A/N: Just a sad little oneshot. The scenario wiggled its way into my head a few weeks ago and held on with a death grip until I finally relented and put pen to paper.

Disclaimer: We all know the drill. Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber and the Really Useful Group get all the credit. I just spread the love.

"Where are you going?"

The Vicomte looked up at the voice, and offered a smile with far more confidence than he felt. His bride-to-be stood in the doorway, wrapped in a blanket against the winter chill.

"We really should get you a robe, my love," he murmured as he fastened the buckle to one of his leather boots.

Smiling bashfully, Christine lifted up the blanket to reveal that she was, in fact, wearing a robe. "I was still cold. I'm always cold." Her smile faded as she watched her fiancé strap on his other boot. "You didn't answer my question."

"What question?" He didn't look at her.

Pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, Christine took a step over the threshold. "Where are you going?" she repeated, a definite hint of suspicion creeping into her tone.

"Business," Raoul replied vaguely. With his boots secure, he strode across the room and placed a tender kiss on her forehead.

"This late?" She was frowning now. "It's almost nine, Raoul."

Internally, he winced. He had hoped to sneak out without attracting any attention, for this very reason. He didn't want to lie to her, but she was a very astute young woman, and dancing around her questions never seemed to get him anywhere. With a forced smile, he tilted her chin up and stared into her dark eyes. "There are matters still to be attended to for the wedding tomorrow. And I know a young bride who should be asleep by now." He bent to kiss her. "Get some rest, Christine. I am just going to tie off a few loose ends, and I'll be home in a few hours." He raised an eyebrow playfully. "By which point I expect to return to find my beautiful fiancée fast asleep."

She wasn't having any of it. As if drawn magnetically to the source of his lies, her eyes fell upon the sword cinched at his waist. "Loose ends…" she echoed.

All traces of humor were immediately gone from his face. "Go to bed, Christine," he said levelly. And, refusing to watch realization dawn in her eyes, he turned and walked away.

He heard the blanket drop to the floor, and she ran after him, grasping the hand rail at the top of the stairs as he galloped down them two at a time. "Raoul!" she cried. "Raoul, stop!"

He ignored her, and barreled out the door. A fierce wind whipped at his cloak, and he pulled his hood up to shield his face against it. The stable hands had his carriage ready, and he leapt eagerly into it, grateful for the shelter against the bitter cold.

From the driver's seat, a grumpy voice said around chattering teeth, "Where to, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Raoul paused only long enough to double check the letter he had already memorized by heart. Pulling the folded parchment from his waist pocket, he scanned the spidery red ink and found the name of the place.

"The Broken Crown," he answered.

That seemed to surprise the driver out of his irritable mood. "The pub, my lord?"

"That's correct, Antoine."

The driver spun around in his seat to stare incredulously at his master. "All due respect, monsieur, but that's a right nasty area… fit for stable boys, my lord, not the likes of you."

Raoul's gaze did not flicker. "And while I appreciate your concern, Antoine, your job, as I recall, is to drive my horses, not to mother me. I know very well the location of the pub. Now, will you kindly deliver me to my destination, or shall I take up the reins myself?"

The driver turned back around, muttering under his breath "never meant no disrespect," and with a slap of leather on horseflesh, the carriage lurched into the darkening night.

He had been lying through his teeth when he had assured the driver that he was familiar with the neighborhood in which the pub was located. It was all he could do to clutch the hilt of his sword and nervously avoid eye contact with the scandalous women positioned around the entrance to the pub, the tops of their breasts revealed despite the bitter cold.

"Well ain't you a pretty one?" one of the girls called at him. "Come here, monsieur – it's a cold night, aye, but I'll warm your bed—"

"And I'll take half what you'd pay her to do the same!" another girl cried to his left. Soon desperate female voices were ringing out all around him, and he pushed straight past them, his cheeks burning bright red.

The inside of the building, unfortunately, did not prove much better. It was loud, crowded, and smelled horrible – a sickening stench of ale, sweat, and vomit. No sooner had the Vicomte taken three steps into the place than he immediately began to doubt himself for coming. He was certain that he'd be stabbed with a rusty dagger if he remained any longer; it was that sort of shady place. Backpedaling, he accidentally bumped into a burly man just entering behind him.

"Watch where you're bloody well goin!" the man barked at him.

Suddenly fearful for his life, the Vicomte paled and held a hand up to show that he meant no harm. "My apologies, monsieur."

But drunk as the man undoubtedly was, he saw Raoul's raised hand and immediately swung at it. With quick reflexes, the Vicomte ducked. Unfortunately, this only seemed to enrage the brute further.

"A wise guy, eh? Come here and fight me like a man, yeh pansy!"

This seemed to attract the attention of those in the immediate vicinity, who nudged one another with toothless grins, took swigs of their ale, and turned to watch the showdown.

The brute raised his fists menacingly and cracked his neck, waiting for Raoul to make the first move. Around them, the men began to jeer and place bets. No one, it seemed, was placing any money on the Vicomte. Raoul was becoming panicked, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. Even if he ran this man through, another six would jump up in his place. He'd never escape this godforsaken pub alive, and he'd leave Christine alone, a widow before she'd ever been married!

Eventually, his opponent grew tired of waiting, and threw his weight into a solid punch to the Vicomte's jaw before Raoul could so much as draw his sword. Reeling, he fell to his knees as a coppery taste filled his mouth. He spat blood and pressed the pads of his fingertips to the tender flesh of his jawbone.

The men around him were guffawing and exchanging money. Someone above him overturned their mug, dumping its contents on Raoul's head. He choked on the combination of blood and ale as it streamed down his handsome face. He was trembling with terror and anger and pain, but refused to be humiliated like this. He was the Vicomte de Chagny, and damned if he would die crouched on the floor, the object of a drunkard's amusement. Holding his head high, he began to climb to his feet, only to be kicked solidly in the ribs. He hit the floor again with a sickening crack.

He thought, for a moment, that perhaps he had passed out, for all of a sudden the noisy crowd fell deathly silent. Frowning, he lifted his head to see what had caused the eerie quiet…

And immediately wished he hadn't.

Standing over him, like some bizarre guardian angel, was a masked man, cloaked entirely in black. In his gloved hands he held a rope made of some thick substance that Raoul could not identify… and the end of that rope was wrapped snugly around the neck of his attacker.

The stench of urine suddenly filled the cramped space; the brute had pissed himself!

"Strike him again, monsieur," the masked man hissed through clenched teeth, "And see what happens." He tightened the rope ominously to emphasize his point. The brute's mouth worked soundlessly as his face turned purple. The masked man sneered and turned his gaze around to the circle of men who, just seconds ago, had been jeering. "Anyone else?" Silence. He stared around, unflinchingly meeting the eyes of every man in the pub, before releasing the brute's neck with a single practiced flick. The man fell to his knees, gasping for precious air. No one dared move.

At last, the masked man turned his gaze down upon the bruised and bloodied man at his feet, as if seeing him for the first time. "Good evening, Monsieur le Vicomte. Can you stand?"

Raoul blinked, and slowly nodded his head. His brain was lagging, as if it could not quite process what exactly had just happened. Summoning the last scraps of his dignity, he pushed himself painfully to his feet, trying not to wince as a sharp pain lanced through his chest. His
jaw had not been fractured, but he was not quite sure he could say the same for one of his ribs.

The masked man eyed him with cold detachment for a few seconds before sweeping a gloved hand in the direction of a shadowed corner of the pub. "Shall we? I've saved a table for us."

If Raoul had been stunned before, now he was positively incredulous. He intended them to stay here, amongst these murderous fiends?! He allowed himself to be ushered over to the indicated booth, in a daze, and it slowly dawned upon him that he was, in fact, sitting down for drinks with the most notorious, dangerous murderer in Paris. It was a strangely comforting thought that it could not get any worse.

He sank into the threadbare cushions of the booth, biting the inside of his lip to keep from crying out in pain. The masked man whom he knew only, embarrassingly, as either the Phantom of the Opera or the Angel of Music – which he was clearly neither – settled down opposite him, watching him with intelligent, unblinking green eyes. After a moment of silence, he dug into his pocket and procured a clean handkerchief, which he held out to the Vicomte. Raoul accepted it with a wary half-nod, and began to clean himself up. While he did so, the masked man raised a finger, and a skittish-looking waiter came over, too afraid to deny the unspoken command.

"Two brandies and a raw steak."

"Monsieur," the waiter squeaked, his eyes wide. "By raw, you mean—"

"I always mean exactly what I say." There was nothing menacing about the words themselves, but the boiling undercurrent in the masked man's eyes nearly made the poor waiter faint dead away in fear. "Butcher a cow in the back alley, for all I care."

"Yes, monsieur. Right away, monsieur." The waiter bowed himself backwards and took off for the kitchens at a run. He returned mere seconds later with the brandies, promised to return with the steak, and dashed off to the safety of the kitchens once more.

Raoul did not think to question his strange companion's eating habits until the steak arrived, as promised, completely uncooked, red, and cold. The masked man stabbed it with a fork, picked the entire thing up off of the plate, and extended it across the table. The Vicomte simply stared. Was he supposed to take a bite?

"For your jaw," the masked man explained, and suddenly Raoul felt completely stupid. It was all he could do to nod mutely, take the steak, and press the cold slab of meat to his aching jawbone. After a few moments of silence passed, he couldn't take it any longer.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked quietly.

It seemed as if the masked man had not heard him; he certainly made no indication that he had. He had begun to rummage in his cloak for something, and Raoul had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, he didn't want to know…

He was taken aback for the umpteenth time that night when the masked man simply procured a piece of parchment, folded neatly into a small square. Setting it on the table before him, he unfolded it and stared down at the writing in pensive silence. Raoul was not daring enough to try to read it, although the masked man was making no visible effort to hide the letter's contents. At last he seemed to finish reading, nodded his head, and finally looked up at the puzzled Vicomte.

"Before I allow you to take Christine as your wife, there are several things that we must be absolutely clear about."

Despite everything, the Vicomte still had enough pride to clench his fists in outrage. "Allow?"

The masked man ignored him. "This list contains several items of interest pertaining to your fiancée, all of which I shall require you to memorize and put into practice. Tonight, we shall go over them together, and before you leave, you will demonstrate that your knowledge is sufficient enough to take on the role of Christine's husband."

"What nonsense is this?" Raoul murmured, his eyes darting from the list to the masked man's face. "You presume, monsieur, to drag me away from home in the middle of the night, meet me at a filthy sewer of a pub wherein my very life is endangered, and sit me down only to insult me by presuming to know more about my fiancée than I do?!"

Without so much as a flicker of an eyelash, the masked man answered, "I presume nothing, monsieur. If you are so certain that your knowledge of Christine is superior to mine, we shall be finished with this conversation in five minutes."

"Fine!" the Vicomte snapped, aware that he sounded very much, at the moment, like a petulant child. Sitting up straight in a vain attempt to match the masked man's towering height, he inclined his head toward the list. "Do your best, monsieur …"

"Erik," the man finished. "You may call me Erik."

"Monsieur Erik," Raoul amended, insistent upon the formality. Never would he speak to this man, this demon, on a friendly basis. Raising his eyebrows brashly, he added, "Perhaps you forget that I have known her since she was a small child."

"As have I," Erik countered coolly. "And unlike you, I was her constant companion for the ten years after her father died. I was present during the essential years when her personality, opinions, likes and dislikes took shape." His voice softened. "I was there to shape them myself."

It was all Raoul could do to suppress a shudder of pure loathing at the look in the masked man's eyes. He refused to give name to the emotion burning in those emerald orbs; it was completely irrelevant. Christine was his now. He had freed her from this masked demon's possessive grip. His defenses were rising angrily, and Erik seemed to sense it, for he immediately snapped from his reflective thoughts and turned his attention to the paper in his hands.

"First and foremost, we must consider Christine's physical wellbeing. Her medical history has been relatively trouble-free, but she does tend to fall prey to a painful cough in the winter months. A simple demulcent tea helps to ease the pain in her chest, but should the cough progress to a more concerning level, her doctor of ten years is Monsieur Henri Legard. The address for his office is printed here."

"You should also pay careful attention to her gait in the coming years. She has sustained quite a few injuries to her toes and ankles, as most ballerinas do. I fear arthritis will inevitably take root, but in the meantime she must continue to stretch the muscles diligently to prolong the pain for as long as possible."

"I had hoped that you would already be familiar with Christine's allergies—" And here he looked up from his paper and scrutinized the Vicomte's expression. Lamely, Raoul nodded. He hadn't even stopped to consider that Christine might be allergic to anything, but he wasn't prepared to let Erik know that. Unfortunately, it seemed that the masked man had a built-in lie detector, for he continued, "No, it would seem not. Shellfish and raw carrots. If the carrots are properly boiled, she has no reaction, but even small uncooked slivers in salads will cause her to be frightfully ill. Shellfish is toxic to her in any form. For this reason, I'd advise steering clear of seafood altogether."

Raoul's neck and cheeks began to burn. Seared scallops in white garlic sauce were on the menu for the wedding reception. He would have to tell the cook to drop the item immediately upon his return home, and double check that the salads would be carrot-free…

The masked man inclined his head slightly after a pause and continued, "Now, on to the issue of her emotional wellbeing…"

"Stop right there!" Raoul interrupted, his voice rising. "Her doctor's address, fine – medical information, it's all reasonable, but I will not sit here and be preached to by a masked madman about my wife's emotional stability!" He was panting, and the effort made his ribs scream with white hot pain. Ignoring the deadly look that had settled in Erik's eyes, he pressed on stubbornly and dealt what he hoped would be a crippling blow: "Clearly I know something of Christine's happiness, if she chose to be with me instead of you!"

At that, the masked man winced, but still he did not back down. As if to make up for the momentary flicker of weakness, his visible face suddenly became unreadable, and he spoke with deadly calm. "Very well, monsieur. I shall presume, then, that you already know that she is a compulsive cleaner when she is angry, and the best thing to do is to let her scrub the place spotless before attempting to talk to her; that the best way to soothe her nerves is to stroke her hair, as her mother used to do; that when she is wracked with womanly pain each month, the best remedy is a hot bath, peppered with lavender sprigs; that she avoids eating raspberries because she despises the little seeds that get caught in her teeth; that she hates the feeling of satin, and much prefers Persian silk. You already know her favorite song, her favorite color, her favorite brand of chocolates. And of course I have no need to tell you that nightmares have plagued her since her father's death, and that the only way to soothe her back to sleep is by singing the old Welsh lullaby 'All Through the Night.' Certainly you know the words – in both French and Welsh. One can never tell which version she'll prefer, on a whim."

By the end of the rant, neither man could look at one another. For his part, the vicomte had gone completely numb. Each sentence – accusation, really – hit him with much more focused, sparring pain than the physical blows dealt to him a few minutes ago. But more devastating than anything was the raw pain that seemed to drip like scalding candle wax from each of his rival's words. There had always been a distinct quality to the man's voice – it had the power to elicit a jarring emotional response within the hearer. Well, it had certainly found its target; Raoul felt that the very seams of his soul would unravel under the crushing pain of the masked man's voice if he did not pull himself together and say something in return.

"What do you want from me?" he said finally, his voice a grated whisper, as if he hadn't used it for months. The masked man had sunken back into the shadows, so that he was all but invisible in the dim, grainy light. He wouldn't – or couldn't – answer. Raoul felt his temper beginning to flare, anger drowning out the unfathomable pain left by this demon's words. "Tell me what you want! Is this some… some sick game of yours, to watch your rival writhe under the accusation that he knows absolutely nothing about his fiancée? You want me to admit that I know less about her than you? So be it. Monsieur Erik, I did not stalk her from behind a mirror throughout her time in the corps de ballet, so, naturally, I do not know nearly so much about her particulars as you. But Christine is my fiancée and my best friend, and I love her more than anything. I look forward to waking up every morning with her by my side and learning these new things about her. I have a lifetime ahead of me to gain the knowledge you wield against me like a weapon, and I fully plan on putting it to good use."

From the shadows, two glittering green orbs studied him in silence. Then, after what seemed an eternity, the masked man dipped his head in a slow, steady nod. "That," he said quietly, "is precisely what I needed to hear from you tonight." Suddenly he rose to his feet, tossed a handful of francs onto the table beside his untouched brandy, and turned to leave. He had barely taken two steps, however, before he hesitated. Although he did not turn back to face the vicomte, he seemed to be struggling with words. Eventually, his quiet, calm voice said, "Keep a cold compress on that jaw, monsieur. It would be an unfortunate trick of fate, indeed, should your face turn out to resemble mine as you await Christine at the altar tomorrow morning."

And, without another word, he simply seemed to disappear into the crowd.

White roses decorated every spare inch of the de Chagny mansion. It had been a beautiful ceremony, everyone agreed. The bride seemed to radiate an ethereal glow, as if an angel herself had decided to grace the earth with her presence. The groom, who had unfortunately taken a fall from his horse and sustained a few angry-looking bruises while scrambling to finish the wedding preparations the night before, otherwise looked every inch the nobleman in a crisp navy blue suit. The handsome young couple laughed and twirled across the ballroom to the merry tunes being played by a quartet of strings.

All was as it should be.

Shadows lengthened across the estate as the sun fell to kiss the horizon. Through tear-blurred eyes, one of the shadows watched the merry celebration that carried on just out of reach. Only when darkness fell, and the stars shone like diamonds in the deep blue sky, did the shadow disappear into the night.

It would be hours before Christine would find the red rose -- stripped of its thorns, tied with a black satin ribbon, and fastened with a magnificent diamond engagement ring. The sender, nothing more than a flickering shadow in the night, would not see her fall to her knees, sobbing his name, wracked with grief when she knew she should be relieved. He would not see her slip the ring onto a delicate golden necklace, and tuck it against her heart for safekeeping.

There was an unspoken understanding that the Angel's blessing of her marriage was the last gift he would bestow upon his beloved pupil.

What the shadow didn't realize was that another broken soul departed silently behind him into the endless night, while its body wrapped itself in her new husband's embrace.

A/N: Oh please don't look at me like that… as if I've just killed your puppy. :(

This is the first, and undoubtedly the last, R/C I will ever write. But in a sad, strange way, it's E/C too… kind of like the original story we all fell in love with. That was the idea, anyway.

Well, let me know what you think. Feedback is, as always, treasured.