a/n: this story is mostly Leroux based, a one shot, set after Christine has unmasked Erik, during the time of her "pretend engagement" to Raoul. of course i own nothing, all credit goes to Leroux and Faberge (the egg in question is based off the real thing, including the damage done to it - you can find pictures of it online. the music box was added by me though.). hope you enjoy...as always, read and review! M.

Rosebud

I nervously checked over the preparations I had made for the nights meal then looked at the clock to confirm the time. There were still several minutes before she would be due to arrive. I stared impatiently at the pendulum's slow swing, cursing myself for acting like a boy of 17. I laughed, the sound harsh and bitter, 'I may not be a boy but in some ways I'm no more experienced than one,' I thought.

Footsteps echoing off the stone pathway at the Rue Scribe pulled me from my reverie and alerted me to her presence. I let myself melt into the shadows and walked swiftly to the gate where Christine was pulling it closed and locking it. The rusty metal made a horrific noise and I winced at the harsh grate of the metal but once again convinced myself that the benefit of being alerted to intruders far outweighed any damage to my ears.

I watched as she timidly picked her way along the path, carefully sidestepping puddles and dirt while she daintily held her skirt just above her ankles. I waited until she'd nearly reached my home before silently creeping up behind her and enveloping her with my cape. I held her close enough to feel when she tensed and relaxed, frightened only for an instant before recognizing her maestro.

"I have a surprise for you my dear, I hope you will be pleased."

I led her down the dark pathway until we reached my home, all the while shielding her from the chill air with my cape. When we arrived I took her to the dining room and waited anxiously for her reaction.

"Oh, Angel, it's beautiful." I watched as she looked around herself in wonder, taking in the room I had so carefully set up for her pleasure. There were candles covering nearly every surface save for the table; its only candles were mounted on a magnificent silver candelabra that stood at the center. The floor was blanketed in an array of white, red, pink and yellow rose petals that filled the room with a delicate aroma, complimenting the delicious scents that came from the great rosewood table laden with food. There were several covered dishes in the center and those that were not had the most tantalizing food displayed on their porcelain surface.

I bowed deeply and extended my arm to Christine. After seating her comfortably in a chair I poured her some champagne, then raised my glass to meet hers in a toast.

"To you, my darling, I hope your birthday is a happy one."

A pink blush crept up her neck and gave color to her cheeks and nose as she touched her glass to mine, a sight I found inexplicably charming. "Thank you, Angel. I'm grateful that you would go to so much effort to please me. No one has ever done as much for me, I'm in your debt."

"It is but a simple thing and your beautiful smile is enough to repay that debt a hundred-fold."

I hardly touched any of the feast I had prepared, preferring instead to watch Christine. Her hair spilled down her back stopping at her slim waist. How I longed to hold her, to run my hands through her chocolate curls and caress her perfect face in my hands. I noticed that she had begun to fidget with one of the long tresses, twirling it around her finger and pulling on it. She must have noticed me watching her because she suddenly let go of her hair and went back to her food, the blush returning to her face.

I decided that perhaps now would be a good time to give her the present I had so carefully designed for her. The end result was not made by me, but by Peter Carl Faberge, an artist I had met long ago while in Russia.

"I beg your pardon, my dear, but there is something I must retrieve from my bedroom."

I returned to the room carrying a box I had carefully wrapped in white tissue paper and held together with red ribbons. On top a tiny card read: To My Darling Christine; With Love From Your Angel Erik. It was scrawled in my childish handwriting and nearly too large to fit on the small paper.

"This is your present. I hope you like it, I had it made especially for you. It came all the way from Russia."

I handed the box to Christine and watched apprehensively as she unwrapped and opened it. The delight in her eyes was obvious as she took it out and gingerly held it in her hands.

"Oh, Erik, it's beautiful." Her voice was almost a whisper and breathy, so that it sounded as if she might cry. "What is it called?"

"Well, it is called a Faberge Egg, named after the man who created it. I wrote to him and had him create one for you, go ahead, open it, there is a surprise inside."

She fingered the thing delicately and turned it over in her hands, examining its surface. The egg was deep red and divided up into four sections with gold and diamond set borders. At the top of each section there were green laurel wreaths tied with ribbons of more diamonds and gold and at the bottom of the sections were diamond arrows and laurel garlands tied with ribbons and pinned by diamonds. At the base of the egg the date of Christine's birth was enameled below yet another diamond, slightly larger than the rest.

She opened the egg to reveal it's velvet lined interior and a yellow rosebud with hinged petals and enameled leaves of green. I was not quite ready to divulge it's last secret so I remained silent as she continued her gentle exploration of the egg and its rose.

"Thank you, Erik. It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given to me."

I savored her praise, rare as it was of late. She did not hug me nor did I expect her to, though I admit I felt a twinge of longing strike me at the thought. No, it would take more than a small trinket to make her forget what I was. I hoped though, that she would still learn to love me, despite the interference of that boy of hers, despite having unmasked the horror that was my face. After all, she had kept her promises to me thus far: she still bore my ring on her left hand and continued to visit me often. And even more importantly, notwithstanding her pretend engagement to the Vicomte, the boy was leaving soon, no longer to be a thorn in my side.

The clock struck nine and I noticed her stiffen as she placed the egg back into its box. She looked up at me, obviously distressed about something, though she was doing her best to hide it.

"Erik...I...think it is time that I left you. To sleep. There are rehearsals early tomorrow morning and I must get some rest to ensure my voice is at its best."

My eyes narrowed and I stared hard at her, hoping to discern whatever game she might be playing at. She visibly began to tremble and I stopped myself from saying anything that might alarm her. Perhaps she was not trying to deceive me; it was feasible, in any case, that she was merely afraid to ask me to allow her to take her leave.

I held out my arm to her and led her to the Rue Scribe, watching her leave with more than a little trepidation. Deciding that it was best to be sure of her intentions, I grabbed my lasso and set out into the night.

Following my beloved was easy, in spite of her rather amateur attempts at secrecy and stealth. I shadowed her all the way to a very fashionable restaurant at the center of Parisian society. Upon arriving she took off her cloak and handed it to a doorman, asked him a question and was then ushered inside.

I knew without having to go inside who she was meeting. I struggled with my jealousy, trying to retain some vestige of rationality. Of course he would take her out on her birthday, they were still playing at being engaged after all. But I had told her they could only play their silly game on the grounds of the Opera! So now I knew why she had been so nervous earlier. I paced outside, wondering all the while when they would leave so I could return to my home and sulk.

Finally they emerged. I heard her voice, its beautiful lilting sounds reaching my ears and temporarily calming me. But then I saw them, holding hands. Holding hands, when I was not even allowed to touch her, other than to offer her my arm which she still loathed to accept and only did so for fear of angering me. I could see upon her beautiful neck what the boy had given her as her present, a gaudy necklace of diamonds and rubies.

When they reached his carriage his free hand moved along her back, bringing her closer. I could not look away, though I knew they were about to do what I had only dreamt about. The ease with which they kissed told me that this was not the first time they had been so intimate with each other. My heart shriveled up in my chest, a dry husk that would turn to dust if met with the slightest breeze.

I had been such a fool to think that she would love me. Nothing I did meant anything to her; I would place the world at her feet, they would worship her voice as the Prima Donna she was meant to be. I would give her any fashion she desired, any trinket that struck her fancy, debase myself for her amusement. I would kill for her. And still she would forsake me because of this accursed ugliness!

I ran from the restaurant, not seeing how long the embrace continued or whether they left together. I ran back to my home and found the damned egg, throwing it to the floor, chipping the enamel and ejecting the rose as it bounced along the stones. The hinges opened, betraying the final secret of the egg: a small mechanism that when pressed, played a Swedish love song I had once heard Christine sing to herself many years ago. That part of the egg I had added myself after it arrived, hoping to play it for her when she finally learned to see beyond my mask, to love the man inside.

I picked up the egg and the rose, fitting them back together, though not before tearing out the mechanism. I placed it back into the box and threw them into the lake, knowing that she would never have heard it play. Standing beside my organ I took off the mask and brought my hand to my face, feeling for the tears that were making their way down in rivulets along my damaged skin.