It was the music that awakened her.
Not the delicate chiming of that curious music box, but a soft and rich sound that echoed through the sheer, dark veil around the bed.
Christine eased herself off the unfamiliar red cushions and fragments of a dream still seemed to hover within her mind.
A wedding…she saw herself dressed in a bride's shimmering white…a man had stood close by and held out his hand to her…a large, strong hand in a black leather glove enveloped her own.
Easing her legs over the edge of the bed, she saw her satin slippers neatly paired on the rich, but worn Persian rug and stepped into them.
Rising slowly, the disconnected pieces of her dream fading, she straightened her rumpled dressing gown over the jewel-hued bodice of her Elissa costume.
She found the heavy tassel and drew up the curtain.
Ah, so this place had been real…these strange grottoes filled with candle, with velvet-shrouded mirrors. And the lake with its pale green waters lapping softly against stone was real, the little boat with silver trim still moored at the bottom of the steps.
If these things were real…than so was he. The Phantom…her Angel.
And Christine saw him there, beyond the flickering light.
He was seated with his back to her, leaning over the keys of an ornate pipe organ, a quill pen in one hand.
He must have heard her steps or the whisper and rustle of her dress because he turned towards her. The fine diamante trim of his dark green robe glimmered as he looked away again.
He is afraid of me…shouldn't I be the one who fears him…fears this Phantom?
He laid down the pen and the boldly written score as she approached him.
His shoulders tensed when she stood beside him, his hands motionless on the ivory keys.
Christine reached out and touched the white mask that hid half his face, tracing its contours, the edge where it met flesh.
When she let her hand falls away to rest on his arm, she heard his sigh as the tension left him.
She bent down and let her own cheek rest against that cool false one, as if by that gesture she could feel what lay beneath it.
"Play something for me, Angel."
At those words, she saw his lips curving into the faintest of smiles.
Then she moved around to the other side of the organ where she could see him as his fingers caressed the keys.
It was a melody she had never heard before. So soft and sweet and rapturous. It might have been a lullaby or a hymn or an exquisite aria of love.
She knew that it was he had written it, that it belonged to him. Just as this Angel belonged to her.
As he played, his green eyes darkened and he seemed to forget everything…everything but the music and the young woman who stood before him.
She leaned forward a little, her dressing gown gaping a little over the gold-trimmed of her bodice. A single curl fell across her collarbone and lay against the curve of her breast.
Christine closed her eyes, resting her folded arms on the organ as she let her soul hear his music.
But he had stopped playing, the final notes hovering between their two bodies and echoing through this strange, sweet haven beneath the cellars of the Opera Populaire.
She opened her eyes again and saw that he was looking at her. His gaze was stormy and calm at once as it swept slowly up to her face.
She felt an unfamiliar hunger deep within her as she let her own glance move down from his face to the vee of his chest where his white shirt lay open.
No…not unfamiliar. She had felt it every time she'd heard his voice in the shadows of the chapel, in the haze of dreams when he sand to her. She felt in the first time she'd laid her hand in his, sensing the heat of his palm through the heavy glove.
She blushed, but did not look away.
He turned aside first and she reached down across the keys to touch his hand, running one finger across his knuckles.
To her surprise, he jerked his hand away as if she'd hurt him.
He stood, so abruptly that the bench crashed against the stone floor.
Angel of Music…do not shun me!
She followed him down the rough steps to the edge of the lake.
Angel of Music…I will never deny you.
He stood in profile. She saw only the stark white of his mask contrasting with the dark of his hair.
She reached up and laid her hand against his neck. His pulse throbbed beneath her palm and she suddenly felt so small, so vulnerable beside him.
He slipped one arm around her waist and, leaning down, he let his lips brush hers. She parted them eagerly, standing on tiptoe to respond to his hesitant kiss.
"Angel," she whispered against his mouth.
At that word, he broke away from her.
"No, Christine," he said in a low, hoarse voice, "I brought you here for my music…only for our music."
Even as he spoke, she saw that he did not believe his own words. Nor did she.
Suddenly, he waded out into the lake. His velvet robe streamed behind him on the water for a moment before darkening and sinking.
Like the great and terrible wings of an angel condemning itself.
He looked back at her once when he reached the massive gate. Then he leaned against it, his forehead pressed against a bar.
Even from where she stood, she could see the tremor that he fought against.
"Christine, Christine, Christine…"
Then he turned, flinging open his arms. He leaned back against the gate, reaching back to grasp the iron bars.
His body stretched against the grating, there was despair in his eyes. Despair fighting with desire and rage and love. He closed them quickly, as if to hide the pain and passion from her.
"Christine, there is no angel. Not even a ghost. Only Erik."
"Only Erik," Christine repeated, going back up to the alcove where the mannequin stood.
She lifted the bridal veil from it and placed it on her own head., Then, ignoring the chill of water dragging at her skirt, she waded out into the water to towards him.
Through the portcullis, she could see the glistening, damp stone walls of the lock and, beyond, the steps that led back to the theatre above.
She knew they would be worried for her by now. Madame Giry, dear Meg, and…Raoul. It had been so good to see him again.
But Raoul had not been there for her. He was not the one who reached out to her in the loneliness.
She could not forget the way he dismissed her as a dreaming girl when she told him that she had at last heard her father's promised Angel.
She stretched out her arms along Erik's, curling her fingers around his wrists as her body pressed against his,
"Erik, look at me. Please."
She learned well from him, he could not resist the sound of her voice…as she had always been unable to resist his.
He opened his eyes and she kissed him. So shyly at first. Then, as she felt one arm around her, his hand against the small of her back, she explored his mouth with her tongue…let herself taste him for the first time.
She had never kissed a man before tonight...the fakery of the stage didn't count. And she sensed he had never kissed a woman before.
She sensed his uncertainty as she gently loosened his other hand from the grating.
He was weeping now and, with both his arms around her waist, she touched his face. One palm pressed against the smoothness of the mask, the other against the dampness of his cheek.
She wanted to tear the mask away...not to see what lay beneath, but to touch those tears.
She knew she was crying, too, though she could not tell why. She let her head rest on his chest and felt his hands tremble as he leaned back against the portcullis.
For a moment, they simply held each other and his lips brushed her temple as he whispered her name.
Then he lifted her out of the water and into his embrace. The wedding veil slipped from her head and floated lightly on the water as he carried her back to the steps.
When he reached the grotto's steps, he set Christine down gently so that she was standing on the landing just above him. Her face was level with his and she traced the edge of his jaw with one finger.
"Erik, Erik," she said, letting herself grow used to his name.
"And what of that boy…this de Chagny who had the audacity to sit in my box?"
"He is…he was a friend from my childhood. He once ran after my favorite scarf when the wind blew it into the wave."
As she spoke she saw the wedding veil…her wedding veil drifting on the lake, a pale ghost floating near the portcullis.
"I saw his eyes, Christine, when he visited your dressing room last nigh. He is in love with you."
She caught his arm, fear in her eyes…fear that he would send her away.
Erik shook his head and laid his hand over hers.
"He is a Vicomte, Christine…he is wealthy…he could give you the world."
"But I don't want the world! Erik, you've given me your music…how could I ask for more than that? You gave my soul wings last night!"
"Oh, my Christine, say you'll save me, say you'll lead me out of this solitude."
Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her.
"Tell me that you love me, Christine," he murmured against her throat. "tell me."
"Oh, Erik...don't plead with me like that," she answered him, shyly letting one hand slip inside his shirt to reast over his heart.
And she took his hand and laid it against her own racing heart.
"You know I love you, Angel."
And she stepped off the landing, knowing that his arms were there for her, that he would catch her in his embrace.
He caught her easily, his large hands circling her waist with ease as he lifted her up against the length of his body.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him, letting him carry her where he would.
He brought her up to the bedchamber again, keeping her pressed close as he lowered her to her feet.
Many of the candles had burnt themselves out and the room was filled with shadows.
Her sodden dressing gown was cold against her legs and she could feel the wet heaviness of his velvet robe, too.
He shrugged off the robe and she tried to untie her sash, only to find it was too tightly knotted.
He left her for a second to pick up a small dagger that lay amid a careless pile of notes, quills, and sticks of sealing wax.
He cut through the satiny belt and let her dressing gown fall away.
She slipped her hands beneath his shirt. Pushing it back from his shoulders, she heard him wince softly as her fingers brushed against the thin line of an old scar.
Choking back a sob, she kissed him again as if that could destroy all the unknown horrors of his past. And his hands trembled as he reached around her to unfasten the tiny hooks of her ornate bodice.
Then he pulled her down onto the bed, breaking her fall with his own body.
"Christine, my love, my sweetness, my…"
"Your bride, Erik," she responded, winding her arms about his neck
It seemed as if his hands were everywhere. Wandering over her skin, exploring her slowly and tenderly.
But then he hesitated.
"Christine," he said, his voice breaking as he let her go and turned away from her, "I can't…I don't know…"
She pulled him back into her embrace.
She was as innocent as he was. Innocent, yes, but not wholly naïve.
Living in the theatre's dormitories, there had always been whispered stories and counsels from the older, more experienced tarts of the ballet. There had often been naughty books passed from girl to girl by the light of a single small candle.
For his sake, she forgot any last bits of girlish fear.
"Hush, Erik," she whispered, leaning over him in the darkness.
"Hush, Erik, I am here," she said again as her unbound curls cascaded over him.
She kissed his shoulder where the scar traced across his smooth skin and her small fingers trailed along the inside of his forearms to the wrists.
Then, kneeling over him, she drew his hands to her.
Can I really do this for him?
All the gossip, all the bawdy tales of the dressing rooms were gone from her mind. They weren't needed now…they were forgotten as she braced her arms against him and felt the heat of his desire so hard against her thigh.
She felt her own pulse pounding throughout her body as she found his lips once more, shivered a little as the cool mask scuffed against her face,
Then she lowered herself onto him, biting her lips to keep from crying out as her body accommodated him.
It hurts…but he mustn't know that…
For a moment, there was a hazy silence around them…the shushing of water against the stone ledge seemed as distant as the crowded theatre far above them.
There was only the sound of his breathing, heavy and tattered in the darkness…
Suddenly, his hands tightened around her waist and he turned, pushing her onto her back. He eased himself out of her slowly, but only for a second.
She could not stop herself from gasping aloud as he thrust into her quickly and fiercely.
She thought she heard him say her name, but she was so delirious with desire that she could barely recall who she was…she only knew that she wanted to see his face as he took her…but there was no light now…the last candle had burnt out…
So she closed her eyes and, clinging to him, let herself drown in his passion.
Angel…oh, my Angel…my Angel…
When she opened her eyes again, she knew he was asleep beside her and that it was his arm that lay so comfortingly across her hips.
She shifted a little and touched his features. She did not encounter the smoothness of his mask, though, and she realized that it must have fallen off when they made love.
Ever so lightly, her fingertips searched his face, feeling the rough distortion of it.
Fighting back her tears, she cradled him close as he slept.
Then she carefully untangled her body from his and slowly eased herself out of the bed.
She lit a single candle and found her dressing gown on the floor. It had been torn when he pulled it off her and she tossed it aside.
His velvet robe was lying nearby. The hem was still damp and it was far to large for her petite frame, but she wrapped herself in it.
Christine found the mask lying on the floor beside the bed. As she stooped to pick it up, her arm nudge the music box and it began to play.
On the bed, Erik stirred in his sleep, but he did not open his eyes as the melody wound slowly down.
She looked around for a blanket to cover him for the air was chilly and the thin sheen of sweat had cooled on his bare skin. She could not find a coverlet in the shadowy chamber so she took his heavy cloak from where it lay draped heavily across a chair and laid it over him.
Taking the candle and the mask, Christine left the bed chamber and went down the steps. She set the candle on his desk and picked up the black velvet domino that lay there.
There were so many of them...so very many masks. White and black, they were everywhere...tossed carelessly on desks, laid over the faces of busts, lying amid sheets of music and sketches.
She gathered them up in her arms and carried them to the edge of the lake.
On the far side, she saw the wedding veil tangled in the lower points of the postcullis.
She knelt on the cold stone ledge, tucking the velvet robe to cushion her knees.
One by one, she let the masks fall into the water. And, one by one, they sank.
Never again, Erik, never again...
Finally, only one mask remained...the white mask that had fallen from his twisted features when he took her.
She held it in both her hands for a moment. In the dim light, its features seemed harsher than ever...this was not a part of her Angel.
She let it go and watched as it floated for a monent, it's dark and empty eye seemed to glare and mock here.
Then the white stark mask vanished beneath the lake forever.
Tired and cold, Christine rose and went back up to the bed. The velvet robe fell to the floor as she lay down beside him again.
She felt his arms around her and fell asleep in the warmth and security of his embrace.
The End
Hope you enjoyed this little tidbit...it's just the sort of thing one writes when one has had too little sleep, too much coffee, and ought to be doing productive things! Reviews always welcome.
This is based on the movie...and there's the usual disclaimer...I don't own the characters, etc...