Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera in any of its forms.
A/N: This fic is a mixed bag. It has elements of the book, the musical and the movie, so I hope it keeps everyone happy. Enjoy, and please review.
That Night
He swept me into his world of darkness and candlelight with one touch of his icy hand and a ripple of his black cloak.
I was helpless to resist; the embodiment of the Angel of Music before me in my mirror, eyes glowing, mask reflecting my mystified expression.
I do believe I caught a glint of triumph in his eyes as he led me down that dark passageway. But oh, at the time it seemed glorious, golden and shining, he and the world of his creation below the Opera House conquered the gloom.
In that world, it seemed to me as if I would never feel pain, as if the only emotions I could feel there were happiness and wonder. It was only later I would learn how wrong I was.
His sonorous voice swimming around me as he led me past the mirror that was both magic and mechanical, the same mirror he had watched me through many a time. Then I was transported to a place I had only dreamed of; it was as if my mirror was suddenly a portal, a portal to a place beyond all imagining.
My own voice rose to join his in the labyrinth beneath those who walked above, and I truly believed I could fly that night. We soared in glorious harmonies, magnificent melodies climbed to the rafters, our song was one which I had never sung, but I knew all the words to nevertheless.
I believed I would never again sing as I did that night, and I was right. Despite all of his wonderful coaching, all of his determination, encouragement and sometimes scolding, my voice would by no means reach the perfection of pitch I did then.
My heart could have burst; I was with an Angel descended from heaven who had come just for me.
The mask glinted in the soft light, at the time I could not have cared less, it all added to the wonder of the moment, a moment I wished with all my mortal soul could last forever. It was only later that I would learn the earth-shattering truth. But why should such a thing change our relationship so much? It is just a face… and what a face it is…
He seemed to float down those stairs on winged feet as he gazed at me with a golden burning intensity, like I was the only thing in the universe, like I was his oxygen, and in a way, I suppose I was.
In his world in all his glory, singing like I once believed only the angels could, he was a God, and he was heaven on earth.
His voice was one thing, but his music, oh, his music was another. It was like liquid gold for the ears, like a summer's day, like… It was so many different things. His skilled fingers walked the countless keys of his Organ and did not falter, music tinkled from its pipes like a fine silver chain, or rumbled from somewhere deep like the beginnings of a volcano.
Any way it came, his music demanded to be heard. And hear I did.
I drifted on clouds of his melodies, and lost all track of time and place, I may have been with him a minute or a week, I didn't -couldn't- know.
If Heaven was as his music was, Father was right to bring me up in the catholic faith. Heaven's glory should shine with halls of what I experienced that night; it should be full to bursting with what his hands crafted.
But what of the man himself? This I asked myself many times after our fateful meeting, and still do.
People know him as the murderer, the belligerent Phantom, though I will always recall him as the mysterious and splendid figure from our journey to the lair. I know it is idealistic and foolish to think of such a fiend as an Angel, but he was and is to me. He will always be the regal and musical genius from that night.
His house was as any house was, not that I much noticed, its windows were dark as the false-night ran its course. Its luscious interior all added to the dream-like state I was immersed in, its deep red couches, the gold trim.
Now as I impart my story, I do not feel any word will ever do such and experience justice, words are not enough. I will try…
Then came the turning point of our relationship, it would never be the same again. Now as I look back on it, I see it was a thoughtless and selfish thing to do, he had given me everything, tutoring, music and though I did not yet know it, his whole and unconditional love.
On that night I wounded him almost beyond repair, and as our doomed love story continued to play out, I let fly more and more arrows into his already bloody and bleeding side.
When I ripped that mask from his face, I lost a little part of him that I would never regain, that small fragment of his trust was gone, and deep down I knew I would never win it back.
My wretched selfish curiosity got the better of me as my head was hazy with the dream.
I had to remove what shielded me from knowing what my Angel really was.
Away came the white mask, and his face was mine to marvel at in horror and amazement. I recall thinking, this is no Angel, this is a terror from the blackest depths of Hell! There must have been a mistake in Heaven, where was my dear Angel of Music?
I shrank in fright from his ruined face; surely no Angel could ever look as he did? It was almost too much for my young and impressionable mind to cope with.
I almost passed out as he came towards me yelling furious and incomprehensible curses at the top of his lungs, the voice which only moments ago had been soaring and powerful was now screeching at me with horrid intensity.
His anger then faded into a sorrowing moaning, and he pleaded for my forgiveness and love, and I promised it to him, I promised him!
I did love him, the monster that he was, he was my Angel. He frightened me, but he loved me, I knew this, and with all my heart I believed I loved him too.
He then regained his dignity and spectral air, replaced the mask, and returned me to my dormitory.
I did not come down off my emotional high for days, I glided between bliss and exhilaration, and depression and bouts of 'why?'.
Many times in the next months I would question my feelings, and why I went around the Opera House so carefree with the Vicomte when I knew he must be watching and hurting.
I was a fickle and confused girl, caught between two extremes, but when I set up my decision, I always returned to that night when I was totally and completely in his power.
Then at last the choice I knew, from the moment I had clutched his cold hand, was coming, came. It was upon me so suddenly I was not prepared, and I took the easy, safe road.
With a single kiss I gave up all that may have been, all I could have been, and took refuge in the arms of what I knew and remembered.
I did not take the chance that may have given me a life of wonder and nights like that night.
Sobbing, he lumbered off into the darkness, shouting for me to leave, go with my lover, and be free. Little did I know I would never be free of the shackles I unwittingly fastened to myself then.
For he would never be far from my mind, nor would his music. It haunts the lonely passages of my thoughts forever.
As I left him, my heart really did tear in two, and still he keeps his half.
My Angel was gone from my life in body, never to return, and I regretted this every day as we made plans to leave the country for a place not so drenched in miserable memories.
Then the final gloss came, that horrible concluding piece of news, and I could no longer stay.
'Erik is dead.' it read. I was its intended addressee, and I received the message loud and clear, it was like a blow squarely to my core.
I slumped into depression, into darkness I thought I would never climb from, but I did, and I go on.
For I know that one day I will return to him in all his glory, I will see him and love him and never again leave him.
In the glittering place where halls ring with the magnificence of his music I will see him again, and until then I have that night. Our night.