Phantom of the Opera 1. Prologue

_"Get in!" an officer, appearing to be in his early thirties, yelled, rain pounding on the Swedish man being shuffled into the gas chambers. A young girl ran frantically behind him, screaming in terror._

_"Daddy!" she called. Usually, Adolf Hitler reserved Swedes from the horrors of concentration camps. However, this man and his daughter were the exception to the rule. They, and a few others, whom already awaited cremation, had been in charge of smuggling Jews out of Poland. They had travelled throughout all of Poland helping the Jewish Poles escape. They had smuggled more than fifty families to America, tipping off cargo ships to hide and carry the unusual bit of cargo across the seas, and Hitler wanted them dead._

_The man, quite young and muscular in build, looked behind him, hearing his daughter's voice and giving her an encouraging smile. _

_"Oroa dig inte, my sweetest," he called encouragingly to her, resisting the guards and crowd for but a moment, allowing his little girl to jump into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing uncontrollably. _

_"Move along!" The guard called, the red swastika-band around his left arm the only bit of color in the sad, dreary concentration camp. He gruffly grabbed the man, separating the daughter from her only family left, her mother having been shot at an unpredictable raid of their house following Hitler's learning of their actions. The man willingly let the guard take him, knowing that if he fought any longer, they would take his daughter as well. _

_"Stay there, dear!" He called, pleading for her to obey him, his voice shaky with hidden sobs as tears mingled with the raindrops falling from the sky. "I love you! Never forget that, darling. Be strong, my daughter... Be strong..." And with that, the guard dragged the Swede through the iron door, the protesting from the prisoners dying slowly, their screams of fear cut short, like the last breath of a hanged man._

_The girl ran to the door, pushing through the guards, unable to believe he was gone. She didn't know what, exactly, was going to happen inside that room, being at the still young and naive age of fourteen, but she felt she was never going to see her father again. Breathing raggedly and screaming in Swedish, she banged on the door, calling for her father. Two young guards grabbed her and dragged her away, their faces oblivious to all emotion. They dragged her to the cells, as she still fought, dragging her heels into the thick mud surrounding her, trying desperately to escape. Pulling open the iron-door to the child's sector, she was shoved onto a tiny bunk already occupied by several, incredibly malnourished and starving eight year-old girls. The two guards left, just as quickly as they arrived, closing the large door shut with a CLANG!, the sound echoing across the concrete walls of the tiny, heavily populated prison that served as a home to the hopeless, haunted souls inside._

_The young girl fell to the floor, brown curls flying like a mad torrent about her face. She quickly ran to the door again, pleading for them to let her out._

_"Please!" she called, the only sound in the desolate and broken, both in the spirit of the people and in the physical make-up of the cell, atmosphere being her sobs. "My papa needs me! Please..." She pounded her fists. "Please... I need him, and he needs me... We only have each other... Please..." _

_She fell to her knees, her sobs unheard and her spirit broken. She fell apart completely, whatever strength she had managed to keep tearing apart now. "Papa!" she yelled one last time before an eighteen year old girl picked her up and held her closely, allowing the girl to cry into her shoulder. The older girly calmly brushed loose curls from her face, trying to be strong for this young girl, hoping to restore faith before she was destroyed by the cruelties of Auschwitz. _

_"Hush, child," she chided, softly. "My name is Meg, and I will look after you." She waited patiently for the sobbing to subside before she asked, "Will you tell me your name?" _

_There was a pause. _

_"Christine Daae," the whisper finally said._

* * *

_**Haha, hey guys! Surprise, surprise! I have another story! Please, bear with me. I've just been... A bit out of the mood for my other stories (I should really think before posting stories). Don't worry, I'll try to get some new stuff up for them soon. **  
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_**In the mean-time, I hope you enjoy this. **_

_**Please review! It would make me extremely happy! And the happier I am, the more motivated I am. **_

**_Thanks for your support, and I hope you'll stick with me throughout the remainder of this story. _**

**_~Venture Wood_**

**_P.S. "Oroa dig inte" is Swedish for "Do not worry", in case you were wondering._**

**_P.P.S Also if you were wondering, I made Meg eighteen because I just thought that it would be nice to have a little change. No one ever said Christine and Meg were ever the same age, so I thought it would be nice to make Meg the older care-taker and last hope for the soon to be hope-less Christine Daae._**


	2. Prologue II

**_Holy Macho man in a cheese bag, you guys reviewed quickly! I honestly wasn't expecting any reviews until... Next week. Ish. Along those lines. _**

**_Anyway, I am very grateful to those of you who have reviewed! I'm glad you like it, but just to clear things up, this idea belongs- Okay, this idea is different compared to the one that gave me inspiration for this. But I still want to give the author credit so I'm not sued, or whatever it is they're planning on doing to me if I don't give them credit. I honestly can't tell you who it is because it would ruin my entire story-line, and I really don't want to ruin the surprises. And I'm sure that if the author is reading this, they will be able to tell that it is them that I am crediting. Make sense? Good. Doesn't make sense? I'm sorry, but I'm moving on. _**

**_By the way, this is the prologue continuing on, just in case you were confuzzled._**

* * *

_It had been two long years. It was now 1945 and the war was over. It had taken two long years of hardship and suffering for the now sixteen year-old Christine Daae to win freedom; freedom from this camp, Auschwitz, the resembled the darkest pits of Hell. _

_"Christine Daae," a sergeant from the U.S. army called patiently, waiting for her to come forward. The surviving inmates were all congregated in front of a legion of U.S. military owned vehicles that were going to free them from Hell. Most of the patients were starved and too weak they could not walk, so they lay on stretchers that would, when their name was called and they were determined free, be carefully carried onto a medical vehicle that would escort them to a hospital where treatment would begin to cure them from the only thing that could be cured: their current physical stature. Most of the people, not only the frail and weak ones waiting on the stretchers, would never heal; not completely. A good fraction that lay there now were dying as they awaited freedom, and the hospitals would not be able to do anything but keep them comforted until eternal rest finally found the broken souls of the tormented. _

_Christine, one of the lucky ones that could stand, due to secret special treatment (since she was still Swedish), managed to limp past the crowd of people and up to the sergeant. _

_"You are free, now," he said with rare tears in his eyes. He shook her hand, and was not surprised when she collapsed into his arms, thanking him fervently for her rescue. She pulled away from his strong and well-meaning grasp, tears blurring her vision, and went to load onto one of the cars when he stopped her. "Miss Daae, just a moment, please." He searched in a black bag, his fingers thumbing through files of papers, seeking something he wished to give to her. When he found it, he stood up straight and handed her a certificate bearing, "GUSTAVE DAAE 1913-1943; FATHER AND WELL-RECOGNIZED HERO; HE IS PRAISED FOR HIS HEROIC ACTIONS". _

_"This is for me?" Christine managed through tears. _

_The sergeant nodded. "We wish to apologize for his untimely death and give this certificate unto you as a physical substance of him, as it is impossible to find his ashes." The sergeant choked on his words. Clearing his throat and trying to remain official, he continued, "We wish you our condolences and hope his death does not haunt you too severely. Good luck, Miss Daae." _

_The crowd of former-inmates clapped weakly, though their enthusiasm was easily recognized. Christine, feeling numb at the memory of her father, was led carefully onto one of the cars. Being the last to fit on this particular vehicle, the door was shut and the engine started. Christine was more than excited to be free, but she was afraid of the world out there. She did not know where she was going to go, and she did not know how, or if, her scars would heal._

_"Christine?" a familiar voice called from the back of the military vehicle, once used to transport large populations of soldiers. "Christine, are you there?" _

_"Yes, Meg, I am here." _

_"Oh, thank goodness... Will you come here, child?" _

_Christine groped lamely about, trying to find her friend. Out-stretched arms brushed her arms. _

_"I am here," Meg said. Christine felt for the arms again and let them pull her onto a lap, presumably Meg's. "Are you comfortable?" _

_"I am fine, Meg." Christine felt honored to have someone who cared so much for her. Very few people in this vehicle, the vehicles ahead, and the vehicles behind, had anyone like that. Christine tried to relax, just like the voice of her friend's, but she still felt tense and her mind felt only anxiety. She tried to convince herself that everything would be just fine and that she was safe now, but this did nothing to soothe her. _

_Christine asked very tentatively, "Meg, where will I go? I have no more f-family." Christine stuttered on the word "family", a word that once brought comfort, but now only brought pain. _

_"Hush, Christine." Meg's voice was very relaxed, as Christine had always known it to be. "Everything will be all right, I promise you this."_

_"But Meg, where will I go? I do not want to be left on the streets as a beggar..." Christine suddenly collapsed, ragged sobs escaping her mouth. "I do not want to starve anymore, Meg. I do not want to live in fear any longer. I want to be happy and safe, as I once was with Papa..." _

_"Calm, Christine. I know where you can go." _

_"Y-you do?"_

_"Yes. You can come with me to live with my Mama at the Paris Opera House."_

_Christine pondered these words. She had never known that Meg still had family; she had always presumed her parents had died in the gassing chambers, just like her father, and had been fearful to bring the topic up. _

_"You live in Paris?" Christine asked after a brief moment of silence._

_"Yes, I do." _

_Christine thought for a little longer, new questions forming in her mind. Perhaps she did not know her friend as well as she had thought. _

_"How did you end up here?" _

_Meg calmly began to recite her story, "I worked with a party known as the Resistance." _

_"The Resistance..." Christine echoed the words, trying to give her mouth something to do other than cry._

_"Yes, do you know of them?" _

_"Yes, my Papa spoke of them frequently. He said they would be our Saviors."_

_Christine did not know it, for it was dark (the vehicle lacking windows, excepting the one that divided the passengers from the driver), but Meg blushed. "My Mama and I, as well as the managers and other employees at the Opera House, helped house the Resistance meetings beneath the Garnier. I was helping move a party of injured, downed Russian pilots to the Opera House past curfew, when I was caught. Fortunately, though, I was the only one. My comrades that were there managed to hide the Russian pilots and themselves before they could be seen." _

_"Why didn't they help you?" Christine asked, unable to comprehend why the other Resistance workers did not help her. _

_"My comrades? They could not, though I'd like to the think they wanted to. We all take an oath, you see, that while we are 'on-duty' as 'rescuers', as we like to call them, we are to take care of ourselves and our injured patients only. It is selfish, but it makes sense and it is highly effective." _

_Christine understood, but it still didn't keep her from feeling sick. _

_"The guards saw only me," Meg continued, "and they brought me to a certain higher-ranking officer, whose name I do not remember. He determined-"_

_"Meg, I do not want to be rude, but could we switch topics? I do not want to talk of the war, any longer." Christine interrupted._

_"What do you want to talk about, then?" _

_Christine thought about it. "Tell me more about the Opera House. Are you sure your Mama and the other staff-members won't mind?" _

_"I am absolutely certain. You will probably start as a chorus girl and make your way up from there." _

_Christine's thoughts faltered. "You mean I'm supposed to perform?" _

_"Yes, of course. That is the only way you can stay. Unless you want to become a stage-hand, and that's not a position you'll fancy, especially since the majority of them are drunk."_

_"Oh," Christine muttered, but she was not really listening. Her thoughts were instead focused on the days when she was younger and living in the country-side of Sweden with both her parents, alive and well, this memory triggered after she had said, "perform". She remembered quite vividly how she used to dress-up in her fanciest dress and perform for her parents, singing the newest folk song her father had taught her, or the nursery rhyme she had learned at school._

"Bravo!" _her parents had called enthusiastically, standing for an ovation._

"My word, Christine," _her father had said with his biggest grin on his face. _"You truly have a talent."

"Do I really, Papa?" _she had exclaimed, wishing for him to confirm it. _

"Yes, you do! I am a very fortunate violinist to be playing with such a talented singer."

"As are the people who hear you, darling," _her mother had chimed in. Gustave Daae had nodded his head in agreement. _

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think the Angel of Music has been with me?"

_Gustave had chuckled. _"Yes, my dear, I do believe he has been with you." _Little Christine had smiled in glee. _"And I'll tell you a secret. Are you ready to hear it?" _Christine nodded enthusiastically, sitting at his feet with wide eyes. _"Are you ready, Little Lotte?" _She__ nodded some more. _"I don't know if I should tell you... It will ruin the surprise."

"No, Papa! Please! I will die if you do not tell me!"

_Gustave's eyes widened, _"You will die? Oh, we cannot have that! I will tell you. But you have to keep it a secret. Do you promise me?"

"Yes, now tell me, Daddy!"

_She remembered that both her parents had laughed. _"Alright, anon. You must keep this from everyone, even Raoul."

"Even Raoul?" _Christine exclaimed. _

"Yes, even Raoul. We do not want him getting jealous that he is not as talented as you." _Gustave touched his daughter's nose, teasingly. _"Alright, child. I have told you every night before you have gone to bed the many stories of the Angel of Music. Do you remember what I have told you about who he visits?"

"He visits the good children that practice their scales and share their talent with the world."

"Very good! And you, Christine Daae, practice your scales every day. That is why he visits you and why he will continue to visit you." _Gustave paused for a moment. _"You know, child, that I will not be around forever. Someday, your Mama and I will not be here and you will have to be strong. But I promise you, child, that if you practice your scales and continue to share your talent with the world, you will not be alone. When I am in Heaven, Little Lotte, I will send the Angel of Music to you to keep you safe and to help you. Do you promise to continue to further your talent?"

_Christine had nodded eagerly, excited for the day she would meet her Angel, _"Yes, Papa!"

* * *

_"Christine?" Meg said, suddenly. "Christine, you're crying. Are you all right?" Christine took a deep breath and surfaced from that happy memory. _

_"Yes, Meg, I am fine." Christine lied, wiping tears from her face. The vehicle stopped and the driver rapped on the window: they had reached the train station. _

_"Are we here already?" Meg said, bracing herself against the light as the driver and a few other U.S. soldiers pulled open the door. She and Christine waited patiently for the soldiers to carry the incredibly weak and sick people on stretchers from the car and onto the train that was heading straight to the hospital. Then, they allowed a few of the men to help them down and into the incredibly large train station. Christine avoided eye contact, embarrassed at all of the attention she was receiving from her ragged clothes and thin-stature, while Meg tried to smile and lighten the mood. They were circled with more than twenty armed soldiers who led them quietly and nonchalantly to the train heading for Paris. _

_"You live in Paris, correct?" A soldier nearest Meg asked. _

_"Yes, we both do," Meg replied. Christine remained silent and allowed Meg to speak for her. _

_"This is your train, then," the soldier. He helped both women onto the train and motioned for the twenty soldiers to follow suit. Christine sat down closest to the window and watched as other former Auschwitz inmates went through the same procedure. _

_Christine turned to the soldier, Lieutenant Blackfield, according to his name-tag, who had spoken to Meg and asked, "What will happen to the people who do not have family or a home?" _

_"Our men will take care of that, Miss. They will help them find accommodations and a job," he replied. _

_"Surely that must take time," Meg stated. _

_"Our men will stay with them until accommodations and a job are found for them, Miss, do not worry for them. They are in safe hands." _

_Christine relaxed, slightly, as well as Meg, and watched as a soldier climbed into the front of the train, preparing to drive the train to the Paris train-station. _

_After a few moments, the train let out a loud whistle and began to move. Christine looked around the train and suddenly noticed something. _

_"Are we the only ones on the train?" she asked. Lieutenant Blackfield nodded. _

_"You are the only ones allowed," he said. "Please, ladies. I know that you are anxious and you feel you cannot trust anyone, but I assure you that if you cannot trust anyone else, you can trust me." He turned to Meg. "I was a member of the Resistance, sent by the U.S. army undercover, and I am well acquainted with your mother." _

_Meg looked at him quizzically. "I do not remember a Lieutenant Blackfield." _

_"Perhaps Andre Renaud will ring a bell?" _

_Meg's face lit up at the sound of the name. "Oh!" was all she could say. _

_He smiled. "I assure you, you can trust me." Silence fell for the remainder of the train-ride, the two former inmates of Auschwitz concentration camp left to the devices of their own memories and mind. _

_Meg fidgeted as she was haunted with nightmares while wide-awake, trying to forget them just like she had been so good at during the duration of her stay at the camp, while Christine was haunted with nightmares as she unwillingly fell to Morpheus' hold. Both Meg and Christine knew that these were just the beginning to an eternal cycle; they both knew that no matter how hard they could forget what happened to them during the day, no matter how hard they could hide the scars, the darkness would always manifest itself to them when they let their guard down most: sleep. _

* * *

_**Alright, so this is a little longer, as you can tell, and it's the 2nd to last Prologue chapter. I'll try to get the last Prologue chapter up by the end of the day, because it will probably be the length of the 1st Prologue chapter. **  
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_**I hope it's still as good as the first chapter and still captures your fancy, if you will. And if it doesn't, know that I have many more things to unfold to you. **_

_**Thanks guys, and have a great day! **_

_**~Venture Wood**_

_**P.S. Sorry if there are any typos. I'm too excited to get more up that I don't really want to read through this all again... So if something doesn't make sense, I apologize and you are free to ask me what I meant via review. **_


	3. Prologue III

**_Hello, again! I was planning on posting this yesterday. Really, I was. Then, oh, I hate this part, I remembered I had this stupid map of Japan (not saying Japan is stupid; just the assignment) to color for my stupid Geography class. Yes, I'm a freshman in high-school and my Geography teacher is making me color stuff for a grade. Sure, I'd like to do it more often. I just had other, more IMPORTANT things to do. Like write. For you guys. You're welcome. _**

**_Enjoy, and have a good day! _**

**_Oh, and I just made all of the previous chapter's events up. I really don't know what the U.S./other-allies did with the concentration camp inmates, though I'm almost certain it was something like I made-up in the previous chapter. Hmm... I was going to say something else, too... Oh, well... _**

**_No history infringement intended. _**

**_Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux._**

* * *

_"Here we are, ladies," Lieutenant Blackfield said, standing up as the taxi stopped in front of the grand Paris Opera House. Christine gasped as she could only take in the beauty of the building and architecture, hardly accustomed to such aristocratic grandeur._

_"Lovely, isn't it?" Meg said, forgetting all that had resurfaced during the train and car ride. Christine looked at her friend in shock. _

_"Lovely doesn't even begin to describe this piece of work! How...?" Christine was lost for words. She was used to the country-side of Sweden and the brutalities of Auschwitz. This was far past her comprehension. _

_Meg just smiled. "I knew you would love it. Come inside! I must see my mother, and you must meet her!" Meg, very uncharacteristically (now being at the ripe age of twenty years), ran inside the Opera House, much like a child upon first sight of a candy shop. Christine timidly followed her up the stair-case and into the grand foyer. _

_Within contact of the nicely-finished marble flooring, Christine gasped. "I must be dreaming," she sighed. All of her life, she had dreamed of something like this. And now, there she was, standing in the midst of one of the finest Opera Houses in all of Europe. _

_Meg suddenly gasped. "Mother!" Christine turned to look, and Meg was already embracing her mother, a stern woman quite in her mid-forties, but still retaining most of her dark-brown hair. _

_"Meg..." Her mother was in blatant shock. "What...? Meg!" That's when the tears struck. Both women were crying, grasping each other tightly, afraid that they would, again, soon be parted. _

_"Mother, I am here," Meg soothed. Her mother was sobbing viciously, unable to control the violent torrent of emotions inside of her. _

_"Meg... My daughter, you are alive! But you are so thin! Tell me, anon! Tell me what they did to you."_

_Meg took a shaky breath, afraid to tell her mother the news, lest she cause a heart-attack. _

_"They took me to the concentration camps," she said slowly. "But please, Mama... I am just fine." Meg hated to lie, but she didn't want to cause any more stress for her mother. _

_"Oh, my girl! The concentration camps!" _

_"Yes, but please, Mama... I am happy to see you, I assure you. But I do not want to speak of it any longer. I am fine, and I do not want to dwell on sins long past committed." _

_Her mother kissed her a few more times on the top of her head before she shakily let Meg go. Then, she looked across her daughter's shoulders to see a young, frail girl standing by the door-way. _

_"Meg," she said, looking her daughter in the eyes once more, "who is this?" _

_"This is Christine, Mama." Meg hurried back over to her nervous friend, leading her to her mother. "Christine, this is my mother, Antoinette Giry." _

_Christine curtsied, like she had been taught. "It is nice to meet you, Madame Giry." Christine paused on the title, "Madame" as she almost forgot she was in France._

_"If it is all right, mother, Christine is going to stay with us and train to be a performer," Meg continued. Madame Giry nodded. _

_"I will seek permission from the managers, though I know they will not object. We've been so little populated, what with the war. Please excuse me, Meg, Christine. I will go to them now." Madame Giry hesitantly removed herself from her daughter, but once absent, hurried her way so she could reunite with Meg again. _

_"Oh, Christine, you will love it here!" Meg held Christine's hands, shaking them violently in her excitement, Christine unable to refrain from smiling at her friend's happiness. "The apartments are just down the street and they are reserved for just the performers. You could, though, if you wished, stay in the Opera. All employees are given the choice, and it's usually only the stage-hands and young girls that accept the offer, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you did too." _

_"How much would I have to pay for rent, if I were to choose the apartments?" Christine asked, starting to feel anxiety as she tried to decide which option would be best._

_"Don't worry about rent. The Opera will usually pay for it all. The apartments were built for the performers, anyway." _

_Before Christine could speak another word, Madame Giry came hustling back. "They said yes!" she exclaimed. _

_"Did they really?" Christine breathed. Madame Giry nodded, before pulling the child into her arms. _

_"Welcome, Christine! I am sure you'll love it here." _

* * *

_**Well, there you go. **  
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_**Sorry, guys. You'll have to wait 'till next chapter to see Erik. But I promise. He'll be there. Just next chapter. **_

_**Good-luck out there, in the big, bad world! **_

_**~Venture Wood**_


	4. I Dream of Pain

**_Hello, my good people! _**

**_That is all._**

**_Oh, wait, no. I have something to say. Whenever I put something in italics, it's either all in the past now (like I did in the Prologue chapters), it's a dream, I'm using them to emphasize something (as commonly used), the characters are thinking something, or they are conversing in another language._**

**_Now that is all._**

* * *

_Running, panting, KABOOM! A building in the background exploding. Voices shouting, gun-shots heard. Feet stamp on the cobblestones, the sounds echoing across the environment. _

_"Grenade!" a voice shouts. Another explosion; more screams. Sounds of helicopters coming from above._

_More panting, limping, anguishing in pain. Another explosion, followed by nearing shots of guns. _

_Falling, crashing, skidding, shooting pain. Another explosion, but this time followed by a smell akin to mustard or horse-radish. _

_Coughing, hacking, choking, screaming all around. Someone yells something in Russian, followed by a shot: a shot that finds its mark. _

_Flaming, shooting red pain. _

My eyes shoot open and I bolt up in my bed, cold-sweat covering every inch of my body, my shoulder and ankle burning like I was in Hell itself. I slowly massage my aching temples, gingerly moving my legs to the side of the bed, my bare feet landing on cold, wooden-paneling. I sigh, attempting vainly to calm my rampant heart. Another night-mare, it appeared, though it was more of a memory through a dream, than an imagined nightmare.

I slowly stretch my throbbing and aching shoulder, finding my head-ache releasing a lost cause, and reach over to my night-stand, grabbing the propped up cane I've been ordered to use for an unbeknownst, according to my incompetent Doctor, amount of time.

Slowly and gingerly using the slick, black cane to help me stand, I hobble over to my bathroom. Leaning on my good left-leg, I prop the cane against the sink, allowing me to use both my hands, and screw open a bottle of prescribed medication. The Doctor had said it was supposed to help with the nightmares and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or _PTSD _as he liked to call it.

I scoff aloud. _"Of course, Doctor. You're remedy, as per usual, works great! How ingenious you are! Where did you get your medical degree? Remind me. Was it on the street?" _I think, quite sardonically.

After having gotten showered, I limp to my dresser to find something _daring _to wear, quite uncharacteristic of me, though when one is accustomed to the brutalities and excitements, though it could hardly count as such, of war, life becomes a bit dull.

Having gone through the neatly stacked pile twice, I finally settle on the only thing I have: a newly-pressed, white, cotton shirt, black-trousers, a black-waist-coat, my normal black dress-shoes, black (noticing anything?) belt, and a black tie. Then, I make my way to my dresser, cleanly pressing my two-year old, for I have only just found use of it within these years_, _white mask to my nearly shattered face. The war had certainly taken its toll on my once-handsome face, and I do not mean through stress or weathering. No, I do not mean that. I will say this, and this alone: my right shoulder and ankle were not the only things harmed by man-made terror. The bone-structure of my face was saved (the method of which I attained my scarring unable to destroy bone) however, the skin was not.

Painfully and slowly, ignoring my still agonizing right shoulder, I get dressed and shrug my coat on, hoping to walk down to Paris' finest café just down the street.

Passing the land-lady, though she also worked as a type of maid, hoping to gain a little extra money from tips, on my way down the stairs, she grabs me by the arm.

"Excuse me, Mr. Erik, sir, there's someone to see you," she says with a big smile. She, and that damnable, useless _friend, _Niklas, have been going out of their way to find me someone to, oh, how I dislike the words, socialize and befriend.

"Who is it, Madame?" I ask, giving an annoyed sigh.

"It's Niklas," she says. "Should I invite him in?"

I curse under my breath, shifting my weight to my cane.

"He says it's urgent," she adds.

"Yes, yes, he always does!" I bark with hostility, not necessarily centered towards her. "No, do not invite him in. Inviting him in would be like inviting Dracula. He'd never leave me alone!"

"May I remind you, though, sir, he doesn't leave you to yourself already."

"I'm full aware." I sigh, debating about what to do next. "If it's that urgent, I suppose he'll just have to follow me. Perhaps if I walk fast enough, he'll lose me and give up." I knew it was a lost cause, but I could not belabor the point any longer. I needed to get out.

"Forgive me, Madame, but I cannot stand another moment within this building, let alone with raucous Niklas... I'm going out." I walk to the coat-rack and pull my black fedora off the top pet, pushing it onto my head.

"Where will you be going?" the land-lady asks.

"I will be back around noon." And with that, I give the land-lady a curt nod of the head, open the door, and step past Niklas.

"Ah, Erik!" Niklas greets, pivoting on his feet to follow me. I ignore him, instead stretching out my pained shoulder and checking the time with my silver pocket-watch, reading: 9:30. Pretending he was not there (who?), I journey back on my way, walking considerably fast considering the limp and the cane.

"Will you not greet-" He begins, keeping up too well.

"The land-lady said this was urgent," I interrupt. Silence. "Were you going to tell me, or am I supposed to use my Psychic powers to say it for you?" I bark, losing my patience considerably.

"Oh, were you asking a question? All I heard was a stated, 'the land-lady said this was urgent.' Forgive me for not interpreting it as a question."

I could nearly hear his sly smile. Oh, how he loved to pull my leg. I, for one, hated it, and rather wished he would knock it off.

"Niklas, if you have nothing to say, back the hell away from me and let me continue in peace!"

"Language, dear Erik! Haven't you heard that language counts for half of how people judge you?"

I stopped and turned ferociously upon him. "Yes, and the other half would be appearance. Seeing as how I am not the most smashing man in town, I don't give a damn about what people think about my language!"

"Please, though, Erik, if you wouldn't mind." Niklas turned a little softer, sincere in his words.

"Fine. But only if you can leave me in peace until I reach my destination. I don't need to be listening to you jabbering on about what happened to you in your insignificant little world yesterday!"

"Of course, Erik, I can do that. All you had to do was ask. No need to bite my head off."

I sigh and continue to glare at the sidewalk and air in front of me.

_I could really use a coffee right now... _

* * *

_**Voilà! C'EST MAGNIFIQUE! **  
_

_**Just to clarify, when I put a few thoughts in parentheses, it was just Erik adding in a few thoughts, being snarky, or... Well, Erik.**_

_**Also, just to clarify, I do not swear. Period. I find it vulgar, profane, and pointless. I think that there are other ways of expressing feelings than through profane language. However, our dearest Erik, here, does not believe the same things. I also believe in being as true to the character as possible, so... Unfortunately, sometimes I have to add in a few... Ahem. Well, you get what I mean.**_

_**Not saying any of you are doing this now, 'cause I'm not, but for future reference, please refrain from using swear-words. I would really appreciate it. **_

_**Thank you so much, guys! It makes me so... ECSTATIC that you guys are interested! **_

_**I hope to have more up soon. I mean, it is nearing the weekend.**_

_**LOVE TO YOU ALL! **_

_**~Venture Wood**_

_**P.S. The Erik in this story does have a different deformity (more akin to the musical one, though full-faced), but I am going to keep this story as close to the Kay and Leroux books, hence this story lying in the "books" section on Fanfiction.**_

_**P.P.S Reminder: I do not own this story, entirely. My inspiration (including the way Erik was deformed) derives from another author's story. I cannot tell you, though, for I want this story to remain as much of a secret as possible. So don't go looking around for stories like this. Please. For your own sake. *squees* There are so many surprises, for you, in store!**_


	5. I Dream of Better Days

**_Hello there, good people! _**

**_I hope you enjoy. _**

* * *

I glare distantly at Niklas, sipping my coffee slowly, while he babbles on and on about what happened to him yesterday at the Opera House. Quite frankly, I wasn't listening, instead focusing on the funny little tick he had of cocking his head to make a point. Which then distracted me even further.

_I wonder if I have any ticks... _I think, happy that I could distract myself with something else. I really didn't care that much about Paris' ballet corps, or what Niklas had to say about them. I wasn't native, anyway, so what did I care?

"Erik!" Niklas shouts. "Are you even paying attention?"

"Hmm?" I say, snapping to attention. "Oh, yes."

"You weren't paying attention," he states, slightly offended.

I sigh deeply. "Of course I wasn't, Niklas. Why would I care about what happened to you at the Opera house?"

He studies me slowly, making me feel uncomfortable as his gazing eyes pierce through my mask. I shift a little in my seat, almost feeling his eyes on my concealed skin.

"You used to sing, Erik."

I say nothing, having not the faintest idea of what he is getting at.

"Why don't you sing anymore?"

I just continue to glare at him, feeling quite like my skills at this glaring business were increasing considerably.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't like my company. I know you get awfully bored in that flat of yours." He motions for the waiter to bring the check. I wait until everything is payed for and we start to walk, until I decide to answer.

"You know why I can't, Niklas," I state quite simply, hoping he'll catch the hint that I do not want to speak about the subject any longer.

"But that's not you! The Erik I knew wouldn't let a little mustard gas get in his way." He studies me a little longer.

"Niklas, please... I don't want to talk about it. Not a day goes by where I wish I could still sing."

"Well, may I ask one more thing?"

"It would depend on the thing of which you are asking." I lean heavily on my cane, the mere blocks we had walked certainly taking its toll.

"Your voice used to be raspy, right after the... Mustard gas episode, and I can understand why you wouldn't be able to sing. But how can you talk without that rasp, now? Wouldn't that mean your voice had healed, hence you being able to sing again?"

"Of course it has healed, Niklas. Everything heals in due time. But just because it has healed doesn't mean it possesses the same qualities it once did."

Niklas nods, slowly. I can see in his eyes that he thinks I'm a completely different man. It was true, what he had said about letting nothing get in my way. I had once been a prideful, arrogant, and ambitious soldier, sporting my once handsome face wherever I went. I had had a fiancee, even (had being the key word, here). She left me, though, after she saw my mauled face in the hospital.

But I digress. I was once an accomplished singer (and violinist, but that means nothing to you), and I had planned to continue that career after World-War II. I had been cocky and had believed that my life was going to work out to be a paradise. I, of course, had been wrong. Not only was my face shattered, that day, as I had laid in that hospital bed, bloody bandages covering my face to the hairline. No, my soul was quite destroyed. My entire will to live had vanished; I had even considered suicide. That day, all of my ambitions had died. That day had taught me that I shouldn't ever dream big, for my dreams would tumble down upon me and burn me to the core. I suppose one could say I was humbled, in a twisted sort of way.

Niklas had stopped suddenly, instincts having me stop as well. He turns to his right and gazes at the building we had just meandered by.

"Erik, I think you would quite like it here," He says, pointing to the grand Garnier Opera House.

"Niklas-" I begin to protest.

"I refuse to let you leave until you at least see the grand foyer." He grabs onto my arm, the one that just happens to be holding the cane, tightly pressing it to his side, almost like a master represses his dog.

"This is quite childish of you. Does it look like we are five? I refuse to allow you to treat me-"

"Erik, shut up and humor me, will you?"

I sigh and mentally beat myself, before reluctantly agreeing.

"But," I say, walking up the stairs as Niklas continues to hold my arm, clearly afraid I would run if he let go, "I am only doing this because it would be good for my health to walk a little longer than the usual."

"Bah!" he exclaims. "What do you care for your health?" I couldn't help but smile at this remark, allowing Niklas to quickly drag me up the stairs and through the doors.

* * *

We were back on our way, stepping down the stairs, having just finished a tour of the entire Opera House, and I must say, this would be one of the few times I have ever mentally thanked Niklas for something.

Niklas smiles at me, knowing that I had enjoyed myself thoroughly. I turn, again, to look at the majesty of it all, marveling in the details and beauty of the architecture.

"It's remarkable, isn't it?" he says, jovially.

"That would be an understatement," I breathe.

"Would you like to come back later tonight?" He reaches deep into his gray trousers, pulling something from the depths. "I have two tickets for Don Giovanni, if you would like to accompany me."

I look curiously at the tickets. "Have you been planning to take me for a while?" I couldn't help myself but ask, because if he had been planning to take me for a while, I would have to refuse. I, being stubborn, didn't want his plans of "getting Erik to go out more" to work (perhaps I am not as humbled as I had thought...).

"Ah... No," He says, his smile dimming a bit, but not vanishing completely. "They were intended for a certain woman."

My eyes light up. "Oh, so you have a woman friend, now, do you?" I couldn't help but chuckle. The mere thought of Niklas having a girlfriend made me laugh. Niklas, at least the one I had known when we had served in the war together, wasn't meant for women, you see.

He chuckles a bit, too. "Not exactly. She's been a little inconstant. She called me last night and told me she couldn't make it tonight because her grandmother was sick."

I just nod, unsure whether I should offer condolences or not.

"But we have moved considerably from the point. Would you like to come, tonight, Erik? I must say, the Paris Opera House puts on a spectacular Opera." He extends his hand, the ticket wavering temptingly between his fingers.

I want to be stubborn and refuse his plans of getting me out of the house, but Don Giovanni... It was too tempting, and I knew I would regret turning him down later tonight as I sat on the couch staring at the static-filled television I could never understand.

"Alright, I suppose I will accompany you." I reach for the ticket and place it in my pocket. Niklas claps me on the back, making me wince as pain shoots down my injured shoulder, and laughs excitedly.

"I will pick you up at 7:30, dear friend," he says, helping me down a few stairs before I push him off, insisting I do not need aid. "I fear I have to leave, Erik. Will you be able to make it to your flat?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" I spit, my temper starting to rise, again, at the fact that Niklas thinks I am completely incompetent of walking on my own.

"Then good day! I shall see you at 7:30!" He waves good bye and hurries off down the street. I pull my pocket-watch (an antique I had collected from my grandfather when I was a child) and check the time: 12:30. I still had seven, empty hours before I had something to do again. I sigh, looking around, hoping something would fly out of the blue and give me something to busy myself with. Of course, that never happens (what was I thinking?), so I clamber down the side-walk, deciding to head back to my flat to find something to do. Perhaps I would pull out my violin for the first time in seven years...

* * *

_**Well, there you go... I hope the transitions are okay. I have a small problem with those, sometimes, so I hope everything ran smoothly enough in this chapter.**_

_**Please, oh, PLEASE review. I die a little when you don't.**_

_**~Venture Wood**_

_**P.S. I'm a little too lazy (and tired) to re-read everything I just wrote and edit small details, so if you find something out of place, you can safely assume I'm not a half-wit and that it's a typo. Also excuse any tense issues. I'm not used to writing in present, first-person, so please cut me a little slack. I think I'm doing a pretty darn good job. **_


	6. I Dream of a Better Future

**_Sooo... I'm still debating about how I want to do a few things, so publication dates may get separated further and further. For now, enjoy what I have._**

* * *

**Christine Daae**

_Starving, pounding. Oh, why wouldn't it go away? The constant feeling of fear; the constant feeling of death. Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wishing for it to all go away. _**  
**

_Silence, the smell of death. Silence usually had a good connotation, but not now. No, now it had a connotation of death; no more sound, no more life. _

_Fuzzy, foggy, halted breathing. I look over at the girl in the bunk next to me. Dying breath, closed eyes. That was the last time she ever lived. _

_Crying, emptiness, despair. I couldn't contemplate how I could go on... Oh, how...? Another was taken, perhaps the next would be me. _

_Heart rate pulsing, breathing growing faster, fear encroaching madness. My limbs wouldn't move. Exhaustion, nearing hysteria. _

* * *

I sit up, quickly, looking around my apartment, the hands propped up on my bed now shaking with lingering fear; my breathing halted and disordered. I had dreamed about the concentration camps, again.

_You're eighteen, now, Christine, _I think. _How can you let these nightmares persist? The war was over two years ago. You're free. Why do you let these memories linger?_

I shakily stand up and get dressed, looking at the clock on the wall: 12:25 (the nightmares had been following me all week, so I suppose my exhaustion finally caught up to me and made me sleep in longer than usual). I have fifteen minutes until rehearsals start. Sighing, still trying to forget the nightmares, I look around for something to do. Meg wouldn't be up for another ten minutes (she was never on time to anything), so I would have to find something I could do on my own; something that would distract me from the terrible memories that were still fogging my mind.

I sit at the breakfast table, deciding to try and eat something, though I know that my ventures will not take me very far. Eyeing the cupboard, I think about oatmeal. No, too bland... Next, I look at the ice-box in the corner.

_I don't want left-overs, _I think. Deciding not to explore it any further (and that I will just have to wait until later to eat), I stand up and move to the television, the Opera having just had them installed in all of the Opera performers' apartments a month or two ago.

Turning it on, I quickly cruise through the few channels. Not finding anything even remotely satisfying, I turn it quickly back off, moving to the door with a huff. I would just have to go out.

Pulling on a scarf and a light jacket from the coat-rack, ready to face the brisk, autumn air, I quickly step outside, taking care to lock the door behind me.

I move down the side-walk, staying at an inconstant pace somewhere between hurried and exhausted, the busy traffic of cars buzzing right next to me. Wondering where I will go, I just let my feet carry me onward.

Deciding split-second, and without even thinking, I turn back around, almost running into a couple, hand-in-hand, behind me, and head toward the Opera House and my apartment, instead. I have only ten minutes, now, and if I go anywhere else, I'll surely get distracted and arrive at rehearsals late, once again, just to be, once again, compared to Carlotta (who was constantly and precisely three hours early to rehearsals).

I frown upon my impulsive actions and scatter-brained attitude. Today, perhaps, was just one of those days.

_Well, Christine Daae, _I think. _You had better step it up. The performance is tonight, and we must perform our best. How else will we be noticed? _

I ascend the stairs to the Opera House, trying to think about the beautiful flowers I had passed on the way here, not the nightmares, and walk through the huge doors, clacking across the marble floors to the auditorium where I will wait 'till rehearsals begin.

* * *

**Erik **

I sit on my couch, mindlessly plucking at my violin strings (perhaps sounding out a bit of Tchaikovsky), staring anxiously at the clock on the wall. Could time possibly move any slower?

I stop my mindless pizzicato, now drumming my fingers nervously against the instrument's dark body, allowing my uninjured leg to jostle up and down, as well. I do not know what it is, but the mere minutes I have been gone from the Opera House have felt... Haunting, almost. I feel, somewhere in the caverns of my aching and lonely heart, that this Opera House is going to play a tremendous part in my life, somehow. I nearly feel like the Opera House is warning me to stay away, before I get hurt. But somehow at the same time, I feel like I need to be there; that if I am not, I will miss a tremendous opportunity. All of these feelings at once, as well as the excitement to return to the foreboding Garnier building, were driving me mad.

I sigh, attempting vainly to calm my ratcheted nerves, knowing that hours by myself were not always good in large doses. Then again, it had only been a few minutes since I had arrived home...

I set my violin down and begin to pace, not even realizing it until half-an-hour later. I curse, finding this unsatisfying, and turn the television on, sit back down, and mindlessly pizz at the strings, not paying attention to neither instrument nor television.

For hours, I sit there, lost in thought about nothing even remotely important. My whole day with Niklas shoots by several times (temporarily wishing that I was there with him, now; don't dare mention this to him, for I will promptly stab you through with my bow and throttle you with your own intestine should he find out I enjoy his company; he'll never leave me alone afterwards), even the boring part where we had to sit around, making small conversation, until he finally convinced me to order something from the menu during our stay at the café. After having remembered everything on the menu, our entire conversation there and back again, and all of the entertaining tidbits I had learned about the Garnier, I finally "awake".

First thing I do, of course, is check the clock: 6:00. Still mindlessly pizzing, and still not quite "all there", it takes a few minutes before I realize that during my course of thinking, I had just composed an entire ten-minute piece. I play it through a couple times, wanting to know if it is a real, genuine piece, or if I am still lost in thought, imagining that I had accomplished something like that.

It isn't an actual, legitimate piece, I soon find, (my subconscious having apparently pieced together different parts of different music pieces), but it sounded good, and I found I actually liked it (I rarely approve of my own compositions).

The whole escapade of having composed an entire piece with my subconscious actually makes me feel uneasy. I curse my brain; just another point to prove that I am different. I wished my talent with music and inhumanly large mental capacity would disappear.

_It's a gift!_ They say.

More like a curse...

I stand up, setting my violin down, amazed that I had somehow managed to remember everything and still possess the same quality of advanced playing after seven years away from my violin), and wander into my small kitchen. I hadn't actually eaten anything sufficient during the day, and supposing that I would need energy to stay awake during Don Giovanni, I shuffle through the small cupboards and ice-box, looking for something to eat.

Finding nothing, I go downstairs to the main-level and ask the land-lady if she happened to have any sort of edible item she wouldn't mind sharing. I get some chicken breast, a few tomatoes, and a piece of baguette for my labors. Satisfied, I take it to my room and eat it as quickly as I can.

Quite done, I remain at the dining table, staring out the window directly across from me. I check the time, once more: 6:45. I still had a while.

Looking around the room, distractedly, my eyes finally drop onto today's Newspaper. Having nothing else to do, and interested in the job listings (I desperately needed a job; I couldn't keep living off of my parents', whom were dead, fortune or the money I had been paid for my services in the war) I open it up and skim through the pages. Not finding interest in the articles, I skip to the job listings.

_Tailor, school janitor, office secretary... _Could it possibly get any less intriguing?

I throw the newspaper into the trash, not even bothering to look at the other page of job listings.

6:50.

"For heaven's sake!" I cry aloud. "Could time move any slower?" I attempt to wait more patiently, but all I get for my efforts is a head-ache and chronic shoulder pain.

"Niklas," I say, standing up and pushing my fedora back onto my head, "I hope you don't mind me arriving a little early." I pull my gray trench-coat on, leaning heavily on the wall next to me, recover my cane from its seat on the couch, and head out the door, the daylight disappearing behind the tall buildings of Paris.

_I refuse to wait for him to pick me up, _I think. _I am perfectly capable of meeting him there. _With a curt nod of agreement at my own thoughts, I quickly limp down the side-walk, heading in the direction of Don Giovanni.

* * *

**Christine Daae**

7:00. It was only 7:00. 7 o'clock. That meant there were only forty-five minutes until the Opera started.

_Breathe, Christine, just breathe... _I think, looking out behind the curtain to see the already half-filled auditorium. _You've done this before. You don't have any speaking parts, you don't have a solo, and you never have to be on stage by yourself. Who's going to notice you? You're just a chorus girl, dancing and singing quietly in the back. No one will pay any attention to you, so you have nothing to fear. _

"Forty-five minutes!" Madame Giry calls, reminding everyone how short on time we are. She smiles at me, encouragingly, before she moves off to find her daughter. I watch as she fusses over Meg's hair, trying to fix it and make it look perfect.

I smile, sadly, remembering when my own Mama used to do that with me.

_"Stop fussing, Christine!" Mama says. "Let me put this one last ribbon in." _

_"But Papa's leaving!" I argue. _

_"Well, Papa will just have to wait a moment," she says, louder and in his direction. She looks up from my head and meets his eye, giving him the stink-eye. _

_"Mama, you're so good at that." _

_"So good at what?" _

_"Giving Papa the stinky-eye." _

_I could hear her chuckle at my childish naivety. "When you get to be my age," she says, "and you marry a person like Papa, you get very good at it. There, Christine." She pulled back, admiring her handiwork. "You look beautiful." _

"Christine!" someone calls cheerily from behind me. I give a small start, but quickly regain composure and turn around. I was already pressed tightly against Meg in a nearly bone-crunching hug before I had a chance to see who it was that had been calling me.

"Hello, Meg," I say, hugging her back. "Do you know who it was that just called me?"

"It was me, silly!" She says, pulling back and giving me her stereotypical smile.

"Oh... Sorry, I guess my nerves are getting in the way of my thinking."

"It's okay. Don't fret too much. We can't have you passing out on stage!" Meg pulls back the curtain and waves ecstatically at someone-presumably from her second-job; she didn't need it, but Meg loved socializing so much, she couldn't stay away from another job and another opportunity to meet more people; besides, we live in Paris. All sorts of foreigners are sure to come.

"Take deep breaths, Chris," she encourages. "I'm going to go say hello." She gestures past the curtain and toward her friend before excitedly running off.

I smile to myself. Meg was always so chipper and cheery. Even though she was now twenty years-old (and nearing an engagement with her thirteen month boyfriend), she was always excited, happy, and a bit immature. Meg always knew how to cheer you up.

I look out at the audience, again, hoping to calm my jangled nerves. I was not in costume, yet, for I did not go on stage until the last scene, and my make-up required most of the performance time.

More people were flooding in, and it appeared it was going to be a full-house, tonight.

Suddenly, someone grabs me by the shoulders.

"Christine," Madame Giry says, leading me away from the curtain, "Mademoiselle Renaud is sick!"

"What?" I look at her incredulously. Marie Renaud is an important part in the show. She plays Zerlina, one of the most important characters (Carlotta would have played her, had she not stormed off a week ago; Marie was actually La Carlotta's understudy).

Madame Giry nods. "She says she will not be able to sing tonight."

"What will we do, then?" I could presume what the dear Madame was going to say next, but I dreaded it.

"How much of her part do you have memorized?" She asks, urgently.

"All of it, but Madame-"

"Oh, thank goodness..." she sighs in relief. "Meet me in the costume department." And with that she was off.

"Madame Giry!" I call, hoping she'll return. "Madame!" Oh, it was no use... It looked like I was singing the part tonight.

"Christine, come on!" Meg calls. "My mother just told me! We have to get you ready! The Opera starts in thirty minutes!" Meg pulls me by the hand and into the costume department.

_Oh, dear... _I think. _I wanted an opportunity to prove myself, but I never actually thought it would come! Oh, goodness... And it's a full house, tonight! Oh, bother... Bother, bother..._

Forty five minutes later, I stand on the stage, all dressed up and looking "absolutely stunning", as the two Giry women had put it. I was waiting for my turn to speak, standing next to Andre Augustine, who is playing Masetto, my fiancé. The whole thing went fairly well, and it appeared Andre was quite satisfied with my acting.

Then it came time for Là ci darem la mano, the duet I sing with Don Giovanni. The accompaniment began, and Émile Degarmo, who plays Don Giovanni, sings his part beautifully, his young, beautiful Tenor voice ringing out across the auditorium.

Now it is time for me to sing my part... Lacking confidence, at first, I let out the first notes. I try and focus on Émile, his handsome face and seductive (to stay in character), yet encouraging smile keeping me calmer than I could have imagined.

My eyes stray for but a moment and meet with the eyes of a masked man sitting in box five with another man. His gaze never breaks from mine, as he looks at me inquisitively, quite intrigued with me, it appeared.

At the end of Là ci darem la mano, he was on his feet, and for the rest of the performance I could feel his constant gaze on me. I could not quite tell if he enjoyed my voice, or if he found it undesirable, and during the course of his staring at me, he was criticizing me heavily.

It was now time for curtain call, and when my turn came, I was received with enthusiastic clapping, as well as a few standing ovations. I looked up towards this man's box and found him clapping, his friend next to him on his feet, smiling, and clapping loudly, his enthusiasm sending me into a blush.

The masked man was clapping, so perhaps he had approved of my performance. He even nodded his head in my direction.

I was now back-stage, being greeted and congratulated by performers and opera-goers alike.

"Christine, that was amazing!" Meg hugs me tightly. "If you practice and persist, you could easily surpass Carlotta!"

"Thank you, Meg." I avert her gaze, feeling unworthy of such praise. While she continues to praise me, Madame Giry also joining her, my eyes wander over Meg's shoulder and I see the masked man from box five. He appears to be in avid conversation with his friend, but I can tell he wants to speak to me. Analyzing him, I notice the sides and back of his head are shaved, the top considerably longer (by about two inches), this meaning he is a military man (or was). I can see the cane he holds (though it was more of a walking stick), black with a silver skull sitting atop, meaning he has a limp (a war wound?). The white mask coveres most of his face, excepting his lips and stubbled chin; I assume the mask is most likely another war wound. He seems well dressed and groomed, and appears to be in his early thirties, ranging from a 29, even, to a 34.

"Christine?" Meg asks, suddenly noticing my absence upon the conversation. She looks at my gaze and follows it to the man I had been staring at. "Oh... I see." A knowing smile lights across her face.

I blush. "Meg, it's not like that... I don't even know him."

"Christine, please. He's quite handsome, in a mysterious sort of way." She holds my hands. "Go talk to him."

"Meg, no... You know how untrained I am at socializing! Why don't you talk to him?"

"Because I'm not the one that has taken a liking to him!"

"Meg, it's not like that... I just think he's..."

Meg pulls my chin up so my previously averted gaze was now looking her in the eye. "It's all right. I can tell you're smitten."

"I am not _smitten_ with him!" I can't keep from smiling at her chosen words. "I'm sure it's just a one-time thing. I'll probably have forgotten him by tomorrow."

"Alright, so maybe it is a one-time thing. It still can't hurt to go talk to him. He's been sneaking his gaze over here for the past five minutes. He obviously wants to congratulate you."

"I don't want to- Aaah!" Meg shoves me towards him, and with the ruckus my shoes make on the floor, I clearly draw attention to myself.

"Ah, Mlle Daae!" The masked man's friend, one I had often seen here before, greets me. "You did splendidly! Absolutely charmingly. Do you take voice lessons?"

I can't help my blush as I can feel both of the men's gaze on me. "No, but my Papa taught me to sing long ago."

"Well, you truly are talented! Imagine what your voice would be like with lessons? You would be Paris' new star!"

"Thank you, ah..." I do not know his name, so I flounder for a bit, waiting for him to introduce himself.

"Oh, my sincerest apologies. I am Niklas and this is Erik." I shake hands with Niklas, then Erik, feeling quite embarrassed.

"You were absolutely marvelous!" Niklas continues, babbling on and on, clearly quite impressed. "I mean, for a woman of your young age... It's astonishing!"

"Dear, Niklas," Erik says, his sweet, tenor voice causing me to blush more. "Do shut up. I am sure she is quite aware of your affections, now." He hits Niklas in the leg with his cane. Erik turns his attention back to me, giving me a courteous nod of the head, his fedora in the crook of his arm.

"Do forgive him," he continues. "He gets a bit carried away, now and then." Niklas adjusts his coat, his gaze filled with anger at his friend's command.

"I am going to speak to the managers about your wonderful performance," Niklas says, obviously trying to get away from his masked comrade. "If I do not see you again, Mademoiselle, good day."

I cast a quick glance in Meg's direction. She shoots me a smile and gives me two thumbs up.

_Oh, this is ridiculous... _I think. _Quite elementary... _

"Not to repeat Niklas, but you really did quite fantastically," Erik says, bringing my gaze back to his. "You said you do not take voice lessons?"

"No, sir, I don't... I wish I could," I reply.

"Why don't you take them? You really could surpass the croaking frog of a diva that is and will forever be Carlotta if you had the proper training."

"I-I... Don't know, sir... I haven't heard of a good teacher, as of yet."

Erik nods. "Well, I fear I must leave. If I do not, Niklas will surely talk the managers' to death. I hope to see you again." He tips his head and swiftly leaves.

I hurry back to Meg. "Oh, Meg, this is ridiculous..."

"It's all right, Christine, really! It's natural to have a crush."

"But he's so much older..." I shake myself out of it. "No, I am certain this is a one-time thing."

"Whatever you say, Christine..." Meg says, shaking her head. "Whatever you say."

* * *

**_Hope y'all liked it! I made Erik a little younger just to give Christine and Erik more chemistry, and to make it less awkward. _**

**_Please tell me how you liked it, if you did at all._**

**_Stay tuned for more! _**

**_~Venture Wood_**


	7. I Dream of a Life about to Change

**_Haha... Haha... Hiiiii... I'm back... After, what, twenty days? Sumthin' like that... Heheh, my sincerest apologies. School isn't quite over yet, and I'd been kept away from writing due to lack of inspiration, vacation time in Colorado (which was much needed and deserves no sorts of complaints), studying for the world draw for my Geography class, taking the world draw, etc... School gets in the way... Oh, bother... _**

**_It doesn't really matter anymore, though, because I am here! Writing to you! Well, for you! r enjoyment! Your enjoyment... Yes... Ahem._**

**_I rather hope you enjoy, and please excuse my absence. Oh, and the bumbling up above._**

* * *

**Erik**_  
_

"Niklas!" I call, finding him talking the managers' ears off. "Niklas, it is getting late and we should be returning home."

I prod Niklas in the back, corralling him in the direction of the door.

"Now wait just a moment, Erik!" Niklas protests. He resists my touch and pulls my arm away. "I was just telling these fine gentlemen about you!"

I slowly stop, putting on a fake smile. "Ah, have you?" My tone changes to a hostile whisper. "What have I told you about speaking about me?"

"I was just explaining your musical background. Nothing more, old friend!" Niklas's smile spreads across his lips, his perfect, white teeth shimmering in the light. He quickly turns back to the managers.

"I've heard-" Niklas's sentence was cut short by a short, fuming man.

"I've had it!" He yells from halfway down the hallway. "I cannot take this madness any longer!"

"M. Remy, what is it?" One of the managers says.

"Here are my resignation papers! I refuse to be a part of this...this... _madhouse _any longer!" M. Remy throws his papers at the managers.

"M. Remy, what is going on?" The other manager voices, gently taking M. Remy by the shoulder.

"I'll tell you what is going on! Oho, I will tell you! _She _is back!" And with that, M. Remy huffs back down the hall. Everyone's face around me turns quite grim and stark at the mention of "she".

"What is it?" I ask, confused with all of this chaos. "What is going on here?"

One of the managers looks at me, fidgeting with the rim of his fedora. "M. Remy has been the Opera's conductor for the past twenty years."

"One of the best." His business partner chimes in. "A musical genius."

His comrade nods before speaking again. "But he and she never worked very well together."

"She? Who is 'she'?" I look at them all, puzzled, my patience only so broad.

"La Carlotta," Niklas says. "The Prima Donna of the Garnier."

I continue to glance at each of the three men. "Surely there could not be something so bad about a Prima Donna that it would cause a grown man to go stark-white as you've all just done."

"Then you've clearly never met Carlotta." The youngest manager says, glancing around the hallways.

"Enough about Carlotta! Moncharmin, what are we to do about M. Remy? We have another performance in a week's time!" The other shook his partner's arm. "We will not have time enough to get a new conductor _and _have him learn the music in a week's time _and _have the company re-learn the music to his tastes _and _have it ready by next week!"

"I know!" I could see by Moncharmin's expression that he was fumbling around for an answer. Suddenly his eyes shot up to mine and he pointed at me violently. "You! How well acquainted are you with music?"

"Quite, but-"

"Good! Then you have the job!" He shakes my hand, quickly. "Be here at eight o'clock tomorrow." Moncharmin grabs his colleague's arm and pulls him away before I so much inhale.

"Well, that was an unexpected, but pleasant surprise!" Niklas says with another of his smiles, clapping me on the back. "You will take it, of course?"

"I don't know."

Niklas's smile disappears. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"Exactly how it sounds, Niklas." I lean heavily on my cane, the unusual adventure of the day wearing my ankle out. I hobble towards and then out the door as Niklas tries to convince me into this new job.

"You've been looking for a job, Erik! And this is the perfect opportunity!" Niklas tries to block my way until I acknowledge him, but I shove past without even a glance.

"How do you know that I have been looking for work?" I say, huffing quickly down the stairs, my still-healing lungs grasping at the brisk, night atmosphere for air.

"I've been talking to your land-lady, Mme. Tullier, to make sure you've been... Safe, I suppose, and out of trouble."

"So the land-lady has a name, hm?"

Though I was not looking at him, I could feel Niklas's incredulous look. "Of course she does, Erik! Don't think you're the only one in this world!" Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him look around, almost as if he were looking for an answer to my inhumane, unsociable attitude. "You used to be so lively and happy... Quite energetic and full of life. Now it's almost as if you've grown thirty years older in only a single year... What happened to you, Erik? What happened to the prideful, aspiring young man I knew a few years ago?"

I clench my jaw tightly as he mentions my past. I refuse to answer all the way back to my apartment, letting myself fume and Niklas grasp at potential answers.

"Good night, Niklas," I bid, turning my key into the key-hole of the apartment door.

"You will take the job, won't you, Erik?" Niklas calls, weakly. "For that girl, Christine?"

My ears suddenly perk, interested. "Christine..."

"Yes, Daae. She was the girl that sang as Zerlina."

I turn around suddenly. Niklas clearly takes this as a sign of interest and continues.

"Perhaps if you took the job, you could help her become what her potential would have her be."

I stand there, gazing at Niklas, until my hands mechanically open the door behind me and my legs drag me into the foyer.

"Good-night, Niklas." The door shuts behind me, leaving Niklas alone on the dark, porch-step.

* * *

**_Yes, it's a bit shorter this time. I just felt bad for having not written anything for a while, so I wanted to post something quickly. _**

_**Please forgive any tense issues. I've been working very hard on using first-person present tense**. _


	8. I Dream of a Paying Job

_**Hey, guys! I've been working on another story (a one-shot that I think you should all read because I've been putting my entire life into it, so far. It's not published yet, but once it is... Please read it... I don't want to have spent as much time as I have on the story if no one's going to read it...) so I haven't had a lot of time for this. I kind of needed a change in pace, hoping that my working on this story would cure my writer's block for the other one. Please read and give me some reviews! I like reviews... They make me happy and fluffy inside! Okay, not fluffy... But still happy. Oh, and this chapter is a continuation of Erik's perspective. If I don't say otherwise (at the top of the chapter) then it's a continuation of whomever had perspective before the updated chapter. Make sense? I certainly hope so**._

_**Well, before I start writing below, let me give a few shout-outs to my reviewers:**  
_

_**Savor-Each-Sensation: I'm so glad you're enjoying it! Honestly, I'm having a fun time writing it. Thank you so much for reviewing! **_

_**phantomsmelody1870: He should take the job. It's something Erik loves to do, plus he gets paid for it. Haha, thanks for reviewing! **_

_**()- Nice name. Plain, and to the point. Except not to the point... Unless there's some hidden point in there... ANYway... Thank you so much for reviewing! I'm glad you've enjoyed my writing (and that you're hooked; always a good sign that people are enjoying the story). Yes, I will explain who Niklas is in the future of this story. Just, if I told you now... I would ruin the story, and I don't think you want that. Yeah, he is basically Nadir/Daroga (however you want to refer to him), I just gave him a different name to fit his back-story with Erik. You'll understand when I talk about his back-story.**_

_**If I missed anyone, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to, honest... If you want a shout-out, just say so. In the review. So that should spur you on into reviewing. At the end of this story. Right after you read it. Today. Not later. Today. **_

_**And on with the story:**_

* * *

I stand outside the Opera House for the second time within twenty-four hours. Glancing at my watch (8:00), I slowly limp through the enormous, front doors, unsure if I am ready to take the job, or not. Ignoring the looks my mask causes in the foyer, I quickly march to the auditorium, hoping to find the managers, or someone of which I could speak about the applications I would need to fill out, if I chose to become a permanent accoutrement to the company. Briskly moving through the aisles, I climb the steps to the stage, scanning through the mass of dancers, singers, and stagehands alike.

"Ah, monsieur!" Someone calls. I turn and find Moncharmin making his way to my side, Niklas, the ever-so faithful dog, following at his heels. I sigh heavily at the sight of Niklas.

_Damn you, Niklas! Must you be everywhere I go?_

Moncharmin grasps my gloved hand, heartily shaking it up and down. "I was afraid you would not make it. Your friend kept mentioning that he thought you wouldn't come."

I glare at Niklas. "Ah, yes, well I suppose one could say I had a change of heart. I've desperately needed a position in the work-force for a year, now, and I do enjoy music, so I supposed that this wouldn't be too terribly torturing."

Moncharmin gives me a strange look as I finish my sentence, but does not question my choice-of-word. "A year, really? How have you sustained yourself thus-far, then?"

"Left-over military wages, as well as money from my parents' will." I hope my stern response will kill all questions boiling in Moncharmin's head, disliking the attention he is giving me. But my tactics do not quite work.

"Ah, you served in the war, then?" Moncharmin gives me a respectful smile. "Is that what the mask is for? Battle-scars, no doubt."

"Yes, battle-scars indeed." I give him a faux-smile, attempting to fake enjoyment in this conversation when I felt none.

"I respect you, then, good-man. God bless you for your military service." He salutes me, and my gaze flies to Niklas's. He averts it, taking interest in his coat buttons nervously. I salute back, politely.

"Now tell me, Monsieur Moncharmin-" I begin before being rudely cut off by a Spanish woman, crashing through the crowd with a train of what appeared to be assistants.

"Where is he?" She shouts in a thick Spanish accent. Her slit eyes suddenly fall upon Moncharmin who, out of my periphery, appears to be avert her gaze. "Aha! Moncharmin, where is this new conductor that you have appointed?" She says the title "conductor" with a sneer, as if it were the worst position any man could possibly have and that it was highly frowned upon.

"Ah, Carlotta..." Moncharmin greets, coldly, not even bothering to fake happiness at her presence. "This is Monsieur..."

"Erik Maureau," I say, feeling Niklas's gaze on my back.

"Well, Monsieur _Maureau_," she says. "there are a few rules I would like you to know about."

"Naturally."

She glares at my coolness, obviously caught off guard at the fact that I was not bowing before her, or trembling in her gaze. "Number one: You will do everything and anything I order. Number two: You will give me the lead in every Opera. Number three: You will agree with everything I say. And number four: You _will _work around my schedule!"

"Is that it?" I ask, calmly. "I was expecting more."

"Yes, that is it! Don't fool around with me! I am not one to be made the fool of!"

"Of course! Why would I do anything that you are perfectly capable of accomplishing on your own?" I can hear Moncharmin and Niklas quietly laughing behind me, as well as a few of the cast members that had stopped to listen.

Carlotta's face goes red in fury. "You listen here, Maureau! I am not to be teased! I do not stand for teasing!"

"As I do not stand for thick-accented divas that have not a lick of talent, but demand to be treated like goddesses. You are just an over-sized, wailing cow put on stage for the amusement of others. Akin to a side-show freak. Now if you would excuse me, I have an Opera to run through." I step past her, my remarks causing an uproar of applause. I do not really care what they think, though; I said what I said because I refuse to stand for such intolerable impudence.

"My, my, Monsieur!" Moncharmin says, running to catch up to me. "That was quite entertaining! And I must say, we are grateful to have someone like you who is not afraid to stand up to her."

"Why should anyone be afraid? She's a croaking frog. Hardly anything to be afraid of."

"Yes, of course. I really don't understand why-"

"Excuse me, Moncharmin, but I have a job to do. Where might I find the conductor's score?"

* * *

**Christine Daaé**

I had been socializing with Meg on the stage, before the rehearsal, of course, when a loud voice suddenly rang across.

"Ladies and gentleman, if I could please have your attention!"

I turn and find that it is Moncharmin speaking. Next to him stands the masked man from last night, causing my heart to jump, slightly, the masked man's (his name was Erik, wasn't it?) friend, and Richard, the other manager.

The room falls silent as we obey the manager's command.

"As many of you have heard, M. Remy resigned, last night." Whispers erupt at this piece of information, cast-members turning to neighbors and co-workers to voice their opinions on the matter. "It is unfortunate, I know. But we are in luck! We have already found a suitable conductor! One whom I've been told is very educated in music. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Erik Maureau. Please treat him nicely, and let him do his job." Polite applause rings across the stage as we welcome M. Maureau. I can't help but blush, slightly, as Meg gives me a knowing smile.

"I've told you already, Meg!" I protest after the applause and as we hurry off-stage. "It was just a one-night thing! My feelings are completely mute, now. Honest, Meg!"

"And I agreed! But let me tell you something, Christine: That blush you're wearing now isn't proving what you say." She winks and hurries onto the other side of the stage.

I roll my eyes and decide to deal with her later. Right now, I need to focus on the rehearsal.

While I am stretching back-stage, I hear someone calling my name.

"Mademoiselle Daaé! Mademoiselle Daaé! Are you here?"

I run back on-stage, looking for the source of the callings.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé!" The voice says. I turn frantically around until finally I see that it is Erik (er, M. Maureau, now that he works for the Opera) that is calling my name.

"Yes, sir?" I hurry to his podium, hoping I hadn't done anything wrong. Usually no one called my name. When M. Remy worked as the conductor, he never called my name.

"You will be playing the role of Floria Tosca." He hands me the score, giving me an encouraging smile.

"Bu-but... Sir!" I exclaim, gently fingering the score. "That is Carlotta's part!"

"So? It was Carlotta's part yesterday, maybe, but now it is Christine Daaé's."

"Sir, I don't think I am ready for this..." I say, tentatively.

"And why is that?" He gives me a stern look, telling me that nothing I say is going to convince him otherwise. "You can sing better than Carlotta. So why wouldn't you be ready?"

"I-I... Have stage-fright." I make up a stupid excuse, though in all reality is is true. But that was not the reason why I didn't think I was ready.

"Really?"

I nod.

"When is opening night?"

"Next Friday, sir."

"Then you have until then to overcome your stage-fright." He looks down at his score, quickly beginning to scribble in cues, telling me that he is done discussing this matter.

I shake all the way to Madame Giry, unable to control both my fear and excitement. I was, of course, excited. But I had only ever played a lead role once, and that was last night. I didn't know how to act properly, or even sing. I had no idea how to sing with feeling, and that was what mattered most. I had lost my feeling after Papa was killed... After I had endured the concentration camps.

"Christine, dear?" Madame Giry says, worried. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Y-y-yes, Madame... I am just fine..." My voice shakes uncontrollably. "It's just... Well, M. Maureau just gave me the leading role."

* * *

**_Again, it's kind of short... But I just really wanted to post something. Please enjoy! And give me any criticisms you have. I really want to progress, and the only way to do that is through your criticisms. _**

**_Oh, I've realized a few things in this story are... Glitched, I suppose. Like, they aren't actually historically correct. Please forgive those, and if I ever have time to fix them, I will. And there are only two things, so don't... Worry too much. I guess..._**

**_Well, I have to go now. Please, oh, PLEASE review!_**

**_Oh, and I didn't have anytime to read what I wrote and edit, so if there are any typos or grammar issues or tense issues, I apologize, and you know what I really meant. _**


	9. I Dream of Dreaded Emotions

**_Please check out my poll! And please review... I've been lacking in reviews, as of late, and it's made me kind of depressed. So review and check out the poll!_**

* * *

**Erik**

I walk quickly down the hallway, glancing at my watch (Niklas insisted that my pocket-watch was far too out-of-fashion and bought me a watch, convincing me to wear it only by telling me it would be easier to check the time whilst conducting). Hurrying into the auditorium, I grab everyone's attention.

"People! Get in your places! And do forgive my tardiness." I jog to the podium and pull out my music, pulling off my pin-striped suit-jacket and placing it on the corner of the podium, my hat following suit on the other corner.

"You're hardly late," one of the chorus-girls pipes up. "It's only 8:04."

"'Hardly late'? Punctuality is everything, mademoiselle!" I scold. I ignore her cold glare and rummage around, looking for the right piece of music. "Where is Christine Daaé?"

"Not here, yet, sir!" Meg Giry says, coming to the front of the stage to make herself better heard. "She's running a little late."

"Late?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why is she late?" I stare at her, my fingers drumming on the podium in impatience, waiting for an answer.

"Why is she late?"

"I don't know, that's why I am asking you!"

"Well... I, uh, don't know for sure, sir. She just told me she'd be late."

I growl in frustration, nearly swiping off the papers and music on my podium. "When will anyone learn punctuality? I'm not her mother! She should be able to get here without me having to hold her hand!"

I whirl around as the doors open behind me, uncertain of what had gotten into me.

"Sorry I'm late!" Christine yells, running down the hallway. "I slept in on accident!"

"Oh, you slept in, did you?" I roar, unable to control my temper.

"Yes, sir..." She squeaks, hurrying past my angry aura and onto the stage.

"Then why don't you go to bed earlier? That way you wouldn't sleep in and everyone would be the better!"

"I went to bed at 7:30 in the evening, sir..."

"Then why did you sleep in?" I growl, slamming my hands on the podium.

"I couldn't sleep, sir... I had nightmares."

"Then see a doctor! We cannot afford any tardiness in this Opera House! I've already endangered us by being late! If you're late, as well, then we're all twice as endangered!"

I watch as she winces at my biting tone, slowly gathering herself into Meg, hoping for protection. I have a sudden feeling she normally does this when threatened. I also feel she'd grown accustomed to angry men, somehow, in her childhood, so I try to keep back my temper, pitying this poor girl. What was I being angry at, anyway? I should be angry at my hypocrisy. I, too, had stayed up all night due to nightmares and was late due to sleeping in.

"You should watch what you say, M. Maureau, and how you say it!" Meg says to me in a commanding tone, hugging Christine tightly.

I sigh, putting my head in my hands and running my fingers through my hair, instead of getting angrier.

"Turn to page five in your music," I whisper, almost inaudibly. I watch Meg lean in, slightly.

"Sorry?" She asks.

"Turn to page five in your music!" I raise my voice, impatiently, but not in a yelling manner. I sigh once more, trying desperately to get my unbridled anger back into some sort of organization. The nightmares were depriving me of sleep and were making my temper absolutely ruthless. Perhaps I should see a doctor...

"Come on!" I clap my hands, hoping to rally everyone into action, and forgetting my thoughts of nightmares. "We have a lot of work to do."

* * *

For the rest of the day, I pick relentlessly and mercilessly on Mlle. Daaé, yelling at her for missing cues or lines, or for falling asleep during a slight five-minute break in which I could not find my music. I yell at her for not singing loud or quiet enough. I yell at her for not using enough vibratto, or for not being in character enough. And the more I yell, the more her mistakes grow. Finally, I call for lunch, my voice going hoarse from all of the yelling.

"Lunch time, everyone! Leave before I do something brash." I collect my music together (from on the floor, as well, where I had thrown it after Christine had fallen asleep) while everyone leaves, quickly. Christine passes me, trying to avoid my attention by looking at the other side of the room as if she were looking for a friend.

"Wait, Mlle. Daaé," I call after her. "I need to have a word with you." She slowly turns around and makes her way back to me.

"Yes... Sir?" She says, her voice shaking. I turn to look at her and see her body is shaking, as well. My tone softens, as well as my gaze.

"Do you know why I pick on you?" I ask, stepping down from the podium.

"N-no, sir..."

"Think about it. Why would I pick on you so much?" It didn't take her long to respond.

"B-because you hate m-me?"

I chuckle, slightly. "No, I do not hate you, Christine. You have a marvelous voice, that, with proper training, could deem you this Opera House's best singer."

My compliment does nothing to soothe her shaking.

"Th-then why do you p-pick on m-me so much?"

"Because I want you to be perfect," I say, gently putting my hands on her shoulders. "The diamond is only formed with a lot of pressure. There is no other way to make it perfect."

"But I can't be perfect! I just can't! The way you yell at me is enough to tell any girl she isn't worth anything!" Her voice was just getting shakier and her eyes were starting to brim with tears. She was breaking down in front of me. Clearly, this girl had issues with self-confidence.

_Do something, man! _My mind yells at me. _Don't just stand there and allow her to cry! _

Unable to think of anything to do, I stand stupidly there in front of her, allowing her to cry, doing exactly what my mind screamed at me not to do.

"Erm..." is all I can think to say. Meg, as she passes us, gives me an awful glare, clearly unafraid to show her superior what she thinks about his behavior towards her friend.

"Is there anything that pleases you about me?" She asks, rhetorical, of course, tears streaming down her face. "Because it certainly doesn't feel like it." I stutter as my eyes unconsciously look her perfect frame up and down, taking in every perfect detail about her, down from her feet, to her curves, and stopping at her perfect, brown eyes. I clear my throat and swallow hard.

"Of course- erm... Your voice is f-fantastic and..." I nearly blurt out something about her perfect body and features, but manage to swallow it. Christine looks at me, clearly confused by my sudden change in attitude. I give her an awkward smile, unsure of what else I should do. Inwardly, I punch myself... I was acting like a bi-polar fool.

"And if I'm not perfect enough for you, tell me what I need to do to become perfect!"

"Well, getting a singing teacher would definitely be a start."

"Then do you know of any singing teachers?" She asks.

"I... Yes. Well, I know of a man who used to sing, but... I'm not sure he'd be willing to teach," I say, refusing eye contact and scuffing my shoe on the floor.

"Oh, would you please convince him, then!" She says, suddenly quite hopeful. "I only want to progress! And become perfect, so I can please you! I don't want to be yelled at anymore, to be blunt, sir..."

"No... No one wants to be yelled at." I sigh. I really did know of someone, but I did not know how ready he would be to begin singing again. He had sung before the war and it had been his dream to carry on a professional career with his fianceé after the war. Everything changed, though, when mustard gas damaged his face and vocal chords. Of course, his vocal chords were fine, now, but he used the mustard gas as an excuse to not have to sing anymore. It brought too many feelings of loss for his damaged career, and made him angry towards his fianceé who left him after the accident.

"I suppose I would be willing to teach you, Christine... But only because I know your voice is worth it."

Christine was taken aback at this, clearly not having expected me to be the man who needed coaxing back into singing. "Y-you, sir...?" She trembles.

"Yes, me... Is there something wrong with that?"

"No... No, of course not. I'd be happy to take lessons from you." She flashes me a smile, but inside I could tell she was dreading it.

"Good. First lessons will begin today after the end of rehearsal. Now I suggest you go and get some lunch before we start back up again. Singing requires a lot of energy."

"Of course, sir... Good-bye, sir."

* * *

**Christine Daaé**

Rehearsals had finished, and we were just finishing our lessons at M. Maureau's flat, for he wanted our lessons to be private. During our lessons, I began to realize that everything I thought of M. Maureau earlier that day was quite wrong. Yes, he did have a weakness for perfection and organization, and his temper appeared to be especially ripe today, but he had a dazzling smile and a wonderful sense of chivalry, as well as a wonderful taste and knowledge in music.

Singing the very last note of, "Ah! Je Veux vivre" from Gounod's Romeo et Juliette, Erik finishes the accompaniment on his piano, and we both let the sound ring for a moment.

"Excellent, Christine! But do remember to keep your chin up and your back flexed. It will help with your airway." He takes his hands off of the keys.

"Yes, M. Maureau."

"Please, call me Erik. I may be one for formalities and tradition, but I'd rather you would call me Erik."

"Yes, sir. How have I done today?"

"You have excelled in the limited time you have been permitted! Of course, there is still work to do, there is always work to be done, but you are excelling at a considerable pace. Well done, my dear." He stands and smiles at me, appearing to be satisfied with our first lesson.

I curtsy and thank him for his kind words when there is a sudden knock at the door.

"I'm busy, please come back later," Erik says, a slight bit of annoyance staining his voice, as he sits down into his chair.

"Please let me in, Erik," a woman's voice speaks. "I've brought some tea." Erik sighs, but stands and lets her in. The woman sets down the tea-tray and seems absolutely delighted to see me.

"How do you do, my dear?" The woman, presumably the land-lady, greets me, vigorously shaking my hand. "You have no idea how absolutely thrilled I am to have you here! See, Master Erik has not once, I declare not once, had a lady come home with him as long as he's stayed here!"

"Madame..." Erik says, quietly, his voice slightly commanding, as always.

"I do hope you two get well acquainted. Oh, but not _too _well acquainted. It would ruin the Opera house's reputation if the world found out the conductor and the leading soprano were having an affair-"

"Madame, she is my _student_!" Erik's voice breaks, clearly not doing very well at hiding his embarrassment.

"But she is still a lady!" the land-lady points out. I cannot help but laugh as Erik places his head in his hands, shaking his head back and forth, his embarrassment quite obvious.

"Don't worry, Madame," I say. "I am a good girl who was raised properly and has strong values. I have no desires or intentions for that sort of thing."

"Good," she says. "I am quite a fan of the Paris Opera house and would hate to see its reputation ruined."

"Madame, if you are quite finished, I would like to carry on my conversation with Christine... Without you." Erik arises from his hands and gently escorts the older woman by the shoulder to the doorway. "Thank you for the tea, and have a lovely evening." He shuts the door in her face and leans heavily against it. Whether from stress on his ankle, wishes to keep the land-lady out, or both, I can not tell.

"Please excuse that," he says, managing to limp over to a chair and sit. "She can be quite unexpected at times."

"Oh, it's quite all right."

He pulls out a box of cigarettes and some matches. Gesturing to the cigarettes, he asks, "Do you mind?"

I shake my head. "No, not at all." He nods his head in appreciation, puts a cigarette in his mouth, and lights it, waving out the flame on the match. We sit, quietly and slightly awkwardly, like this for quite a while, he dragging heavily on his cigarette, and I thinking of things to say.

"Erik, may I ask how you hurt your ankle?" I ask, uncertain of how he would take the question, but unable to stand the silence any longer.

"My ankle?"

"Yes."

"I was shot," he says, rather bluntly and nonchalantly, as if it happened to everyone.

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry!"

"Don't be."

That ended that conversation, so we sat in silence for a little while longer. Finally, I decide that I should probably start heading for home, soon, so I ask him for the time.

"Erik, what time is it?"

He pulls out his watch, and glances at it, "11:30."

"11:30! Oh, then I must leave! It is much later than I thought!" I stand, quickly heading towards the door.

"May I walk you home?" Erik asks, putting out his cigarette and standing much quicker than a stiff ankle should allow. He grabs his cane and is quickly at my side.

"But what about your-" I was about to ask about his ankle, but he quickly silences me.

"It will be fine for a quick walk to your apartment."

"But-"

"I insist!" His tone is very persuasive and smooth, easily overcoming me.

"Well, alright then."

He smiles his lovely, flashing smile at me and leads me downstairs. He grabs my coat from the peg on the wall and helps me put it on. Then he puts on his own coat, having to use some of my assistance because of his shoulder, and his hat, then waits for me to take his arm before we embark out the door, saying a quick good-bye to the land-lady.

"I do apologize for that silence back there, Christine," Erik says as we travel down the side-walk. "Honestly, I didn't know what to say."

I laugh, slightly, knowing how he felt. "Me neither."

We travel in silence, looking at the few automobiles that pass and enjoy in the moon's bright light.

"So do your parents live in France, as well as you?" Erik asks, suddenly, unknowing of my parents and their current status.

"No... They both died quite some time ago..." I hang my head, knowing he didn't mean to bring up a touchy subject, but still slightly disappointed that out of all the questions he could have asked, he had to ask that one.

"Really?" He asks, his tone somewhat commending.

"Yes..."

"Oh, well, then I'm sorry." He looks down, obviously regretting his question.

"It's quite all right. It wasn't your fault."

"How did they die?"

"Well, my mother was shot during WWII, after Hitler learned about us helping the Polish Jews, and my father died in the concentration camp, promptly after we arrived."

"...You and your father were put into a concentration camp?" Perhaps I was imagining it, but his tone seemed to change in that one sentence from calm and curious to dread and anxiety.

"Yes. My father and I were both sentenced to Auschwitz concentration camp."

"Auschwitz..." He repeats, his tone wavering and his eyes far away.

"Yes... Turn here," I say, gently pulling him around the corner. Hoping to bring him out of his far away state, I ask, "Do your parents live here in France?"

"Hm?" Erik appears to awake from a trance, but quickly answers, regardless of his previous answer. "No, they both died, as well. But of natural causes. If you can call it that. They died sometime after learning of my services in the war and what it did to my face."

"Oh, Erik, I'm sorry..."

"It's quite all right. They weren't very loving, anyway. They spoiled us, yes, but with monetary things. They were always busy and did not have much time for us. I speak of me and my siblings, to clarify who "us" is."

"Oh, well then I am doubly sorry." I can't quite comprehend what it would be like to live in a family that didn't love you. My family was gone, yes, but they had always loved and cherished me, spoiling me with all of the love they could offer.

Erik shrugs. "I didn't care much for them and they didn't care much for me. The only reason they died because of me was because they couldn't bear living with an ugly son under their name."

We travel in silence for the rest of the time, each contemplating the other's tragedies.

"Well, this is where I live..." I stop him, eventually, in front of a small little flat, kiddy-corner to the Paris Opera house. "Thanks, Erik, for walking me home."

"My pleasure." He bends and kisses my hand, his gesture making me blush.

"Good-night, Erik," I say, turning quickly before he notices my change in cheek color.

"Good-night, Christine," he says back. I unlock the door, turn and wave good-bye, and step inside, shutting the door and locking it behind me. Then, I run to the window to watch him disappear down the street.

"What a confounding man..." I speak aloud, not quite realizing it. "His temper can be absolutely terrifying, but he is also quite a sweet-heart..." I shrug and turn away from the window. "Oh, well... I suppose if I had my face, vocal chords, shoulder, and ankle ruined in WWII I might act like that too." Then I sigh, unable to recognize why I suddenly miss him, and unable to allow myself admit that.

"He's my teacher," I tell myself, "and I am his student. I can not allow myself to fall in love this easily. I am his student and his student alone. If I feel anything of love for him, it will be of admiration." I draw my eyebrows, suddenly. "Love? Love? Why do I keep saying love? It is not love. I absolutely, positively, definitely do not love Erik Maureau. Absolutely not... No feelings... Of love... For... Oh, who am I kidding...? I'm falling in love!" I groan. "I shouldn't be falling in love! He has such a vicious temper! But that was only today... But he still wouldn't be able to protect me, what with his bad ankle and shoulder! Then again, he did serve in the army... But he's my teacher! I cannot fall in love with my teacher! No, that would not be good... If anyone found out, I would be picked on mercilessly. I will have to find someone else to fall in love with. Yes! Maybe there is someone else I would love even more than Erik Maureau! Like... Like..." I snap. "Jean from the ballet corps! He's sweet and nice! Or Pierre, our production's leading baritone! Or-" Suddenly there's a knock at my door. Standing up, slowly, I hesitantly open the door and gasp.

"Raoul?"


	10. I Dream A Dream of Some Import

**Christine Daae**

I had allowed Raoul into my home, and, with formalities and ecstatic greetings, more on his part, aside, we now sat, conversing, in my living room.

"How is the Opera House, Lotte?" Raoul asks me, his contagious and very characteristic, bright smile planted on his lips.

"How did you know about my employment?" I ask, slightly concerned.

His smile falls into a frown, for a moment, and then he laughs. "You've just told me!"

"Oh…" My serious expression cracks for a moment, allowing laughter to escape my formerly rigid attitude. "I apologize! Please forgive me, Raoul. I've been all out of sorts, lately, especially with seeing you again… I thought you were gone for good."

Raoul's laughter dies down, and his expression becomes morbid and serious, something quite unlike Raoul. He becomes suddenly very interested in a loose thread on my couch cushion and begins to pick mercilessly on it. "Yes, I did too, honestly…"

Raoul, like Erik, had served in the war. He had been in the Navy, and his ship was captured by Nazis, early on in the war. He managed to free all of his men, but was caught before he, too, could escape. After his rescue in 1945, he was awarded the Medal of Valor for his brave acts. But until now, I did not know he was alive. All news was kept from me, naturally, while I was in the concentration camp. After I got out, I found I had no letters from him, nor any telegrams. I could only assume he was dead.

Raoul looks up at me. "I'm sorry I did not write to you. Both my parents thought I was dead, too, so when I got home, I was not spared any mercy from their clinginess. Besides, with the death of my brother, Philippe, still in mind, they were not about to take any chances with their second son, especially since I had just 'come back from the dead'. His death also distracted my mind from you, I'm sorry to say..."

"Philippe is dead?" I ask, my voice breaking. He had always been so nice to me… And he had always been more than helpful during our rescuing of the Jews. In fact, he had been our number one transporter.

"Yes… He was taken captive a few months after he went into service." A tear slips down Raoul's face, and he tries to hide it by inconspicuously pressing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Raoul, I'm so sorry…" I had always known of their closeness, and I could empathize, having been through the same situation with both of my parents.

"It's not your fault, Lotte." He takes his hand back down and rubs both of his hands on his thighs, trying to let some of the emotion out, other than through tears. He shoots me a sad smile.

I bite my lip, trying to keep back a question that I knew would be far too much for anyone who had just lost their family member in combat to handle.

Raoul's smile meets his eyes. He recognizes that look. "What is it, Lotte? What do you want to ask?"

"No, it's nothing, Raoul…"

"I really want to know!"

"No, I don't-"

"Christine…" His tone became a little more serious and pleading.

"…Oh, alright… I wanted to know if you know if he suffered too much before he died. If it's too much for you, please don't even contemplate it. I would hate-"

"No, it's fine, Christine." I watch him sigh. Just by the look on his face, and the tone in his sigh, I could tell the answer was bad. "Yes… One of his men witnessed the torture… I don't really want to go into detail, for I do not know much, and I do not wish to reminisce upon what I do know…" His jaw suddenly clenched and his knuckles became stark white as he balled his hands into tight fists. "But I can tell you that the Nazi bastard who tortured and killed my brother does not have a happy future when I find out who he is."

I think about this, his tone and words making me squirm a little, for it was not the Raoul I knew. But I give him a reassuring smile, promising him everything will turn out right, and gently reach across and unclench one of his hands, holding it softly in one of mine.

"It will be okay, Raoul, I promise." His gaze slowly turns from our hands to my eyes, and his smile soon matches mine.

"I know, Christine. I know."

* * *

**Erik**

I awake, screaming, my body covered in cold sweat and tears mingling with my sweat. I look at the time: 4:42 am. I run my fingers through my hair. The nightmares were escalating.

I quickly untie myself from my sheets, my bare chest rising rapidly in panted breath. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my bare feet landing on the cold ground. Steadying my mind and limbs, I stand, moving to the bathroom. I turn on the tap, and cup my hands, dousing them in the cold liquid. My body shudders, the sweat on my body cooling to the temperature of the colder air in my apartment. I take my filled hands and place them to my lips, slipping the water into my dry mouth. I then refill them and splash my mutilated face with water. Being careful not to slip a glance of my face, I exit the bathroom. Afraid to sleep any more, but not wanting to admit my fear to myself and refuse myself my bed, I lay down on my sheets, again, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the train of thought that had just occurred during my brief moment of sleep:

_I was sitting in a chair, donned in an Officer's clothing, in a poorly lit room. There was a single, cold, gray table between me and a man in front of me. His clothing was similar to mine, but he was half in uniform, wearing nothing but a thin, black t-shirt, tattered, camouflaged pants, and worn boots. He scowled at me, but his eyes still narrated weariness and exhaustion. I asked him something, but I cannot recall what. The room suddenly spun, and I was in the perspective of the man in the tattered camouflage. I was bound to a cold, metal chair, the ropes that bound me digging into my unprotected arms. I watched as a man stalked in front of me, clearly frustrated. He was yelling at me, in French, I think. I responded, but my ears were buzzing and I could not even hear my own words. What I did hear of my voice, though, was shocking. It was not my voice. Though it sounded incredibly familiar, it was not my own. Another man was speaking through my body. Or perhaps I was seeing through another man's body. My world flipped upside down, again, and I was in the yelling Officer's body, facing the now bruised and battered man who was still bound and scowling. I yelled something at the top of my lungs, able to feel the stress on my vocal chords, but still so hazy, I did not comprehend words. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a knife. I swiftly, and with no control of my dream self's body, unbound one of the man's hands, placed it down onto the table, and stabbed the blade through his palm. Though I could not hear words, I heard this man's anguished cry, and felt a burning, fiery pain through my own hand, as if I had been stabbed. But I had not… I was still the angry Officer, now relishing in this man's anguish, feeling satisfaction in his pain. Somehow, I was feeling both emotions of the torturer and of the tortured. The world spun, and I awoke screaming and sweaty in my bed. _

I stared at the ceiling, my hand still burning, as if it had been stabbed. The pain did not go away until I slowly began to drift back into a chaotic, spasmodic, dreamless sleep. I did not rise again, either, until my clock struck 7:30 am. I mechanically opened my eyes, threw off my covers, showered, dressed, and hurried out the door, that night's nightmare still bothering me incessantly.

* * *

That day's rehearsals went the worst of all that I had conducted, and this time it was because of me, not Christine. She was actually incredible, remembering all of her cues and lines, and singing with a majestic air I had not yet heard from her. I, on the other hand, failed to properly conduct anyone's cues, constantly forgetting to cue the cellos and bass, I nearly, and on accident this time, hit our last chair violinist with my baton, started directing from one piece of music while the musicians were playing from the one I had vocalized a moment before, and actually fell several times from my conductor's podium.

The last time I fell, I remained on the floor and called for everyone's lunch break, even though it was only 10:47. I stared at the ceiling, trying to collect myself, and trying futilely to make myself wish to stand and then actually stand. While I am in this present state, staring lifelessly at the ceiling, Christine suddenly emerges into my line of sight.

"Erik, are you all right?" She asks, concernedly.

"Am I all right?" I repeat, dumbly.

"Yes. You seem ill."

"Do I?" My mouth seems to speak before I think.

"Yes. And, well... Not to be rude... But I think... I think if you really wanted, and this is only if you want to, I could call a Doctor. I'm not saying that you are ill, but... Well... You seem ill." I stare at her, her face obstructing my views of the ceiling.

"A doctor?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you planning on requesting one?"

"Yes- Well... Only if you want, sir. Because if you are perfectly fine, not saying that you are, but also not saying that you are not! But if you feel perfectly fine, then I will not."

"Will not what?"

Her face becomes even more concerned, now, her eyebrows drawing into a sharp 'V'. "Request a doctor, sir! But I think it is past your opinion, now. I think I will go request one." She straightens herself as if to leave, but my arm suddenly shoots out and grabs her arm, keeping her rooted to the spot and nearly toppling her over with the force.

"No, no! I do not need a Doctor!" I stumble to sit up, and then to stand, leaning unintentionally on Christine. "I am fine! Perfectly fine! See?" I walk around a bit, and then fall, face first, into the orchestra pit. I can hear Christine gasp, hurry down the stairs on the side of the stage, and then scuffle into the empty orchestra pit.

"Erik, are you all right?" She nearly yells, again obstructing my view of the ceiling with her face.

"Yes, I'm fine..."I sigh, pulling myself up into a sitting position.

"Is it your ankle?" Christine asks, helping me steady myself.

"My ankle?"

"Yes, your bad one?"

"My bad... Oh!" I suddenly realize what she's talking about. Apparently, my nightmare had not induced as much sleep as the time had said it had. Perhaps I had wasted more energy during the dream than I had gained from the sleep associated with the dream. Perhaps I was just going bonkers. Either way, my brain was acting remarkably slow.

Not wanting to have to explain to her that my unnatural and uncharacteristic behavior was caused by a nightmare, I merely nod. "Yes, it is my ankle. It's been acting up, as of late. Sometimes it just cramps up, so bad, in fact, that I fall. As I have just done. Five times..."

"Oh, you poor man!" She cries. "I am dreadfully sorry! I did not know that old wounds could do that."

"Yes, well, they can. As you have just experienced..."

"Here, allow me to help you up..." She places one arm around me and helps me to my feet.

"Thank you, Christine." I dust myself off, and head towards the exit of the orchestra pit, adding more to my limp to make it seem like it truly was acting up, again. "Oh, my... I fear I am tired today." I yawn, climbing 'painfully' to the stage and then to my podium. I gather my music up while Christine slowly positions herself at my side, again.

"Erik-" She begins, but I do not hear her.

"Today has been quite odd, wouldn't you say?" I ask, rhetorically.

"Erik-" She begins, again, but I still do not hear her.

I laugh at my own train of thought. "I suppose one could say I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. But not the angry side! The 'lose your marbles during rehearsal' side. Would you agree that-"

"Erik!" She shouts, roughly, attempting to gain my attention and succeeding. I halt my music collecting and turn to face her.

"No need to shout, Christine..." I say at first, then wait for her to carry on.

"Sorry, sir, but you were not listening."

"I apologize. Now what do you need to say?"

"Perhaps it would be best for you to take a nap before rehearsals begin again. I mean, you've just called for lunch, and lunch doesn't end until 12:30. That gives you nearly two hours of rest."

"Rest..."

"Yes, rest, sir. Preferably fall asleep, like nap, sir, but anything that gets you off your feet would work."

"...Why do you suggest I sleep?"

"Well, you have just commented on how tired you are... And I think that if you got some extra sleep, rehearsals would go better. You're clearly tired. Forgive me for assuming, but you are clearly lacking sleep due to nightmares."

I am about to protest, but my voice catches in my throat after she mentions 'nightmares'. My voice becomes grave and cold. "How do you know of the nightmares?"

"I have them, sir. I know what it's like to feel tired all of the time... what it's like to be afraid to sleep."

"Who said I was afraid to sleep?" I bark. I catch myself as I almost bark something more.

"No one, sir! I was assuming again... I beg your pardon..." She closes her mouth and becomes more fragile, clearly offended by my sharp outburst.

"Forgive me, Christine..." I sigh. "I think I could use a nap. Where do you suggest I go?"

"Well, I believe there are some empty dorms above."

"Would you like to escort me?" I say, softly, trying to right my misdeed. I stick out my arm. She takes it and gives me a small smile.

"Of course, sir."

* * *

_**Well, there you go! There's more! Don't forget to review! And I think I'll be posting another poll, soon, so watch out for that. I would be ever so grateful if you would look at it. Please review! I cannot stress how happy they make me. When I don't get reviews, I feel like a terrible author, no matter what my common sense says. And please, if there is anything to critique, say it. Please... I cannot stress this enough, either. Please and thank you!**_

_**~VW**_


	11. I Dream of Love and Hate

**_Merry Christmas! I hope this chapter makes you pee your pants._**

* * *

The day ends abruptly. I take a small break, as Christine had suggested, upstairs, while everyone else leaves for lunch. After the slight lunch break, we delve back into the opera, _Tosca_, we were preparing for. People act and sing relatively well, so I decide to allow everyone to leave an hour early; at eight o'clock instead of nine. I now take my music, place it under my arm, and head towards the doors, feeling relatively pleased, though incredibly exhausted. As I head into the foyer and towards the doors, someone calls my name.

"M. Maureau!" The voice, clearly female, yells. I turn and find Christine searching for me.

"Yes, Christine?" I call back, waving so she can find the source of my voice.

"I-… And well, since we live relatively close… I-I… was wondering if we could walk home together?" She says, her voice trembling. It was obvious she still was not used to speaking to male acquaintances.

"Of course! I do not see why that would not be acceptable." I extend my arm and she graciously accepts it. As we step into the darkness outside the opera house, both of our shoes, and my walking stick, clack against the stone floor, Christine graciously thanks me.

"Thank you, monsieur. I hate walking home alone. I would have walked with Meg, as I normally do, but she has had to stay after to help her mother."

"It is no trouble. I find that the company of a well-liked person is good for me." I smile at her, and she smiles back, quickly, though, averting my gaze, and focusing on the moving ground beneath her. I look around our surroundings. "It is a beautiful night," I remark. "You can see almost every star available, excepting the light pollution, of course."

"Yes, it is very beautiful." She finally joins my gaze, also looking at the above sky. "The sky used to look this way, but even more starry, back in Sweden. I remember sitting on Papa's lap as he would tell stories of stars being people whom had died, but had been so good, they had earned a spot in the heavens for eternity. He would then conclude by telling me that no matter how bad men got, good men would always survive. And I believed him for a very long time…" I watch, from my periphery, her eyes fall back to the ground, taking with them her smile. "Up until the concentration camps, that is. And now I am not so sure the world contains any good at all. Men are rapidly becoming too wicked, and those that say they are good are wolves disguised as sheep; traitors and liars; the worst kind for civilization." I find my eyes drawing from the sky and fixating on hers as we walk. I had never before heard her speak her mind like this, and it was coming to my attention that I had brought out the real Christine Daae; that she felt comfortable enough around me to let down her shy-mask and narrate her feelings and anxieties.

"What are we to do, then, if there is no good?" I ask her, desperately needing for her to fill my knowledge. She was so angelic, pure, and light… My dark, desperate, hungry soul could only cry for her to supply it with what little purity it could bear to survive.

She looks directly at me, then, her eyes determined to hold my gaze, something she had rarely done except for the fewest occasions after our lessons when I had explained some unimportant event of my life, such as the first time I had learned what a violin was, to her.

"We can only hope that the dark men will recognize their faults and redeem themselves," she says firmly.

I find my voice choking. "And what are we to do if we have no hope?" When I look at her next, I find that a tear is brimming in her eye.

"Well, M. Maureau," she begins. "Then we must seek it, cost what it may." She hastily looks from me, clearly embarrassed that I had seen her watery eye. "Some men say Pandora's box was destroyed, razing the hope inside as well. But I do not believe them. I believe that Pandora took the box of hope from men and hid it where only the toughest, most determined of men could find it, for how much more does something mean when someone must sacrifice to behold it? I believe that in order for us to receive hope, we must be willing to go on the journey to behold it. We cannot wait for hope to find us, rather hope must wait for us to find it."

I found that my own eyes were beginning to brim with the salty substance. This girl, who still had yet to learn about me, was almost describing my entire situation and life to me, as if she were a palm-reader, or fortune-teller in a gypsy camp.

"Where does hope lie?" I ask, finding myself in need of the answer. "What must one do to obtain it?"

She pauses to think about it for a moment. "Hope lays at the summit of every man's fears, in the very heart of it, where he is the most cruel, the most vicious, the most broken. Every man must find this place in his heart, for every man has it. Hope lays in the part of a man's heart where the past is the most painful, and where the future is the most feared. Hope is that memory that every man possesses of the most shame; the one that brings the greatest pain. And hope lays here because it is where every man hopes. And every man hopes for a different outcome than what has been given or what he will be given. Now, for hope to be obtained, men must scourge the past and embrace the future, enveloping their old demons so that hope can be obtained. After a man accepts himself for who he is, who he once was, and who he will become, then has man obtained hope."

I stare ahead of me, focused on everything, yet nothing, my mind wandering and flooding with Christine's impressions. They were applicable, and everything inside of me screamed that I knew it. Rain had started and now patters upon me, though not changing my expression, or my silence. Christine has, as well, fallen silent and we now walk carefully down the sidewalk. It is a good thing, too, that the rain had begun. If it had not, Christine would have recognized the tears that silently slide down my face.

Before I know it, as I was previously lost in a mind-set filled with memories, Christine's voice narrating across each one of them, Christine suddenly stops me. I turn, confused, and see that she is speaking with a man.

Before I catch any part of their conversation, Christine turns to me and introduces me.

"This is M. Maureau, the Opera house's new conductor, as well as my private vocal teacher." She steps out of the way so that the man can reach for my hand. I mechanically take it, recognizing the firm hand shake in the man's hand.

"How do you do, M. Maureau?" He says, smiling at me, his blue eyes twinkling with optimism and brightness. I nod in recognition of his question as Christine introduces him to me.

"M. Maureau, this is Raoul de Chagny. He is an old friend of mine."

"Nice to make your acquaintance, M. de Chagny," I say, out of custom, not because I wasn't happy to meet the boy, but because I was still very distracted. As introductions are out of the way, Raoul makes conversation with Christine, mentioning something about his being about because he had just visited her flat with the intent of inviting her to a something or other, to which she then accepted. The conversation then turns to good-byes and then departure, and before I know it, Christine and I are off again.

"You could have stayed with that Raoul boy if you had felt so inclined," I say to her. "In fact, if you really wanted, you could run back and stay with him now."

"No, no, that would be cruel," She says with a smile. I note how quickly both of our moods have changed in a matter of minutes. "I asked you to walk me home, not him. Therefore I should continue to walk home with you, not him."

"Fair enough," I concede. The rest of the way home is travelled in silence, excepting the increasing dynamic pattering of the rain, a frequent characteristic of our walks. As we approach her flat, she suddenly stops.

"Is something the matter, Christine?" I ask, my eyebrows drawn in worry.

"No, not at all! It's just that… Well, I know it's a little too short notice… But I'll ask anyway. Do you think I could come home with you?" She realizes the mistake in her wording, my eyebrows raise in shock, and quickly continues, blushing fervently. "Meg won't be home, yet, and I can't bear being alone right now… Besides, it would be a good opportunity to rehearse for _Tosca_! I could always use a little extra work… Unless, of course, you have other things to do-"

I abruptly cut her off. "No, it's to no inconvenience. I am available whenever you need me."

She sighs in relief. "Oh, good!" She looks down, embarrassedly, still regretting her previous word choice. She then asks, tentatively, "Shall we continue then?"

"Indeed, we shall." I allow her to take my arm again, and we make the quick trip from her flat to mine. I pull my key out and insert it into the lock, quickly budging open the door and pushing Christine inside first. I close the door behind us, and we quickly strip ourselves of our wet coats, hats, and gloves, placing them on designated pegs. I lead Christine up the stairs, unlock the door to my own flat, and lead her into my abode.

"Go ahead and sit on the couch." I gesture towards the piece of furniture. "Would you like something to drink? Wine, or something to that affect?" I move to the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator and wine-cabinets.

"A good red wine sounds lovely right now," she answers.

"Agreed. Excuse me for just a moment, while I search for a good wine downstairs." She nods, and I slip out my door, quickly returning with the most decent wine I could find in the landlady's wine cellar. I maneuver to the couch and coffee table to join her, unstoppering the wine and pouring some into two wine glasses. I hand one to her and keep the other for myself.

"Shall I propose a toast?" I ask. After I receive a nod from Christine, I continue. "To Christine's triumph next week, during the performance of _Tosca_. May it benefit her later on." I raise my glass, as she does hers, and we both drink. Afterwards, I set my glass down on the coffee table and remark upon the now hailing weather.

"It's a good thing you've come with me," I say. "Bad weather and loneliness are not a good combination with me. I find myself often drinking myself to sleep in times like these."

"Why is that?" Christine asks, concernedly.

"It reminds me too much of the war. We had to stay in ditches in the ground, no matter the weather, and one could always feel lonely, no matter the number of men who surrounded you. And then when I was taken prisoner, I was left in a leaky cell closest to the outside and farthest from the other prisoners. Obviously, I was very alone. Sometimes, unbearably so…" I sigh, my moments of reminiscing leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. One look from Christine, though, tells me that I need to continue, her curiosity shining just as bright as her pity and empathy.

"Even though the cold was insufferable, I did thank the heavens for it on more than one occasion."

It was then Christine does something that quite surprises me. She takes my hand, and brushes it gingerly with her thumb, asking quietly, "Why would you do that?"

I look up into her eyes, quite shocked she would show such an act of affection for me. My tongue catches in my throat, but I continue, saying, "Because when they tortured me, the pain was unendurable… The biting, stinging cold offered a cool numbness that baited the pain." As I watch the empathy overflow in her expression, an overwhelming sense of love washes over me. I suddenly feel as if I could overcome my past as long as she was with me. It is the oddest sensation, and most unexpected, but it burns in my veins, and I am suddenly very aware how small the couch we are sitting on is, and just how close our lips were. I abruptly have the unmistakable urge to take her and kiss her, and before I can comprehend what I am doing, I draw very close very quickly, and our lips meet. I half expect either one of us to draw back, but that does not happen. Instead, Christine's hand moves to my masked cheek and places it gently there, drawing me nearer to her. Our lips move gently on top of each other, and I silently wish for this moment to be never-ending, for in this instance, and for the first time, I manage to forget the war and focus on nothing but my love for Christine.

The kiss does, though, end, and I find myself once again looking longingly into her eyes. Christine is blushing, but she does not dare break my gaze.

"Well…" Is all I think to mutter, the awkwardness both of us feel causing Christine to laugh.

"Well, indeed," She says, her blush slowly fading.

"I think that this is probably the best last-minute lesson I will ever have." This remark causes her to laugh again, and she nods in agreement. I stand and state, "I'll actually go find the music now. I believe I left it downstairs." before I lean in once more and kiss her, unable to control myself. "I will be back in a moment."

**Christine Daae**

I laugh gently at Erik's remark about last-minute lessons, nodding enthusiastically. He stands, kisses me fervently once more, and too soon enough opens the front door and disappears behind it. I lean back in the couch and smile. I had sworn while I was in the concentration camps that I could never love a man, not after witnessing men all around me laugh, mock, and hurt me. But at this time, I feel I can love Erik Maureau. Yes, he is bi-polar on occasion, but he has good reason to be. Besides, his good qualities outnumber the bad.

I sit in this state on the couch, in almost pure ecstasy, when an open drawer catches my attention. I cannot help but stand and peer inside. There is so much I want to know about him, that my impulse has me delve quickly inside. The only things, however, the drawer contains is a box of matches, a picture of Erik in uniform, which I admire for the longest time, a box of cigarettes, a dagger, and another box I do not recognize. My eyebrows draw in curiosity, and I soon find myself holding the small, black box.

_I wonder what can be inside… _I think with a sense of forebodement. I know that I should not open the box, but my need to know more about him overpowers my common sense and I soon open the box. Its contents appear to be medals of war, but they are not ones I recognize. As I examine them, I soon gasp, hoping against hope that my eyes lie to me. No matter how hard I strain my eyes, though, the swastika symbol at the bottom of each one is blatantly obvious. I begin to convince myself that they are medals from enemies he killed in battle, but at the bottom of the box, after I had gingerly examined a nicely folded uniform, is one item that knocks me into the cold, hard truth, violently ripping my heart out of my ribcage, throwing it to the floor, and grinding it into the floor. At the bottom of the box, and beneath the uniform, lay a single, red swastika band.


	12. I Dream of Destruction

**_Alright, well, I hope I made you pee. And I have no condolences, my dears, for I fear I've been enjoying writing this a little too much... *shot* And I'm sorry. It's just about to get worse. Actually, no. I'm not sorry (no condolences, remember?). It's just about to get worse._**

* * *

I stare at the red swastika band, hoping against hope that my initial thoughts are wrong.

_It has to be a souvenir... _I explain to myself, swallowing the tears in my throat. _Though why he would keep souvenirs like this... _

I gather all of the things I had taken out, and replace them, forgetting my initial thoughts. They have to be wrong. They simply have to be wrong. After having shut the box and put it away in the dresser drawer, I realize that I am still holding onto his army portrait. I admire it for a little longer, running my fingers over his mask-less, young, handsome face. I turn it over to see if it has any information concerning Erik on it. To my pleasure, and with a foreboding sense of displeasure, it does.

Ink is scrawled on the back, dating: _November 3rd, 1939_. I then move to the next line, which appears to have a name scripted in nearly illegible handwriting. I recognize the first name, Erik, and move onto the last: von Richter.

_That sounds familiar, _I think. I feel a heavy-pressing sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach. I feel that I should drop the picture now and leave Erik to his past, as I will leave myself to mine. But there is far too much impulse and curiosity brimming, that I find myself too soon looking at the other side of the picture. My stomach falls and I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. I notice something I had not before. The man in the picture is wearing a swastika band on his left arm. I drop the picture and scoot hurriedly from its painful truth, wishing that there is an explanation. But I know there is not. And that is when the tears begin to fall. Tears of lost hope, anger, betrayal, and pain begin to fall down my cheeks, splattering onto my knees I had just drawn up. I do not care that I am in a dress. I feel that I will rather have some sense of security than to feel none at all while following rules of propriety. I remain in a broken and shaking position pushed against the couch for quite some time, silently wishing that Erik will not come back, for I know that if he does return, I will never be able to forgive him. It is one thing to forgive a face you do not have to encounter, and another quite different thing to forgive a face in front of you.

It is now that the door chooses to open, and Erik re-enters, humming some sort of melody I do not care to recognize. It does not take him long to drop the music and fly to my side.

"Christine, are you all right?" He says frantically, crouching down beside me. I can see, from my periphery, that he winces, the unnecessary pressure on his ankle and knee bringing him pain. For a moment I am glad it pains him. Any man who could have once dared to wear that swastika symbol deserves the war-wounds, scars, and chronic pain they acquired during the war.

I push his hands away as he tries to somewhat comfort me, awkwardly trying to rub my shoulder. Instead, I slide farther from him, feeling slightly afraid of him.

"Christine, I don't understand," he breathes. "What is the matter?"

I remain silent.

"Oh..." He says soon thereafter. I realize he notices the open drawer and over-turned portrait picture on the hard-wood floor. He knows why I am upset. He does not say anything, though, and when I glance up at him a few times, I notice his face is entirely emotionless.

After a few minutes of heaving sobs, I finally manage to stutter, "W-wh-why?"

He quickly stands, fixing his tie and straightening his waistcoat, his eyes cold.

"You should leave."

I look up at his nearly barked command. "What?"

"Go. Now!" He points to the door. I instantly hate him for commanding me in such a tone. Why is he angry? What does he have to be angry about? It was entirely unfair and cowardly of him to hide such facts from me. I am not about to obey.

"Not until you explain," I say so smoothly and harshly, I surprise myself.

"No, Christine." He glares at me with his piercing eyes. "For you will never know."

"Then I will never leave," I retort, my eyes beginning to dry. I fold my arms over my chest as if to make a point. He looks over my determined attitude with narrowed eyes, almost as if he feels that if he stares at me for a certain period of time, he can make me disappear. But I am determined to hear the truth.

His conduct eventually cracks, and he soon sighs, pressing his forefinger and thumb into his eyes. After he remains in this manner, his fist pressing into his lower back as well, for a time, he eventually draws aside a dining room chair and sits.

"Where shall I begin?" He breathes, shamefacedly.

"The beginning," I state, my growing coldness and receding empathy surprising myself.

"Very well. It was December 2nd, 1918, right after World War I. A man named Kristof von Richter had met a sweet girl named Adelheid von Wulf sometime while serving in the German army during the spring, and it was this day they were married. Sometime later, October 20th, 1919, I was born, the first, but not last, child of the von Richter family in Berlin, Germany. I grew up under my parents supervision, and since the day I was born, they prepared me to draft into the army. World War II broke out when I was attending university, and my parents, as well as myself, were eager that I drafted in. I was, of course, accepted, as I had all the necessary requirements of pride, strength, and the short-temperament that ever Nazi was almost required to have. I quickly ascended ranks, as Herr Hitler requested, for he enjoyed my psychopathy, and soon I was at the ranking of Lieutenant Colonel, even though I was only 20 years of age. I suppose he was relatively young though, too..." I watch him shrug. "Then everything began to crumble when I was captured in battle by the Russians. They tortured me, trying to receive information about Hitler. But I was too stubborn and proud to tell them anything. So I was waterboarded, flogged with the Cat o' Nine tails, several times, and branded."

At this point, I feel terrible for him, even though he is partly responsible for everything I have endured. I almost want to ask him to stop, but I need to know, so my jaw remains tightly shut.

He seems to recognize my horrified look, for he chuckles, slightly.

"The Nazis were not the only ones to torture, you know," he says.

"Continue," I almost whisper, suppressing a shudder.

"Very well. I managed to escape, as I am here, alive, today. One of the guards of my block was drunk, Vodka, no doubt, and it was all very easy to slip the keys. As I was running through the snow, though, bare-chested and bare-footed, I was shot at, naturally, by the guards around the wall. I was very inefficient and still very young, then, and I assure you I am not so stupid now. Nevertheless, I was shot at by the guards, every one nearly missing, except for two. I assume you can infer where those two hit me."

My eyes fly to his shoulder and ankle, and I nod quickly.

"Yes. I managed to hurry away, completely ignoring the blazing pain in my ankle. I stayed in the forest that night, ripped parts of my trousers keeping the blood at bay. It was a miracle I actually survived. If it weren't for a Russian surplus truck, I believe I would have died. The aforementioned truck was on its way to, well, supply ammunition, hence _surplus _truck, and I manged to acquire a ride, thankful there were not guards in the back. I made it back to my bunker, though my freedom and joy was not celebrated for long. Our bunker and campsite was soon bombed, exposing large amounts of mustard gas, as well as confronted by a small Russian army. I was wounded the most, and I was the only one who survived the mustard gas, only having survived because I was found by one of the campsite doctors, Niklas von Engel, shortly after my face was already being dissolved. He managed to sneak away and somehow managed to transport me to an Italian bunker. Shortly after heavy medical attention, I returned to battle, against Niklas, my doctor's, wishes, sporting a new, white mask. Men soon began to know me throughout the world, as I was ruthless, hardened, and incredibly psychopathic, and as I escaped from death again and again, I quickly became known to them as Koschei the Deathless, after the Slavic folklore character. In fact, I became so ruthless, I began to relish in the opportunities I had to raid Jew, Swedish, and Polish homes, as well as supervise and oversee the Auschwitz concentration camp. I-"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" I ask, a sudden dread filling my stomach.

"I raided Jew, Polish, and select Swedish homes, as well as supervised the Auschwitz concentration camp."

_Oh, no... _I think, as memories flood back to me. _Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no! It cannot be! You remember wrongly, Christine. _But I know I do not. Memories suddenly flood back, and I flashback to the day my house was raided.

_"Christine!" a male voice calls. "Are you ready for dinner?" _

_"Yes, Papa!" I call back. A man with curly brown hair enters the room, smiling a bright smile at me. _

_"Then why are you not in the kitchen? We are ready now, Lotte!" He scoops me off my feet, causing me to giggle. He carries me to the kitchen and sweetly tells me to wash my hands. _

_"Yes, Papa," I say obediently, running my hands beneath warm tap-water as he disappears to find my Mama. I admire the setting sun outside the window before stepping away from the sink. I then sit down at the dining room table, patiently waiting for my parents to join me. They both appear in the doorway, smiling brightly and exchanging quick kisses. I wrinkle my nose and pretend not to see. They sit next to me and we all say Grace, thanking God for the bounteous meal He has provided for the day. As we begin to eat, though, bright head-lights appear in the windows by the door. My Papa's relaxed composure soon twists into confusion, and soon anxiety as we hear a loud knock at the door. _

_"Christine," My father whispers quietly to me, just loud enough for me to hear over the banging on the door. "I want you to go out the back door with your Mama. Do not be frightened, angel," he adds, noticing my expression. "I will join you in a moment. Now go with your Mama." I nod and take my mother's hand, allowing her to quickly escort me out the back door. Before we manage to get too far, though, a shot is heard and my mother falls. I scream in fear and soon notice a German soldier with a handgun stepping from a tree. A_ masked _German soldier. Instinctively, I run the opposite direction, away from the masked man with the gun, and back to the house. I re-enter the back doorway, and soon find myself surrounded by German soldiers with guns aimed at my tiny body. _

_"No!" My Papa shouts somewhere nearby. I look and, through tear-blurred eyes, he is on his knees with his hands behind his head, not a few feet behind the soldiers surrounding me. "She is just a child! Can you not spare her?" The door is opened behind me and I quickly turn with a quick inhale of breath, recognizing the masked German man whom had just murdered my mother. I fall to the floor, scrambling away from him and into the legs of the now encircled soldiers. I watch the masked man spit something in German at his men, desperately wishing that I could escape. One of the men tries to reply to the masked man, of whom was obviously in command, but is quickly interrupted. The masked man then looks at me, after an uttered apology from the soldier, and crouches to my level. _

_"Why are you so scared, girl?" He says in perfect Swedish, an alarming smile spreading across his face. "Why do you cry?" His black, gloved finger strokes away my tears, almost in mockery. _

_"Don't touch her!" My father yells from the other side of the room, now bound. The masked man looks from me to my father, his smile disappearing and his expression becoming cold. _

_"You will not speak to me in such a manner again," I hear the masked man say as he disappears from my line of vision. _

_"I do not care what you demand," my father says, remarkably calm. "Do not touch my daughter." I hear a sudden crack and slump to the floor, and I squeal in fear. Was my father dead? _

_"Insolence is not tolerated," the masked man says, my Papa groaning from the floor. "You will do well to remember it." _

_After another German conversation, the masked man finally speaks. _

_"You will come with me, now, I think." He picks me up into his arms, and I begin to squirm, afraid of what this man is going to do with me. An idea coming to my head, I quickly act upon it, taking the masked man's arm, and biting down hard. _

_"Gah!" He cries in agony, instinctively backhanding my cheek. I am now crying and sobbing madly, fear wrenching inside of me, threatening to devour me. As I look back into his eyes, I do not recognize the mad, psychopathic rage they express. _

_"You will pay dearly for that, girl," He growls before throwing me into the back of an automobile, my father following next, and slamming the doors shut, leaving us in the dark. _

And I did pay for that later. It had been Erik von Richter, the 23 year-old lieutenant colonel, who had personally escorted my father to the gas-chambers.

"Is there... Something wrong, Christine?" This same man says in front of me, his voice calm and soothing, nothing like the one I had known years before.

"You..." I whisper, my eyes beginning to fill with rage. "You killed my parents!"

"I-" He stops, registering my statement. "Excuse me?"

"It was you who shot my mother that day in Sweden! You who later led my father to the gas-chambers!"

He appears taken aback. "I did those things?" He whispers, quietly, telling me he has suspicions.

"Yes!" I spit, my eyes streaming with hot, angry tears. I stand quickly to my feet. "You are the reason I have nightmares, now!" I scream. "The reason why I cannot sleep at night! You are a monster!" I begin to pound mercilessly at him, giving his arm, wounded shoulder, and back a serious beating. He does not stop me, though he does bow his head and place his hands on top of his head for protection, instinctively. It is because of this I eventually manage to cease.

"Christine..." His voice trembles and I can tell he is crying, though not from the physical pain or abuse. "I am not proud, Christine... I am not proud of who I was... Please forgive me..."

But this was not enough to appease my ripening temper and receding empathy.

"Answer me something," I say, a thought brimming to the front of my mind.

"Anything for you," he cries.

"Did you kill Philippe de Chagny?"

A moment's pause before he slowly nods. "Yes."

All the chaos ever possible breaks loose inside of me, anger coursing through my veins, dizzying and frightening me.

"Show me your scars," I say through a clenched jaw. I do not know why I say this, as my common sense advises I do not. But I do, and he soon lifts his red-eyed face, his mask stained with tears. "Your scars!" I bark when he does not take immediate action, my commanding tone surprising both of us. He places his head in his hands, for a moment, running his hands through his hair, before standing, taking off his tie, and beginning to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, and then shirt. He grunts in pain as he eases out of the white shirt, his bare chest revealing a beautifully toned, muscular chest, done so through military service and training, but all beauty in it is completely ravaged by scars. I almost cry at this display, but remind myself he killed my parents, and all instincts to cry disappear. I notice several branding marks, one of a swastika, just below his right collarbone, giving me the feeling the Russians had done this to mock him, and another one of a few numbers: 3389519, placed going vertically along the side of his abdomen.

He notices my look at this one and explains, "My number in the Russian prison."

I ignore him, quite coldly, alarming me, and continue to examine his chest. A few long cuts go down from his right shoulder to his left hip, daggers, he explains, and other smaller miscellaneous cuts falling between the brandings and dagger cuts.

"Shrapnel," He explains again, turning as I signal him to. I gasp, unable to help myself, as I see this side. He had clearly met the Cat o' Nine tails several times, in Russia, for his back is lashed with deep, long, white scars all over the length and width of his back. I run my fingers gently over his clenched, muscular shoulders, tracing each and every individual scar.

"Now show me your face," I say, as my hand finishes its course, wanting to destroy his pride, as he had done to me years ago.

"Christine, please..." He pleads. "I apologized. What more do you want?"

I remain silent, for it is the only thing I can do to keep my cold composure. I desperately want to forgive him, but something in my stomach and within my heart will not let allow me. Perhaps it is the feeling of hatred, something I had uncontrollably and unwillingly nursed during my years in the cell. I had spent everyday thinking of the man who had killed my parents, wishing nothing but the worse kind of death, hoping he would eventually be tried for his war-crimes and hanged.

He turns to look at me, great pain in his eyes. For a moment, he is not the man who killed my parents, but the man whom I had learned to love. But the moment soon passes as hatred overpowers any prior feelings towards him or his tragic tale.

"Christine," He pleads, his rich voice breaking. "Do not ask me to do this... I know you are upset, but this is not you!"

"How do you know?" I retort bitterly. "You don't know me..."

He ignores me, perhaps because he does not want my character to be confirmed as bad, and falls to his knees before me, looking me in the eyes with a great sense of shame.

"I am not that man anymore, Christine," He nearly whispers. "Please do not ask me to remove the mask... I have but little pride left, and if I lose it now, I will die..." He then corrects himself. "If I lose you, I will die."

With tears straining my vocal chords, I choke, "You have already lost me. Remove the mask, Erik."

"You do not understand," he says. "I am a different man beneath the mask..."

"_Take it off_."

His breathing is heavy, and low sobs emit from beneath his breath. Suddenly, something in him changes.

"No!" He suddenly roars, slamming his fist against the hardwood floor, making me gasp, and flying to his feet. "I will not take it off! It will remain on my face, and you will leave!" A fire burns passionately in his eyes, reminding me of a trapped animal resorting to its last defense to win freedom: aggression. He towers over me, being quite a bit taller, and the muscles in his chest, arms, and back bulge with tension. He points firmly at the door, the veins in his clenched hand popping wildly out of his skin.

I do not expect what comes next. One moment, Erik is completely still, and completely masked. The next... He is in the corner, whimpering and breathing heavily with rage, his mask in my hand as I lay dazed on the floor. He struck me.

"You dare defy my orders?" He yells, his voice shrill and angry. "I demand you not touch my mask, yet you still rip it away!"

I am trembling, very afraid of him now. I had never seen him, even when I had known him as a Nazi, this unstable.

"I do not care what you demand," I say, just loud enough for him to hear. He growls and throws something at me. I cover my head as glass shatters above me.

"I warned you, girl," he seethes, "that I am a different man beneath the mask." I can tell he is now fully turned toward me, and I fearfully look up, gazing upon a heavily scarred face. "But you do not listen. No woman does." It is white in some places, and an angry red in others. His nose is gone, having been burned away by the gas. "_Dear, do not leave me! I need you! I love you! _But it is nothing to you women, is it? My fiancee did not listen to me. And neither did you." His eyes are burning fire, only making his appearance worse. He throws something else, but this time I do not have time to duck. Something collides into my cheek, causing a yelp of pain on my part, and then clunks to the ground. As I hold my throbbing cheek, biting back tears, and feeding my anger, as I do not want to cry, and it is the only thing that will keep the tears at bay, I look down and recognize it as a paperweight he sometimes used to keep music from flying away at the Opera house.

"Perhaps I should stop loving," he says after a moment, turning and gripping the small display table, that had previously held the now shattered vase, so tightly, his knuckles turn white. "For every time I have expressed my feelings, the people I tell either leave, or die. I told my parents I loved them in a letter, after I was so humbled by the mustard gas explosion, and that I was grateful for their time and energy in raising me. They died a few days later. I told my fiancee I loved her as she walked out the door. I kissed you, Christine Daae, the ultimate profession of love... And you now walk out the door." I turn, my hand on the door-knob going limp.

"You deserve it, as well as every scar you have," I whisper angrily through clenched teeth, the words falling out of my mouth before I contemplate them. "I hope you rot in Hell." I rip open the door, tears falling from my face, both in anger and shame at what I had just confessed, and I fly down the stairs and out the door, not bothering to grab my coat.


	13. I Dream of Darkness

_**Beware, this chapter is dark. **_

She leaves me standing there near the doorway with my mouth hanging wide open, the words "I need you, don't leave!" caught on my tongue. I cannot say those words. She does not need me, so why should it matter that I need her?

Something in me aches. I think it is my heart, but how can it be aching? It has already been ripped from my chest and smashed into a mess of blood and gore by the woman I love. Something that is not there cannot ache like it is now. I feel as if my chest is caving in, being sucked into the black hole where my heart used to be. My heart strings are torn and limp, hanging uselessly from the cavity in my chest.

Oh, Christine! How foolish I am! To think I can deceive you and still have your love! If I had told you before perhaps our relationship would persevere. If I had told you at all! But I was a coward, and you have found for yourself what I am and what I will never escape. I am a monster; a cruel, heartless psychopath, incapable of love and compassion. I feel that I love you, but I must surely be mistaken. No one such as I could fall in love with a creature such as you. You are perfect, unreachable in beauty and innocence! How stupid it was for me to taint you with my eternal darkness, something I possessed, now possess, and always will possess. I will never be an innocent man; you are right to leave me. I am Prometheus, chained upon a rock with chains I forged myself and an eagle I have already provoked. There is nothing you can do, Christine, save let me die... Do not turn back. Run and leave me here to disappear, unloved, unclaimed, and sentenced to Hell. I, the personification of darkness, will recede into shadow, leaving you free with the satisfaction that your antagonist has gone and left you at peace. I love you, Christine. And for that, I am damned.

My head begins to spin with a torrent of emotion and I find myself crashing to the floor, my injured shoulder cracking into the wooden floor boards, sending a wave of pain through my upper body. I roll onto my knees, my head resting against the ground while my forearms lay parallel to the wooden planks beneath me, supporting the rest of my body. Something inside of me cries that it wants to get up, that I cannot concede; that I need to climb back into the light. But it is much easier down here in the darkness. Yes, yes, I will stay down here. The darkness soothes my aching heart. It fills my chest cavity with substance and ebbs away my pain. Tears splash against the wooden floor, staining my face with the only substance I have known to be ever present, save my blood spilt in battle. The tears are warm and comforting, and they, too, begin to ebb away the pain. A tight knot grows in my throat, constricting my airway with relinquished sobs and screams. A voice calls out in my mind, _Stupid, stupid! I knew you would regret it, but you did not listen to me. Ambition always supersedes instinct, and here you are wallowing in the ruins of your past. Ruins they are and ruins they will remain. Rome was great once, yes. But now it is a pile of ruins, collecting dust and eroding away into nothing. Stay here, Erik. Wallow in the darkness. There is no hope left for you. _

Indescribable pain courses through my veins. I cannot think straight; my thoughts are becoming darker by the minute, dragging me into an eternal chasm of torment. Oh, leave me at peace, thou foul provokers of evil deed and misdoing! I deserve every moment of it, but leave me be! The pain is unbearable and I am being ripped apart into tiny pieces of endless nothing. I feel the darkness seeping into my veins, coursing through my body, cold and terrifying.

"Stop!" I scream, my voice breaking. "I am not evil! Leave me be!" My voice shudders and sobs with pain and terror. I am not evil! Why won't the darkness leave me alone?

My mind breaks into havoc as I hear a deep, dark voice calling to me. It is too deep to understand it, but I can feel the pure, raw evil tones.

"Leave me be!" I cry, my voice breaking into a falsetto register in anguish. I writhe on the floor for a moment while clawing at my head, trying to drown out the sounds. Rain, thunder, and lightning crash outside my window, droplets of water pattering against the windowpane, only adding to my increasing agony. I jump to my feet and scramble to the bathroom, turning on the cold water in the shower and throwing my head into the torrent. The cold water runs against my skin, lessening the pounding in my head. The terror and guilt is still there, though. I must get rid of it! I look around wild eyed until I catch glimpse of the bathroom mirror. I smash my fist into the glass and peel away a large piece of the broken shard. I must cut it out; I will not allow it to feed within me like an ever present parasite! I insert the tip of the shard into my wrist and begin to slice. Out, out! I will not allow it! Fiery pain alights within me, my arms burning as I switch between each arm. Finally, I cannot stand the raging emotions and pain within me any longer. It is far too much to handle! I seize my long forgotten syringe filled with my long forgotten drug, thrust it into my arm, and fall back onto the floor, a pool of blood and tears gather around me. I will quench this raging beast until it ceases to be no more. The world spins for a moment, and I fall into the pit of noiseless sound, colorless images, and nostalgic nothingness.

* * *

_Niklas_

I enter the building that contains Erik's small flat, my breathing ragged from the exertion of running here. I ignore the landlady as she yells at me to slow down and run quickly to his door. Mademoiselle Daae had come to see me and had told me of what had just happened, seeking to know if what Erik had said was true. If what she recounted was true, Erik is in dire danger.

I knock violently at the door. "Erik! Are you here?" Silence. I knock louder, banging with my fist and kicking with my foot. My heart thumps worriedly against my chest, gaining speed quickly. "Erik, open the door! I am not here to condemn you, rather to help you!" Silence. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I kick the door down. I hurry into the room, finding my friend and former comrade face down in a pool of his own blood. Groaning, I recognize a bloody, large shard of glass, as well as an empty syringe.

Finding a bottle of strong brandy, I pour it into a cup and manage to get it under his nose, or lack thereof. As he begins to stir, I carefully transport him out of the pool of blood and into a comfortable recuperating situation. While I am doing this, I cannot help but feel that nagging sensation of inquiry. Suppose I hadn't run into Christine and she hadn't confided in me to reconfirm what she had been told by Erik? Surely, Erik would have died. He wouldn't have let himself get away with anything but that.

I hurry straight to work, bandaging Erik's torn forearms, both of which are still bleeding, all the while glimpsing at his bruising shoulder and chest. Erik stirs quickly and pushes me away.

"What are you doing here?" He spits through his teeth.

"Keeping you from dying!" I can already tell that there is going to be a good deal of arguing.

"Perhaps that is what I want and you are only interfering." He keeps his eyes closed, attempting vainly to keep out the light. I consider leaving him in this state. Then I for once would have power over him. But that is what separates us, he and I. He strives only for power while I, though perhaps desiring it, shy away from it. Men can turn rotten from power. I had experienced that through Erik von Richter.

I close his blinds, though it is already dark outside, and turn the lights off, save a single lamp by which to work by. He cautiously opens his eyes, snatches his mask, places it, and stands, pointing firmly at the door.

"I would ask you to leave, now, Herr doctor." I cringe at his use of German. I have not heard him use that language for nearly four years.

"No, I do not think so, Erik. I will not standby while you destroy yourself!"

"Then you leave me with no other option." I watch him cautiously as he approaches his dresser. He opens one of the drawers and pulls out his handgun. He loads it, his hands steady and firm. Why should they shake now when he has used this instrument of death so many times before this moment?

"Erik, set the gun down."

"I apologize dearly, doctor, but this is for the best and you will not leave any other way." He raises the gun with one hand, all the while unwavering. "Leave now, or I'm afraid I will shoot."

"You're mad!"

"Oh, I am more than mad. I must be for how else could I have committed those grievous war crimes? Now step towards the door." His finger presses the hammer down. But instead of shooting me, he raises the gun to his own head. "If you value my life so much, leave."

I swallow hard, my limbs beginning to shake. "How do I know you won't shoot yourself even after I leave?"

"You don't."

My breathing quickens. "Alright. I will leave." Slowly and smoothly I open the door step out and close it. There is only one way to get him to stop this madness. I do not particularly agree with what he has done, nor what I have done, but I will not allow a man to throw away his life. Anyone can change, and there is only one person on this whole planet who can get him to change. Pulling my coat's collar up to my chin, I open the door to the outside and step out into the stormy, foggy night.

* * *

_Christine_

I watch Raoul as he stands motionless by the window, his silhouette being lit up every so often by a burst of lightning. I had just retold Erik's tale to him and had presently finished explaining that Erik had killed Philippe. Raoul's silence frightens me, but I do not dare speak.

"So I have him to thank for the absence of my brother," Raoul says monotonously and stoically.

"I-I suppose so..." I stutter, unable to control my fear. I am afraid of how he will react. I do not mind if Erik is killed, but I do not want Raoul turning from the considerate, compassionate man I know into a ruthless killer bent on revenge.

Raoul sits another minute at the window before gathering his hat and coat and heading towards the door.

"Raoul, where are you going?" I hurry quickly to his side, purposely putting my self in front of him so he cannot exit quite yet.

"I am going home, Christine. I need some time to think this information over."

I slowly nod. "Promise that you will not do anything rash, though?"

"Of course not, Christine. I am a soldier, not a murderer." With that, he nods his head in parting and steps out the door.

* * *

_**Sorry it's so short! I wanted to get something new up.**_


	14. I Dream of Death

_**Alright, guys. Here's another one! I do hope you'll leave a quick review on the way out. It makes me ever so happy. And I am so sorry for the sporadic updates. I kind of update whenever I feel particularly inspired.**_

**_Disclaimer: This one's a doozy. _**

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_Raoul_

I step outside Christine's flat, immediately flipping the collar to my overcoat up in an attempt to keep the rain from my face. I walk down the steps, and begin my journey down the concrete sidewalk. Guilt ebbs at me for deceiving Christine. It is true that I am a soldier, not a murderer. But after this night I believe the courts will sincerely beg to differ.

I reach into my coat and fumble around for my pistol, usually used for self-defense, especially as I have become more paranoid after the war. My mind is numb from guilt and... No, not anger. I feel nothing, save be for the longing sensation for my brother.

It will be simple, I reassure myself. I will step into his flat, raise the gun, and shoot before he even has a chance to turn around. Prisoners are executed everyday by courts of law so why should this be any different? He is just a prisoner found guilty by the human conscience and I merely the executioner sent by God to avenge everyone that monster had ever wronged. There is nothing wrong with punishing the evil, for they are meant to be punished.

Rain patters heavily against my hat, spilling down into my face in torrents as the storm increases in intensity, and I savor every numbing touch. I will need it to soothe my nerves this dreadful night.

I quickly make it to the flat in which he remains. I briefly stop to ponder what he is doing at this moment. Perhaps he is getting ready for bed? Or perhaps he is in a heap on the floor crying for the woman he just lost. I force myself to shrug indifferently. It matters not, I tell myself.

I step up to the door, carefully maneuvering myself out of the way of a Persian gentleman. He nearly collides with my shoulder, but he appears to be too upset to notice. I watch him leave before stepping into the lobby, checking again and again that my pistol is concealed. Examining all of the rooms to make sure no one is downstairs, I begin the climb up the stairs, my heart thumping madly in my chest. Perspiration beads on my face and I hastily wipe it away.

I pause on the stairs, my feet no longer able to work. My limbs are shaking and my decision is starting to fall apart.

_Manslaughter! _A voice shouts within me. _This is manslaughter! _

_So? _My will counteracts. _I have killed many before him. _

_But that was war! This is society. Civilized, decent, good-willed society! Do not kill this man. _

_But he killed Philippe. _

I clench my jaw at the thought, feeling overly-nauseated. Footsteps sound above me and everything within me freezes to a halt. My gaze jerks to the head of the stairs where a little old lady in a maid's suit appears.

"Are you all right, sir?" She asks as she passes. I nod, swallowing heavily.

"Yes I am just fine. But could you tell me where a Monsieur Erik von Richter lives?"

"He lives just upstairs," she points, giving me a curious look. "Room 14." I tip my hat in gratitude and quickly continue up the stairs, my face draining of color as I reach his doorway.

I cannot do this. I am an innocent, decent human being!

My hands shake even harder as I fumble once more in my coat, feeling for my pistol. I approach the door like an automaton. Everything inside of me wills me to stop, but something pushes me on.

I cannot do this! I am not supposed to do this! I will go to prison!

_To hell with prison! You are better than that! Would you really allow yourself to get caught? _

I twist the doorknob.

This is wrong.

The door opens, unlocked and unbolted. It is dark inside as I shakily step inside. My eyes dart everywhere: behind me, in front of me, even above me.

I should not be doing this. I should just close the door and leave.

I swallow heavily.

Thunder crashes and I jump, my heart pouncing into my throat.

_Imbecile! Calm yourself before you alert him of your presence! _

I gently close the door as I attempt to will my churning stomach into submission. Lightning alights the room as I take a step forward, searching for the man. I recognize a dark shadow on the couch, still and silent. My hand raises the gun and I swallow as I put my thumb on the hammer. I attempt to get control of my shaking hand, but it is useless. I let it drop in defeat, turning to the window with my head in my palm.

"Never turn your back on a victim," a voice rasps behind me. "For who knows what he has up his sleeve."

I wheel around, raising the gun once more as I realize the masked man is awake and staring at me through the shadows. It is completely dark and all that I can see is his two eyes, staring through the darkness. He laughs, the cold, inhuman voice jarring me to the bone.

"Jumpy, I see." He stands.

"Stay where you are or I'll shoot!" I exclaim, tears blurring my vision. This is so wrong.

He ignores me as he steps out of the shadows and closer to me. I realize the condition he is in, noting the blood that stains his unbuttoned shirt, bare chest, and wrists. The stark white of his mask catches the lightning that flashes through the room, burning its image in my eyes.

"Do it." He says to me, still smiling. Though his smile isn't one of happiness; it is a demonic, completely sadistic sort of a smile. "Here, I'll help you." He continues to approach me until the shaking barrel of the gun is pressed into his sternum. He extends his arm and takes hold of mine, steadying it and pushing the barrel of the gun deeper into his chest, his unbuttoned shirt enfolding the pistol, nearly concealing it from view. With his other arm, he reaches for the hammer, laying his hand over my thumb. He draws it back for me and places my forefinger on the trigger.

"Now shoot," he commands, his tone unwavering and humorless. I do nothing. "Shoot!" He commands again. I remain still.

His eyes suddenly narrow. "Ah, I see. You are the type of man that would rather kill his victim face-to-face." With that, his hand rises to the ties of his mask and he pulls it away, leaving an image truly frightening and harrowing. I whimper in disgust and fear as I take in his features, staring into the abyss where his nose had been burned off, travelling over his visible cheekbone and jaw tendons, then all the way across his jaw, parts of the bone showing, to his other cheek where it burns angry red. I note that the right side of his face had gotten the brunt of the scarring.

"Now shoot me, you coward!" He growls, tears emerging at the corners of his eyes. "Shoot me and be rid of the nightmare in front of you!" I do nothing but stare, and very soon the gun is knocked from my hand and I am knocked to the ground. I fight closing my eyes as he grabs my collar and pulls my face very close to his.

"Your kind (1) destroyed me during the war! Now finish what you so carelessly started and send me to the depths of hell!" He kicks me in the diaphragm to provoke me. His kicks become harder and faster and soon I receive a blow to the head.

"Shoot me and show me mercy, fiend!"

I scramble to my gun in a panicked state of fear, turn around, and shoot, the monster before me falling to the ground, his falling tears splattering against the wooden floorboards. I drop the gun and flee.

* * *

_Niklas_

I make it to Mlle. Daae's flat without too much trouble, other than a few shouted profanities at reckless drivers and a soaked, aching skin. I politely wipe off my shoes as she opens the door and enter as she bids me to do so. Very soon, I am placed in front of a roaring fire with a cup of hot tea in my hands.

"It is very nice to see you, Monsieur!" Christine bids pleasantly, though I can see she is still jarred from her experience with Erik.

"And you too, mademoiselle." I take a sip of the hot tea as she smiles at me, trying very hard not to worry. Setting the drink on the table beside me, I cross my legs, and face her very seriously.

"I am afraid to speak of this, mademoiselle, but I fear that it is unavoidable," I say very gently. Her face immediately falls. "I know what happened between you and Erik tonight."

"Oh." Her face is chalk white and she stares into the fire, not uttering another word.

I eye her cautiously, before speaking again, "I do not need to know the details right now, but I need your help." She does not look up at me, so I stand and lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Mademoiselle?" She looks and within her eyes I see fear and the beginnings of anger. "We need to rescue Erik."

She does not say anything and it alarms me.

"He has injured himself and he is now laying in his apartment. If we do not help him, he will die!"

She still does not say anything. My brows crease with worry. "He is going to die! Will you not help him?"

There is a long period of silence. "No, Monsieur. I will not help him. He deserves to die." She bursts into tears and my heart begins to panic. This is not the answer I need; not the answer Erik needs! I stand and begin to pace, thinking wildly.

"But mademoiselle!" I begin to say more, turning to face her, but she cuts me off.

"He killed my parents!" She sobs. My heart stops dead. I turn to face her.

"What?"

"And Philippe, Raoul's brother. He ruined our lives!" She buries her face in her hands as my eyes widen with a realization. I had just seen Raoul enter the building to Erik's flat.

Panicked, I shake Christine's shoulder. "Did you tell Raoul about your encounter with Erik? Did you tell anyone?"

She looks up at me, confused by my now frenzied state.

"Did you tell him?" I exclaim, the veins in my throat bulging.

"Yes, I did," She admits, quietly.

Oh, no.

Without another word, I ignore my coat and hat in the lobby and run out into the street.

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**_Short but eventful. I hope you enjoyed! And please tell me if anything seems off or wrong. I am open to criticisms._**

**_(1) The Allies in WWII, like England, America, France, etc. _**


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Phantom of the Opera, Angst, Hurt-Comfort