threatened. She did not tell them that she feared Death would come flying through on black wings in the night to steal her away as it did her parents, the candlelight a safeguard to protect her. Only one had she confessed this to, when she thought her childhood prayers were being heard by an angelic being.

But in those first weeks at the theatre, even the candle Madame placed several feet away at a safe distance from the filmy bed curtains failed to give the peace so desperately needed, and Christine had curled up on her side and stared at the distant speck of light, afraid to close her eyes lest the flame be snuffed out.

Not until the night an Angel's song drifted down to her had she known any sense of true peace.

Not until ten years later had she realized the cause of that peace had been a deception.

Not until tonight did she realize the truth of how very much she missed his song as she lay awake and as she slept…how much she missed him. His brand of peace, even deceptive, was difficult to live without.

Perhaps Madame had been right that separation was best. Perhaps her deceiving Angel, who had never given her a name with which Christine could have become familiar, would have destroyed her - and she him - had he agreed to stay and not walked out of her life.

Perhaps, perhaps – life was filled with 'perhaps' –

Good sense had prevailed.

But it did nothing to take the gnawing ache of his absence away.

She sighed, glancing over at the carpetbag where she kept his artist journal hidden. If she surrendered to logic, she would dispense with reading what made it impossible to forget. To continue looking through the pages defeated the purpose of what he wanted – what she needed - to forget him.

As if she ever could forget him.

His words gave her purpose and had become a compass to her rudderless direction. He had endured great anguish in life, much too much, she could see that now. And though her present suffering could not begin to compare, she felt a kinship as she read of his fears and his dreams, but especially of how he learned to live with both.

Christine picked up the book and fingered the leather cover a moment, softened from years of a heart's bleeding and a soul's wear, before opening to the page where she'd left off. She read further of his despair and disappointments that filled so many lines of the velum pages. While his hopes and aspirations, sadly few, were bound up in his one consolation – music.

And as she read, the sweetest sound filled the air...

The notes of a distant violin became real, soothing her from above.

Without pause she put the book down and rushed to the window, flinging the sash wide, unmindful of the cold that rushed in with its icy breath. Grateful that the man in the attic also had opened his window, oblivious to the wintry air and allowing his music to wing closer, she invited it in with open arms…

xXx

They had agreed to meet three times a week for lessons.

They had agreed to do so on a trial basis.

They had agreed that she would come to his attic room, at noon, each lesson day.

Why then, was it half past one, and she was still nowhere in sight?

An hour ago, the Phantom had given into his grievous need to seek the answer to that question and taken the steps down to the next landing to knock at her door, in vain, for there had been no answer. And though he'd kept watch for the past hour, more than, she had not yet returned from wherever it was that she had gone.

He clenched his hands into tight fists and curbed the intense desire to overturn every article in this crowded and godforsaken attic room, or perhaps hurl the refuse out the window, absent of a convenient lake ringing his home. He no longer possessed the benefit of engaging in rampant fits of fury that went undiscovered in a subterranean lair - but inside a public boarding house could be the snipped thread to unraveling his disguise. Or worse.

Another hour elapsed without sight or sound of his truant pupil. Unable to vent his rising fury and remain undetected from those who dwelled below (an interesting change when he had always been the one beneath their feet - or rather hers - and figuratively still was) – he stalked to the common stables to retrieve Cesar.

The fool girl had practically stood on his threshold and begged him to teach her to play the violin. Strike that – she had begged. So it made no sense that she would abstain from the hour of instruction she had striven so hard to create!

The wild gallop to his manor helped to quell the Phantom's ire, which again rose to a fount when he opened the missive waiting for him in its silver tray. The note, from Madame Giry, was pithy in its ability to relate exactly what the hell she wanted to relay. Ambiguous to the extreme, it mocked decent correspondence. She knew he did not like it when she tiptoed around the facts. And to inform him that she would be in Marseille when she next found opportunity, to speak with him on a matter of import without hinting what the bloody hell she meant, had him take out his frustrations on the desk his maid had so thoughtlessly straightened - closeting away all articles that he now had no idea where to locate!

Damnation!

Women would surely become the bane of his existence. If he had any intelligence left, he would escape this city and travel far distant from all their kind, to find some cave of refuge to hide within!

A shelf of scattered books strewn across the floor and one broken gas lamp later, he had calmed enough to scowl at his imprudent tantrum. Rather than ring for the housekeeper to clean the mess, he took on the task himself.

As he righted a chair and worked to restore order, he thought of another shocking missive received and opened upon his last visit here. A revelation he had no idea how to resolve, or if he even should. He had failed miserably at protecting Christine; why should he think he could master the role of guardianship with a stranger who in all likelihood would come to detest him as all others had, treating him with thoughtlessness and insensitivity? And so, he had tucked the unexpected letter away in a box and into the seam of his thoughts.

Still irate with Christine's inconsiderate behavior, he briefly contemplated spending a few days at the manor, but it resounded with emptiness and reminded him of his eternal solitude. After dealing with a new item of correspondence and gathering what he considered needful, he returned to his overcrowded attic room, uncharacteristically clomping up the stairs so Christine would not miss his return.

When no timid knock came with an excuse for her prior absence, however feeble, he again cursed the entire lineage of womanhood and tersely stowed his provisions away. The fleeting thought came, to return to her room and knock again. But he did not wish to appear completely lacking in pride to scratch at her door like a dog begging to be let in - then wondered with a face like his, why the hell he should care about any claim to such vanity.

Of course she did not know he was in disguise or that it involved a more intricate if fragile mask made to appear like flesh. Or that he was the twisted monster from which she had fled.

With little in the way of appetite but knowing he must eat, he cut off a slice of bread from the loaf and prepared a turnip soup for his evening meal. Still surly, he grabbed up his violin and began to play, first limbering up his fingers with routine scales. Restless, he walked to the rear of the large, cluttered room and along the narrow path blocked in by a rickety table, trunks, and crates, immersed in a fiery pretissimo. His hip brushed an empty candlestick that sat too near the edge. It fell with a loud clank to the planks, eliciting his curse to have his skittering concentration completely broken and he lowered his bow from the strings.

The Phantom cast a scowl in that direction, but his aloof glance heightened to keen interest when he glimpsed an elongated knothole in the floor, beneath the table, filled with the muted glow of yellow light. The size of a babe's fist, the hole would give an adequate glimpse into the world below, the idea coming to mind not much different than peering through spyholes in the wall or other hidden crevasses. Then, he had done so to feel as if he were a part of her world, to be as close to her in the only way available to him; now, with those dreams banished, he wished to ensure that she was well. Frustrated curiosity was simply a fraction of his excuse.

The Phantom dropped down to hands and knees and peered into the room below. The angle and placement of the hole provided the bottom view of her cot, and he drew his brows together in puzzlement to see the slender shape of her legs beneath a blanket.

He had never known Christine to take to her bed this early in the evening – it was barely dinner time – and he doubted she had so readily shed years of routine developed at the Opera House. There, performances did not conclude before nine o'clock, and on a regular day's practice it was unusual for the chorus to inhabit their beds until long after dark, for diverse reasons, some forbidden. He, himself, had made Christine into a creature of nocturnal tradition, using the cloak of nighttime to meet for their tri-weekly lessons…

No. Something was wrong, he was sure of it.

Returning to a stack of cloth-covered crates he had made into a bureau littered with his personal items, he took up a hand mirror and returned to the floor's view of the room below. After tilting the reflective glass to find the precise angle, he looked into its center to see Christine's head, tendrils of her hair sticking to neck and brow in damp curls. Her skin was alarmingly flushed and beads of sweat had popped out all over her face.

He did not hesitate to plot a course of action, but replaced his pince-nez on his nose and retrieved his lockpicks then hurried to her room. Making quick work of manipulating the tumblers, he slipped inside and swiftly closed the door behind him. The first thing he noticed were the curtains that billowed inward with the breeze and the unnatural chill of the room. Little fool! He had never known her to lack in basic intelligence. Why in blazes was she sleeping with the windows ajar on a winter's eve?

Quickly he closed and latched the panes then turned his full attention toward the woman who lay still and unaware.

The lamp that caused the telltale glow he'd seen from his floor burned on a table near her bed. She did not stir when he drew near to inspect her condition for which he was grateful. But any thread of relief fostered quickly turned to concern as he gently laid the back of his fingers against her brow to discover she burned with fever.

He pushed worry aside to think. He had no herbs for a remedial tea on hand; nor did he intend to leave her here alone to fetch his horse and ride to the manor to collect them. He would have to confront the matron of this inferior house of boarding, but as he left Christine's room, he had the misfortune of almost literally running into the young Mademoiselle Ledoux and her detestable aunt, Madame Gagnon. Evidently both women had come to visit Christine, their own private residence on a lower floor.

The older woman looked him up and down, peering over her half-moon spectacles in disdain. She set her shoulders sternly in a huff to see him exit from Christine's private domicile, but before she could dare give him a dressing down, he snapped at her with authority heavy in his tone -

"Mademoiselle Daaé is ill. You must stay with her until my return."

"I beg your pardon," the old woman said, spacing each syllable with imperious affront.

"Which I will most certainly not extend if you fail to do as I say. Time is of the essence." He shifted his own bespectacled gaze to the young woman, softening his tone marginally. "Christine needs your aid."

"Of course, monsieur," she said, flustered and at a loss but thankfully not as argumentative as her aunt, who he chose to ignore. The tiresome woman was no Madame Giry, that was for certain, and in that moment he missed his cooperative aide, forgetting his earlier vexation with her.

The idea of confronting additional mortals in the next few minutes sent shudders through his miserly soul, and the Phantom reminded himself of his disguise to appear as a normal man, which thus far seemed to fool the masses. Christine required immediate assistance, and that is what sent his footsteps down four flights of stairs, into the dining chamber of the few gaping boarders seated there and bursting through the door into the kitchen.

Madame Crispin, holding a platter with what hoped to resemble a main entrée she wished to pass off to the diners as edible, jumped at the intrusion and promptly dropped the blackened bird with a curt screech. Her young daughter dove down and grabbed the tumbled meal with a dishcloth, plopping the overcooked carcass onto the high table used for culinary preparation. Madame's expression of shock at his swift arrival turned to one of frustration.

"Monsieur! You should not be here. Just look at what you've done to my bird! I cannot serve this…"

The Phantom held his tongue that the diners would likely be filled with gratitude for missing their portion. Nor did he offer an apology he felt unwarranted.

"Mademoiselle Daaé is ill. I do not have the herbs needed to bring down her fever. Have you yarrow? Mint? Basil?" At each negative shake of her head, he grew more irate. "Damn you, woman, what do you have in this infernal place? Is this not a kitchen? Are you not a cook?" He recognized the futility of his words and turned to the child. "Is there an apothecary or herbalist nearby?"

"I…uh…"

"A place that sells medicines and herbs," he clarified impatiently.

"Oui, monsieur. There is a shop two streets away."

He had no desire to leave Christine in the hands of incompetence. He doubted Madame Gagnon and her niece were any better than the grizzled woman and her clueless offspring standing before him.

"Excellent. I shall give you a list of items and money to procure them."

"Oh, but I need Jess here to help me-"

At his burning gaze swiftly directed to Madame Crispin, she had the good sense to shut her mouth and cease with her petty woes.

"Come with me," he told the child and turned on his heel, quitting the kitchen and ignoring the still gawking diners seated at the table.

He led the way to the parlor, found stationery and pen on a secretary in the corner, and jotted off all he would need, handing the list and several franc notes to the child Jess.

"Is Mademoiselle Daaé going to be alright?" she asked, sincerity in her concern. "I do hope it's not the plague. I wouldn't wish her to die! She's ever so nice to me, always smiling when she passes and sometimes stopping to talk with me…"

To his knowledge attained through reading, the Bubonic plague had not visited France for well over a century. He frowned down at the girl. "Have you heard of recent outbreaks in the city?"

"Oh, no monsieur. But I heard such awful stories about it from Alphie, the newsboy. His grandfather told him."

The Phantom bit his tongue not to snap at the child for causing him unnecessary concern, reminded that she was just a snip of a girl lacking in education.

"She will recover quickly," he said, determined to manipulate hope into truth, "but you need to hurry, and do not dawdle in your return. Bring the items directly to Miss Daaé's room."

Taking the note and coins, the girl Jess scurried away. He immediately retraced his steps to Christine's room, only to be met at the door by the dogged blockade of Madame Gagnon.

"We have everything under control," the woman had the effrontery to say. "You may go now."

"Move aside," he ordered and shouldered his way past when she remained fixed, eliciting her gasp of shock.

"Now see here," she said. "You cannot simply force your way into the young Mademoiselle's bedchamber. You cannot be here, sir. It is not proper for a gentleman to visit a lady's private room."

Weary of social proprieties – when had he ever been one to conform – and certainly no gentleman, though he didn't bother to relay that information either, he ignored her prim outrage and quietly addressed the young woman who swabbed Christine's face with a wet cloth.

"You have my gratitude, Miss Ledoux. I will take over now."

She blinked up at him in uncertainty, looking toward her aunt then back at him.

"I have made arrangements for the necessary remedies to be brought to me. If I have further need of your assistance, I will send for you."

"Oh…" the young woman awkwardly straightened and stood. "I, um…alright."

"Then - you're a doctor?" her aunt asked from behind, a new hesitation in her voice.

The Phantom chose not to respond. He had never received an official certificate – to do so, (should he have wanted to go down that path), he would have needed to leave his underground home and be regarded as equal to those who reviled him. Which was, of course, an impossibility. Yet after over two decades of reading what medical literature he could find, necessary to attend to his own illnesses, injuries, and woes, he had plenty of experience. He certainly trusted his own expertise over that of a stranger with a certificate who knew nothing of Christine.

"She must have rest and quiet," he said, letting the meddlesome woman arrive to her own conclusions. He likely had more intelligence in the matter than most of the nitwits who called themselves physicians in any case.

"Oh, I see. Then you are a doctor," the woman stated, clearly flustered as he opened the door and motioned they were to go. "Yes, well, my room is on the second floor. Send someone if you should need me…."

"Yes, yes, so I have said. Leave now." He grabbed the woman's arm to pull her along, the younger following, her eyes wide to witness his cavalier treatment of her aunt.

Madame Gangon turned to face him once her feet touched the threshold. "If you are sure –"

He closed the door in her face before she could finish her sentence.

"Well! I never," he heard in high dudgeon from the opposite side of the door.

He could not withhold the derisive smirk that twisted his lips. Though perhaps, to maintain his disguise, he should practice better decorum among those in Marseille. He no longer could use escape by cutting himself off from the world - could not slip into old habits without arousing notice or, God forbid, suspicion that the Phantom fugitive had come to this city to dwell among them. He resolved to be more…genial in future. But for now, all that troubled his mind was Christine.

Noticing the room still possessed a chill not unlike his former home, he stirred up the coals in the stove with a poker then returned to her side. A light touch to her face told him that her flesh did not seem as heated but was still overly warm, likely due to the wet cloth Mademoiselle Ledoux had used. He turned down the flame of the lamp so that it cast the dimmest of glows before drawing a chair close to sit by her side.

Only then did he remove his pince-nez.

He inhaled a hitched breath of awe to see her lying there, no longer cast in blue but in shades of gold, like an angel. Yet as he watched, he detected a wheeze to her every inhalation and laid his fingers against the pulse in her neck, frowning when it did not beat as strong as it should.

Her infantile eating habits certainly had spurred her regrettable state of health, and he recalled the nine-year-old child who over-indulged in Christmas pastries and had been beset with anguish for a day. That was the first occasion Madame Giry relied on his knowledge of herbs, seeking from him the calming tincture she did not possess. The second occasion had been far more serious, Christine a girl of twelve and sick with influenza. Then, too, he had freely given aid, sitting at her bedside all through the worst of the nights, unbeknownst to both Madame and Christine, who had been too feverish to realize the phantasmal dream of her ministering Angel had been in truth a reality.

Lacking anything that resembled a physician's ear trumpet, he hesitated with the bold act he was about to perform, praying she would not awaken as he slowly leaned over her, pressing his ear against her chemise just beneath her breasts. With her feminine softness touching the normal part of his face, his own heart spiked, drumming in his ears, and he knew the futility of such a procedure, finding nothing clinical about it.

And clinical was how he must remain; there was no option but to be to her a reserved acquaintance. No more than a teacher. And, at the moment, as always, her protector and acting physician.

He exhaled a breath of relief to hear light footsteps trot up the stairs, and he opened the door as the child came to it, her arms laden with his purchases.

Taking them from her, he set the packets of herbs and vials on a table, instructing her to remain until his return. He hastened to his attic room, collecting all he would need there, and retraced his steps to Christine's room, ordering Jess to bring up water and handing her the empty pitcher.

He paced the room, trying not to let his worry fester, and prayed it was not a return of the influenza, though by what little he had seen his hope would go unanswered. At last Jess returned and immediately he set about his preparations, dismissing the girl back to her mother.

As he worked, he noticed Christine had begun to grow restless in her slumber. Once more he crept closer, intent to relieve her distress. He took up the cloth and poured fresh water over it, wringing it out over the wash bowl. Gently tugging up the loose sleeve of her chemise to the elbow, he smoothed the cool toweling over one slender forearm then repeated his actions to the other, finally bringing the cloth to blot the perspiration from her neck.

To his untold relief and supreme horror, her eyes fluttered open, fever-bright, their expression puzzled as she tried to focus on his. He swiftly recoiled backward, away from the lamp's glow, hoping in her delirium any recognition would be absent.

"I know you," she whispered and winced, clasping a hand to her throat.

"Ah, yes." He attempted to shake off the nervous anxiety her words and awakening had caused. "Your new teacher who lives on the floor above."

"But why are you…" She broke off her words and winced again.

"Why am I here?" he filled in and answered softly. "No. Do not speak if it pains you. When you failed to appear for your lesson, I grew concerned and found you in a fever with the widow open. Not a wise move and one I would not recommend in the future."

She closed her eyes and sheepishly gave a little nod.

He sighed, working to keep his temper at her foolishness in check. "I made a tea that will help bring down your fever. I will bring honey for your throat. You must stay in bed and rest."

"You are a doctor?" she asked with a wince.

He managed a tepid smile. "I am many things, Miss Daaé. At present, I am simply a man with your best interests at heart." He plucked from his pocket the pince-nez and clamped them on his nose before moving to pour the heated water over the blend of herbs as he stirred them.

A knock came to the door. He frowned at the intrusion before moving to investigate. The child stood there, holding a plate with a napkin over it.

"Is the mademoiselle better?" she asked.

He struggled to erase the glower from his face. The mask did not allow expression and might raise suspicion should only half his face be lined in a scowl. As the ghostly Phantom, he never had to master such difficulty, but in this new life he was again reminded that he must change his manner of doing things or risk discovery. And that included social niceties - such as not tearing into the help for unwanted interruptions.

"She will recover."

Before he could again close the door, the girl held up the covered plate. "I brought biscuits. I made them myself. I do so love to cook, though Maman doesn't often let me." She held the plate higher, for him to take it. "There's bits of cheese melted on top. I thought that might be tasty, since it's all we have for a meal tonight."

"Miss Daaé will not be able to eat this," he said, thinking of her sore throat.

"Oh…" The girl said, somewhat sadly, then smiled. "But you can."

Momentarily robbed of speech at the kind gesture made toward him, the Phantom sought for something to say. "If you will bring a jar of honey and a spoon. A lemon would not go amiss, if you have one. They will help the mademoiselle."

She smiled. "Of course, monsieur."

"I…thank you."

He took the proffered plate and stood, watching as the child scampered down the stairs.

xXx

Late into the night, Christine woke in groggy confusion, her fever having spiked. She moaned with discomfort, her damp chemise sticking to fiery flesh and wearily threw the coverlet aside in vain to find relief. Her bleary eyes could make little sense of the dim room, and she hoarsely cried out for that which was closest to her heart.

"Angel...?"

When he did not come, she softly cried for him again and again, in her delirium having forgotten why he should not be there. Tears wet the pillow beneath her cheek, and she vaguely realized it no longer held the moldable shape it once did or felt as silky. She forced herself to focus, to see it was not his cloak beneath her head.

"No," she moaned, using every bit of feeble strength to push herself up and scan the shadowed room. The chair had been pushed to the wall, and hanging neatly over it lay her Angel's cloak…and she remembered.

This was not Paris; she was not in her dormitory room; he was gone.

And she was all alone.

The hot tears that leaked from her eyes provided no comfort to her heated face. She turned her head on the actual pillow that had been placed there and stared at the elegant folds of expensive black cloth, the gold glimmer of satin peeking from its interior … his cloak the sole object she could see in the room, since the chair was closest to the lamp whose flame had greatly dimmed…

Without any true notion of her actions, Christine pushed herself out of bed and onto her feet, her hand reaching for the cloak. Yet one shaky step toward it had her falling to her hip. She caught herself with the flat of her hand, wincing in pain as she stretched out on the floorboards. They held a pleasurable chill, and she closed her eyes…

She barely stirred when she felt strong arms lift and hold her against a man's broad chest before she again found the softness of a mattress beneath her. The blanket was pulled beneath her chin, but she moaned at the additional heat and wearily tossed it aside, only to have it replaced with a soft curse.

Fingers lightly pressed against her brow, their chill a comfort, and she clapped her hand to them and held there when he tried to pull away.

"You must rest," a deep whisper came. "You cannot hope to recover if you choose not to remain in bed."

A choice given… then taken away… always a choice…

Her eyes flickered open. Immediately her savior retreated, into the shadows.

"Angel?" No response came, and she asked a little more desperately of the tall silhouette, "Angel...? You are here? I'm afraid..."

"It is only a dream," came the quiet reply at last.

A frisson of relief trickled through her foggy mind. "It is you…but…no. It can't be a dream." She shook her head wearily on the pillow. "My Angel sings when I sleep."

The pause was deafening, frightening...

"Yes, and this is no more than a dream."

The next words that left his lips were delivered in song – gentle, melodic …those of an angel.

She closed her eyes, the smallest of smiles touching her lips, and let the dream carry her to a safe place where she was no longer alone.

xXx

The Phantom cursed his previous decision to leave Christine in such a state, even for the necessity of visiting his attic room to collect additional items and take what was left of the soup off the flame. She could not have been on the floor longer than fifteen minutes, but that was fifteen minutes too long.

It had been over an hour since he arrived to find her unconscious on the floor. Perhaps he should not have sung to her, but she had not awakened to the realization that it was no dream, and he felt both relief and concern that the familiar had evaded her. He traced her cheek with his fingertips, alarmed to find her skin hotter than before.

This could not continue!

It was in the hour before dawn when he crept downstairs to find the child, Jess, alone in the kitchen, the flicker of a candle the sole source of light in the room. She turned in alarm from stirring something in a bowl, as if she'd been caught in a crime.

"You," he said, uninterested in her reason for being there, unattended, and having no desire to ask. "Have you ice?"

She nodded. "The man came to deliver a block yesterday."

He dared not spend too long from Christine's side. "And do you know how to use an icepick?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Excellent. You must fill a bucket with ice and bring it to Mademoiselle Daaé's room at once."

A short time after his return to Christine's side, Jess brought the requested bucket. He dumped it into the empty wash bowl and directed her to fill another. Once she departed, eager to be of aid and help the "kind mademoiselle," he pulled a sheet over Christine to her chin. He then proceeded to pour chunks of ice on each side of her thinly covered form, from shoulder to ankle, sprinkling the smaller bits atop her, desperate to bring her fever down.

After three buckets had been dispensed in like manner, the Phantom dismissed the child, taking care to keep his voice mild and offer gratitude for her aid.

Turning his full attention to his fragile patient, he noted the perspiration that dotted her flushed face and how she moaned softly even as her teeth began to chatter, though she did not come to full consciousness. He dropped to his knees at her bedside and took her small hand between both of his.

Dear God, this had to work! He had seen the method successfully used by another who shared Christine's symptoms. Certainly he found it more beneficial than the fool doctors' barbaric ideas of bloodletting through leeches.

"Christine," he dared to breathe her name in a melody. "Fight through this. You are not alone."

It was a risk, but in her physical state the odds were that she would never arrive to the truth, as before. Once more, he softly began to sing as he had done so often in years past to sweeten her slumber...

He could never again be to her what he once was, but he silently swore in that moment that never again would she feel afraid and abandoned, to suffer even a fraction of what had been his lot to bear.

xXx

A/N: Mean authoress, me – always picking on poor Christine. But with Erik there, it sweetens the pot a bit- eh? ;-)