Disclaimer: I own nothing - literally.

A/N: Thanks and love to Knightshade for her suggestions, putting up with my obsessions, betaing on a moment's notice and so many other things. And thanks to Asp for the quick run through this morning after I'd ripped the silly fic apart and put it back together again.

Movie based. More E/C with a splash of R/C. Christine remembers on a speical day with a bit of help. PG rating. Sap alert! ;)

Remember Me Ever So Often
by Tomy

It was an annual occurrence -- one she foolishly looked forward to. It was months since the day she left him behind in the recesses of the burning opera house. Months she had spent fretting, not understanding her own agitation. Her life was progressing at a wondrous rate. Her success from the Opera Populaire continued to build. Her marriage announcement was met by enormous congratulations. Her fiance continued to lovingly encourage her singing - knowing it had been her lifetime dream, her only true desire since her father's passing.

Still she often woke in the middle of the night, tears streaming down her cheeks, her heart thundering, her body trembling in fright. The dream was too elusive, too vague for her to retain even the slightest memory, or hint of what was causing these night terrors.

Until the afternoon when she stepped into her carriage to find a single, dethorned, perfect red rose with a small slip of black silk gently tied in a delicate bow around the stem.

It had been a year to the day - not that she had forgotten. The events leading up to the catastrophe were seared into her soul. But seeing that rose, the familiarity, the knowledge that he'd survived and most likely was continuing to watch her caused her to sag in relief.

Holding the precious rose in her hand, memories sprang to the forefront of her mind. The quiet lessons, the feelings of security and love he'd brought her during her times of grief and loneliness. She had no regrets of having known this man, only that their actions had become greatly out of hand - that so many had died as a result of something she'd committed in innocence. Even now she was certain she'd felt his commanding presence, heard his voice during the nights when Raoul was away on business, or in her dressing room preceding opening nights. She had dismissed those thoughts as childish foolishness. As a part of her life she could no longer grasp onto.

Now, however, Christine allowed herself to remember. To remember clearly the sound of his voice, how their combined voices echoed marvelously in the small, underground chapel with only the single candle lit as he guided her voice. To this day she could recall the horrible fear preceding the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant - knowing they were setting a trap for him, knowing she was the bait. Then the sudden clarity as she recognised the voice of the man on stage with her. The terrible fear it briefly inspired. Then she had turned to look at him. It had been simple from then on. Somehow she had known that he could not harm her. That in this moment she could allow herself to be completely honest with him. She could still feel his hips beneath her hands, his warmth and strength under the material as they sang. The thrill of his hands on her body as she touched him freely, as he sensuously caressed her. She allowed herself that moment to enjoy him, to revel in everything he had shown her from afar for once in reality. She loved him - loved him for his guidance, his time and effort spent only to help her career, meant to ensure her comfort, her success as he remained hidden.

Her breath hitched as she remembered their single shared kiss. Nothing in her short life had prepared her for such brutal, honest passion. The kiss was never spoken of, yet in her most erotic dreams, it was the feel of his lips her soul cried out for.

He had proclaimed his love for her. How she longed to acknowledge his sentiment, to return it. Time however was short, and beyond her control. It mattered not where her crumpled emotions lay.

Christine sighed. It was long past, her life continued onward. She placed the beautiful rose on the forefront of her dressing table - in plain sight. She would never forget her handsome Angel of Music, nor would she forget the passionate man who's insanity clouded his wondrous gifts.

She moved off to dress for the night's performance. When she returned she found a note threaded through the stem of her perfect rose. Immediately recognising her name in his masculine script, she turned the parchment over.

Forever your
Angel Of Music

fin
July 9, 2005