"Down once more to the dungeons of my black despair…"

The beautiful and, once, sweet voice of Erik echoed in the damp atmosphere of the cellars below the Opera house. His unbreakable and unwavering timbre cracked under his rage, as his tone became increasingly harsh. His eyes were set ahead instead of transfixed to me, as they had been the first time he'd led me down those tunnels.

Then again, the last time around I hadn't yet betrayed him and crushed his heart during the confession of love he'd spent his life preparing.

"…Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!"

As for said confession, I had been tempted to say yes. So tempted, in fact, that I would have been in favor of ignoring the hundred-people audience below us and tying together our lips at once, since we could not possibly have performed the whole wedding ceremony as we had been, in the lack of a priest.

"Down that path, into darkness deep as hell!"

Erik's voice escalated then, and I knew I deserved every bit of the wrath being brought down upon me. Things had happened fast, and all I could think about was how much I wished I could turn back time.

While on stage that night, up on the bridge, I'd completely forgotten and almost foregone the reason I'd agreed to play a part in "Don Juan Triumphant". I had previously decided that if Raul and the Opera's foolish managers weren't to be reasoned with, and were stubbornly set on going forth with their half-cooked plan, I would protect Erik from whatever they came up with, the stage being the best general area from which to act against the plotting business men.

And God knew my angel had needed protection from the gun I'd seen my supposed fiancée tuck into his belt as he made his way to his, no, Erik's box earlier.

No sooner than when I'd spotted the afore-mentioned gun raised and sharply pointed at the acting Don Juan, who had remained blissfully unaware of his impending doom, had I realized that I desperately needed to forge some sort of distraction shocking enough to make Raoul's aim falter, if only for a second.

There had been no time to ponder, and so, I had acted on impulse. I did not hold myself at fault for wanting to shield Erik from vengeful men who didn't know how kind and loving he could be, however, removing his mask as he stood in glory before Paris's crème de la crème, a step away from the realization of his life-long dream, had been the most sinful act of humiliation I could have committed against him.

It had hurt me too. To crush him, I mean. I could have jumped off the wooden bridge to end my pitiful existence right that moment, had my feet not been rooted to the floor, inconveniently, as his eyes had held mine with almost innocent adoration and his, for once, ungloved hands had rested on my shoulders in a tight, but not hurtful, grip. The smile he'd worn while singing his last lines to me still lingered on his face, almost like an after-image left behind by a too quick carriage.

When the mask had slid off, it had taken a curt moment for the full image of Erik's disfigured face to settle within the watchers' minds. Taking advantage of this silent split-second, I'd torn my gaze away from my strange angel and chanced a look up at Box 5. The dreaded weapon in Raul's hand pointed down at the floor, its wielder being too shocked to aim straight at its target. I would have sighed in relief, had I not been aware of the tension ready to explode in the theater.

Then, the screams began.

I'd kept my eyes on Erik's as his ghostly smile finally faded, along with all the color in his face, which made me worry that maybe his heart had stopped and he would drop in a dead faint anytime then. I saw despair in his eyes – despair greater than the horrified audience's as they screamed and howled in a ridiculous and misplaced symphony of terror –, and confusion danced in his puncturing orbs until anger finally settled in them.

I was sure that, by the way he'd glanced up calculatingly for a moment, he had wanted to release his ire on the scurrying people below, probably by dropping the ceiling, somehow, or maybe the new crystal chandelier hanging in the center of it upon them. That thought was gone a second later, though, and I'd felt Erik's arm encircle my waist barely an instant before the wood under my feet inexplicably vanished.

As the air had rushed up to meet me and give me an extremely uncomfortable chill underneath my skirts, I had wanted nothing more than to cling to my Phantom, if only for the brief seconds we fell; knowing his only reason for holding me then was to keep me from drifting away in the drop.

My eyelids had shut close as we neared the floor, in the expectance of being met with cold, hard stone or concrete in the near future. None of those had the chance to connect with my falling body, however. I'd opened my eyes to see Erik's face a few inches above mine, and one look down later had clarified that I'd fallen right into his arms.

I wasn't allowed any time to dwell on that, as Erik had immediately let me down, grabbed my wrist, and started pulling me along the dark passage toward the lake in an uncharacteristically ungraceful manner.

Right then, his voice ripped me from my reminiscing, sounding frustrated through all the anger on the surface.

"Why, you ask, was I bound and chained to this cold and dismal place?"

Turning to face me abruptly, Erik saw my wince of surprise at his sudden action, and likely interpreted it as a grimace of pain, because his grip on my wrist immediately loosened a great deal.

Still pulling me toward the lake - it becoming gradually visible in the torchlight, as we approached - Erik placed the burning flame in a harness protruding from the stone wall, and I saw the weary traces of disappointment begin to age the unmarred portion of his face.

"Not for any mortal sin, but the wickedness of my abhorrent face!"

That last line had sounded more like he was talking to himself than still raging at me.

I remained quiet throughout the ride across the lake, aware of the fact that nothing I said or did would be enough to placate Erik's temper. My eyes were glued to his unreadable face, studying every line of it, making barely any distinction between the clashing appearances of each side of it.

It was halfway through the crossing that I came to the puzzling realization that it no longer disturbed me to gaze upon his disfigurement. Maybe it never had bothered me in the first place, after I'd come to terms with the shock of seeing the mask off for the first time.

Erik's head snapped up, suddenly, and he looked around for a minute, until his eyes finally found what they wanted, above us, and stared at something only they could see for maybe a second or two. I searched for the source of his interest, but found nothing, and, a moment later, I heard him sigh and give another push to the water with the long paddle he had in his hands.

Finally, after much unbearable silence only broken by the swishing of water, the black gondola touched the shore of the underground lair, and my eyes found themselves unable not to swirl around in their sockets just as they had the first time I'd been down there, amazed by the sheer grandiose nature of the place. Unlike me, Erik wasted no time dwelling in his own choice of architecture and design for his home before jumping off the little boat, his movements causing not a ripple to disturb the still lake below.

Even if he was a man, there was no denying the ghost-like fluidness he had about him. Following that line of thought, I had to fight to the back of my mind many different ideas of situations in which that fluidness would be a nice advantage.

After going about tying the gondola to shore and putting away the row, Erik turned to me and did the last thing I had expected from him, at the time: he offered me his hand to help me off the boat, giving me a very déjà vu feeling. As he had plainly ignored me throughout the whole boat ride, I had indeed supposed the cold treatment would continue – no more than what I deserved, really.

The self-proclaimed Phantom led me up the stairs to where familiar red drapes hung from the uneven ceiling. I looked into the partition that opened behind them to see the perfect and almost alive replica of me standing inside, perfectly beautiful in the luxurious wedding dress and smiling mindlessly for all to see. As much as the figurine had scared me before, I couldn't deny that both the mannequin and the dress were nothing short of the work of a genius.

My attention was drawn back to the angel…no, the man in front of me when his hands came to suddenly rest upon my shoulders. His grasp was firm, but gentle, and I could almost feel his desire not to hurt me as he eyed me carefully, before a distressed expression latched itself upon his face, and he hunched over slightly, in apparent defeat.

"Hounded up by everyone;

Met with hatred everywhere;

No kind words from anyone;

No compassion anywhere…"

Loneliness. That was the one thing I could see in his glistening eyes as he sang, and his voice carried more human emotion than I had thought possible for a simple tune to contain.

I cursed my petrified self in that moment, for having no idea of what to do in order to comfort the tortured soul of the angel who had saved me from solitude for ten years.

Then, his breaking voice uttered the question I dreaded to ever have to answer:

"Christine…why?

And I could not, for the life of me, find my voice, or even words to answer.