Well, thanks go to my beta reader, as well as a very fond farewell! Ruck fules, darling, and I will miss your guidance.
Silence is the atrophy that divides the weak from the truly glorious...
Even though Christine had long since left to be with her now-husband, the Vicomte de Chagny, her parting song still fell like honey upon Erik's ears. He sighed the same tortured sigh he always would when remembering her tenderness at that moment. She was, indeed, his angel! And he, an affront to all that was good and decent in this world – he would never thank God enough for the kiss she laid upon his lips that night. It was a true kiss, an honest kiss, one they'd harbored for many long, lonely years – waiting for it to steal upon them, to claim them, as it finally had.
And yet, she'd begged God for the strength to do it. She'd drawn forth all her courage, all her strength, for just that one act of kindness. Could he ever repay her? No. Would he try? Always – for he knew in his heart, corrupted though it may be, that the love he felt for Christine would always be unwaveringly returned… if only to her Angel of Music.
Gazing broodingly at nothing in particular, he pondered the milky white mask that sheltered prying eyes from the horror of what lay beneath it – the horrors of his demonic visage. He could only laugh bitterly at the images flooding his mind – images of him and Christine, their limbs entangled in a sweet harmony that he could not even dream of creating on his own. He gritted his teeth against the ardor sweeping over him; his only hope tonight lay in maintaining control over the situation.
…And what exactly is the situation?
He grunted and rose to his feet, brusquely inspecting his reflection in the full length mirror he'd recently obtained. Satisfied that he would be unrecognizable when shrouded in darkness, he fastened his cloak, saddled his pitch-colored mount, and stole into the night – bound to be, for once and forever, Christine de Chagny's Angel of Music.
As her husband entered the room and extinguished the candle at their bedside, Christine giggled softly into the night, stifling the sound with her fingertips and pulling the covers up to her chin. But it was already too late – Raoul was beside her, burrowing beneath the blankets with her. Christine thrilled as he smothered her laughter with a kiss. A tiny moan of excitement was all she could manage as his hands began their customary journey across her body, giving rise to slow, familiar waves of pleasure. He easily found the most responsive areas of her satiny skin, lightly stroking her bare flesh. A warm glow settled over the pair as they prepared to consummate their love – easier said than done, as they'd been wed for more than six months, and every time her husband prepared to enter her, Christine had another excuse. So, she remained a virgin, despite what she'd led even her closest friends to believe.
A sudden, slamming thought froze the blood in her veins, bringing an almost painful end to her arousal. Erik! My angel. The air was suddenly filled with his song, and she tensed and shifted uncomfortably, eyes moving to the dark window… searching for the dark form she knew would be there. Raoul released her from his grasp – from instinct, it seemed, for she'd said nothing – and slowly sank into the bed beside her, sorrow and confusion etched in his features. A tear slid out of the corner of his eye, and Christine laid a hand on his chest, instinctively feeling for his heartbeat.
"I am sorry, my love," she whispered. The pace his heart pounded at was nearly double her own, and she felt a pang of guilt as she sensed, not for the first time, that this was the way it always would be – that their love could never surmount her faults. "Shhh, now - do not cry. We still have years ahead of us." She went on, murmuring to him in the dark, brushing away each tear as it came, and soothing his fears with every ounce of love left in her – all the while, secretly listening for the voice that had lulled her to sleep since the night of her wedding.
"Oh, Christine…"
The voice of her Angel echoed in the darkness around her, and she struggled to suppress the shudder that threatened to wrack her body as his song enveloped her. She gazed into the eyes of her husband, fervently praying that some semblance of sleep would come over him, leaving her free to dream in the night – and leaving him free to dream that her heart was with him. Moments later, the man fell into a deep, albeit troubled, sleep, and Christine slid out of bed, reaching for a brush to tame her wild curls, and a shift to cover her present state of undress. A moment of making herself presentable, and she ran to the large window overlooking their estate, a sort of half-smile lighting her face as the clock tolled midnight.
The moonlight bathed her in a silver aura, making her a ghostly sentinel to the de Chagny Manor, and she couldn't help but think that her Angel of Music still longed to be with her, just as she had yearned for him each night since being wed. Grasping the elegantly formed latches, Christine, Vicomtesse de Chagny, pushed the window wide open and lowered herself to the ground.
The glimmering droplets on the grass, Christine discovered, were not of dew. Winter had already laid claim to the world around her, and her tiny feet left dark footprints where they melted the frost beneath them. The chill pressed through Christine's garments, and despite her best efforts – which consisted of clutching her gossamer night dress tighter to her slender frame – she felt the effects of the approaching winter. The bracing wind whipped her insubstantial clothing around her like wings… but her senses swam, too enchanted by the Phantom's silent song to even recognize her own beauty. For a moment, she felt a lingering fondness towards her husband, calling her to bed with him – but this, she pushed to the back of her mind, instead focusing on the unheard melody echoing in her soul. It somehow filtered into her mind as a gasp and a sigh – both of which she felt more than heard. Literally, felt, as a breath against her neck.
Erik sank to the ground beneath his Christine's bedroom window, weeping at what he'd seen. Christine, so innocent and endearing, giving herself to the man she called her husband – Christine, moaning into the night at the feather-light strokes and caresses dancing across her creamy flesh – Christine, writhing beneath accursed fingertips, the fingertips of the man who had stolen her from the solitude promised by her ever loving Angel of Music. He opened his mouth in a silent cry of agony before rising up once more – peering through the thin pane of glass that separated him from his Christine. His green eyes traveled the lines of her body, pausing every now and then to appreciate the subtle dips and swells that marked her body as that of a woman's. He had sung, sung softly into the night, praising her beauty and diligence – for how many others would sense his gaze, that of a monster, and not recoil? She suddenly froze in her husband's arms, dark eyes wild and disconsolate as she gazed directly into the depths of Erik's soul. He instinctively flinched, stumbling backwards in an effort to conceal himself.
"Oh, Christine…"
The unbidden words came out as a broken melody – one that swiftly segued back into the morbidly enticing song he'd already begun. His voice was filled with pain, but also pleasure – for his divine protégé was his again – and he peered back into the window in time to see her rise up from the sleeping figure of her husband. A subtle thrill raged within him as he gasped to see her bare flesh shining in the oblique rectangle of moonlight. His fingertips grazed the window, tracing her curves in complete adoration. She covered her body with a sheer gown that was most certainly not suited to the damp winter air and approached the window Erik stood outside – and he sank to the ground once more, this time pouring out a grateful melody to the woman he loved… and even if she never heard this song of his, he prayed she might still sense his presence.
Erik flattened himself to the wall as willowy legs extended in front of him for a soft landing on the still-springy grass. He felt himself rise, taking in the supple form before him with a mixture of awe and enchantment evident in his emerald gaze. New undertones emerged in his song – a subtle lilt to his music that clearly expressed his pleasure at this turn of events – and he gasped as he recognized the soft, dark curls, the creamy, pale skin, and the curiously faultless line of her neck. His Christine. His Angel. Dim awareness trickled through him as she drew her gauzy attire closer to her body; he trembled, fighting the urge to envelop her in the warmth afforded him by his heavy black cloak. Instead, he sighed in relief as she turned to him, a divine apparition shrouded in perfection. Yes, Christine – turn to me. It is time to bring your song to life.