Hymn Angelic does not own any characters, places, phrases, etc. from 'The Phantom of the Opera'.

Chapter 4:

'Awakening'

Rosalie pushed the door open silently. She slipped into the dark room, not bothering to shut the door behind her. She wanted to be able to get out of here as quickly as possible. She shouldn't be here. She knew she shouldn't. But when she had looked in this morning, Christine was sleeping so peacefully. She knew that her friend had been having difficulty sleeping lately, so now that she looked so serene and calm, Rosalie was loathe to wake her. It wouldn't take but a few moments anyway. Just replace the compress, then leave. No one needed to know. And besides, had Christine been awake, she would certainly have given Rosalie permission.

Her rationalizing carried her up to the bed. She paused, looking down on the man lying there. He was so still. It was hard to believe he was alive at all. She had to watch his chest carefully to even see the slightest motion. She stared at him, captivated by his features, and the strange mask that hid part of his face. What was under there? She shook her head to stop herself. This was nonsense. She wasn't going to even think about the mask, because if she did, she would get too curious. Curiosity killed the cat, she said to herself, one of Sophia's favorite sayings.

But as soon as she put her mind off the mask, a thousand other questions took her over. Who was he? Monsieur Fântome could not be his real name. Where was he from? How did Christine know him? Why was she so desperately concerned about his health? And why was it that he was at the de Chagny manor in the first place? Did he not have a home of his own, a family of his own? How had he gotten so ill? Why was he so thin? Why was the Viscount so hostile towards a man who seemed to be dying? It was obvious Raoul de Chagny did not want Monsieur Fântome in his house. Such disagreement between the Viscount and Countess was almost unheard of. They matched each other so perfectly.

She shrugged off her thoughts and questions, resolving to think on them more later. Perhaps ask Christine some questions, if she had calmed down enough to want to talk about it. She reached for the compress still on his forehead, planning to change it. But she never got so far.

One moment her hand was moving, unhindered, toward the compress. The next, it was immobilized by a single, gloved hand. His strong fingers curled around her wrist and even had she not frozen in shock, she would not have been able to move her hand with all her force. Not while he prevented it.

"Good…morning, monsieur," she managed to choke out, trying not to scream. Cold, calculating eyes scanned her.

"Might you tell me, mademoiselle, who you are and where I am?" It was not really a question. His voice…she closed her eyes. It was compelling and so powerful. She could imagine a person doing things they would never dream of, if this voice told them to do so. She realized suddenly that she had not answered his question.

"I…my name is Rosalie. I'm a maid here, the de Chagny manor." He hissed, and his grip on her tightened.

"De Chagny," he growled under his breath, eyes flashing. Rosalie suddenly felt that she wanted nothing more than to be away from this room, this man. She twisted her wrist a little, experimentally.

"Monsieur, I would be happy to fetch Madame le Vicomtess for you." He looked up at her sharply. She put on her most innocent expression. He gazed into her eyes, and she had the unpleasant sensation he was reading her mind. He smirked at whatever he saw, but he released her.

"But of course," he said, not addressing anyone in particular. He appeared lost in his thoughts, so Rosalie took that as a welcome dismissal. She hurried from the room, breathless.

She was rushing down the hallways, mind racing, when she smacked head-on into Raoul. He seized her arms.

"Rosalie? What's wrong?"

"Christine, I need-"

"She's asleep." The look he gave her was full of suspicion. "What do you need with her?"

"It's Monsieur Fântome…he's awake."

All color drained from the Viscount's face, and he released her immediately, though his hands still remained curled. In a moment, they tightened into fists. He strode quickly down the hallway towards the room, and Rosalie was left shaken, watching his retreating back.

Raoul's mind stayed studiously blank as he rushed down the hallway. He refused to think about the mere idea that the Phantom of the Opera was now awake and in his home. Thinking about it was admitting it was even possible. He could not believe it. If he pretended it could not happen, perhaps it had not. He reached the doors, and pushed them open violently.

He stared into the now painfully open eyes of his archrival. He saw, for a moment, hope in them, before they filled with darkness again.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," Erik raised himself, until he was leaning against the headboard. He nodded mockingly, eyes glittering. "I did not expect to see you again."

"Nor did I expect to see you," Raoul managed to grit out from between clenched teeth. "Alive, at least." Erik smiled, and there were few things colder, or more terrifying.

"Now, now, monsieur. Manners. I am, to the best of my understanding, your guest."

"You do not understand, then." Raoul could not believe this was happening. He was standing mere feet away from this…creature. He was not even really a man anymore. This monster kidnapped his beloved Christine, murdered so many people, nearly strangled him! Whatever moved her to pity him certainly did not affect Raoul. "I took your sorry corpse into my home out of human charity."

"I never asked for your charity," Erik spat furiously, his eyes flashing with disgust. He sat up higher, strengthened by his rage, challenging the currently stronger man. Raoul was happy to accept.

"And I never offered it! Were it not for Christine—" He broke off at the look in Erik's eyes. They had softened suddenly, at the beloved sound of her name.

"Christine," he murmured, and all his longing and pain were obvious. It only enraged Raoul further.

"Do not speak her name," he hissed. "You are unworthy to even think of her!" Erik hardened in an instant.

"Fool," he snarled, pulling himself up still more, "I have done more, sacrificed more for her than you could ever imagine!"

"You nearly murdered her! Had I not come in time, I shudder to think what perversions you would have-"

"How dare you…you could never understand my devotion! I have loved nothing else in my life! Everything I did, everything I do, everything is Christine!" In his fury, he had ignored his weakened state. Now, however, it became obvious he had overexerted himself. Erik gasped and clutched at his chest, before tumbling backwards onto the bed again.

The door flew open, and a breathless Christine barreled in. She took in the scene a moment before rushing to her former angel's bedside. She lay the back of her hand across his forehead as his entire body shuddered.

"What did you do to him?" She demanded of Raoul, whirling around to face him. Raoul gaped at her.

"What did I…I didn't do anything!" Christine scowled.

"Rosalie said he was awake, and now look what's happened! Can you not restrain yourself from antagonizing him, even now, when he may be on his deathbed?"

"He was antagonizing me!" Raoul protested his innocence, crossing his arms across his chest. Christine stared at him. He looked like a petulant child. How could her Phantom have that strong of an effect on him? To make him immediately regress into an irritable youth. She ignored the nagging voice that asked 'and what of the effect he has on you?'

"Go fetch the doctor," she said, beginning to prepare a new compress. Perhaps busy hands would keep her from thinking highly unwelcome thoughts.

"I'm not leaving you in here with him!"

"Raoul," with some effort she turned away from the still shaking Erik to face her husband. "please." Raoul growled in the back of his throat, unable to deny his beloved.

"I'm sending Xavier up," he said as he left, the unspoken continuation of 'to keep an eye on him' very obvious.

Christine turned back to Erik and finished the compress. She then dipped a cloth into the bowl of clear, cool water and began gently wiping his face. He blinked once, then his eyes slowly flickered open. Her heart caught in her throat as, for the first time in a year, she stared into the eyes she had not allowed herself to miss.

"Christine…"

"I'm here." She seized the hand he was struggling to lift and squeezed it. "I'm here."

"You…" his speech was labored, as was his breathing. She ached, seeing him so weak. "You disobeyed me, Christine." She hung her head, but held his hand even tighter.

"I know. I am sorry. But I couldn't let you die." He gently stroked the side of her hand with his thumb and she looked back at him. His eyes were so full of pain, she almost started to cry again. But she bit her lip, steeling herself. She would not cry in front of him.

"You should have," he whispered, narrowing his eyes at her slightly. She had to stifle a gasp that she knew would have led to tears. The very thought of leaving him to die tore her heart to shreds. She had a sudden image of his frigid corpse sinking in the lake. She shuddered and lay her head against their still joined hands.

"Never," she could not bring her voice to more than a whisper of a whisper, for fear she would not be able to hold her tears, "I could never."

The sound of approaching footsteps startled her and she jerked backwards, dropping his hand. The door opened and Xavier entered. He smiled mildly at Erik.

"Good morning, monsieur."

"So they say," Erik growled, and Christine felt a twinge of guilt. Why had she reacted the way she did to Xavier's approach? It wasn't as though she had been doing anything inappropriate. She had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. And she made him feel as though she was embarrassed by him. It all made her head throb, and she suddenly felt dizzy and enclosed.

"I think I will go have some breakfast, Xavier. Please wait with Monsieur Fântome until the doctor arrives."

"Of course, Madame," Xavier nodded politely. Christine made her way to the door, then turned suddenly, remembering.

"Would you like anything?" She asked, somewhat hopefully. Erik did not reply, choosing instead to fix her with a cool, low-level glare. It still froze her heart. She hurried out of the room, needing space far more than food.

Erik didn't like doctors. Prodding, poking people with no respect for one's personal space. Dr. Gillford was lucky that Erik was in such a weakened state, or he probably would not have left the room. However, that wasn't certain. Erik felt a strange compulsion not to kill in Christine's home. She had saved him, after all. The least he could do was respect her disapproval of violence. Though he wasn't really sure "saved" was the proper word. At the moment, he was of the opinion that death would be a far greater gift than any life he might win.

How long had he been here? How long had it been since that idiot doctor left? He was never talented with time. At the Opera, he had always been able to find what part of the day it was. When a performance started, it would be nearly nightfall. The ballerinas would practice at dawn, midday, as well as at several well-timed intervals in-between. He could guess how long it would be until certain events. How long until he could visit his angel. But even when he grasped the passage of days, when it was that days turned to weeks, months, years, still eluded him. Time was, of course, a highly subjective thing. To some, the idea of sitting in the darkness for untold hours was hell. It was his solace, his sanctuary.

He had sat there, in the lair he had created. He did not know how many days, how long exactly. For all he knew, it had all been only a day. Perhaps it was a thousand. He sat, he stared around at the flickering candles around him, and he asked 'how'? How did things go so wrong? How could she fear him? How could she not understand? How could she love that idiotic nobleman? How could he have let her slip through his fingers like that? How could he not? How could she betray him? She was his love, his life, the only light ever needed…how could she not see it? How could she fear the precious darkness he offered her? How could she deny him? How dare she!

Sometimes, during that untold expanse of time, he thought he had imagined it. The beautiful young soprano called Christine Daaé was only a figment of his fevered imagination. He had created her to fill his empty soul. Then why would I have let her go? He would ask himself. You could not stand to let yourself be happy, not even in fantasy. He would answer himself. He would stare down at his hands, trying to read them. Had they really caressed the smooth, pale skin? Had they really conducted her from his hiding place during music lessons? Had they really slid the mirror aside to grant her access to his secret world? He lifted one hand and gently touched his lips. Had she really kissed him? Had she seen his true face, and kissed him anyway? Had he really tasted the salt from their mixed tears as he pulled away from everything he had ever wanted?

It was impossible, he would decide. She could not have existed. So perfect, so lovely a being could not be real. He could not have heard a voice so heavenly. And if by some gift of heaven, she had existed…she certainly would not have wasted a moment of thought on him. If Christine Daaé was real, he must have implanted her into his deranged fantasies. He would never have met her, touched her, sung with her. So she might as well have been imagined.

Then he would decide, since he had already disproved the existence of the one living thing that had meant anything to him, why should all other humans he had met exist? If he could imagine a single person with such vivid detail, why not an entire opera house? Maybe all of them, from Madame Giry, who had always been helpful to him, to the disgusting toad called Carlotta…maybe they were all bits of his mind. After this, he would resolve to disprove the rest of his life. All the people who had abused him during his youth. They weren't really there. So they couldn't have hurt him.

Finally, when he had stripped his life of everything, he would set about unraveling himself. Why should he exist, when it seemed no one else did? Why should he live, when everything there was to live for was false? Perhaps he did not live. He may have already died, and not known it. He doubted that. Sitting in the flickering light, staring into space…it was not the release he dreamed death would be. It would be the simplest thing to lose his balance, to slip into the lake and let himself sink. But he couldn't do it. He wasn't sure why, but he, who had taken more than his share of lives, could not take his own.

He could not say when it was that it began. The dizzy spells, the convulsions. Soon, it took effort to take a simple drink of water. He saw her. He saw her everywhere. She was standing by his organ, she was dancing in the candlelight, she was partially submerged in the lake. He begged her to come to him, but she never obeyed. So he cursed her, but she ignored him. She was always there, just outside his reach. So, when after a particularly bad fit, he saw her creeping cautiously into his sanctuary, he was not surprised. The surprise came when he reached for her, and his hand made contact. Everything flooded to him. She was real. He was real. Everything was real. He tried to make her leave, but his strength was all but gone. When he slipped into darkness, his last sight was her worried face, and his last feeling the unpleasant sensation of being dragged along the rough stones.

He was plagued by dreams. At least, he assumed they were dreams. He drifted in and out of total oblivion, never sure where he was, or what was happening. He thought he heard her voice. He struggled to open his eyes, but his body had turned to a prison. He was trapped, unable to inspire his traitorous muscles to react to his commands. He would feel as though he might awaken, hear her somewhere above him. Almost immediately, however, he would sink back into the black, where all was empty and silent. But then he heard the gentle, but knowing, footsteps of a servant. He remained motionless, and waited for his time to strike.

She lied to him. She promised him Christine, but she brought him the fop. His hands clenched into fists involuntarily at the thought of that scum. He, who seduced Erik's angel with nonsense whispers about daylight. She used to understand. He knew that she understood. She could see the nurturing, loving side of darkness. But the idiotic Viscount distracted her with fork-tongued lies of cold and danger. Fool! He frightened her and twisted everything Erik had worked so hard for. She fell in love with him. She was never supposed to love him. Erik couldn't imagine it. She had been his darling angel ever since she was small. And she dared to love some ridiculous nobleman?

He couldn't let her be unhappy. He tried. He tried to convince himself that it was better to hold her against her will than to let her be happy and free. So even when she swore she would stay with him, mend all the dreams her betrayal had shattered…he couldn't do it. He knew that she would be upset. And he could never see her unhappy. All he had done, he had done to make her happy, to make things better for her. But she didn't understand. She couldn't see it. And he knew he couldn't force her to see it. So he let her go. He sat at the edge of the lake and watched the only thing that could mean as much to him as music sail away.

And now he was near her again. It was driving him insane. She might be just outside the door, but she might as well be across the ocean. Not only did he lack the strength to rise from his bed, but she seemed so empty. Her mind used to be open to him, and he always could see and feel what she was feeling. Now she was closed off. Her eyes, which once sparkled, were vacant. Except for the shining of tears. She must have thought he couldn't see that she was about to cry. She didn't remember that he could tell. He always could tell, and he hadn't lost that gift.

The creaking of the door startled him, and he looked up sharply. He was alone in the room. Xavier had exited, under orders from the doctor to let Erik "have some rest". His breath caught in his throat. It was Christine.

"What did the doctor say?" She asked in a whisper. His heart dropped. Of course. She worried only about his health, so she could be rid of him as soon as possible. He quickly adopted his usual sarcastic cover.

"He didn't tell me a thing. Of course, I'm only the patient, what right have I to know?"

"Raoul wouldn't tell me what he said," she said, coming closer and biting her lip. If she had hoped to connect with Erik, she had ruined her chances merely by mentioning the hated name. He froze, and glowing eyes narrowed.

"I'm sure he does not wish to trouble you, Madame le Vicomtess." Christine physically shivered at the pure ice in his voice. But she was determined not to let him know how he affected her.

"You must be right," she said, trying to infuse her own voice with warmth to melt his ice, "but I still wanted to know."

"I'm sure my pitiful life is a source of much entertainment to you."

"Not at all!" She was mortified he could think such a thing of her. "I only worry about-"

"Don't." His tone was clipped now, impersonal. But in ways it was even more painful than the cold that had been in his voice previously. "Think on me no longer, Christine."

"But, but I-"

Erik steeled himself internally, though his face remained impassive. It killed him to say it, to even consider saying it. But he must. He had no choice in the matter.

"I have certainly ceased to think on you."

The way her face fell made him feel as though he was physically shattered, split in two. The tension pushed him towards insanity, and he almost wanted to burst into laughter that she believed his blatant lie. But he knew he could not be selfish any longer. He had to give her what was best for her, not what he wanted. She would be happiest if she forgot all about him, and lived in bliss with her ignorant husband. He would become nothing more than a shell without even the thought of her, but that was unimportant. All he should care about was her well-being. But even Erik would admit that it was hell watching her struggle not to break down.

"I shouldn't be here." She started backing towards the door. Though it was what he told himself he wanted, Erik was hurt by her sudden change. If she truly had cared about him, she would not give it up in no more than an instant.

"Why? Would Monsieur le Vicomte disapprove?" He spat out Raoul's title viciously, and Christine's eyes burned with more than tears.

"Yes, I believe he would. And he has a right to. He is, after all, my husband." It was a low, obvious dig. But that did not lessen the sting. Erik's eyes widened, the pain of her sharp words biting into him. Christine's own eyes grew, in shock at her vicious outburst. She had not known herself capable of such a thing.

"Leave me." Almost in tears, Christine turned to go. But as she lay her hand on the door handle, she remembered something and turned around. He glared at her, and she was almost too afraid to ask. But she steadied herself.

"Would it be too much to ask for my guest's name?"

"Given the circumstances, Madame, I believe so."

Christine could not stand to be in the room any longer, and quickly exited. Erik stared at the door long after she had disappeared. His mind raced, picturing far more enjoyable scenarios. Most of them involved singing, and a good deal of skin contact. But his fantasies would be all he had. He had now effectively shunned his beloved for the second time in as many years. He hated himself for it, but he was used to that. He shut his eyes wearily. The events of the day had tired him. It was time to sleep. However, he was no where near foolish enough to believe it would give him any kind of release.

Author's Notes: Thank you my darlings for your dedication! I had less reviews this time (awww…) but a large number of hits (yay!) so I'm hoping there are readers not taking the time to review. To you I say: Thanks so much for reading, but try to take the time if you can! I love reviews; they really make me feel inspired to write more. I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations. On an unrelated note: I've been reading some books about writing romance. Hopefully that will help when it comes to sex scenes. Sex scenes? Who said sex scenes? I didn't say sex scenes.

Electricdragon: Don't think I've seen you before. Glad you like! I personally don't think Raoul is mean…just deeply stupid. It's not his fault. He's a nobleman. Nobleman Fop ≠ Brain

Twinkle22: So very happy you're enjoying my fic! Hope this chapter lived up to your dreams .

AMaskandanAngel: Aw, the poor dear is trying as hard as he can. It's not his fault he was born with only half a brain. Pity him! Pity for the fop! Ahem. Anyway, currently basking in the glow of compliments. Bask is a fun word.

Tamelia: o.O So…many…lists….squee! Insert happy dance here. Okay, explanation time: Rosalie's mummy was a hooker. Her daddy was married, but his wife couldn't have kids. So when her daddy found out about Rosalie, he took her to come live with him and his wife. His wife was happy to have a kid, but pissed because she figured out that husband + hooker Rosalie. Rosalie then grows up, basically gets kicked out once her daddy dies, then starts working for the illustrious de Chagny clan. Clear as mud?

Tune in for the next chapter: 'Triumph'

Also: somebody beta me! Please!