Chapter One: Return

Paris, June 1882

Six months. It had been six grievous months since he'd lost everything. His home, if one could call the depths of the Paris Opera House home, his music, his soul, his Angel of Music…his Christine.

Christine… The thought of his beautiful Angel of Music haunted his mind. He'd lost her. His madness and obsession led to her betrayal. At least, he had felt she betrayed him those months ago. And, yet, after months of tormenting his mind with endless possibilities of what he could have done differently to convince her to be with him, to love him, he'd finally come to realize that she'd never betrayed him. That she never wanted him. That she never loved him. It was him. It was his own disgraceful fault for her coming to hate him. Hate. Her words of hate echoed throughout his mind. She loved the Vicomte. She loved Raoul.

Now, as he stood before the abandoned Opera House, he found himself pondering once again what could have been. He knew it was foolish to revisit the very place that continuously haunted his dreams. But, he had to know. In the end his curiosity had won out. What became of his Hell? Did the relentless mob who, only six months ago on that cold January night, seeking him out in desperation yelling "murderer" throughout the labyrinth beneath the Opera House, tear it to shreds once they found it? Did they leave it untouched in a possible act of pity? How could they? They deemed him a monster, a murderer. Yet, he had to know.

As he approached a carefully hidden door he found himself second-guessing his decision to return until he felt the gold ring around his small left finger, the ring he'd given to Christine in one final act of desperation the night of the one and only performance of his own opera, the ring that she piteously returned to him after he had…let her go. Christine…

His thoughts suddenly succumbed to his iniquitous opera, Don Juan Triumphant. An opera he'd written for her. An opera meant to convey his passionate and unconditional love for her. He'd expressed his undying feelings for Christine in the only possible way he knew how: through his music. He truly believed that his song, his music, would finally lead to her complete surrender. What a pathetic fool you are, he thought pitifully.

He entered the small door and instantly found himself immersed in darkness, a darkness that was much more wicked and drugging than the moonlit night. Ever the clever man, despite his abundant shortcomings, he found the candelabra that he himself had carefully hidden years ago, thankful it hadn't been misplaced in the insufferable disaster that had occurred that haunting night. Lighting the candle, he began his journey, knowing he'd foolishly submerge himself in memories he'd rather forget, though he knew it impossible. He was dressed completely in black, his cloak flowing behind him as he agonizingly walked through the underground labyrinth. He found himself touching his masked right cheek, perhaps out of instinct, perhaps in an action of mockery. A mask that defined his entire life or so he believed, until Christine. In the end, it had been his dark and twisted soul that defined him. Not his hideously disfigured face, as Christine so daringly declared to him as he pathetically attempted to force her to love him. If only he'd understood then, perhaps he still didn't understand. But, she was all that mattered and her deafening words hurt. My soul, my obsessive and maddening soul, he thought painfully.

After quite some time, he'd finally found himself standing before the lake, the lake which had mesmerized his beautiful angel one year ago to the date. Yes, he'd finally admitted his own intentions to himself. It was for her. Everything had always been for her…still was for her. It was exactly one year ago that the young chorus girl, Christine Daaé, his Angel of Music, had made her debut performance as prima donna in Chalumeau's Hannibal. It was that night that he'd first revealed himself to Christine as a flesh and blood man. He brought her down to his underworld and seduced her with his music. That night, his lair was no longer a Hell but a seductive sanctuary. He was no longer her Angel of Music, but the Phantom of the Opera as well, a living, breathing man. If only he'd known that Christine never truly desired a flesh and blood man, but a spirit, an angel. Fool.

Yet, she did desire a flesh and blood man, but not the infamous Phantom of the Opera, her Angel of Music. She desired him. The Vicomte de Chagny, her precious childhood love, Raoul. If only he'd known. He was extremely jealous of the Vicomte's sudden return in Christine's life, and in his furious desperation decided then and there to reveal himself to her completely that night in her dressing room, from behind her fanciful mirror. It had been a foolish risk, one, he'd wondered to this very night, that he never should have pursued. Yet, seeing another man bring a smile to his Christine's beautiful face had enraged him. The Vicomte's admiration, his sweet words of reminiscent times that swept Christine back to her blissful childhood, and her adoration in return, completely infuriated him. He'd had to have her. He had to reveal himself and prove to Christine that he was a worthy man as well, despite his hideous face. That she belonged to him.

He found himself pursuing the boat that lay upon the lake, placing the candelabra into the lantern that dangled from the front of it. This boat which had led Christine across the lake to his mysterious and bewitching lair while their voices entwined and his desperation for her and her voice immensely increased, the boat which led her to his hopeless Hell once again when he had foolishly and desperately abducted her once more, furious of her betrayal, of her deceit. Oh, Christine…how incredibly wrong I had been…have been. The boat which swept Christine away with her precious Raoul while he pathetically cried out his desperate pleas of love for her one last time, the boat which was last touched by his angel and the Vicomte while they sang to each other of their everlasting love for another. The very same declaration which he'd pathetically attempted to use in front of all of Paris when he found himself frantically confessing his love to Christine that very night, only moments before her alleged betrayal. He was a desperate fool that night. She'd revealed him to the audience after their impassioned singing of his aria written especially for her. He found himself trapped on that stage with her and in vast distress found himself repeating those same love words Christine and the Vicomte had echoed to another only months before on the rooftop of the Opera House. Perhaps she would have loved him then if she'd heard those same words coming from his lips, his pleading desperation. What a fool. What a pathetic fool.

He'd wondered if perhaps his abandoned Hell would perhaps still be as he had left it that ill-fated night. His boat had lain untouched and it would seem, from what he'd gathered throughout the underground caverns, that nothing had ever been touched. Perhaps it was too terrifying and surreal. After all, this was the threatening Phantom of the Opera who dwelled beneath the Opera House. Perhaps the revelation that he was a man, not an apparition, was too much to comprehend. Perhaps it was believed that he had been killed by the Vicomte, who had perhaps gallantly come to the young soprano's rescue. If only they knew that it was she who had saved them. It was she who had sacrificed herself to save her precious Vicomte.

After what seemed an eternity he found himself approaching the trellis, the threshold to his lair, his Hell. He found himself stopping the boat and just standing there in complete despair and…wonder. It lay completely untouched! The maddening lair that he'd called his home for years was exactly as he'd remembered it. Impossible, he thought, absolutely impossible.

Cautiously, through his incessant mysterious mystique, he found the trellis rising and slowly led the boat across the threshold. Home, he thought, in spite of everything, this Hell had been his home...had brought him Christine, had lost him Christine. Slowly he rowed the boat toward the lair and found himself warily approaching the beauty of his dark Hell, his mystical and mysterious organ. His music, his very soul…

***

Her heart was pounding as he sang his seductive words of his dark and alluring music, of his passionate plea for her to succumb to the darkness and embrace his erotically passionate world. She'd never been so mesmerized in her life, so alive, so incredibly impassioned. She could feel him slowly approaching her from behind as he demanded in an ever so bewitching voice that only she could belong to him. That once she succumbed to his invigorating darkness, once her soul succumbed to him and him alone, she'd belong to him completely.

She was breathing heavily, utterly entangled in his erotic web. He wrapped his left arm around her body, completely covering her bare chest with his deft hand, pressing her body against his. She could feel an enormous bulge against her backside, the same bulge she had felt when he'd provocatively laid himself across the trellis only moments before and coyly embraced her. Completely enthralled by him, she had found herself swiftly walking toward his seductive body then, pursuing his lips, when his right arm had slipped around her waist and pressed her against him most erotically. When she'd felt this same bulge against her stomach that she now felt against her backside she'd suddenly succumbed to reality and desperately fled from him, shamelessly wondering what this bulge was…what was becoming of her. But, his demandingly passionate words had once again touched her very soul, the very core of her and she once again became completely entranced by him. She couldn't quite understand what it was that she'd felt against her stomach then, and once again became too enraptured by him to care.

Now, as he possessively stood behind her, she slowly came to realize that she'd never been touched so sensuously before, never felt so…awakened in her entire being of life. Was this truly her inevitable journey into her awakening of becoming a woman? As he finished his whispered, demanding words, his right arm came around her shockingly aroused body, taking her right hand in his and sensuously placing it on her most secret area, their hands temptingly entwined as one. His possessive hold held her completely hypnotized. She was his completely, body and soul.

He continued his erotic and spellbinding song, holding her in his possessive embrace. She wanted him, she desperately wanted him. She couldn't understand these wanton feelings overwhelming her soul, her body, but she knew that in this moment, only he mattered. Her virginal innocence seemed to disappear completely while her womanly intuition emerged in complete surrender.

His hands began caressing her body. He seductively touched her breasts, her hips and waist. She continued to completely succumb when he demanded her to touch him, to trust him. She found herself slowly raising her right arm and caressing his masked right cheek. She'd never touched a man in such an erotic fashion, never wanted a man with such endless longing, until now. Once he finished his own journey of her unbelievably aroused body, he possessively, yet tenderly, took her hand in his and continued to lead her through this mysteriously seductive journey…

Christine suddenly jolted from her slumberous sleep, completely entranced, flushed and trembling. Angel… It had been exactly a year ago this night when her glorious Angel of Music, the infamous Phantom of the Opera she'd so hauntingly came to find, had abducted her from her dressing room and seduced her within his world of darkness and passion, with his music, his voice…his body. She truly believed that that night defined her as a woman. Yet how could she ever know of the dangers that lay ahead of her erotic and compelling night, the dangers that completely thrust her into womanhood, whether she was willing or not.

She lay in bed as she continued to dwell in those haunting memories, the memories of her Angel of Music, of the flesh and blood man. However, he wasn't just any man. He was the Phantom of the Opera. The legendary opera ghost who'd haunted the Paris Opera House for years. The alleged apparition who claimed to be her Angel of Music, the spirit her father so lovingly spoke of during her blissful childhood. The blissful childhood that ended abruptly when her father suddenly died and she found herself thrust into an unknown world: the Paris Opera House.

Remembering such bittersweet memories brought a tremulous smile to her face and her eyes burned with tears. She found herself climbing out of bed, putting on her lacy, rose colored dressing gown over her shear, white chemise and walking out onto her balcony, overlooking the humid night. She missed him. Despite everything, she missed him. She missed her Angel of Music. It had been six long months since that horrific night when her entire life seemed to come crashing down before her on the very stage that had brought her such sweet happiness only six months before, the stage that had brought her the return of her childhood sweetheart, Raoul, and the exciting revelation of her fantastical mentor, her Angel of Music.

Six months since she found herself performing in the Phantom's intensely erotic and passionate opera, Don Juan Triumphant. He'd cast her in the leading role of Aminta and despite her reluctance to perform, found herself in the role, in the midst of a trap that went horrifically wrong…because of her. That very night the trap had been set by the Opera House's managers, Messieurs Firmin and André, and Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, her loving, aristocratic fiancé, to finally capture and ultimately kill the Phantom of the Opera, her tormented and demented Angel of Music. Yet, she'd never believed in her wildest dreams that he'd been foolish enough to take to the stage himself in the role of Don Juan and seduce her with his words of the inevitable passion that was to erupt between the two impassioned characters and perhaps themselves. How real it had felt on that stage, singing with her Angel of Music, singing his words he'd meant entirely for her, for them. It was truly the most erotic and terrifying moment of her life. She never meant to betray him…she wanted to save him…

Christine wrapped her arms around herself as she remembered once more those mesmerizing and tormenting memories. She'd loved them both. However, while one had her heart the other had her very soul. Despite everything, she was still very much the naïve, young girl who'd desperately wanted to be saved from her solitude in the very end. For years, her Angel of Music filled that void. They were one in the same, two lost souls, two kindred spirits who'd miraculously found another and promised never to let go. Then, through fate it had seemed, Raoul came back into her life and swept her away with such wonderful memories of her childhood, of her father. Memories her and her angel could never truly reflect upon together. Because of this, she was too helpless to resist Raoul. Still, I truly loved them both…

After six months of pondering her very intense relationship with these two very different men, she'd come to realize how desperately she needed them both, how much she'd needed them but in two very different, complicated ways. They seemed to bring out two different women within her and because of this she simply needed them both. Yet, it wasn't that simple. In the end, she couldn't have them both. Her Angel of Music had made that abundantly clear when he'd abducted her down to his lair once more and demanded that she love him or he'd kill her love, her Raoul.

Raoul had been everything to her when they were young, innocent children. He'd been there when her father was alive and the two spent one glorious summer together by the sea, listening to her father's tales of the "Angel of Music" and "Little Lotte," whom Raoul so adoringly called her. He truly was her dearest friend. She loved him with her whole heart that summer and never forgot him once apart. Seeing him once again, the illustrious Vicomte de Chagny, brought back such warm, sweet memories that she truly never wanted to let him go again.

Yet, her Angel of Music was an entirely different man in her life. While Raoul possessed her heart, her innocence, her angel possessed her soul. While their voices embraced another during her journey beneath the Opera House one year ago, across the lake and into his mysteriously seductive lair, Christine believed she'd truly become a woman that night. Yet, the very next morning, the dream, the belief, had ended. She'd come to find that she was still very much that naïve, young girl and believed that she'd never be able to emotionally handle and obtain her precious Angel of Music, the legendary Phantom of the Opera.

He'd lashed out at her that morning when her childish curiosity led her to tear his mask from his beautiful face. He was beautiful. No matter what he believed, he was a beautiful man. The sensuously seductive night before had left her completely enchanted with him, with his music, his soul. She truly believed he was the perfect illusion, the ultimate fantasy, she'd dreamt of all those years, her spirit, her teacher and companion, her Angel of Music. Yet, in a moment of weakness he'd shown the twisted and mortifying soul within and she'd become a frightened young girl once more. She'd been unable to handle the flesh and blood man then and it wasn't until it was too late on that horrific night six months ago when she'd come to realize that, despite everything, he still had her very soul, that perhaps she could heal him, help him…be with him. His kiss… She needed him. Oh, my beautiful angel…I'm so dreadfully sorry.

Suddenly, startling Christine from her haunting reverie, the door to her bedchamber opened and she heard a soft whisper calling out to her, "Christine…"