After visiting La Conciergerie in Paris (but only after THE opera house, of course) a long ago forgotten idea came to my mind, to be finished this time. Let me tell you, it was the hardest story to write so far. Please tell me what you think of it! And as always, thank you for all of you who are still here, reading my stories and expressing your continued support on my works. You are the best.:)

The door in front of her opened and she stepped in.

Darkness.

And cold.

Christine pulled the two halves of her tattered shawl tighter around her shoulders.

People. There were people all around her, people she couldn't recognize, people who begged for freedom or were swearing unspeakable things at each other and there was that smell…

She looked around, her vision slowly getting used to the dim light in the corridors, then slowly her eyes made out several doors on either side of the narrow passage. The noise was unbearable. Men, several men's shouts swirling around her and…

"This way, Madame."

The words came from her companion. She had a companion.

Following him she turned to the right, going along a long corridor that led her back to the daylight then the tall, uniformed man disappeared on the other side of the ambulatory, leading her back to the darkness of the unknown. Stepping inside the building she found the man again, passing another long tunnel, then he turned to the left and stopped in the center of an intersection.

"Five minutes," he told her curtly, then entered a small room at her left, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the alley.

And that was when she saw him.

Her knees shook dangerously, threatening to give away from under her and she swallowed with difficulty.

"Erik."

At his name his back straightened and he turned around, and in no time Christine was kneeling in front of him, holding onto his hand through the bars.

"Christine, don't cry," he told her gently, running the fingers of his free hand along her cheek. It was so familiar, his touch felt against her skin as comforting as it always did – yet there was something undetectable in it, something that was not caused by the fact that he was separated from her by several iron bars. A ghost's touch.

And she was sobbing. She couldn't remember when was the last time she cried so hard, throat dry while her face was wet all over. She couldn't breathe.

"How much time did you get?" He asked her as calmly as if it wasn't him who was locked up in a cell no bigger than her closet at home… used to be. There's no home now. There was absolutely no furniture in this cell, not even a bed and the floor was littered with dirty straw – and he wanted to comfort her.

"Five minutes," she managed to answer, pressing her forehead to the bars in the hope to be as close to him as possible. He did the same but the gesture was only a cruel reminder of what it used to feel like. Maybe… maybe it could be solved. Maybe he wouldn't have to stay here forever. But she already knew it was just wasted hope, as it always was. "What's the judgment?" She whispered, though she already knew the answer for that.

He didn't respond immediately; he looked down at her miserable clothing and tightened his grasp on her fingers before shaking his head silently.

The though made her feel sick and reeling and breathless and she doubled over with all the despair of it. He couldn't die. Not now. Not like this. Not without…

"Christine…"

She tore away from his consoling grasp. "No! They can't…" The air around her became thick – or disappeared altogether, she couldn't tell, and she was falling, falling and was helpless and powerless and she never had been so alone before… ever. Without him… life meant nothing if he wasn't there in it anymore.

"When?" It took her a moment to realize that the sound of the question came from her raw throat. He would have raged at her for ruining her fine instrument – and now he didn't say a word about it.

"Tomorrow. At dawn." His fingers continued their slow caress on the back of her hand, torturing her with the thought that this was the last time she would feel his touch. Her heart would have clenched at that thought had it not stopped beating long ago.

"I will come back tonight," she promised, kissing the back of his hand when she heard the sound of shuffling steps behind her.

"Madame."

Strong arms lifted her from the ground and she was lead away from him.

- o -

Everything looked the same as it did years ago in that room; it was her who had changed so unrecognizably. Never did she possess the wealth and elegance of his title, but she had been at least clothed decently enough to be considered presentable. Now it was all gone. Shame and embarrassment crushed her posture as she took a seat in one of his fancy armchairs, the contrast between her ragged clothes and his upscale furniture painfully striking.

She shouldn't have come back. They hadn't spoken to each other in years and she came to beg.

"Why did you come to me?"

"I couldn't go anywhere else," she explained mortified, watching how Raoul stood from the chair behind his desk and started to pace around in the room. Briefly he rested one outstretched arm on the mantel and she caught a glimpse of something glittering on his finger – a ring. He was married. To someone who was more suitable for him than she ever would have, undoubtedly, and there was no way she could play on his feeling for her when he had none of such feelings anymore.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked her suddenly after a long silence, stopping next to an exquisite statue in the other end of the room.

It was no use of holding onto the remnants of her dignity. It didn't matter anymore.

"I need your help." Raoul, she wanted to add, but couldn't. She drew in a deep breath before speaking again. "He's been caught and…" Her voice broke on the rest of the sentence but fortunately Raoul turned to her to speak.

"I've heard of it." That was all he said and she longed to cry at the cruel injustice of it – only that it was not unfair, she knew it. It was a straight outcome of all the things he had committed but he just couldn't die.

"I can't do anything to stop them but I thought that maybe you…" She looked at him with pleading eyes, wishing that only a fracture of his feeling for her had remained present in him but there was no use. His eyes were looking back her with an indifferent expression.

"And why would I help you? I have no reason for such generosity."

"For old times' sake…" she tried miserably.

"That… man tried to kill me." He said the word with such disgust that she wanted to slap him – but she couldn't, of course. He was a nobleman, a Vicomte, and she was a nobody, not even the celebrated diva of the stage anymore. Nothing. And she needed his help.

"But I love him," she begged, refraining from falling on her knees in front of him. Erik would already be outraged to learn that she came to Raoul for his sake. No more. "You loved me once; you know how it feels…"

"But it's over. You chose him."

"I can't lose him," she implored, the thin hope in her dropping when he stared out at the window to the exclusive garden outside, wordless for several minutes.

"Raoul, please." She was weeping by now, open and shameless, as it was all over now. Nothing mattered anymore.

"For old times' sake," he said gravely at last, turning back to her with an unnamed expression, pretending not to be moved by her tears. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," she whispered.

- o -

Then she was back with him again.

Rumors had reached her ears about the Vicomte de Chagny trying to use his influence on behalf of the Phantom but it was no use. There was nothing to be done by now and so she was kneeling in front of his cell again, clinging to his hand and choking on her own tears. She was about to lose her husband and with him she would die, too. Perhaps he suspected that much as well.

"I don't want you to come tomorrow, Christine. I don't want you to see it," he told her gently, once again drawing his thumb over the back of her hand as if it would solve anything.

"I'm going to follow you, you know," she told him, almost resigned in the thought that at least she would die with him. They still would be together.

"Christine, no. Don't." Reaching across the bars he lifted her face to look at him. "Promise me you won't do anything."

"I don't have to promise anything, I will die without you anyway," she sobbed. He rested his head against the bars and she leaned forward, too, just too feel his touch a little longer.

Something tugged at her arm and she looked down; his fingers pressed something into her palm and she opened it: his ring was resting in her hand.

"Keep it," came his ragged breathing. "They're going to take away everything and I want you to have it. Give it back to me after…" He didn't finish it and her fingers closed around the object. When she looked back to his eyes she saw the tears that she heard in his voice before and she leaned forward, kissing him desperately across the bars; and that was when she heard the footsteps again, at which Erik drew away from her, whispering again, "Give it back to me."

She nodded at that though she couldn't remember moving her head. "I love you," she told him.

"I love you, too," he echoed and she was forced to leave him again.

- o -

She didn't fulfill his request, after all.

At dawn, she was the first to arrive at the marketplace as she wasn't allowed to him anymore – no amount of tears or pleas could grant her that luxury – and so she saw how people gathered to watch the final moments of the once unconquerable ruler of the opera house.

She despised them all. They came to pry at his death and his face, but what was the most revolting, none of them were there to help them. This was what they wanted and now they would get it and they were happy and not a single person among them felt what she felt, and they cared absolutely nothing about her. She hated them and felt sorry that she couldn't hurt them; she wanted to hurt them as badly as she was, and she was angry that she couldn't achieve it because she could do absolutely nothing.

When the first viewers arrived she veiled her face under her shawl but as the throng gathered she couldn't hide anymore. Everyone knew why she was lurking around in that corner and she threw back her shawl with venom.

Let them see it, then, let them feast their eyes on the suffering they caused.

But no one cared about it.

Some time later there was a little gathering at one of the corners of the place and gendarmes appeared at once, then there was him, shackled and maskless and she staggered backwards until her back hit someone, then she quickly moved forward without having the intention to apologize. It didn't matter. It was just another bystander.

Her husband was led to the middle of the space and up to the scaffold while everyone around them threw insults at him, many of them curses at his face, ironically at the only thing that was not his fault. And he didn't say anything, didn't even look around as he walked under the halter; and she was confused why they chose such an inhuman way to carry out the judgment when laws determined it otherwise, and nothing of these made any sense anyway because she couldn't even remember how could they even find him in the first place. Laws were against her and never before did she loathe the laws, the state, the judges and every single person around her in general as they were unable to care about what she wanted.

He saw her then, looking down from the scaffold with an expression that told her 'I'm sorry' and she knew she shouldn't be there, he asked her not to be there and she indeed, shouldn't look but she wasn't able to take her eyes off of him, even upon witnessing how the rope was secured around his neck – a merciless reminder of what he had done to others – and after that she was still looking, only into his eyes, and she felt the same rope around her neck, then the trapdoor beneath him opened and everything went black.

- o -

"Christine. Christine!"

She was jolted awake with forceful shakes and her eyes snapped open – her husband was looking back at her.

The room spun around her head with the trembling intakes of breaths.

"You're here," she gasped, reaching out to take his damaged cheek.

"You've been crying in your sleep," he explained, closing his eyes briefly when she brushed a thumb across his face. "With real tears. It never happened before."

"You're here," she repeated dumbly, the feeling of his body against hers slowly registering with her senses. He was here. Beside her. He wasn't called to account for his past crimes. Waves of his breaths caressed her face in the most reassuring way while his hands slowly warmed her shoulders. The scent of sleep clung to his skin and she breathed him in deeply, her body shuddering from breathless sobs as his arms came around her when she crawled closer to him.

"Show me your hand," she mumbled against his neck after a few moments.

"Christine, you're awake. Whatever it was, it wasn't real," he said, kissing her temple reverently.

"I know," she agreed. "Show me your hand," she repeated, firmer this time, and he pulled back slightly to comply her wish. It was his wrong hand, though, and she grabbed at his left, letting out a rugged sigh when she found the ring gleaming on his fourth finger. He didn't give it to her to bury him with it. It was just a dream.

A nightmare, she corrected instantly, and she pressed a messy kiss at his ring, barely registering that she was still crying. None of those things were real. He was here, safe and alive in her arms, in their bed, in their home. She could make out the familiar scent of the bedclothes, the moonlight seeping through the patterns of the curtains, the soft ticking of the clock in the parlor drifting up to their room. They were together.

"You're here," she gasped between sobs and his hold tightened around her, swiftly pulling her up and into his lap as he sat up against the headboard.

"I'm always here," came his voice, his breath ruffling the curls behind her ear. Her fingers tightened their grasp on his bare back.

"You weren't in my dream," she wept, choking on her next breath. "They caught you."

"Who?"

"Gendarmes. They locked you up to…" Finishing it was impossible and so she drew in a quivering breath instead. "It was dark. And small and filthy… nothing like the opera house." She looked up at him and his hand brushed against her cheek, wiping away some of her still present tears. Usually she hated to be seen in her weakness but now his concern brought nothing but solace. He was alive. "And I wasn't able to help you get out."

"No bars could hold me should I see you like this," he told her softly and nothing he could say would have reassured her more than that. Of course he wouldn't let that happen. The Phantom! No one had ever found him, let alone caught him and held him captive. It was absurd. Looking back on it, nothing in that dream had been real, or even rational. Raoul would never be that indifferent to her, no matter what happened– not to mention that Erik would never accept that there was nothing to be done. And she had actually spoken to Raoul when he came to see her sing in the rebuilt opera house. He would help but there was no need to because Erik could take care of himself.

His hands caressed slow paths on her back and she basked in the magnificent feeling of skin against skin and how his even breathing moved her chest in synch with his, or how soothing it was to feel his cheek resting against her temple and face.

"I even sought out Raoul to beg him to use his power to release you," she said at last.

"I couldn't possibly accept that," he muttered, resting one arm around her waist.

Unwanted, a smile started to form on her lips. "I know. I was desperate." And it was nothing but an insane nightmare. Born from her deepest fears, but still, it was nonsense, and she was still terrified and fascinated at the same time with her intense reply to it. Being alone after having someone so close to her was a far too menacing fear, and it struck her with an unforgiving blow that she wasn't the only one who experienced its threat.

"How could you endure the thought of never being able to see me again?" She asked him, half-afraid to hear his answer.

He didn't respond her immediately. "I couldn't." His hold on her waist tightened before he spoke again. "I did the same that you did only minutes ago. I… I hoped you'd never know about it."

"You still told it to me," she urged him gently.

"Because you asked me. I can't lie to you anymore," he told her, carding his fingers through the length of her hair.

Swallowing, she let out an uneasy sigh. "I didn't know what would I find when I came back. I feared the worse."

Looking down he grasped her hand briefly before looking back into her eyes. "Even when I was at the lowest I wouldn't have let them. I could have done that job myself."

A shudder tore through her body as the meaning of his words sunk in and her voice failed her at first when she tried to speak again. "You didn't try it, did you?"

His reply didn't come immediately and she felt how his heart fluttered at her suggestion while his whole body tensed around her. "No," he said at last. "I would have done it right for the first time."

Her heart gave a strange leap yet she couldn't help but ask. "Why didn't you?"

"You kissed me," he murmured into her hair, his fingers drawing a long path down on her back. "I wasn't sure I would still feel it on the other side."

She closed her eyes at that, being only dimly aware how the two teardrops would roll down to his chest, belying her pretended composure in a matter of moments. "I didn't mean to…" She began but then choked on the rest of the sentence.

"I know," he breathed, burying his face in her hair. "Things didn't happen in the end how I wanted them, either."

Shifting a little she rested her forehead on his shoulder, listening to his uneven breathing. It was not as if she never presumed him considering doing something irreversible. It was that very thought that urged her a little faster when she was too tired to move at all and gave her courage to turn into another darkened corridor. But hearing him admitting that he had indeed entertained such thoughts was far more overwhelming than the mere suspicion of it.

But then he didn't do it, after all, even if he was sure never to see her again and there was no point in asking him about it ever since then. At some point they came to a silent agreement of not talking about what happened, eventually leading her not even thinking about it anymore.

"I haven't even thought of what happened back then for a very long time," she mused aloud.

"Why now?"

"There was that man…"

"What man?" He asked at once.

"A man was executed this morning for multiple murders. Some of the cast went to see it."

"Was there any talk of the Phantom?"

"No." She took a deep breath, looking away, then placed her palms on his chest, eyes fixed on their movements. "They said he deserved it, which is true; but then the parallelism struck me…"

"Struck you?"

"That's not the first thing what occurs to me when I think of you," she scolded, looking up in his eyes.

There was a thick layer of uncertainty to his voice when he spoke again. "What is it, then?"

Her lips pulled into a dreamy smile. "Your eyes when you smile at something what I say. The way you reach for my hand before falling asleep. Your voice when you call my name when…" She fell silent with a shy smile. "Or that you left your hair grow a little longer just because you know I love it. I know you prefer it to be shorter." Leaning forward she embraced him again. "I love you so much, Erik."

No words followed her confession and his uneven breathing was the only sound in the room for long minutes.

"Your kindness was in vain," he rasped at last, voice low and strained, and his grip on her tightened to an almost painful level. "I would kill again just to stay beside you."

Her palm caressed the soft hair at his nape. "And I would let you get away with it." Resting her forehead on his shoulder, she added. "I hope there would be no need for that, though."

"Of course not. I'm very skillful at hiding, you know."

A short chuckle left her lips at his light and confident tone and he smiled back at her in return, melting the last remnants of her worries at last. Leaning forward she hid her face in his neck, breathing him in deeply, then drawing back to speak again. "Thank you for waking me up. Ironic, that it was you who saved me from seeing your death."

His fingers skimmed her brows, then tucked a curl behind her ear. "What was that?"

"You really want to know?"

"It's not as if it could hit me unprepared," he said dryly.

"Rope," she blurted out in a choke.

"Fitting enough," he remarked.

She shuddered at his words and held him tighter. "I think my education is lacking at certain areas." He made a questioning sound at which she continued. "You have to teach me how to shoot away a rope from a fair distance."

He eyed her for a long time, his eyes taking up a mischievous glint. "Fine, but you won't get any knives. You already cut your finger yesterday."

"Just a little."

"Just enough to not be able to play that E flat major chord."

"I would hardly need it for rescuing you," she retorted playfully.

"Of course you would! How do you plan to entertain me afterwards?"

"I love it when you're doing this," she told him with a laugh.

"I love it when you smile." His thumb brushed along her lips and she offered him another smile.

"May I stay here?" She requested but snuggled close to him without waiting for his answer.

"Uh-hm." Reaching out he got hold of the coverlet, draping it around the two of them. "Sleep well, love." He kissed her on the lips.

"Yes. You too."

She fell asleep on his lap not long later, his arms folded securely around her form in the same way they had been so many nights ago.

This time, however, she did not wake for the feeling of an awkward parting but for the relief of how air caressed her shoulder with his every intake of breath.