Chapter 7

Gossip, when put to good use can be tremendously useful.

Philippe was very grateful this night that he inadvertently seemed to have eyes and ears throughout most of the city. When news trickled back to him via his valet, who was told by the cook who heard it from the stable master, who happened to overhear it from a few disgruntled stage hands in the café that night, it could not have come at a more fortuitous time.

Apparently, the stage hands who were in the employ of the Palais Garnier had been overheard speaking loudly to anyone who was sober enough to listen that the opera house was in state of uproarious calamity. With the Gendarmes crawling about every nook and cranny of the theatre, there was hardly a moment that passed without some kind of dramatic outburst.

The prop masters, directors and conductor were all in a tizzy because not only were they tripping over policeman every few feet, but they also were in the midst of preparations for the next scheduled performance of Faust.

Despite the ruckus caused by the sudden invasion of the Gendarmes, Choleti, the owner of the opera house (or rather partial owner as rumor had it) had been flapping about like a deranged hen, insisting that everything be ready on time. Cancelling was out of the question! Never had a performance sold out faster as the whole of Paris was buzzing with reports of ghosts and kidnap, murder and intrigue. Like flies to honey, everyone wanted to see if the infamous masked man would make a second encore appearance. Was he ghost or mortal? Some claimed they saw him fly like the devil himself down onto the stage, swooping in to kidnap the beautiful diva only to disappear in a swirl of black cloak. Had it been, as the Garnier claimed, merely a publicity stunt?

Whatever the case, the city was eager with anticipation to see if during this next performance dark Hades would make a repeat performance and reclaim his Persephone. How well people paid to satiate their salacious imaginations!

However it was not the discovery that Choleti was in a fury trying to locate the elusive Mademoiselle Daae, whom according to all accounts was still forbidden by the doctor to leave her bed and needed complete rest—at least, that was what Monsieur Carrière claimed—that worried Philippe. The fact that the over-taxed owner was desperate that Christine should sing once more the fated role of Marguerite was of little consequence. What was imperative was the information that a certain Inspector of the Gendarmes was also seeking out the absentee diva, and that he had ordered his men to find her, sickbed or no, and bring her to him for questioning.

That information was most disturbing indeed and needed to be dealt with quickly, which was why Philippe now sat across from Christine and Gérard who were both sitting upon the bed together, one of Christine's hands firmly in the older man's grip. They looked united and determined. When Philippe told them what he knew, Gérard glanced at her meaningfully. Christine just smiled reassuringly back and squeezed his hand.

"Of course, I must meet with the Inspector," she said calmly. "I don't see as I have a choice. We mustn't arouse suspicion. I have been away from the Palais for far too long as it is. I'm sure monsieur Choleti hasn't minded the publicity, but I don't want there to be any chances the Gendarmes find Erik before I do."

Philippe, although relived at her newfound sense of calmness found his instincts prodding him with a truth he wasn't sure he was pleased with.

"You plan on going back to him, then?"

"Yes," she replied immediately, without hesitation. Philippe felt his misgivings wither. He had seen that look on her face before—years ago when she had convinced him that scaling the barn roof of a particularly grumpy farmer in order to lend authenticity to their role of dashing pirates was a splendid idea. 'Come on, ye scallywag!' a young, muddy and tenacious Christine had goaded her much quieter companion. 'We must commandeer this vessel and kidnap the fair princess!' When Philippe had shyly pointed out that Christine was fair, she had clutched her sides with peels of merry laughter. 'I am no princess! But I am the Captain, and I say if we kidnap her we shall ransom her for mountains of jewels and gold!'

Though their foray into piracy had yielded more bruised limbs than riches, Philippe had always followed his Captain faithfully and with a certain sense of responsibility.

In those days, he was always the cautionary voice of reason. The one who played it safe, and never gambled on fickle turns of luck. How odd it felt to be cast back into that role once again.

"Christine," he began, "I am not certain that you would be helping your friend's cause by seeking him out at the moment. Ledoux is not a man to be trifled with. If he is asking to question you, I'm willing to bet that he more than suspects your Maestro's involvement in that stagehand—Bucket?"

"Bouquet," supplied Gérard and Christine in union.

"Pardon," Philippe continued undaunted. "Bouquet's death. You have to admit—living as a ghost for years, outside of society. Rumors of a vengeful spectre, inflicting who knows what kind of horrors if he is not pleased. It is suspicious to say the least."

"That is my doing," Gérard said firmly. "It was my decision to hide Erik from the world, and actively encourage rumors of a dangerous ghost. I thought it would keep him safe. Keep prying eyes away…he was only a child, after all. It was selfish and cowardly."

Christine tightened her grip on the older man's hand, but said nothing. Neither of them did. They knew better than to argue. Though Philippe instinctively liked Gérard, and found his past a tragedy worthy of the operas his son so loved, he could not bring himself to dispute the older man's claims.

A little boy, a child, locked away from the world and the company of his fellow human beings? Philippe had encountered such a phenomena before. Years ago, before Pierre had joined the officer's core, he remembered a doctor—a doctor of the psyche—had come to visit their parents. The doctor apparently was on something of a world tour, and his attraction was a young boy, not much younger than Philippe himself. The boy had been found wandering about the woods in Russia, and from what the doctor had explained in what Philippe had felt to be a very patronizing manner he had been feral, meaning he did not speak or know the bounds of society and proper socialization. Wild, like a wolf. He had been abandoned, forced to fend for himself amongst deadly creatures and elements. Philippe had admiration for the boy, who dressed just like he did and followed the doctor obediently, although he did not speak a word.

When Philippe had offered him one of cook's famous macaroons, the boy had taken it but placed if carefully in his pocket instead of gorging himself. He was quiet and polite, yet his dark eyes held something that made Philippe terribly sad.

After their visit, that sadness had quickly flared into anger. How dare that man (he refused to address him by the proper title of doctor) treat that boy like some kind of circus attraction? No wonder the boy did not wish to speak—what if he were shy? Or didn't like adults speaking about him as though he weren't even in the same room? Speaking of frightening things, like brain disorders and psychological illness, stunted growth and social impairments?

Pierre had been the one to calm him down.

"I agree," he had said in that quiet, gentle voice that always seemed to illuminate his younger brother's penchant for hot-tempered impatience. "I do not think the boy should be paraded about either. A young child like that should be with those his own age. He should be out playing, getting all sorts of bumps and bruises," at this, Pierre had eyed his younger brother meaningfully. Philippe instinctively gave his most innocent stare.

"Yet," Pierre had continued, not fooled for a moment, "I understand what Dr. Romanova was trying to achieve; tolerance. If he can prove to people that the boy is not dangerous, that he is capable of learning and eventually contributing to society, they will not be afraid."

"Afraid?" Phillipe had been incredulous. "Why would anyone be afraid of him? He's just a child! It's not his fault someone abandoned him in the woods!"

"No, it isn't. But that does not change the fact that most people are very afraid of what is different…"

Philippe had never forgotten.

"Philippe?" Christine drew him back out of the deep waters of memory, although hearing her voice so hoarse and her pale face made him long for the days when he could make her laugh as easily as draw breath. She was gazing at him seriously. He knew she suspected he was thinking about much more than Gérard's self-admonishments.

"Let me handle Ledoux," he said. "I cannot promise to keep him at bay forever, but I can at least bide you time enough to reach Erik."

Christine's smile was like the sun. It made Philippe believe that perhaps he could still yet make her happy as he did when they were children. It made his throat constrict, and his eye sting slightly. All signs that he was in desperate need of a morning scotch, which amazed him. He had not touched a drop from any of his expensive Austrian crystal decanters since arriving home the night before with Christine and Gérard. The thought had not even entered his mind.

"Thank you," she said, heart in her eyes. He had not even noticed her approach. When her lips brushed against his cheek, he felt it grow hot. Oh, surely not. He? Embarrassed by a woman's affections? Philippe cleared his throat, hoping against hope that he would not disappoint her. No, his precious decanters would have to remain lonely for the time being. He needed to be sober and sharp if he was to distract the dogged inspector.

"I suppose you both have a plan to find Erik, then?" he asked.

Christine exchanged a look with Gérard, whose expression was both determined but worried.

"I'm not going to particularly like this plan, am I?" Philippe asked warily. "On second thought, don't tell me. It is probably best. After all, what is a good plan if it is not fraught with peril?"

"And little chance of success," Gérard added, gloomily.

"I call that provoking fate," Philippe said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Without his morning dose of liquid cure, he could feel a headache begin to rattle his skull.

Gérard nodded ruefully.

Christine gazed between the two men incredulously, her strength seeming to return just as the others seemed to wither. "I call that adventure, messieurs!" she said with such bolstering conviction that both men regarded her with wide-eyed surprise.

"We shall take fate into our own hands," she declared, passionately. In spite of himself, Philippe grinned. Aye, aye my captain. Only this time, you will be saving the Prince and I will be using my silver tongue to do some good for a change.

Suddenly caught by the absurdity of it all he chuckled, realizing what a rag-tag rescue team they truly made. The deceptively petite soprano; the timeworn, repentant patriarch and the cavalier, degenerate aristocrat. No booze. No self-indulgent excuses. Just glory and the promise of redemption. He could just imagine Pierre's knowing smile. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Erik heard music.

Faint, muted and distant it floated nearer like a lifeline and some part of his consciousness grasped for it instinctively. His breathing was laboured, the sickening pressure that weighed on his chest nearly unbearable. Yet despite the music coursing through his veins, a never-ending harmony that had always filled his head, nourishing and sustaining, he felt the will to drag air into his reluctant lungs slowly burn away. Nothing but ash. He did not want to exist. Darkness was slowly etching its way across his vision, pulling him ever downward and for the first time in his life there was not one reason for him to deny it.

Not for his father. Not for his music. Not for the many tiny creatures that shared his underground home; bats, mice, rats and abandoned cats. Unwanted vermin. He had cared for them all tentatively when they were starving, or injured. It had given him a feeling of responsibility, of being needed. A few had even stayed with him for a time, and he had cherished the companionship while it lasted.

Inevitably, they would disappear back into the harsh wildness and he could never bring himself to cage them, just to keep them by his side. A rush of renewed grief and shame overtook his weakened body, and he shook uncontrollably. For one frantic, blindingly selfish moment he had considered caging her.

When she had fainted at the ungodly sight of his face, he had counted it as a blessing. He couldn't have stood to see her terrified expression for a second longer. Tears had stung his cheeks which were rubbed raw from wearing his mask for too many hours, yet he did not feel it. Mechanically, he had scooped her up into his arms as one would a wounded bird, delicate and breakable. He would fix her. He must. The journey back to his home had been too short. He needed her in his arms yet he also needed to protect her, to keep that blissful expression of peace on her precious features. Without thought, he acquired the distilled sleeping draft he had become so adept at making out of necessity. To numb his nightmares. How ironic that now he used it to keep himself, the nightmare of his beloved, at bay.

Three drops against her lips, and she had slipped ever deeper into sleep, into a world where hopefully, if God was merciful, the image of himself could not haunt her.

Oh, Christine.

Unable to deny the need any longer he then enfolded her unconscious body into his shaking arms. In his weakness he had buried his horrid face into her neck, breathing her in, pressing kisses to her serene features. His lips mapped out a forbidden path against her warm temple, smooth cheeks, gentle mouth, delicate hands and soft hair. Part of himself raged that he dare taint her further. But he was desperate. Mad with the thought of what he was about to do. Frenziedly he envisioned keeping her, caging her as one would a lovely songbird; then he could tend to her every need, her every breath the reason for taking his next.

I burn with a fire that is sin itself

Too much. He had wanted too much, greedy with the thought that in spite of his monstrous appearance she would stay. And for what? To live beneath the ground, trapped forever with a corpse who was too afraid to live above it? He never should have revealed himself to her. Everything I love. Everything I touch I destroy. Memories arose within the depths of his mind accusingly; a rose, perfect and sweet crushed within his fist; his mother, always in pain and ill because of his difficult birth; his father's tired, sad eyes. All sacrificing because of him, so that he should live.

And then she had come, and he realized he hadn't been truly alive at all.

The memory of Christine, face shining upon the empty stage in an expression of sublime exhilaration still burned within him, consuming all that was left of what he was. The night he had first heard her sing to an empty auditorium. At least, she had believed it to be empty.

He had been in the midst of writing a rather tricky bit of libretto. An argument between two lovers who by the most amusing circumstances, each thought the other to be unfaithful. Such a fine line, he was discovering, to make the audience laugh, cry and sigh all at once. Music had always been his first and foremost language. The means by which he revealed his inner most thoughts. Lyrically however he found it difficult at times to craft the right words to accompany his operatic compositions. Perhaps it was because other than Gérard, he conversed with no one but himself and the creatures that roamed his dark, damp realm and while excellent listeners, they could not speak back to him. This did not help his cause. Then again perhaps his lack of focus was because he had been overly distracted of late, a condition he was most unused to.

But it couldn't be helped. The new arrival with her guileless, shy smiles and quiet fortitude was quickly taking over his every thought. It was causing business as usual no end of trouble.

Sighing ruefully, he had dipped his pen in the inkwell, trying not to dwell on the fact that he had not yet checked upon his charming distraction yet tonight. He always made a point to visit her, unseen behind the clever trick-mirror that allowed him to view her secret little apartment beneath the stage, just to make sure she was alright. That she had survived another day with the vultures and baying hyenas. He respected her privacy of course. He only visited when he was sure she was asleep.

It was a courtesy he would extend to any wayward, lost soul all on their own. Yes, it was all perfectly logical.

Dragging his mind back to the task at hand, he had been just about to write the words of his heroine to her lover—furiously scathing, with the wrath of a voraciously vengeful Valkyrie—when he heard it. At first, her voice had trickled down like a revelation from heaven, and he thought for a heart-stopping moment that his own torturous mind had created the unearthly sound. But no. Impossible. Nothing within his own twisted, nettled brain could have ever crafted something so pure, so effortlessly… joyful. It was not simply a fine voice, a petty voice. It was clarity, it was nature, time and the stars themselves resplendent, calling for him to act.

Enthralled, he set his ink pen down and stood from his work table, barely conscious of what he was doing.

When angels sing, the devils leave.

As though in a dream, he had followed the divine sound to its source. Mingling with the shadows he had seen a girl moving about the empty stage, frock frayed and shabby, fair hair disheveled, shoes nearly worn to the soles. It was her; the poor little foreign church mouse. Someone that no one, especially in this gilded place where the upper echelons strutted about like vapid peacocks, would notice beyond a scornful glance. Of course. Of course it was her. Never had Erik seen anything more beautiful, more achingly exquisite in all his life. Her beauty, completely unintentional in its lack of artifice, was addicting. Spellbound, he watched her sing to an imaginary audience; a siren, a goddess to be worshiped. Some deep part of his soul had needed to protect her when he first saw her climbing the steps of the Garnier, eyes full of dreams and ghosts, memories and hope. He had been captivated then.

Now, upon hearing her soul so freely given through her voice it was an agony like he had never felt before. Whatever he had been before that moment shattered, and in its place was something that was forever patched together and mingled with her every essence, every heartbeat.

Dare he speak? Her voice had a fairly intoxicating effect, and before he knew what he was doing he had moved closer to her, too close. He could say nothing to her that night, too overwhelmed was he by emotions barely understood as they crashed down upon him, merciless in their torrential intensity. From that moment his fever only grew until one night he had been unable to help himself.

She had been in the auditorium again, this time back to the role of subservient slave. Gathering all the costumes from the day's rehearsals, she tiredly moved her way amongst the departing peacocks, all of whom ruffled their feathers importantly as they went. Buffoons. Erik had long since wished to resign from the human race after beholding such ignorant stupidity on such a regular basis.

But she. She was elegance and grace incarnate.

She smiled genuinely at them all, eyes lighting up when she mistook one dancer for having said goodnight to her, and not the stagehand behind her. Far from looking embarrassed, or even angry at her faux pas, this girl had simply gone back to her work, he the only witness to her expression.

Sadness. Resignation. Loneliness.

It had been this, something he could relate to so deeply that spurred him to speak once the stage lights had gone out, insipid voices faded away, doors banging shut and they were alone at last. His throat had felt like sandpaper. Palms sweating, he straightened his cravat and for the first time in his life wished for a mirror to check his appearance (such as it was, how ridiculous a notion!). Desperately, he recounted the speech he had been secretly rehearsing, editing, chucking into the fire then re-writing all week. How do you do? Forgive my intrusion upon your solitude, but I find myself at the mercy of your charms and would beg you indulge me with your name.

His knees fairly trembled as he approached the stage where she was raised above him, an angel on a pedestal. He watched her for a breathless moment go about her work, entranced by her loveliness. Even alone, she still maintained an aura of quiet happiness that fascinated him utterly. He could tell she was weary; being at the beck and call of the demanding costume master was a test of both strength of will and endurance. His angel however tackled the job most admirably, and with a stalwart manner that left him with little doubt that she had known hard work in her young life.

Yet her resilience, her generous smile and kind words to any who spoke to or asked of her—it was commendable. He watched her straighten as she loaded up her rickety prop cart with discarded brightly coloured costumes, their rich brocade and sparkling bead-studded trims a complete contrast to her drab, brown patched dress. But she was moon-bright. She stretched her back, a slender hand reaching up to push a few frizzy strands of golden hair from her sweaty forehead.

Heaven! He had thought, mesmerized.

And then suddenly she had sensed something, some unknown chill no doubt racing down her spine, and had whirled about to look directly at him. For a breathless moment, the earth forgot to turn. Her unyielding gaze both flummoxed and propelled him forward until he was hurtling toward inevitable disaster as he opened dry lips, prepared speech completely forgotten, speaking the first words that leapt desperately to mind.

"Please do not be afraid. I'm a friend...as well as an admirer."

Oh, he would lament the way his voice had trembled as he admitted his transgression; admirer.

Such a pitiful lie.

Obsession would have been more accurate! But she need not know that she had a devoted protector within these gilded walls. Or rather under them, as the case may be.

"A friend?" her sweet voice had cut through his fever, a douse of cold water. When had she approached the very edge of the stage? When had she gotten so close? Panicked, he had warned her to not come any closer. "Why?" she had asked, kindness and concern washing over him as her angelic voice both soothed and set him aflame. "Are you hurt? Do you need help, monsieur?"

Help indeed. Possibly he was dying the way his heart raced and sweat coated his forehead, stinging against the raw skin beneath his mask. I am the monster in the dark, and she worries if I am hurt! Somehow, despite his state, he had managed to reflexively respond with a wry retort though it was delivered in a husky, slightly hoarse voice that belied his fervent condition.

"Evidently, Mademoiselle."

She had blushed furiously, seeming to understand his inelegant suggestion yet instead of looking offended, a small smile had shaped her soft mouth. Innocently playful. Erik felt decidedly faint as he recklessly imagined just how far that charming shade of pink traveled down her long, slender neck.

He wanted her. Every inch, within and out.

It was all clear to him now. From the moment he first glimpsed her on the steps of the Garnier, thoroughly out of place and a single carpet bag to her name held securely in her arms. Now, he had never been surer of anything in his life. She was music. Her every movement, word and expression. So vibrant, beautiful and guileless! Why deny it? He had never stood a chance.

And how long after that fateful first meeting, where to his humiliation he had rambled on like a pedantic loon about the merits of her voice—although sublime, it did harbour many technical faults and how she would supremely benefit from a strict regime of proper vocal lessons from a complete stranger who couldn't seem to regard her without wanting to fall to his knees and weep like a deranged madman— had he watched her with the fascination of a man starved for any scrap he could scrounge?

The role of Maestro and mentor had been at once the most fulfilling and agonizing undertaking he had ever attempted. He wanted. He loved. He yearned with all his being.

The memories began to fade, yet he still managed to think of her. He was always thinking of her, despite the swirling voices that hissed and threatened.

Your temper. Your face. She has seen it all, now. How dare you think you are worthy to even beg a scrap from her table?

Demon.

Monster.

Murderer.

His selfishness had to end; he would end it. There would be no more sacrifices for his sake. With his last shards of icy sanity he had managed to send a message to Gérard, and hand her over to his father. For safekeeping. To keep her safe from himself. Numb, he had watched from the shadows as the only two people who had ever shown him affection and love ascended to the world above. Out from the depths of hell; a hell of his own making.

It was done.

An almost peaceful calm had surrounded him as he tore apart his home. The violence of his rage had been displaced, as though whatever part of himself that had cherished such things was gone. Vanished, like the ghost he had always claimed to be. All that remained was a physical body fueled by pure, utter pain.

He couldn't recall amidst the destruction and anguish how he had become soaked through to the skin, nor how he had succumbed to the devastating illness that now wracked his body. He had no more body. No more face. His mind, his memories were mixing confusingly together, slowly evaporating, draining away until he couldn't even conjure up an image of his beautiful, sad mother. She had been gentle, like his beloved. And he had loved her with a reverent devotion that had defied reason. He hadn't been able to save her. It had been his fault she became ill. Bearing him, caring for him had demanded all of her limited health. He had never forgiven himself; that she, so kind and good should be gone and he should survive.

I killed her.

His mind, his very bones were slowly sinking into the earth.

All he could hear now was faint music; all he could see was the woman he adored. Mercifully, he still remembered every detail of her face.

You could be an angel.

She had the barest of freckles, endearingly scattered across her cheeks. Her expressive mouth never ceased to fascinate him. The tiny flecks of gold, laced within the emerald of her eyes. She was ripest summer, forests of deepest green. Warm, cleansing rain. Moonlight beat beneath her pale, smooth skin. Her ankles were delicate, her bones so finely crafted yet hiding a spirit of such incomparable strength. Her nose tilted slightly upward, giving her the appearance of pure unearthliness, a nymph-like fairy caught in a mortal world of harsh, biting things. An angel whose voice had beckoned him forth from beneath the ground, biding him to answer, to rise, to live.

Christine.

He had destroyed the entrance to his home after he had made sure she and Gérard were safely above ground. Not to keep them out, but to keep himself in.

It frightens me; what I would do for her.

For the first time in his life, the music was beginning to fade completely, leaving him with all that remained of what he was; a twisted carcass and a broken will. There was no music, he knew. He had always known. It had only ever been within his own fractured mind.

This was his reality. Here, beneath the ground where the winds rushed and ebbed, the dankness creaked and dripped and ghostly echoes stirred nightmares and half-imagined terrors. Only he had ever heard the music within this desolate place, a constant beat and melody that had been imprinted within his consciousness from his earliest memories.

All was bleeding away.

Christine.

His heartbeat began to slow, each one now an effort as he felt himself give in and let go of that final hope.

Do not hate me.

For a moment, he thought he could hear his angel's voice, her downy wings gracing him with the gentlest of brushes against his blackened cheek.

I love you.

One last request.

Come back to me.

A cough; sharp blinding pain, the air too heavy for him to take in, and then he felt and saw no more.

How she managed to wrangle Erik from the lakeside to his bed Christine did not have time to contemplate. When she had told Gérard of her plan to break into Erik's home, the older man had thankfully not gaped at her (for too long at least) as though she had completely lost her mind, and they had been able to make up for lost time.

In a way she supposed she had lost her mind, but it had been a comfort that Gérard had finally accepted that she was not going to be deterred—his only stipulation being that he accompany her as far as he could. Their plan was, as Philippe had suspected, perilous and not ideal by any means. It involved an old sewer tunnel, its entrance condemned and blocked off by a grid of high iron bars. It was dangerous, and had suffered a recent cave-in that prompted the city into talks of its removal. Thankfully, those talks were taking longer than anticipated, and it was still there just a block south from the Palais. Although the bars were daunting, with the right tools and a certain amount of elbow grease one could remove at least one, creating a space wide enough for someone small to squeeze through.

After that, one could reach the winding, dark caves that led deeper and deeper into the underground realm below, where a secret forest flourished. Where her Maestro had patiently, expertly explained to her how the earth shifts, slopes and somehow, against gravity and logic, connects to the world above.

It had taken what seemed to Christine like ages as she had navigated the wild, uncut rocky tunnels that led (she hoped) down to the little grove of silver and emerald trees. From there, she had navigated her way back to Erik's home based upon Gérard's expertise. When she had spotted light ahead, her heart had soared beyond her body, out into that sacred space that he had so shyly, so reverently shared with her.

Her clothes had become soaked, trousers torn in places and her hands and face bore a few gashes, knees raw from missing her footing on rock and stone, but she had made it. Nothing could have kept her away, not even her Maestro himself, with his most severe, stern countenance.

Once more my dear, from the G sharp. Head up, spine supple. We will work on this progression until you can defy gravity itself!

Now, as she helped him stumble into his bed it was hard to believe he had ever been so undeniably powerful. His entire body shook with exhaustion. In the amount of time she had been gone to when she had discovered him slipping in and out of consciousness, delirious by the lakeside, he seemed to be withering away. Horrible, wet coughs continuously racked his frame and she had only ever known such numbing terror once before when she saw his hand drop uselessly from his mouth to his side, a red stain marring his pale, ashen skin.

Blood.

From that moment on a kind of calm, automatic response guided her. Having nursed her father she had experience maneuvering a fully grown man; yet Erik, even in his weakened state seemed like a mountain when compared to the shorter, slender man her father had once been. So what she lacked in brute strength she made up for by coaxing, encouraging and imploring Erik to follow her.

"Please, my love. You must help me. I need to get you inside, to bed. Help me, please?" she had bid, over and over. Each time she did, he seemed to rouse a strength that was astonishing considering his wretched state, and unsteadily follow her a few steps more. She knew he was unaware of what he was doing, that though he was semi-upright and moving he was not consciously awake. He could barely speak, his lungs rattling and she nearly came undone when at one point he had gazed down at her as she helped support his broad frame, his eyes wide as though for a brief moment, he could see that she was truly there.

"You're shivering," he observed, his voice unrecognizably rasping and rough. For a mad moment, he straightened and began to unsteadily tug at his shirt front, as though groping for buttons and clasps that were not there. As though confused by the fact that he had no coat or cloak to offer her.

"Yes, my love, it's very chilly out tonight. That's why we must get inside," she had barely managed, throat tight as she gently grasped his trembling hands in her own and took another step toward his home. They were close. If she could just keep him moving!

Erik swayed on the spot for a moment, his twisted, distorted features drawn down in a serious expression of understanding. "Of course," he rasped, and her heart nearly broke. "We must get you out of the cold."

He had said no more, but grasped her tightly as with renewed energy they made their winding way back to his home. Christine, resolutely ignoring the fact that the front door had obviously been wrenched from its hinges, managed to guide him across the threshold and to his bedchamber just before Erik's strength seemed to drain away completely. They had tumbled together, losing balance and tipping over onto the mattress. Another series of devastating coughs had shaken his body and Christine's heart. Quickly, with the mechanical and efficient gentleness of the nurse she had once been, she began to divest him of his sweat-soaked clothing.

He needs to be warm and dry she thought methodically, mentally prioritizing tasks as she peeled him out of his linen shirt. His skin was startlingly pale and sweaty, such a contrast to the blackened flesh of his upper face. For a brief, swift moment Christine paused in her ministrations to gaze down at him.

Unflinching, she forced herself to take in his misshapen cheeks with the clinical compassion of what she was in that moment—a nurse—and realized that although dark his skin was not black as she first glimpsed but a deep shade of red and purple, like dark red wine. His features in repose were nearly unrecognizable as a face; his nose was caved in on itself, cheeks all but two lop-sided bumps of too-prominent bone, forehead oddly shaped like half-molded clay. He had no eye lashes, nor eyebrows. The entire upper half of his face truly did look as though he were the dead given life. Only his mouth and chin, so beautifully formed survived intact although now they looked drawn, as though he had aged a century. That, she found, more than his deformities terrified her with worry.

The contradiction of his face both cursed and human so startling at first, began to blend together. Instead of the panic that had overruled her to such a horrible degree before, now Christine found she was entranced; he was whole. She could see every emotion, every expression upon his bare face.

Nothing in heaven or upon the earth could have stopped her from reaching out to gently stroke his twisted cheek. It felt surprisingly smooth to the touch for no hair could grow there. Nothing could have kept her from bending over his chest, which rose and fell rapidly with the effort of breathing, to tenderly kiss his damp forehead.

When she drew back, her breath caught. His eyes were open and the darkness of his flesh, the sunken sockets made them the most vivid, penetrating blue. She fell into them without hesitation like an open sky; the deepest stormy ocean. Vast. Endless. Those eyes, so intensely consuming within that face, his face. It was like nothing she ever could have imagined.

He was beauty and ruin.

Suddenly her hands were engulfed by his larger ones. They shook slightly, yet she knew without question what he wanted and drew her palms to rest against his bare chest. A soft sigh escaped him, heartbeat pounding erratically, yet as they held each others gaze, it slowed. Calmed.

"Erik," she murmured, softly. Soothingly. He couldn't reply. His breaths though slower still rattled within his chest as though he could not draw enough air into his lungs. She saw his fear. She felt his anguish, his possessive love. And just as he had not so long ago, she parted her dry lips and began to sing to him, gently.

He watched her, eyelids slipping half-shut now and then slowly, as though she were the only thing in the world.

As though she were the only thing keeping him alive.

Thank you for reading, I hope that chapter was worth the wait! As always, reviews and suggestions are treasured and appreciated!

I'm hoping to get the chapter 8 out ASAP, because I am excited to see this morph into what I imagined from the very first chapter. This is very AU, so I hope even though it is not faithful to the plot of the mini-series, it is still enjoyable!

And Philippe trying to out-maneuver Ledoux is going to be fun to write, as well as the disastrous performance Choleti is so determined to have! I hope you continue to enjoy and I wish everyone a wonderful weekend :)

As a side-note, the sewers that Christine had to traverse to reach Erik I found inspiration from by typing "sewer tunnels" into Google images. Spooky, yet strangely exciting to think of being down there!

A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed this far, I appreciate your time and encouragement :) !