A cold wind is making its way over the land, a fine milky mist gliding over the ground, baren trees and fields covered under a thin layer of snow yet letting the brown of dirt and earth and rotting leafs peek through, branches of mighty trees stretched to the empty skies like arms of starving men, naked and death-like, their movements sending a wallowing sound over the wast emptiness that surrounds them. That is their song, as it rings in the frigid air and in the shouts of the crows, accompanied in the pillars of smoke that rise to the heavens. Winter is here with all its unforgiving harshness, with all its strength as it whips across the land and into every home, sending frost to the fields and a chill deep into peoples bones. Through the everlasting twilight only a candle here or there might shine meekly from a window, its glow barely coming through the frost covered glass, sending a dreamlike haze into the streets where only the most desperate still find themselves in, battling the merciless elements hoping to find even the smallest of scraps to still their hunger. All of the city has retired into itself, hoping to find protection inside its walls while outside the sounds of canons are echoing through the air, the sounds of death.

She is alone in the attic dormitory like most of the time throughout this last week. Christine never yearned for seclusion as much as right now, finding herself unable to take up with the world, to face even those most dearest to her. Meals she takes in this room, barely leaving her bed for more then is necessary, a heavy weight upon her without a name. She barely takes in what is going on around her, the theatre was long in uproar, confusion and panic were present until silence subdued them, and by now this same silence had taken such a hold on everyone and everything that the world seems void of any life left. And so she is left alone with her thoughts.

Her mind is in uproar and restless, yet unable to form any clear thought, her body trembling under this nameless weight, her eyes heavy with sleep though sleep eludes her, her heart loud, her voice gone. Comfort comes only from Meg's patient care and from Raouls vigil watch, both friend and beloved having taken it upon them to ease her fears. Her fears. Why was her life filed with fears? Why was she to spend the waking hours looking out for the shadows and in the sleeping hours forced on finding them? Where was the warmth gone that had filled her life once again for a fleeting moment only to be torn away from her with such force? Why had his voice turned from comfort to curse? Why was he tormenting her so, playing friend for years only to turn into jailer later?Father, why have you abandoned me? I feel so lost…she whispers into her pillow, thinking on the one whose laughter had sounded like music, whose violin had brought warmth of heaven. To be a child again, to have the world be simpler, brighter. What she would give for a moment of peace!

She forces her tears to stay away, rising from bed, unable to take her confinement any longer. Just outside the open doors sits Raoul, having fallen asleep in his chair between door and stairs. A loving smile tugs at Christine's lips but soon makes way for an expression of worry, for this shadow that haunts her cannot rest before it has put its claws on him too. With silent steps she makes her way to the stables, a coachman always at the service of the Opera, a coin from her hand to the coachman with directions to be ready soon. Her steps meanwhile lead her on quietly to the storage of old costumes, to finding a black woollen dress that fits her, putting it on, cape drawn up. From the corner of her eye a bouquet of half withered roses catches her attention, their formerly blood red petals trimmed with a shade as dark as black.

"To my fathers grave. Père Lachaise Cemetery.*" She tells the coachman, red roses resting on her lap.

Unreal seems the world as they leave the courtyard, as they drive through the streets and the rattling of the coach echoes along the alleys, horseshoes clapping over cobblestones, a lonely lantern swinging by the seat of the coachman, its glow no use in this cold fog that makes the air one breaths go chill. She draws her cloak tighter around herself, thankful that her driver isn't up for conversation. She wouldn't muster the strength to speak even if she tried anyway.

The road they take leads them slowly to the outskirts of Paris proper, the graveyard in its centre from medieval times having been abandoned in favour of one placed to a less habituated area in the Quartier de Père-Lachaise formerly part of Charonne, once a separate little village that the Emperor not so many years ago merged with its big sister. The late afternoon winter sun is spreading its light without any warmth over the land, where frost and snow have melted puddles of mud cover the road, the horses galloping on in a steady pace, the world a blur to Christine's eyes. Dead seems the world around her. It wasn't the first time that she drove to her fathers grave, but now some time has passed, and she had never been in the midst of winter.

Grand and imposing seemed the entrance where the coachman left her to enter, the iron-wrung gate as yet open before the night. A park of lush green it was in spring and summer, with bushes in bloom, with bees and songbirds as joyful companions to anyone who would come as much as to those who would stay. A sweet fragrance would then fill the air as the wind would softly move through the trees, as melodic children's laughter would be heard from the nearby fields and yards. To be kissed by the sun, to be stroked by the wind; beds of stone and angels of marble offering comfort, not dread. Nothing of that can be seen right now nor felt, the air cold and heavy at the same time, light barely coming through the mist that hangs and moves along the graves, the branches of trees like boney fingers waiting for its prey, a deathly silence over everything. Slowly she makes her way over the gravel path, snow along its edges, laying thinly like lace over gravestones, making it hard to read the names of those inhabitants who found their rest here. Somewhere in this graveyard lie the earthly remains of Héloïse and Abelard, whose love was clouded by tragedy, who were attempted to be separated by others, yet whose hearts never faltered, finding themselves at last in the eternal embrace of love everlasting. If Raoul and hers were to be the same fate? To find their hearts and souls bound to each other but always to be apart, all the way until death? Was that the only option there was? Why should one live if that is all there is? Her mind seems empty and yet memories of her father, young and handsome and full of life flash in front of her. His life had been cut abruptly short, but would he wish his daughter to befall the same? He would have wished me to live, to follow my passions, to find happiness, to find love, to have a family.

Should I then dwell in the past? Oh, but where is my future?By now she had reached his tomb, his home for a decade, his home forever.

"This cannot be my home as yet. Father, in childhood days you were my greatest friend and companion. Now Ive come to ask for your blessing, to give me strength so that I can live once more! I am so lost, please…" Its a whisper that dies in the wind as she breaks down, breaks without a tear, for too many have already been shed.

In that moment two things happen at once. The clouds and mist part for the setting sun to break through, casting a flame-like glow upon the tomb, while into the pressing silence that was the sound of a violin rang. Her father's violin.

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance." It echoes from no clear direction, more an eternal sound then an actual voice, sending a shiver down trough her as she looks up, looks around, yet finding no one near.

"Angel or father, friend or phantom? Who is it there? Could it be… Angel, oh, speak! What endless longings in my heart."

"Too long you've wandered in winter. Far from my far-reaching gaze. Follow my voice, dear child, and it will guide you. Come to me."

It is like a vail has fallen upon her for but a moment, an invisible force drawing her forward, and yet wildly her mind beats against this voice, fighting against its promise, against its sound. Something between sadness and anger shakes her as she realises what its source might be. She realises how exposed she is here in the open, no other living soul near.

"Christine!" It halls from somewhere behind.

Raoul woke with a start, not having wished to dose off, yet daylong worry had taken a toil on him. For a week now this little plateau between the female dancers dormitory and the steep stairs had replaced his lavish bachelors apartment, where hence he had only gone for change of clothes and refreshment, only to immediately return as to keep watch over her whose fearful eyes never left his memory. Raoul would never had expected the ball, such a joyful event, to end in such dramatic way, with all the guests leaving in confusion, leaving in fear.

Fear. Fear was all this man knew how to spread. By now that shadow had fallen upon Raoul as well. It already hung so heavy upon her… He hadn't told Christine about his conversation with Madam Giry.

"He is nothing but a cruel man who wants to spread terror and misery." He had said to Christine, hoping to ease her mind, yet seeing by her expression that she knew there was more to it. She had looked for shelter in the attic. Now she was gone.

His mind was racing, thinking off all simple places where she might be, when the sound of a moving carriage drew him to the window, her form draped in black seated inside it. Where could she go in this late hour, by coach as well? He wondered desperately as he flew down the countless stairs, down to the stables. Cold spread through his veins as he breathlessly came upon the coachman nursing a wide wound on his head.

"Where too?" Raoul asked while looking if the man needed medical attention or would be fine on his own.

"The new cemetery. Père Lachaise, that is." The man groaned as he sat down, but no fresh blood visible.

Not even thinking, Raoul swung himself on the first horse he could see nearby, not even bothering to saddle it, forgetting that he himself was not adequately dressed, forgetting winters chill as urgency boiled his blood.

Swiftly he rode through the streets and avenues, through the thick blinding fog, the world a blur of grey and white, horseshoes clacking over solid pavement until they hit the dirty road, eastward, always eastward into darkness. The rope he is holding onto burns into his palms, his heart beating faster and faster as they rush over land and fields, cutting in a shortening, praying that there will still be time. At last the gates appear, a fine layer of snow on everything, the graves and statues, baren trees standing threateningly here and there, the fog parting in areas, meagre sunlight giving away its last glow. He turns and looks searchingly around himself, lost in a labyrinth of stone, blind with the white vail that hides away what he is seeking. Then, the sound of violin playing, voices speaking.

"Christine!" His shout rings clear through the cold air, catching her attention as she stands on the stairs of her father's tomb, a bouquet of red roses abandoned by her feet.

"Raoul!"

"What ever you may think, this man, this Thing is not your father!"

"What? Yes, no… I heard…" she stammers bewildered, griping his arm for support, burying her face in his shoulder.

They are not alone for long as a shadow jumps down from the rooftop of the tomb, his cape spreading like wings of darkness, his sword with a decided aim. Only just so Raoul manages to push Christine away, parring with his own blade the strong blow, catching his balance before forced to move backwards, jumping down the wall and landing with his knees on the frozen ground, moving quickly away to the bushes.

"No, stay away!" Is all he manages to speak as Christine rushed to his aid, panic on her face, the dark foe yet once more upon him. They move around the graves, the foe upon Raoul like a beast upon its prey, blades meeting in thunderous strength. For a moment Raoul thinks he might have an opportunity to take his opponents rapier as it got stuck in a low fence, but a strong blow in his chest by an elbow makes him stumble backwards, searching for the other who in that moment disappeared behind a great sarcophagus. Not even having a moment to contemplate from which side to move next, the dark clad man is already upon him again, forcing him to retreat once more, blond hair falling into his eyes as his breath becomes sparse, feet desperately searching for enough space to move. Suddenly, a cut upon his arm as blood begins to mare his linen shirt, legs giving way for a moment until a scream cuts the air. With all willpower that he has still left, Raoul lashes out on his opponent, finally sending the other one into submission, pushing him further and further away, blade eye to eye, until with one final push the man is on the ground, gripping for the blade that left his fingers, yet Raoul being faster, kicking it away with his booth, lifting his own sword for the one final blow.

In that moment he can feel a hand on his arm, the light touch bringing him to his senses.

"No, Raoul! Not like this." It is no more than a whisper as she looks at the man on the ground, as she locks her eyes with his own, leading him away.

"Please, let us leave." She says pleading, her hand trembling in his.

Without sparring the masked Thing a second glance Raoul secures his rapper back to its place, helping Christine up on the steed, settling himself behind her as to hold her safe without a saddle. As they ride away he cannot but look at the cowering man on the ground while Christine tries to look anywhere but in that direction.

"If only the darkness would finally pass." Her voice whispers as they ride through the young night.

His blood is boiling as he finally is able to rise, cape willowing in the cold wind, his breath forming clouds in the freezing air, his brows drawn together in rage.

Anger is pulsing through his veins, his body like under voltage as he paces the grounds, a raw shout echoing through the coming twilight, ringing back to him in mockery. What else than mockery it was, to be humiliated by a mere boy playing valiant hero, the virtues knight, when all these aristocratic men are the same, treating every pretty face like a plaything that can be tossed away and replaced at whim! Fickle is woman to always fall for it, but he had never taken Christine to be like that as well. Truly, he had believed her to be of more solid character, an unspoiled rose, his finest discovery, perfection incarnate. Foolish girl.Foolish, foolish, foolish!

Suddenly, like a ghost creeping up on him, an image flashes in front of his eyes, a girl with raven hair unmoving on pillows, neck bare, hands thrown to the sides, red lips and rose coloured cheeks standing out as the complexion becomes white as the linen upon which she rests, breath still as in death. He has no idea why his mind showed him this, he hadn't minded to think of that night in many a year.

No, it wasn't Christine who was to blame, buthim, that gallant chevalier, that insolent fool who thought he could always get what he wanted. Christine was his own, and he wouldn't allow her to get ruined by some arrogant youth.

"Christine… why? Didn't you see I came to save you? Came to answer your prayer?" His voice brakes with the wind, snow having began to fall once more, the milky mist and upcoming night casting him once more into a world of loneliness.

*Père Lachaise Cemetery, the largest cemetery in Paris, opened in 1804.
* Héloïse and Abelard; Heloise was a French nun, philosopher, writer, scholar, and abbess from the 12th century, Peter Abélard a leading medieval logician and theologian, who became her colleague, collaborator and husband. Their love story is one of the most powerful and tragic I have ever read about, consisting of 40 years of letters after they were separated! Her surviving letters are considered a foundation of French and European literature and primary inspiration for the practice of courtly love.

This chapter was a BEAST to write! Omg, so much happens here.
Something that I attempted to make clear here is that, no, Christine did not think the Phantom was her father, and I am always surprised what kind of wording they gave here to Raoul. Did she believe the Voice & Angel were send by her father to guide her? Yes. Did she by now know there was a man, mysterious like a phantom, that was obsessed with her? Also yes. But nothing indicates she ever thought the Phantom was her father. (this is not Star Wars)
Also, while writing this story my mind had been trying to fill out many of the years that are unaccounted for in the main story, what happened to all the characters in the years past. One of those things is Eriks (unhappy) encounter with a raven haired girl. You can now read it in the story "Ruthless is the Night" that I just posted. It is a dark, tragic tale though.

The map of Paris that I used:

https/upload./wikipedia/commons/2/2a/1870_Hachette_Pocket_Map_of_Paris_France_-_Geographicus_-_