Author's note: Chapter one has finally undergone an overdue and much needed rewrite, as it was posted well over a year before any subsequent chapters appeared (and at a time when I had no idea where this story was headed).

The Mask and Mirror

The sun was too bright, blinding. It pierced his vision with concentrated white fire. The scorched ground was hot beneath his feet, searing through boots caked with dust. He narrowed his eyes; the glaring divide between hard blue sky and desert blurring slightly. In the distance, he could see twisted trees, craggy black branches arching outward in gnarled arms, standing black against the horizon. Smudges of taupe dunes distracted the eye from the blaze of sun-reflecting sand. The scene stretched before him, infinite and forbidding, lonely and desolate.

A place as bleak and barren as his heart.

He had expected to feel some emotion at this last, bitter revelation, but there was nothing but a terrible emptiness that seemed detached and not a part of himself.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes, saw where the skin had become calloused and hardened, and he wondered how it had come to this.

This was never what I wanted.

The view wavered and swam before his gaze in a mirage of heat. He closed his eyes against rising tears.

He remembered it all.

PART I

Paris, 1881

Chapter 1

Raoul was seated listlessly in the carriage, watching the Parisian streets roll past with disinterested eyes. Rain trickled down the glass in threads of silver, blurring the world outside to one that was grey and desolate, a world wholly disconnected from himself. He studied his slightly misted reflection in the window and was partly relieved by what he saw, though also slightly perturbed. The cloud-blue eyes, fair hair and determined uplift of the chin were the same as ever; no lines had as yet manifested themselves in his features to betray the severe emotional strain he had undergone in recent months.

He lightly rested his fingertips against the cold glass, feeling it rattle slightly in its frame. The rain was beating against the brougham roof with a dull and steady rhythm, heightening the sense of weary lassitude spreading through his body. He didn't have the energy to do anything. He wanted to sit in this carriage forever. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. Physically he was exhausted, but his overwrought mind would allow him no rest.

Raoul had always been fortunate, yes; his life had been one of relative ease and comfort, more indeed than most people could boast of. But recently it seemed as though fate, God, whatever you wished to call it, was gradually destabilising his once tranquil existence. He had never been overtly religious – oh, he attended Mass and considered himself a dutiful Christian, but he wasn't devout in the way someone like Christine was. But then he had always been too practical-minded and grounded in the real world to spend much time on devotions to the hereafter.

Perhaps I'm being punished. Is this supposed to be my epiphany?

The Vicomte smiled, ironically. He had seen what could happen to someone who believed wholly in the invisible and the elusive, believed it to the extent that all practicality was thrown aside in a pursuit of shadows and mirrors. He had seen the dangers inherent in such thinking, and how it ultimately lead to tragedy.

I'm not Christine, he thought. I don't put my faith in illusions.

But still he kept going over and over it in his mind, the scenes that had passed between himself and Christine over the last few weeks. A bleak feeling of something like remorse struck through him. That he should have done something different. He had done too much… he hadn't done enough…

And then came a wave of bitterness.

Why was he dwelling on it when it was done, and why was he blaming himself when it quite possibly wasn't even his fault at all?

Where had it all gone wrong?

He couldn't bring himself to think to closely on the night following the performance of Don Juan. He had only a dim memory of pulling Christine from the boat and stumbling along passageways, half-blinded by the overwhelming need to find some way out of the infernal labyrinth. All around them the passages echoed with the blood cries of the incensed crowd, eager for retribution, and he certainly couldn't blame them. His hand was locked on Christine's wrist as he pulled her along after him, her breathless remarks falling on deaf ears. It was only when he felt her fingers prising his hand from her that he stopped and turned to face her.

"Raoul!" she gasped, "Raoul! Stop!"

His mouth opened automatically to make a disbelieving retort when he paused a moment to take in her appearance. Her dark curls hung in damp locks over her bare shoulders; tearstains glinted on cheeks that were as pale as death. He inwardly shuddered at the awful heartbroken expression in her wide eyes. She was shivering violently and wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to still the trembling of her body.

"Christine!" he said with real remorse, and put his arms around her almost hesitantly, as though expecting her to resist. But she submitted wordlessly, still with the same blank, miserable look on her face.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, fingers threading through her hair. "I just want to get you away from here. You'll catch a chill…" He would have offered her his jacket; only it had been lost somewhere along the tunnels. He was dressed only in a thin shirt and the searing cold was absolute. His bones seemed to be gradually turning to ice.

Christine looked up at him, her mouth trembling. "What will they do to him?" she whispered wretchedly. "Oh Raoul, did we do the right thing?"

"Of course we did," he said firmly, even as he swayed on his feet. He was in shock, feverish, and wanted only to rest for a moment, but knew if he did that he would probably die of cold. And he was beginning to feel dreadfully afraid for Christine. She had barely spoken at all, and seemed careless of what became of her. Of course, he hadn't expected a great show of gratitude when he rescued her, but it was unsettling to look into her eyes and see nothing. No relief, no thanks – not anything. But then the mute appeal in her expression when she had asked about Erik… Why did she care so intensely about what happened to him? Raoul was still holding out on the hope that Erik was six feet underwater by now with a bullet lodged in his back. His only regret would be that he wasn't the one to do it. But it wasn't much good telling Christine that.

"Come on." His voice was torn with pain and weariness as he took hold of her hands and led her along, more gently now. "I'll take you back to the Chateau, you can go to bed, have something to eat, whatever you want."

She nodded vacantly and Raoul could tell by her face she was beyond caring. She kept looking back over her shoulder, leaving it to him to guide her over the uneven stone floors, most of them awash with water. He tried to remind himself what she'd been through – there was no knowing what might have happened to her before he arrived.

To Raoul, those dark tunnels seemed to go on forever: an eternity of cold and terror and fever. He measured the distance by his heartbeats. At every step he expected to pitch forward into the partially frozen water, but some burning inner force was compelling him onward, even while his body was numbed and half-dead with cold. He hastened Christine along at a faster pace however, the coolly detached and rational part of his brain very aware of the questionable stability of the building. It would be a bitter irony indeed to escape Erik, only to be killed by falling masonry.

It could have been hours or years before he finally recognised the entrance to the Rue Scribe. He was so concerned with ushering Christine away into a place of safety; he had not noticed whether or not their departure was observed. She was still shuddering with cold in the icy February night; the snowflakes that fell did not even melt when coming into contact with her skin. Raoul was little better. He staggered against the curb and almost fell, the blood beating thickly in his ears. With his remaining energy, he hailed a passing brougham, and stammered out instructions to take them to the de Chagny estate. In the carriage with Christine leaning against him, he slid down the seat.

I can rest now, was his last conscious thought. It's over.

It wasn't, of course. It seemed the whole of Paris was in uproar. A police investigation was launched, fire fighting squads were sent to salvage what they could of the burning building, the newspapers went wild over the event – it didn't matter whether what they published was fact or fiction, so long as it sold. Monsieurs Firman and André were up in arms, declaring they would sue the Opera Ghost if he were found, and failing that, the former managers Pologny and Debienne for failing to check building safety regulations. It would seem that the Vicomte and Christine had been observed entering a carriage that drove swiftly from the scene. Gossip spread like wildfire: rumours were circulating that the whole event was a stunt planned by the Vicomte de Chagny, so he could run away with his lover Christine Daaé without the knowledge of his brother with whom he had quarrelled over the beautiful singer. Others said her disappearance was due to the managers, who, threatened by Carlotta's increasing jealousy agreed that she should be removed from the Opera Populaire. Other whispers spoke of the Opera Ghost, before being laughed off as superstition. Only the immediately effected parties knew the truth of the latter.

Christine, perhaps unsurprisingly, fell ill, though not severely. Her case was mostly down to severe shock combined with a mild cold. At Raoul's insistence, she remained in bed for several days, though with a few minor protestations. She urged him to see after the well being of Madame Giry and her daughter, and after making a few inquiries, he was able to discover they were lodging in a boarding house, but had already paid a sum for a small flat they would be moving into within the next fortnight. He paid the two of them a brief visit and took coffee with them at an uncomfortably small table. They were relieved to hear that Christine was under his care and was safe, but Madame Giry fixed the Vicomte with a severe look.

"You will however, understand my concern, Monsieur." He noticed she failed to use his title. "I see Christine as a daughter and while she is unmarried, I think it wise that she still remain under my care. Therefore, I will send for her when Meg and I are settled."

"Madame Giry," Raoul began, slightly uncomfortable under her steely eye. From the corner of his eye, he saw Meg Giry bringing the milk, hearing the jug rattle against the tray. "I appreciate you wanting to look out for Christine. But she is currently bed ridden with a bad cold and I think to move her at the moment wouldn't be the best thing for her." He took a sip of scalding coffee to steady his nerves, the chip in his cup not escaping him. "Also… I plan to marry Christine as soon as possible, so I think it would be more convenient if she remains at the Chateau if she is to be permanently settled there shortly."

He held his ground as the expression on her face changed from one of disbelief to annoyance. "If you believe that is best, Monsieur, than I shall not argue with you." The look in her eyes stated that she clearly wanted to. "However, there is just one thing I want to ask: has Christine agreed to this?"

He was aware of Meg Giry watching him intently, the cup frozen halfway to her lips. The truth was, he hadn't actually spoken to Christine about any such thing. He had merely assumed that she would be just as happy with the arrangement as he was. But there was a rather knowing look in Madame Giry's eye that needed gainsaying.

"Of course," he lied, surprised at the smoothness at which he did so. "But if at any point, she does change her mind or wish to stay with you, then of course I won't stand in her way."

And so Raoul rode home in much thought, resolving to tell Christine of his hopes for their swift marriage as soon as he arrived at the Chateau.

That was when he was greeted by the Commissary of the police, who had arrived with the news that Philippe's body had just been found.

He remembered nothing of that following week – he walked and moved as one in a numb dreamlike state, like a somnambulist. The first clear memory he had was of Christine, who after a week of recuperation, was reluctant to remain an invalid any longer, and against the wishes of several maidservants, rose on a chilly morning in late February, wrapped a robe around herself and went downstairs.

Raoul was in the breakfast room, cup of coffee untouched, and staring unseeingly at the morning's paper. He heard Christine enter before he saw her, and stood up at once, coffee sloshing unheeded onto the tablecloth. He had spent the last few days investing all his energies into caring for her well being, because he couldn't stop to let himself think about his brother, not when he had so much to take care of. He couldn't afford to fall apart. Not when there was so much to do, so much…

"Christine," he said mechanically, making his way towards her. "You should be in bed. You are still unwell. Let me take you upstairs, and I'll order the maid to bring you in breakfast…"

"No Raoul," she said, gently, yet firmly. She stepped away from his hold, meeting his gaze steadily. He noted with a detached, clinical sort of concern that she had lost weight despite his orders that she be well fed. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and her shoulders looked so frail, the collarbones clearly visible and alarmingly protuberant. He was sure this wasn't a simple cold she was suffering from. Her next words confirmed his inner conviction.

"I have been meaning to speak to you for a few days now. Please, just listen. Otherwise I don't think I'll be able to –" She lifted her chin, almost trembling with resolution. "I need some time to myself. You've been so kind to me, but things cannot remain like this." She looked at him miserably. "Do you understand?"

Perhaps he did. Perhaps he had understood all the time, but was unable to acknowledge it to himself. Perhaps a part of him wanted her to state it beyond a doubt. "If you wanted to be out of bed, you could have said something. I'm not comfortable with this, but I can talk to the doctor and see that something can be arranged. I'll send away the maids –"

"Raoul. Listen." Christine pulled the hem of her robe tighter around herself and he wondered how someone so delicate and fragile could be seemingly so filled with pain, yet have such self-will. "I need time away from here. Time away from this Chateau, this estate –"

"And from me," he finished dully.

Christine looked desperately unhappily "I wish I didn't have to tell you this now, I am sorry. I'm afraid it's just how I feel."

"But –" He couldn't believe he was hearing this, now of all times. "What about our engagement, our wedding? We are supposed to be getting married."

"I am not saying the wedding is off." A pale smile lit her haunted features for a brief moment. "Indeed, I certainly hope it isn't. I just… need time to think. I don't know how I feel about anything at the moment. Anyone," she added, almost involuntarily.

Raoul thought that after his brother's death he was beyond being able to feel any more pain, but apparently, he had been wrong.

He had learnt from a young age to control his emotions – that the social self and the emotional self should never be allowed to cross. As a result, he had always had a firm grip over his more impulsive feelings, that he could lock away at will when it was necessary to show a calm and respectable face to the world. Violent outbursts of temper were something associated with the more savage lower orders and criminal classes. Raoul's own upbringing and personal self-will had never allowed him to indulge in his own emotions. But now he was tempted to hurl some of his mother's expensive china against the wall and give vent to the storm of grief that had been brewing inside him. It seemed that in death, Erik couldn't have picked a better way to leave his mark on Christine.

"How long do you think you will need?" he said in a hollow voice.

"I don't know," she said, clearly in some disbelief that he had even asked such a question.

For a moment, it was hard to breathe. "So I'm supposed to just wait around until you're ready to come back to me? That is, if you decide to, of course."

Mingled hurt and anger flashed through her expressive eyes. "I thought you of all people would understand! I am not deliberately trying to hurt you, Raoul. Would you prefer me to stay? I will, if you demand it." She crossed her arms, waiting expectantly, daring him to try.

A part of him – though only a very small part – was tempted to ask her to do just that. But then something inside him collapsed. Christine wasn't the person he should be fighting.

"I'm sorry, Christine." His voice was quieter now, he noted with relief, and back to its wonted calmness. "I spoke hastily. Of course, you may go. I'll see that your things are packed and ready as soon as you wish. Take as much time as you need."

The anger in her eyes softened into sympathy. "Thank you." The two words carried such a depth of feeling he had not thought possible. Raoul desperately wanted to put his arms around her, but held himself deliberately still although it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. "Where will you go?" he said, though he already knew the answer.

"To the Girys. I haven't seen her for days, and I know Maman will be happy to have me." He could almost feel her inhalation as she took a deep breath, and tilted her head upward, looking searchingly into his eyes. "I know I am asking a lot, but Raoul… can you not push me into any decision? After everything that has happened, I mean it when I say I need time to myself." Her hand reached up to caress his face and he held it there, closing his eyes. "Perhaps this wedding is only postponed."

It was meant to be comforting, but the word perhaps caused his chest to tighten in a tangled knot of painful emotions. He said nothing however, merely holding her against him and wishing he could never let her go.

She left the next day.

Raoul spent the following weeks throwing himself into any task that came to hand. It was easier during the day, but at night his sleepless hours were haunted by memories of his brother, while his dreams were mercilessly filled with Christine. He was unsure which hurt more. He had not been as close to his brother as he could have been, but Philippe had been a constant part of his life, a part he had never really thought of until it was gone. The subliminal love that had been safely overlooked and ignored was all of a sudden renewed with the searing pain of a knife driving into flesh. It was a cruel and terrible thing, this rediscovered fraternal love that had been hidden so long and awakened too late.

Then came the dreams of heartache and longing. Images of married bliss taunted him through the dark hours, dancing just out of his reach, causing him to awake with one shining moment of delirious happiness. Then memory returned – the knowledge and the bitterness – and he found himself wondering whether Christine had ever really loved him at all to put him through such torment. And in spite of what she had said, he rifled feverishly through the mail each morning in expectation of receiving a letter from her, to no avail. Not even a line came his way, so after a week of crushed hopes, he resorted to calling on her instead.

It wasn't as though he had nothing to do but pine away for Christine, however. Almost every hour of the day was overrun with his having to run the Chateau and the de Chagny estate, since -

Philippe's death was still something of a mystery. Despite Raoul's attempts to stem the rumours, even his influence was not enough to hold back the delicious scandal of gossip. Now it seemed that no one in Paris was ignorant of the fact that the Count had been found drowned under the Opera. What he had been doing under the cellars no one could say, but rumours persisted around the singer Christine Daae, and an argument with his brother with whom he had formerly been uncommonly close.

What added to Raoul's grief was the realisation that the Count had died in the very part of the lake that he himself had almost met his death at. It appeared that Philippe had attempted to follow Raoul, and had fallen into the same part of the lake as himself. However, his brother had not been able to stop the descent of the heavy iron grille and by the time he was found, it was already too late. The Police regarded it a terrible tragedy. Raoul knew better. Erik had killed his brother just as surely as if he had put a knife through his heart.

He had been counting on Christine to help him through the shock and agony of loss – she who had experienced such piercing and terrible grief herself – but he had not so much as set eyes on her since last seeing her pale face in the carriage window as she was driven away from the de Chagny Estate. He had been calling faithfully every week and each time had been turned away. Christine wished to be left alone. She didn't want to see anyone. Every visit, Madame Giry had opened the door, repeating in the same infuriatingly calm voice: "She will see you when she is ready, Monsieur." If she was ready, her tone clearly implied, but she never said it.

Now three months had passed and Raoul's apathy and numbness were sharpening into anger, being honed into resentment and pain and bitterness and other awful emotions that until recently, had been entirely alien to him. Three months and he had not so much as set eyes on the girl who was supposed to be his fiancée. Why was he putting himself through this week after week? Was anyone really worth this amount of heartache and sufferance? But then, it wasn't a matter of choice. There was only the intrinsic love for Christine that now seemed to be something more terrible than beautiful.

Time to think, she had said. But how much time did she need? He had given her three whole months of time. For the past month, he had told himself each time he went to visit would be the last if she refused to see him. But always, he walked away, telling himself: one more week…

Raoul was jolted into wakefulness as the carriage pulled up outside the row of apartment buildings in the rather dour-looking street.

He brought down the heavy brass knocker in that long practised gesture and waited resignedly for an answer. The door was opened and he was greeted with the familiar sight of Madame Giry. This time however, he could detect just the hint of a smile in her stern features.

"She will see you now, Monsieur."

Raoul faltered a moment, wondering if he could sufficiently trust his faculties to have correctly heard what she just said. "Are you sure?" he said cautiously. Too many of his illusions had been shattered to take the widow's words on faith alone.

"Quite sure. Come with me."

In a daze, he followed her through the dimly lit hallway; mind too occupied to pay any attention to his surroundings. Indeed, he barely acknowledged Meg Giry who greeted him cheerfully and inquired after his health. He recovered himself sufficiently to say some nonsense about his being fine – fine! – before he moved on.

Madame Giry left him alone outside Christine's room and he felt suddenly uneasy. He had no idea what his reception would be and it was with great trepidation that he turned the handle and walked inside.

There was a stifled exclamation, then a pair of arms were thrown around his neck and her sweet voice was whispering in a rush of warmth against his cheek: "Oh dearest, I am so, so sorry! You do forgive me, don't you? Madame Giry told me you came every week without fail – how sweet and patient you have been – and I did want to see you so much, but… you do understand? Tell me you understand?"

While she spoke, his arms went around her, holding her slim body tightly against him. She was here, she was real. Reluctantly, he withdrew his grasp and held her away from him to look at her face. Her cheeks glowed with healthy colour; her eyes were bright, her curls shining. Whatever anger he previously felt departed at once, seeing her so happy and healthy before him. He hugged her again. "It is so good to see you!" he said fervently. "I missed you."

As his lips sought hers, she turned away at the last moment – but not before Raoul caught the look on her face, reluctance and terrible guilt mingled. It was worse than if she had pushed him away or struck him. He slowly drew back, trying to read the expression in her eyes, and saw only lingering shadows there.

"What?" he said. "What is it?"

He feared he knew the answer, treacherous as it might seem. It was whispering to him in his blood. Doubts resurfaced, those doubts that had been just as apparent on that dark, dangerous fire-dancing night of Don Juan. There had been anger then, yes, and bitterness, but also a terrible kind of relief in the knowing. He had felt it with such conviction, stood on a balcony three months ago, hidden in shadow. She doesn't love me anymore. If, indeed, she ever did.

Did he believe that now? Nothing had simple answers anymore. For years he had thought he knew Christine better than anyone else in the world, but that night she had seemed like someone else entirely. Someone dark and distant and not a little frightening, a sensual woman with a flash of knowledge in her eyes and passion smouldering in her features. Yet in a matter of hours she had once more become the Christine he knew and loved – tired and strained – but herself again.

She had stepped away from him, setting herself down on the small plush settee and indicating he do the same. Raoul joined her, feeling as though he was being cut apart inside.

If she meant to turn me down all this time, he wondered, then why the pretence? Why keep me waiting for three months?

He looked at Christine. Her delicate white fingers were playing with the folds of her skirt and she seemed unable to meet his eyes. Finally, she looked up hesitantly, about to speak, and Raoul realised he didn't want to hear it. If he had to listen to it coming from her, he didn't think he would be able to stand it. If she was going to break his heart, it might just be too much for him.

Unless he did it for her.

"Christine," he said, and it was the voice of a stranger, one who could hurt her the way he never could. "There's no point dragging this out longer than is necessary. If we're going to do this, let's not make any long goodbyes. After all, there's no reason why –" he forced the words out ruthlessly, and wondered whether it was Philippe's death that had made detaching himself from everything somehow easier– "why we cannot remain friends."

Christine was staring at him. She had turned very white. "Raoul – what are you saying?"

"If you do not wish for this engagement to continue, you may as well say so at once and save me any more time of false hope. I've already waited three months, and if it's your intention to turn me down, then waste no more time in doing so."

"Why are you talking like this?" she whispered, looking stricken. "Why would you even think something like that?"

He couldn't bear the way she was looking at him – as though he were something monstrous. "Well what am I supposed to think?" he said flatly. "Refusing to see me for three months, with not so much as a word to tell me you were alright –"

"You knew I was alright –" she started to say but he cut her off.

"Holding me at arm's length, letting me dangle for weeks and weeks, and then when you finally deign to notice me, you do not even seem to acknowledge the fact we are engaged! Have you forgotten this?" He said, picking her hand that once wore his engagement ring, before she had given it to Erik.

Christine sat very still, waiting for him to finish. He saw the hurt in her eyes, and the reproach, and was overcome by a stab of remorse. "Christine -" he began, but she shook her head.

"No. You're right, Raoul. I am truly sorry, my behaviour has been most insensitive, but I feel I was justified. I needed time to think, to be alone. I had to be sure how I felt. After what – what happened, I had to get away, to work things through. I did it for you, for us! Can you not see that? I didn't want to give you hope until I was absolutely certain about what I wanted."

"And," he said quietly. "What do you want?"

She smiled at him then, such a pure, joyful smile, that it broke like a ray of sunshine across her face. "There is nothing more I want than to be with you for ever and ever," she said simply.

Raoul couldn't speak. Couldn't think. He stared at Christine. There was an expression of intense happiness on her face that was both terrible and wonderful all at once. She was still smiling up at him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was, he realised, his heart pierced with emotion. It was right.

"But…" His voice was unsteady. "Then why was it just now, you wouldn't let me kiss you…?"

She sighed. "I didn't doubt my own feelings, and I was so wild with happiness to see you that I only just stopped to consider that you might not feel the same way about me."

"Not feel the same –?" repeated Raoul in disbelief. Is it possible she doesn't know – she really doesn't know how I feel about her?

"Do you forgive me?" Christine said.

He shook his head slightly, words almost failing him. "Christine, you know I –"

She looked up at him earnestly and he felt his heart wrench at the sight of her face, the almost painful familiarity of it, and Raoul leaned forward and kissed her.

His hands went to her waist, fisting in the material of her modest dress, and drawing her closer to him. They had shared kisses before, but this was different. Back in the Opera House, Raoul had always sensed her holding something back, her fear of discovery, and of placing both their lives in peril. But now they were safe – truly safe – and he knew she felt it in the way her body yielded instinctively, the stresses and strains of weeks and months dissolving in an instant. He felt her hands slide around his neck and he lifted her up against him until they were so close they seemed to share one yearning, desperate heartbeat. Christine had closed her eyes, arching her head back in unconscious surrender, and Raoul thought this made all the months of waiting and uncertainty worth it. This was returning home after years of journeying in a bleak and barren country. Right now, Madame Giry could have walked in on them and he wouldn't have cared less. Nothing but Christine: the scent of faint perfume and lilies, her fingers warm against his neck, the coiled silk of her hair brushing his skin… He could sense the unspoken words she wanted to say to him, and had been wanting to say for the last three months, I do love you, I do, you know that don't you, I always will, and – oh Raoul!

You don't need to say it, he thought, holding her tightly against him. I know. I know.