Phantom of the Opera 1. Default Chapter

Chapter One:  
  
I paused, the tip of my pen grazing my malformed lip, and stared down at the collection of graceful notes, I'd hurriedly scrawled on the fine, thick sheet of manuscript paper. Funny, I thought; whereas my copperplate handwriting was usually a barely legible mess, my musical notation was a symphony in itself-elegant, curvy, and grandly ornate. Most printers could not have done a better job. Well, music was my blood and the center of my genius, so I should not have been surprised that I was capable of skillfully writing it out. Music, along with my other talents, was the only source of pride for me. I would be doing myself a great injustice to think otherwise.  
  
Enough with my ramblings. I put the sharp pip of the pen down to the sheet once more, forming the artful notes that would correspond with the next, contrapuntal phrase of the melody cavorting through my active mind. I liked the faint scratch of the ink to the paper. It had a certain, purposeful progress to it. Perhaps, a humble, natural music. Everything had music to me, whether it be good or abhorrent. Each time I heard one of those childish, little operas blaring thirteen floors above me, on the magnificent stage of the Palais Garnier, I took to analyzing it from two points of view. One: from the perspective of the pleasure seeking listener, and Two: the inescapable critique of the knowledgeable music scholar. Sometimes, One would be satisfied with some, sweet, uncomplicated, rip-off of a Mozart aria (they all tried to emulate the maestro these days with their ornamentation and scale-based motifs), while Two would cringe and dissect each ordinary, over played chord, clenching white-knuckled fists. See, that was the problem with knowing so much about what I loved, the scholar in me would analyze whatever my fine-tuned ears absorbed, instead of simply enjoying it for what it was, like a normal person. But, then, I was anything but normal and needed no reminder of that fact. I crossed my right leg over my left knee, scribbling off another ten bars, the invisible orchestra carrying me off to such a perfect oblivion, that I hardly noticed when a pair of tiny, pink-slippered, feet planted themselves in front of my armless chair.  
  
"Angel . . .Erik?" To form the syllables of my name must have been strange to her-so accustomed was she to calling me 'Angel', that she stuttered and corrected herself. The sweet murmur of her voice caused me to abandon my notation and peer up into the cherished face of my dear Mademoiselle Daae'. It seemed, due to her apparent drowsiness, the awkward, timidity of her behavior towards me present before she slept had evaporated. This effect made it a little bit more bearable for me to bear her obvious disappointment that I was indeed no angel of music. Just a man.   
  
"Yes?" Tenderness consumed me, as I gazed at her, her precious head lolling sleepily to the side, her chestnut hair piling on her narrow shoulder as she clutched the lapels of her silk robe in modesty and to fend off the drafty chill.  
  
"I can't sleep . . . I've had a bad dream." Still such a child-a china doll, really-too fragile to touch for fear that I might break her. If I were but to caress her ivory, smooth skin, too grasp her of her own volition, without having to seduce her with my voice...No, better not to allow the tantalizing idea. Not now, not ever. She wasn't mine, and never would be. It was time I come to terms with the truth. Still, sometimes, whenever I'd sing to her, it almost seemed possible there might be a future for us, that we might, one day, have one another. But, only when I sang to her, when I swept her into a swooning ecstasy with the mere power of my voice-my one beauty. Perhaps, in music she was mine, that we were united, that I was hers. I had always been hers . . .Shouldn't that be enough then, that I was allowed to caress her in melody, that I simply had the pleasure of her company? I was lucky enough to have a woman talking to me, but to be allowed to serenade her! "Erik, you must find contentment with your lot." I scolded myself inwardly.   
I must have wandered away in my musings, for she repeated herself. "I'm scared, I can't fall asleep in such a strange, new place . . .It's so dark, so cold . . ."  
  
'Strange'; not necessarily a negative term, but not exactly a compliment, now was it?  
"I'm sorry, mon chere, what can I do to set you at ease?" It was only natural that she be frightened and uneasy down here in my home on the lake. After all, I'd whisked her out of her dressing room and finally, swept her off into my 'strange' subterranean world below the Paris Opera. I'd sung to her until she fell asleep, and I'd had to carry her into her bedroom-her new chambers-and tucked her under my mother's quilt. I moved a taper candle beside the bed and stood over her for an hour, savoring the sight of her tiny form resting near me. Feeling amazingly inspired, I left for the study to compose. That had been hours past, and now she'd risen from a nightmare.  
  
I should have expected it.  
  
Tonight, she'd learned I was not an angel, but a mortal man who loved her, worshipped her even more than his music. To her naive and innocent mind, that knowledge had been hard to digest. Christine had sobbed and almost fled, when I'd bowed on one knee, begging her accept the truth . . .accept me . . . The girl was silent for a time, swallowing over and over as if she were fighting to keep her moans of disappointment from reaching my ears. To be led to the musical kingdom of an angel was a fantastically enticing thrill, but to be in the home of a madman was quite another experience.  
  
We didn't speak for a time.  
  
After an hour or two of silent supper, in which she'd hardly touched her soup-only stared at it as if she expected something to jump out of it, then retreating to her room to read a book, or brush through her hair, I'd decided I would have to take action. I'd had to save us from her fallen dreams, from her retracting body. So, I'd done the only thing I knew, the only thing that I had courage in, faith that it would work. I approached her closed door, and began to sing. And, it had worked. For the time. Yes, I could be the temporary angel of her father's stories as long as I played the dark-cloaked canary. She wouldn't have to think of the man, just the voice. And, she didn't recoil from the voice. Wouldn't that do for now?  
  
At least, I still held my most important secret from her. She could never know about my face. But, she'd asked about the mask. I'd told her that I must wear it to protect my identity, for God knows what reason. Whatever reason I'd given to her, she'd simply nodded and shrugged her shoulders in relief that, even if I were no celestial body, I could still sing finer than God himself.   
  
And, I'd issued a threat, the only threat: "Remove my mask, and you must stay with me   
forever."  
  
I could only hope the dear ingenue was wise enough to heed the warning.  
  
"Would you sing me to sleep, please? I think it is the only thing that may calm me . . ."  
'It' was my voice, and how I loved the importance she bestowed upon it. She loved it, and that was the closest I would come to having her.  
  
"Yes, of course, my child, you didn't even have to ask." I rose, and smiled the best I could underneath the prison of my mask, gesturing her forward with the unfurling of my long fingers, glad that she'd not asked to be returned to the world above and never to see me again. After all, I had lied to her. But, no, she'd asked me to sing! And, I would joyfully beseech her, happy to revert back to the comfortability of a formal teacher, student relationship.  
  
Christine shuffled her feet forward, the train of her white dressing gown trailing the cold, stone floor, eager eyes trapping my own. At the opening of my mouth, at the sudden flawless thread of music, she outstretched her arms to me, still approaching. To her, I became a heavenly being! Christine could be so shy and introverted when surrounded by her daylight companions, hardly even speaking, but she was unabashedly forward on the promise of my song, acting as if there was no other place she would rather be than with me. Or, my voice. It enslaved her, seduced her into a trancelike swoon! She was my willing Trilby, pleading to be captivated! It was only when I created music for her, that she was able to succumb to whatever desires lay hidden inside, that whatever feelings she denied or regretted to acknowledge, might surface. I smiled with my eyes. I don't know if she meant to embrace me with those extended arms, if she wished me to hold her as I did earlier when I'd serenaded her. I did not give that question the opportunity to be resolved; for fear that my interpretation of her gestures would be far different than her true intentions. So, not trusting in what I saw, I curled my fingers about her own, and led her to the lake.  
  
"Mon coeur s'ouvre 'a ta voix, comme s'ouvrent les fleurs, aux baisers, de l'aurore..."  
Oh, how she beamed at my lyric, how she followed my gait to the languid, tender rhythm of the aria! What other man could make her perfect, porcelain face radiate so-and, only by the mere spreading of his lips? Surely, not that little, rogue Vicomte de Chagny I'd seen milling about her dressing room after her debut as Marguerite! No, he might bring an irksome giggle to her girlish heart with the mention of some childhood memory, but he could not enthrall her in my effortless ways.  
  
"Mais o, mon bien amie', pour mes secher mes pleurs! Que ta voix, parle encore!"  
I stopped walking at the shore of the peaceful lake and stared out over the water, still weaving a vocal fantasy for my lovely lady. Darkness everywhere, behind me, in front of me-the ebony water-myself. . . The only light was Christine, in her smile, the brightness of her luminous eyes, the golden texture of her bell-like soprano. Yes, unknown to the rest of the world, darkness and light, night and day, merged hundreds of feet below the Paris Opera. The girl squeezed my hand more firmly, a shudder running through me at the intensity of her subtle touch. Luckily, I had an unfaltering control over my instrument, and my voice did not waver.  
  
"Ah! Reponds 'a ma tendresse! Verse-moi, Verse-moi, l'ivresse!"  
Her fingers sought my unmasked skin, cupping my cheek with her palm. The sudden shock of her caress silenced me, brought my soul back to Earth.  
  
"Erik?" She stroked my flesh with the smooth pad of her thumb, her other hand still joined with my own. I am certain I shook at her affection, such desires and forbidden longings coursing uncontrollably through my body.  
  
"Erik, are you all right?" She continued to touch me, momentarily glancing at her careening fingers before taking my eyes again.  
  
Oh, how I would have savored her touch would it have been for Erik and not the music! She was caressing the Angel, the music, not me. We both knew it. In an almost paternal manner, I covered her hand with my own, guiding it to rest at her side, and unlinked my other from hers. "Yes, mon chere, I'm perfectly fine." Lie number one of the evening, and I wanted to strike myself for it. I was anything but all right, my damned longings trying to possess me! Why this irresistible torture?! Retreating into the mode of concerned teacher, I formulated my excuse. "Christine, I know realize, that if you stay up 'til this late hour, you will have no energy in the morning. And, with no energy, how do you expect to sing? I must apologize for keeping you up. I seem to forget myself, sometimes, when I am around you . . ."  
  
"But, Erik, there's nothing to apolo-"  
  
I silenced her with a caring finger near her lips, extending my arm in the direction of her bedroom. "Shh," I whispered sweetly, escorting her to her new chambers. "I trust you will have no more nightmares?"  
  
"No, I don't think that I shall." She stopped on the threshold, staring up at me as I leaned my imposing, lanky form against the wooden doorframe. "Merci, mon ange."  
  
"Goodnight, my child." All the love and sheer worship for her in those three words!  
  
"Goodnight, Erik." She advanced a foot or two towards me, so close that I could feel her pleasant, warm breath washing over the pale skin of my cheek. It was an intoxicating sensation, to say the least. The faint candlelight issuing from inside the room framed her face majestically, outlining the sculpted shape of her cheekbones and the bow of her full mouth. It was as if she were waiting for something, for she did not yet enter the room. Instead, she rose on the tips of her toes, her palms coming to rest on my tensing shoulders. I quaked, not wanting to break the contact, but, also, not wanting her to make a grave mistake. I tried to back away, to create some distance between us, but the relentless doorframe prevented it. She tilted her head slightly, pursing her lips.  
  
Clearly, her actions were due to the enticing spell of my voice. What did she mean to do? I could not allow myself to find out. She had no idea what lay beneath my mask. As long as she believed me handsome, for she must have, then what would halt her from her actions? No, I couldn't permit her to do this, not with my secret still undiscovered beneath the loathed mask.  
  
With the grace and rapid agility of a feline, I slid from the unabiding doorframe, taking a place to her right. Confused, she turned to me, her lids drooping, cheeks flushed red. Was it disappointment registering on her face, sadness? I dare not delve deeper. I must have enjoyed taunting myself-I could not help but to reach out my long fingers and trace the shape of her features. No, not actually caressing her skin, only the moist air hanging right above it.  
  
"Erik-"  
  
"Goodnight, my dear." Before she could respond, whether physically or with words, I pivoted on my heel, heading away from her.  
  
She lingered, hand clenching the door, gazing at me with some unrecognizable emotion playing across her sullen face. We both stood, as statues in some fallen, neglected garden, not speaking, just offering the other heart-wrenching expressions-We understood. We knew. The truth. Why did God torment me with what I could not have? Why make me aware of such a creature as she? Why create her, if not for me? I saw her lips move; perhaps, saying 'Goodnight'. I don't know. Then, she solemnly bowed her head and reluctantly made her way into the comfort of her bedroom, closing the door on me, and my yearnings.  
  



	2. Chapter Two

  
I never slept that night, my mind was far too troubled, my heart too overwhelmed, and my guilt threatening to consume me. I picked up a copy of Dante Alighieri's "The Divine Comedy", and thumbed through my favorite sections. Books were a treasure to a lonely man, and I never took them for granted. I was almost able to completely lose touch with reality when reading, but not quite-only music had that affect on me. Halfway through the fourth canto of "Inferno", I set the poetry aside, and began pacing around my bedroom. Several ideas rushed through my frantic brain..."Let Christine see you, if she runs, let that be the end of things..." Then, there would be no guilt, no need to hold myself back from touching her, no secrets, no more of my own "Divine Comedy". No more Christine. And, what was there for me without her?  
Nothing.  
  
It was my whole world just to see her smile, to watch the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. No, no foolish plans to end this cruel farce. What I had started, I had to see through to the end. An end that, by any means, would be tragedy. How could it be anything else? Here we were, the tortured, loving maestro and his adoring, disillusioned protege', at the beginning of their own private Opera, and I could already sense that the last act would bear the crumbling of our lives.  
  
I was restless and enraged with extreme self-loathing. Everywhere I looked, I saw the products of some twisted, obsessed monster: a coffin for my bed, crimson curtains decking the walls (which I quickly ripped from their places and slung onto the tilting coffin), music written in ink red as blood. Had my dearest one not been fast asleep, I would have screamed and torn the whole room to pieces. But, she was there, in the room next to my own, and without knowing, she'd saved me from myself once again.  
  
I had to calm down, to find some fleeting peace until my savior awoke and wove me under her spell. So, I turned to my composition..."Don Juan Triumphant." It would be a wonderful opera, too powerful for any heart to withstand unscathed.  
  
And, it was for her, all the passion and pain, for my beloved, reluctant one.  
Not able to wait another moment, Don Juan's second act aria taking control of my thoughts, I rushed to the main room, and sat behind the large, Gothic organ. Peace only came with the madness of music.  
  
I must have composed for hours, melodies so utterly consuming me, that I was quite outside of myself. I forgot who I was. In the glory of song, I was loved and adored for my abilities, for myself. But, I was also allowed to reek my vengeance on the rest of the world without actually harming another soul, just by the pressing of some dissonant chords. Yes, music was definitely a language in itself, and by far the most spectacular and universal of them all.  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
I must have been too enraptured by my composing, for I failed to notice the cruel, little hand that snatched my mask away.  
  
At least, she didn't scream. Or maybe, the fact that she cowered away from me, her voice caught in her precious throat, was worse than if she'd simply screamed. I can't say, only that her reaction was far more than I could bear.  
  
She had apparently risen at the sound of the boisterous organ and quietly made her way into the main room, tiptoeing behind my back. Of course, I hadn't noticed as she edged closer and closer, her fingers finally gripping the whiteness of my mask and stealing it to reveal my naked face. I rounded on her, darting up from the organ bench and towering over her as she stepped backwards, trying to flee from the horror that was my visage. I couldn't handle the sight of her, her tiny body raking with shivers of terror, all the color drained from her ashen cheeks, as she fell to her knees, a wall preventing her from moving farther away from me.  
  
"Are you happy, now?!" I snarled, leaning over her, as she clutched her arms tightly around her heaving chest, mask still in the folds of her fingers. "I take it, from your reaction, that you're not pleased with what you see. And, for that, I apologize." I bared my teeth as some jungle beast might, terrorizing her with the caustic tone of my words. But, I was a beast, a monster. I'd never been told to think myself anything better. Well, I'd almost felt human when Christine had entered my life, but it now appeared that the monster inside was going to take over once more. "Such a Don Juan, am I, don't you think? Or does your girlish imagination urge you to believe that what you see before you, what you are obviously very afraid of, is actually another mask? That no man can be this ugly!" I grabbed her thin wrists and jerked her upwards, causing her to look me in the eyes. She emitted a sound, a weak moan, as I took hold of her so roughly. I forced her fingers into my flesh, the claws of her nails digging into my cheeks until blood covered them. "It's not a mask, you foolish girl, it's real and nothing can change that fact! I'm not some handsome, noble idiot like your darling, sniveling Vicomte, am I?!" She lurched into her body, trying as hard as she could to get away from me. The child winced, shutting her eyes to the horror before her. I swung her to the ground, her ankles knocking together as she hit the cold wall. "How could you, Christine? How could you betray me like this? When, I would do anything for you?  
  
She sobbed, abundant tears coursing down her hot cheeks, as her dreams, and my own lay shattered. Anger drained from me, morphing into an overwhelming self-loathing that coated my words. "Could you not be content with my voice, with my teachings? It was only for you that I came out of hiding, that I felt it necessary to make contact with another human being! I was ready to die . . .that is, until I saw you, until I heard you!"  
  
I melted to the ground in front of her, my knees giving out, too overtaken by sorrow to stand any longer. My voice softened as I came to the sad realization, that I had just treated her as my appearance notated...like the monster I surely was. The girl, my former savior, now turned destroyer, lips moving, but no audible sound emerging from them. She was in hysterics, and began to hyperventilate, biting into her lip, and scratching at her arms, while her body rocked with the power of her sobs. In less than a few minutes time, we had turned our universe into chaos, warped our minds to the point where repair was useless.  
  
"Erik, Erik . . ." She kept repeating my name in an endless series of barely comprehensible cries which twisted my hardened heart beyond salvage. I wanted to die. It seemed the only logical thing left for me. Any hope that might have surfaced in my breast now lay wasted in this fragile woman's eyes. At least, I would die near Christine, seeing her as I breathed my miserable last.  
  
She should run now, I reasoned. Seeing how prone and volatile I was, crumbling on the floor; it would be her opportunity.  
  
But, she didn't.  
  
Instead, she was moving towards me, ever slowly, dragging herself across the ground.  
"Erik." She finally managed to utter my name without stuttering, all trace of fear vanished from her features and replaced by something else. But, not pity. God, I prayed it wasn't pity that filled her tortured heart! Now, mere inches from my face, she extended her hands, mask in one of them, and reached for me. I whispered her name as she cupped my head between her palms, trembling violently at her touch.  
  
"Christine, I'm so sorry...so very sorry..."  
  
With uncertain hands, she tied the mask around my face once again. Then she rubbed her fingertips over the pink of my lips, taking her time, as if she wasn't sure what she was feeling, only that it was beyond her recognition. Before dropping her hands from my skin, she closed her lids and sighed,"No. . ." Rising quickly on unstable feet, she gave me one final despairing gaze, before stumbling to her room and shutting the door behind her.  
  
With that gesture, I could no longer hold back my own tears, and they nearly suffocated me beneath the holdings of my mask. As I pressed my face into my hands, I heard her crying uncontrollably from the safety of her bedroom. In that moment, I knew, she would never again be able to call me 'Angel'. What had I, what had she, done?"  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
I didn't see Christine until late that evening, when she finally decided to abandon the somber cocoon she'd made of her room. I was sprawled out across the velvet covered divan, my arms hanging off, miserable head crushed against the fabric of a pillow, and drowning in my own despair. I didn't look up when I heard her opening the door, not until she stood, subtly shaking in front of the couch.  
  
"Erik?" Her voice quivered, like her fragile body, and I thought the air might demolish her along with her words. "I'm sor...I'm sorry, Erik. I had no right to remove your mask..no right at all, and I wish-"  
  
I cut her off, knowing what she would say. "And, you wish you'd never done it." She nodded sadly. "Yes, I know, Christine. Now, you'd also like to tell me how you pity me, right? And, that you'll still be my 'friend' out of the 'goodness' of your heart...am I correct, mon chere?" My speech was laced with a merciless, loathful bitterness. She didn't say anything, just stared at me dumbly, twisting the lace of her dressing gown between her nervous fingers. So, I continued, sitting back on the couch, hands perched like claws on my knees. "But, now you have your excuse, don't you, you have your reason to run, Christine, to run into the safe arms of your little Vicomte?" I could see her slight muscles tensing, the change of her neck as she gulped hard. Yes, she couldn't deny it, could she? And, my misery grew . . .  
  
"To forget about me . . ."  
  
"Erik!" She protested. My words had wounded her. And, I knew not why.  
I rose, standing just a few infinite inches from her. To my surprise, she did not back away, but only fiddled more with her hands. "Well, isn't that the truth, my dear? All the thoughts going through your head?"  
  
The girl met my eyes, unflinching, her arms crossing over her heaving chest. "No, that wasn't what I was thinking at all." Tears fought their way from the corners of her luminous eyes. "I was going to ask you if we could have a lesson," Her voice cracked amid her crying, and it seemed that I'd bullied her with my assumptions. I believed my heart would break at her request, at the way she hadn't even mentioned my face, at her swiftly falling, broken tears . . .  
  
"Yes, of course, Christine." I fished frantically in my jacket pocket, in search of a handkerchief for her face. Obviously, I didn't require one, but I often carried one on my person for fashion's sake. "Please, don't cry, my dear...I can stand anything but your tears...it hurts me more than I can say . . ." She allowed me to blot her face with the embroidered clothe, all the while sniveling. "Christine," I offered her the kerchief, to blow her nose, and directed her to the piano with an initially awkward gesture of my arm. My slight confidence grew as she followed me, and the only thing to do was play, teach, fight off hell for another day or two...  
  



	3. Chapter Three

* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"With more feeling, Christine!" I raised my hand in one of those tragic, grandiose gestures so commonly seen on the operatic stage, in order to emphasize my point. She blushed a tad in response, and sucked on her bottom lip, enrapt in my instruction. "You see, my dear, a woman may possess the most phenomenal voice ever heard, and flawless technique, but if she can not express the emotions the music and libretto call for, then she is as good as a mute, dying lark. Do you understand?" I didn't wait for her to answer, but pushed the lecture with one closing statement. "Music is not meant simply to be heard, the soprano not meant to be admired by the purity of her high notes, and the composer not worshipped for the difficulty of his works. The music is meant to be felt, and the soprano and the composer are meant to make the listener feel. That is the heart of music-emotion at its truest and rawest form. And when you realize this fact; truly know what it means, then I will have no more to teach you." My words softened, as did my face, and I attempted a comforting smile to show her I was satisfied with the lesson. For, the girl was looking a bit dismayed that she'd received yet another lecture. I wanted to run the back of my hand along her smooth cheek, but thought better of it, and refrained. In lessons, I could ask for nothing more from her-a more dedicated pupil never to be found. As I had said earlier, in music, Christine and I were one.  
  
She picked up the stray sheets of music, I'd let fall to the floor in my haste of accompanying her singing, and stacked them neatly in a pile to put in the Louis XIV bureau I'd purchased to hold my endless selection of scores. I breathed a 'thank you', and dipped my head in her direction. Rising from the piano bench, I checked the clock in the corner of the room, realizing that it was time to have a much thought-over conversation with the girl.  
  
I motioned her to join me in the study, taking a seat in the dark recliner I often favored. Christine assumed her usual place on the ground where the ottoman would have been positioned, peering up at me with wondering eyes.  
  
"What is it, Erik?" Her voice was a bit wavery-she might be expecting bad news. Little did she know that the tidings I was to bear her would bring the color back to her fair cheeks; the warmth back to her frightened heart. And leave me with an emptiness and uncertainty that I wasn't sure would ever be filled again.  
  
"Christine," Best to begin with her name-the only thing to say tonight that would come easily. Immediately, she was attentive, her large eyes focused on the whiteness of my mask, or higher still, on my own set of eyes. "I think . . .I think . . ."How could I say this? I felt as if nails had pierced my heart, and I could not breathe.  
  
"Yes?" My hesitancy made her all the more nervous. It was evident in her question.  
  
"Do you miss the sunlight, my dear?" Great, Erik! Just go ahead and avoid the conversation! She gave me an expression that showed that she didn't quite realize what I was alluding to, so I continued. "Well, you have been my guest for two weeks. I dare say, the people up above, such as your friend, Mademoiselle Giry, are wondering what has happened to you!" I gave her a little smile, and chuckled-although it was a forced effort.  
  
"Two weeks? Has it really been that long?" Her face came alive with surprise, and, I must give credit that it was indeed 'surprise' and not shock.  
  
"Haven't you been marking the days off on the calendar I placed in your room? I left it there, along with that grandfather clock, so you wouldn't lose time..."  
  
"Well, it is easy to become distracted down here, there's so much to think about, to do...I'm sorry, I just didn't notice the days passing by."  
  
"It's all right, my dear. You've been concentrating on your musical studies. For that, I am grateful and proud of you. I could not have asked for a better pupil."  
  
She blushed, not accustomed to such unabashed praise from her strict teacher, then modestly dug her face in her hands when she felt the warmth of the rising pink on her otherwise pale cheeks.  
  
"Christine, what I mean to ask you, is, are you ready for me to take you back up to the world above?" There, I'd spat out the horrible end-all question.  
  
It could have been worse.  
  
She could have shot up from the ground right then, and demanded I take her back immediately. Or she could have shouted, "Please, I miss Raoul!"  
  
But, she didn't.  
  
Instead, she was silent. Which meant, that I was to make the decision for her. I inhaled many breaths, listening for the distant, soothing clicks of the second hand on that expensive clock, waiting for the right moment. Time had no meaning and so much. It seemed not to exist below in my subterranean home, at least when Christine was present, and then, in perfect irony, it passed so quickly. If I had not possessed the damned grandfather clock or the calendar, I would have believed the girl had just arrived. But, no, it had been two weeks, two wonderful, and equally agonizing weeks. Would I ever experience anything like the near happiness I'd felt, again? "I don't want you to leave, Christine. I'm sure that you realize that, but I don't have much of a choice."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"If I make you stay down here, and prevent you from singing up above, then what good will all your training serve?" Yes, Erik, use that excuse. Any will work. Don't tell her that you're testing her, testing yourself. Seeing if she will return, attempting to find out if you can survive without her for a time.  
  
She nodded at my logical statement, but with a pouty lip and sunken eyes. "We leave in an hour, mon chere." I left her without a choice-which was much easier for both of us. "You should pack whatever belongings you wish to take back to your own flat, whatever scores you'd like to practice...Meet me in front of my bedroom when you are ready." With that, and a final look at her confounded visage, I stood and exited the room.  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Erik?" I swirled around to find Christine standing in front of my doorway, tapestried valise rocking between her tiny fingers. I set aside my score, deposited my pen back into the ornate inkwell, and cleared my throat. "Yes?"  
  
"I'm ready . . .I'm ready to go, now." She hit the reasonably soft bag against her covered knees, nibbling on her bottom lip, as she had often done when she was uneasy.  
  
"Of course, well, that was rather quick of you, Christine. I must say, I had no idea you could organize all those jewels and gowns so fast!" I chuckled and approached her, gesturing for her to step into the hall. We moved to the piano, where she absentmindedly plucked out a melody constructed of a random handful of notes. "Here," I shook my finger in the direction of her valise, "Let me get that for you." Without offering her a chance to reply, I gingerly took it from her hand and hefted its surprisingly light weight in my palm.  
  
She must have noticed my reaction to its near emptiness, for she cleared her throat and spoke, "I didn't pack very much, only one or two of the dresses in the closet, along with my hairbrushes and the silver hand mirror . . ."  
  
"Why not more, Christine? All those lovely silks and jewels, the slippers and the petticoats, they are all there to be used at your disposal. Do with them any way you wish." I was confused; wouldn't any young woman like to adorn herself in elegant robes, and satin slippers if she had the option?  
  
"The clothes are very beautiful, Erik, and I thank you for them, but..." She hesitated.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Well, I do want to leave many of them here, so I will have something to wear when I come back."  
  
My heart shook with her innocent assumption, my voice nearly leaving me. "When you come back?" I stuttered like the idiot I surely must be, and let the valise alight silently to the cold floor.  
  
"Yes, when I come back. I am to return to you, am I not?"  
  
Was it hope I read in her captivating eyes? Did I dare allow myself to think...  
  
"If you like, my dear." Was all I could muster, before retrieving the bag and advancing toward the hollow nook in the right wall to fetch my lantern.  
  
"Come, we must be on our way."  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  



	4. Chapter Four

She's gone, now. And the rooms of my home are filled with the all too familiar silence that serves as a constant reminder of my fate-loneliness. I don't feel like composing right now, or playing the piano, I don't even have the desire to open my mouth and sing. I don't want to draw or read. Nothing. It seems, after having two precious weeks with Christine living in my underground home, that I can not go back to this solitude. I have tasted the sweetness of wine and can not return to the blandness of water. The truth is, I don't want to do anything but sit here in my armchair, staring at the floor and thinking about Christine.  
  
I wonder what she is doing, now. Is she, perhaps resting, or practicing her scales? Is she writing in her leather-bound journal or talking with her giddy, little friend Meg Giry? I want to imagine her thinking of me, resting her head upon her soft, delicate hand, her eyes closed lightly, humming some sensuous vocal strain. It's the kind of image created by some love-starved boy, who will never get the girl he desires. And, I never will. I can picture her doing anything-it doesn't have to be her thinking on me-just not about that boy! But, I can't avoid it. In my mind, I see her laughing, her voice light, trickling over the small distance between them, his hand poised right above her face, ready to stroke her cheek. She'll let him. Even if he doesn't sing, if he knows nothing of music, she'll let him. He's handsome, non-threatening. No slight shivers pulse through her body when he kisses her hand or puts his guiding palm on the small of her back. Were I but to put my lips to her flesh . . . No, better not to think on that.  
  
I step into her room and stare at the canopy bed. It is neatly made, the burgundy silk sheets uncreased, and pulled tight enough where I might skip a rock across them. My gaze is drawn to her pillow. I notice that the one on the right side of the bed still bears the faint, sweet impression of her tender head. I move to it, my palm flattened right above the feather-stuffed pillow, almost grazing. I don't touch it. What if I were to ruin that molding? It is the only impression of her I am to allow myself for the next two weeks. Somehow, I think that these next two weeks will be far longer than those previous.  
  
I should be accustomed to this. Should not be terribly upset. But, I am! How can I not be? One would think, that after a lifetime of loneliness, I'd know how to handle Christine's absence. But, I don't. I just can't get away from the fact that it's so damned unfair! She should be here, she should be breathing right next to me, smiling at my quips or widening her eyes at some sleight of hand trick performed to amuse her, not toddling about with that bloody, simpering Vicomte! I straighten the stressed line of my back...I have been standing over her bed far longer than I realized...and turn to the one candle flickering on the mahoghany dresser in the far right corner of the room. If I just move a few paces and extinguish it, the darkness will cloud over and mask that faint trace of her salvaged on the downy pillow. I am reluctant, at first, but I can't stand here and let her torture me, her ghost wielding its unknown power to drill through the very core of my heart.  
  
"Goodnight, Christine," I whisper, leaning into the dripping violet taper, the draft of my words slicing through the stubborn flame and closing the night on my missing love.  
  
After I'd blown out her candle and left the room, closing the door in a silent sweep, I stole away to my piano. I didn't actually sit down and play, merely ran my hands over the keys, not enough pressure to emit a sound. I don't know why I did so. Maybe, it was because she'd played earlier this morning before leaving, and I wished to touch some vestige of her spirit left in my home. Sure, there were the belongings in her room. I'd already bid a sad goodnight to them. Perhaps, it was the fact that we were one in music, and the closest I could ever possibly be to her was in that glorious element. Done contemplating, hands running over the keys of the instrument, I made a decision. I couldn't waste away like this in her absence; I had to occupy myself, had to grow accustomed to the loneliness once again. I gathered up a large amount of money before locking the house up and heading into the disguising night.  
  
I had no idea if any shops would still be open at this late hour, but I had to try. It would be futile to go about during the day. If any keeper even allowed me into their business, they would surely not take my requests seriously . . .that is, not without a little persuasion. Yes, this was the only logical time to acquire the goods I needed. I didn't quite know how I was going to do it, but I had to create an underground palace for Christine. True, my home was already luxurious and comfortable, but she'd had no real hesitancy in leaving this morning. I needed to create a place she would not be able to part with so easily. Some home she would truly consider her own. It was a foolish dream, I realize, but it was always better to have a slight bit of hope rather than waste away with miserable loneliness. I'd done that for the majority of my life; I wasn't about to let it be the end of it as well.  
  
I walked down the Rue di Rivoli, catching a glimpse of La Madeleine from the corner of my eye, it's great Greek columns imposing onto the darkness. A great church, house of God. I hadn't been to one in a very long time. It wasn't that I didn't believe, I did. Although, I had more than enough reason to turn my back on religion. A few passing thoughts gathered in my mind. Would Christine marry her little Vicomte there? I huffed, quickening my pace. Surely, she would not be my wife.  
  
I brought the brim down over my face, for fear that the street lanterns might shine across my mask. I really had no need for the faint lighting anyway. My eyes had long ago grown accustomed to the night. It was no secret that I found the peaceful, evening solitude to be quite superior to the glaring sun of the day, much more forgiving.  
  
I had planned on stopping by the furniture store to purchase a new divan for Christine's room, and also a dining table to replace the one now decaying due to the moist underground air so full of mildew. I knew of one man who might still stay open should I arrive with my pockets full of money. Claude Fontaine had never been able to resist the smell of a crisp 50 franc note. I'd met the man one evening in a tavern many years ago. I'd been sitting in a distant corner, scrawling out building plans with a frantic hand stained with ink. A man approached, drunk and stinking of heavy smoke, his face oily from sweat and too much liquor. He wasn't a man of the streets. I could tell he was rather well off by the fine fabric of his unbuttoned jacket and his loose cravat, untied and hanging over his right shoulder. I'm not really certain why he approached me, but he slammed a stein of English ale in front of me, the rustle shaking the flame in the tiny lantern illuminating my plans.  
  
"On me, " He said. "Even the quiet man in the corner needs a drink tonight." He laughed one of those full, intoxicated guffaws before pulling up a chair on the other side of my table. Had it been any other time, I might have threatened him. But, I'd just seen Christine Daae for the first time, and love was making me unreasonable. I was so desperate then to provide for her in any that I could, I slid twenty francs to his side of the table, and whispered quietly, "I need some assistance in acquiring a few items for my home. If you help me, I will make it worth your while, with five times as much as you see before you, now." I tapped my finger on the top coin. Claude was more than eager at my proposal. The man asked no questions when he aided me in purchasing my organ and furnishings. Men who receive large sums know to keep their mouths shut.  
  
I'd come to learn the man owned his own furniture shop. His uses increased tenfold. I planned to visit his store at the present, but for some reason I didn't stop at his building. Instead, I crossed the street to the jewelers. God knows why, I did! Christine kept running through my thoughts and there was only one way to bring myself to some temporary peace.  
  



	5. Chapter 5

  
Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, the jeweler's was closed. It was late, after all. The citizens of Paris did not harbor the same love as I for the late evening hours. I cursed at my foolishness-of course, every little shoppe in paris would have dimmed its gaslights hours ago. Such inconvenience. I did not walk away, though. No, the schoolboy who'd inhabited my soul for the last few months pushed me towards the shop's glass window display, the glimmer of fine stones catching the streetlamp's illumination.  
  
There were plenty of fine baubles splayed out in romantic fashion, thick bracelets decked with huge emeralds and pearls, delicate diamond drop necklaces that could make a young woman look such the swan. None of this finery suited my Christine. It was all too grand. Not, that she did not deserve the best the jeweler had to offer. But, the items displayed in the windowglass were too gaudy for her. A woman such as she had no need to wear the whole treasury of Paris. She was fine enough. No, only something classic and simple would do for her. Definitely nothing that muttering Vicomte would choose. I could imagine Raoul de Chagny purchasing that huge Emerald eyesore in the middle of the showcase. The mere weight of it on Christine Daae's hand would cause her wrist to droop in the most unattractive of fashions. That piece would suit La Carlotta much better.  
  
Nothing in the display and no shopkeeper to be seen, I walked away. I had defeated the schoolboy in me for another night. Tomorrow might not prove a victory as my time away from Christine would grow. Wrapping my velvet cloak closer around my body to fend off a sudden wind, I thought of the perfect gift for the petite Mademoiselle. A simple band of gold would more than suffice. A tiny ring had the ability to carry the enormity of my feelings for her. After all, small things could held so power. 


	6. Chapter Six 2 YEARS SINCE NEW CHAPTER!

I saw her young man the following evening. Once again, unable to sleep, plagued by the demons men often refer to as memories, I draped my cloak over my shoulders, and slipped silently out into the Paris night. Yet, even as I stepped out from the confines of my subterranean home, away from the Opera House and my beloved, I could still sense her, her presence as palpable as the banquette beneath my boots. My senses had always been extraordinarily keen, which was often a blessing, but at times, such as that night, it was to be a curse. As I inhaled the fresh outside air, I also took in another scent. Her perfume had lingered upon the fabric of my cloak, a taunting, yet comforting ghost for the loneliest and vilest of men. Had Christine realized that even this sensory reminder of her caused my soul to suffocate in the prison of my body? All the rage, passion, love, and fear my heart could contain stirred like boiling water. She had completely consumed me. When I tried to compose, to write, to think of anything at all, she was there. Christine Daae had begun to replace even the foundations of my memories, vivid as they were in their violence and repulsion.

"I am only a man," I spoke to myself, making a quiet progress along the Rue de Rivoli, "how much can my soul contain before it destroys me?" I was tired, of life, of waiting for the love that would never come, sustained by only one reason. Breathing and composing if only for the sake of viewing those tender doll's eyes of hers. The blue eyes that seemed to know some sense of pain, and tried to understand. "For her. . .everything for her." It was a promise I made that night, as the wind whirled and whipped under my cloak, causing it to flare out in a wave of velvet trailing behind the click of my boots on the stone. Anything to have her, to make her happy. But, even then, I realized the pursuit and obtaining of her happiness might never hold for me the same mirth.

But, I was learning of love, even then, after years of solitude and violence, that love was not about the one who burned with its overpowering existence. Instead, to love someone was to sacrifice. It was not selfish, did not make demands. I only hoped that I could meet the requirements of loving someone truly, and not allow my own passion and jealousy overcome my resolve. I also knew, that night, as I had all my life, that I had never sacrificed anything of myself easily. I feared, because I had never loved anything or anyone, not even my music, as intensely as I did Christine Daae, that the task at hand- to trust her, to achieve her happiness a any cost, even if it meant my own death- would be nearly impossible.

I felt unworthy in the presence of my own emotions.

"Raoul, you can't leave just yet, you haven't paid for my wine, and that saucy coquette you left in the room upstairs!" A raucous laugh followed, as my attention jerked to the tavern doors not fifty feet in front of me. Immediately, I clung to the darkness of the wall- thankful for my ability to blend into darkness without effort.

Her young man, reeking of alcohol, his shirt half-open, cuffs undone, and belt all but falling from his waist, stumbled outside. His body undulated in a manner common to drunkenness, and his eyes shifted about, looking for the one who'd addressed him. I needn't have worried that he would catch sight of me. He was far too intoxicated to make any recognitions. I doubted, that in his state- he was wobbling back into the tavern, one hand bracing him as it held to the doorframe, the other grasping a half-finished bottle of port- he would be capable of recognizing the unfortunate women who'd given birth to him.

"I'm coming, Louis, just getting a whiff of the night!" His voice slurred, drool coursing unattractively down his too-chiseled chin. I was immediately filled with disgust. "And tell, Jeannette, Marie, whatever her name is, that she'll get her money when I'm done with her for the night." With a sudden burst of energy, he tore into the room, spilling his port as he took the stairs two at a time. Undoubtedly, he was going to finish the evening with some whore. All the better. My darling girl was safe from him tonight. I was safe from his handsome face and its effects upon my sweet unknowing temptress.

It was this event that led my mind to create a vivid picture of what life would inevitably be for Christine if she were to marry the Vicomte de Chagny and his millions. He would woo her with flowers of blushing pink, regale her with praise of her performances-though he knew nothing of music, other than the difference between a piano and a violin, and act the gentleman always. After all, he could play more lustful roles away from the manor home that he would create for them. She was to be his wife, the lovely bauble in a collection of pretty acquisitions that would make him feel more of a man. And like many countesses and other women wed to affluent men, she would one day be set aside for younger mistresses, expected to watch over the children and assume some tiresome hobby such as sewing buttons upon his shirts. For, once she married such a powerful man such as Raoul, there would be no more Opera. To introduce such scandal into the Chagny line would be abhorrent! Materially, she would want for nothing. Though, following the honeymoon, and the birth of the first child, Christine would not be content with the provincial customs of the bourgeoisie. Her soul wanted for more than wealth, and she would come to realize that her childhood amour, had been nothing more than that. A youthful flirtation that held no promises.

But, then, the picture of Raoul and his bride would seem much more appetizing to a beautiful young singer, or any female for that matter, than marriage to a monster who hid under the bowels of a theatre.

What could I offer her? What chance did I have? But, my stubborn soul had never been one to surrender. I had to try to win her love. For if I tried, I was not losing completely. No one can be completely defeated if they love someone. But, they can be broken.


	7. Do I Dare Disturb The Universe?

  
I almost wished I had not witnessed the Vicomte's late night transgressions. Yet, I could not deny what my extremely acute sight had taken in that night. What an insufferable boy! And, he was exactly that, nothing more- a boy! He was not a mature man-the fact made more than apparent by his drunken carousing and harlotry, while he assumed the guise of the ideal young suitor in the presence of my girl. If I was unworthy of Christine for my past sins, and foremostly, my grotesque deformity, then surely, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny was also inadequate of possessing her ethereal heart! He was handsome, according to the dandy proclivities of the day, and extremely wealthy; but did that make him impervious to decorum and loyalty, to morality! 

Not that I was one to speak of morality. My crimes, in the deepest regions of my soul, filled me with a shameful but intense satisfaction-though fleeting. Yet, only moments after I sated my violent tendencies, the remorse set in as if branded upon my already marred and mottled flesh. But, I had never been a hypocrite; professing devotion and love to my amour in chivalrous glory, while bedding a trollop as Christine slept chastely in the evening hours, peacefully unaware. If Christine were to look at me in the same manner as she did that insipid fop- her eyes possessed of unquestioning adoration- I would never act as to cause her distress. But, I was not a normal man, as I perpetually reminded myself. Instead, I was a mystery to the remainder of the world, including my ingenue- though she knew more of me than any other human being- hiding in dark caverns while attempting to gain Mademoiselle Daae's love through the only weapons of seduction available to me. My voice, my knowledge, and the strange fascination that draws a person to another simply because he or she is allusive.

A pathetic enigma! Yes, an apt description for my person. Christine would follow her fascination for me as long as I did not reveal my humanity any further. If I exposed to her my yearnings, for her love, both carnal and sacred, the tenuous illusion we still fed, would completely evaporate. To speak to her of my consuming and wretched desires would enable the girl to solve the puzzle of Erik. The solution: a loathsome and deformed lecher. Any admiration she held for my music, and our friendship would vanish.

Yet, had I the visage of the Vicomte de Chagny, I would be acquitted of the stains of sin. Beauty and wealth- I was never ignorant to the truth that both pardoned their possessors from the condemnation of the world.

My love and concern for Christine Daae presented my conscience with a dilemma of sorts. I could relate to her all I had seen, every sordid detail. She might fall into my arms for comfort. It was also possible that she would not accept the truth regarding her precious childhood sweetheart, and pound accusations of deception upon her 'angel'. Though, the truth might very well provide a passage leading her soul to my own. In my memory, I held the power to expose and possibly eliminate my rival for the darling girl's affections. So, why did I not resolve immediately, as I made my miserable trek back to the Rue Scribe, to reveal the betrayal of her little nobleman?

As I had mentioned before, I was learning more, each day and never-ending night, the conflicts and dichotomies of the soul, of the act of loving another. I hesitated to confess my knowledge because I loved her. I loved her with an intensity and power that would force the passions of Beethoven's sonatas and Mozart's operas to bow down and acknowledge a lack of emotion in comparison to my feelings for that unwilling seductress!

I was at a loss. Divided in my mind as much as my face was from one profile to the other. The enormity of the situation nearly brought me to my knees. I would not sleep that evening, wrestling with the decision: to tell or not to tell. The information I possessed could quite possibly propel Christine into my embrace. I could know the euphoria above all other pleasures- the dream that was a requited passion. And why shouldn't I simply call to her as soon as she rose the following morning and discuss the matter? After all, the reality of Raoul's other life could easily prove to build a path to my happiness. My only happiness. And love. They were simply two elusive delicacies- so often taken for granted- of which I remained unacquainted. They were within my reach, I was forced to acknowledge, after that chill night of exposure. And, had the Vicomte learned of any less than noble action of Christine's beloved 'angel', he would not falter in spitting out his testimony.

I realized why I suffered from indecision, as I unlocked my passage from the ebon, rain-splattered Parisian avenue. Because I loved her, I could not hurt her. I could not bear to crush her illusions. I did not know yet if I was prepared to be the soul who would open Christine Daae's eyes, and illuminate her mind to the brutality of society. It was a responsibility that would inevitably fall upon my spine.

So, back and forth, to and fro, crescendo and decrescendo; the solution would not be simple. A chance at happiness and love- both ONLY possibilities- at the cost of my dearest girl's tears. With a few words, I could again scrape at her naive and benevolent mirage of life, as I had when plunging her nails into my abhorrent flesh. Erik, her angel, her teacher, even her guardian; yes, I could destroy the last vestiges of her eroding innocence, exposing her to the cruelties, and also the all-consuming pleasures of life outside the Opera House. Outside of her mind. To introduce her shy countenance to a tortured man's yearnings of the sensuality that could bond a man and woman. Did I dare disturb her universe?

Christine Daae, you bestowed upon this miserable wretch something he would not even accept from the Almighty himself, the ability to love and to show compassion. When hatred had been such a convenient remedy to living. Why should I not use it once more? Just once? For your love, Christine? For that. . .

But, I could not endure your tears again. I could not be the cause of your heaving cries and disappointment. True to my nature, the truth would hide in biting darkness, until reason or that monster regarded as 'love', forced it to smother in the light.


	8. Chapter 8: The Heart Coffin

  
I do not recollect much of the two weeks I had prescribed for our separation from one another. 

I faintly remember, during fits of insomnia and emotional turmoil, turning to my manuscript, "Don Juan Triumphant"- a lurid opera that would surely take my last breath with the echo of its final chord-. Thoughts and decisions, even bouts of consciousness, had invited themselves to join in my miserable mind, which had always served as the shelter for two exclusive, if unwelcome, guests. Bitterness and Loneliness. I did not need these bothersome new visitors. Of course, I had also cursed the previous strangers, Love and Desire, when they had first made my acquaintance in the delicate form of one Mademoiselle Christine Daae. The strangers settled in, nonetheless, making themselves quite comfortable- always stoking a fire in the home of my soul. Gifts from Christine, though she was unaware of her torturous generosity, that would never leave me. Instead, they began to influence my every thought and action.

Love was the most cunning manipulator- causing its victim to willingly and eagerly fulfill its every desire. Love was also my tutor. Yes, imagine! When I had never in the bleak entirety of my earthly existence been the student to any master! This emotion, which I had always dismissed as juvenile and intrusive, now ruled my very pulse! I was both enraged and elated by this domination.

Why? Because, for the first time in my life, I realized, there was more to me than mottled flesh. I was alive. Christine Daae, ignorant of her powers, had accomplished what only one other being in the history of the endless universe had done. She'd resurrected a dead soul, called Lazarus from his cavernous tomb with her golden voice. Though God himself chose to abandon me to my own reality of morphine illusions and self-loathing, she had not. A girl, as alone and adrift in the world as a fallen leaf, had forced me to recognize my humanity. That, no matter how brilliant and hideous a being I was, despite how fiercely I held to my beloved solitude- I was only a man. A conflicted man-even a deformed beast- but a human being, yet. Christine had caused me to burn.

Yes, darling girl! You carved a home for your image out of that dense blackness of my soul. If only you realized that you had unsealed something more dangerous than Pandora's Box. What would you say, Christine? Would you weep? What would you do, in your innocent fragility, my dear, if you realized that you had opened the coffin of my heart?


	9. Chapter Nine: True Love Is A Durable Fir...

  
"Erik, are you there. . .angel. . .?" Her uncertain voice startled me from my melancholy reverie, and immediately my body became aware of her presence inches from my own- only a frame of glass separating us once again. "I am. . .I have been practicing. I am ready for my lesson. . ."

Truthfully, I had not expected her to return to me. Not even as my student. Yet, I had arrived 'outside' her dressing room at the usual appointed time. After all, I was a man sick of love, and the habits such emotion perpetuated. 

"Erik, please, are you there? Have I angered you?" Her voice grew in urgency. I could almost believe she was distressed. "What have I done to upset you?" I am not certain, even now, whether it was my own hopeful imagination or reality, but I thought I heard the young girl emit a sob. Did she weep for me, for my supposed absence? I felt my pulse burning through every extremity of my form. My fingertips ached with desire to reach out to her, but I remained still and silent. Ignoring the rush of warm blood coursing under my flesh, my morbid curiosity wishing to see just how great Christine needed me.

To Need Me. . .I had never entertained this irresistible possibility, as I'd always imagined I was more than disposable to the whole of humanity. 

"Erik, I promise you. . .I have done nothing to cause you offense. . .please?" Was it my own grand delusion, or was she crumbling to her knees, salty tears marking her cheeks, her forehead pressed on the reflecting glass. . .I touched my palm to meet her flesh, as if our bodies could somehow meld through the mirror. 

I could not remain silent.

"Hush," my voice intoned as sweetly as if I were cajoling a newborn. "I am here."

'I have been waiting," she was not angry, her own voice admitting what could only be described as obvious relief. Christine sniffled. She stood, resuming her composure, and wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her dressing gown. The image of her before me was one of delicious vulnerability and innocence. "I thought you had left me. I didn't know what to do?"

"I am sorry. I had matters to attend to regarding the next opera," I lied, realizing that my usually unfaltering voice was stammering. I hoped not to reveal the fact that I had simply sunk so far into my mind, and its darkest rooms, nonetheless, that I had become quite unaware of anything outside of my miserable ponderings. "I did not mean to cause you worry, Christine."

"I am so glad you are not upset with me. . .I don't know what I would do, Erik?" She had begun to sniffle again. "I am not sure how I would survive if you were to leave me. . ."

I did not waste another moment, my hand reaching for her before she could wipe at her face again. I could not wait for my conscious to decide if I had actually heard her words correctly. I would not allow myself to hesitate this time. 

Her delicate fingers laced themselves within my own in an instance, her pulse united with my own. I turned my face to hers as we stepped into the threshold of my world. Her eyes, I swear to this day, were filmed over with the wet gloss of hope!

"There is no need to worry, my child." My free hand dared to stroke her hair, brushing at some rebel strands that had fallen over her glorious features, "Erik will never abandon you." 


	10. Chapter Ten: A Surprising Confession

"Very well done, Christine! The obligato was very smooth. I can tell you have been rehearsing. Your voice seems to improve with every lesson." It was all very true, as I did not extend my praise simply to elicit the rise of a blush from her neck to her forehead.

"Really?" She trembled a little. I believe she was unsure how to respond to my compliments. I was an exacting and strict master, one she knew, would never settle for less than perfection. Or as close as it was possible to come towards the pinnacle of sound I imagined existed within that tiny throat. "You're not just placating me. . .because I was upset earlier?"

I turned around on the organ bench so that I faced her full on. There was a frozen moment as we locked gazes. Without fully realizing it, my hand reached out to hover over the back of her palm, which rested on the smooth mahogany of the instrument. Both sets of eyes traveled to the movement, my body was asking the question my voice could not yet form. Will you let me guide you. . .may I lead you through this darkness and show you a world beyond anything you've known. . .?

In what could only be termed as awkward gesticulating, the longing hand moved back to rest on the keyboard. I did not ask anything of her, but with a subdued whisper, stated, hoping she might grasp every nuance of my words, "I would never give praise to the undeserving, Christine. No lies will I tell you." No more lies, I promised, inwardly cringing at the clever deception that had initially brought us together- the angel of music.

"Thank you, maestro." She exhaled heavily and glanced down at her bare feet, as if assuring herself that the ground was still an anchor to support her slight weight.

"You must grow accustomed to compliments, my dear," I added in as lighthearted a tone as I could manage, "for one day, it will resound from all the lips of Paris, and not mine alone."

"It is too much."

"No, it is your destiny. You must never forget that, Christine."

"Yes," she nodded meekly, still staring bashfully at the floor.

Unable to bear the tension that held us in a silent suffocation, I abruptly rose from my seat at the organ bench and began the task of putting away the manuscripts of her lessons. "You must be very tired, my girl." I pretended to be highly engrossed in the ordering of the music, as if speaking to her was simply an afterthought.

"Quite the contrary," she stammered, "I know I should be exhausted, with ballet rehearsals and lessons, but I feel very-"

"Yes?" My hands closed the leather binder in a deliberate gesture to mask my pleasure and curiosity.

"I feel restless, as if I should like to go for a walk, or dance, or..." she stopped herself, her fingers alighting to her plump little mouth. "I suppose I sound very silly."

"Not at all." I pivoted and set aside my music, once more giving her my unadulterated attention. "Often, after I compose, I feel as if I can not rest. I think it is a sort of satisfaction at having completed a task." Oh, Erik, you are not always a man of words, are you?

"A sense of excitement, you mean?" She took one tentative step towards me. Instinctively, my arms folded across my chest.

"It is possible." I could not help but notice the rise and fall of her breast as she neared me, my fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket as a measure of self-restraint.

"There really is nothing like it, is there, Erik? Music, singing?"

What was she getting at? I could not respond, and felt my reason depart with the smile taking shape on her features. I wanted her to be happy, to find some increment of pleasure in my company, to enjoy her lessons, but I cannot honestly say that I was a man accustomed to the glimmering smiles of a beautiful little siren.

"Can I tell you something, maestro?" Her fingers knotted together in a nervous fashion, as her eyes continued to meander from my face to the floor. "I really feel that you are the only one who might understand. . ."

God in Heaven! I was not ready for her to open her heart and mind to me. Though, had I not always inwardly proclaimed the possibility as one of my greatest desires? Besides, I had failed to consider how very little experience I possessed in the field of friendly confidence, of sharing my thoughts and ideas with another person. But the lustful Erik, who was in the habit of ignoring his rational counterpart, prodded the girl to continue. "Is there something weighing on you, Christine?"

I could empathize with that feeling, could I not? Following my disastrous midnight stroll the other evening, I had been unable to banish the Vicomte and his whore from my brain.

"Well, it is nothing upsetting." She took my former place on the organ bench, her posture one of pert eagerness. She had me at a loss. Erik was never at a loss.

Damn her. Damn her beauty. Damn her kindness. Damn her very existence. At the very least, before she had entered my life, I had been wholly satisfied- or as much as I could be- with the very real chance that I might never have to involve myself in conversation with another human soul again. I had been quite determined to remain cynical, wallowing in my own self-pity, for the rest of my days, holed up in my cave. But, fate or God, whichever power had placed Mademoiselle Daae upon my path, was not content to let me go on in this manner. "I am glad to hear that. You know that I hate to see you in distress." Lustful Erik replied in soothing tones that seemed to skim over all the visible flesh of her delightful body, relishing in each uncovered taste of pink skin.

"It's just that, when I sing, I feel. . ." Her fingers fluttered up to her throat in a satisfying blush. "It is the only time when I feel truly alive, Erik.!"

I was dumbfounded, but it was not an unpleasant shock.

Now that she had uttered her 'confession', she could not stop from elaborating, much to Lustful Erik's delight. I would not sit down beside her on the organ bench, though, when my posture eased, the girl edged to the far end of the seat, as if to allow for the space of my body.

"I have always felt so helpless, so empty and dead. Since Papa's death, maestro. But, not now. When I sing, I am happy. It's like the Christine I always wanted to be is real!" Her chest began to heave almost violently in her excitement. If she continued with her smiling honesty, I might lose all control. "I have you to thank for that, Erik." Her eyes centered directly upon my visage, inviting me, seducing me. . .to do what? "I do not feel alone anymore. When my father passed away, I thought there would be no one in the world who would care about a mousy orphan girl obsessively mourning her father. But I was wrong."

Suddenly, she had returned to the safety of timidity. In a whisper that was difficult even for my ear to discern, Christine offered, "You care about me." She inhaled deeply, her bird-like collar bones revealing the tension I could only imagine raged within her tiny form. "And it is more than enough."


	11. Chapter Eleven: The Dangers of Optimism

And how was I to respond to her admission? Any normal man would be touched and confused, I assumed. It was not customary for young girls to passionately reveal the inner workings of their hearts to the opposite sex, outside of marriage, at the very least. Especially not to men lurking hundreds of feet below the streets of Paris with a penchant for extortion and violence. But then, I can not claim that Christine and I had a traditional and proper relationship, of any nature. It never would be a usual kind of companionship betwixt the two of us. Fate had made that decision. Yet, that evening, as Christine Daae unveiled her feelings of abandonment, loneliness, hope, and I dare say, passion, I was thankful for the unique bond between our two souls, which I sensed so strongly that I might reach out and jerk at the invisible cord. That nearly tangible pulsating rope continually propelled her soul to the twin it sought in my own.

No, I will not believe, that had I never spoken to her through that conveniently-located mirror, had I not assumed the guise of her promised angel, that we would never have irreversibly impacted one another's life. There were many forces in the universe that I had always been more than capable of manipulating to my benefit. However, I had learned from the day I became aware of my appalling visage, the Lady Fortuna remained completely in command. Not even Erik could deny the personal history she had so carelessly scrawled out for my days.

The Lady Fortuna, as described by the Italian Niccolo Machiavelli, did not accept requests in regards to one's preferred destiny. She was the mistress of the game of eternity, molding and altering her subjects at a whim. I could only admire her for her omnipotence, for her meddling in the muck of humanity. After all, had I not relished every deception, threat, and shiver of which I was the catalyst? Power, control over another man is a delicious sin, I think. It was indeed a guilty form of catharsis for one who had never had the option of changing the one 'thing' that would forever brand him an outcast.

But, I must continue, I realize. Often, whether borne of opium or madness, my mind roamed from the museums of memory to the sterile closets of the present. As to my response. . .

Well, I may humbly admit that I had all the tact one might expect from a man who is not in the habit of polite conversation. I did not wish her to perceive just how intensely her final words had affected me, and walked to the edge of the lake. My back would answer her, and not the truth riding the tumultuous waves of my mind. I would not allow her to see that she had just presented me with a gift. My first gift.

"Erik, have I offended you?"

"No," my answer lurched at her.

I could hear the rustle of her sheer dressing gown and the gentle padding of her toes on the chill floor. I did not turn to her, so I was unsure of where she intended to go. "I meant it in kindness." Her voice was alarmingly near. "Erik, you are the only person who cares for me, and I am more grateful than you could ever possibly know."

Tiny ghosts of fingertips alighted on my shoulder, causing me to flinch in disbelief. "And, I want you to know that I want to care for you. I am a child, I realize, and naive, but if you will let me . . .?"

"Yes."

She did not see how my eyes pooled underneath the burden of my mask as I grabbed those spirit fingers in my own and brought her tiny palm to my unmarred cheek. "Thank you, Christine."

I ceased to touch her flesh, but her own eyes maintained our physical intimacy. I saw the flickering candle flames dancing in her pupils, and something else. A question this time.

I would answer her every inquiry, submit myself entirely to her mercy, without an iota of hesitation. For Christine had blessed me with my first present. What was it? What amazing gift began to break the rotting seals enclosing my heart?

_Hope._

She had offered me hope where I had always been allotted solitude. It was more than enough. It had to be.


	12. Chapter Twelve: To Woo As A Normal Man

"Then I have not said too much, Erik?" Christine reached out her little hand and blanketed my quivering palm with her own. My whole body inhaled every single sensation offered by her own, recognizing each nuance and texture of her skin. At the moment, my eyes focused on her hand, which had claimed my own, noting just how gloriously delicate and tiny those fingers were.

"No, you may confide in me always, Christine. If you like. . .I do not often have the pleasure of conversation."

"There is no one I would rather converse with than you, Maestro."

I was smiling, I think, not in a foppish grin of self-satisfaction. No, that new friend of mine-most likely soon to be a foe- hope, had exerted her influence on my mind and body. "And I you, my dear girl."

Straightening her layers of skirts, Christine arose from the bench and seemed to literally skip to her room. Without turning back to look at me- which was all the better considering my state of befuddlement- the child called to me, "I am going to change, and then dinner!"

Dinner! Had she meant the two of us? I rummaged my mind in an attempt to inventory all the available nourishment I still had stored in my lair. My supplies were running low, as I could not conjure anything but a few brown eggs, a loaf of crisp bread, and a store of wine and cognac. Not exactly the ideal repast for a sixteen-year old chorine. Christine did not need to change her attire for supper, did she? The violet gown I'd chosen for her had been quite stunning, if informal. Perfect for any time of day, or even an afternoon tea as ladies of her age so often enjoyed in England.

Ah, oblivious Erik! You old fool. I could only groan at myself. She wished for us to go out to dinner. Of course, it was a delicious idea. To walk down the boulevard with her sweet arm wrapped around the fold of my elbow, savoring the moonlight, and her company. But where could I take the girl? If such a fetching mademoiselle as Christine appeared at one of the famed restaurants of Montmartre with a very inconspicuously masked man beside her, there might be some scrutiny. Not that I minded. I simply did not wish to embarrass the girl on my account.

But, perhaps I should simply not worry and conduct myself in the manner of all men around the women they adore. I would smile and indulge her every whim, whether or not it met my agreement. Suck it up, Erik. You want to make her happy, don't you?

It was the only motivation I knew anymore. I could be her puppet, would willingly be. Thank God she did not yet realize that my strings were attached to her smiles, and the charming blushes of her face. It was dangerous to bestow the knowledge of your own vulnerability on any other person, no matter how deeply they might hold your trust, and your soul. But, even after my bloody years before I came to the Opera, filled with the slayings of hundreds of anonymous faces of agony, and a hatred for all that superficial men cherished, I had knowingly surrendered my being to this girl who could not yet master her own decisions. A girl who hid herself from every longing, frightened that if she were to give in to my attempts at seduction, she might learn that she was not such an innocent child. To reveal her sensual cravings would be a disgrace to her father's memory, I imagined. As dark as my soul, I could not bring myself to shatter her naive and beautiful illusions any more than I already had.

"I'm ready." Christine stood, breathtakingly elegant in a emerald gown of the finest velvet. The neckline of the dress was teasingly low, as I could clearly see the cleft between her breasts-that I would never touch- and the birdlike structure of her collarbones. Though the green velvet clung to her at the bodice, which was adorned with silk roses of the deepest crimson, the full skirts billowed out like a majestic pool of sea water. Her hair was loose, not captured in a matronly chignon as was the custom of propriety. But we did not adhere to social customs down in this lair, so why should Christine feel that she ought to anywhere else? I had lost the use of my wit and tact once again- such was the fate of a lovesick monster. My gaze drowned in the tempting siren that stood so demurely before me.

A mermaid for this underground grotto. . .

Her allure pulled me from my seat and called me to stand merely inches from her. Almost inaudibly, but still with enough intensity and depth for her ears to receive, I whispered, "You are a rose, Christine. A rose to put all others to shame."

Her cheeks blushed a vibrant pink on her ivory flesh, and she dipped her chin a little. I hope she would not continue talking to her slippers for the entire evening. "Thank you, Erik. You have exquisite taste. No one has ever spoiled me so." A faint giggle fled from between her lips and she shifted her eyes back to meet my face.

"You have worked extremely hard these months, Christine. It is only fair that you should be treated with a sign of appreciation for your efforts." In truth, I did not buy her a jewel or gown, not even a sachet as reward for her musical prowess. It was my damned heart that caused every single movement and thought process, that was once my own, to become an action of love for her.

"You are very welcome, child." No, she did not look a child tonight. She was a radiant, blooming woman on the peak of reaching maturity. Another hot blush on her cheeks. I relished her reaction to my compliment. I would correct my statement. Drawing on all the courage I could muster- for in her presence, I became the shy child finding refuge behind his mother's skirts-I added, "And where would the loveliest creature in all of France like to dine this evening?"

"I thought you would never ask?" Christine giggled, making me feel heady with joy.

I was not the one of us to offer an arm. Instead, in a simple gesture that was enormous to a man who had never even been held by his own mother, Christine Daae entangled her fingers with those of my right hand. The touch of her was surprisingly warm, considering the dank and drafty nature of my home. "Well, monsieur, I was rather thinking we ought to travel to Saint Chapelle. I have an idea, you see."

Now, it seemed, I was to be the one subject to surprises. If it had been any other breathing person other than she, I would not have let my guard down. Stubbornly, I would have continued to fight all cajoling to coax me to the outside world which abhorred me. Not so with Christine. Yet, one of the things I cherished most about her was her inability to willingly hurt another person. That sweet demeanor. She was not a typical chorus girl, learned in a dozen positions when it came to bedding the aristocracy. This dream who held my fingers, who might lead me to some hint of happiness, no matter how fleeting, was above the frivolity of the world above. I would follow her.

"And will you not tell your angel where we are to go?" I teased.

"No, it is my turn to surprise you, maestro." With that, we were on our way. To what? I could not begin to imagine.


	13. Chapter Thirteen: The Holy Grudge

I was not accustomed to surprises of any nature, to say the least. I was quite set in my ways, however odd they appeared in the shadow of a 'normal' routine. I was a man of control- perhaps too enamored of my own power. This possible fault had never occurred to me until Christine. In her presence, somehow, I had found myself to be the supplicant, eagerly aiming to please her every desire, no matter how trivial.

Which brings me back to that evening. It is a night I rarely allow to appear in my mind's eye, considering the outcome. . . And yet, the memories flood through my soul as if they wish to drown what is left of me. I recall each moment, as if I had framed a daguerreotype of each simple and instinctive movement of her body. Her smile. If I close my eyes very tightly, I am able to live in that night again. . .

"Of all places, my dear, why Sainte Chappelle? I thought you sent your prayers to heaven from the chapel at the Opera?" I offered my best impression of a smile.

Christine gave me a quizzical look, as if to say, "No questions, Erik. Just follow me." A look I had so often bestowed upon her impenetrable innocence.

Simply follow me. . .

"Are you to be my tutor, tonight?"

Swiftly, her gaze shifted from the road before us to rest on the intoxicating knot of our fingertips. "Perhaps. . .in a way. I wish to show you something. . ."her grasp tightened around my palm. I sensed her heartbeat in every vein of my flesh.

We walked for hours, I think, yet it seemed like a mere handful of moments. I was intoxicated by the contact of our palms. A man violently fighting desire in the face of propriety. And love. My raw and overwhelming feelings for the girl forced my every yearning to remain unsated. Outside of the realm of music, I'd never been a reverent man. I could more aptly be called sacrilegious. But, Christine, this tiny, trusting nightingale, brought me to my knees in awe. How very ironic that a hateful and bloodthirsty ghoul like myself could be awed and humbled in the presence of everything I was not.

"It's not far now," Christine squeezed my fingers eagerly, and pulled my arm. Soon, she had me practically running. Like two children, we could have been, meeting clandestinely to perform some mischief far from the gaze of our parents. I don't believe, in all my years, that I had ever felt so unencumbered. Christine had the miraculous ability of allowing me to forget who I was, what I was, if only for a handful of hours.

We came to an abrupt and solid halt in front of the massive chapel doors. There was a comfortable moment of silence between the two of us as we took in the many detailed engravings that adorned the cathedral's facade. A silence, not one laden with the weight of unexpressed desires, but a silence of mutual appreciation for the beauty that was Saint Chappelle.

As an architect, I was at once rueful that I had never, in all my years in France, visited this sanctuary to God. I'd heard about it's crowning glory- the intricate and brilliantly colored stained glass windows. Notre Dame might easily outrank Sainte Chappelle in size, but the little church's windows, I was told by Christine, as we had made our walk, left all other painted glass wanting.

"It's remarkable, isn't it Erik?'Her fingertips grazed a whisper over the many engravings, until they tickled the back of my hand. In my reverie I had failed to realize that I was just as drawn to the beauty as she. Yet, Christine possessed an appreciation for these sacred wonders that I no longer could, a reverence to the one for whom they were erected.

I had lost my trust in The Almighty long before this pious and delicate creature had graced my existence with her irresistible fragility. I t was quite simply to make the Holy Father an eternal foe after coming to the revelation that he made some of his 'children' to be inferior to the others. The religious of society often said deformities were simply the hardship every man must go through, except it is merely physical. The clerics would have counseled me- if ever I'd allowed them my confidence- that I must look to the Holy One for answers, put my faith in him, and willingly accept my deformity as a test of faith. I was not the unfortunate and God-fearing Job of Scripture. And as for faith, well I had never been given cause to place my soul into the care of any other being other than myself. Yet, the deft sensation of Christine's fingers over my own ignited a fleeting thought that perhaps, one day, I might have faith in someone else.

Christine smiled up at me and tugged on my hand. "Let's go inside. I can't wait for you to see the chapel!" Her voice absolutely spun with anticipation. It was quite endearing. But, suddenly, I could not take another step forward. I could not deny the bitterness and anger that scorched through every inch of my body, my grudge against that all-powerful joker who I was told had created me. I would not give HIM that satisfaction or reverence; when he had never taken into account the torturous existence that would undeniably be my fate after he'd made a mockery of my face. Every muscle and tendon stiffened as I planted my feet solidly on the cobblestone at the church doors.

"What is it, Erik?" The girl gave me a look of concern, but also of possible rejection.

"I am not certain I can do this, ma petite."


	14. Chapter Fourteen: I Am Humbled

Immediately, I was ashamed for my weakness, my stubborn anger. Christine's hand slowly faded from my contact, and she averted her eyes. I had hurt her again, ruined her evening before it even began. But, I could not do it! I could not go in to that place! Not only did I feel devoid of faith and sacred reverence, but there was something extremely intimate regarding the circumstance. Christine Daae, alone with me in the echoing walls of Sainte Chappelle. With only the company of our own footsteps against the stone floors. And HIM, who had chosen to reject me just as I had him.

A man and woman walking down the aisle of a beautiful cathedral, hand in hand. I was not so beyond the customs and sensibilities of society to ignore what such an image fostered in my soul. But, she could never accept me as her husband. Not only for my deformity, but now for this new weakness she had stumbled upon. Were I as handsome as any other beau, she would never agree to marry a man who denied the God she so loyally served. How could I fail her again?

"Erik?" Those eyes of which always seemed to reflect the innermost truths hanging betwixt us, were now humbly pleading with me for answers. I expected her to be angry with me for not minding her every whim, but Christine was not a shallow chorine- unlike many of her friends at the Opera. She always looked to understand before anger. A trait which I could not admit to possessing. As I attempted to pivot away from her, her insistent little hand took my shoulder and gently urged me to face her. "Have I done something wrong?"

I knew if I were not honest with her, I would lose any infinitesimal chance I still might have at earning her love. I poised myself, assuming the controlled disposition familiar to her, but laced with tenderness. I was not acting for her- the angel made me want to humble myself and all my putrid confessions at her feet. "No," I sighed and caressed the air, mere inches from her cheek. The growing wind quickly mimicked my movements, causing loose tresses to rebel against the hood of her cloak. Relief slowly bloomed across her features, and it spread through the distance between our bodies so that it began to drown my own pain. "I have failed you, Christine."

"I don't understand." Bewilderment blanketed her voice as I led her to sit beside me on the church steps. I was not quite certain how I was going to go through with it; to tell her everything. Yet, it was better to get it over with now, no use prolonging the tenuous game. Her rejection would cause all the more anguish the more time we spent together. If I loved her, I had to stop hiding. It was nothing I had ever done.

"You have a right to know. . .but before you leave. . .I simply ask that you listen to all of it."

"Erik, you're frightening me. What's happened?"

I placed the pad of my thumb on her lips to silence her. It might prove to be the last touch. My fingers roved the glory of her face, as if to convey every ounce of love, every apology I wished to bestow upon the child. "I have failed you in every possible way."


	15. Chapter Fifteen: An Angel, Indeed!

The girl had a way of shattering all my hopeless expectations. At the moment the words had sputtered from my twisted lips, I'd thought Christine to berate me, to verbally bludgeon and let loose the details of my confessed failings. Instead, her inherent light eclipsed the blackness of my demeanor, her little palm splayed flat and open before my face.

"You aren't leaving Paris, Erik? You're not going away, are you?" Her open hand no longer waited to join my own, instead she grabbed at me with a bewildering desperation that challenged my tenuous composure

"No," I responded gently, "I have no plans to leave the city. Nor any desire to do so." As I spoke, her relief revealed itself in the slight easing of her grip.

And yet, it would have been a far less complicated existence for the both of us had I never journeyed to Paris. Oh, but I had a habit of allowing my emotions and my reason to contradict one another. For, if I had never settled here, never sketched the blueprints for the Opera Populaire, I would never have even caught the faint shimmer of that elusive feeling known as happiness. And, as we sat on the unyielding and hard steps of Sainte Chappelle, the bearer of that rare joy was touching me. It was a wonder to learn that her anxiety stemmed from the fear - though it was all together impossible- that I would abandon her! If this revelation had not struck me to my very core, coupling with the vulnerable honesty painted across her beautiful face, I could almost have laughed at the absurdity of such a notion.

I could no longer feed our mutual agony with my hesitation- every word must be spoken. The truth. My history, baptized in the blood of the nameless and adorned with a pain of such intensity I feared it would break her spirit, must be revealed. "There are so many secrets, Christine. So very many things I should have told you." The girl remained silent, transfixed as she waited for the brutal knowledge I would offer. "I'm not quite sure where I should begin. I suppose it would be a wise decision to confess the worst of it all first."

Christine made a sudden attempt to speak, and I pressed the air above her lips with my free hand as a simple request to let me continue before I lost my poise. Despite her physical protests, I released her fingers and rose, unable to look at her. The contrast between us was too immense to fathom any longer. "You would not want to touch these bloodstained hands, my dear. I daresay they have conversed with more death than your own have with the living!"

I chose to continue staring into the spires of the church rather than meet the inevitable horror and shock that would manifest on her sweet features. "I- Erik, I don't understand. Whatever has happened, whatever you've done, it doesn't mat-"

"You endure my horrid face and my bleak company, allowing it to fade at the sound of my voice, but, the sins of my past can never be rendered forgivable by a pretty tone or soaring melody." Every muscle and tendon of my body grew taut and stiff with the weight of my shame. What had possessed me to unveil those truths which noone should have to revisit! "Christine, you are already aware that I am a mortal man and not a ethereal tutor sent by your dear Papa. But, I am an angel, child. My voice is simply one of a pair of skills I have spent a lifetime mastering. I made the taking of life an art, and it would be far too modest to say that I could mold torture as well as your lips and tongue shape words."

Silence still. And all the better. What could she possibly say in response? What could any man or woman, no matter how boundless the reaches of compassion?

"Yes, I am an angel. An angel of death. A career suited to my visage, no?"

A slight whimper escaped from behind me. I must be losing my sanity, for it seemed from the carriage of her voice, that she had come to stand very near me. How? "Yes, Christine, that is the worst of it, and now you know. There is more if you can imagine it!"

Another whimper, I swear I could hear my name in her shaky tones. "I asked for you to listen to all of it. But, I will not force you. It is your choice, Christine."


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Noone Would Listen

A/N: Thank you everyone for sticking with me through this! I am sorry the chapters are so very short, but my teaching schedule is sapping my energy! Though, I hope the frequency of updates in some way compensates for the terse nature of the prose.

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An urgent tug upon the lining of my cloak- too insistent to be the work of the evening wind- made me to whirl around and face my confessor. Christine's eyes held the inevitable moistness of tears about to fall, but where I had expected to find disgust and horror, I saw only the lost innocent already so familiar and endearing to me. Her lithe form quivered, her fingers still clutching my clothing.

She was going to keep her promise, though I could detect her apprehension and shock as if it were a palpable living thing in and of itself. Mademoiselle Daae possessed greater courage, apparently, than anyone had thought. I did not see a shrinking child standing a mere foot before me, but very conflicted young woman, on the verge of that delicious ripening of maturity of both body and spirit. She deserved far better company.

"I offer no excuse for my past actions, Christine. Nothing I could say would be sufficient, would it?" It was not really a question. "Although, I will try and ease your terror in some small degree, if I may. An explanation would be desirable, no?"

She nodded, her chest rising and falling in an almost violent fashion that betrayed her facade of silent poise.

"Well, the story must begin from my childhood- an altogether unappetizing tale, I assure you- but there is where I must start."

"Erik, perhaps we should sit?" Even her voice trembled, though it was heavy with compassion and her ever increasing need to understand. No one else had ever dared to fall with me into the chasm of my memory, none had offered to listen. At least I had been right about one thing in my wretched life: Christine Daae was indeed an angel among men.

"Christine, perhaps you did not hear me correctly. . .I am a murderer, and not of one man but of many! I don't believe you would such a creature to once again rest beside you on the steps of the house of God?"

The girl did not so much as flinch. "I heard every word you have said. I will not deny my shock, but Erik. . ." Her eager grip pulled me back toward the massive church doors. I could not begin to fathom her behavior. Was this the same Christine that fought nightmares of harmless spiders, padding quickly to me to chase her fears into the abyss? I would not question. She'd given me her trust- I followed her lead and resumed my seat on the stone steps beside her.

"I just want to allow you every opportunity to turn back, Christine. What I have told you tonight, and what I will relate. . .these truths are your freedom. . .more than enough reason to flee from me forever. . .without blame."

"I am not going anywhere, Erik. The man sitting beside me at this moment is no different than the man who occupied the same spot ten minutes ago. I have no reason to fear you would harm me." Christine pulled away the cowl of her own cloak so I could better read the finality of her decision. Her stare was almost aggressive. "If you care for me, you would not doubt me so."

"This is not a simple matter, my child."

"I AM NOT A CHILD!" A quick burst of ire, and then a mercurial shift to soft kindness. "Erik, your childhood?"

After a long inhalation, I drew up my shoulders from an uncomfortable slouch and looked to her with the frankness she merited. "My mother never even so much as kissed my cheek, would not dare touch me, Christine. From the very start of life, I have been alone. . ."

Our hands once again found one another. As her palm united with mine it was as if she said, " but I have dared, and will risk it again. . ."

"The compassion you so selflessly offer me was a quality my dear mother could not find within her own soul. It has only been since our meeting that I have even felt compelled to regard another person with anything more than disdain."

"Erik. . ."

It was going to be a long evening, and the conclusion of which was still a mystery.


	17. Chapter Seventeen: If You Lead Me

A/N: Sorry again for the short length, but I hope you all find it uplifting. I may add more tonight, it all depends on the reviews. I know, me comment whore.

This chapter is for wzlwmn, btw.

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She did not make a sound as I made my confession, other than murmuring my own chosen name, or a sympathetic sigh of compassion mixed with horror at the brutality of the life which I had been granted so generously. She also never released my fingers, as if, even in her youth, she realized that her touch and very presence served as the only anchor to moor me to the miserable world. Of course, there were a few minor events I did not relate- not due to fear of her disapproval, but for propriety's sake. There was no need for Christine to learn that the khanum had found it quite entertaining to offer me a woman, a girl, more precisely. It was not lost on me that the poor odalisque who'd been thrown at my feet could not have been any older than the angel that now held my hand. How ironic that a girl trained for sexual gratification, ordered to pleasure others upon penalty of death, had vehemently refused to caress even the fabric of my shirt. And here was this innocent, who willfully clung to my fingers as intensely as her soul did my voice. 

"The loss of memory would be a blessing, I think. Unfortunately, Christine, I have been honored with exceptional clarity in that area."

"I. . .think. . ."

Her eyes implored me to let her speak. I could not refuse even her silent wishes. And, I was certain she had plenty of thoughts fighting to be voiced. After all, I had just told her of my escape from the khanum, of Nadir's help, of his son. . .She would soon know everything, most likely. Some secrets were still unwilling to surface in the air between us.

"What is it, my dear?"

"It is not a burden to remember, Erik. I do not believe so. . .but if you had not recalled all the pain you have experienced, I doubt you would have been so compassionate to a little, newly-orphaned girl. You would not have been able to understand the agony of feeling completely alone in the world, had you ignored your past. I know I am very young, naive even. . .Christine Daae always with her head in the clouds, they say, but I am not daft. Suffering the loss of my father, and learning of your own anguish . . .it is comfort. To know that someone will listen, and understand." Flushing, the flesh of her palm warming under my own, she was overtaken by a sudden shyness, "I must sound very foolish. . ."

"No, never to me." Oh, could she not see how I worshiped her with every word! Did the subtle trembling of my hand in her own not reveal how rare and precious I found her prolonged and comforting touch!

My acceptance apparently heightened her emotions, as her pale cheeks reddened to a greater degree. "Would you like to hear the rest of it, then, Christine? I promise, it is not all blood and betrayal."

"Please."

It was a wonder to me, that she had not fled, had not fainted away at the continued pressure of my fingers. But, I had learned it was best not to pause and question the rare instances of good fortune to fall before me. The enormity of my tale would most likely strike her at a later time, without the sound of my voice to sweeten its taste. Once it became a reality, her visits to my home would retreat into memory, joining the countless images of a life her company had eclipsed in sheer loveliness, if only for a few precious months.

"There are a handful of deeds that I do not regret, times which I used my talents for the better of the world."

"You are a wonderful tutor," the girl interjected.

I thanked her with a faint curling of my lips that could be deemed a smile, had not half of my face been obscured by the white mask. "The opera house in which we met," I had to let out a light chortle. It had not been the average meeting between a man and woman at all. No taking the backside of the lady's palm to my lips with a flourishing bow, no formal introduction of names even. We were beyond social custom, because we could not function within all its prim and unnecessary regulations. So why now, should I expect her to respond to my behavior as any other woman would, so conscious to the confines of social dictates?

"Yes?" Christine's face filled with the expectation of a pleasant confidence. For once.

"I am sure you have wondered how it is that I have erected a home underneath its floors. It is quite simple, really, Christine, for I sketched the plans for my rooms, and what eventually would become your own chamber, in my drafts of the theatre itself."

Utter fascination flowed through her angelic features. To my delight, she did not appear to doubt me for a moment. "It all makes sense, now. . .such ornate beauty. A cathedral," her gaze traveled momentarily to the church behind our bodies, "to music."

"Exactly what I intended." In fact, at the time of its inception, I had used the same words to express my intentions for the structure.

"It suits you, Erik. The majesty of the Opera."

"It is far above me, Christine. . .just as you will always be. More so now, than before."

"You are wrong, Erik." I felt her grasp ebb from my palm, and feared she had finally chosen to leave. "If you will only let me take you inside, allow me to show you what I had planned for you to see this evening, you will realize that."

"I cannot, Christine. You must understand why, now?" I had not even finished unveiling the proverbial mask of secrecy, the truth only partially revealed.

"I do understand, Erik." She rose, her body solid with the glory of her convictions, "and that is all the more reason why you must follow me. Let me lead you this time. I will ask nothing more of you tonight, but please. . ."

There was no doubt of it- I could refuse her nothing, not even an audience with the Almighty himself, my creator, my tormentor. "Very well." I did not wish to evaluate my decision or the inevitable emotional consequences such a choice would bring as Christine pushed the massive door open with the force of her bird-like frame.

Christine Daae reclaimed my hand, and after silently securing the door behind us, searched for its gloved partner.


	18. Chapter Eighteen: What Your Gentle Insan...

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The illumination inside the chapel mirrored that of my home; meticulously placed tapers providing the only light, their many flames reflecting against stained glass windows that left me in awe- not a state I often experienced. I could not help but be moved by the fragile beauty created by the mixture of color, fire, and light. The heels of our boots clicked deliciously on the stone floor as we stepped over refracted ghost images of the sacred illustrations so skillfully portrayed in the glass windows. The echo of our movements made the fact that we were completely alone in this breathtaking sanctuary all the more clear.

I was a reasonable man, always able to control my passionate urges. I'd never had an opportunity to fulfill the desires that raged through my veins, as it was. Though, self-control was growing increasingly difficult to maintain as I calculated the circumstances of the evening. Christine with me, guiding me to some 'surprise', her hand never leaving my own, the lone souls in an exquisitely silent cathedral. If I were not careful, my emotions would make me heady with love and the need to kiss her. There was no room in which to lock myself, to cage the beast from the ingenue here, should I reach the verge.

"Thank you," Christine stopped and turned to me, halting our progress up the nave. "It means so very much to me that you consider my opinions to be important, Erik."

Only when she moved to cup my unmasked cheek did I begin to tremble, my breath faltering. I had expected to simply burn to cinders as I stepped over the church threshold, as I was such an abomination to the Divine in whose glory it had been erected.

"You see, there is nothing you can not do." And, as if she cut into my very thoughts, "No one will look at you with scorn here, Erik. Not me, not God."

A wave of discomfort tinged with joy- such a strange but not unwelcome combination of emotion- washed through my soul, and I offered her an expression that could not fail to be interpreted as gratitude. "I wish I could be so certain of that, Christine. Yet, God has not chosen to grant me any assurance of his high regard for me. So, we resolved to end our correspondence decades ago."

Her thumb coursed over the line of my jaw and I automatically relaxed into her caress, my eyes closing at the intoxicating sensation. Every inch of my flesh burned sweetly as her fingers roved; she was leaving an invisible path of desire across my bare cheek. Yet, rejection flared in her eyes. My comments had obviously wounded her. Well, I was prone to spoiling every delicate moment between us- nothing had changed. I had once again surrendered to my cynical pride, when I ought to have prostrated myself at her feet.

"You have built this fortress around your heart. . .I can never be sure of your thoughts or feelings. . .these walls of yours are insurmountable." It was at that moment that she finally began to cry. I was baffled. "I have tried to reach you, give you some happiness. . .it is useless, isn't it?" Her loving hand dropped limply from my face, curling into the folds of her skirts. "Erik, why won't you let me in?"

_Why won't you let me in. . ._


	19. Chapter Nineteen: No More Silence

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It wasn't a simple question: _"Why won't you let me in?"_

The answers, for there were many, even more complex. I had an inquiry of my own, for her poignant plea had left me in quite a state of silent awe. Why, after all I had told her, the blood, the murders, the gypsy freak show- and all said in a very matter-of-fact manner as if we had simply been discussing what delicacy we'd savored at a local _bistro_. I could have colored my tale with guilt, remorse, passion, and pain. But all of those feelings, which did indeed plague my days- as the past always had an irksome habit of being quite memorable.- need not be voiced.

I was beginning to realize that the sweet mademoiselle had learned to read my every gesture, each physical nuance. I need not say a word to express my self-loathing, Christine could see it in the eyes that somehow found the resolve to hold her face and meet her gaze.

Like a dolt- feeling very much like that Chagny boy, not a pleasant sensation- I managed to form the words, "I confess, my dear, that I don't know exactly what you are asking of me?" I offered her a weak smile- or what I could muster of an expression I was so unaccustomed to making-and took a seat on the front pew directly before the magnificent altar a few steps in front of where we conversed. My hands fell to my lap, all other movements seeming futile.

"I just. . .I never know what it is that you are thinking, Erik." Slowly, but with deliberation and not timidity, Christine assumed a place on the pew, her thighs mere breaths from my body. "I know there must be so many things you do not say which must only remain festering inside. I can understand that. I've always been that way, myself. I was, rather, until you listened to me."

"There are some emotions Christine, some passions that are so dark and intense that they should never be shared. If I do not tell you everything that I am thinking it is only out of respect for you." In an effort to cajole her, my fingers grazed from her smooth jaw to her forehead before tucking a few renegade strands of spiraling chestnut hair behind her perfect earlobe.

She was not going to accept such excuses, I quickly learned.

"Erik, I have seen your face. I have heard you speak of your own hands stained with the blood of countless souls. What secrets could be darker or more private than what you have already chosen to offer me?" Again, she caught my hand as it attempted to retreat from her face. She held it there, silently trembling in the distance between our heads. I made a vain attempt to wrest my fingers from her insistent grasp. Her grip held tight as a mother's would to a curious toddler taking in the wonders of a toy shop's window display. Christine lamented my aloof manner, but at that moment, there in the glorious cathedral, I had never spent such an intimate evening with another human being.

"You do not know how greatly I value your sweet virtue, your acceptance and kindness, Christine, that is why I must let some feelings remain untouched. I would never wish to compromise your innocence, even with my simple words. Surely, you understand?" There was no possible way to defend my silent passions than to pose them as a threat to her purity.

"I see the pain you must be feeling with every step you take. It's in your voice when you sing me to sleep, Erik. In the mornings, when you are composing, it's there. Your shoulders tense as your fingers fly over the organ keys and scrawl out some agonizingly beautiful aria for your opera. You burn inside, Erik. You burn and you feel more than anyone I have ever met. There must be a war raging inside of you."

I was shocked at just how accurately she described my state. Had she inventoried a catalog of my nuances or memorized the script of my heart?

"Christine. . ." The secrets of my soul, dearest. . ." I exhaled deeply, feeling as if I was once more wandering the arid Persian landscape. This realm was far more treacherous. "If I were to reveal my thoughts, my hidden feelings. . . You would run so far away from my presence. Christine, your revulsion. . .you would cleave my very existence from your memory."

She tensed at my words, their intense implications like a rising inferno between us. "I am still here. After every word." Then it was her hand that traced over the tender flesh of my lips. Her fingers pressed lightly, the curious child once more groping through her desired darkness.

All I wanted was to take that precious hand into my own, kiss the lovely tapered fingertips, the inside of her wrist which she'd lightly dabbed with lavender oil I routinely purchased for her pleasure. The invisible barricade between us seemed to crumble just a little. A few doubts and notions of self-loathing falling to the ground in crumbly, intangible shards. But not enough.

I had lied to myself before. To merely have her company, the spell of her voice weaving in incandescent beauty with my own could not conquer the pain or the passion. I needed her love, needed her smiles and the softness of her eyes in the morning. I began to realize, that without her love- the all-consuming kind so often portrayed in operas, ironically- I would surely commit myself to die. I made a silent promise that night as her little hand continued to caress my face: Earn her love, her complete devotion, or die.

It was settled then. Mercifully, a dying man has a limited array of options. I felt for the tiny box in my coat pocket, the velvet lining warm against my palm. How could I begin to ask? Or how dare I presume?

"Christine, do you really wish to know my feelings? If I let you in, as you have asked, there is no turning back, you understand?"

She smiled in a manner meant to offer me comfort and reassurance. I began to tremble as the darling girl cupped my face in her hands once more. "No going back now, Erik. I know."

"Yes, Christine." The weight of my heart seemed to fall into those compassionate hands as they dared to rove along the back of my neck and through my hair. This was all a sublime illusion. "No going back now."

"Erik, will you let me in?"

My grasp on the tiny box, with its sparkling treasure, tightened. I need only to lift my hand to her welcoming gaze.


	20. Chapter Twenty: That Moment Where Words ...

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How could I begin to ask the immense question that must come if I were to reveal the contents of my pocket? The tiny velvet jewelry box- something so small could change our fates forever. It seemed all very unusual to me, the aspects of courtship. Perhaps this was due to the fact that I had always lived alone, and had no need for the customs of human interaction. Of course, I was aware of what was considered proper behavior between a man and woman outside of marriage. 

Why had I purchased that damned ring? Did I really believe that Christine Daae would assent to be my wife? My wife, indeed! I was aware of just how delusional I had become; imagine a delicate ingenue, a fragile and exquisite young woman of incomparable talent willingly committing her life, her soul, and her body, to a demon and his darkness. It was preposterous, I knew, but I had made the decision to neglect reason for good ever since the girl first entered the Opera House.

"Christine, I have guarded my soul from every human being for so many years. I am not accustomed to sharing even my most trivial emotions with another person."

"But you do, Erik!" She pressed my shoulders, almost shaking my entire body with her enthusiastic support, "Your music. . .I don't know how to say this without feeling that my words are inadequate and unworthy-"

"Unworthy?" I interjected, but she pressed on.

"-to explain the feelings your compositions express!" I could sense the delicious heat rising between our bodies, could feel it traveling from the soft palms pressing into my shoulders to every nerve, to my very core. I knew that my visible cheek must be flushed. I could not recall a time when a compliment had been given to me so eagerly, and in such honest, unclouded terms.

Not _"Erik, the sketches for the conservatory look marvelous, but you must realize I can not reveal that you are the architect. The demon child sings like one of God's own cherubs, it's a damn irony that he looks like he's been rotting in the ground more years than he's been alive."_

Not from Christine. There were no conditions, no buts, or qualifiers to accompany her gracious words. I could not help but tremble and flush at her sweetness. As new to love as a daft youth newly arrived to Paris from the countryside- no I had far less experience in the exquisite and complex science of love and passion than a Sorbonne-bound boy. I had not the skill of accepting praise untainted by scorn and pity. I said nothing.

Ever so slowly, Christine's right hand slid down the length of my arm, stopping at the cuff of my sleeve. Her fingertips traced the subtle etchings of my onyx cufflink, though her gaze remained fixed upon my reddened and uncertain visage.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Her touch ran over the back of my hand before resting her palm over my own tense fingers.

I found my mouth to be intolerably dry, but managed to somehow stutter a response, "No, not at all. You must not think that to be so."

Her demeanor softened, relief visible in the relaxation of her formerly-taut posture. "I am glad. You say you are unaccustomed to sharing your feelings, Erik, but you have revealed more emotion to me than any friend or acquaintance."

I smiled the smile of the uncomfortable daft gentleman, perpetually ignorant of the intentions of the fairer sex, and unwillingly to test the boundaries planted by the object of his affection.

"You told me once, after one of my first lessons, that music was the greatest of languages, because every person in this vast world, "Her eyes brightened as she spoke, catching the gleam of the startlingly beautiful stained glass.

My adoration and amazement for the woman-child sitting before me, stroking the back of my palm with her thumb, continued to grow. Before the end of the evening, my heart would be full, and incapable of pumping my blood. Carrying my intense love for Christine Daae would be its sole function- a love that I knew would eventually kill us both, somehow.

"Erik, when you speak, it is with greater passion and truth than any other living soul. You must realize the impact that your music-the most sublime of languages- has upon me. I could never allow myself. . .I would," Abruptly, Christine went silent and shuddered. Her body turned, head bent low as in prayer, her caress, a moment made memory.

"What Christine?"

"Surely, it would be improper. You would think me impertinent. I couldn't bear you to think ill of me, Erik."

"I never could." For God's sake, I was pleading!

"You have been so honest with me tonight, Angel-"

"Not an angel, dearest, only Erik."

"But I can not. . .Erik, I am so sorry. . .I lack the courage to do the same. . ."

With all the tenderness I could muster in my current ecstasy, I reached out to her, gently turning her cheek. There were tears welling up in her eyes. What had happened tonight? What had I done to upset her so? I'd never felt so addled and helpless to end my vexation.

I forced her eyes to reside within my own, silently requesting that her tears not fall down the precious contours of her face. "There is nothing you can not do, Christine, nothing you can say would make me think any less of you. You are the world to me. The only thing of any value, any joy I have known- you have been its source."

My hand ignored the protestations of my mind. I pulled the small crimson jewelry box from the refuge of my coat pocket. I could not retreat. My heart had made the decision, neglecting reason and reality with a shameless abandon.

As she took in this new object, as I watched her make the discovery and fathom its possibilities, I believe we both forgot the simple act of breathing.


	21. Chapter TwentyOne: Hope and Agony

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Silence dangled in the air between us. There were words that should have been spoken, but the tension was too heavy, impenetrable as death. I fought the sudden and violent impulse to shove the little case back into my inside coat pocket, stopping myself when I realized that such a gesture would only cause her more distress and confusion. My hand hung stiff as the dresser's dummy, adorned with that beautiful and taunting wedding gown, that rested behind curtains in my lair. Though, I imagined even that lifeless form would have handle the situation in progress with greater tact than I.

"Erik-?" Her voice implored me.

I placed my finger once again over her soft mouth to silence what could only be her protestations, and added simply, "Christine, I only have a few moments in which to tell you so very much."

Ever the dreamer, she looked to me, baffled, "Erik, we have the whole evening, and the one after that. Tonight is not the end of the world," She managed to force a melochromatic ting of laughter.

"No, my sweet girl, what I have to ask of you requires only a few moments. I do not ask you as your teacher, nor as your Angel of Music, Christine. I wish to speak to you as any man-"

"You may speak to me of anything. After all you have told me, you do not still believe I will turn away and run, do you? Erik?" She exhaled a little laugh, making me aware that she definitely had not arrived at a full realization of what I was going to ask of her.

_Love me, stay with me. Let me love you as any other man would. You are the only one who has the power to restore my lost humanity. . ._

"To speak to you as any man would to the young woman who possesses his very soul."

The revelation of what was to follow dawned and spread along every inch of Christine's frame. Instantly, her gaze ventured to the box now held out directly before her kind eyes. Perhaps I had assumed incorrectly that she had noticed it when I had first retrieved it from my pocket.

Without allowing her an opportunity to protest, to ask me to quickly put it away and pretend I had never revealed its existence to her, I stammered out the first few of many clumsy words. "You should know that I have no expectations, that I have never thought your behavior towards me to suggest that you return my sentiments. . ."

Her right hand ceased its caress of my palm and flew to her mouth, fingers fluttering in shock. As she emitted a slight gasp, I was at least relieved to note that her surprise was not laced with the rejection of horror. Nor did she seem repulsed. But these were small concessions.

I forced myself to keep talking, even if it was mindless, anything to stave off the rejection that was sure to come with her voice. "It wouldn't be for quite some time, you know. We wouldn't have to marry until you thought yourself ready. Christine, if you would honor me by agreeing to be my wife, I would dare to do so much! I would push all this darkness behind me. Anything for your happiness. . ."

Fresh tears- as if we had not shed enough for the evening- welled up from the corners of her eyes. "To marry?" She whispered, testing the words upon her lips. The question did not fade away, but echoed against the stone walls that enclosed us. "To be your wife, Erik?" She offered me a weak smile before wiping at her eyes. "I am not sure I can give you an answer at this time, Erik. I am so young. I wouldn't know how to be a proper wife. I don't know how to keep house, or to raise children. . ."

Despite my self-loathing, I could not deny that her reasons were sincere, and not paltry excuses. I opened the lid of the box for her curious gaze and waited in some emotional turmoil of agony and hope.


	22. Chapter TwentyTwo: Rekindling the Dream

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"Christine, you would consider my proposal?" The words escaped my lips due to my astonishment at her own statement.

She shyly pressed her palm to my bare cheek, her thumb once again undertaking a feather-light caress on my seldom-touched skin. "Erik, have you no faith in anyone, not God. . .have I given you reason to doubt my affection for you." A faint wave of remorse coursed through me at the thought that I had once again caused her sadness. It was, unfortunately, a unwanted skill to rival my voice.

"Forgive me, I am unaccustomed to any affection. My own mother, as I have told you, could not even bare to embrace me or take my hand and guide me through those first few years of life."

"My poor Erik, so much pain. . ."

Then, the unthinkable happened- Christine rose up onto her knees in the pew and pressed her forehead to mine. "My tears are for you. I gave you my soul the night of Hannibal, Erik. I have no desire to relinquish it, now."

"I am a murderer, Christine, a devil, and a monster. . .but I must know. May I have any reason to hope that you will think upon my offer? My heart is yours. I will wait as long as you wish for an answer."

"Not a monster," Her tears, which had begun to generously pour from those magnificent blue orbs, traveled in bittersweet rivulets onto my brow. "A man, a kind man haunted by the past."

"You know not what you say, Christine."

"I do, but I will make it my life's work to make you realize just how beautiful you really are." Of her own volition, she gently brought her face away from mine and reached for the simple gold band nestled in the velvet box. It must have been an ordeal of no small nature for her to pry it from its home, as my hand began to shake violently at her actions.

"Why, Christine? How can you bear it?" Against my own will, my self-control evaporated, and I became nothing more than sobbing catastrophe of man, both in body and in heart. "I have nothing to offer you. . .not affluence or wealth, not beauty surely. Only the complete devotion of a lost soul. How could you allow yourself to be touched by hands that have known so much blood, Christine?"

Bewilderment and compassion stared back at me, but still none of the repulsion, the soul-shattering digust. Perhaps in that moment, I was as she had described to me with simple but poignant honesty- only a man."

_Only a man_. . .

It may very well have been the greatest of compliments ever to be spoken for me alone. It was not lost on me that if the circumstances were reversed, and Christine had uttered the same trio of words to the empty-headed Vicomte, he might very well take offense. But the moments Christine shared with me were so far beyond any reality he could touch. He would always remain a stranger to her soul, I knew, even if, God forbid, she forsook me for that fop in the end. Raoul De Chagny would never know the Christine Daae of the underground grotto, of the girl devoted to music and tantalized by a darkness that would only caress her- not leave her floundering about in a labyrinth of pain.

Securing the ring upon the third finger of her left hand, as a proper bride would, Christine sniffled up some renegade tears before focusing on the band that now inhabited her finger. "Erik, I am confused. I take the ring from you, knowing fully well its implications, but now you seem as if you want to deny us both the happiness you so deserve?"

Inwardly, I cursed myself for the paradox created by my reason and my emotions. My head bent low nearly touching my chest that was heaving with exasperation and nervousness. It was becoming far too clear that I was entirely daft in the imposing realm of romance. Usually, at least as I had come to understand the courses of nature and custom, when the man proposed to his lady-love, it is only she that has the right to accept or reject the offer of matrimony. I'd apparently muddled things up so considerably in a matter of seconds, that Christine thought I was declining my own proposal of marital bliss!

"I am utterly unworthy of you, mademoiselle, as you well know. Do not mistake me, Christine, I want nothing more in this world than to make you my bride, to spoil and care for you, to take care of you and be a father to your children, but. . .I now realize just how selfish I have been to ask you to give up a normal life of beauty, society, perhaps even wealth, the chance to make a marriage of your own desire. . ."

"Erik-"

Unaware of her protestations, I continued on in what was quickly becoming a verbal train on the inevitable course to derailment. "I should never have asked you to consider binding yourself to a monster, a creature you barely know!"

"Erik-"

"Your compassionate nature would, perhaps, persuade you to accept. But I can not bear for you to waste your life out of pity. Christine, I am sorry." Tears were a hazard of love, I discovered, as they began to slip down my cheeks and nearly choke me.

I had only one more thing to say. "Christine you must be able to marry for love. To expect any less but that for your future would be shameful." Exhausted, spent by the labors wreaked by emotion, I slumped down in the pew and stared at the floor.

"You have it all very wrong, Erik." It was then that I felt two warm fingertips lift my chin. "Have you not heard a word I have said to you, or do you despise yourself so much that you are unable to face the reality that you are very dear to me?"


	23. Chapter TwentyThree: No Use Resisting

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Humbled yet again, I fought against my shame and my tears, and looked for my redemption in her gaze. It was there that I was saved. For the remainder of my life, I will remember that moment when we met eyes. It was an instant that held an almost tangible thread between our souls, an understanding that I had never experienced with another human being. The significance of the contact we shared was not lost on me. At that moment, I felt the essence of her deepest feelings pulsing from her fingertips to my distorted face.

"You must excuse me yet again, I have lived too many years and faced a great deal of derision- it is hard to believe myself worthy of anything more than contempt."

"Then, let me show you, Erik." It was spoken more as a question; a request, than a statement. If it were possible, I began to quake even more.

My emotions, along with Christine's persistent compassion had completely overpowered my resolve and guilt. I finally decided that it was best to remain silent and let the darling girl speak. After all, I had already proved myself completely ignorant of her thoughts and intentions! But, I would prod her on with a simple question. "Christine, I still am at a loss. . .after all I have told you, how is it that I am mistaken?"

Abruptly, she stood up, wringing her hands in the folds of her cloak that revealed obvious distress. "Oh, if only I could undo the wrongs of your past-"

"There is never a turning back-" I rose and gripped her shoulders in a brace of comfort. I was too involved in her actions to hesitate and question my inherent need to hold her. In response, I sensed her body relax, the tension in her bones flowing out of her skin to be captured and snuffed out by my palms.

There was no need for both of us to suffer. "To rewrite history and erase all the wrongs done to you!" She inhaled deeply against the pressure of my touch, her hair tickling my fingertips.

"I have disturbed you with my ramblings. . .I should apologize-"

"There is nothing to be sorry for, Erik!" She rounded on me violently, wriggling out of my grasp. Had it not been for her words, I would have thought her very angry with me.

"You say we can not change the past. That is true. But Erik, though I am young, I am very certain of the fact that we cannot continue to live in it! You have made yourself a prisoner of your memories!" The waves of frustrated passion were raging through her once more, and I did not dare try and quell their flow.

"I have lived as a ghost, just as you, since my father's death. I can not do it anymore! It allows for little peace. When you first took me down to your home, when you revealed to me all those wonders of your making, I finally began to see that there was more to life than mourning. You gave me my voice, which gave me a reason to keep going." Drained, Christine sank down to the floor, and placing a hand to her heart, made an effort to slow her frantic heartbeat.

Cautiously, so not to cause her further distress, I knelt to the floor a few feet from where she sat. My eyes shifted to the ring which now, beyond my deepest hopes, now adorned her delicately tapered finger.

After a time in which we both recovered our composure, she added in a whisper, "Erik, that is why the blood on your hands does not frighten me, why your face appears to my eyes as any other man's. . .because you brought me back to life." Like a timid little child, Christine scooted across the stone to move closer to me, extending her bejeweled hand.

Without hesitation, I took her palm in mine, relishing the new sensation of the ring against my flesh. With a gentle squeeze, I offered a silent 'thank you'- my gratitude was too immense to be contained in mere words.

"If you will let me in, Erik, I promise to free you from your past. . ."

Contemplating the enormity of her request and the impact of our evening, I surrendered to her. "Christine, salvation is often sought and found in this very chapel. But in the hands of God. Tonight, I have discovered that he is not the only one with the power to grant it."


	24. Chapter TwentyFour: A Promise Must Be Ke...

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A/N: Yet another short chapter...sigh...sorry. But it all comes to me in spurts. Also, I lose motivation with a loss of comments/critques (both of which I welcome eagerly). This chapter made Erik happy, I hope it does the same for the reader. But, what is to come?

* * *

Christine smiled, an otherworldly sense of calm adorning her features, and rose. I quickly followed suit, my fingers interlaced with hers- I would never grow accustomed to the pleasure that was her touch. I still had no idea of what lay ahead, deciding it was to my best interest and the protection of my heart, to have no expectations, and relish every instance of physical contact.

To hold a woman's hand, to kiss the back of her palm, was considered a mere custom by polite society. Surely, that insipid Vicomte took the liberty with every gentlewoman who made his acquaintance; and did not grant the gesture any underlying significance. But, to a man like myself-were there any other unfortunates out in the world cursed from birth, as I- any caress, even the unintentional sweep of another's hair against my tingling skin, was an intoxicating and wholly new experience.

Without sharing another word, we began to make our departure from the stain-glass covered chapel. Our steps seemed to synchronize all on their own, so that it sounded as if only one unfulfilled pilgrim had stolen into the night to seek his savior's guidance, then quietly leaving with the satisfaction of having found the consolation sought. Perhaps, I had even felt a vestige of God's grace that night. I will never be sure.

As we once again neared the massive doors, Christine pivoted, causing us both to face the magnificent altar ahead. I looked forward, but grew distracted by the comforting warmth oozing from her palm.

"Erik, I wish to make you a promise, here, at this spot, so there will be no room for doubt in your mind as to my sincerity." She gulped down hard, bringing us face to face by the lifting of our hands to form a barrier between us. Holding me as a willing prisoner to her eyes, she continued on in an unwavering voice, "If you will trust me, if you will let me show you how to live, I promise you, Erik, I will marry you in this very church a year from this night. Let me in, and I will be a good and loving wife to you."

Awed by her sacrificial vow, I sank to my knees as a supplicant and pressed my forehead to the delicious softness of her stomach. She bent her own head, and I was granted the whisper of rich auburn curls tracing my cheeks. There, wordlessly, I gave her all of my pain, my secrets, and whatever parts of my soul that she did not already possess.

Only when I had safely deposited her at the door of her dressing room did we again exchange words.

"Tomorrow evening, then? My lesson?" The poignant shyness of a searching child made her tone tremble.

"Yes, tomorrow evening, Christine." After kissing her cheek- yet another new and enthralling pleasure- I reluctantly turned on my heel and traveled towards the familiar solitude of my home, Though one might assume that it was a restless night due to the happenings of the evening, I believe I enjoyed the first night in several years without the plague of childhood nightmares.


	25. Chapter TwentyFive: Confrontations

**A/N: I hope you all love this chapter. It's not meant to be a Raoul-bashing. I simply portray the events below as what might logically occur after Christine's return. The more reviews, the sooner an update! Thank you all for your continued support of this story!- Jess**

* * *

One might have believed, and not without cause, that the Opera Ghost had finally been allotted a bit of happiness, some long-awaited peace. Yet, as all that I loved in life fell under God's whimsical and merciless manipulation, Christine Daae proved to be no exception. I was still to be punished for the blood of the Almighty's children. The darling girl might have hoped that my resentment, my battle, with Him had come to an end following her promise. Sadly, our struggle was beyond her control.

The flock of admirers, and more specifically, the attentions of one Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, were beyond my own efforts to hinder. Yes, that simpering youth that had first appeared to bask in the glow of his childhood friend's glory, and last met my gaze as he drunkenly returned to the arms of some syphilitic whore; had managed to weasel his way into the serene glow of Christine's company.

Her sweetness knew no bounds- her acceptance of my face and affections being the bearers of this truth- and she could not deny the flattery of a addle-brained and- though I hate to say it, sincere- boy. Though I had witnessed his dalliance, or rather the overture of his whoring, the Vicomte had raised holy hell when Christine had disappeared following her triumph in _Hannibal_. From my various 'listening posts' scattered about the opera in a strategic manner, I was all too aware of his complaints to the management, his nightly rapping upon her dressing room door, and his many accusations that her friends- such as Little Giry- were hiding a beau from his possessive eyes.

Daily, I fought the irresistible urge to strangle the life out of his insufferable neck. I doubted Christine would find such actions more than unappealing in the man she had to whom she had given her hand. From eavesdropping and purposeful wandering about the theatre , I'd learned that the beautiful, pampered boy had made nightly excursions to the dormitory Christine shared with the rest of the corps de ballet. He'd positioned himself in an uncomfortable wooden chair to hold his impatient nightly vigil, until he finally succumbed to sleep upon realizing that she would not be making an appearance. The poor boy was most likely exhausted after drowning his lust and frustration in the arms of some high-class prostitute. I wondered if he called out my beloved's name as he found his release betwixt a stranger's legs.

When Christine finally resurfaced, he was the first to track the girl down, to interrogate her regarding her whereabouts for the last fortnight.

Listening from behind the mirror the evening following our excursion to Sainte Chappele, awaiting the time of our next music lesson, I caught the heated snippets of a conversation between the two childhood 'sweethearts'. No doubt, the Vicomte, having caught Christine departing from the evening's rehearsal for _Il Muto_, followed her to the sanctuary of her dressing room in order to ask his prying questions. I was more than a little annoyed by the gall of his inquiries, speaking to her as if she had been unfaithful to him by failing to notify him of her activities.

The dressing room door rattled in its frame as they entered her room, causing me to start in surprise. Nonetheless, I did nothing to betray my presence.

"Raoul, I was exhausted after the performance, I needed to take some time to myself, to rest, to recover. It's not as if I had known they'd pluck me from the chorus to sing in La Carlotta's place. I was overwhelmed. It's not as if I were kidnaped!"

"I was overwhelmed with worry, Little Lotte," he intoned, reaching out to brush her cheek. To my satisfaction, she casually brushed him off, and plopped down resolutely before her vanity table.

Of course he was 'overcome' by concern- it was my opinion, that he was actually consumed with the thoughts that she might be enjoying the company of another suitor. Though he had failed to even notice her presence at the Opera Populaire prior to her transformation into a singer of unequaled talent and beauty, the Vicomte presumed he had exclusive rights to her favors.

"You could have at least been considerate enough to leave word with me, rather than leave me waiting like a fool. . .I stood outside the theatre for almost an hour, believing you were just taking your time to prepare for dinner-"

"I told you that I had to decline your invitation! Did you think that I was simply teasing you! Do you think that I must give up my lessons, and my own interests just to placate your whims?"

There was something very enticing about her anger. To see that innocent ingenue ablaze with emotion- especially in the form of rage directed at my rival- sent a sinful thrill through my every pore.

"What exactly is it that you are hiding, Christine?"

"Nothing! Nothing!" As she rose, rounding on him in a spurt of irritation, her skirts caught on the chair she had occupied, knocking it to the floor. The clatter, as it crashed to the floor, brought about a silence I was sure Christine relished. In that instant, all I wished to do was rush through the glass that served as my camouflage and comfort her in the enclosure of my arms.

Raoul must have felt some iota of remorse for his harsh words, and his demeanor softened as he picked up the tumbled chair. "Christine, forgive me, it is just that your actions, the gala, everything. . .it all appears quite suspicious. Days after taking on the duty of patron to the Opera, I see you standing onstage, your voice raised to the heavens. I had expected to hear La Carlotta that evening. I am quite confused as to your sudden turn of fortune."

Though certain that Christine did not yet sense my presence behind the mirror, she leaned against the glass, shoulders heaving in tired frustration. "I am sorry you were disappointed by my performance."

He took her biting comment straight to the heart. I grinned. "No, to the contrary. You were wonderful. But how is it that an unknown chorus girl assumes the role of diva in a matter of days? And your voice. . .yes it has always been lovely, but definitely not the voice of the same girl with whom I shared childhood picnics!" He forced out a laugh. Christine only glared at him in unconcealed irritation. "I would dare to say you have a wealthy benefactor."

At that suggestion, she did emit a sound of humor. "That's preposterous, Raoul. Really, you must stop imagining things which have no basis in fact!"

"Oh, but they do, Christine." He was angry. Again. "Yes, after your performance at the gala, you must have rushed off to the arms of this unknown patron of yours. Did you thank him for asserting his influence on the managers in his bed?"

"You bastard! Get out!" With that, Christine landed a sharp slap to his perfect right cheek. I doubt anyone had ever treated him in such a manner. "How can you question my virtue? You barely know me anymore. If you honestly knew the details of my life, you would be on your knees begging my forgiveness.

"Mademoiselle, I will return when you have the decency to tell me the truth!" The Vicomte retreated then, slamming her dressing room door in a grand display as the jilted lover.

As soon as he'd departed, Christine knelt before the mirror, collapsing in the tears of insults she did nothing to deserve. It was time to act.

"Christine. . ."


	26. Chapter 26:Games of MakeBelieve:I

* * *

Though the girl was well-accustomed to my presence, or rather the unexpected announcement given by my voice, she still appeared startled. "Erik?" Her voice was laced with frightened desperation. "How long have you been here? It's been a horrible evening!"

Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I feigned ignorance as to her conversation with that dolt of a Vicomte. "Christine, what has happened?" I admit it was the most obvious of questions to pose, but I wished to allow my darling girl to divulge her heart. She might find some peace through the relating of her argument. I was no fool-I would take every opportunity granted me to gain a more intense confidence with her. "You know that I will be here if you need someone in which you may confide. . ."

She inhaled her tears and anger in a not so subtle breath, and squared her shoulders in a posture of dignity. Little did she realize there was no need for her to prove her poise- I had been much impressed by her words and actions in regards to the simpering Vicomte only moments before. That night, from the moment Raoul had plodded in behind my girl, berating her- for what was, essentially, her failure to gush and coo over his presence- 'til the aftermath when I called to her, was forever marked in my soul.

Why? I was not affected and awed by her rejection of the boy. He would come again, relentlessly, and I had little doubt that she would cede to his persistent requests that she dine with him. No, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny-though he would eventually prove to be the bane of my miserable existence- was not yet cause for great concern. Instead, the evening was forever etched upon my mind by one all too brief glimpse of a beautiful possibility.

It was in those seconds, during which she blazed with the fires of rage and frustration, that I was blessed with the vision of not a girl, but the woman this lovely child would become- strong, exquisite. If it were possible, I think I might have fallen even more in love with her then.

I had to clench my fists tightly, my slight fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms. It was only a simple measure to maintain my self-control.

"Erik, I would very much like to begin tonight's lesson as soon as possible. I believe singing will prove a welcome distraction from. . ." Her voice faded as I materialized, as if from thin air, to stand before her. A slight shudder escaped her body only to be replaced by a warm smile. "I doubt I will ever grow accustomed to your comings and goings."

"I am sorry if I frightened you, Christine." I bowed to her with mock formality- we were far too familiar with one another's habits to act on the dictates of politesse.

At my gesture, she let loose an adorable giggle, and answered me with the curtsy befitting a queen. "You are fortunate, sir, that I am in a forgiving mood this evening."

Still bowing, I took her hand and placed a quick, chaste kiss to the back of her palm. Like a loyal servant to his beloved monarch. Maintaining the charade, she nodded her approval in a regal manner. "You may rise."

Offering my angel what I could of a smile, I obeyed her command. I relished the little game of make-believe, as it reassured me of her willful companionship- that the darling creature did not find my company detestable. "And what dost thy lady wish of me?"

My question was greeted with an unexpected and leaden silence. Christine's eyes dropped from my face, to the comfortable and safe view of the floor. The game was up, obviously, my inquiry having been granted a significance not originally intended. I had hoped we were through with tense pauses.

I was about to lose all hope, once again, but the fates did not seem to agree with this presumption. Christine uttered a little sound, as if she were struggling to form the right words.

It had been a long night for the poor girl already.

Resolutely, and to my astonishment, she gripped my hand with solid determination and captured me with her gaze. "My dear sir," her tone was soft and caressing, no longer an air, "what will you have of me?"


	27. Chapter 27: Games of MakeBelieve II

In only a matter of half an hour, Christine and I were sitting comfortably in a hired brougham that would soon deliver us to the Bois de Boulange. She did not stare blankly outside the window this time, as we traveled the gas-lit streets of Paris. Instead, she launched into a cheerful conversation with me regarding various bits of gossip of the opera. Most of the items involved Carlotta or some ballet rat's tryst with a wealthy duke or baron of some sort.

"I could not have been more correct upon my first impression of you, Christine." My eyes momentarily darted to the thin gold band on her finger, then back to her face.

"How do you mean, Erik?"

"I mean, given these various account of your fellow chorus members, you are so very different from them. . .so pure and fragile." Why had I uttered such suggestive things? Still, my self-restraint was lost, and I lacked the skill to temper my words. "You are a rarity, Christine. Something untarnished in a pile of discarded rubble." My language was that of a naive fool, a novice in the arena of courtship. I cursed my loose tongue, but didn't cease its wagging. "You should be proud of your virtue, your talent, and your modesty, though you are blessed with great beauty of soul and body."

"Erik, you should not say such things. I will blush in embarrassment. Besides," She let out an awkward laugh, "there are many young girls who choose to behave just as I. . ."

"I apologize, I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Christine." It was my own gaze that chose to escape from the other pair of eyes in the brougham. I did not find any comfort in the Parisian landscape. There was nowhere to run from the love I felt for her. For once in my repugnant life, I was surrendering with great eagerness to the only person who might ever capture my soul from its dark confines. "I only wish for you to know that I am so very proud of the fine young woman you have become. Your father, he would be pleased. . ."

"Papa," and at that moment, inexplicably, the child began to cry. "Do you really think he would be proud, Erik? I have lived these last few years without him believing he was looking down from heaven at his failure of a daughter."

I could not believe what I was hearing, and barely had time to respond before she clutched the lapels of my tailcoat and fervently pressed her moist face to my chest, raking with sobs. Struck by her desperation, her vulnerability, and the very nature of her trust in me, I lacked the power to say any words of comfort. For what had I ever known of the love between a parent and child? What had I ever known of love returned? So, I said nothing.

Instead, I sang to her as her little fingers curled into balls around my clothing, and stroked the endearingly disheveled curls of her precious head. Christine Daae, no father could love his child more than Gustav loved his little angel. His angel with a voice woven out of the finest thread of gold. . .


	28. Chapter 28: A Midnight Stroll

* * *

Her sobs had abated into a barely audible whimper by the time our brougham met the entrance to the Bois de Boulange. The shivers stemming from Christine's despair had all but ceased, yet, spent by tears, she did not relinquish her hold on me. Instead, her precious head relaxed upon my chest, her fingers falling to rest upon her lap. I could tell the girl was fighting her exhaustion, as her eyelids continued to slowly descend, and then, after a few seconds where they became feline slits of vision, Christine would, in a manner, catch herself fading and fight the battle to remain conscious.

"We've arrived." I gently gripped her shoulders and eased her into a sitting position. Christine's eyes jerked open fully, and she spun around to gain her bearings.

"The Bois?" she asked incredulously, perhaps feeling a bit disoriented from her ordeal.

"Yes, Christine. . .if you still wish to take a stroll this evening?" I awaited her answer with hopeful uncertainty, and made a move to open the brougham door.

She hesitated for a moment before straightening her mussed hair, and pulling her fine cloak more tightly about her shoulders, she replied, "Monsieur le Fantome, I believe a walk with my fiancé may be the cure for the evening storm."

Spoken like a true inhabitant of the opera, I mused. _Her fiancé, _if only it had lasted beyond a handful of precious evenings. But, there was that evening in the Bois when love decided I should be allowed its sweet caress. Nights in the company of my delicate goddess almost convinced me to make peace with the divine one. Had we shared perhaps even another fortnight of betrothal. But, it is a fool's practice to constantly question the ifs and whens of any relationship, to live upon the vestiges of perfect memories and bitter regrets.

She took my hand, invited my touch as if I were any other gentleman caller, and allowed me to assist her out of the coach. Christine did not release my fingers, as I had expected, but held tight to them as I informed our driver of the time I wished him to return for us. As our chauffeur departed, gently cracking the whip to signal the pair of fine horses under his care, Christine turned to me and smiled with genuine affection. "Erik, I must apologize for my behavior today. . .I should learn to control my emotions-"

"Shh, my little diva," I pressed a finger to her lips, and returned her smile. "An artist never apologizes for the outpourings of emotion. For as artists, to stifle our emotions is to stifle our very souls. To trap a bird in a cage. And not a gilded cage, at that. Is that what you would want, Christine?" I was playing with fire, and fully intent on being burned, or scorched in some fashion. A moth to a flame, transfixed by that which he loves, but knows will be his end. A perfect metaphor. For in loving we surrender ourselves and place our hearts at the mercy of the one we desire.

"No, I would not want that, Erik. I would never wish to be trapped, not even in a gilded cage." I hoped she had latched onto the implications of my words. The Vicomte de Chagny would surely offer a gilded cage of tempting imprisonment. "I would never trade my music, the music you have taught me, for all the glory in the world!"

"But, you shall have glory, Christine. On all the stages of the world. You need not trade one for another."

The expression which answered my grandiose statements was one of unparalleled delight and fascination. I had not made her any promises which I knew I could not fulfill. Though, as I look back, the same could not be said of her in regards to myself.


	29. Chapter 29: The Unexpected Turn

* * *

The remainder of that evening went by without a ripple of pain or regret. Christine wrapped her fingers in the fold of my arm as we strolled along the bois. We shared comfortable silences, perhaps wondering what the other was thinking, but remaining peaceful in our souls. If she could have read my thoughts that evening, she would have been shocked by the simplicity of my pondering. In truth, I was merely relishing the delicate weight of her fingers on my arm, walking with her in a speechless awe at how such a night had come to pass. How had I, being the monster of many a child's nightmares, won the companionship of the quintessential angel?

I believe she was happy being with me. Perhaps that is why the events that were to unfold in the not so distant future proved not only to be an unwelcome surprise but a pain beyond comprehension. Her smiles in those weeks were not those created for my pleasure, but the product of her own joy. She was not playing a role.

I picked night-blooming flowers for her hair as we walked, and her delight sounded as the soft tinkling of tiny bells bouncing off the tree limbs that formed gnarled arms in the darkness. "Erik, you are always thinking of me. It is too much!" But, her enjoyment did not seem feigned at any moment of our early betrothal.

"Well, you could tell me to stop spoiling you."

She beamed up at me, the whiteness of her teeth apparent in the black of night. "Well, that would be positively unladylike of me, would it not?"

I feigned resignation, slouching my shoulders at her as if she had exasperated me, "Well, I had not thought of that, my dear, had not thought of it at all." I lifted her chin with the tips of my fingers and focused on the blue of her eyes. If there had been any time for affection and tenderness, for hope, it was that night.

"Erik, it's all right. . ." She whispered, blinking a few times, perhaps in nervous anticipation, or fear. No, it had to have been anticipation. She loved me that night, and the evening before, I realize. It could not have been otherwise. Not even the finest actors on the stage of the Comedie Francaise could have. . .

"I would very much like to kiss you, Christine."

* * *

She inhaled audibly, but did not show any sign of repulsion or fear. Instead, she rose up on her toes, her whole frame shaking like a river reed. I couldn't discern whether she was cold or merely nervous. My blood was pulsing through my veins at an alarming rate, and my heartbeat seemed to pound at the ends of my fingertips that held to Christine's chin. I couldn't breathe. I had always wished for such a moment to pass between the two of us, but never convinced myself that it was, indeed, a real possibility. I was ill-prepared to follow through with my actions. I did not know how to touch a woman, the realms of decorum which could not be breached prior to marriage. The softness of a kiss was all but foreign to me, and why shouldn't it remain so?

I had done little to earn such a reward from the dazzling, magnificent young creature who stood before me, willingly offering her lips and, possibly, her heart, to the caress of darkness. "Christine, are you sure. I need to know. . ."

"You do not need to ask your fiancé for a kiss, Erik." Her tone was gentle and full of comforting reassurance. And to augment her sincerity, she pressed her palms flat against my chest as she had in the brougham only minutes ago. Except there were no tears in her eyes this time. I could not have been more thankful for the sweet silence of the evening, which was only stirred by the rustling of our cloaks in the wind or the rubbing of insects' wings in the surrounding foliage.

"Is something wrong," she whispered, her voice carried away with the idea that we were conspirators in an act which should not be taking place.

"I can not ask such things of you, Christine, it was wrong of me. . ."

All at once, she slapped my hand away from her face, her eyes blazing with fury. "Erik, are you to be this way for our entire life together? I am not so fragile china doll. I do not want a husband who cannot bring himself to kiss his wife without being overwhelmed by guilt or feelings of low self-worth! If you want to take me in your arms, then by God, do it! Don't play games with me, Erik. Don't for one second believe that your hesitation to even hold my hand doesn't affect me! Do you want your fiancee to feel undesirable?"

Where was this all coming from? I had expected some form of retaliation from her, but for entirely different reasons. Repulsion, not frustration. I was aghast, speechless at this marvelously-enticing tirade being performed for my eyes only. "Christine-"

"If you say another word, Erik, I will scream, and you don't want that do you?"

I didn't say another word.

"Take me home, to your home! Right now! What do I need to do to prove to you that you are no monster?" She huffed as we walked back towards the brougham. It was a long silent, torturous stroll. No stroll actually. She did not take my arm, but her eyes made it look as if she were to devour me.

When we finally stepped back into the coach, she, and not myself, gave the driver his orders. "To the Palais Garnier, _vitement_!"

Then, she closed the shade of the brougham window and looked at me with a gaze that I could only assume suggested that she would indeed make her point when we arrived at my home on the lake. Was it excitement or fear coursing through my veins? As if she had snuffed out the flames of her rage, she curled up close to me, and unbutton my jacket. "Soon, Erik, you will understand, and there will be no reason for regrets or apologies."

* * *

The journey down to my home could not have been longer, and the tension between us seemed to close around my neck in a ghostly, suffocating grip. I do not believe Christine and I so much as met eyes as I led her by hand through the familiar labyrinthine corridors under the Opera house. She merely offered me a demure nod as I carefully lifted her into the gondola, then we resumed our postures of tense oblivion towards the other. Christine stared straight ahead, craning her neck in eager impatience, hoping to see the portcullis quickly emerge into her sight. Once again, I heard her intake of breath, her fingers curling along the smooth, dark wood of bow. I dared not break the veil of silence that masked the void between us, the gap our souls had not yet brooked.

How could she believe I did not wish to touch her, that the intoxicating possibility tortured my every thought? I had never ached so much to grasp beauty, to simply feel the contours of her jaw or the tiny bones of her wrist. It would have been worth more than any king's ransom to simply have her lips meld against my own.

Had she asked me to bring her to my home to mock me? To taunt me with all that would never be mine? Christine was greatly mistaken if she assumed that I had been playing some cruel game with her all this time, or that I concealed any of my own emotions from her.

Finally, the boat pulled soundlessly up to the shore, and with its arrival, Christine's frame appeared to relax, her bird-like shoulders no longer as immobile and stiff as a fortress wall. "Mademoiselle, I believe we have arrived."

Finally, as if I had been waiting decades without the conversation of another soul- which was not too distant from the truth of the matter- Christine turned to face me, a gentle smile fighting to form upon her pristine features. (To me, she had no physical flaw). "Yes, Erik, it seems we are home."

Home. . .to be instilled with the hope that she might one day find any structure in which I resided-for I would not make her to rot away like a sewer rat in my cellar-to be her own home, was to aspire for the impossible. But even the Shah of Persia had once remarked that I was capable of conjuring the impossible from the turn of my wrist. . .

Without waiting for my assistance, Christine stepped onto the smooth stone 'shore' at the front of my home. Immediately, she dashed into her room and shut the door in a smooth motion. No slamming; I do not believe she was angry. I was convinced, however that she had a particular determination fueling her every movement. I could make out, thanks to my rather keen sense of hearing, Christine rifling through her bureau, then perhaps, the armoire, and finally, I heard the unmistakable spray of the running water I had equipped for her bathe. Which I, of course, took advantage of also, when my lovely guest was absent from my home. It would simply not suffice to bathe in the grotto every evening with the sea creatures, and my siren could be rather temperamental. . .

"Christine?" I called to her, my head very near the wood frame of the Louis-Phillipe room. She was still shuffling around in the dresser drawers, I assumed, as urgent slams echoed one another in quick succession.

"I will join you in the sitting room in a matter of minutes, Erik."

Well, that had definitely been my cue to leave her alone to her ministrations-whatever they may entail. Reclining in my favorite armchair, I realized my patience was very much in need of reinforcement. I had not an inkling of precisely why and for what I had been asked to wait, but Christine's tone with me had not been that of woman who wished to field questions. Unable to sit still, I jerked up from my seat in agitation and began scanning my bookshelves in a vain attempt to find some piece of literature to occupy my time. _Arabian Nights_...no fairy tales this evening. _"Erik, I am sick of fairy tales..."_, she had raged.

I had a rather diverse collection of books: novels of the current style, histories of the ancient civilizations, a few rather salacious publications purchased in an alley near the Opera. No, definitely none of that. It was difficult enough to be in the same home as the girl and not touch her- without the influence of a seductive bit of reading to augment the maddening, ever-present temptation. Instead, I simply grabbed a few leaves of manuscript and moved to my desk.

If I could not find a suitable piece of writing, I would compose one of my own. As soon as I touched quill to paper, I was lost in my frustrations and passions, allowing the ink to bleed like a fresh wound onto its parched white carcass. . .

_I'm going to show you so much love as to break your heart forever._

_It's what you taught me; tears._

_I see Christ in the sunset, oranges, purples, and crucifixion._

_I don't offer sanctuary, only a place away from instinctual contempt._

_We lack the strength to carve the truth- I've had miles to want you. You've had a quickening pulse to prove me._

_We stumble through solitude, as children awake to escape dreaming of what has already been realized. _

_This death has not been shoved away as hoped,_

_Merely pushed aside, crushing even the tension that once lay between our breaths._

_It will hurt, promises don't care, because we're anchored in the neap,_

_And, as the protection of even obligation dissipates, its still the last time. _

"Erik, I'm ready." My pen fell limply upon the parchment, at the sound of my name on her lips. I do not believe anything would have prepared me for the sight of her as I looked up from my wretched composition.

"Ready, Christine?" My every sense inhaled her, enclosed her within my memory. She would remain forever as the silk-clad goddess standing with demure charm and absolute innocence in the doorway of that sitting room.

She stepped ever closer to my desk, making her image all the more enticing in the candlelight. Every curve of her lithe figure, those long curls dropping well past her graceful shoulders. "Yes, Erik, but the question is no longer yours to ask. Erik, are you ready?" Her hands went to the ties of her cream-silk robe, and I lacked the voice to respond to her.

* * *


	30. Chapter 30: The Request Granted

It would have been foolish to ask Christine just exactly what she meant- to answer her inquiry: "Erik, are you ready?", with a question of my own. I could imagine the addled Vicomte's response: "Whatever it is, mademoiselle, I assure you, I am prepared for it."

The image made me flinch inwardly, but I was not able to dwell on his arrogance at the time. Christine, my innocent little songbird, had me backed into a corner, literally. Her lithe dancer's-arms pinned me in-between two oak bookshelves, her sweet, but also predatory gaze beseeching me.

"Erik," her tone was indulgent and soft, a soothing caress, devoid of the forceful insinuations I had expected. "I have asked you before. . .at the church. . .remember. . .I gave you my promise. . .I asked you then how I might prove to you the sincerity of my feelings-"

"Yes, "I nodded. I refused to add anything further, as I feared that, perhaps, I had completely misunderstood her overtures. "I remember that night, my dear."

"Then, why must you continue to push me away, as if I were nothing more than a discarded rag every time I try to draw you close to me?"

My mouth went dry, and my fingers shook as those of a besotted schoolboy who does not know what to do with the object of his infatuation once she is within his reach. Actually, the only difference between myself and a schoolboy was that of age, and not experience. Christine offered me an expectant, if not challenging stare, as she finished with the lacings of her thin dressing gown. She rolled each slender shoulder back in turn, causing the silk robe to slide from her body and pool around her bare feet. With every ounce of fortitude within me, I did not allow my eyes to leave her face.

_**A woman's face, not a young girl's. . .**_

"Erik," the two short syllables of my chosen name rode on her deft whisper, a delightful quiver shaping the timbre of her voice. Her eyes glistened with what I assumed to be fresh tears, but no sobbing ensued. Indeed, it was the steady flicker of the candlelight reflected in her gaze that had created the vulnerable illusion of brimming eyes.

"Yes, Christine." My voice was solemn and reserved; though it was false. I was anything but composed and controlled, as I gripped the desk behind me with aching palms, palms eager to touch and caress.

"Don't be afraid," Her fingers went to the back of her corset and she blindly worried at its stays. "I'm not. I. . .I've never done something like this, but I am certain I am ready."

It was only then that my eyes traversed the length of her body, my mind absorbing every inch of the angel before me in meticulous detail, for it might very well be the first and also the final time in which a woman would grant me the image of her impossibly delicate beauty. "You are certain of what? I do not want to misinterpret your actions, Christine To do so, may very well bring great pain upon us both."

"My actions have nothing to do with pain, but the soothing of your soul. And my own." It was then that she reached her hands out to me, begging me to accept her offering. She did not falter in her gesture, but stood solid and proud as a statue, aware of the awe it inspires. Fueled by the intensity of desire, I eagerly took her hands in my own, bringing each finger to my lips in feverish, desperate kisses.

A little moan escaped her lips as she drew me closer, bringing our joined hands to press against the stiff fabric of her white corset. I had often imagined how a bride might appear on her wedding night. The sight of Christine before me, clad only in her stockings, pantaloons, and corset, waves of hair caressing the flesh of her shoulders- was the embodiment of an unrealized dream.

"Do you trust me?" She asked.

"You are the only person I have ever trusted." I replied, kissing the back of her palms. "You are the only one." It was no lie to placate the dear girl, she held my soul and my fate in her every choice; a fact that no longer frightened me.


	31. Chapter 31: The Request Granted pt II

"You are the only person I have ever trusted." I replied, kissing the back of her palms. "You are the only one." It was no lie to placate the dear girl, she held my soul and my fate in her every choice; a fact that no longer frightened me. She used the opportunity of our joined fingers to as her chance to lead me through her own desires, to those singular thoughts and motions that were wholly of her devising Yes, I trusted the temptress-woman-child, even as she pulled me from the warm, solitary comfort of the library.

"It is far too late in the evening for you to be reading, Erik. I am sure that you would benefit from rest, on dare I say, at least three evenings a week." I thought to counter her remark with a witticism in the defense of my nocturnal activities, but when she briefly turned to me, the most unassuming, beautiful plea had formed upon her winsome face. And, once again, I was still a man, not immune to the adorable pout of a curious young lady.

She pulled me into her bedchamber, illuminated by four wide, wax-dripping candles placed, one to each corner of the room. Normally, I only entered the Louis-Phillipe room in Christine's absence, to store some new fine frocks and silks in the bureau, or to leave some sweet-smelling satchet of Gardenia and Lavendar for her enjoyment upon her return. But, the evening before us, as I stood, one silent foot poised on the threshold of the door, was not to be classified in the manner of a friendly respectful and understanding companionship that marked our evenings of music lessons, followed by dinner in which the lessons were discussed, then, when all food had been consumed, ending the evening with a selection from the library, before finally settling in to our own private silences in separate rooms.

I had waited all my life to surrender myself to the overwhelming forces of love, but had never been granted the opportunity to lay myself at the mercy of its power. It was impossible to conceal the trembling of my hand, as she held my shaking fingers firmly in her grip, never faltering in her step as we approached the bed.

It had been my mother's own bed. . .the bed in which I had been delivered, and it would be the same in which I would leave the world. A world, which for the first time, I could see without the shadows of hostility that had accompanied me every moment, hostility the constant companion. But, I began to seek the comfort of another, one I might one day call 'lover' and 'wife'. All the shadows faded into the light that was Christine, as poetically indulgent as it sounded. "Are you very certain that you wish for me to stay with you tonight?"

My innocent seductress did not reply in words, but guided my fingers to the soft flesh right above the top of her corset. The pleasure of simply running my fingertips over the sensitive skin, tracing the curve of the supple flesh. I was lost to sensation, a curious explorer in unknown, and tempting territory. A woman's structure, the delicate lines of the collarbone, and the unbelievable softness of her mouth- I wanted to learn her complexities as a foreigner acquiring the intricacies of an unfamiliar language.

Christine smiled at me, as if letting me know that my touch was not unwanted, though her body flinched instinctively as my caresses grew bolder.

"You are so perfect," I crooned, unable to stop myself from sounding like a besotted young dandy. "So incredibly lovely, Christine."

"Don't tell me with words, Erik," she intoned, her breath coming fast, her own hands moving to the tiny white buttons of my shirt, fumbling with one or two of them in her haste.

"Then let us not speak another word," I answered sotto voce before moving in to kiss the skin behind her ears, the nape of her neck, the back of her wrist. But, I was frightened of what was to come, even in an hour's passage. I was all but ignorant of the affection between men and women, and a stranger to the ecstacy that was a woman's ultimate embrace. I had lived so long and never taken a lover, not even a whore, but there was Christine. I swore to myself, while plucking at the lacings of her corset, that I would not shame her, would not make her feel as if she were simply an instrument of my own pleasure. True, I was only aware of the basic fundamentals of intimacy, but I would endeavor to make her happy, to quench her desires to the best of my ability.


	32. Chapter 32

The heat rising between our two bodies was palpable, and I felt as if I might suffocate if I did not crush her to me. Yet, I fought the urge to do so, as my mind and all my senses became rapt in the beauty of her physical being. "Are you very certain," I cajoled, running a tentative finger along the line of flesh and bone between her pert, pink breasts.

"Do not ask me again," she sighed, arching her back involuntarily, as my fingers moved to cup the underside of one perfectly-shaped orb, my thumb grazing her nipple. To my surprise, it hardened under my inspection and grew deliciously taut.

"Then, I will not ask. I will take." Unable to resist for another moment, I brought my malformed lips to her dark, rose-toned nipple, and kissed it. Christine exhaled a moan from deep within her, and hastily set herself to separating the remaining clothing from our heaving bodies. I flicked my tongue across the bud of flesh and gently nipped for a scant moment, eliciting a squeal from the girl. I would have pulled away out of concern that I might have caused her pain, but I was quickly dissuaded from such an action by the new sensation of cool air over my whole body.

I looked at my angel, bare before me, beautiful. . .virginal. . .loving, and held her at arms-length. Like myself, I was certain that she had never stood so open and vulnerable to another human being; her shivers running through my hands as evidence to the fact. I was humbled by what could only be a sacrifice for her- to offer her body and her bed to the living corpse that I was.

Yes, Christine intended to prove to me that she _loved_ me. While I relished the intimacy we were approaching, still not even certain I had not left the hostility of reality for this vision, I could not deny that I was ashamed that my dearest girl believed I would only trust in her affection if she were to prove her love with the ultimate 'gift'.

Neither one of us would be the same after that night. Still, we pressed on unquestioningly, bewitched by the dynamics of desire and the forbidden, the meeting of the darkness and the light that would destroy its mate.

In a matter of moments, I had pressed her lithe body onto the soft palate of the bedclothes, aligning her head to rest on a plump feather pillow. As her weight met with the eider down, she exhaled a barely audible sigh of what I took as contentment. I dearly hoped so.

I could not fathom the repercussions of the evening, should I push Christine beyond her self-imposed limitations. How did one go about making love to a woman; and not just any woman, but the one he prizes above all other things he has known in a half-century of life? I was less than a novice in the realm of the fairer sex. It was one thing to pick up some girl of the streets and take her roughly in a dingy back alley- a task that, despite my very human urges, I would never seek.

"Erik," she crooned, outstretching her arms to me with eager impatience.

I hesitated, suddenly devoid of the guise of control and dignity that had long been my shield from all those that had ever crossed my dark path. In order to be worthy of Christine, I must divest myself of all secrets and all barriers, both physical and emotional. Was I prepared to do such? I was not certain, and decided it might be best not to think at all, not of logic and repercussions, at least. She wanted me, wanted me to hold her and show her that she was loved. And wasn't that what I had pined for my whole life?

_Do not think of consequences_, I told myself silently, slowly lowering my body to sit beside her on the bed. I cursed my own self-doubt, and my inability to make either one of us feel at ease. It was the time to act, wasn't it? With growing confidence, I took the girl's hands and brought them to rest upon my chest, right above my own heart. Blanketing her fingers with my own, I searched her eyes, met her intense gaze,"I hold you here, Christine. Always. Here."

She smiled gently before grabbing me about the waist and pulling my bare flesh down so that I rested above her delectable figure. She was the epitome of loveliness. No second thoughts, just tonight, I remember thinking. Just tonight. . .

There are no words adequate to describe what it is to make love to a woman. No music is comparable, and that language, the sounds of song, the greatest of all tongues, could describe the feelings running between our minds, our joined flesh that precious, singular evening. To recall every caress, every tightening of muscle, every ounce of pleasure would be to trivialize the experience. Christine was unlike any other woman, any other human being I had known. Yes, she had her own faults, but she was young. And as she had shown me in that one evening. . .to love someone was to love them as they were, to accept their faults.


	33. Chapter 33

There are no words adequate to describe what it is to make love to a woman. No music is comparable, and that language, the sounds of song, the greatest of all tongues, could describe the feelings running between our minds, our joined flesh that precious, singular evening. To recall every caress, every tightening of muscle, every ounce of pleasure would be to trivialize the experience. Christine was unlike any other woman, any other human being I had known. Yes, she had her own faults, but she was young. And as she had shown me in that one evening. . .to love someone was to love them as they were, to accept their faults. To know them as completely as you wished them to know your own mind and body. . .

But some images were more than worthy of recollection, not that I lacked the memory to replay every second of out lovemaking in my mind over and over, endlessly, as a means of delicious torture.

As I had gently placed my weight above her shaking frame, her hands had reached up for the lacings of my one remaining secret...the only armor to save me from derision and rejection...for surely, Christine would rethink her fateful decision when faced with my death's head.Perhaps, the girl was testing herself, gauging her own depths of courage as she lifted the mask from my features.

The expected scream of utter revulsion did not reverberate through the chamber. Instead, as soon as the cool dank air of room met my uncovered flesh, as I shut my eyes in preparation for her cries, Christine pulled me down with an almost violent force to lay my head to her sweet breast. I will never forget that meeting of bodies, her soft skin against my ravaged cheek, it was an abomination of the most desirable kind. How could I not love her? She was all that was kind and true in my world. We were meant for one another, I thought, my lips brushing the line of her delicate collarbones, for what other human being would treasure her so?

"You do not pull away from me," I muttered against her heartbeat, enjoying the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest as she sighed low. It was not the tone of a little girl, but the soothing warmth of a woman's voice.

"No, Erik," and then she added with the certainty that no other response was even possible, "why would I turn away from your touch?" Her tenderness ran through me as sweetly as her singing did when she rolled effortlessly through obligato and arpeggios in her flexible soprano. It was as if I had existed in the most violent of storms, tossed about by gales and pierced by lightning, all my life, and now I was safe and sheltered, the pounding rains had ceased to torment me. If Christine remained in my life, the rain would be as a soft metronome, a lullaby for a sunless, foggy afternoon.

As two curious lovers, which was undoubtably an apt description, our hands trailed and searched the contours and curves of one another. The inner complexities of the human body, from intricate veins to the blinking of an eye was nothing in comparison to the exquisite simplicity and straight-forward shape and line of its form. I was a connoisseur of inventions, of the well-written word, a fine wine, music, a man who appreciated the intricacies of everyday objects. I was a scientist, a creator of the images, that to most people, would always remain in the dream-scape of life. But the woman curling her sinewy dancer's legs around me, her fingertips lacing across my spine-she was that which I could not have even imagined. Christine Daae was the unknown paradise, for she was the creator of my perfect world; it rested solely in her kisses and embraces.


	34. Chapter 31, pt III

* * *

That evening, with Christine nestled against my chest, her precious body pressing against me as she dreamt the hours away until morning, I did not find sleep. My mind turned circles, my thoughts lost in the labyrinth between reality and fiction. Yes, I believed the girl loved me. I knew she did, but the affirmation of the fact did not grant me a night's peace. Instead, as I calmly ran my fingertips across her white arms, savoring the newness of our intimacy, I realized the horrible truth: if I had not been worthy of her remarkable kindness and her astounding capacity for love before, I surely could never hope to live up to the grace which she had so freely shown to me as I took her as my own.

The two of us had learned the machinations of love together, but a lesson learned without the necessity of spoken instruction. I never knew so much communication could be made with the shared looks between us as we stepped precariously into untraveled heady realm of desire. As naive children learning the way to walk, our bodies were propelled by instinct to move, trusting in one another that we would not fall. Trust was the one thing I could offer her...I had no home to shelter her, no handsome face to smile with hers as we took to the Paris streets. But, she could have full faith in me that I would never turn to another woman, even should one wish to have me. . .

As she slept, she nuzzled up closer to my stomach, burying herself against my body. I wondered if she could sense how my body still trembled in disbelief in her unconsciousness. I had always prided myself in being a man who always followed through with his actions, aware of the results and consequences. Yet, with the intimacy that had passed between Christine Daae and myself, I was at a complete loss. The fact that we had made love, that she had caressed my body and surrendered her on to my possession, was beyond any event I could have rightfully foreseen. What would become of us now that we had crossed a great divide? I had failed myself by not having an answer...failed Christine even more so; for she would look to me to move forward. But, in what direction?

* * *

She was dressed when I woke, though I could not recall giving in to the temptation of actual sleep. Sitting up on the edge of the swan bed, Christine ran her fingers through her mussed hair, and I made a note to provide her with all the necessary grooming instruments a lovely young woman would require. Having felt my body stir under the sheets, Christine turned about, offering me a sweet smile. I was completely undone by the sight of her, barely awake, eyes still heavy, but opening her arms to me once again with the coming of the dawn.

"Good morning, Erik, or should I say good afternoon."

I shot up straight, confused. Had I slept through the day entirely?

Christine shoved me flat onto my back, our bodies once more closing the space between us and becoming lost in the tangled silks of the bedclothes. "Don't look so startled, Erik! I let you rest. It was very plain to see that you have neglected to get a proper night's sleep for longer than I dare to imagine. Besides, you looked so very peaceful. I didn't have the heart to wake you." Some rebels strands of hair fell forward and covered her fine features, then dangled delightfully above my own face.

"I cannot argue with you on the matter, my dear. If I told you how long is has been since I have slept from night to dawn, I am certain you would throttle me for not taking care of my health."

Playfully, she kissed my misshapen mouth and collapsed upon my chest. "I still may."

"May what?" I glanced at her as if pointing an accusatory finger.

"Throttle you."

* * *

That morning and for the fortnight following, I experienced an amount of happiness and companionship unknown to even my wildest dreaming. Christine Daae was the light of the coming morning when the sun remained hidden from us, so far below the waking world. Looking back on that precious handful of days, two weeks' time, it now seems quite possible that I experienced my first feelings of peace, the only time in my long years that my soul had ever been at rest and contented- made so by finding its twin in another person.

Not only did she release the tension that had kept me closed from so many of life's pleasures and simple joys, but our relationship began to exorcize the ghosts of sadness and solitude that haunted her own heart. We had met one another as orphans-it was only natural that we would seek one another as a refuge from the homelessness of life without a family.


	35. Chapter 35

That morning and for the fortnight following, I experienced an amount of happiness and companionship unknown to even my wildest dreaming. Christine Daae was the light of the coming morning when the sun remained hidden from us, so far below the waking world. Looking back on that precious handful of days, two weeks' time, it now seems quite possible that I experienced my first feelings of peace, the only time in my long years that my soul had ever been at rest and contented- made so by finding its twin in another person.

Not only did she release the tension that had kept me closed from so many of life's pleasures and simple joys, but our relationship began to exorcize the ghosts of sadness and solitude that haunted her own heart. We had met one another as orphans-it was only natural that we would seek one another as a refuge from the homelessness of life without a family.

As soon as the clock chimed six in the morning, Christine would reluctantly slip from my arms and soak in a hot bath adjoining her bedroom. I would hear the water running as the dawn came, and the faint sound of her bare, wet feet padding across the cold floor as she made her way to the boudoir to dress for the day's rehearsal. And as a man who has savored his first real taste of joy, I questioned the reality of my happiness.

I could not stop myself from watching her, marveling over the seemingly ordinary routines of a young woman, such as combing her mussed hair or coordinating her evening attire with the proper set of earrings. A man in love is crazed, but a man who receives the love he so craves, is completely lost to reason-with no desire to recover. Her every pace and smile proved a marvel to me in those halcyon days and clandestine nights. We enjoyed one another, she must have been happy. I could see it in the way she glanced at me across the library whilst turning the pages of a novel she'd picked from my collection-it was a favorite activity of ours; to read in companionable silence before wordlessly making our way to her chambers to relieve the stresses of the day, where we would find solace in the melding of our bodies. I slept through the night when Christine was pressed against me, her steady breathing serving as the lullaby I never heard in childhood.

I know she loved me then. I swear to God, she did. Why else, Christine, why else would you have offered me all you had to give as a woman? Not once, but many times. I thought I was enough for you-how could I believe differently. . .your mouth on my flesh still burns. Only now, it is just the ache of the tender memory. . .a more brutal reminder of pain than any scar upon my face. Yes, you loved me then. What was it that caused you to turn away from me?

Yes, a man in love is crazed, a man who receives the love he so craves is obsessed and void of reason...and the man that loses the love he has managed to taste...if even for a single moment. . .that man is haunted for an eternity. Christine, though you still walk the same streets and corridors, though your voice echoes against the walls of my theatre, you are something intangible. So close to me that I could touch you once more. If you would only remember that time when you wished to prove your feelings to me. I know you loved me then, as I know every note I have ever composed for you, as I know these labyrinthine halls, and the curves and shallows of your body.

And now, you haunt me. Neither one of us shall ever be free of the other.


	36. The Darkest Of Your Furthest Reaches

You, as the reader, would perhaps, like to know exactly when it was, and what it was precisely that caused the fall of Paradise for Christine and myself? Hmm? Though these words I write shall, no doubt, be buried with my putrid corpse, I am compelled to finish this chronicle-which has hardly begun. I have hesitated on recounting the events that led to our crisis, in all honesty, because painful emotions are exhausting...their memories have a tendency to suck the life out of one's body. Pride will do me little good as a dead man, so to hide the 'facts' of the tragedy will serve little purpose. Onwards to the second act, then, for all audiences love a heart-wrenching tale.

It was not easy for us to part ways, but after a fortnight together, I thought it best that Christine should spend some evenings with the rest of the opera chorines-and not slinking out of the dormitories midst the gas-lit night to crawl into the bed of a masked gargoyle. A life more fanciful than any on-stage illusion. True, she had been ever diligent in her attendance at daily rehearsals and other necessary functions, but her whole life could not revolve about the Opera Populaire. No matter how much the thought enticed my selfish sense of desire, I forced myself to propel the gondola to the opposite shore on that fifteenth morning.

As I offered my gloved hand to the girl to step off of the boat, she turned to me with abrupt determination. "Erik, why do you wish me to leave?"

The question baffled me. How could she imagine that I wanted anything other than her constant company? I could not begin to comprehend the inner workings of the young mademoiselle's mind, deciding at that moment that a woman was the one mystery I would never conquer. Yet, I was not unpleasantly shocked by her inquiry. Stuttering quite uncharacteristically, I spat out, "Christine, it's nothing to do with me wanting you to leave." I managed an affectionate chuckle.

"Then, why, Erik, are you forcing me to leave as if I were some pestering child?"

"Forcing you! " I had not intended to raise my voice, but I was frankly astonished by her allegation. "How can you imagine that I want you to leave?"

"Then, ask me to stay."

Christine made it sound so simple, tantalizingly so. Gradually, the world above would forget her-an act I was completely incapable of performing. "Now you are being unreasonable,." I chastised her, smirking as I did so, "You can not miss rehearsal. The managers and patrons will grow even more suspicious of your whereabouts...the curious affairs of their new ingenue, Mademoiselle Daae."

Her eyes darkened with desire and excitement at the image of her growing fame, though she tried to mask her giddiness. Only the promise of glory upon the Parisian stage seemed to tempt her to return from whence she'd come. "You exaggerate my importance, Erik.. ."she blushed, hiding her eyes from mine.

"I never flatter. You. . . and your career, Christine, are of the highest importance to me." I attempted to dampen the depth of my ardor, but to no avail- she could sense the intensity of my feelings simply from the way I breathed. With slight hesitation, still unsure of myself, I took her palms in my hands and kissed them both. The meeting of my twisted mouth to her soft flesh still evoked the most euphoric of sensations within me, and I continued to question the reality of the woman I held close to my body.

"When shall I return?" She asked nervously, as a child might inquire as to an expected punishment.

"You may come and go as you wish, Christine. I have no hold on you."

"You underestimate yourself, Erik. You possess far more than you hold in your hands."

I should never have allowed her to leave my sight. Should never have trusted in her loyalty. I ought to have reminded myself that she was very young, very impressionable, and perhaps unable to make wise decisions regarding matters such as marriage. She was merely a child at the time, and I have noone to blame but myself for the collapse of our betrothal. I had unknowingly shown Christine that she was disposable to me. After a fortnight of sleepless evenings, our bodies pressed together in a delicious, craving heat, a fortnight of lazy mornings, feeling the sighing whisper of her breath as she slowly awoke in my arms, I had asked her to leave as if she were simply a passing infatuation...the typical chorine mistress to an opera benefactor.

Yet, at the time, after we parted on the shore of the underground lake, I did not curse myself for foolishness. Instead, I felt some level of joy and peace, and believed she would happily come back to me after all we had shared. Though I was not young in years, I had not been any less naive than she in the matters of the heart. To the contrary, I was elated-and I had never before experienced such an inner joy- that Christine was reluctant to leave, that she openly shared with me her regret at our parting.

Our last kiss along the shore that day was brief, as if we both fully expected to share more intimate moments, even desired-filled evenings, in the very near future. As if it had been a certainty that she would marry me, I bid her goodbye not as a hopeless lovelorn youth, but as a gentleman, collected and sure of his lady's affections. In short, we behaved as a couple in love, living only in the present moment, the future and the past remaining inconsequential in the glow of one another.

Immediately after her departure, I set about composing, my muse flourishing. The melodies and harmonies ran through my mind faster than I could scribble them onto the page. I crumped leaf after leaf, as new themes rose out of those I had just documented. My soul was alive and it asked to speak. Music was its only language, but at that, it was a master. I composed fugues and choruses, massive amounts of recitative, until my fingers felt raw from holding the pen, my vision blurring from writing under the dim candlelight.

I felt her absence as some gaping abyss surrounding me, a darkness that was not fond or familiar, but one that held the loneliness of the unknown. Waiting for the hours until our nightly voice lessons-in which we agreed not to see one another face to face, but act as we had before Christine knew me as a man- I quelled my anxiety with the opium and morphine parcels Nadir begrudgingly delivered to my hasty hands. The needle in my veins, the warmth of that drug coursing up through my bloodstream brought Christine back to me in a dizzying, palpable haze.

After tasting her, having the girl wholly, there was nothing to be done, within reason, to stave off my longings for her-except to chase that damned dragon. The best gift I received from the Orient, a beast more alluring than any harem girl. If only the morphine had held quite the allure as a certain Mademoiselle Daae, my situation may have ended far more satisfactorily, and without the characteristic dramatics known to theatre folk. But there was no intoxication in all the world-I knew without a doubt, for I had traveled the most exotic nations to the far corners of the Earth- like the love of a woman. Not even the invigorating, and lethargic pull of opium could tame my emotions. Instead, the morphine served as a mere whip crack, a temporary distraction and deterrent from seeking the girl out from her chambers.

My evenings began to pass very slowly, and I grew angry at the stand-still workings of the clock. For so many years, I had prided myself on the fact that I could never be mastered by any desire, never be conquered by any pain or challenge. Erik was ruled by no man, no God, and certainly not a woman. Yet, a girl, not a domineering, omnipresent God, held my every thought and action in her trembling hands. Those thin, graceful, little fingers were unaware of their power over an aging, stubborn monster. I had to confront the truth of the matter: The night Christine gave herself to me, I had eagerly sacrificed all my control, and the rest of my miserable years over to her.

I resumed my old habit of walking the streets of Paris, quietly illuminated by gaslight and a gleaming moon. In the past, such sojourns had served as mental journeys in which I would craft a new melody, or visualize the construction of some palace or labyrinth. As I walked, my gaze to the sky and no longer the gutter, Christine and how to keep her affections remained my focus.

Wandering the nearly deserted Parisian banquettes, I could almost believe I was a normal man. No one roamed the streets to offer a curious glance, baffled at the masked shadow stalking the city. No, it was a quiet world of comforting solitude at such a late hour as I chose to venture from my underground home. My only companions being the subtle patter of my own footfalls and the occasional buzz of insects.

I was not a dreamer, but at times such as I found myself on my lonely walks, I let my mind travel to the furthest reaches of imagination. So far that the truth would never meet the trajectory of my wistful illusions. Creatures such as myself had no right to dream of beautiful ingenues in crisp satin wedding gowns, of waking to the smile of one loving woman, the sunlight sneaking through slits in the shutters to wash over her bright face.

No, romantic thoughts were not for monsters. I should, instead, be content with my lot. Unselfishly, I ought have sacrificed my life to Hades as a favor to the rest of my species. But, I was not a giving sort.

I still wished for the woman in white silk, skin as soft as a whisper. . .pliant to my touch, accepting of my sordid sins and all too human lusts.

Not entirely due to coincidence, I found myself one evening at the very church where Christine had pleaded with me to let her in...to allow her into my darkness. My furthest reaches.

I leaned against the massive doors of the chapel once again, my mind's eye creating her lithe form as my companion. I was fatigued by the notion of dreaming a false happiness, and shut my eyes simply to rest. Not to dream, nor to think.


	37. Chapter 37

I need not have worried that Christine would be lonely. That damned boy was simply waiting for her return to whisk her away from his unknown rival. He flew into more than one misguided jealous rage before even knowing the physical nature of his competition. Christine made a habit of sitting down meekly while he whined, unsure of how to explain her mysterious disappearances, unable to admit the truth of her monstrous lover in the presence of so young and fine an Adonis as the Vicomte de Chagny.

But, I have moved forward with my tale, yet again. I have always been guilty of pacing too quickly, rushing to a denouement before one is due. But it is always much easier to dream of a better future than to wallow in a fetid present.

It began with a note upon her dressing room door:

_Mademoiselle Daae,_

_Have you so quickly forgotten your dear friend, the boy who fetched your scarf from the sea? I deeply regret that we could not dine on the evening of your operatic triumph, and I would dearly love to celebrate your debut, two weeks after your success! I have left my card under your door. I hope I have not been too bold, Christine, for I took great joy in being reunited in our friendship after so many years! If I do not receive word from you shortly, I shall call very soon. That is a promise._

_Fondest thoughts,_

_Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny_

In hindsight, I should have removed the note upon discovering it tacked to the door. Yet, at the time, I was too drunk on what I perceived to be Christine's love and fidelity towards me, that I trusted she would handle the note and the Vicomte in an appropriate manner. After all, there had been an evening, not too long past, when I had witnessed the boy cavorting with whores, drunk on expensive wine, most likely. Christine had not been in his thoughts at the time; but she was a constant presence in my mind.

In truth, had I revealed to my beloved what I had seen on that evening, she might never have turned to Raoul when the tensions and questions began to mount between us, causing confusion in our relationship. In an effort to preserve her precious innocence, I had not told her of the boy's excursion, for, at the time, I had not considered him-nor any other handsome youth, a threat to my love.

I was rather foolish and overly confident then.

To think, I could have stopped the engagement, extinguished all possibilities of her betrayal, had I but only opened my mouth in a moment of selfishness. Instead, I had done what real lovers do- avoided any words that might have caused her sadness and pain. Not knowing that I would be the one to lose, I gave it all up in the name of the love I perceived in her.


	38. Chapter 38

I kept constant watch on her, spied on her, one could say. But, I had never given much consideration to what others might say of the Opera Ghost, very few in the world really knew me, and of those to whom I spoke, only Christine had any inkling of the person I really was. Why would I chose to have further association with a world of people that had only ever offered me derision and scorn? I had learned, very early in life, that it was in my best interest to remain alone, and to be contented with this loneliness. A self-imposed alienation, rather than one forced upon me by 'polite' society.

In hindsight, perhaps, I may have saved myself a great deal of pain and anguish had I simply let Christine alone in her absence from me. Still, I was a man desperately in love, and in such a state of passion, I could not go more than a matter of hours without knowing her whereabouts and her dealings with others. One might call me a stalker, insane, even. Maybe it was an accurate description, but, again, it did not matter. I would do anything to keep Christine, to have her love me forever.

She did reply to the Vicomte's message. I watched her pen her response from the other side of the dressing room mirror. And, as fortune appeared to be on my side at the time, I was afforded a chance to read it.

As Christine folded the letter, a knock came upon her dressing room door. It was the little Giry girl, eager as always to lure my angel away with girlish gossip. Christine grabbed her cloak, pinned it about her fine neck and followed her friend out of the room. As soon as I could no longer detect the sounds of their laughter, their dainty footfalls, I plied the turning mechanism on the mirror, and made a soundless entrance into her chambers.

In an instant, I had opened the, thankfully, unsealed note and quickly perused its contents.

_Raoul,_

_How good it is to hear from you, my childhood friend! Memories of our times by the sea and the stories which my dear papa used to tell us come flooding back to me. How I miss him! After his death, I felt my life was over, but now, how things have changed! Against all odds, I have sung at the Paris Opera. I can still hardly believe it! Do you recall how my father spoke of the Angel of Music, how he would guide me and look after me? On his deathbed, my beloved Papa told me that when he got to Heaven, he would send the Angel to me. You may laugh, my friend, but Papa was right! I have been visited by his angel, and it is my Angel of Music who has fulfilled my dreams of singing! I have so much to share with you, Raoul. My happiness is overwhelming! Please send word to me this evening if you would like to once again share stories of our childhood, so that we may again rekindle our friendship of long ago._

_My angel is a very strict teacher, and I am called to my lessons on a demanding schedule. However, my teacher is very proud of my recent success, and has granted me a week of rest from my lessons. I would deeply enjoy sharing this time with my friends, and look forward to seeing you again very soon._

_Kind regards,_

_Christine_

"My angel is a very strict teacher. . ." I folded the letter and replaced it on her dressing table in the manner in which I had found it, the heat of anger rising within every part of my body. Did Christine not consider the Vicomte a potential suitor at the time? I do not know. I tend to believe, that at the time of her reply, that her intentions were completely innocent, completely honorable. Still, to me, it seemed a portent of the disaster that was to come.

I paced the room in agitation, already forming the paranoid images of my darling girl locked in his embrace, her eyes bright, reveling in his handsomeness. He would be able to giver her so much more than I ever could. Beauty, riches, a privileged life at the pinnacle of Paris society. I was only the monster that loved her beyond reason, and I offered only my music. And, wasn't that what Christine desired most, to rightfully take her place as the prima donna of the Paris Opera, to share her glorious voice with all of France?

Only I could bring her dreams to reality. I hoped against hope that it would be enough to keep her.

Downtrodden, and suffering from a renewal of self-loathing, I left her quarters and returned to my home, eager to write, to let loose the demons of emotion into something of beauty, the only beauty I would ever be capable of producing...my music. My opera, composed only for Christine, her voice already resounding in my mind on every single note I penned. She would be my voice to the world above, the star of my magnum opus: _Don Juan Triumphant._

That evening, I again made the trip up to her room, resuming my perch, ready to be an unseen witness to her meeting with that beautiful, ignorant boy. I knew he would eagerly accede to her request of a reunion, and it would take place that very night.

I was not disappointed. My love was applying the final touches to her appearance, straightening the fall of her emerald gown and combing her lustrous hair. Her loveliness brought another pang of anguish to my already troubled mind. How could this woman be for any other man but me? It was impossible to cease loving her, and I did not wish to try. Satisfied with her preparations, she took a seat on the chaise lounge in the far corner of the room, humming to herself as she read over the score for the next opera of the season.

The Vicomte came knocking only a few minutes later, causing Christine to literaly hop to the door in eager anticipation. How I wanted to bound through the mirror and take her at that moment, to prevent her meeting with him! Instead, I simply watched with morbid curiosity, as he greeted her with a dozen pink roses and a beaming smile.

"Raoul, I am so glad you have come!" Forgetting propriety, she threw her arms about his neck in an affectionate hug.

"It is a great joy to see you, Little Lotte."

I knew then, that I was doomed. I would lose the battle for her love before it had even begun.


	39. Chapter 39

I could not watch any longer. The simple, but affectionate greeting the two had shared was enough to cause me more than a little distress. How could it be so easy for the boy to win her trust, to bring a sweet smile to her face? It had taken months for her to grow entirely comfortable in my presence. To be just a normal man. . . But it was best not to ponder over such things. Things one could and never would be able to change, not even with the luxury of a great mind.

As I retreated back to my home, I could hear their jovial laughter assaulting my eardrums. Thankfully, the closer to my liar I came, the fainter their voices grew, until I was mercifully rid of the sound. Still, I would hear echoes of their 'friendly' chatter as I tried to sleep that evening, and for many nights thereafter.

How does a man react the moment he learns the purpose of his life has been laid waste? Does he scream or lash out? Does he take to his bed in immeasurable grief and anger at what he cannot alter? Perhaps, he ought to find an opium den or some shadowy corner in which to drink himself to oblivion.

Usually, I quelled the ferocity of my emotions with fervent composition, notating the music that whirled about in my brain in a feverish scrawl. This time, it would not be enough. The more I thought of their warm embrace, the more I sought an alternative release to my awakening madness. If I could not appear as a normal man, I, at least, could resort to his vices.

Instead of continuing on my journey home, I made a quick turn and exited the Opera from the gate at the Rue Scribe. Faintly, I recalled mention of an opium den not far from the theatre. Buquet and the other stagehands had often talked of drowning their minds in the drug's alluring haze on nights when I prowled unseen about the catwalks. It was true that I, myself, was no stranger to opium, or its sister morphine, appreciating its calming powers during times of great distress. Throughout one's life, it was necessary to escape the troubles of the world in some manner. I chose not to run to another corner of the world, but to another corner of my mind, a corner far removed from Christine's bright smile and mellifluous voice.

The den was located in a narrow alley off the Rue Scribe, a derelict locale flanked by whores and their amorous customers and beggars pining for the necessary funds that would allow them the next dosage of their chosen drug or spirit. In truth, the surrounding company, which paid little attention to my presence, set me at ease. Despite my physical appearance, I had a home of sorts, and was not a slave to any substance.

I knocked gently on the heavy wooden door, only to be greeted by a rather short but rotund Asian gentleman. His large body was adorned with many golden piercings; a tasseled skullcap covered his head and led to an impressive black braid that extended all the way down to his waist. However, it was his outrageously long red fingernails that drew the most attention, as they had grown so far from his fingertips that they began to curl under themselves.

His unusual appearance settled something inside of me. "Smoke, monsieur?" He whispered in surprisingly articulate French, and motioned for me to follow him. I nodded in reply and allowed the strange character to lead me down a narrow chamber. Divans lined either side of the room, each one occupied by some happily oblivious individual, silently smoking at a long-stemmed pipe.

The smell of the opium crept into my nostrils like honey in the air. The room stretched on and on, it seemed, it's corners and alcoves bathed in a dim orange light. The walls were lined with silken panels of red and gold, depicting ornate dragons and landscapes of the Far East. Every detail and fixture of the opium den perpetuated a feeling of dreaminess. It was a place where a man could feel completely removed from the outside world- a feeling I relished.

"Here, " and my guide gestured with his curious nails to a divan of plush, red velvet, adorned with two fringed pillows. "Lay back," he added, handing me a long glass pipe, almost identical to those I had seen upon entering the locale. Eager to vanquish all the day's horrible events from my mind, I followed his instructions as he tended to the opium. I was taken aback at how easily he managed to pack the drug into the end of the pipe, given the nature of his hands. It took him only a matter of seconds to accomplish the task of preparing the pipe and lighting it.

"Puff, inhale." He ordered, pantomiming the actions after speaking them. Again, I nodded to him, and fished from my pant pocket a few coins that would be more than adequate fare for the night's activities. The Asian gentleman bowed, accepted the money with an open palm and pivoted on his heel to leave me to my own devices. It was only upon later recollection that I realized he had not even given my masked visage a second glance. I suspected he saw more than his share of curious individuals in his line of work.

As I laid back and smoked the sweet opium, I pondered over my reasons for coming to this point. My eyes traveling over the vast room, I wondered how many of its occupants had also chosen to partake due to the pain of loving a woman. Surely, I was not the only man to turn away from reason and escape to a kinder, quieter world- to leave a world of rejection for one where nothing actually seemed to matter much.

As the opium began to wrap me in its spell, my thoughts wove around images of her, to memories of her touch. It almost seemed that her living ghost traced the contours of my face, that her soft breath grazed my uncovered cheek. It was an illusion of which I was fully aware, alluring and comforting, though it pained me to know she would not touch me again in love. I could not accept the loss of her. I would not let her fall into another man's arms without trying to reclaim her for myself.

Perhaps, it was the opium that caused me to make foolish promises of winning her back. The opium had deluded me into believing that there was a chance; that she would not completely abandon me. It was so much simpler to hope. "Christine. . ." I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, the honeyed smoke tickling my throat, as I drifted off into a cherished oblivion. "Christine. . ."


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Romance