A/N: It is my fervent hope that all of you are keeping safe and healthy during these troubled times. Thank God for a place like this, where we can temporarily escape to lose ourselves in the enjoyment of stories of fictional couples we have come to love, both in reading and in writing. And thank you, my wonderful readers and 'phriends', for your continued show of support and your reviews. I appreciate every one of you. :)

And now…

Chapter XXXIV

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At the light knock on the door, Madame Giry hurried from the kitchen to open it before Meg could uncurl from her spot on the sofa. To see Monsieur Kahn on the threshold, wearing his usual peaked fur hat he'd told her was an Astrakhan, Madame felt a twinge of relief puncture the apprehension suffered since she first made her unsettling discovery.

"Good afternoon, Madame." He inclined his head in a polite little bow. "I received word that you wished to have a word with me?"

"Yes, merci. Do come inside." She held the door open for the Persian to enter, a man short in height and slight of stature, his near-black eyes on a comfortable level with hers. Darting an uncertain glance toward her daughter, who stared with curious shock at their visitor, Madame addressed her, "Meg, please bring tea. Do not forget the lemon."

Meg scrunched her nose a bit in reluctance, clearly put out, not so much to serve as to be excluded from what Madame did not wish her to hear. She felt a modicum of guilt to assign Meg the task, as hard as her daughter worked at the cabaret, often returning home exhausted as she had been this evening; but there was no choice. Though Meg had known something of Madame's service to the Opera Ghost, she, like everyone else in Paris, thought him dead. It was better to keep her and all others not involved in his life ignorant to the truth.

Once her daughter exited to the kitchen and out of earshot, the door shutting behind her, Madame came straight to the point. "Erik is missing."

"Missing?" He kept his voice as low as hers. "He broke free of his bonds?"

"I blame myself. I had wrongly thought he'd come to terms with his necessary captivity and provided him with utensils for his meal, giving in to his desire to feed himself. He must have used the knife to cut the ropes, though I imagine it took some time as the blade was rather dull."

"Stubborn man. You would think after the havoc created that night he would understand and cooperate with the need to hide." He seemed to consider. "Did his memory return, perchance?"

Madame blew out a heavy sigh, shaking her head. "He still believes himself to be another man - indeed, that he is a leader of men who live in the forest, and calls himself Le Masque."

Nadir grimaced. "He has always been a man given to titles, as if he thinks himself undeserving of a name."

"Or, perhaps, he derives the feeling of power and confidence that comes from them."

"No doubt, both are true," the Persian nodded solemnly.

"You mentioned when we last met that you've known him for many years. I thought, given what you told me before about your former profession as a detective, that you might investigate into the matter before the gendarmes can find him. I shudder to think what they will do if he is captured."

"You have no need to ask, Madame. Of course I will do what I can. Erik has long been a friend, though he might disagree. He has not once called me by name, seeming to prefer titles for others as well. To him, I have always been the Daroga." He huffed a wry, humorous breath. "But that is beside the point. Tell me what you can recall, anything he might have said that could help in locating him."

"Would you care to sit down?" she offered, suddenly realizing what a terrible hostess she made. "Meg will be in with tea shortly."

"Forgive me, but I must decline your generous invitation. I believe it is vital not to delay with the search."

"Of course, you are right; that is wisest. Let me think…" She crossed her arms in contemplation, plucking at her lacy crewel collar with one hand. "He spoke continually of Eustace and his demand to see him, accusing me of keeping the man away and himself a prisoner. He also spoke of the forest and finding his way back there, though in all the time I have known Erik, since he was a boy, I don't think he has ever gone further than two city blocks, and that rarely. Excluding the year he left for Persia, where you two met, he preferred keeping to his lair and rarely ventured outdoors. Though there was that one time, recently, at the cemetery…."

She grew pensive at the memory of Christine's troubled recounting of the fierce meeting between two rivals that had begun with clashing swords and ended in hurled balls of flame.

"What happened there?" he asked.

"A violent confrontation between the Vicomte de Chagny and the Opera Ghost. Oh - and that reminds me! There was something else Erik mentioned - he seemed to think I had taken him to the de Chagny residence, believing that the Vicomte wished to make him a prisoner there. I wrote off his words as simply all part of the bizarre delusion he is under."

"I see." He nodded, his tone somber. "Thank you, Madame. You have been most helpful. This will give me a place to start." He took her hand and clasped it between both of his in reassurance. "Do not fear. I will find him. He is no true Ghost, after all. Only a man."

Surprised by the girlish flutter in her chest at the unexpected contact, she quickly withdrew her hand from his. "You have my gratitude, Monsieur Kahn."

Once she closed the door behind the Persian, Madame turned to see Meg standing there, frozen as a statue, tea tray in hand. Her blue eyes were wide, her mouth parted in shock.

"The Phantom of the Opera is alive?" she asked nervously. "And you've been helping him?"

Madame sighed, having dreaded this day and hoped it would never come.

"Sit down, Meg. We need to talk."

xXx

The sun cut a gentle golden swathe through pine fronds and the plethora of seasonal-blooming trees that enclosed the small lake clearing. Birds fluttered from branch to branch while squirrels chittered somewhere close by, the day comfortably warm, one of the last of its kind before autumn was destined to blow in with its chill breath.

Christine inhaled of the sweet, earthen air, taking it deep into her lungs. Such a lovely, peaceful spot; she would miss it.

This was one of the last days she and Erik were to remain in this niche of forest, soon to travel with what remained of the brigands to parts unknown. She would miss this lake for more than its cleansing purposes; for this was where her life truly began again or rather resumed, the new closeness with the Phantom whom she then half-questioned as being Le Masque …

And finally returned to her wholly as Erik.

He still struggled with his memory of their century and this one, but every day, more and more was returned to him, and she was grateful.

Shedding her clothes and carefully spreading them over the bushes, this time several feet safely away from the lake's edge, Christine slowly waded out into the crystal-blue water. A shudder traveled along the length of her form as she gritted her teeth and moved out further, until her shoulders were just above the surface. The water seemed colder than last time, due no doubt to the frequent rainfall, though it was worth it to cleanse away days of grime. To have a cake of soap would be heaven, and she wondered what the fifteenth century substitute might be in the vast outdoors and where to find it.

For all her desire to bathe, she was careful to stay near the shore and distant from the area where the water sprites had nearly forced her to a watery grave. A misstep could send her hurtling into the lake-abyss once more, the living vines reaching out to grab her legs if she faltered, and she had no desire to tempt fate.

Here, the turf beneath her feet lay solid, and she pivoted in a slow circle while taking in her mystical surroundings. Moss covered the ground, every rock and tree trunk, a few of the trees on the far side of the lake dispersing a continual soft rain of white and pink petals. The light gurgle of rushing water almost sounded like far-distant laughter, and she joined in nature's merriment with a lighthearted song that bubbled from her lips …

She stopped her slow pivot suddenly and gasped in shock. Erik leaned against one of the trees, his arms crossed in leisure, his stance one of careless masculine grace as he visually and aurally indulged in her afternoon dip.

Slightly vexed, not so much that he watched but that he'd done so in silence, again startling her with his stealth, she dipped down so that tops of her shoulders and head were all that was visible.

"Again you watch me bathe like some lustful voyeur?" she asked in light reproof.

He chuckled and unfolded his arms. "Is it not a husband's prerogative to watch his wife?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You have done so before when you were not yet my husband."

"Did I? Enlighten me."

She huffed out a little breath, not eager to relive that humiliation. "Perhaps I will honor your request," she mused pensively, "but only if you will join me."

"You wish me to wade into that frozen water?" His tone was incredulous.

She laughed. "Tell me the Almighty Opera Ghost is not afraid of a little cold water?"

"You may have the desire for the chill of ice to sink down deep into your bones; I do not."

"Come now, Erik, you lived by a lake, underground, where the sun could never warm its surface. Tell me in all those years you never once tested the waters." Standing immobile, the cold he spoke of was felt more strongly, and she shivered. "Besides, in this ancient epoch of time, the lake is all we have. Unless you know of a washtub nearby, perchance?"

"You make a valid point, my dear. Is that the sound of your teeth I hear chattering?"

She wrinkled her nose in vexation and just prevented herself from the childish act of sticking her tongue out at him, afraid she might accidentally bite into it with her chattering teeth. If he did not stand so far away, she would splash him.

"You could come in and warm me," she suggested, grateful for the minute rush of heat infiltrating her body at her brazen request. "Or perhaps I should simply swim through the water to warm myself."

"You told me you don't know how to swim." A hint of alarm laced his words, and her heart leapt a beat with hope that he remembered the last time they were here together before recalling she'd also told him that personal tidbit when they lived at the Opera House.

"It cannot be so very hard," she tempted his protective streak, provoking a grumble before he unstrapped his belt from his doublet and let it drop to the ground.

"Very well. As my lady seems always eager to douse me with cold water and wishes my company, I shall ignore my distaste for the arctic water and honor your request."

She wondered, if he disliked the cold so much, why he'd chosen a sanctuary five levels beneath the earth for over two decades, but kept her thoughts to herself. Indeed, they seemed to scatter as he continued with the removal of his attire, pulling both doublet and shirt over his head and revealing his hard, scarred body. Her blood heated another degree. What scant maidenly modesty she yet possessed had her avert her eyes when, after removing his boots, his hands moved to the ties that held up his breeches…while the woman within that yearned so intensely for this man covertly watched beneath her lashes as he stripped to nothing.

Tall and lean, with not one ounce of fat to spare, he was nonetheless a paradigm of strength, his defined muscles in arms, chest and thighs toned and strong. Pale as the ghost he once claimed to be, his chest, legs, and forearms dusted in fine dark hairs, his flesh had yet to be darkened by the sun's prolonged rays. Though in this part of the forest where the band camped, the sunlight that trickled through leaf-laden branches was always scarce.

A strong flush of heat countered the cold water as she focused on that part of him that made him male and made her feel so whole, pronounced and jutting forth, suggesting he was likewise affected and wished for all of what she did in this stolen moment.

A winsome smile tilted her lips as he waded out toward her, shaking his head a little as the cold fully bit into him.

"The lengths I will go through for you," he said in quiet amusement as he reached her and pulled her willingly into his arms.

She laced her arms around his neck as he pressed his masked brow to her smooth one. "You forgot something," she murmured.

"The mask stays in place until we are alone in the privacy of our tent," he stated, low and immovable.

She gave a little nod, thankful at least that he was now willing to bare himself completely for her alone and understanding his need to refrain from doing so for the populace who did not love him as she did. Though she doubted anyone would come upon them in their solitude, the men never knowing if their leader was suffering from one of his black moods. Certainly, from her own failed experience with the fierce watchdog Eustace proved to be he would let no one near, knowing his master had wandered off alone…

She frowned a little at the memory of that day and the ones that followed, determined to keep her focus on the present and this man in her arms. Her Angel. Her Phantom. Her masked savior ...

"What thoughts dwell behind those lovely brown eyes?" he asked lightly.

She sighed. "I recall another time we were like this, here, on that first occasion you watched me."

"Like this?" he questioned softly, his lips twisting in a half grin. "Or like this…"

His hold went to her thighs, effortlessly wrapping them around his hips, his large hands then cupping her bottom as they had on that first day he saved her from drowning.

She gasped at the hard length of him, her softness rubbing against his body, pressed close, and forced her mind to make sense of his words. Her eyes opened a little wider when she did.

"You remember?"

"Standing on the cliff, looking upon you, my tempting siren…diving in after you and holding you against me in all your naked splendor... How could I forget such a moment, even with my faulty recollection?"

"Then more of our past is becoming clear to you," she said in delight, rubbing the fingers of one hand along his jaw beneath the mask.

"Every day," he agreed, his voice like dark silk. "The water wasn't as cold that day as it is presently, and yet, with you in my arms, the age-old belief of its ability is nonexistent. It did not apply then. It does not apply now."

"What belief?"

"The cold does not dampen my desire for you…"

She did not have to ask what he meant, the proof of his low words hard against her belly. He angled his head, his lips brushing hers, and readily she gave all that he sought. Tongue soon mingled with tongue as one of his hands rubbed up her spine while the long, slender fingers of his other hand gently delved to sensitive areas that had her whimper with need.

"Here?" she gasped in uncertainty as his hips moved a slow beat against her.

"Shall we not christen the area where we first became fully aware of one another with our love?" he teased gently, though the silvery glint in his eyes smoldered…indeed, she was barely aware of the cold any longer.

"Is it even possible?" she asked dubiously, aware of the water lapping at their shoulders and the unsteady terrain of the shifting lake floor on which he stood with her limbs wrapped around him.

"I welcome the challenge," he assured as he pushed her up and away, only enough so that when he brought her slowly down to him again, they were one.

A sound between a moan and a sigh escaped her lips as her Phantom so fully possessed her. She tightened her arms around his neck, crossing her wrists and pressing her torso closer. The tingles along her skin could be attributed to the chill water but the wash of heat through her veins was due to desire for her husband alone.

He moved her with him as they rocked together in a slow dance of passion, barely separating. His hand clutched the back of her hair, pulling her head back as his hungry lips found the side of her neck, her throat, and she tilted her head back even further, giving him full rein, until he brought her face to his again, his mouth finding hers.

Overwhelmed by the sensations he inflamed, she could think of nothing but wishing to get even closer, of soaking every inch of his flesh deep inside and keeping him with her forever. She grabbed him more fitfully, her kiss becoming fierce.

Beneath his feet, the silt shifted. He struggled to retain his footing, a difficult feat as desire soared ever higher and his body began to tremble under her delicious attack – until, suddenly, the earth tilted and together they abruptly submerged, the lake water rushing over their heads.

Concerned solely for his wife, Erik swiftly grabbed her up with him and brought her to air. She coughed and sputtered, as did he, but he was astonished to also hear laughter sing from her lips, teasing a smile from his own.

"Perhaps in the midst of a mystical lake is not the best idea for a tête-à-tête," she said lightly.

"Alas, I fear you are correct, ma damoiselle Ange. You are no siren and I am no merman. A good thing the shore is so close as I am not yet done with you."

"I should hope not."

She giggled as, hand in hand, they splashed in hurried ascent to the lake's edge. He brought her around with a kiss, lowering her to the soft mossy earth beneath him. Soon they were again caught up in passion's sensual whirlpool, taking them into the depths of nirvana while holding one another in coveted submersion...

Once the tides calmed and they lay resting in each other's arms, gentle persuasions to remain and tender endearments of forever filled the minutes until with clear reluctance Erik said that they must return or risk being stumbled across by one of the men in search of water.

Christine doubted anyone would come near, but reluctantly disentangled from his relative warmth. After insisting on one more dip to wash away the soil that clung to her hair and body, she joined Erik, now dressed. He held her a short time against him to warm her in his embrace, briskly running his hands along her back, then helped her with her undergown, looser than the original with which he had first provided her, though still difficult to don over wet skin. Brushing his fingers beneath her chin, he bestowed one last kiss to her upturned lips, before she finished dressing.

As they neared the camp, the sound of the men's raucous joviality met their ears.

"At least there appears none of the usual trouble to greet us," Erik muttered, nonetheless taking loose hold of her arm and protectively moving closer as they broke through the trees into the fringe of the clearing.

What was left of the small band stood in a group, near the campfire, jesting and laughing in mockery. Christine's cheeks flamed when she saw what one of the men held high above his head, the object being the focus of the boisterous merriment.

"Mayhap it is a birdcage," Bertram said, poking the metal ribs.

"A birdcage without a bottom?" Anton scoffed.

"I believe it to be a trap."

The taller man, Anton, dropped the wire monstrosity over the shorter man's head. "Aye – that must be what it is!"

"Get this damned thing off me!" the trapped bandit, Pierre, shouted amidst another round of the men's laughter as he tore the ballooning wire contraption from his head and past his hips, where it had landed.

Christine felt Erik's stare though she did not return his gaze. The last she had seen that dratted 'cage', more elaborate than anything worn during her years at the opera, had been when she pulled it from over her drawers before she'd taken that first dip in the lake. She despised the thing and only had worn it to appease Raoul and try to fit into the snobbish clique of an evening with the de Chagny nobility.

"What say you, Phantom?" Bertram called out, having spotted their leader and Christine standing off to the side. "Any idea of what this could be?"

"A trap to confine a large bird. A nightingale, perhaps."

At his tongue-in-cheek remark, Betram scratched his head. "A what-in-gale?"

"A beautiful, exotic bird that possesses a beautiful song," Erik explained.

His voice remained calm, though Christine sensed a hint of amusement in his tone. A sidelong glance showed her the gleam that had entered his eye. She cheerfully could have hit him.

"Where did you find such a strange item?" he asked the men.

"Pierre and Anton found it downstream while hunting for supper."

Christine felt another flush of heat at the memory of her dress and underthings floating away.

"What use can come of such a thing?" Bertram asked dubiously.

"Keep it," Erik urged. "Perhaps we can use it."

Christine shot him a narrow look and he patted her hand that clutched his arm. "The boning might be of some use in building the set for whatever stage we can manage," he said beneath his breath to her. "Do not fear, Christine, the men of this century would never guess what its true function is. That secret is only for us to know, and I will never share."

"Hmph. You seem to be deriving a great deal of enjoyment from this," she accused, just as quietly. Though he was right – there was no way these medieval brigands could know what they tossed around, and assured in that knowledge, she too could begin to see the humor.

"I never understood the need for such items in women's fashion that are a deception to the true feminine form. I much prefer the costumes of yesteryear used on stage, such as the enticing gown you wore on the debut of Don Juan."

Weeks ago, she never thought she could casually recall that tragic night, much less mention it so glibly. She regretted so much of what had happened, as did he, but a lifetime seemed to pass within this month and it no longer wounded her heart to speak of it.

"The sheer bit of voile that revealed more than a passing glimpse of my legs could hardly be called a gown," she countered lightly.

"You do realize you are speaking to the designer," he said wryly, moving to face her, his hands slipping to her waist.

A smile tickled her lips as she raised her hands to lightly clasp his arms. "I had wondered, after having seen your sketches near your diorama and the doll that represented me in the same white dress I wore on my debut."

"I gave my designs for your costumes to Madame Giry as part of my demands for the opera."

She had seen his artwork that covered the cavern walls, drawings of her in different poses as well as of intricate architecture belonging to exotic places he must have once visited. It did not surprise her that he had extended his sublime skill of art to penning costumes.

"It gives me the greatest satisfaction to press my hands to your body and feel the give of soft flesh and not stiff boning." He demonstrated by squeezing her waist. "This century leaves much to be desired in many aspects, but in a woman's attire, I heartily approve."

"You would," she teased, secretly also in favor of such scandalous freedom though it had taken some time to grow accustomed to the absence of not only a corset and stockings but also drawers. Likewise, she admired the manner in which the thick hose molded to his lean, muscled legs and other delectable areas, better seen when he was shirtless…

Christine welcomed the gentle and repeated brush of his mouth against hers, leaning in to him. The men were still involved in revelry with their wretched discovery to give any notice to where she and Erik stood in the shadow of the trees. In that sense, they were alone, and she relished the moment.

The laughter abruptly ceased, as if cut away with a knife, a few of the men giving a shout.

Christine and Erik broke apart, turning their heads in alarm to see what had happened to upset the gaiety.

Into the clearing a lone figure staggered, a cloth sack held fast in his arms. The back of his shirt was torn, shredded and hanging in tatters, bloodied from lashes that had been viciously wielded against him. Barely able to walk from the resulting pain, he shuffled several more steps then fell hard to his knees, pitching forward to the ground…

xXx

A/N:… Oh, dear, this doesn't look good… (hmmm, I wonder who this could be… any thoughts?)

:)